Chapter Text
Bill gasped. “Ford, please! I can't–”
Stanford’s fingers sank deeper into the hissing wound. Static bubbled up around his knuckles, coating them in visual snow the consistency of canned frosting.
He leaked distortion. His arms dangled off the lab table in a loose heap, useless–limp pantyhose stuffed with pins and needles. He kicked his tiny legs, nowhere near his assailant. He was crying.
“Stop stop stop!” His voice was hoarse. “ Please ! Can't do it I can't–” He yelped as Ford did the opposite, burrowing into the semi-healed membrane holding in his organs until the meat of his palm met gold. His hand dwarfed Bill's body, nearly matched in size.
“Listen to yourself. The gall it takes to claim my respect!”
His bassy voice sounded too collected. It was too powerful for how Bill felt. Bill felt like he was crumbling alive. How could anyone speak like that at a time like this? He was in pain, and the world outside him felt none of it. He'd never understand.
“Not respect! Don't rih–respect! I’d never–” He gagged on the viscera that trickled down his face. He coughed, forcing open his airway to plead. “Mercy! Js–Just that!”
Ford’s expression showed none. Only a cold fascination observing a frigid vengeance. It hardened at the plea. “When did you ever show me mercy? This is only a fraction of the agony you put me through. You're going to take it .” But he contradicted his own refusal, pulling his fingers from the fissure and wiping them across Bill's bricks. He stepped back to let him recover.
Fresh tears swirled with silvery blood. Bill took a few shaking breaths. Unicorn hair bindings dug into his wrists, rubbed raw in his struggle. He coughed, audio feedback shrieking from the sound.
“Thank you…”
The table at his back was frigid aluminum. His surroundings were windowless. An exam light shone down into his aching retina, bright and cold and white. And, as always, the subtle rocking of the floor, just enough to keep him nauseous, day in, day out.
Ford ran a finger along his perimeter. He shivered. The gentle touch was more than welcome, even as confusing as it was to his tender psyche. It took a few seconds for his brain to process his ability to breathe normally. His gasps evened into calming breaths.
“I have every right to destroy you,” said Ford.
Bill tried to vocalize his agreement, only mustering a single meaningless syllable. He couldn't hear it over his screaming wound.
“You're fed. You sleep. When I could easily trap you like the vermin you are. Throw the key overboard. You could be in a lockbox at the bottom of the Mariana Trench, and I've opened my home to you. What do you have to repay me?” His finger arrived back at the angle he'd started.
“Nothing,” Bill mumbled, voice thick, saliva thicker.
“You have nothing. No material goods, no physical aptitude, no skills.” He rerouted his finger off Bill's perimeter, into the lines between his bricks. “And I would want nothing from you, had you all that and more.”
Bill whimpered. His grout tightened against the swell of his insides, but he didn't dare let it give. Ford watched the battle in his expression.
“Patience. I have more to say.”
“Yes sir.”
His own words scratched an itch in his brainstem. He trained his hearing on the soft scraping of a fingernail turning right angles across his face.
“To think I admired you. You were never smarter. Never wiser. No more mature. You held your power by dumb luck.” He curled a fist around Bill's hat. “All that luck, spent chasing a high you'll never attain. One that may never have existed.”
Bill was in no place to stop him. He bit his tongue, holding back a hat-based outburst. He'd had enough of those in prism, and they'd never ended well for him. He trembled as Ford stroked the velvety flesh with his thumb, then gave it a sharp tug. He yelped, eye rolled back in a vain attempt to keep it on the action.
Ford’s grip loosened. He opened his hand to watch the hat wriggle on his palm. It moved independently from the rest of Bill, soft and warm and full of potential viscera, like the belly of a plump rodent.
“Strange,” he muttered. His expression had softened significantly. Adorably curious.
Breaking character.
Bill pushed back the tinge of annoyance that threatened his immersion.
“Sixer.”
“Hm?” Ford looked up. It took just a second to summon back the malice.
“That name isn't yours to use.” He yanked the hat again, harder. Bill whined, arms entwining like vines off a lattice.
“Sorry!”
“Your apologies make me sick. You can't synthesize genuine remorse. Centuries of punishment have taught you nothing. It's as impressive as it is tragic.”
“I'm sorry,” Bill said again, “I'm sorry…” The imperceptible thread tying his hat to his body was close to snapping. “I'm sorry, Ford!”
“For what?”
A curveball. Bill wracked his brain. He'd done lots of things Stanford didn’t like. Ford tightened his grip. He felt something pop.
“For everything! Everything that hurt you!” He looked him in the eye, making his own as genuine as he could muster.
Ford frowned, unimpressed. “You must have known that wouldn't satisfy me.”
He'd stilled his hand, but held it in place. Bill's topmost point burned with taut energy. He relaxed into the reliable sting. It was the type of pain that afforded him space to think, but hurt no less. He had the brainpower to focus on Ford’s gentler touch, which had come to rest on the horizontal line just below his tie. The undersides of his bricks burned as strongly as the sting up top, spreading the heat amongst themselves.
“How else can I?” Bill untwisted his arms and reached his bound hands towards his warden's fingers. “Satisfy you…if you won't believe me?”
Ford snatched his outstretched arms and wound them three times around his wrist, heeling his dog by the leash. He dug the nails of his other hand into the indented line, holding Bill flat against the tabletop as he pulled.
“I'm certain you can't,” He growled. The tension seared Bill's shoulders. Ford could rip the things clean off in a single tug, Bill thought. It wouldn't be hard. But he spread his fingers instead, widening the line, coaxing the bricks apart.
Bill whimpered, so suddenly blessed with hope. His innards broiled under his shell, threatening to pop like a kernel of corn. He scanned his tormentor's face, frantic, silently pleading for permission. Ford glanced down, appraising the twitching scales.
“But you can try.”
Bill fell open with a gasp of relief. His bricks slid apart, stone grit crumbling into the fleshy openings left behind. A flash flood of carnal drippings rinsed away the invading particulates, swiftly puddling on the table. He felt lighter. Holding himself together for as long as Stanford demanded was a rare victory; He had so little control over his body these days.
“You're getting better at taking direction. That's something.” Ford lifted his fingers away the instant Bill opened to them.
Bill bit back his frustration, latching onto the praise. The weeping silvery membrane beneath his scales lashed and writhed, folding, bunching up between the rectangular plates. He felt his whole body begging to invert itself.
Ford licked his fingers clean of static gore, the webbing in between, down to the last knuckle. He took his time, observing Bill's discomfort in the detached way a tired parent might watch a tantrum.
Bill squirmed under the palm crushing his hat into the table. Even free from the hand that had pinned his center mass, He couldn't get a foothold on the smooth surface. As if it would have done him any good, being an inch to the left.
“If you could see yourself now…” Ford returned his fingers. “Submitting so shamelessly to the very human you deemed an easy mark. Hand selected for my insecurity and obedience.” He slid them, millimeter by millimeter, into the open cavity. “Shouldn't it be easy to take me down? Bring me to my knees?”
“Never…” Bill squeaked. His organs shifted, engulfing the two long, rough digits in erogenous tissue, seeking out whatever friction they could. Ford gave his fingers a sluggish, repetitive motion. In and out. Nowhere near as fast as Bill needed.
“‘Never’? That's hard to believe. I could be yours. If you'd had your way, I’m sure I’d be no better off than you are now.” He spread his fingers, let a lobe of flesh into the space between, and crushed it in his knuckles.
Bill squealed in pain. Scales contracted, narrowing their gaps with bone-breaking speed. The lapping, oozing biomatter shrank back in alarm, retreating into his core. Yet, by sheer force of will, the gap around Ford’s knuckles held its size, and his chosen lump of meat stayed slack in his grip. The thought of harming him–stealing his plaything away, even by accident–was terrifying.
“Is that or is that not true?” Ford asked. He met Bill's glazed eye, firm and direct.
Bill blinked blearily, trying and failing to recall the question. ‘That's…you're right.” His dry throat clung to itself. His voice cracked, small and strange.
“In your perfect world, I'd belong to you. I'd be nothing but property. You’d put me through pain like this without a second thought, just to hear me scream. Violate my mind and body. You'd never let me live down my loss.”
"You don't…have to think about that.” Bill forced his body to relax, easing open, prematurely blooming the compacted buds of his innards. He offered the desaturated petals of flesh to Ford’s waiting hand, rumpled and quivering. “I'm yours now. I love to be yours, however you want me.”
Ford kneaded the fold between his knuckles. Bill could feel it bruising. He had so many bruises. Gifts.
“You lost.” Ford said. “So many times, countless eons, you lost without consequence. Again and again. But you've lost now. You don't get to try again. This won't reset. You won’t retreat and recoup.” He stroked the bit of flesh with his thumb. Even through the pain, it slickened at his touch. “Has that settled in yet? It must be well near impossible to comprehend the magnitude of your error, let alone accept it. That's true, isn't it?”
Bill felt a sinking in his core. He pushed it out. Ford released his vice grip, resuming his slow thrusting. Much better. Bill wrapped his legs around his wrist. And around, and around. “Yes sir.”
“I want you to tell me who won.”
Bill closed his eye. He moved with Ford's hand, strung up on his legs, guiding himself into the merciful rhythm, taking the salty intrusion deeper–and only then did he pair the sensation with words.
“You won…Ford, Stanford Pines, you, you won.” And around, and around…
Ford took his fingers away. Bill's body leapt to complain, but was halted instantly by the sound of a zipper. His scales erupted with moisture, drooling with anticipation–classically conditioned by his captor's dinner bell.
“Give me my hand,” Ford prompted.
Bill released his legs. They unwound, and unwound, picking up speed until they snapped back into place. He idly massaged the section of rubber hose that seemed like a calf. A mild shock of pain–he'd overdone the length. The mortal body was much less forgiving.
A finger dug under his bottom lid without warning, dry and unprepped. Ford ignored his pained cries, shoving in a second, third, four total, stretching him to capacity. Bill moaned. His eye rolled back–and back, down his tongue, his throat, and nested in his esophagus. Ford pinned back his top point and pulled up on his socket, folding him like a hinge to lever open his maw.
Bill gave him a show: He gathered saliva in his tongue, packing its ducts until it was swollen and heavy with briney drool. He rolled it out like a blue-grey carpet and lashed it around, flinging viscous strings across the tabletop. Stanford liked it messy. He liked when Bill couldn't help but drip down his thighs.
“What's that for?” Ford prompted. Bill engaged the pointless question.
“It's for you. All yours. Anywhere, anything you want it for…” It inched out of his mouth, continuous, unspooling from his throat. It was twice his size, dense and three-dimensional. It cast his tiny body in shadow–extraneous, like a latched anglerfish. He watched the base of his tongue, vision distorted by the deep pool of saliva in his throat, rippling as he whined. “Put me to use…”
“How should I put you to use?” Ford’s voice betrayed nothing.
“However you want, please, my mouth is yours, my tongue is yours, satisfy yourself!” His body flushed hotter, feeding on his own pathetic voice.
“‘Satisfy myself’? You expect me to do the work?” Ford scolded. “Here you are again, making a burden of yourself.”
Bill could taste his proximity. So close, exposed, inches from his waiting tongue. Cultists before him had begged to be in the very same position. Would have prayed to Bill for hours on end, just to be permitted the sight of his eldritch maw. Pleading to touch their flesh to his. He'd made use of their desperation, yet never once had he been compelled to oblige.
“I'm sorry! I'm sorry, I…” the forked ends of his tongue flicked, drawing in the precious scent. He swallowed. “Permission to put myself to use?”
Six fingertips pressed into the circumference of his tongue, just outside his ring of fangs. Slowly, they travelled up the length, massaging the subtle textures until they reached the tip, thumb and forefinger catching its cleft base. A hard shaft pressed between the split ends. Bill shuddered.
“Granted.”
The strike was instantaneous. Bill's tongue coiled around its prize–a starving constrictor wrapping a warm, fat rodent.
His numerous salivary glands rubbed against themselves in the writhing wad–one pair per four inches of tongue. He flexed the mass, milking cascades of drool onto the hardwood below. He knew what Ford liked. Ford liked to hear the splatter.
He set his tongue in motion, compressing and separating the coils, feeling the thin skin shift over its dense core. He brushed his fork over the head as it slid in and out of the undulating mass, varying the sensations. Ford moaned. Softly, under his breath–but Bill clung to the win.
Ford gripped his sides without warning and lifted him off the table. He tensed but continued his work, surrendering himself to the massive hands that engulfed his body. Stanford's size was inspiring; When Bill behaved, it was a perk. It made him feel secure–comfortably all-encompassing. But it unsettled him in equal measure. When he'd first arrived–before he'd learned helplessness–it had brought him nothing but pain.
His heart beat faster as Ford carried him the short distance to a nearby chair. He sat, and the warm hands released. Bill mourned them as the tension left his body. They were terrifying. He'd come to appreciate that.
“Look at me.”
Bill obeyed; His sunken eye rolled up his tongue to meet Ford’s gaze, settling behind his teeth. He blinked away a blurry film of spit. Ford placed a thumb on his top point, tilting him up to center his view.
“I suppose you're good for something.” His cheeks were tinted pink–the sole indicator of his investment.
“Thank you, sir.”
Ford pet the edge nearest his thumb as he appraised his glazed eye. Bill imagined how he must look: Small, restrained, disheveled exoskeleton dripping with various fluids. Committing all the energy in his once-divine body to a shriveled little tube of human flesh.
“You're…pathetic,” Ford breathed, then furrowed his brow, as though he'd surprised himself. Even a trained subconscious like his faltered at a sight so utterly pitiful as Bill. Overwhelmed with disdain. Bill basked in that thought.
“Pathetic,” he echoed under his breath, tightening the wrap of his tongue, wringing more drool into the lap below him. He snuck his tied hands up his back face, trailing his fingers along his surface. His exoskeleton itself had no nerve endings, but even the lightest nudge sent tremors through the connected tissues underneath. He wasn't dumb enough to risk touching himself directly; that wasn't his place.
He strummed his bricks, listening to the squish of his tongue, the gurgle behind his eye, the quiet clatter of scales bumping into themselves. Pathetic. Captured. This was his only use. He had nothing else. It was all this, only this , forever, until the end of time. The clatter built on itself, irresponsibly loud. This was what he deserved. More than he deserved. Pathetic, Pathetic –
“Cipher.” Bill flinched. A single finger snagged his bound hands, dragging them away from their illicit deed. He refocused his eye on Ford’s expression–the one that always preceded punishment. He was well acquainted. He shrank back.
“I didn't mean to! I thought–! It just happened! What happened? What am I even talking about?! Who knows! I don't!” He winced and bowed into Ford’s lap, shielding his face. “No, that was a lie, I'm sorry for lying, I lied, I lied–”
Something metallic clicked from above. A stray whimper escaped him. Ford’s swiss army knife. Not a pocket knife–a swiss army knife; He knew a use for all eight compact tools. And Bill knew, intimately, where each of them fit in his body. Where they could be convinced to fit. Which one had his tormentor chosen this time? He prayed for anything but the corkscrew.
“I’m sorry…” he whispered. He repeated it like a mantra, like it might dull some of the oncoming pain. A blade tip touched his back. He curled in on himself, chanting his warding spell under his breath.
The blade was still for an endless moment. Then it lifted. In a single upward slice, his hands were free.
“You're lucky I’m enjoying myself,” Ford drawled. Bill looked up at his rope-burned wrists, held aloft in a merciful fist.
“So…so lucky…” His voice shook.
Ford dropped the pardoned traitors. “Put those to use.”
Bill threw his right arm around one beautiful thigh. He sent his left up, under Ford’s shirt, twice around his torso, and squeezed a handful of pectoral. Wiry hair curled around his fingers.
“Isn't that better?” asked Ford.
“So much better…” And it was. The thought of using his hands for anything lesser made him ill. The fat felt soft and warm and delicious under his skin; His meat had to be marbled to perfection. “This–your body is… perfect,” he breathed.
“Mhm. How is it from the outside?” Ford pet his back. He moaned as his scales flared to life.
“Better! Even better!”
Ford nodded. “How did it feel to desecrate it?”
Good. So good, was he kidding? “I'm sorry fff…for des–desecrating your body, sir.”
“What else are you sorry for?”
Bill refreshed his salivary canal and upped his speed. He refocused his technique, varying pressure, doing his best to buy time as he rummaged through his mind palace. Ford’s throat made a sound. That was good.
“I’m sorry for th…f–for lying about the portal,” he offered. That was broad enough.
“Keep going.”
The hand on his back stopped petting to shove him forward, flattening him to Ford's crotch. He took a throatful of tongue before he could reel in the excess, gagging on the dripping mass. He wretched, tears springing to his eyes as he choked back enough slimy muscle to breathe again.
Ford held him in place, filling the new vacancy in his eye socket with a mouthful of cock. Bill lapped at it with his resized tongue, squirming at the pressure on his back plates.
“I'm sorry for the vvv…videotape. I'm sorry for the spidersSHM! And the nail–hammer–and the…the whattsit on the roof–”
“The death threat?”
“Yeah th–hnh…the death threat and the…other threats, ‘nd the torture n’ all…”
“The ‘torture n’ all’?” Ford slid his fingernails under a scale and tugged, prying it out of alignment like a nail bed pulled taught. Bill squeaked.
“The hypothermia! And, sl–and the sleep depriving, and the joint pulling, and the knuckles and the memory stealing and the eye bleeding–” he paused to moan when fingers entered his shell– “AND! The backscratcher and the chAIns! And the biting and cutting and um…an…fhuh…and the killing you repeatedly and the…the name calling and the sideburns…”
Ford assessed his list. “The tattoo?”
Bill failed to catch his knee-jerk laughter. Ford wrenched out the same scale and bent it over until its face met the neighboring brick’s. Bill shrieked.
“SORRYsorrysorrysorry!” He took him deeper until he gagged, swirled his tongue to the base of his shaft, stroking his chest appeasingly with his resident hand.
Ford released the brick. It snapped back into place (deeper-set than before). Bill gasped in relief.
“Try again.”
“Th…the tattoo,” He muttered. He slowed his tongue, lapping at the tip. He surveyed his own technique from a few inches down his throat.
He'd watched Stanford's dick grow in real-time, fuzzy through his partially-blinding pain. The way it responded to his screams. He was big–darker and firmer than he'd been all night. Just about ready to pop. Nothing turned him on quite like Bill's genuine agony.
Well. Nothing for that.
“Good,” said Ford. “Almost convincing.” He'd returned to petting, taking special care to be rough on the fresh injury. Bill winced. “If only you had a sorry bone in your body.”
Bill was quiet for a moment. He could say something there, but it might kill the mood.
“Right?” Stanford prompted. He'd noticed the silence.
“Mhm.”
He sighed. “Exoskeleton.” He filled the blank for him. “Right? No bones.”
He didn't sound particularly impressed with the quip. Damn.
“...Yes sir.”
“Yes sir…” Ford echoed to himself. Then he chuckled. “You're… terrible. Every day I wonder why I keep you around.”
No he didn't. He knew exactly why. Bill knew why.
“I'm sorry to be a burden, sir. I'll do my best to earn my place…”
“You're terrible!” Ford laughed. “What is this?!”
Bill furrowed his brow. “Stanford,” he warned. This wasn't part of it.
“And now I'm scared of you? Is that it? Ridiculous!”
Bill rolled out his eye to glare from under his fangs. “Remember who's in who’s teeth.”
“You'll bite me? And then what?”
Bill didn't answer.
“Why should I play this game?” Ford reached under his shirt and plucked Bill's hand off his chest like a barnacle. He squeezed it between his thumb and knuckle. “What's the point? It's all true. I haven't said a single thing I'd stand to disagree with.”
“This isn't–” Bill winced. The pressure on his hand increased.
“Who lost?”
“What?”
He threaded his hand under Bill’s tongue, untangling it from his cock. He wound it through his fingers. Bill tried and failed to pull it back.
“I asked you who won, and you seemed to know. Now I'm asking you who lost.”
Bill tried again to pull away. His tongue was losing circulation. He snatched his hand from Ford’s grip instead, uncoiling the other from his thigh to massage his palm.
“Well now I'm not in character.”
“Then do your character.” He picked Bill up and sat him back on the lab table. He rolled over on his chair, bringing them eye to eyes. “I'll wait.”
Bill sat quietly. He rubbed his wrist, averting his eye. “You can't just do this y'know. Now I gotta psych myself up all over again, you know how much work I put into–”
“Bill.” Ford poked him in the side. He wobbled and caught his balance. He narrowed his eye.
“What?”
“Who lost? Simple answer.”
“Right now?!”
“When else?”
Bill threw out his hands in exasperation. “Let me get my mojo back! It's your own damn fault I can't–”
“Why can't you?” Ford pressed. “I'd like to hear it from you.”
Something twisted in Bill's guts. He froze up.
“It's the same answer, whether it gets you wet or not. You can rub up on my fingers while you say it, if that helps.” He offered a hand, two fingers extended–tacky with mucus and flecks of static. He made no move to touch Bill, leaving the ball in his court.
This was unconventional.
“Stanford.”
“Bill.” He wiggled his fingers. “Do you want them or not?”
“That doesn't matter.” Bill slipped halfway back into his character, stilted and awkward. “I'll take whatever you give me.”
“I'm not giving these to you. I'm offering them. You can take them if you want them. But if you want them, you need to answer my question.”
Bill did want them. His arousal hadn't vanished as abruptly as the roleplay had. He wanted those fingers to hold him down and fuck him until his head was empty again. He wanted to struggle against the assault, resist as they ignored him. As they happened to him.
“They're getting cold.” Ford taunted.
Bill was warm. It was one of his few practical uses. Some cold nights at sea, Ford would use Bill's body as a heating pad. He'd slip him under his blankets, and Bill would curl up at his feet and stay put like the obedient dog he could be. He wasn't that dog now, and he was pissed about it.
“It won't be any more genuine than before.”
“Why would I expect it to be? Suppose I want to hear it from the Bill that actually lost.”
Bill didn't look down, but he could tell when he was red. Ford smiled.
“Exactly right.”
Bill glared at the two fingers, mocking him. He took them one at a time in his glowing-white hands, lined up his bricks, and impaled himself.
“There you go! Now, do you want me to take these away from you?”
Bill moaned despite himself and clutched Ford’s hand, digging in with his harmless claws. His inner membrane wrapped around the foreign objects like the foot of a clam, sliding up and down Ford’s length, over the coarse folds of his knuckles.
Ford tugged, slipping halfway out. Bill whined, clawing at his wrist. “No!”
He stopped, but didn't return the stolen length. “Who lost?”
“Me!” Bill moaned as Ford returned his prize. The price of his dignity.
“Who?”
Bill didn't answer. He'd given his answer.
“Answer me again and I'll give you movement,” Ford proposed.
Bill cursed under his breath. He wanted movement.
“...Me.”
“What about you?”
“I lost, genius!” Ford kept his word, throwing Bill onto his back and slowly fucking his needy guts. His eye rolled back in his head, legs kicking, reduced to a more pleasant level of cognition.
“What did you lose?”
Bill hummed dismissively, lost to the sensations. He ignored Ford when he repeated himself.
The fingers were ripped away entirely. Bill made a pitiful, sorrowful noise. “My paradise!” He tried to drag him back by the wrist. “And my life and my empire and my dignity you SMUG little–!”
His jaw was wrenched open again, shattering his delusion of personhood. A hard dick wedged under his eyeball. He swallowed the cock block and brought out his tongue to appease his executioner, his torturer, his master, with all he deserved. Angry tears rolled off the corners of his lips, indistinguishable from his other fluids.
Ford felt his teeth, thumbs to their razor-sharp, harmless ends. “Why do I think so little of you?”
“Because I lost. I'm dumb, I'm weak, I'm a coward!" He choked on his master, tears on his lips wetting the hilt of his cock. “I never thought I could d–if I knew I could–” He squeezed his eye shut, tight around his penance. Ford held him down, thrusting deeper, to the back of his throat. Bill dry heaved, followed by a full-body sob.
“You're mine. My property. You lost yourself, and I won you. You're my prize, aren't you?” Ford's tone was shifting, far from his detached, bored dominance. He was lost in his hindbrain, taking what he needed, saying what he needed, indulging in his winnings.
“Your property! Mm–mind and body, all yours, all for you sir! Master! You own me, you won, you won me, my throat, my guts to destroy, fuck me open! Break me, tear me apart!”
Ford took his offer, plunging his fingers into Bill's fatal wound, pulling harder than he ever had, tearing his body into disparate bits. He thrust again and again into the mess of deteriorating molecules, listening to Bill's screams, pleas for mercy, loud and shrill and pathetic–
“UNCLE! Uncle uncle uncle!” Bill wheezed, slapping the table.
Ford let go of the wound. He grabbed a handful of tongue, bunched it around his dick, and fucked his fist to the finish line. With a guttural moan, he filled the throat of his trophy.
There was a mutual silence as both recovered, panting (the high-pitched fizzle of atoms restructuring was just outside of human hearing range).
Ford loosened his fist. Bill's tongue dropped to the table, where it lay limp before slithering back into his mouth. He blinked, fitting his fresh-glazed eye back into place. He made sure he had Ford’s attention before licking it clean.
Ford gazed down at him, casting his massive shadow. He looked mildly concerned. Bill wondered how much blood there was.
“What's the damage?” He rasped. His wound throbbed with his bloodflow, hissing and spitting like a feral cat. Nothing new.
“No more than you've bounced back from before. But perhaps you should…take it easy for a day or two.”
Bill chuckled. “Rips me open like a chimpanzee and tells me to take it easy.”
Ford rubbed his neck. “Apologies. I did get…a bit carried away.”
“Don't worry about it.” Bill moved to sit up, and immediately laid back down. “I'm just gonna lay here for a bit.”
“Do you need–” Ford reconsidered his question. “How many aspirin do you need?”
“Just bring me the bottle, I'll figure it out.”
“I won't be doing that. Can we start with two?”
Bill let out a long, melodramatic sigh. “Sure. Why not? Can't have anything on this ship.”
Ford fetched a large pill bottle from a nearby filing cabinet and tapped a couple into his hand. “You weigh eight-fifty grams. Two is plenty.”
“Says the guy without an open death wound.” But he caught the pills on his tongue when Ford tossed them. He let them dissolve into a bitter paste. It was probably for the best that Ford kept the bottle; Bill did have snackaholic tendencies.
“Was…” He looked at Ford. He'd taken a seat, resting his chin in his hands. “Did I get too meta by the end? It felt like a natural enough progression, but we didn't discuss…”
Bill shrugged, then winced. “That's the risk you take with improv. I picked up what you were puttin’ down.” He tested all his pseudo-joints from his supine position. Oh yeah, he'd be feeling that in the morning.
“Should I have backed off? You did get–”
“I remembered the safeword, I used it when I needed it. I know my rights.”
“Mhm.” Ford’s shadow filled the corner of his periphery. He felt a finger stroke his hat.
“Ey. Hands off, buddy.” He smacked him away.
“Sorry. Should I not have involved the hat?”
“No, the hat was good. You didn't push it. But that doesn't give you a day pass.” He straightened it, brushing out any creases.
“Of course.”
Bill squinted. “Mind gettin’ the light?”
“Oh! Yes.” Ford leaned over and shut off the exam light. Bill's headache was immediately more tolerable. “Need anything else? Water? We'll worry about cleanup once you can move.”
He was always so reliable. Thoughtful. Bill deserved nothing less. “Juice box?”
“We're out. I'll pick some up at the next port. We have…orange juice?”
Bill sighed. “Too acidic. Bad for Fisher.” He pointed at his aptly-named fissure (Stanley had suggested “Stanley Junior”. Bill hadn't spoken to him for a week).
“Water, then.”
“Boring. Beer?”
“We want to hydrate you.”
Bill blew a raspberry. “You paralyze me and refuse my needs.”
Ford sighed. “Alright. Water, then a beer.
“Deal.”
Ford left the room. Bill listened to his footsteps through the Stan O’ War, and heard the fridge open in the kitchen.
Stan was out in the port town, doing whatever task Ford had made up to get him off the boat for the day. It was clearly necessary, with how easily Bill could hear every sound onboard. Wouldn't be hard to hear from outside the ship either, given how loud he'd been screaming in agony. They probably weren't the only sailors hanging around the docks. Thank god “good samaritans” weren't real or someone with human decency might have blown up their spot.
“Water.” Ford made his entrance carrying two glasses of water and a can of Pitt Light. He set the glass with the bendy straw and cocktail umbrella next to Bill.
Bill made grabby hands for the straw. Ford blocked the top end with his finger and lifted it overhead to dribble a few drops over his cornea. He licked his reddened eye, spreading it around to soothe some of the sting. It would probably be wise to have Ford prep before hand stuff next time, but the spontaneity was half the fun (and the sting was a good quarter of it).
“Have you…” Ford gathered another strawful of water. He let the sentence hang.
“What?” Bill swallowed the second drizzle. Might need something with lemon and honey if he wanted his pipes back anytime soon.
“Have you spoken to Dr. Zola at all about…our activities?”
Bill rolled his eye. “Oh yeah, lemme ring her up, give her the stats. How many milliliters did you cum?”
“I was just wondering–”
He sat up, ignoring the simultaneous rush of pain, nausea, and dizziness. “What makes my sex life any of her business?! You think she's my gynecologist? She's not even a doctor!”
“Yes, I understand, but–”
“She hasn't seen your dick, if that's what you're worried about.” Various Theraprism employees most certainly had, considering all the spyware in Bill's blood. But telling him that now didn't seem worth the trouble.
“I'm not telling you what you should or shouldn't have disclosed. I only wondered because the way we do things is psychological in nature.”
“Is it?” Bill put a hand to his cheek in alarm. “Sex with the brain demon from your dreams is psychological?”
“Forget I asked,” Ford sighed. “I suppose your appointments are none of my business.”
“Damn right,” Bill muttered.
He had told Zola. A week or so ago, as a gotcha; Look at your freak patient being maladaptive. What a whackjob. Look how much your “therapy” is helping.
She'd looked thoughtfully at her desktop for a minute, tapped her pen on her lips, and then told Bill about “potential for breaking down communication barriers in a mutually favorable environment”. He hadn't mentioned his sex life since. Since when was it her business?
“Regardless,” Ford began, “I hope you're…” He stopped.
Bill braced himself on the rim of his glass and struggled to his feet with a grunt. “Yeah?” He propped himself on his elbow and pulled the straw over to take a sip.
“Nevermind.” Ford leaned his own elbow on the table next to Bill and knocked back his glass of water. He retrieved the beer can and cracked it open.
“Hey!” Bill coughed. His throat wasn't quite shout-ready.
Ford took a sip. “Just testing for quality.”
Bill squinted. He fished his straw out of his water. “Better be. We had a deal. Hand it over.”
Ford took the straw and dropped it back in Bill's glass. “Beer is for good shapes who drink their water.”
Bill crossed his arms. “You're gettin’ on my nerves Six–”
Ford reached for his undone tie, and began to fix it. His fingers were nimble for their size. The loose ends brushed the still-tender patterning. A stray shivver spread across Bill's face. He finished tying to rest his thumbs on the gilded surface. The bow was immaculate. He gave Bill a stern look. “Drink your water."
Bill took his straw without further persuasion. “Yessir.”
Ford smiled fondly, stealing another sip of beer as he hydrated himself. “Good.”