I have returned from the void and present to you lovely people: Bill Membrane. Or maybe he’s Dib Cipher. You guys can decide. And with that, I leave, back to the void. I will one day return with another cursed drawing.
Btw credit to @modern-asian for coloring and shading Dill.
Had to get this out before it stopped snowing for the year. I wanted to showcase more of Dill's psychology. He can't let himself have FEELINGS about his dog! This is in no was indicative of any emotions or projection
The chain around Ford’s neck was just long enough for him to curl on his side on the floor, his back tight against the wall. He watched a colony of ants that, while sparse, were enough of a consistent presence for him to conclude that there was some sort of gap in the bunker’s structure. Some weakness he and Fiddleford had not accounted for, either worn away by the wiles of the natural world, or there from the start. That realization was deeply annoying. Of course Ford had fucked up his impenetrable fortress of metal and concrete, because he fucked everything up. His relationships, his projects, his clothes that one time he’d tried ironing them. His will (no, his stubbornness) was the only thing keeping him from fucking up the world. Well, Bill would be the one perverting reality with his odious whims, but Ford was the one who had gotten him this far, so it was still his fault.
The ants were essentially imaginary at this point. Ford knew they were there, but his eyesight was shit and the room was dark. Sometimes, the little insects crawled close enough for him to make out their legs and feelers. They even crawled on him a few times. It was a playful, tickling sensation that made him feel less alone. Ford had felt terribly guilty when he’d given into his hunger and eaten them.
Ford flinched at the squealing, grinding sound of the bunker door opening. It wouldn’t be anyone here to save him. It wouldn’t be anyone besides Bill.
“Heeeeey, Fordsyyyyyyy!”
Ford sighed as Bill danced down the stairs. He was still shit at piloting Fiddleford’s lanky limbs, leading him to stumble on the last few steps. He didn’t even try to catch himself. He landed face-first atop hard metal, cackling. A plastic bag he was carrying plopped to the ground beside him. Once he was apparently satisfied with his self-indulgent crowing, Bill rolled sideways to aim a grin at Ford.
“How ya doin’, li’l guy?”
Ford rolled his eyes.
“Five stars. I should contact AAA. It’ll be a glowing review, I’m sure.”
Bill laughed and popped up. Fiddleford’s joints crackled in a way that Ford would have once felt sympathy for.
“Good to see you’re keeping your spirits up!”
Bill didn’t add any mention of how Ford could escape his situation. By Ford’s estimation, he’d been here for over a year. There was very little need for threats or reminders when they both understood the situation perfectly well.
“Fiddlesticks has really been stepping up his game in your absence.” Bill bent (at the hips, with his back and legs straight) and plucked his plastic bag off the floor. “He’s a better weirdness researcher than you ever were. The kid is flourishing!”
Ford bared his teeth, though he didn’t bother lifting his head.
“In that case, I don’t see why you didn’t choose to ruin his life instead.”
“Eh, country boy’s not desperate enough.” Bill turned back to face Ford, swinging his legs in an exaggerated arc. “You’re so much of a boot licking dog with an ego problem, I barely had to try!”
It still hurt.
“Any yet, you still don’t have what you want.” Ford was shaking with rage, but he plastered on a smile so wide it hurt his cheeks.
Cipher looked down at him with hooded eyes.
“You’ll crack. You’re a hideous, leaking, needy sack of flesh.”
Bill crossed the distance between them and stomped down on Ford’s hand before he could pull it away. Ford flinched and tried to retract it, but it was caught under Bill’s heel. Fiddleford was stronger than he looked, and Ford had been wasting away.
“Doesn’t matter how long it takes. Besides, no one’s even noticed you’re gone.”
Bill ground his heel, digging painfully against Ford’s metacarpals.
“Your mom hasn’t called since Hanukkah. You might as well not exist to your pops. Your brother is probably dead in a ditch somewhere. Fiddlesticks thinks you’re in Antarctica. Everyone from school thinks you’re a weirdo failure who wasted his potential and has probably killed himself by now.”
Ford was mortified at the sob that escaped him. He froze, willing the sound back in. Bill threw his head back and started cackling. He lifted his heel from Ford’s hand. Ford left the appendage where it was.
It stung. Everything did. Physically, mentally… it was hard to separate anymore.
“Aww… you’re so pathetic!” Bill cooed, and lowered himself to pat Ford’s tangled hair. Ford didn’t resist the patronizing gesture. He didn’t have the energy. “Don’t worry, you’re not the only one! As much as he’s been gettin’ cozy with monsters and townies, Fiddlesticks just lost his wife and kid!”
It took several seconds for the information to penetrate Ford’s brain.
“... What?” He squinted up at Bill.
“Yyyyyup! What, ya didn’t notice?” Cipher stretched Fiddleford’s eyes wide with his fingers. “He’s been cryin’ his eyes out!”
Ford hadn’t noticed. Now that he studied Fiddleford’s face, though, it should have been obvious that something was wrong. His eyes, though a putrid yellow, were rimmed with red, and the same blotchy rose coloration extended to his nose. His facial hair, which he’d been keeping neat since moving to Gravity Falls, had grown into pale brown bristles, flecked with washed out strands of silvery tan. As close as he was, Ford could smell the liquor on his breath.
Ford hadn’t noticed any of it. He’d been too miserable to take note of much outside of himself. He looked at the floor, which his own thick bristles of unshaven facial hair were matted against.
“Eh, not surprised ya didn’t clue in,” Bill shrugged. “You’ve always been selfish.”
He was right.
“You’re lucky I’m such a nice guy. You don’t deserve it, but I brought you a treat!”
Ford didn’t respond. He continued to stare at the floor.
“Hellooooo? Dimension 04’\ to Sixer?” Bill knocked his knuckles against Ford’s temple.
Ford didn’t move.
Bill kicked him in the head.
“Ow!” Ford hadn’t been prepared for that. He curled into a ball, belatedly covering his now-throbbing skull. The chain pulled even tighter against his neck.
“Listen to me when I’m talking to you.” Bill’s tone was harsh and commanding.
“Fuck you,” Ford hissed.
Bill lifted his chin and looked down his blotchy nose, through the small, round glasses Fiddleford wore. They were the only accessory he came into the bunker with anymore. He must have learned his lesson from Ford’s most successful escape attempt.
“You’re lucky you’re cute when you’re pathetic,” Bill sighed.
“Fuck you,” Ford repeated.
“Real nice banter, brainiac.”
Ford felt sluggish and dizzy every time he moved. Frankly, it was a wonder he was this coherent. The pulse of anger keeping Ford’s brain alight was quickly fading, and he could feel himself giving into exhaustion. His eyes and limbs were heavy, and his thoughts were coming frustratingly slow. Visits from Bill always tired him out. He didn’t have much energy to spare.
“You need some brain food so that hunk of protein sponge doesn't wither away by the time ya get around to finishing that portal for me.” Bill patted Ford’s head again, more gently this time.
Oh, joy. Another dead rat. Ford wondered if, by some miracle, it would be cooked this time.
Bill opened the plastic bag that had been dangling from his arm. Wow. A bag of dead rats. How generous. Instead of roadkill and bottled water scooped from a dirty puddle, though, Bill removed a styrofoam takeaway box and a bottle of what looked like juice. Ford’s eyes snapped open and he lifted his head. His stomach and mouth burned. He was so hungry and thirsty. It was difficult not to think about when he was alone, and impossible now.
“Aww, finally got your attention?” Bill scratched Fiddleford’s chewed nails under Ford’s chin. Ford wrestled with the instinct to bite his captor's hand, because then he wouldn’t get whatever was in the fucking box. He glared at Bill, shaking.
“Beg.”
”Excuse me?” Ford coughed.
“You want a treat, don’t you? You gotta beg first.”
“No!!” Ford yowled. He wanted to launch himself at Bill for having the fucking gall to say that, but he was too weak. He couldn't even fucking stand for more than a few seconds. He was so hungry. So tired.
“Awww, you don’t want it?” Bill popped open the styrofoam box. Ford felt like he was going to faint as the smell of real food hit him.
“Please,” Ford wheezed before he could stop himself. He hadn’t meant to say it. His face was burning, but he couldn’t take it back. He didn't think he wanted to.
“Atta’ boy,” Cipher grinned. He dropped his offerings on the floor. Ford lunged for them, straining against his chains. He was just able to reach his prize and pull it toward him. He tore apart the styrofoam with shaking hands and devoured the Greasy’s burger in a few messy bites. He choked as chunks of meat and lettuce hit the back of his throat, but he wasn’t going to stop eating. He’d always thought of Greasy’s as a fairly mediocre establishment. He’d been wrong. The taste of meat and fat and mustard coated his mouth and throat. He never wanted to eat anything else. There were fries, too, for about three seconds. Ford bit his fingers shoving them into his mouth. Some blood ended up on the potatoes, but that was okay.
A small plastic bag of jellybeans slapped Ford in the face while he was drinking what turned out to be orange juice. The drink was so vibrant and sweet, he barely noticed the bag, or the way it hooked onto his glasses. Once he did, he tore it open with his teeth, his hands shaking too much to get enough purchase to open the bag properly. The beans were gone even faster than the fries, turning to a sweet, colorful mush in his jaws.
Ford flopped back down onto the metal floor. He hadn’t eaten anything like that since before he’d been brought down here. He felt sick. He felt amazing. He sucked on his fingers, still not bothered about the trickle of blood.
Bill sat down beside him. That was unusual, but Ford’s brain was buzzing too hard to really care about it.
“Y’know, Fiddlesticks isn’t even gonna question where his money went,” Bill drawled, leaning back against the wall. “You’d be surprised how much I can get away with, and he chalks it up to either him forgetting, or a fair part of the deal. That guy would give away his firstborn son if it meant he could stop the world from being so scary! Huh, y’know, I should look into that…”
Right. Bill had bragged about making some sort of deal with Fiddleford. Something about erasing memories. Ford probably knew more, but his head was so fuzzy, it was hard to remember.
It took several moments before Ford realized he was giggling to himself. Not about Fiddleford. About… he didn’t know. Feelings. He felt lighter and more content than he had in years. That was probably a tragedy on par with Shakespeare’s greatest, but Ford wasn’t going to think about that now. Or he couldn’t. It didn’t matter.
Bill knocked the tip of his shoe against Ford’s back.
“Wow, you’re really messed up.”
That was probably true. Ford didn’t care. He kept laughing, and soon hiccups began to join in. They rocked his frail body, and weren’t a pleasant sensation, but not anything that ruined his mood. Bill grinned ever wider and patted Ford’s side.
“I told you, you're a vulnerable, needy sack of flesh! I can get anything I want out of you. All it takes is some time and cheap meat.”
Ford kept laughing and hiccuping. He rolled onto his back, tears streaming down the sides of his face. This was starting to hurt, and his stomach was roiling, but he couldn't stop. He felt so good, and a little like something was broken.
“Fhhhuck you,” Ford wheezed out through the cackles. It seemed to be his mantra that day. Bill threw back his head and joined in Ford’s laughter. The sounds intertwined as Ford’s consciousness slipped away.
