Chapter 118 of human Bill Cipher eternally grappling with the horrors of having a human body:
this is it, folks.
but more importantly: Ford having the BEST time of his LIFE.
####
"Er—Bill?"
Bill looked at Ford, fake smile plastered on his face. "Yello?" Something about Ford's tone made Bill's stomach flip in a way he didn't like. What's with the acrobatics, Chumbo ol' pal? What do you know that Bill doesn't?
They all relocated outside and were milling about as Soos tried to remember how he'd latched down all the sound and lighting stuff in his truck bed so that it didn't shift around; when Ford had anxiously sidled up to Bill, journal clutched in one hand and fiddling with his pen in the other, in a manner similar to the way he approached waitresses he thought might want to yell at him.
Without making eye contact, Ford said, "I... want to thank you for intervening when you did. To ensure Dipper and I didn't ruin Mabel's presentation or harm the little monster." (There was the thinnest hint of uncharacteristic affection in Ford's voice as he said "little monster.")
There was that stomach flip again. Why? Did Bill's subconscious detect a trap? Why couldn't it just communicate in proper words? Bill narrowed his eye. "Did you just thank me?"
"Yes, I've been trying to do that more recently." With complete sincerity, Ford added, "I've read that it's a good way to encourage people to repeat actions you wish they'd do more often."
Which honestly was 90% of the reason Bill ever thanked anyone for anything, but it was charming that Ford was only just learning it. "All right, smart guy, but why are you thanking me? What are you trying to get?"
For a moment, irritation flashed across Ford's face. "All I'm trying to 'get' is—" He took a deep breath, calmed himself, and started again: "You went out of your way to help Mabel—and, indirectly, the rest of my family. Myself included. And I wish you'd do that more often." He amended himself: "I hope you will do it more often."
Chumbo was doing jumping jacks in Bill's stomach now, and he couldn't figure out why. He gave Ford a tense smile. "Sure. You got it, Sixer."
Ford flashed him a quick smile in return—it was uncertain, but it also looked sincere, which just made his guts twist into even more knots.
Then Mabel called, "Grunkle Fooord! Do you want to look after Choink for a minute?" and the look of elation that graced his face could have cured cancer and inspired birds to take up choir. Giddily, he replied, "Do I?!" and didn't wait for an answer.
And left Bill feeling like his intestines and diaphragm were trying to quietly trade places.
Mabel had joined in helping Soos rearrange the truck bed, though with the fancy egg pillow and Choink in her arms she couldn't do much more than give verbal directions. When Ford came up to her, face bright with anticipation, Mabel held Choink out to him.
His brows shot up. He dropped his journal and pen in the grass in his eagerness to accept the piglet. He'd never been a natural with animals, or babies, or baby animals; his posture was clumsy and awkward as he attempted to properly cradle Choink in his hands. All the same, his face lit up with glee as he looked at her like she was the most fascinating thing in the whole wide world.
Bill realized he hadn't seen Ford smile like that all summer.
He hadn't see Ford smile like that last summer, either. He didn't think Ford had smiled like that in over thirty years. He certainly hadn't smiled like that at Bill. No, all Bill merited was the scowl of Dr. Surly McGrumpypants. But now here Ford was off in his own little world full of cryptids to meet and secrets to discover, doing what he was passionate about—a little world where Bill didn't exist.
Ford carefully sat, crossing his legs, and shifted the piglet to one arm so he could open his journal across his lap. He pointed at the page, apparently explaining his artwork to Choink; she leaned closer to inspect the journal, pressing her tiny nose against the page. Bill had never such unmitigated delight grace Ford's face.
Past the wrinkles in his cheeks and around his eyes, past the graying hair and the silvery stubble—for a moment, Ford really did look thirty years younger. He looked just like the dorky, enthusiastic, oh-so-easily-awed young researcher Bill had first met, the one who unquestioningly trusted and adored his Muse.
There was a process occurring inside Bill's body. It felt like a drop of ink dripping into water: a little pellet of something potent and colorful plunging into a body and dissolving, unraveling, stretching out in swirls and ribbons to fill the space in every direction, staining its container from the inside.
Hormone, was the first thing Bill thought—he was feeling some unasked-for hormone hitting his blood stream. A hormone that made his lungs and stomach flutter and flip and made his brain and fingertips and lips buzz. A hormone that made him short of breath and queasy and hot and—
The second thing Bill thought was, oh.
The third thing Bill thought was, aw, fuck.
This had to be his human body's fault, he decided. It had to be some punishment, he decided. Because this was the worst possible time this could have happened.
####
"Grunkle Ford, you've had Choink long enough," Mabel griped. "Let Waddles have his baby back."
"Sorry! I can't help myself, this is just so exciting." Ford held out Choink where Waddles could reach her. (He did not actually put her down.) "Isn't it exciting? A real, flying pig! Well—presumably it can fly. It's winged, at least, but the wings could be vestigial. Like penguins! Although I suppose they'd only be 'vestigial' if they're vestiges of wings that were functional in earlier generations; but wings are a new addition to porcine anatomy, aren't they? We don't have a reliable fossil record of pigasi. If they're not functional, perhaps they're... ornamental? Maybe for mating displays—?"
Crabbily, Bill said, "They work, alright?" He'd relocated to the half-log stair steps in front of town hall, where he'd been sitting for the past several minutes—he didn't trust himself to stand back up without losing his balance.
Ford processed that, then hefted the piglet into the air (to Waddles's squeal of displeasure). "So you will fly!"
Bill suppressed a groan. This was gonna be hell, he could already tell.
Bill had been in—ugh, he wasn't ready to think the word, it would make this whole crisis too real—Bill had had crushes before; but the way human hormones translated that emotion into bodily sensations was a nasty piece of work. If he'd been handed these symptoms without any accompanying context clues about what had caused them and asked which human ailment he thought he was experiencing, his top guesses would have been food poisoning, alcohol withdrawal, a panic attack, or multiple sclerosis. How did humans manage to reproduce at all? If this had been Bill's first exposure to what infatuation felt like, he would have spent the past trillion years systematically murdering anyone he developed a crush on.
"Hey, dude," Soos said. "You okay?"
Bill looked up at Soos and Melody from his stair step. "What?" he croaked.
"You kinda look like you're about to hurl," Melody said.
Could look worse. Could look lovesick. "Oh! No, I'm fine! This body's just..." He tried to think of a crime he could frame his flesh prison for. "Hungry. With all the excitement today, I guess I forgot a couple of meals." He tried to remember when he'd last eaten. Breakfast? Had he actually had breakfast?
"Oh, dude, I'm sorry," Soos said. "I guess those nachos weren't much of a meal."
Right. They'd gotten fast food on the way to town hall. "Guess not."
"We'll heat something up as soon as we get home," Melody said.
"But it had better be something fast!" Ford said. "Right? So that we can rewatch the video as soon as we get home?" He had somehow been compelled to give up his hold on Choink, and now he and Waddles were following her around—and oh lucky day, she'd decided to make a beeline for Bill. She gazed up at him with eyes full of piggish trust and serenity.
So Ford did remember he'd offered to watch the video with Bill. Ugh. The thought of sitting a few inches away from Ford as he fanboyed over a hatching egg made Bill a little nauseous. And suddenly he couldn't stand the thought of spending the night under the same roof as Ford. "Sorry, smart guy, I already made other plans. You'll have to watch on your own."
"Oh. Alright." And just like that, Bill had lost Ford's attention completely. Choink's interest had been caught by a remarkable clump of grass near the other end of town hall, and Ford was once again wholly focused on his newest object of fascination as he and Waddles trailed after her.
Bill dragged his eye away from Ford. "I'm gonna be out late, Questiony." He stood unsteadily. "Don't wait up for me."
"Uh, sure," Soos said. "You got supervision?"
Bill glanced around to make sure Melody wasn't close enough to do annoying things like ask follow up questions or verify Bill's alibi—nope, she and Mabel had joined Choink's entourage. He confidently said, "Yep! Got supervision covered!"
Soos gave him a thumbs up. "Okay, dude. Have fun!"
Yeah, he'd have something like fun, alright.
He had no idea which set of nerves was responsible for the horrid sensation in his abdomen that humans meant when they used the phrase "butterflies in your stomach"—but he bet that a sufficiently fermented drink could drown them.
Tyler was unlocking his bike to head home when Bill grabbed his handlebars. "Hey! Ty, buddy!" Bill had the feeling that his smile was a little too wide and he hoped it didn't look as desperate as he felt. "You said you don't have any Saturday night plans, didn't you?"
Tyler's face lit up.
Some guys would love to spend a weekend night sitting on a couch covered in grandma's lace doilies watching home movies about pig births with a nerd who fantasized about how much cooler his trench coat would look with a leather pocket protector. Bill wasn't one of those guys. He was Bill Cipher. Party host extraordinaire. He belonged in the nearest, loudest club—slamming back neon-colored drinks, staring into neon-colored strobe lights calibrated to induce as many seizures as possible, and dancing til his feet wore away to nubs.
But in a pinch, the local biker bar would do.
####
An incomplete list of the activities engaged in by Bill Cipher on the night of Saturday, July 20th and early morning of Sunday, July 21st:
Drank.
Tried to figure out how to cheat at darts without anyone catching him so he could impress the tough guys. Failed.
Drank.
Wingmanned for Tyler by making out with him in front of Manly Dan and Ghost-Eyes in the hopes they'd get jealous enough that one of them would finally make a move on Tyler.
Drank.
Vowed to never again make out with a human who wasn't down for weird eyeball stuff.
Drank.
Told half of the Discount Auto Mart Warriors when and how they would die. Caused Killbone to call his mom for the first time in three years.
Drank.
Stole the massive American flag hanging behind the bar, just to feel something.
Drank.
Attempted to call Keyhole and was told by an automated voice that his data plan didn't cover interstellar calls. Agreed to return the "borrowed" cell phone to its rightful owner in exchange for not getting his nose caved in.
Drank.
Got in a bar fight.
Drank.
Poured out thirty years of woes and regrets about how stupid he'd been to drop the helpful Muse mask before he got through the portal and showed Ford how great conquering Earth would be, and stupid to trust Ford when he said he'd finally come around and was willing to give Bill the formula to break out of Gravity Falls' barrier, and he should have just kidnapped Ford while he was between dimensions rather than stubbornly insisting to himself that Ford would come around and join the Henchmaniacs on his own if Bill just waited long enough—
To his fortune, he was slurring and sobbing heavily enough that Tyler didn't understand a single thing he said.
Drank.
Traded a five foot long boa constrictor to someone in a dark alley for the Heavenly Jeweled Spear that ancient legends claimed had raised the first land from the endless sea.
Drank.
Found himself in the woods, half naked, with no memory of how he'd gotten there and only the vague recollection that he'd been searching for his eyebat ex-girlfriend Iris.
In lieu of anything else to drink, grabbed a handful of hallucinogenic moss and burned it so he could inhale the fumes.
Hallucinated.
Attempted to treat the burns on the palm of his hand from when he set the moss on fire.
Hallucinated.
Ran into his own doppelgänger, who tried to strangle him to death for no reason at all! Escaped by kicking the creep in the gut.
Hallucinated.
Ran into his doppelgänger again. In preemptive self defense, attempted to strangle him to death. The creep kicked him in the gut and escaped.
Hallucinated.
Confronted the horrors.
Hallucinated some more.
Woke at dawn with no recollection of the past few hours, fully clothed, at the Roamin' Holiday Motel, in bed with a cultist. It wasn't Sue. It was a completely different cultist. He hadn't met this one before. He had to find out her name from her driver's license before she woke up.
Tried to remember how he'd gotten here and where the hell he'd left the Heavenly Jeweled Spear.
Remembered why he'd gone out last night in the first place.
Considered just going back to the bar.
####
"Have you seen Bill?" Ford asked. "I had a few questions about the pigasus phenomenon"—a mere two or three pages—"but he isn't in his room." He'd already gone looking for the winged piglet and discovered she was still asleep with Waddles and the kids, and so now he was in search of the next best thing: esoteric knowledge about the winged piglet.
"Not since last night," Soos said. "He said he was going out? To do stuff? So maybe he's still out."
"Huh." Ford's mind was still so lost in the excitement of a groundbreaking new paranormal discovery that he completely missed the twirling red flags this statement raised. Soos was the only other person awake this early, so with no one else to ask about Bill's whereabouts, he shoved the question to the bottom of the list of Things He Was Curious About Today. "Welp! Tell him I left the tape in the TV. I'm going to Sprott's farm to ask for flying piglet care tips." On to the next-next best thing: mundane knowledge about the winged piglet.
Ford borrowed the keys to Stan's car and left.
And only after the car had pulled around the shack and was safely out of view did Bill trudge out of the woods and wearily knock on the back door to be let in.
####
In Bill's real body, in his real home, he could keep a bender going for decades if he wanted. Tapping out after one night was humiliating. If the gang could see him now, he'd never live it down.
But, there it was: out he was tapped. He'd drunk enough to last him a human lifetime. He was never drinking again. From now on, he was sticking exclusively to hallucinogens. And stimulants. And narcotics. And anesthetics. And anything that grew on a plant.
"Hey dude," Soos said. "You just missed Ford."
"Oh what a shame," Bill said flatly. He trudged into the kitchen, chugged whatever was left in the bottom of the coffee pot, and refilled it with tap water to chug that too. Hangover begone.
"He wanted to ask some questions about Choink, I think?" Soos said. "Heh. That's fun to say. Mabel really knows how to name a pig. Anyway, he says he left the tape in the TV for you—hey, where you going?"
"To my room," Bill said, trudging up the stairs. He muttered, "I need another drink before Sixer gets home."
####
The moment Ford had passed through the Sprott farm gate and stepped out of his car, he shouted, "Well, the pigasus hatched!"
Sprott tisked and shook his head. "I tried to warn you."
"Yes, I wanted to ask about that," he said, walking up to Sprott. "What was all that nonsense? You talked about the pigasus like she was some sort of monster."
"They are monsters!" Sprott said. "They squeal at the crack of dawn, they smack other nursing piglets aside with their wings, they try to roost in the feeding troughs, and have you ever had pig droppings hit your windshield from a hundred feet in the air?"
"Then why didn't you just say that! You said you dared not speak of the devilry the beast would rain down upon our heads!"
"Well of course," Sprott said. "You had your boy with you waving that camera around. I wasn't about to talk about pig droppings on camera! What if he was working on a school project? You know how immature children get around bathroom talk!"
Ford considered that. "Well. Yes. I suppose that's a prudent concern with most children."
"You see?" Sprott said. "All that trouble, and the winged pigs don't even produce good meat! It's like they got the worst features of chicken and pork combined. The bacon tastes like dry turkey and the wings taste like gristly ham." He shook his head. "No sir, they're not worth the trouble. Better to smash 'em in their eggs, or—better yet—take the eggs away before they turn into piglets."
Ford's irritation was washed away by the tantalizing hint of fresh knowledge. "What do you mean, 'turn into' piglets?"
"Well, if you find the egg early enough and take it away, it'll hatch into a chick the size of a chicken. And then it just gets larger from there! Lots of good meat on those jumbo chicken. Worth putting up with the crowing for that."
"So, it's not a flying pig unless a pig broods on it..." Ford said thoughtfully. "Is it a particular strain of pig that—" he nearly said lays eggs, until he remembered what Bill had said yesterday about Waddles being given the egg. "—receives eggs?"
"Nope, any of 'em could get one. I've bought all sorts of pigs from all over the state that had eggs. They just show up in the night."
"Do you know from where?"
"Nope!"
Hmm. The biggest mystery still remained. "Are the flying pigs fertile?"
"Good lord, I hope not," Sprott said. "I always butcher them before they have a chance to try. Speaking of which, it'll be typical butchering size at around six months, but if you do it at three the meat will be sweeter. Like a cross between chicken wings and pork chops. The meat's still tougher than it oughta be, but I've got some slow cooker recipes to... no?" (Ford was shaking his head firmly.) "You sure? Suit yourself."
"But if you have any care tips, I'd appreciate them," Ford said. "Oh—and do you have any fertilized chicken eggs for sale?"
####
"These look a lot better than the plastic Easter eggs we were using," Soos said as Ford carefully set a chicken egg down in the Mystery Shack's "baby dragons" display. One of the lizards with fake wings inspected the egg. "Do you think we could dye them? They'd look super dragony if they were, like, red and orange..."
"Can't risk it. This may be an informal experiment, but nevertheless we should try to control as many variables as we can," Ford said. "But if this works, you may soon have a very impressive addition to the Mystery Shack's menagerie."
"Sweet!"
Dipper said, "And if it doesn't work, I bet Mabel would love to dye some eggs for you later."
As they left Soos to rearrange his baby dragon display to best heat and highlight the eggs, Dipper asked Ford, "So, what do you expect to come out of these?"
"No idea! Possibly nothing. But it's worth trying." Ford flipped open his journal to the page where he'd written down everything he'd learned from Sprott. "Dipper, are you familiar with the cockatrice?"
"Ooh! Yeah, that's uh... a monster that you get when a snake hatches a chicken's egg, right?"
"Excellent. Hatched by a snake or a toad. It has the body of a wyvern, the head of a rooster, and eyes that can kill with a glare. The means by which it performs this feat aren't explained in mythology, but personally, I've always hoped they have laser vision." Ford pointed at a chart he'd started in his journal:
Chicken egg → Brooded by a snake/toad = Cockatrice
Chicken egg → Brooded by a pig = Flying pig/Pigasus (or, "Porkatrice"?)
Chicken egg → Brooded by other animals? = ?????
"This means we know of two different hybrid creatures that can be created by incubating a chicken egg with another species. Imagine what other undiscovered hybrids might be out there!"
"That's true," Dipper said, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. "Hey. If a chicken sits on a snake's egg—or a toad's, I guess—don't you get a basilisk?"
"Yes! Well done," Ford said proudly. He flipped to the next page, where he'd started another chart. "Thus far, we only know of one hybrid that results from letting a chicken incubate another species's egg. It's unfortunate that pigs don't lay eggs—but perhaps if we induce a chicken to ride around on a pregnant pig's back..."
"Does it need to be a specific kind of chicken?" Dipper asked. "Waddles's egg was huge. So, do normal chicken eggs grow gigantic if pigs sit on them, or is there a giant chicken out there?"
"A fantastic question," Ford said, writing it down. "And do we even know for sure a chicken lays it at all, or do giant chicken eggs spontaneously generate in pig pens?"
"And why do the pigs brood them?" Dipper asked. "Do they have secret brooding instincts, or is it some kind of... chicken cockatrice pig egg magic?"
"And does this happen everywhere, or is it a phenomenon unique to Gravity Falls? Fiddleford said he'd never seen a pig with an egg before, but..." He paused, tapping his pen thoughtfully on his lips. "I wonder if that could be something he'd forgotten?"
But there was someone much closer he could ask first.
Was Bill home yet?
####
When Ford reached the stairs, Choink had her front hooves on the bottom step, squealing. Waddles was a few steps higher, looking down at her as he patiently waited; but that had to be a big step for a baby. As hard as she flapped her scrawny newborn chicken wings, they seemed to be useless right now. Ford carefully scooped her up.
He set her down on the second floor landing just to see if this was what she wanted, but wasn't surprised when she immediately ran toward the next flight of stairs up to the attic. Probably wanted to get back to the kids' room. But when he set the piglet down on the attic floor, she made a beeline beneath the curtain to Bill's room. Oh, oops.
Voice muffled, Bill grumbled, "Hey. Don't you know how to knock?" Choink responded with a noise that sounded like a mix between squealing and cheeping. Waddles nosed through the curtain after her.
Ford could knock, at least. He rapped on the door frame, trying to ignore how the triangular Bill on Soos's zodiac blanket stared at him like an ineffective bouncer.
"What! What do you w— ohforfffsssyouagain."
Ford took that as permission to come in. "Sorry. Choink got away from..." He trailed off. "Bill?"
For a moment Ford thought Bill wasn't there (then what specter had been mimicking his voice?), until he sat up to give him a resentful look. Bill had separated the chaise from the rest of the couch so he could turn the main couch around, its back to the door and the edge of the seat pressed against the wall; and now Bill was lying on the backwards couch in front of the window. (The piglet also popped up to peer over the couch, standing on Bill.) "S'fine," Bill said. "I'm looking after the little cordon bleu, don'worry about it."
Ford took in the bleary look in Bill's eyes, the slight slur to his words, and asked, "Are you drunk? In the middle of the morning?"
"Hey, you know me, Fordsy: real ambitious, on the cutting edge. Always ahead of the crowd." Bill laughed bitterly.
"Rrright." It was possibly Bill had started the morning drunk. "Where were you last night?"
"Oh, you know, having a wild night out." He gestured vaguely. "Charming a bunch of flustered, swooning bikers; impressing everybody with my high alcohol tolerance and bar game expertise; generally being the life of the party. You probably wouldn't get it."
"Probably not," Ford agreed. On the one hand, Bill clearly wasn't at his peak—mentally or emotionally—and the polite (and probably safer) thing to do would be leave. But, on the other hand, maybe Bill's lips would be a little looser than usual. "So. The farmer didn't know as much as I'd hoped about pigasi and their origins."
"Oh wow. What a surprise," Bill said flatly.
"I was... wondering if you might fill in some gaps in my research?"
Bill managed to laugh without smiling. "Are you serious? After how you treated me yesterday when I tried to help you?"
"You weren't—" You weren't trying to help. You were just showing off how much more you knew than everyone else. You were just trying to hurt Dipper. It wasn't what you were doing, it was how you were doing it. It was why you were doing it. How far did Ford think he'd get arguing with a drunk Bill Cipher?
The venom in his voice only slightly diluted by the booze, Bill spat, "Beat it, Sixer. The day I help you is the day pigs fly."
"Ah." Ford stuffed his hands in his pockets awkwardly. "And... when is that, exactly?"
"Mmm... about a week, week and a half. Their flight feathers come in fast." Bill flopped down out of view again. "I'm just—not feeling it today. Okay?"
Ford nodded, even though Bill wasn't looking. "The alcohol probably isn't helping."
"I don't criticize your medicine, you don't criticize mine," Bill said. "Now beat it. I have a whole lot of unrestrained summer fun I need to sleep off."
Well. That was all Ford was getting. He supposed getting Bill to say he'd tell him anything at all, even if it was in a week in a half, was progress. He should be grateful for that. "Okay." He looked at Waddles—was he leaving too?
Nope, Waddles had settled down on the floor behind Bill's couch. Just Ford, then. He awkwardly shuffled toward the curtain. "Thank you. Again. For... protecting Mabel's pigs." From Dipper and me, he decided not to add.
Bill grunted.
Ford left.
The piglet standing on Bill's hip trying to unsteadily walk up to his shoulder. He picked her up and set her on the window seat cushion and sighed in resignation when she immediately waddled back to his side.
When he was laying down, his face was pressed directly to the spot on the couch that smelled like Ford's "aftershave": the scent of burning hair. It was even stronger with the sunlight shining on the cushion, heating it up. Not even the nearby farm animals could cover it up How many nights had Bill slept on this spot lately? How long had he been acting this pathetic without even noticing? He tried to tell himself this was the worst possible place he could be moping—it was just making his mood worse, and anyway the scent combined with his hangover was starting to make him queasy.
But he couldn't bring himself to move away.
####
He mentally ran through what he'd say as he dragged himself to the kids' room. Hey Mabel, I need your love expert help. I'm crushing hard on someone who will never like me back, what treatment plan does the doctor recommend? And she'd probably say something like "sad movies and ice cream" and he'd get a couple hours of her undivided attention while she pitied him for his tragic fate the way he deserved.
But then she'd wonder who it was, and she'd ask herself what suspects he'd been around in the last twenty-four hours that could have caused this change, and then he'd be in hot water. He was already mad enough at his—what was he blaming this on, his hormones? His libido? Oxytocin? More like oxy-toxin, haha—and he didn't need her mad at him, too. He'd try another strategy.
He knocked on the door. She answered, and gasped in delight. "Choink! There you are!" She accepted the piglet from Bill's arms. "I was looking all over for you! It's You're late for your lunch." She shook a toy baby bottle that she'd elected to use like the real thing. The milky liquid inside was bright purple.
Bill decided not to worry about the piglet's nutrition. He waited until Mabel got the wiggly piglet situated in her arms and had convinced her to stop pecking at the bottle and start suckling on it, before he said, "I'm ready."
"For what?"
"Matchmake me."
For a moment, she stared at Bill in shock. And then a gleeful smile took over her face. She stepped back, gesturing grandly at the bedroom. "Come into my office!"
Bill took a deep breath, and crossed the threshold into what would probably be his doom.
####
(i have been WAITING. for SO LONG. SO LONG.
now you see why i didn't want that first scene at the end of last chapter.
anyway it was VERY important to me that bill's realization happen Like This, but i won't tell you why so that somebody's forced to come ask me lmao. but also, i wanna hear why y'all think it had to go down like this.
also also also i hope y'all think this fic's one and only F bomb was spent well 😌
ANYWAY, starting next week: none of this!!! y'all get another flashback arc for the next 2-3 months! yaaay!! it's not just to torment you though. the next flashback arc is about bill's howling void girlfriend, a.k.a. his first love, a.k.a. Yvonne Torizon. because it's very important, right now,
for all of you to learn
what bill is like
when he is in love.
hope you enjoy. :)
anyway!!! can't wait to hear your thoughts on this chapter, i have been WAITING to post this moment for TWO AND A HALF YEARSSSS)
