Epilog
September 5, 2025 at 5:01 PM
Epilog
A sudden flash of something woke the man up, forcing him to flinch and immediately sit up straight from the horror of the unknown. Huge drops of rain hitting the window glass, yet sounding as if it was hail caught the attention of his slightly pointy ears. Thunder, he guessed. His five fingers clutched the blanket. He was never a fan of those, even if it wasn't like he's about to admit it.
His gaze quickly swept across the room, taking in the darkness that hid the actual decor and the surroundings of it. His single eye narrows. Ugh, the darkness. Also not a huge fan. It was always making him feel all vulnerable and such; not knowing what could possibly jump out of it and just leap onto you did not sound so 'determinedly safe.' Don't get him wrong, he adored taking risk, just not this unknown type of risk. There was some fading amount of light, that came as few weakly seen traces from out of the window; supposedly moon rays or perhaps rays created by tiny bugs, that actually were so called stars. However, it was barely enough to lighten just a small part of the room and thereby, not enough to see a thing.
He forcingly shuts his eye and then lets out a quiet, shaky breath, slightly shifting closer to another body of a man beside him, wanting to find some sort of comfort or warmth. The other man, however, did not attempt to move, as the scrawnier moved closer; probably being asleep. So he decided to throw an arm over the other's body, to maybe cage or cling into him with a cozy embrace. He was just about to get comfortable; maybe hide his face in other's neck or breath in a way too familiar scent of home (or maybe lick his sweat off cough cough.) Full of enthusiasm, he squeezes the other in a tight hug and awaits to hear some sort of grunt or, perhaps, a quiet groan…
Only to be met with something way too plushie and soft to be a meatsack full of organs, bones, tendons, ligaments, muscles, and a complex network of blood vessels. His eye narrows as he looks down at the pillow, and certainly not his husband.
What in hell?
"Ford?" He calls out, his voice still hoarse from lack of speaking when being asleep. His head whipped around, trying to catch a glimpse of where his Ford might be at.
"Oh fuckin' hell," he grumbles under his breath, as he groans. "Not agaain…" He clenches the pillow, before throwing it off the bed and letting it hit the wall, with growing intensity in his whole body.
With quick movements, he forces himself off the cozy bed (he wants to go back already), stepping on the floor with bare feet, while cursing under his breath something about why the fuck is this floor so cold and why does he lives in the time when murdering is illegal and how is he going to murder Ford.
And with that, he storms out of the room and of course, slams the door closed. His stomps are so loud, they're probably heard from downstairs but he doesn't care. In fact, he wants it that they'd be heard from downstairs. For Ford to hear them and to know that he's mad at him.
He stops his way through the hall and quickly marches down the staircase, each step creaks as he does. With each step he imagines different types of scenarios of how he scolds, strangles or kisses Ford. No. No moments of weakness and vulnerability. He's mad. Scratch out that last part. His fists turn into curls as he thinks that. (Well, maybe he can bite his lips or tongue hard when he'lll kiss Ford; perhaps that would count as scolding?)
Finally, after what felt like forever, he arrives to the first floor and it takes him few more seconds and turns to reach the kitchen. The sacred place Ford always escaped to at nights to damage his sleeping schedule and study his new, weird ass experiments. (That he actually adored, but not right in the moment. He's mad at Ford.)
He enters the kitchen, a frown now is very much seen on his face since the kitchen did have the lights on unlike their room upstairs. It doesn't take long for his own one eye to meet two hazel of the other.
They stare at each other for few moments in complete silence, broke only by the sound of large raindrops hitting the window's glass outside of the shack. He notices the way Ford bites his bottom lip, somewhat nervous. Well, well, well atleast this bastard knows he fucked up again. Yeah. That's right. Feel that guilt filling you, asshole.
The man with brown, short messy curls, adjusts his glasses before coughs onto his fist awkwardly. "Good morning, My Muse," his voice is still, yet a sparkle of carefulness can be heard.
Unfortunately for Ford, the nickname that always did it's job on Bill, doesn't work.
"Morning?" Bill lets out a humorless chuckle. "You call," his gaze quickly darted towards the wall clock just above the kitchen sink, then locked back at Ford. "3 o'clock 'morning?' 3 o'clock is morning for you, Sixer??"
Bill's eye quickly took in the messy surroundings in which Ford had placed himself. Or more likely, created himself.
About five cups with brownish stains of coffee (this dumbass was probably just too lazy to wash his cup multiple times and just used a new one everytime.) Papers scattered around the table, leaving absolutely no space at all. Few weird looking metal parts and details of Ford's another (possible) experiment. And of course, most importantly, the main character in the middle of this piece of art. Ford Pines himself. Sitting here at the table, looking all disheveled, with huge bags under his eyes and hair so messy as if he didn't brush for weeks, or months even. With that pathetic, tired look on his face.
Ford rubs the back of his head, answering unsurely. "Well, technically everything after 12 AM is pretty much considered morning, therefore… it is?…" With each said word, his voice got quieter and quieter, feeling a bit intimidated and less confident by that look on Bill's face.
"Stanford," Bill says slowly, yet keeping his voice sharp. "You fucking promised me."
Ohh if only looks could've kill.
"Bill, listen. I know I did! But I--"
"Holy fuck, did you take my oxycodone again?!" Bill exclaimed, roughly cutting him off. A sudden rush of panic appearing on his face as he stared at the small bottle near Ford's right elbow.
Ford's own gaze also darted towards it, biting his cheek. "I, uhm..."
In no time and with absolutely no opportunity for Ford to give him a proper answer (Ford did not deserve that opportunity), Bill marched towards him. With a sharp motion of his hand, he grabbed the bottle, gripping it tightly and bringing it closer to his face, to look inside of it. It was a relief to find most of the pills still half filled it. "And you took it with a fucking coffee too?? Do you have a death wish, Stanford?!" He snaps in-between of closing the bottle with a pop and hiding it in the pocket of his pajama trousers. Ohhoho. From now on, he's never letting it out of his sight or reach ever again.
Ford remains silent for few moments, before finally speaking up. "I'm not a fool, Bill," he sighs tiredly. "I just had a headache. In fact, that is one of the reasons I blame for my current absence in bed."
"How many?" Bill demands, purposely ignoring Ford's words. "How many did you take?"
"Sweet Moses, Bill! Again. I do not want to kill myself," Ford furrows his eyebrows, groaning. "Four. I only took four," he answers, as he rubs his forehead.
"Four 'only'?? With coffee?" Bill's both hands reached out to firmly grab Ford by shoulders, shaking him a little.
"Jesus- I'm used to higher doses and you're aware!" Ford spits with defense. "Four is not that bad..." He adds, mumbling under his breath.
"You told me you'll stop taking them! Hell, they're not even prescribed for you." Bill's eye is wide open as he stares at Ford, however his eyebrow furrowed down. After a brief moment, both of his hands leave Ford's shoulders alone in peace, going up to grasp both of Ford's face cheeks with a slapping sound, forcing Ford to directly face him; his glasses slipping down to the end of his nose. "You promised me to stop taking them! And to start fixing your poor ass sleeping schedule, you lying asshole!"
Ford's cheeks were now squashed by Bill's hands so the next words came out in a half-muffled sound. "Well... I promised not to take big doses.. not to cut them off completely…"
…
Bill stared at him. And all of the sudden, he realized that he no longer has a single care about murdering being illegal.
He inhales and exhales.
"Sixer. In the name of David Bowie, the next time you take just one single pill, I'm not hesitating to flush the whole bottle down the toilet so that neither of us gets them. Do you understand?"
"What? No! You can't do that!" Ford frowned and grabbed both of Bill's hands, forcing them away from his face. He held them, squeezing. "You can't get rid of them. You still have to take them! Your leg is still-"
"Awh. So sneakin' my pills is good but that is suddenly sooo bad?" Bill cuts him off, shoving his six-fingered hands away. "Besides, come on, IQ. I don't even need or take them. They're always making me feel all numb and dizzy- they're just... shitty!" he huffs, crossing his arms. "How are you even poppin' them.." Bill muttered, more to himself than anyone.
"What?" Ford adjusts his glasses and looks at the other with mix of confusion/anger. "You told me you begun taking them!"
Bill tenses, realizing what he had just bursted out. "That's... I did begin," he lies, biting his tongue. "But that's- that's not relevant right now. Don't you try passin' the buck!" He exclaimed. "You make promises you always end up breaking. You swore you'll fix your sleeping schedule!"
Ford sighs and narrows his eyes at him. "Look- Bill. I… can't just... get used to a new sleeping system easy like that; not so all of the sudden. That's not how it works. That's not a how a human body works!"
Bill clicks his tongue. "Just yesterday you slept like a baby with a thumb in your mouth, drooling all over the bed since, like, 10 PM to 12 AM, you moron! Stop bullshitting me, I know how your body works, alright!" he rolls his single eye, forcing himself to hold back a smirk at his own ambiguous sentence.
Ford lets outs a sharp breath, his six-fingered hand lifts his glasses up from his face as he rubs his eyes. "It's... it's not just that," he eventually admits, almost in a mumble.
Bil frowns.
There were two reasons why Ford, sometimes (okay, most of the times) did anything but sleet at night.
The first reason(1) was simply because he sometimes was so invested in something, he couldn't get his mind off it. He was working, working, working and one more time working before he would've finally finish whatever kept him so obsessed. Or burn out. Though in most cases, it was both. Those were the times when Bill was mostly by his side, also sleep-deprived, helping Ford with whatever project he had.
So the fact that Sixer didn't decide on sharing the information of him working on something spoke for itself, meaning that the actual reason for why he kept himself wide awake was actually the second reason.
The second reason(2) was Stanley Pines.
Whenever Ford would've receive news about his twin (that always, for some reason, were only bad news) he basically turned into a vegetable for the next 3 days. No emotions, no feelings, no sparkles in his brown eyes whenever he got excited. No nothing. And instead of trying to actually do something about it, Ford buried himself in work and drowned in it as long as it meant he'll be able to escape horrible reality. Not even at nights he rested. His priorities of forgetting and not thinking got before everything and anything.
The worst part was that Sixer begun to receive those phases quite a lot lately.
And Bill was number one hater of those phases.
Bill watched Ford nervously twiddling his thumbs, looking anywhere but Bill's face. Bill lets out a heavy sigh, his face softens. (But just a little. He's still mad, he reminds himself.) "Okay. Come on now. Spit it out," he rudely swept the papers and some random book off the table with his hand, not really caring whether they were or were not important. Bill lets himself lean on the more or less clean spot on the table, folding his arms across his chest; waiting.
Ford lets out a shaky breath, still avoiding eye contanct. "It's nothing really. I don't really know why it got me feeling so... unsettling. It probably isn't even him." he scratches his wrist nervously, with way more intensity than needed, digging his nails in the skin. "I, I think I saw him today. In the newspapers."
Bill watched him silently and raised his eyebrow as he waited for the continuation.
"I-I, well, again, I'm not so certainly sure that that was him, but... 'Panley Stines?' Really? The best he can think of? It's so obviously him!" Ford contradicted himself, moving his hands up and down a little for the words to sink in better; or perhaps to animate them (actually because he is very dramatic.) "But the worst thing is not even the fact he uses a fake name but that...that…" he swallows, looking very tempted on whether if he's supposed to continue or not.
Ford deeply inhales and exhales shakily. For few brief moments he stays still and silent, before reaching out with his hand somewhere, clutching some large piece of paper. He holds it out to Bill, expecting him to take it. "Read it yourself…" The man with glasses mumbles sadly.
Bill furrows his eyebrow, more because of confusion than anything, and takes it, finally recognizing that it was actually a newspaper. He brings it closer to his face, squinting his eye. His gaze immediately locks on two pictures of a man with Ford-like-features, but with longer hair and a very disturbing mustache. Who the hell does he thinks he is? Looking so much like his Ford? (But in the time so... not Ford.) But as Bill reads the text just under the picture. He doesn't even notice his eyebrow furrowing and his lips slightly parting.
His eyes skip the 'description' text and immediately rush to read 'criminal record.'
...wanted for forgery and suspicions of killing 5 innocent civilians.
"Suspicions in what??!" Bill exclaimed, his eye wide open. He slams the paper back on the table, turning to face miserable looking Ford.
"The hell? And you just... accidentally forgot to mention it ever before that your brother is a fucking Jack the ripper? 5 people?" Bill frowns, suddenly realizing something. Something very concerning. Something he, unfortunately, cannot share with Ford, so that he wouldn't find out that Bill had ever contacted Stanley Pines.
This bastard knew their address; BILL told this bartard their address. He freezes.
If he'd know, he'd never even call him in the first place!
He stays frozen until he hears Ford's voice, answering him. Right. Ford still here and he still wasn't aware of the same thing Bill was.
"Well. Obviously I didn't know that he had those kind of... inclinations!" Ford says in despair. "And it is not yet proven!" His hand goes up to grip his curls. "Yes, Stanley might have been... a little too much in our childhood; he might've tore off butterflies wings a time or two or- or once crashed that hippies car, because the guy stole 'his' Carol(?) or- Carla(?), but Stan would've never!--" His gaze falls down on the newspaper and he swallows. "...kill someone." Ford's voice is weak.
"Or atleast that's what I believed and... still want to belive," his grips on his hair tightens. "No. That's not him. That can't be him… They got the wrong guy."
Meanwhile Bill is feeling completely lost. Complicated. His mind raced. On one hand, maybe Sixer trully was right and the newspaper guy indeed was Panley Stines and not Stanley Pines. Maybe Stanley Pines wasn't a murderer.
But on the other hand...
If Stan did end up being the actual newspaper guy; the actual murderer (with their address) then they're fucked. Who knows god-knows-what offenses this guy has against his Sixer. Who knows what kind of revenge he craves for.
Ughhh. This fucking spare twin. Why did he has to make it all so complicated. More than it already was?
Shit, he needs to make a call to his henchmaniacs. Maybe they could provide them both some sort of normal protection? No, this is stupid. Ford shouldn't know he's still in contact with them. Oh fuck it.
Uhh, he just realized he was silent all along.
Bill bites the inside of his right cheek and attempts to stop this endless train of thoughts with looking up at Ford.
Oh no. He was making the face. Ohhh a dirty move. Hell, how can Bill even dare stay mad at him when he's making this face? That sad sad puppy face. Oh that miserable and pathetic manipulator.
Eventually, Bill lets out a sigh; his hand runs through his own hair, before he gets off the table with a push and goes around to circle the chair his husband sat on. Ford's gaze lifts and follows movements of the other before Bill fully leaves his view and steps behind; Ford's face gives out his confusion. That was until Bill's hands go up and blend into Ford's fluffy hair; his palm against his scalp and his fingers moving in rubbing motions in soothing tender, as they massage Ford's temples. Stanford's body responds almost immediately, loosing up almost all the tension it held before. He seemingly lets himself melt in lover's touch.
"Mhhh…" Ford lets out a muffled sound, closing his eyes with a squeeze and creating tiny wrinkles around.
Bill's hands had a good influence on him. In many ways, but generally they helped him a lot in dealing with his headaches (atleast when Ford couldn't use Bill's oxycodone.) Bill always offered him his help with no single hesitation and his hands always remained, somehow, doing their magic and charm on him. Obviously Bill didn't wish to condone his husband's behavior the way he currently did, but seeing and doing nothing about his Sixer being all tragic like that was feeling way too wrong.
"Fordsy," Bill says quietly. "I know you're worried, but sleep depriving yourself won't help anything, if not the opposite," Bill tried to keep his tone calm and still. His five fingers kept on moving gently, smoothly heading towards the back of scientist's head "But you know what actually might help?" He pressed the spot right above Ford's ears with both of his thumbs, rubbing it properly, as if preparing him for whatever he's about to say next.
"Mhhm?" Ford hums, sitting there all relaxed with his eyes closed.
Bill tempted for a brief moment if that was even a good idea... But then, the spare twin already knew their address. What's the worst that can happen if he suggests?
Bill's hands slowly, smoothly creeping up to his temples and then forehead, massaging it in rhythmical triangle rubs. "Ask him yourself. Contact him," he says casually.
"Mhhm- waitwait, what?" Ford immediately frowns, his eyes open wide as he straightens up his back a little. "Do what??"
Bill's hands stopped harrasing (in a good way though) Ford's scalp pulling them away, as he rolled his only eye. "You heard me. Call him. Or- or write a message! I mean, you do like writing. You have a diary. You're an author!"
"What- that's not a diary!－"
Bill ignored. "Scribble him some dramatic 'hi, bro, didn't talk in what, like, 10 years, BTW did you happen to kill a person or 5 in that time? Asking for no particular reason! Xoxo, Ford.' Or no. Scratch that last part about killing- the first step is writing him in first place. Ask him how is it hangin'."
Ford bit the inside of his cheek, adjusting his glasses. "Bill. I'm not contacting him! We've talked about this. My answer did not... suddenly change. No is no. And besides, that is, beyond any doubts, not a reason enough to call him," he unnoticeably for himself, nervously scratched the inside of his wrist to the point it left few red marks.
"Then when will it be a reason enough, Ford?" Bill stared, clicking his tongue. "When someone ends up bein' in hospital or somethin'? Because I feel like that is something that can happen pretty soon, considering the way certain someone pops my oxycodone like sugar substitute for a coffee," his eye squints. "Spoilers. Certain someone is not me."
Offensed expression appears on Ford's face as he opens his mouth to say something, but eventually closes it; like a fish.
Bill takes a deep breath. "Look. Sixie," his hands go back to the same spot they were before, the rhythmic, calming pace of massaging returns. "All I want is for you to be happy. But whenever you hear from Stan, boom," he pressed a spot on the back of Ford's head to animate his words. "Your face is upside down. You don't sleep for days (or well, nights.) And you sneak my oxycodone. You do understand how concerning it is, don't you, Sixer?"
Ford was silent for few moments, his six fingeds gripping the fabric of his pants. He bites his bottom lip as he answers. "I appreciate your concerns, My Muse," the scientist finally forces out. "But I can't.. I won't contact him. I just... I can't," he gulps.
And before Bill could've figure out an answer, Ford suddenly stood upright, Bill's hands immediately away from his head. He didn't turn around to face Bill as he continued. "Now if you'll excuse me... I forgot my screwdriver down in the basement," he begun walking towards the kitchen's no-door round exit. "Go back to bed, My Muse," Ford added quietly, leaving silent Bill alone in the room.
In distance, Bill heard elevator's doors open and close.
Bill stood there in the kitchen for few moments in complete dreadful silence, before bringing a hand to his face and rubbing his forehead with a quiet groan.
When suddenly a loud THUD from a thunder hit again, Bill flinched in horror, almost falling over.
He left back to their bedroom few minutes later while grumbling things under his nose about stupid thunder and also about that stupid spare twin and about his stupid stupid Sixer.
***
Bill didn't sleep that night. His mind couldn't stop racing with worries and concerns. That night, Bill decided that if Ford doesn't wish to take proper care of himself, Bill will. Whether Ford likes it or not.
