Ford never feared being alone. Sometimes he confronted his own loneliness, sometimes he welcomed it like an old friend, but his own company was never suffocating.
He lived alone in Gravity Falls for over a year, without really knowing the local humans, his only social interactions with a few supernatural beings. He was only frustrated when his research went nowhere.
But now, Bill's absence echoes in his heart and skull, almost painful.
Ford is used to waiting for the spirit to come to him - in his dreams, or as an illusion to chat with him, or taking possession of his body - to explain one thing or another. But it has been four days, and he feels abandoned.
His brain can no longer achieve the concentration Ford is so proud of; it drifts along in dangerous, stupid ways. Shameful jealousy of other brilliant minds Bill could meet. Alarming urges, like the one about putting himself in danger, so that Bill will possess him in order to rescue him, like he did sometimes.
He can't even work satisfactorily anymore, as he ponders what he could have done wrong. He trusts Bill absolutely. Unfortunately, it doesn't mean he believes in his affection - he's just sure that if his idol turned away from him, he has a reason, even if Ford can't understand it.
He shivers under the shadow of the ever-present triangles in his house. He knows Bill can watch him with their eyes, however stylized they are. But he doesn't know if he always does, or only where something interests him. Part of him wants Bill to watch him always; another part fears he might know how pathetic he is right now.
And some other part, more insidious, more perverse, want the spirit to know that Ford is nothing without him. That Bill has become his inspiration, his passion, his only happiness and his only god.
He resists two more days.
The sixth day, he begins the ritual.
Of course, Ford can't force Bill to appear before him. Even if he could, he wouldn't, fearing his anger even more than his absence. Bill can come to him and leave whenever he wants: it's part of their deal. But he will hear him. If he doesn't come - Ford shudders - it will be for a reason.
He draws the circle with a shaking hand, surrounds himself with pyramids, putting Bill's portrait in front of him - the one he loves most among the ones he painted. He restrains himself from kissing it, even if he wants to; he just softly brushes it with his fingers.
On his knees, he gives the ritual speech, in a jerky voice, full of intermingling devotion and need. No reply comes, but he knows that Bill can hear him now.
"Please," he whispers, "please, Bill."
If he made his mind up to do the ritual sooner, maybe he could have kept some dignity. It's no longer possible. "I beg you. Talk to me. Don't reject me. I wish you were here. I need you."
For no human Ford would lower himself this way, but Bill is more than this.
As he feared, his pleas are not enough, bringing him no more than a bitter and unhealthy satisfaction, which surprises him.
But Ford has a backup plan. He always has - anxiety and frustration won't take that from him, quite the opposite. He seizes the knife he put in his pocket.
"I would do anything for you."
He hesitates a bit, as nauseating memories come back from his childhood - he sometimes thought about cutting a finger from each one of his hands - but he still cuts his palm, just above the thumb. The artery here is just the right size, bleeding continuously without endangering his life.
"I give you my blood," he whispers. He pours the dark red fluid on the invocation circle, giving strength to their connection. Ford is not totally sure it means something to Bill.
But he knows that the spirit loves incarnating himself for intense physical sensations, like the pain which beats in his palm right now, which goes back up his arm's nerves, making him forget the hard ground against his knees.
"I give you my pain," he says now, slowly, solemnly. "I beg of you, accept it."
"Well, well, well..."
The voice is cheerful, a little mocking. Ford shudders, without knowing whether it's relief or worry.
"I'm moved, Fordsy, sure I am." he says, derisive. He still doesn't show himself. "Did you miss me that much?"
"Yes," Ford confesses gravely. Why would he play games? The blood still trickles along his fingers. He does nothing to stop it.
"I'm talking to you right now," Bill points out. "But it's not enough for you. You want me inside you, don't you?"
Ford nods as his cheeks heat up.
"You want to give me your body, you want me to possess you, you want to be filled with me."
Ford violently blushes, this time. "Yes!" he says desperately, "oh yes!" without being sure about what he wants so much.
It's a fantastic feeling, sharing his body with a spirit. Ford feels so strong, merged with him, and so weak, crushed by his power. He fancies that Bill can hear his heartbeat; he feels it more strongly himself. He surrenders himself, but Bill doesn't take control, stays the observer.
"Give me more blood," he whispers in a soft, seductive voice. He could take without asking, he could hurt Ford's body as much as he wants. He just lets his human make the offering.
Ford doesn't hesitate, cuts his arm. In his senses mixed with Bill's, pleasure and pain join in an nebulous whirl. He will give everything to Bill, he knows it; it's both his punishment and his reward for calling to him this way.
He briefly imagines Bill asking him to cut his own throat. At this moment, overcome with revivified devotion and exquisite suffering, he's not sure he would decline.
Another cut on his arm, yet another. Ford exults, realizing they form a triangle, not even deliberately. He can't think anymore, soaking with contradictory sensations and raw feelings. Only one thrilling and terrible certainty is left. He adores Bill not only more than his pride, but more than his life.
"Don't doubt me again," Bill softly whispers. "I'll always be with you, Sixer. Don't doubt us."
Ford's body shudders, exhausted by the blood loss, by the sparkles of pain and ecstasy, and by an aghast frustration.
But his soul is in Bill's hands, exactly where he wants it to be.