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Six. That was the amount of times Ford was at least aware he had died. It was cruel, on Bill’s behalf, for him to choose that number of all others. Cruel, mean, and he didn’t have it in him to come up with a third word. His head wanted to slump to his chest, unable to with the thick cuff that kept his neck rubbed raw with it’s unusual heat and ability to conduct electricity. Which seemed to be an hourly (minutely? Yearly? There was no time anymore) reminder that Ford was not going anywhere until he offered up that equation. Even when Bill was bored with bullying his pathetic self, he always made a point to zap him with harsh bolts.
His back was cold against the wall he was kept against, chained down by a terrible force, and he hoped more than wondered if his next death would be it. Just get it over with, Ford winced as he shifted slightly and caught sight of the exposed bone on his thigh. It smelt charred, still, and if he had anything in his stomach he would throw it right up. Maybe that was how this seventh would be, starvation. The saddest, hardest way to go, and one he had been on the brink of dying of for the past three decades. Food was hard to come by in the vast expanses of endless dimensions, especially when you had a bounty on your head worth a galaxy and a half.
But if he had already died six times, and Bill was always one to play games like this, then a seventh might be impossible to reach unless he just offed himself. Ford considered that once before, well in the past, and swallowed the thought back down. It came up again almost instantly. That protected everybody for at least a little while until Bill decided he could figure out the equation himself. It was Bill’s arrogance, and Ford’s as always, that kept this hell raging so condensed. He shuddered, pulling on his chains as he did, unable to make a sound as they itched poorly connected skin tissue.
He wanted to gasp, cry, or scream. The flesh around his thigh was black. The flesh around his wrists, what little he could see, was black. He could only assume the same for his neck and ankles. His stomach felt as though it was losing blood, even if Ford couldn’t remember what happened to it. His eyes were leaking, or at least the one Bill had let him keep. And he had a sickly suspicion, as his lips tasted of iron, that it wasn’t all tears. The room was bleeding too, or at least that’s what it looked like. Five lives worth of Ford’s blood painted it unevenly, and the time that he didn’t die in here, the same red must decorate that ridiculously small room. It was barely a closet. He couldn’t tell how his body even fit in there.
Ford pulled on his chains again, this time intentional, hoping that he could finally scream this time. Get that incessant thought out of his head, that was by far the worst time he had been killed, even if by a margin. He needed to prolong this as much as he could, until the members of this backwards town fled it, which he had no way of gaging. Either that, or, yes dying for good. Goodness, his thoughts were a hellish merry go round he could never seem to get off of. Vague memories of a childhood fayre came to mind. And he smiled, sadly, as he went back to the only defence mechanism he had; his family.
He liked to imagine them alive, obviously, but far away. Far away from this terrible destruction, his even more terrible fate. He also liked to remember; remember the small things that they told him just to have something to cling to. Small things that Bill wouldn’t deem necessary to twist in his dreams, so when he had a sickness on his tongue remembering one lazy morning with Mabel that he knew didn’t end up in the way he dreamt it, he would at least have her asking if he could make her a cup of coffee. Mabel hated coffee, but she wanted to try it how he had it, and he lied and made hers as sweet as possible.
Oh sweet Mabel, he could only beg and pray she was alive. He refused to let on that he cared about her - and Dipper - to the extent he did, because if Bill got his hands on them to kill them right in front of him for that damn equation… No, he would give in to save them. He knew he would, they were his weakness. They’re family, after all, and oh- oh that stung hard. He finally knew what Stan was saying, all those awful years ago (days? Minutes? No time, no time, no time!) about how family just did those things for each other. Argh, Ford was so stupid! Why couldn’t he just see, why couldn’t he just say ‘thank you’, why couldn’t he just apologise? Stan risked everything for his family, Ford risked everything for his over inflated ego. And now everything was dying, Ford included, and neither had anything to show.
No, maybe Stan had the kids. Maybe he was protecting them, urging them away from worrying about Ford, decaying and infected. Burnt and bruised, black and blue. Please be safe, please be safe, please be safe. Never come here, please don’t rescue him. He was the last person to keep Bill occupied while they could so easily leave this damn sleepy town. He gasped as a sob tried to build past the cuff on his neck, but it was already restricting his breathing too much. It came out strangled, and painful, clawing against his wounds from the inside of his throat. He pulled against them once more, urging to just pull the wall down, until he flopped forward onto his face.
He was off the wall, and he knew that meant no good. Ford tried to push himself up, but his humerus was sticking out of his left arm, and his right was bent funnily. He chanced a look at yet another exposed bone, almost relieved when the flesh around it was still an unpleasant red. Seven. Let this be seven, let this be the end, please. Don’t hurt them, just let me go-
“Well, well, well, well, well, well, well,” an echoed voice attacked his ears and a hand picked Ford up by his neck, “you’ve been a bit eager to get out!”
“F... fuck y-you,” Ford spat out. Bill laughed and turned him around to stare at that horrific, single eye.
“Wow! You’re even more stubborn than I thought! You’re dying, Fordsy! I thought you would be a bit more, y’know, preserving seeing as you’re already one hand down!”
Ah. So he had twelve lives, in all. Ford couldn’t care less, and he tried to spit a mouthful of blood and any saliva he had left at Bill. It dribbled down his chin unflatteringly, and got mixed in with a reopened wound from a ‘shaving’ - burning was more apt as it truly would always be faster but he digresses - incident just before his and Dipper’s trip to that UFO.
“Fun!” Bill laughed. “Very cute! But I’m not here to see your pitiful little displays of protest, I need something from you, you know how it goes by now!”
“Mhm,” Ford said, a reaction almost automatic. It stemmed from his near silent childhood, not knowing how to fill silence he couldn’t, just humming in response. It became a respite from having to think too hard on his words, and now he could only think about how he missed some of his molars, and every last canine.
“Well, tick tock, Sixer! You don’t have that many lives left, and I don’t feel like letting you die slowly anymore!”
“Okay,” Ford said almost humorously because he could call that bluff from a mile away, “that’s okay.” Bill was having too much fun with him for that. He couldn’t stop his babbling. “That’s okay, okay, that’s okay.”
Bill almost sighed, almost laughed, and dropped Ford to the ground, where all his bones crunched. The exposed one on his thigh roared, and if it didn’t kill him sooner or later, then he would be mad at it. Another crack of bones, of someone cracking knuckles. Knuckles that should not exist, but Cipher never cared, never wanted to let a dramatic moment pass. Ford managed to cower in a way to look right at him, before he stared at the red hot shape that Bill had formed his disgusting little hands into. A singular, burning triangle.
When it hit his chest, Ford didn’t quite know what to do. It was held there, smoking harder than that damn thigh, and it singed through what remained of his tattered sweater. He couldn’t react to just how hard it stung, tears pricking in his eyes felt like too little for the burn that would so obviously brand. Oh fuck, he was branding him, and he was never going to get out of this moment. He remembered how he reacted, now, to Stan’s burn. How apologetic he was, how angry they both were, and then poof. He was gone. It never killed him. So why did he wish, as the burn worked through his own skin, why did he wish this one would?
Seven, please, let it be seven. Let him die and have Bill take away every bit of miserable pain he wrought to start all over again. The brand wasn’t enough to kill him, unless he got too deep and touched his heart. But Bill didn’t, stopped right before it, and pressed his tool - his hands! - not too far down from the original mark. The heat distracted Ford from the large gash down his middle, and it even covered some very small scars he hated despite their different origins. Ford wanted to beg Bill to not go around the ugliest, largest scar, that worked from his stomach around to his back, up to his neck. He didn’t want it to stand out. Only of course he couldn’t, nor would Bill listen to him regardless.
His torso was littered in triangular brands, burning flesh a smell he no longer noticed. Then he was pushed to his stomach, and the slight respite from pain that the cold floor provided against his new marks was what he tried to focus on. Not the brands working up and down his back, and the way eager hands tore away his sweater entirely. There was not much left of it, Ford was sure, but it still didn’t sit right in his gut. More and more welts, more smoke, more burning. More wishing he could just scream, or fall into a void, or do something other than whither away pitifully without any direction.
Trying to distract himself, he let his mind wonder where it wanted to. A moment in time, too long ago now, where Crampelter broke his glasses with a swift punch. Stan had been livid, and went to knock out his tooth, his little fists swinging too madly to actually do any damage. But Crampelter ran to his mother anyway, and when she came to the pawn shop, their Pa was purposefully as intimidating as possible to get her out. Then he complained about buying Ford yet another pair of glasses, but did it regardless, and even took him to the opticians in case his prescription changed. It had, actually, and they waited the two weeks for his new pair to be fitted guiding a half blind Ford around. It was the only time he ever held his Pa’s hand.
He hoped, unrealistically, that they could come now and defend him from his bullies again. They always would, even Shermie, not that he wanted to get involved with conflicts eight years his junior. But he would still hold Ford and be the only man in his life who would tell him that it was okay to cry. He would brush Ford’s overgrown curls from his forehead and ask if he wanted to go grab Stan and get some ice cream on the boardwalk. And he would always nod, would always wonder why their Ma never seemed mad to find they left without letting her know, and would always wonder why Shermie remembered his favourite flavour. Ma would tuck him in bed at night, even if she had a call to answer, and let him babble about his day, before patting his cheek and reminding him he had school tomorrow.
Family. That’s just what they did. His had to be safe, and he had to do this to make sure they were. If he saw Stan again, he would tell him everything. He would beg for forgiveness and plea for him to accept his gratitude. If he saw Mabel again, he would hold her tight and let himself cry. He would apologise too profusely to her and promise her that he would never let her out of his sight again. If he saw Dipper again, he would tell him to just go home and live his life and let him know that he would understand if he never wanted to forgive him from tearing him away from his family.
The brand was about to hit his lower neck, and singed a small amount, until it whipped away. There was disarray elsewhere in the Fearmid, and Bill let out a string of curse words in a language Ford recognised enough to know they were very, very bad. Ford was chained up again, snapped against the wall, and was left with a very upsetting promise that Bill would be back very soon (“Don’t get too comfortable, Sixer, I have big plans for you!”). His back reared in pain as the new welts, the force, and the assumed cracked ribs sent his senses short. He hadn’t even noticed them. There was too much hurt to focus on.
Then he curled into himself as much as his broken, frayed body allowed himself to, and let out something close to a sob. His throat was full of the lingering tastes of copper, flesh, and smoke. His neck was still likely infected. His chest, as he tried to wheeze, reminded him that it hosted the largest, longest, and deepest brand that he had just received. Ford felt like a slab of meat, though he guessed to Bill, that’s all he really was. An awful voice that sounded too much like his own, instead of the usual scathing internal monologue he modeled after his captor, told him that was all he would ever be. Something for Bill to mess with, play with, even if he got out. He was having too much fun.
He wondered, as he let his eye close, he wondered what was going on that was important enough to drag Bill away from him. There was sweat dripping down his face, or maybe it was more of that awful crimson that he couldn’t bear to think about. His lungs were pressing too hard for death number seven, his breathing fast and constant. What was going on? What was happening outside? Inside? He tried to focus his hearing, but now he was alone, he could only hear the slight hiss of his own skin, and a ringing in his ears.
No, maybe he could hear footsteps, too, slow at first. They were wearing boots, he knew the sound they made against these bricks; had run around like a headless chicken too many times. Apprehensive footsteps, calculated walks. This person wasn’t running from Bill’s maniacal laughter, or into his sick tricks. Something was distracting him so they could do this, could make their way around. They were sneaking around to go undetected, and they were undeniably human in that sense. Oh no, Ford couldn’t help but scrunch his lips up into a lemon sour expression. No, don’t find me, not like this.
They were coming closer, still steady, and Ford almost wished Bill was back. Rip him in half and leave him for the rats so that this person, whoever they were, didn’t see him like this. But at the same time… if Bill was whisked off, and they were sneaking around, and they were so undeniably human. Maybe this was a rescue mission, and maybe this hell could finally end. Maybe he could get out, and even if Bill will never ever leave him alone, maybe Ford could finally breathe and see his family, and finally be. The thought settled in his mind, in a space under a skull fracture. It was almost peaceful, in a way, when his breathing started to level out. Seven?
No, not now, not when those footsteps were faster now, much more hurried, urgent. Rescue mission. Rescue mission! If Ford could, or if he had no common sense left, he would laugh. Those boots clattered against the floor, louder, in his direction. He didn’t care what he looked like, how pathetic he was, he was going to be saved. He struggled against his own lax body, refusing it to die. This will not be seven, he will settle with six like he always had. Ford called out for whoever was there, and he formed no words, but they mimicked the sound back as they collapsed next to him.
“Dr. Pines,” she said and she was the girl behind the counter, “what happened to you?”
“Mhm,” he said back to her on autopilot. Wendy’s fingers dug around one of the cuffs, and he finally managed to scream at the contact. He hadn’t meant to, that could reveal where they were. Both of them froze, waiting, but nobody came. He bit his tongue as she tried to pry him free again. Like family did. Even if he knew she would never, could never, he couldn’t let her know.
“Come on, come on,” she muttered to herself, “talk to me, Stan two.”
“Mhm,” he said but he didn’t say anything else. Then he tried to think what he would say to Wendy, if he saw her again. Stupid, he thought, she was right here. “Wendy?”
“Yeah?” she said, as one of the cuffs miraculously broke when she swung into it with what his ears told him was an axe. Thank goodness she had been carrying it.
“I’m s-sorry for all of this,” he said as if she blamed him, “I’m sorry about what happened to your family,” he said as if he knew, “I’m so, so… I’m so sorry.”
Wendy huffed and cut loose another chain. She wasn’t Stan, the kids, or even that Soos character. But she was family enough, and when he pried his eye open, he saw a small but sad smile on her face.
“You have bones on display and you’re apologising? Dude, you really need to work on your martyr complex.”
And he laughed at that, his lungs so slow, his mind working slower. There was something weird in his eye, something closing in around it.
“I’m gonna wait here until Stan comes, alright? I can’t carry you on my own, and you’re not fit to run.”
“Mhm.”
“Stay with me. Talk to me, tell me anything.”
“Alright,” he said because she was pleading, “alright… when I was six, Crampelter broke my glasses with a, uh... with a swift punch, and…”
“And what, Dr Pines?”
“And then… Stanley wanted h-his teeth on a chain...”
Wendy laughed, and there were some footsteps approaching the two of them. They were urgent.
“Did he ever get them?”
There was a voice hissing a name, her name, and his name. It was worried, gravelly, caring.
“N-No, the idea was grotesque...”
Someone collapsed beside Ford, a blur of black and white, but he kept his vision on Wendy to not buy into whatever circled his eye. It was begging him to black out, to accept the fist that wanted to pull him under.
“What happened to Crampelter?” she asked.
“He got what was coming to him,” said both Ford and the new figure. He laughed again, at how eager they sounded. His body fell on his brother, who hissed at the state of it with a string of curse words. Stan, who he had too many things to say to, seemed to understand them all the second Ford tried to let words form on his tongue.
Stan had managed to scoop him up, the frail form of Ford protected against the world in his arms. He curled up into his brother, buried his face in his neck, he was about to cry. Both of them were, Ford felt the hitch in his brother’s chest as a pair of dress shoes and boots ran synchronously through the maze of a palace Bill had constructed. Now, it seemed as though sneaking around was no longer needed, no longer required. Stan called for everyone else there, that they had him, that they were coming to the rendezvous. Ford didn’t care in the slightest who saw him branded, beaten, and bloody. Not anymore, not when he was safe. He knew he was safe, it was what family did.
And everything after that made little to no sense to him that Ford convinced himself he was in another one of Bill’s dreams. Give him everything he could have wanted, rescue, his family, a chance at another life. But only, this time, it didn’t slip between his fingers. It sat calmly in the palm of his beaten hand, and as he clasped it tight, it refused to leave. There was a point in time where he heard the quantum blaster ring out, a point in time where he heard a dear voice tell her family all to put a hand on the gun, a point he knew they were safe. Then he blinked and it was too quiet again, and he was on death number seven.
Ford didn’t die that time, with that he could not be happier. When he awoke to a bed of grass, and his body had enough searing hot pain in it to spit roast a chicken, all he did was try to cheer in relief. But his throat constricted around the burns, and he still had bones that were out of his body, and he was just tired. Though, if he slept, he was scared he would never wake up. And he had to, he had to wake up, stay awake, and stay alive. He had to survive, now. No matter what that might take, he had to survive.
They were looking for him again, but this time it was the kids who found him, his eye barely open. He knew their voices and their scent by heart, and Mabel gasped in horror, finally seeing what he had become. He wanted to hug her, tell her he was alright, and she was a few steps ahead of him in that retrospect. Mabel laid next to him, and snuggled into the space between his torso and his extended arm. He winced, but thankfully it was the arm that just bent weirdly, and he wrapped it around her. There was a loud burst of 'not dying and/or being held captive anymore' euphoria in his chest. Ford didn’t want to move, but knew he had to, if he wanted to survive this time.
There was nothing to die for, no heroic sacrifice anymore. Now he had everything to live for. His family, and wasn’t that a nicer thing to look forward to than when he would die for a seventh time. Ford wondered, maybe out loud, what they were going to do next. Get some food, would probably be an obvious answer. Sleep, rest, oh a bed. Something that wasn’t bricks! It was intoxicating, and the thought left him lightheaded. His brands were mildly irritated against the breath of air that tickled his exposed torso. Mabel’s small fingers almost brushed one as they cuddled, but he refused to let Bill get to him anymore. Not when she was right there.
Dipper sat with them until the adults came, Stan and Fiddleford, both sighing in dismay at the sight before them. He wiggled his fingers in an attempt at humorously letting them know he was alive. It wasn’t funny, but it was at least reassuring. Both of them talked about hospitals, a car, and an excuse. Of course, because how would any person explain this if they hadn’t lived it? Unless that next to useless town pharmacy had improved over the course of the apocalypse (seriously, who did Dr DuFresne think he was? A disgrace to all doctors, he was sure), then they would have to get out of town for the nearest place.
Hmm, that sounded nice, getting out of Gravity Falls for a little bit, maybe they could make a day of it once they were fixed up. Stan shooed Mabel away from his chest, despite how both Ford and Mabel let out vague noises of complaint, to pick him up again. It hurt a lot more now than it had done fifty feet in the sky, and he let out a pained shriek that he tried to muffle. He wondered if the blackened burns that grasped a choking fist around his neck were not the only reason he would never let himself react. Ford shuddered a little.
“Let it out, Pointdexter,” Stan said as he carried Ford out of the clearing, seemingly reading his mind. Ford nodded, his eyes frantically searching for the gun he managed to piece together the kids using. He found nothing. Good, he thought as he let the pain from the branding work up into a scream now that he could, get everything to do with that triangle far away.
He must have fallen unconscious amidst the screaming, because the next thing he knew, he was in the back of a car, propped up with a seatbelt. At first, Ford struggled against it, back in that damn room, with chains around his neck and arms, and you bastard, get away from me! He was held against the wall, and someone was going to get him, until a small hand found his own, a wary smile brought him back to the present. Dipper kept his grasp, he looked terribly bruised, and Ford hoped they would look at the way his eye looked awfully swollen.
Fiddleford was up front, in the passenger seat, babbling to Stan about how impressed he was with the quantum destabilizer, and Stan kept telling him he was Stanley not Stanford. Too many people than probably deemed safe sat in the back, and he vaguely heard someone mention Soos was sitting in the open back of his own pickup truck. Wendy was in the seat far to his right, the kids in the middle, both of them watching him sadly. He met Wendy’s eyes with the only one he could, and mouthed his thanks. She smiled happily, mouthed back that it was nothing. He would corner Stan to offer her a pay rise at some point soon, if he hadn’t already decided.
And he would tell him everything else, too, that he came up with in captivity. Everything he should have said forty years ago, everything he should have said ten years after that. Then he would tell the kids everything they needed to hear from him too, he would take them aside and hug them until he was on the brink of weeping. Then he would talk to Soos, something kind and soft. Then he would say nothing to Wendy, but sit in cool silence with her, and let their new found unbreakable trust between the two of them carry what words couldn’t. And Fiddleford, oh, how he had too many things to say. He had no idea where to start, no idea how he even recognised him with how much he had obviously shrunk into a different man.
It would have to wait until he was sure he could talk, if he could ever even talk again. Ford looked out of the window and frowned at how normal the world had become all of a sudden, the movement heavy and sending a part of his body into an aching screech. It was weird that the apocalypse ended in a pop rather than a bang, that everything was undone too quick, too unsatisfying. It upset him that he wasn’t more conscious during it, but that would have meant he got to death number seven, which he now never wanted to even think about. He didn’t need to think about it ever again. All he had to do now was survive, survive for the people that surrounded him. Survive to tell them everything he needed to, if possible, but for now he was content to survive to just listen.
Survive to hear Stan laugh at a shitty joke he told for only his amusement again and again. Survive to hear Fiddleford tell him how much he missed, loved, and remembered him. Survive to hear Soos talk excitedly about the newest edition of his favourite overly convoluted webcomic. Survive to hear Wendy discuss her apocalypse training with too negative a tone but too happy a laugh. Survive to hear Mabel go into in depth tangents about her sticker collections and which ones reminded her of him. Survive to hear Dipper describe a new dungeon in DD&MD with so much light in his voice. Survive for them, survive to be a part of their lives, survive despite how hard he know it will be. Because that’s what family does.