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Craving. It’s an interesting feeling — to want something so strongly, so carnally that your very being seems to pull at the thought of what it is you want. For humans, a craving could stretch between anything from an uncanny and restless wanting for a food to a deep need to be cared for and wanted. The same was true for most demons, give or take, although it was felt with a different intensity, so to speak. A human might crave an eloquently laid out steak dinner, whereas a demon might want the fresh-killed corpse from which the steak would come, perhaps even paired with the hunt of the kill beforehand. Where a human might want for emotional availability, a demon might long for something materialistic to hold within their grasp — be it a new world to dominate or the last atom of a decayed dimension. Demons wanted on a different level than the humans bound by fragile mortality, craved with a higher intensity and ached with stronger pains, more forceful tugs to fulfill their soul’s desires. The closest a human could come to such a feeling was devotion, religion in its purest form.
Adoration, on the other hand, is different. Where cravings are sinful, a want for something that is often out of reach, a feeling born almost of greed, adoration is pure ; the love from a human was both soft and tender, light yet heavy at the same time. Love could be complicated and messy, wonderful and devastating all at once; adoration, however, is lighter, something that could be felt with strong intensity as well as with passing thought.
Stanford Pines had so far been the only human that Bill had ever known to feel both with the same level of intensity, to feel adoration as strong as reverence, to treat it as though it were worship.
The first meeting that Bill had with Ford marked the start of a successful “business relationship” — Bill would give Ford secrets, knowledge, would bless him with the information needed to solve his theories, and, in turn, Bill would be allowed to come and go through Ford’s body as he pleased. Ford’s body was used as a vessel as well as a temple: a portion of Ford’s basement had become a church, a sanctum in which Ford’s body was the altar. When it came to it, Bill would suggest a rift between worlds to solve the question of what caused Gravity Falls to be so strange, would suggest the idea of building a portal, all for his own gain. Their relationship was meant to be business, not casual, not whatever it had become.
Ford was too reverent. In all of Bill’s years, never had he been treated as both god and friend, inspiration and partner, celestial and lover. Over and over, Ford had repeated his name for Bill, “My Muse” , a title that was too pure for something the likes of Bill. Still, though, Bill had allowed it, had embraced the name and become something closer to Ford than what he’d intended. Bill was a demon, something much different than holy, and yet Ford treated him as though he were some kind of god, spoke to him with the same adoration a worshipper might speak to their loving lord. The only thing that set Ford apart from a god’s devotee was his lack of being on his knees — short of that, Ford prayed , whether knowing about it or not, followed Bill’s every word as though it were commandment. The way Ford wrote down each piece of advice so obsessively was closer to a scribe of god than a man gifted knowledge.
Bill was no god. He’d told Ford so, had said it since their first meeting, and yet Ford seemed to worship him regardless. Did he realize it, Bill would wonder, watching as Ford sat down in the center of the church yet again, allowing himself to become a vessel for Bill once more. A man couldn’t go so far into devotion without inevitably realizing his worship, Bill thought, and yet Ford seemed unaware. If Ford knew what he was doing, he didn’t seem to care, treating it as though it were normal.
“My Muse spoke to me again today,” Ford would write, as though he had been talked to by a crush in the school hallways. “His knowledge never ceases to amaze me,” he would praise, filling the pages with his devotion that was so heavy it was almost crushing. Bill was not meant to be worshipped, not like this: if anything, Bill were meant to be feared, but Ford treated him as though he were holy. Within his dreams, Ford would smile at Bill with something so soft that Bill had concern that Ford was falling in love with him. Love couldn’t be allowed. That was not the nature of their relationship. And yet…
There had been no human that Bill had ever grown such an attachment to as he had with Ford. Time again and again, Bill would find himself performing some nicety for Ford, be it acknowledging and celebrating his birthday or helping him sleep after days spent awake working on a portal. Even when concern arose surrounding the portal, Ford had once given the response that “If such a device gives My Muse a physical form, then the task of building it is well worth it.” After such a statement, Bill had to go away for a few weeks to remind himself that this relationship couldn’t last. Still, though, he found himself coming back, holding Ford’s face within his dreams and offering any reward he could for Ford’s unwavering faith and adoration.
“If I were to see your physical form, what would you look like?” Ford had asked in a dream, once. Bill was uncertain of how to respond. Despite his triangular form, an homage kept to what remained of him from his home, he’d only appeared to Ford with a form that was more celestial than he had been born. Within the dreamscape, Bill stood tall, a body similar to the adored gods in old mythos, expression gentle as he looked upon Ford. “I would likely be different,” was Bill’s response, “but I would still be your muse.” Ford had smiled, exhaling almost dreamily at the answer. “That’s all I could want.”
Later, within Ford’s dreams, their relationship had escalated. Despite their ability to speak while Ford was conscious, Bill noticed that Ford had taken a liking to speaking within the dreamscape. When Bill had asked, all Ford had said in response was that he preferred to see Bill’s form. Bill accepted that; humans were driven by looks, after all, and he hadn’t exactly made his form unattractive when he’d come to Ford. Still, though, when Ford had first made a move to kiss him, it had surprised Bill. He could read minds, sure, but during their conversations he’d taken to not reading Ford as frequently. He’d learned that Ford was already honest with him, rarely leaving thoughts unspoken, but he supposed that more were kept quiet than he had originally intended. “I’m sorry,” Ford had apologized, “That wasn’t very proper of me. I won’t do it again.” Bill had simply shaken his head, holding Ford’s head gently in his hand. “Don’t apologize,” was all Bill brought himself to say before allowing it to happen, offering Ford a kiss that was quickly accepted.
Things continued that way, day after day, week after week, even as work on the portal had begun to stall due to Fiddleford’s distrust towards what the portal would truly do. Ford shook it all off, insisting it was worth it, speaking to Bill in the night with promises that he would see this through. “I won’t rest until I can see you in front of me outside of my mind. Until I can properly kiss you, properly feel your touch on my skin, I won’t stop trying,” Ford promised, and Bill couldn’t help but smile softly at the sentiment. “I’ll wait for the day.”
Bill could see the numerous timelines in which the portal didn’t work, in which he and Ford split apart, in which things turned out as poorly for them as they could. He could only hope that this world wouldn’t be one of them.
Later, during Weirdmageddon, Ford would look at Bill within the fearamid and grimace. “You don’t look like how you used to,” he commented, staring at the physical form now in front of him. “You didn’t want me anymore,” Bill had responded, staring Ford down. “That form was for you alone, when I was your muse and your lover.”