Chapter Text
It was supposed to be a relaxing evening, though his whole day seemed doomed. His plan was to start with his essay on Kafka's “The Metamorphosis” and finish the book with letters to his father by the same author, so that he could better understand the author in his work, even if he only had to choose a course outside of his beloved natural science because of the university's damn point system.
However, he couldn't sleep that night. His mind seemed to be so focused on the topic he had chosen for his seminar that his thoughts sounded deafeningly loud and wouldn't let him sleep. He also had a paper on human cells and how they behave when frozen. He himself was convinced that it should be possible to freeze a person for several years and then wake them up. The link just wasn't quite right yet, a problem he wanted to work on.
He thought about taking a nap. Sometimes it fit into his routine and sometimes it was a disaster for him when he suddenly fell asleep reading or writing on the couch or in bed. Naps are only possible between noon and 3 Anything that happens after 3 p.m. only ruins his next day, and then the next day feels like complete chaos as everything is just postponed and he feels like he is not getting things done on his mental to-do.
As mentioned earlier, he was unable to go to bed before 11 p.m. today, although his body and restless mind would have needed it. His normal sleep window is between 11 p.m. and 1 a.m. at the latest. Anything closer to 1 a.m. made him feel nervous inside, and he couldn't stand this fact because his mind started calculating the hours and minutes of how much sleep he would get, and as is often the case, he would get even less sleep once his mind started calculating.
It was 10 p.m. when he decided to go for his walk. Today he wanted to take a different route than usual. Variety was important to him, too! It kept him interested and attentive. Ford had once read in a book about brain research that trying out new paths can increase creativity and foster curiosity. He needed that for his upcoming homework and essays. That would certainly motivate him and who knows, maybe he'll be as lucky as last time and find a new place with his favorite food along the way! That's exactly what happened to him two months ago! He was looking forward to it!
This time he was less lucky. On the other hand, he met two new street cats! That was just wonderful. He had always been a great animal lover and the streets were less busy than usual today, almost spooky. That could only be good for him. He didn't need any more new input today. He would be able to sleep well tonight and get straight down to work after his favorite breakfast! Stracciatella cream with almond pieces. He couldn't get enough of it! The first time he tried it, he was so thrilled by it that he's been eating it for breakfast for two years now! And for dinner. For lunch, he usually chooses something different to give his stomach at least some variety. Anyway, his mother always insisted on that. So he kept up the tradition even after he moved out.
Just up the main street and he would be home again, in his home, surrounded by books and knowledge!
A black car overtook him faster than allowed, followed by another car that almost crashed into a streetlight. Ford's heart was pounding and he had the uneasy feeling that he was not supposed to see this. He inconspicuously hid behind a tree, supposedly protected, to watch the spectacle before his eyes. Maybe he should have run, but something told him that it could only get more dangerous.
Suddenly, one of the car windows was rolled down and a shot was fired. Ford's fingers dug into the bark of the tree as he held his breath. Oh, this was – this was absolutely terrifying! Now he definitely wouldn't run.
“Son of a bitch! Fucking bastards!”, the voice of a man who got out of the Bentley resounded, followed by a few other grim-looking guys.
The next shot rang out and Ford slumped to the ground. Oh dear! Maybe he should have had a nap after all! Whatever this was, he hoped with every fiber of his being that these thuggish men would just go away quickly so he could run home fast. He screwed up his eyes tightly and covered his ears. Surely that would make the noise go away faster.
“Sir, I can already hear the police sirens! We have to get out of here before they catch us!“ a stressed dark-haired man shouted. Which triggered the next shot in the direction of the other people.
”There's someone here!” one of his men shouted angrily. When he recognized the beige trench coat that belonged to Ford behind a tree.
The man with the blond, almost golden hair and sunglasses was now running to the scene, completely upset, and swearing with all sorts of insults. If Ford wasn't startled by the loud noises, he would surely come up with a funny pun about one or the other expression. He loved a good pun! Just like D&D and even more D! At home, he had tons of books on that subject!
“No civilians!” Not today. He already had enough problems because of the deal that went completely south. He would deal with the bastards from the Gleeful gang later! One at a time would be best! He didn't need the blood of random tragedy on his hands today! Sometimes he hated his job!
Bill felt the pulse of the moment when the shots rang out that night and the echo of their menace pierced the gloomy alleys.
Then his eyes fell on Ford, who was sitting frozen behind a tree at the side of the road. The distraught brunette with the messy hair seemed completely overwhelmed by the world around him. His eyes were wide open, fixed on the scene in front of him, as if he couldn't quite grasp reality. Well, you couldn't blame him. If you weren't in this business like Bill, you'd get sick pretty quickly.
In the chaotic situation and in view of the imminent danger of being caught by the police, Bill hardly hesitated. With a mixture of skill and determination, he grabbed Ford by the wrist and pulled him to his feet. His touch was firm but not violent as he pulled the young man closer to him. Words seemed superfluous in this situation – it was obvious that they had no time for explanations, and the young frightened man had no choice either. They could lose words later. Maybe not. Who knows what kind of guy he had just picked up. Bill would decide the fate of this disheveled guy later on the spur of the moment.
The car tire on the asphalt, the sound of the approaching wind and the dull beat of his own heart merged into a kind of dark background noise for the escape. Ford was pulled along by Bill as if he were just a shadow lost in the nighttime fog. The younger man followed him, whether out of shock or instinct, it was hard to say. His body moved with it, but his eyes still seemed trapped in another world. He could only think of his bed and the next lines for his essay. That was not planned.
With a swift movement, Bill opened the door of his dark car and pulled Ford gently but firmly inside.
“We're taking him with us!” Bill shouted angrily. He had no time to explain to the others why and for what reason they were taking the other man with them. Besides, as the boss, he had the right to do so. None of his gang members would be so bold as to disobey him. Criticism was allowed, on good days, of course, but making decisions without his blessing was a death sentence of their own choosing.
The driver pulled away as soon as everyone was back in the car, and Ford was now sitting across from a man wearing sunglasses? And in the middle of the night, at that? Unusual. Was he sensitive to light?
Immediately, as Bill's eyes slid over the brown-haired boy, Ford fixed his eyes on the window pane to his right. He must be quite young. Nobody has such a soft, innocent face. It should be forbidden to look so sweet. Damn. Bill had seen some beautiful people and faces, but none came even close to this one. The boy in front of him was a painting. An antique one, if you looked at his eccentric clothing. All vintage. But it suited him, if you looked closely, and Bill rather liked this image of the boy.
“What's wrong with you?” Bill asked, and the boy's gaze seemed to rest intensely on him for a moment before he looked away, completely disinterested, and replied.
“Nothing. When can I go home?” Ford asked with genuine interest, but his voice was completely emotionless at the moment. He was too tired to pay attention to whether he was striking the right tone or to concentrate on adapting to the situation. Besides, he had never been in such a situation before, where he was apparently kidnapped by a gang? He had no idea what was expected of him. Besides, the other man was not behaving “normally” for a supposed crime boss. Weren't witnesses being shot? That could be bad for business. The fact that he was still alive confused him. Of course he didn't want to be shot, but given his situation, it was hard to understand why he was still alive.
“Home? For what? Do you seriously think you're going home today?” Bill asked irritated.
Normally, any witness would have been shot by now. But somehow he could still bring himself to shoot this angelic, gentle face. That would be blasphemous for a number of reasons. Besides, he just had to process that question. The boy didn't seem to be aware of his situation, did he? Most people begged for their lives in a situation like this, at the latest, and tried to negotiate a good deal as to why and why not they of all people should be killed. But this guy? He just asked him when he could go home, as if she were on her way to the damn store right now.
“Where else would I be taken?“ Ford asked with the same subtle enthusiasm as before. He couldn't imagine why he should have any relevance in these circles.
”Sir, I think the boy is trying to piss you off,” hissed 8-Ball angrily. If there was one thing he couldn't stand, it was arrogance!
“Not at all. It's almost bedtime for me and before I go to bed, I always read my absolute favorite chapter from my favorite monthly book and maybe I would still formulate a few notes for my work,” explained Ford. He was completely serious. Why would he lie? Especially in a situation like this?
“It may be an early night for you, too, today,” 8-Ball said, putting his pistol to the boy's temple. Oh, how he wanted to pull the trigger. He had no idea why Bill had suddenly decided to have a heart, but the boy was the most annoying thing he had ever come across. He wasn't even crying!
“This isn't possible, we must be past midnight,” Ford commented soberly and winced a little. The metal was an unpleasant stimulus. He didn't like it.
“8-Ball! Put the gun down, where are your manners!” Bill hissed, eyeing the boy closely. He didn't look scared. Rather, he grimaced. As if it only bothered him that someone was roughly pressing the barrel of a gun to his temple. But not the fact that his life was being threatened. The latter obeyed and refrained from commenting.
“What's your name, boy?“
”My name is Ford, and what do you mean, 'kid'? I'm 25, so I'm an adult.“
”Your name sounds like it belongs to an angel, kid. I'm Bill Cipher.”
“My mother liked the names,” Ford explained. The first name Bill is an English diminutive of William. From Old High German: willo means ‘will’ and helm means ‘helmet’ or ‘protection.’ ' added the boy cheerfully, and Bill couldn't help but smile at this information. What a clever mind lived in that skull.
The handsome boy was completely serious, and Bill couldn't help but find this behavior interesting.
--
Ford entered the room that Bill had provided for him and was immediately flooded by a wave of unease.
He was supposed to sleep here. What a joke! He had tried to explain to the man that he couldn't do that, and the man had pushed a pillow into his hand and said, “Well, then it's going to be a long night for you, boy. Sweet dreams!”
Ford had thrown the pillow into the nearest corner and simply gone into the room that was supposed to be his. He was exhausted and would have preferred the other gangster to just shoot him in the car! This was much worse!
Everything in this room was so strange, so different from anything he had ever experienced before. Every sense seemed overwhelmed by impressions he couldn't properly process. Everything was much too close, much too intense. His thoughts plagued him. He just wanted to go home! Why didn't anyone understand that? He wouldn't say anything! What should he say? He didn't even know this Bill and his gang! Besides, it wasn't any of his business! He was just an ambitious science student! He didn't even have time for a gang war to witness.
The walls were painted in bright colors and decorated with unusual triangular patterns that irritated his eyes. He couldn't focus on one point without his eyes wandering from one cluttered painting to the next. The blinding lighting in the form of neon lights and unusual lamps was too much for his sensitive eyes. That's probably why Bill wears sunglasses. It must have been a real annoyance for him!
The room seemed to be filled with various sounds – the buzzing of electronics, the humming of an air conditioner and the monotonous noise of background music in another room of the house. Each sound fought for his attention, and the combination of them felt like his brain was overloaded with noise. He couldn't find a quiet place inside.
When he placed his hand on the furniture, he felt unexpected textures that made him uncomfortable. Scratchy fabrics, metallic surfaces – everything was so different from the familiar that he felt downright uncomfortable. This felt incredibly wrong! He didn't belong here!
A strange mixture of scented candles, incense and possibly perfumed cleaning products still hung in the air. The smell was so intense and unfamiliar that it almost made Ford feel sick. Had someone used the room before? Someone had definitely lived here before.
Ford's heart began to beat faster and he felt as if he were trapped in a strange nightmare. His hands trembled and he felt his thoughts drift in all directions, unable to focus on anything. He longed for peace, for familiarity, for a place where he felt safe. Home. He wanted to go home. He wanted to read his book. It was already past one in the morning! This was a damnbig disaster!
In a desperate attempt to free himself from the overwhelming sensory overload, Ford felt an impulsive urge to somehow take control of his surroundings. His hands trembled more violently and he felt his heart beat faster. Without really thinking, he raised a hand, clenched it into a fist and slammed it against the wall with a sudden rage and frustration that was looking for a way out at that moment.
The dull thud vibrated in his hand and arm, and the pain from the impact drew his attention away from the sensory overload of his senses. It was as if he had flipped a switch – the physical pain focused his thoughts and forced him to concentrate on something else. As a child, he had hit himself in the face. Over time, he had learned to simply dig his fingers into his hair and rock back and forth, but that was in his room. This was not his room, this was hell itself!
Ford's palms were red and scraped from repeated blows against the wall. The pain, which he had hardly felt at first, was now omnipresent, but strangely, he seemed hardly to notice it. His eyes had a glassy look and his breathing was shallow as he continued to beat against the wall with monotonous persistence. It helped him.
The anger, frustration and confusion had manifested themselves in this ritual act of self-destruction. Ford seemed to be trapped in some kind of tranqilike state in which he was no longer able to control his actions. The repetition of the physical pain he was inflicting on himself seemed to distract him from the flood of emotional stimuli that had overwhelmed him before. It relieved the pressure in his mind. His thoughts no longer seemed to want to kill him.
Around him, the room was filled with an unpleasant rhythm of dull blows and the muffled impact of his hand on the wall. Time seemed to stretch in this state, and Ford seemed to have trapped himself in a world of his own, in which there was only him and the wall. The sensations of his surroundings sorted themselves out a little, although he didn't want to stop. Anything was better than this sheer uncertainty in these rooms. He wanted none of it.
When Bill entered the room and saw Ford, who had probably been beating the wall for hours, he was overcome with a feeling of concern and helplessness. The scene was disturbing and he didn't immediately know how to react. He opened his mouth to say something, but the words seemed to get stuck in his throat. What the hell was this boy doing there?
“Ford!” Bill finally whispered, with a hint of desperation in his voice. He stepped closer to Ford and tried to reach out to him gently, but the young man seemed to be caught in a trance-like state. His eyes were glazed over and he continued to punch the wall mechanically, as if he had forgotten the world around him.
“Hey, IQ, stop it!” he shouted louder, this time with an undertone of urgent concern. He reached out to touch Ford on the shoulder, but the young man didn't respond. He was absorbed in his own thoughts, his actions almost automatic.
It wasn't that he hadn't noticed Bill, he wasn't deaf or blind, it was more the fact that he was doing something else. He was terribly bad at reassuring himself and he wanted to feel like he was getting everything out of himself, but if he broke a bone, it was worth it to him at that moment. A thought that was difficult for many around him to imagine.
The mafia boss sensed his own frustration in the face of this unpredictable situation. He wanted to free Ford from this state, to help him break away from the self-destructive act. He raised his voice and finally commanded emphatically: “Ford, stop, you're bleeding, damn it!”
Ford seemed to be ignoring his words. The young man continued to beat the wall with rigid and steady movements.
The idea of hugging the young man tightly to pull him away from the wall seemed to be the best way to get his attention and snap him out of his stupor. Or at least far enough away from the wall.
He took a step closer to Ford, the desperation and concern in his eyes as he formulated his words. “Ford, I'm going to hug you tightly to pull you away from the wall. You're not alone here, and I'll make sure you're safe.” He had no idea if these words were helpful, since he didn't know what was going on, but he didn't want to be another threat to the other. That was important to him.
Bill's voice was insistent and full of determination. He hoped that his words would get through and at least wake Ford up enough to realize what was going on.
Carefully, he approached Ford from the side and hugged him tightly. His arms wrapped around the young man as he slowly pulled him away from the wall. The resistance was noticeable, though Bill didn't let up and pleaded gently with Ford. “It's okay, Ford. I'm here with you. You're not alone.”
At least his arm was down now. Damn, if the boy didn't have a sprain, he must really be a miracle. He had once hit the wall in anger and was immediately allowed to be taken to the hospital.
It seemed to take forever for Ford to finally respond. His body began to move slowly, as if he were gradually awakening from a deep sleep. Bill could feel the resistance ebbing away, and he gently pulled Ford away from the wall until they were both standing.
And then Ford finally gave a barely audible sign of life. A whispered “Bill...” escaped his lips and Bill felt the tension in his own body ease a little. Ford had returned, if only for this one moment, and Bill was relieved that his drastic step had worked. He really hadn't had any other plan. Although maybe pulling a blanket over his head? It's a good thing that worked.
As Bill held Ford tightly in his arms, he felt the tension in the room gradually ease. The pressure Ford had previously put on himself seemed to ease as he gradually worked his way out of his trancelike state.
He still held him tightly when he said in a gentle voice, “Yes, Ford, I'm here. You're safe. You're with me.” And Bill knew in that moment that he had lost. He wanted to be able to hold only this one person in his arms at all costs. It felt so damn right, as if they were made for each other. And just the scent of the other! Nobody smelled that good! It was as if Ford smelled of pastry. He wanted to bury his face in the other's neck, but of course he didn't! That would have been borderline, he wasn't a pervert!
Ford, on the other hand, was initially surprised by how gently the stranger treated him. He had even warned him that he would touch him to give him time to think. It was loving and caring in a gentle way. The firm grip around his body helped him to relax slowly. He also liked the fact that the man wasn't wearing any intrusive perfume. So he was able to lean on him and concentrate better on his breathing.
“Sorry, I've had a rough day,” the brunette murmured and leaned his head wearily on Bill's chest, who could only nod silently. Yes, you could say that out loud. And the deal that had fallen through late that evening was the least of his problems. Much greater was his concern for the young man in his arms. What was wrong with him? Had he suffered a nervous breakdown? Probably. At least, it seemed that way to him. He was probably as lost as Ford himself at the moment.
Bill didn't know if it was wise to leave the other alone that night. He was afraid that the other would hurt himself again.
“Thank you, you seem nice, even though you kidnapped me,” Ford murmured softly. It was important to show gratitude where it was appropriate.
Damn, that was honest and direct. So the other one was aware of his situation after all? Bill had difficulties judging this boy. Others he could read like an open book, but this man really had to be some kind of genius, an absolute riddle to him, not of this world, and he wanted to learn more about him.
“I'm no sadist. It's all about business, you understand?“ Bill explained. "I don't like hurting you, but until I know who you are, what you know and whether I can trust you, you'll have to stay here."
”Isn't it rather counterproductive then that you're taking me to your home? A few hours ago I didn't even know your name and now I even know where you live.”
Bill let out a laugh. If he wasn't used to the man's strange responses, he would think that he was trying to make a veiled threat.
“I can't possibly know that.“
”Mh, I see. But I still have to go home,” Ford said soberly. ‘All my things are there and I have to go to a lecture tomorrow.’
Bill rolled his eyes. The guy had a lot of nerve and damn strange priorities. Or did he think he wasn't a threat? That would be downright stupid and suicidal! He had already sent a few people to the afterlife.
“I'm sorry, but I can't allow that. For the reasons I've already mentioned,“ Bill emphasized again.
”Can you at least stay with me for the night, since I have to be here?” He didn't want to be alone. Especially not in this strange house with all these other criminals. He couldn't help but let his intuition tell him that he was safe with Bill.
“What?“ Bill thought he had misheard. ‘You mean in the room or in a bed?’ He asked, just to make sure he had the same thought as the other.
”In a bed, there's only one bed in this room,“ Ford pointed to the large double bed that stood in the middle of the room.
”Will you finally sleep then and not hurt yourself anymore?” Bill wanted to be sure. “Besides, how's your hand?”
“I can promise you that for tonight. It's all right. The wound stings a little, but I can move it,” Ford said and made a strange gesture with his hand. Bill looked briefly surprised, but didn't want to comment on it, since he thought the boy had already heard all sorts of things. Six fingers?
“That's something, at least. Come on, IQ, let's get you to bed. But first, I'd like to take care of that wound, if you don't mind.” Bill really wanted to make sure that nothing was sprained.
The skin was torn and red, and it was obvious that the repeated blows against the wall had left their mark. Bill felt a twinge of apprehension in his chest as he looked at the injuries.
“You'll be all right, Ford. I'll take care of this,” Bill assured him quietly. He turned and walked to a nearby table where a small box of first-aid supplies lay. With practiced hands, he opened the box and took out sterile bandages and a gentle ointment.
Bill carefully and gently began to apply the ointment to the scraped skin on Ford's hands. He did this with a mixture of concentration and tenderness to ease the pain and soothe the skin. The ointment felt cool and soothing, and he could feel Ford's tension gradually easing.
Next, he took one of the sterile bandages and carefully wrapped it around the palm of the hand to protect and support the injuries. His touch was attentive and empathetic, as if he were not only taking care of the physical wounds but also conveying his concern and care.
While he took care of the injuries, Bill dared to glance at Ford's face. The young man seemed calm and relieved, and his eyes met Bill's as he carefully applied the bandages. Ford was also grateful that he hadn't heard Bill make a stupid comment about his fingers.
Finally, Bill finished tending to the injuries and smiled gently at Ford. “There, that should help,” he said quietly. He gently put the young man's hand back in place and took a step back. “Do you still want me to stay with you tonight?” Bill just wanted to sleep and not regret it.
“Yes,” Ford nodded, and Bill searched in vain for his gaze.
"Then come on, it's getting very late.”