#cotwc

It had been a long night and Stanford’s body was weary as he hiked homeward through the trees. It wasn’t late in the day, no later than nine in the morning, but the humid heat was already becoming stifling. He had shucked off his jacket and undone the top couple buttons of his shirt, but he was still overdressed. He grumbled under his breath as he walked, feeling very tired and frankly, a bit cranky.

Not only had the night been long, but worse, it had been unproductive. Stanford had established a little makeshift camp up in the mountains, just down-wind of the caves that the Giant Vampire Bats inhabited. He had chosen the position due to its being down-wind, to avoid the perplexing and likely dangerous creatures catching his scent and deeming it too appetizing. He had not, however, given enough consideration to how miserable it would be to sit on a rock all night drowning in the scent of bat droppings. Even the stench of guano would have been worth it if he had learned anything, but he had left his stake-out post this morning with no more clues than he had started with.

“This town baffles me…” he muttered. He had not been in Gravity Falls for very long, but its strangeness (and the strange behavior of its residents) had been immediately quite apparent. It was that very strangeness that drew you here in the first place, Stanford, he reminded himself. It was why he was here. Not just why he was in this town, but it was also literally why he was here, sweaty, over-tired, stinking of bat excrement, and trudging through the woods, when he ought to be quietly nursing a leisurely cup of coffee. He should have suspected, perhaps, that in a town with so much strangeness that the people would adapt. He certainly had not anticipated the reluctance, the denial, the desire to turn the other cheek and pretend there was nothing abnormal at all. It seemed ludicrous, in a town where bizarre things were around every corner, that the people should be so willfully ignorant.

Ford realized he was scowling and took a deep breath. It won’t do me any good to pout about it, he thought, willful ignorance is fairly universal and I’m the one who was naive to expect it to be any different here. It had been wishful thinking, after all. That, perhaps in a place with so much weirdness, there would also be more acceptance. More of a place for him, more appreciation, more acknowledgement that he wasn’t just a freak, but special.

As if summoned by his griping thoughts, He appeared. The color bled out of Stanford’s surroundings in that way that wasn’t quite familiar yet and he felt him before he saw him, “HEY THERE, FORDSY!” he said, in that strange voice that Ford seemed to feel in his spine as much as hear in his head.

“Bill!” He said dumbly. His muse had chosen him a scant month before and he had not yet gotten the hang of casually greeting such a wise and celestial being. His legs mechanically kept walking through the grey landscape, Bill floating pleasantly along beside him.

Bill laughed and Ford smiled politely with him. He had observed that Bill often laughed when nothing funny had been said, as if he always had some inexplicable glee to express. He regarded the strange triangular being beside him, finding the simplicity and strange symmetry of Bill’s visage to be somehow pleasing. Bill’s aura was rippling in time with his laugh, his eye crinkled joyfully. Ford was so fortunate to have been blessed with a muse of such good humor and agreeable temperament.

“SOMEBODY’S FEELIN’ GRUMPY,” Bill observed, in the wheedling tone one might use to ask if their dog wanted a treat, “WHAT’S WEIGHING DOWN THAT BIG HEAD O’ YOURS, SIX?”

Ford’s cheeks felt suddenly warm, a bit embarrassed of his petty complaints now that it was Bill inquiring, “Oh, it’s nothing for you to concern yourself with,” he assured Bill. This splendidly wise entity had for some reason seen fit to choose him, and he’d be damned if he was going to waste Bill’s valuable time.

“AW FORDSY,” Bill protested. He sounded disappointed but somehow still like he was grinning. Ford tried not to wonder about how little either made sense considering Bill’s lack of a mouth, “DON’T HOLD OUT ON ME! I THOUGHT WE WERE PALS, YOU ‘N’ I!”

“We- we are!” Ford insisted, hoping he had not upset his muse too greatly, “I mean to say, I would be honored to be considered amongst your friends,”

Bill laughed heartily, “THEN TELL ME! WHAT’S BUMMING OUT MY NEW PET?”

Stanford laughed nervously at the word choice, but brushed it off. Bill often said things that seemed a bit odd or off-color, but Stanford assumed that sort of thing would come with the territory of being an ageless keeper of knowledge. Your vernacular might end up a bit dated and strange, “I am merely frustrated by my research,” he said, hoping to downplay how irked he was feeling.

“BUT YOU’RE A GENIUS!” Bill pointed out and Ford’s heart soared at the praise. He had always been a genius, but he had rarely been told as much, and surely not by anyone with Bill’s authority.

“You’re too kind,” Ford thanked, “I misspoke. I suppose it’s not truly the research that has frustrated me. I don’t expect the bats to make it easy for me, but the lack of cooperation from the townspeople is infuriating!”

“HM,” Bill said, rubbing under his eye as if thoughtfully stroking his chin, “THOSE PEOPLE SHOULDN’T CONCERN YOU, FORDSY,” he advised, “WHATTA SHEEP LIKE THAT KNOW THAT A PRODIGY LIKE YOU DOESN’T?”

Stanford tried to ignore the bright red flush he could feel on his face at Bill’s flattery and tried to play it off with a small laugh, “It’s funny you should say that, Bill, because sheep are all they’ll talk to me about!” Bill gestured for Ford to continue, “There have been disappearances in the town, and I suspect the Giant Vampire Bats are responsible. Many livestock animals, but more importantly, a couple people! An old woman, a homeless fellow, and a young child!” Bill’s face remained impassive (insofar as one could read the expressions of a triangle) so Ford kept on, hoping to underscore his point, “When I have inquired with townspeople, all they want to talk about is how many of their sheep have gone missing! How many cattle, how many goats! Innocent people are likely dead and these people…” Ford scowled, “They joke about it being mosquitoes!”

“OH, SWEET FORDSY,” Bill cooed, and Ford tensed, unsure if he detected sarcasm in his muse’s tone, “YOU BIG SOFTIE!”

“It doesn’t matter if I’m sweet,” Stanford said, his voice having picked up a slight defensive edge, “That won’t help me to deduce why these bats would be interested in eating humans!”

Bill laughed again, harder this time. His small black hands clutched over his tie, as cackling laughter shook his strange luminous form. Ford’s footsteps slowed a bit as he curiously watched his muse’s amusement. Just as he was accepting that he would never be able to puzzle out what had set Bill’s laughter off, the sage being stilled his laughter and without having to catch his breath (Ford supposed that made sense, as surely he didn’t actually breathe) exclaimed matter-of-factly, “BECAUSE HUMANS ARE DELICIOUS! ”

That stopped Ford in his tracks and he knew he pulled a face, “Bill, you’ve got to be joking!”

“DO I-HAHAHA!-SOUND LIKE I’M-AH! HAHA!-JOKING?” Ford opted not to answer, mulling over what Bill was implying. Was it possible Bill was not as altruistic as he seemed? Ford frowned, “AW, C’MON, FORDSY, -HEH...HAHA- DON’T BE SO CLOSE-MINDED!”

“I’m sorry, I don’t believe it’s close-minded of me to reject the idea of eating fellow humans,” Ford said a bit tersely.

“SHEESH, KID, NO ONE SAID ANYTHING ABOUT YOU EATING FELLOW HUMANS!” Bill gave Ford’s shoulder a teasing punch. The spot tingled strangely. Touches in this odd grey in-between were always strange, “ALL I’M SAYIN’ IS THERE’S NO BIG SECRET YOUR BATS ARE HIDING! THEY EAT HUMANS BECAUSE YOU’RE TASTY! ”

“...How do you know that…?” Ford asked, quietly, hearing the doubt that tinged his own words.

“OH, IS THAT WHAT YOU’RE WORRIED ABOUT?” Bill laughed fondly and reassured him, “YOU REALLY ARE A SOFT LITTLE HUMAN! I’M NOT GONNA EAT YOU!”

Although the idea of Bill eating him hadn’t actually entered his mind, he was glad to hear that those were in fact not Bill’s intentions. It did not however, entirely settle the unease in Stanford’s mind, “But Bill…”

“OH, THEY WERE ALL WILLING SACRIFICES,” Bill clarified further with a dismissive wave of his hand.

Ford blanched. Still not what I was getting at, “...Willing sacrifices?” he repeated, morbidly intrigued, “You’ve accepted sacrifices?”

“NONE OF THEM WERE AS SMART AS YOU, TRUST ME, YA DON’T NEED TO BE JEALOUS,” Bill said. Taking in the nonplussed look on Ford’s face, he explained, “NOT THE SMART ONES, BUT LOTSA HUMANS WOULD LINE UP TO SPILL THEIR GUTS ON A GOD’S ALTAR!”

His muse had never referred to himself as a god before. From a young age, Stanford had rejected religion in favor of science. As far as he was concerned, there was nothing any faith could explain better than what could be learned through even-headed logical observation. He was committing his life to explaining the unexplainable, finding the facts behind those things that most people waved off as fantastical. What a stroke of irony that he of all people should be favored by a god. He supposed the title fit Bill as well as any other. He was unfathomably wise, ageless, powerful, and the very spirit of generosity, offering his help and asking nothing of Ford in return. Stanford could not deny that he felt a deep awe in Bill’s presence.

He stopped in his tracks, and looked down at his feet, reminded suddenly of their Rabbi’s voice when he was growing up, describing how Moses was made to remove his sandals by the burning bush for he had stood on hallowed ground. Neither he nor his brother had ever taken that story or any of the others much to heart, but at this moment it seemed apt. Maybe he’d simply never understood what it meant before.

It only took him a moment to snap out of his uncharacteristic reverence. He raised his gaze to Bill again. The muse, or perhaps he was a god, was watching Ford with a look of curious bemusement. Ford wondered again how such a nondescript face could convey so much, when he remembered his initial confusion, “You don’t have a mouth,” he said flatly.

“WELL, YA DON’T HAVE TO BE RUDE,” Bill snarked, a laugh hanging close by.

“No, no, pardon me, I’m not trying to be rude,” Ford said, “How do you know how anything tastes if you don’t have a mouth?”

“OH THAT! LIKE THIS!” Without warning, Bill blinked and when his eye opened again, it wasn’t an eye at all but a fanged grin. The sight ought to have frightened Ford but it sent a thrill down his spine. This creature, be he a muse or a god or something else entirely, was a mystery that only grew more enticing. A black tongue wet Bill’s new lips and to Ford’s shock, the sight aroused more than curiosity in him. Before he could even wonder if it was normal for one to desire a deity, Bill was dragging his tongue up the side of Ford’s face. The lick tingled, more intensely than a less intimate touch, it prickled like a prolonged static shock. But as fast as the contact was there it was gone again. Bill smacked his lips and said, “LIKE I SAID, HUMAN IS DELICIOUS!”

Stanford stared as Bill’s mouth closed and opened again as an eye. He hoped his unbidden feelings of lust weren’t apparent, desperately forced them to the back of his mind, “Is… is that all you meant… by delicious?” he asked.

Bill laughed, “‘COURSE NOT! SURE YOUR SKIN TASTES FINE, BUT IT’S THE BLOOD THAT REALLY PACKS A PUNCH!” Ford hmm-ed thoughtfully, unsure what to say to all these new revelations about Bill, “YA REALLY CAN’T KNOCK IT TILL YOU TRY IT, SIX. ANYWAYGOTTAGOSEEYAAA,” And with a jarring suddenness, Ford was blinking his eyes open. He had continued walking along in a trance in that threshold where Bill seemed to dwell and he was not far from home now. He began walking more briskly, eager to get out of the heat and into a cold shower.

---

An icy shower, a few hours of dreamless sleep, a couple stiff drinks, and Stanford still couldn’t quiet the turmoil of his thoughts. Worry about the Giant Vampire Bats had given way to far less welcome concerns. Was there such a thing as gods? Was it absurd for a mortal to desire a god? What was so ‘delicious’ about human blood?

“What’s come over me?” he asked himself, disbelieving the strange trajectory of his own thoughts. He had always had such a clear idea of who he was, of who he wanted to be. And none of this quite fit into the picture he had of himself. The pursuit of knowledge had always been of the utmost importance to him, but this all seemed somehow different. These were not questions that could be answered with recorded data, these demanded something from a much darker more primal part of the human mind. The very part of his mind he had always tended to keep tightly shut. It seemed the arrival of his muse, this bizarre god (if that was really what he was) had presented more questions than answers.

Not nearly for the first time, Stanford caught himself wondering what Stanley would say to all of this. What would he think of Bill? Ford wondered, What would he think of me? Stanley had always hated hearing his brother called a freak, even when it was Ford saying it. How could he begin to understand what his twin’s research in Gravity Falls meant to him? Thinking about Stanley only made this all harder to parse. His complicated feelings about his estranged brother would have to wait. There had been a time when Stanley had been his partner in crime, but those days were long past and Ford had a new partner now. He knew that with their powers combined, he and Bill could achieve great things.

His face was already a bit warm from the liquor, but he felt his cheeks getting hotter. I’m only starstruck, he told himself stubbornly, That’s a perfectly reasonable response to a deity, is it not?  He had never experienced religious zeal and he wasn’t entirely sure that this was how it was supposed to feel. The memory of Bill’s ink-black tongue snaking over his sharp teeth came unbidden into Stanford’s mind yet again and he felt his trousers growing tighter. He groaned, grateful he was alone but embarrassed nonetheless. Religious zeal most certainly did not involve that. He tried in vain to ignore his body’s response to the thought of his muse, trying instead to consider the likelihood that some faiths incorporated sexuality more than the lax reform Judaism in which he’d been brought up. It was definitely true, but he was still quite sure that what he was feeling was wrong.

He shut his eyes in frustration, willing his bloodflow to return to normal and leave his penis out of this. After a moment it started slowly to work, and Ford immersed himself. He focused on the mysterious blood, flowing dark and unseen beneath his skin. He realized too late that he was getting too caught up in the thought, that his mouth was watering. Bill wouldn’t lie to me, he reminded himself, not sure if that was more comforting or unsettling, “It’s only blood,” he said out loud, opening his eyes and staring down at his hands, crossed on the table in front of him.

He spread all twelve fingers, looking down at the broad palms and extra extremities that had garnered so much teasing and self-doubt over the years. It always surprised him that something so stupid should make such a big difference to anyone, including himself. It didn’t make him any less functional or valid, it was just a strange genetic accident. Just like any other trait a human might have, it was just a blip deep down in their chromosomes, in their DNA, in their blood.

The blood is the life! Stanley would say, in a bad Transylvanian accent. Ford smiled bitterly at the memory of watching black and white movies with Stanley. How simple things had seemed, how far away it all was from Stanford’s present. He stared at his hands, the way the pads of his fingers were slightly rosy. He pressed his thumb and forefinger together, watching transfixed as the pressure turned his fingertips white before he released and watched the blood rush back. He had never been so curious about what lay underneath his own skin, but now all at once it seemed he couldn’t stand not knowing.

He stood up abruptly, the legs of his chair squeaking noisily against the linoleum. There was a short list in his head of what he would need and he set about gathering it all. This was no different than any other experiment and thinking of it that way made it so much simpler. Of course there was no way he was going to hurt anyone else, but this was research and he was his own willing lab rat. When he returned with his arms full, Bill was waiting.

“YELLO!” he greeted cheerily, “I GUESS OUR TALK REALLY WET YOUR APPETITE!” he cackled at his own joke, watching as Ford arranged all the things he had gotten neatly on the table. There was a boxcutter with a new blade, a bottle hydrogen peroxide, some sterile gauze, and medical tape, “A BOY SCOUT IS ALWAYS PREPARED, EH?”

“I wasn’t a boy scout,” Ford said a little stiffly. He wasn’t sure when Bill had pulled him back into the grey trance of this threshold space, and he didn’t like that he hadn’t noticed. Bill’s presence made it somehow more embarrassing that he was actually doing this.

“I’M JUST YANKIN’ YOUR CHAIN, FORDSY,” Bill said making a small tugging motion with both hands, which created an odd tightness in Ford’s gut. He ignored the sensation as best he could. He took a small pad of gauze and wet it with the hydrogen peroxide. First he used the gauze to thoroughly wipe off the boxcutter blade, and then did the same to his left palm. He dropped the spent piece of gauze on the table absently, steeling himself for what he was about to do, “WOW,” Bill said, in an impressed tone that made Stanford’s chest swell proudly, “YOU’RE ONE HELLUVA HUMAN, SIXER.”

Hearing his muse’s earnest praise gave Ford the little boost that his nerves needed. As if it was the most commonplace thing in the world, he guided the blade to his sterilized left palm and pressed. His hands did not shake, and he hardly flinched, although it was more a result of surprise than pain. It took practically no pressure for the keen blade to break his skin and it happened easier than he’d expected. He watched as the dark blood surged up around the metal. Bill made a pleased oohing sound and Ford’s pulse quickened, reacting to the pain and the thrill of impressing a god.

Hypnotized by the sight of his own skin parting cleanly beneath the sharp knife, Stanford slowly dragged the boxcutter across his hand. He hissed involuntarily at the feeling, the pain acute and immediate. It hurt, but there was a harsh satisfaction to it as well. All of the confusion and doubt from only moments before fell away, and everything distilled into the exquisitely simple pain of damaged tissue. His half-cupped palm was filling with blood and he watched it dreamily for a second before putting down the boxcutter. He glanced at Bill and was stricken by what he saw. He hadn’t realized how close his muse had come, entranced, and did not expect him to be so near. His single, unnerving eye was trained on the blood pooling in Ford’s hand, his aura wavering in time with the perpetual low hum he was emitting. It was an entirely inhuman sound, requiring no air, but something about it stirred Ford much the way the sigh of a lover might. Bill met Stanford’s gaze and widened his eye slightly, as if raising an eyebrow coaxingly.

Without breaking eye contact for an instant, Ford lifted his left hand to his open mouth. An instant later, his palate was flooded. He had tasted blood before, as anyone who has sucked a papercut or lost a tooth had, but never had it been anything like this. The taste was agonizingly rich, bitterly metallic and salty and almost sweet all at once. It tasted dark and heady, like the ozone smell of pressure before a storm. He heard his own soft moan, surprised by it, as he slowly swallowed, wanting to prolong the sickeningly decadent feeling of his own blood sliding down his throat. The sound Bill was making changed in response to him, the pitch moving higher and somehow Ford could recognize that it sounded hungrier.

He licked along his own hand, his tongue feeling strange against the fresh wound and Bill’s eye was glued to the contact. Ford realized absently how hard he was, but unlike before, he no longer felt embarrassed by it. With the way his muse was watching him, it suddenly no longer seemed wrong or unwelcome. It seemed like a shared secret, something certainly taboo, but not a crime he was committing alone.

Stanford somewhat reluctantly lifted his mouth from his palm. The straight angry line of the cut bled again at once, that strange dark red swelling up temptingly. He wasn’t going to drink from himself again though. He lifted his eyes from his hand to look at Bill. He was floating as near as possible without touching and Ford could swear the normally clear lemon-yellow appeared to be tinged just slightly a pinkish-orange. His aura was glowing brilliantly, dizzyingly bright, and the sound he was making set Stanford’s teeth on edge. Bill’s eye was glued to the seeping wound, and Ford extended the hand slightly to him, “Would you like to taste me?”

The sound Bill was making changed as he blinked slowly. It took Stanford a second to identify why it had changed, taking on a warmer, throatier, even more maddening tone. Then Bill opened his mouth, and the reason became clear. Where a moment ago it had been a sound abstractly produced, it was now a starved growl being emitted from an actual mouth, “I’D LOVE THAT,” Bill’s mouth said, and watching his voice actually come out of his mouth sent a shiver from the top of Stanford’s head, down through him to settle achingly in his groin.

Bill’s small black hand reached out to steady Stanford’s wrist, his tongue lolling out of his mouth to wet his lips before moving languidly across Ford’s palm. Ford cried out at the contact. The touch of Bill’s hand was one thing, but his mouth was entirely different. Just as when he had licked his cheek in the forest, it tingled electrically. It was excruciating pleasure when his tongue would meet the rawness of the open wound. Bill moved his tongue thirstily against the small gash, making wet obscene sounds of pleasure. He closed his lips on Stanford’s palm and sucked, his tongue never stagnating. Ford hardly knew his free hand had moved to touch himself through his pants, it had been so involuntary. He stroked himself vigorously, shamelessly, the edge so close that his toes curled. Bill seemed to sense Ford’s urgency and his teeth prickled against Ford’s skin as his tongue dragged firmly against the cut.

Stanford cried out again as he came harder than he ever had before. Bill’s mouth did not release his hand until Stanford’s orgasm has subsided to rattling gasps and tremors. Bill laughed a bit airily and said a little smugly, “THAT’S ALWAYS WHEN HUMAN BLOOD TASTES THE BEST,” Ford gave a weak grunt in acknowledgement. He felt a hand on his hair and realized his eyes had fallen closed, and opened them. Just as he did, Bill’s tongue darted out to lick a couple lingering drops of blood from Ford’s lips. Without an instant’s hesitation, he opened his mouth, inviting a kiss from Bill’s strangely irresistible mouth. His tongue tasted like blood and felt like lightning and Ford drifted guilelessly in the bliss of kissing his muse. The kiss ended and when Stanford opened his eyes, Bill’s mouth was gone and had been replaced by the return of his eye, “YOU DID SO WELL, FORDSY,” Bill said, and Ford’s head swam with pride and relief at the praise, “YOU’RE EVEN MORE VALUABLE THAN I THOUGHT,”