#lets triangulate

"WOOF! What a view!" Bill's tendril trails along Ford's cheek in an imitation of a caress. Ford watches it out of the corner of his eye for a moment before something else catches his attention. Still breathing hard, he stares up at the blinking gold and green and gold and green lights as they strobe along the glass ceiling above him. He stares past them and sees himself. And he sees Bill.

The lights continue to flash, and above Ford hangs that haunting triangle. Each time the green light flashes on, Bill stands out so starkly that, when the light turns yellow, Ford can still see him. His form is burned behind Ford's eyelids when he blinks, is seared into the very flesh of his brain. The ship fades away almost entirely, leaving only Bill and Ford and the once cool glass beneath Ford's hands. He's suddenly dizzy with it—the realization that he's trapped here with Bill, that it's all because of his own hubris. He'll never escape, he'll never see home again.

No. No, he won't allow it.

Bill's been talking, been brushing his hands all down Ford's body. Ford hasn't caught any of it, and he doesn't want to. Instead, he shoves himself forward as best he can in the small space and starts to frantically smack at the glass, looking for some sort of weak spot.

Bill makes an alarmed sound of protest, and his hand lands on Ford's shoulder.

Ford shrugs it off and smacks the ball of his palm against the glass again. To his surprise, the sound is different. Ford hits the same spot again, the same hollow noise rings out around the ship.

"—dsy." Bill's words finally breach the thick haze of panic swallowing Ford's more rational thought.

"Open this," Ford demands sharply. There's no reply, so Ford bangs at the glass. "Open it."

"Use your big boy words, kid," Bill sneers.

In response, Ford grabs him and slams him eye first against the glass.

"OW, HEY! Watch the MERCHANDISE!" Bill barks.

He does, however, also mutter something under his breath that causes the ship to beep and the glass to slide back. Along with the glass, the metal of the ship the droid attached itself to opens, and reveals a small manual control room.

Ford crawls forward on his hands and knees over to the panel. The ceiling hangs low—low enough that Ford imagines it would be extremely inconvient for the species that owns these craft to operate—but Ford cannot focus on that. Instead, he heaves himself up as much as he can so he can assess the control board.

It's hard to focus with his ass out, though.

Or, well, his ass being out is not so much the problem, rather it's the fact that gooseflesh is forming up along his exposed skin, and his chest and thighs are still wet with cum and lube.

"Pants," Ford mutters, unsure if he's talking to Bill or himself.

Mercifully, pants reappear on Ford's suddenly clean person with a snap of Bill's fingers.

Ford flicks a switch on the board, and the ship shudders in place. He flicks another, and a shrill hum fills the air.

Bill floats into Ford's line of sight, shrugging off his shirt. "Are you seriously in a mood again? After you just did hard sex and had great drugs?"

"Shut up," Ford mumbles. He smashes a button and hears the engine start up.

Bill shakes out his shirt a few times, then slips behind Ford once again. "You really need to learn to CHILL. Would it kill ya to bask in the afterglow for even ten minutes? Five?"

Ford feels fabric brush along his shoulders and startles. His head is still spinning, everything feels so far away. But when Bill lightly guides his hands up and away from the control panel, he allows it. He lets Bill slip his arms through the sleeves of his button-up shirt, now inexplicably large enough to fit him perfectly.

"There," Bill says, smoothing his thumb along the back of Ford's neck—just above where the leather collar presses in. "Isn't that better?"

In response, Ford grabs the steering and slams the ship into reverse.

The drone lurches to life, sending Bill flying into the glass above Ford's head with a cartoony 'splat' and a string of colorful swears.

Ford keeps the the ship moving until bright sunlight reflects off the glass, at which point he slams on the brakes and hits the thrusters.

This time, when Bill hits the floor, he does so with a notable 'clang.'

The ship shoots up into the sunset-streaked sky of Gravity Falls, spinning like a top and throwing Bill around like a ping-pong ball. Ford white-knuckles the controls and grits his teeth, trying his best to get the droid under control. His arms shake as he heaves up on the steering, and, oh, right, he did dislocate his shoulder earlier, didn't he? His ignores the pain and is rewarded for it as the ship shudders and slows in its spiraling. However, it does not entirely straighten.

Bill slams into Ford's back and wraps his arms around him. It feels less like the intimate squeezes from earlier in the day and more like the frantic clinging of a drowning cat.

Ford ignores the way the constricting hold makes his heart beat in his throat, instead focusing on directing the ship. If his calculations are correct—which, of course, they are—then he only needs to turn the ship 73 degrees north and fly for twenty-two seconds to reach home.

Home. For some reason, the word beats at his brain, like it wants to escape his skull.

Bill's hands land atop Ford's. He leans in hard against Ford's shoulder, pressing in like the harsh edge of a blade. "Sixer, baby, look, I'm not sure what happened, but—SHIT!"

Ford wrenches the controls to the left, and the ship swings north.

Bill clings tighter, "Normally, I'm all for joyrides, but you're—ha—you're really commited to throwing me around like a hacky sack! Which I'm also usually for—of course I am, I'm not some fucking PRUDE—but the sudden switchup is really killing my bo—"

"Bill. Shut the fuck up," Ford says.

"WELL, that's just RUDE! BAD DOG. BAD DOG—"

Ford slams down on the controls at the last second; he'd been distracted by Bill's yammering and almost missed his timing. Now all he has to do is land, which should be easy enough. Bill's still screaming insults about Ford's inadequacies as a companion animal, which doesn't hurt Ford's feelings at all because the whole thing is stupid.

Ford must still be high because his hands are starting to sweat up the controls, especially as Bill's hand wraps around his neck and gives him a full body shake.

Ford swallows around the feeling, stares straight ahead at the forest as they speed towards it. He just has to time this right, and he'll be home. That clawing feeling of desperation tries to slam free again, taking the form of a pounding headache. It could, alternatively, be from the way Bill is squeezing his neck and shrieking at him. Despite it all, Ford is focused. Ford is a weapon of a man with laser precision. Ford is… approaching the ground much faster than initially calculated!

With all his strength, he yanks up on the steering. The ship creaks in protest, the momentum too great. In a desperate attempt not to crash and die, he shouts, "BILL!"

"WHAT?! OH, SHIT!" Bill shifts all his arms to grab at the controls, covering Ford's hands in his own and then some. Together, both man and shape pull up on the steering.

It's almost enough to save them. Almost, but not quite. While the momentum slows greatly, the ship still ends up crashing down through the canopy of pine trees. This time, Ford also gets thrown backwards, which ends with Bill sandwiched between his shoulders and the wall.

Based on the way the mass of dark arms all flail, it is not his favorite position to be in.

Still, there's not much Ford can do about it as the ship finally smashes down into the dirt and sends Ford flying forward again. To his surprise, Bill manages to flip them midair so he's crushed beneath Ford's weight again, all his arms coiling tight around Ford. Perhaps Ford had been wrong about his enjoyment of getting crushed—he wouldn't put it past him, honestly.

The rumble of the ship's crash finally settles, leaving Ford and Bill in a creaking, slightly smoking spacecraft. There's definitely some essential parts that are currently on fire, but Ford is more preoccupied with staring down into Bill's eye.

The pupil flicks frantically across the sclera, examining every part of Ford it can. The hand buried in Ford's curls loosens its hold and gently starts to card through them instead.

Despite everything, Ford leans into it, just for a moment.

"Naughty Puppy," Bill chides. He sounds less angry this time and more fond.

Ford scowls and pulls himself free from Bill's arms. He crawls along the glass, which has cracked but not shattered, looking for a way out.

"Oh, C'MON, you're cold shouldering me again? After we just had a near death space-adjacent adventure together?" Bill complains.

"Shut up, Bill," Ford mutters.

In the glass, he can see the reflection of the back of the droid. He squints, adjusts his glasses, then turns around to look for himself. Right—last time he was in one of these things that crashed, Dipper was able to pry open the prison portion of the ship with fairly little effort. It is likely any remaining power the ship has is going to maintaining the core functions.

Ford crawls towards the back of the ship, not even bothering to see if Bill is following. He makes it to the prison portion of the prison droid and gives the glass a few firm smacks. Blessedly, the panels slide apart, and Ford finally crawls out of the wreckage with a gasp.

The ship landed at a bit of an angle, so Ford ends up falling about a good foot or two to the ground, landing flat on his back and staring—breathless—up at the sky.

Sunset is coming in harsher now, the tinted pinks and golds turning deep orange with hints of red. Ford laughs to himself, perhaps a bit out of it after everything. He presses his palms to his eyes, and behind them, he sees a spark of pale blue that makes him shiver.

He sets his hands back down on the ground and buries his fingers into the grass, gets dirt under his nails. When he breathes in deep, he smells the sharp scent of pine needles and sap—even more intense after they broke a few dozen branches on their way down. As he lies there, he waits on a knife's edge for Bill to reappear, sure he wouldn't be allowed to get the last word.