Work Text:
"We have some rather... bad news," the ward manager gives you a concerned look. You examine their desk, which was stacked full of papers left to fill out. A rather thin folder of documents lays in front of them with a name you can't quite read; then, your eyes meet.
"It's also the reason why we-... well, I have called you in today," they speak with a hint of nervousness. Your eyes furrow in confusion and worry - how bad could it possibly be?
"I believe you have heard of Bill Cipher, am I correct?" the ward manager asks with a certain disdain towards said individual. The documents they have now slid over to you show an image of a triangle in a tophat and their typical Theraprism orange jumpsuit. Notably, he has a massive crack running through his body, splitting him into multiple pieces.
Your eyes grow wide and you swallow down hard. This is bad.
Never in your life would you have thought you'd be talking to the ward manager about Bill Cipher. Not only was he feared amongst therapists and staff alike, but there were a lot of - more or less - true conspiracy theories about Bill that could scare anyone away.
He was put into maximum security for a reason, and you? You've been working at this place for like a month, maybe two? - Time was a mere construct in the Theraprism, but that's what you could compare it to.
"Hard not to know who he is, really..." you comment with an awkward laugh, one the ward manager doesn't reciprocate and then simply continues.
"Well, currently he is in possession of a journal - one that, admittedly, we gave him.
What used to be a harmless therapeutic arts and crafts session, has quickly turned into something sour; turns out it wasn't such a good idea afterall. The book seems to give off a constant flow of negative-... some sort of cursed energy, as the few surviving therapists have called it. They feel threatened by not only Bill, but its presence, too. Not only that, but some therapists have made the claim that this journal is Bill's attempt at escape. So, I will ask you to..." they cough despite not having any lungs, "confiscate the journal from Bill. We need to examine it and make sure of its disposal. Do you think you can manage?" they ask, fiddling with a pen as they try to keep their eyes, well, face on you, "I know what you are capable of, I believe you're perfect for the job."
You sit in the chair across the ward manager and need a second to take everything in, even if their desperation didn't go unnoticed by you. Your mouth is slightly agape, as you look through the papers on Bill's appearance and general behaviors.
...You have to take away Bill Ciphers journal? Some sort of diary?
That sounds ridiculous. You have heard what he was capable of through rumors and patients bickering about him whenever something had happened to yet another therapist, but really? in the Theraprism?
His powers must've been restrained, how come he was still this powerful?
You didn't ponder on it much longer, seeing as it would only conjure up many more questions about how this facility worked in general. Instead, you nod back at the ward manager who was waiting for your response.
"...I'll do my best," you respond rather unsure with yourself. Your eyes pace around the room, as if the ward manager could read your thoughts and tell what you were feeling.
Before you can change your mind they clap their hands together, "Great, thank you! You are now dismissed. Please advance towards the maximum security chambers - at the very end of the hallway two guards will be waiting for you. You will need to show them your ID to be granted access to Bill Cipher's room. They will know."
"Alright, got it," you reply.
Just like that you make your way out of the ward manager's office and head into the direction of max security.
To be quite frank, you don't know how to feel about this situation.
The ward manager didn't disclose all that much information on Bill, neither on the situation they were in because of that book... - what kind of cursed energy were they talking about? For how long has this been going on for and how has it even come to this point?
Sure, you shouldn't know that much about patients anyway, since you weren't a therapist. That meant that anything other than the general gist of things should not be important to you.
...but you were so curious. What made Bill Cipher so special?
And despite your lack of qualifications, you still play a valuable role like the ward manager made sure to tell you earlier.
Just what are you?
- You could only describe yourself as an apprentice or assistant. You weren't allowed to help these patients and their mental well-being through endless talks and encouragement towards improvement, yet you still got to experience therapy sessions with them in... different ways. More brutal ways, so to speak.
You arrive at the maximum security section. It is strongly guarded by highly experienced staff and heavy doors that only open when the previous one is closed. Dramatic, but fair. Some guards seem to stare into your direction with curiosity, as if they don't see people walk these halls every few days.
At the very end you see two guards stand their ground and watch you approach them.
"Are you here to take the journal?" one of the guards speaks up; you give them a simple yes, showing your ID. They exchange looks with one another before the first guard nods, "alright, we need you to remove any belongings that could possibly harm you, or the patient, Bill Cipher."
You remove your bag, but other than that you had nothing left to hide. The same guard looks you over once more, while the other puts your bag to the side for you to grab later. When everything seems to be in the clear, the latter turns to open the door behind them.
Your feelings towards Bill Cipher are neutral. To be very honest, you don't know him that well and you don't want to judge him based on his past crimes either. Maybe he had a bad past, maybe he didn't? Maybe he is capable of redemption, or maybe he isn't? It wasn't your place to figure that out, so you watched in silence, dropping these thoughts. Most importantly, you knew to stay aware of your surroundings and not accept anything the patient had to offer. Situations such as these can always be a little tricky, but you didn't expect to stay in this room for longer than five to ten minutes, anyway.
Before you can ask any questions regarding Bill Cipher's current mental state however, you're being pushed into his room with light force. A click is heard behind you, and the door is shut again. Even though you were nervous, you knew the guards were still there; whether they would be checking on you through the blinds on the door window or not, was up for debate.
Okay, totally safe plan. You grab the journal, take a few hits, maybe, and get the fuck out of there. Sounds solid? ...yeah.
The chamber... it's bland. An average-sized bed sits in the corner of the room - a huge plant rests in a pot not too far away from it. The walls are white, noticeably decorated by a few of Bill's own drawings or notes. Some of which must've appeared in the heat of the moment, while others seemed to be random thoughts or reminders.
And there he sat, focused on fixing up little pictures for his journal, giggling to a joke he had just come up with. That was until you came into the room unannounced.
The scribbling of a stolen pen has stopped, the book is closed - he's staring at you.
You're surprised by his tiny size and innocent behavior at a first glance; it made him look less threatening than he definitely was.
One tired eye meets two; his expression as if a parent had interrupted their child's hobby just to ask them to do some chores again.
You, in return, look like the awkward parent trying to convince their child in the kindest way possible.
"You're not a therapist," he states the obvious. So much for a hello. His eyebrow is furrowed, and his eye is focused on you, like he was making up a story as to why you were here. Regardless, he was correct, you are no therapist. You didn't look like one, nor had the qualifications to be one.
"You're right. I am not," you respond, trying to be civil with him instead of demanding for the journal right away. Maybe things won't escalate as soon as you get close to him, even though you were quite doubtful about that. Who else would be put in max security if they weren't insane or extremely violent?
"Of course, kid, I'm always right!" he floats up from his seat and shrugs, leaving the book unsupervised, "Nothing against 'ya, but you really need a new set of clothes. They do not fit you at all... seems to be some kind of facility issue, huh?"
You stare at him bewildered. Sure, these clothes were given to you by the Theraprism staff, but they didn't look that bad, right? As he was floating in the air, he placed his arms behind his head and one leg over the other.
"But Mr. Cipher, you yourself are wearing an orange jumpsuit from this facility. How hypocritical of you," you cross your arms and decide to humor him, even only for a little.
He gives you a deadpan look, "if my wardrobe wasn't stacked with one and the same outfit, I can tell you I wouldn't be wearing this! Unlike you I don't have a choice here, kid!" despite the rather upsetting implications, he laughs with you and his dull yellow seems to brighten up even.
Before you can say more, he continues, "have you seen those ugly white coats all of the therapists here wear? - Coats that would look so much better stained in their own blood, methinks... like color on a blank, boring canvas!", he giggles, staring at the white ceiling full of little scribbles, such as stars, writing and differently colored shapes. When his laughter dies down he zones out; unbothered, his hand lifts up into the air to study the harsh contrast between him and the ceiling.
"Uh-huh," you reply, unimpressed.
That took a dark turn, ...and explains a few things to you. He was definitely the violent and insane type; a crazy combination that was destined to be a recipe for disaster.
As much as you'd like to analyze his words, he just keeps going on and on, breaking from his trance to float circles around you, "anyway, what brings someone like you here?" he examines you, your eyes try their best to follow his triangular form, "hm... let me think. You don't look like a guard... you don't look like a therapist. To be honest, i dont really know! You make me curious, kid! C'mon, tell me, what'cha here for?"
You think about how to word your answer and Bill let's you have a moment. Meanwhile, he fiddles with his jumpsuit, feeling the fabric around his fingertips.
"I've been–" you finally respond, but just when you open your mouth, he interrupts you with a loud gasp, like a child that wants to have a second guess before the answer is revealed.
"Oh, wait, I know!" he says all of a sudden; you feel non-existent sweat dribble down your forehead, "you've come to save me from this never-ending prison!" his hands are curled into fists; he punches the air a few times as if he's ready to fight the entire Theraprism by himself.
You look at him dumbfounded. Despite trying to keep your composure he's starting to irritate you.
"What's with that face, kid? You're not?", he pouts and his head tilts to the side upset. You can barely follow what he's saying anymore, but the next words coming from his mouth definitely take you off guard.
"I'm joking! You're here for the journal, aren't you?" he laughs, but his words are no longer full of whimsy.
Your eyes widen in shock and meet his prideful ones - both of you automatically turn towards the journal he had left on his bed. No one dares to take a step closer.
How does he know?
"Your expression is priceless, kid!" he comments, wiping a tear from his eye.
"Y'know, it gets quite obvious with the way staff has been treating me lately. Sending new therapists every few days, expecting me to change. Don't even mention all of these new security measures I've been facing the past week. Hell, I can't even hold scissors anymore!" he complains, rolling his single eye.
He was playing around with you the entire time. He knew from the moment you had entered his room, that you were out for his journal. That is... impressive, actually.
You decide to ignore anything else he had to say and finally get straight to the point. At first you felt worried about his reaction, worried that you were entertaining a conversation that would lead to nowhere.
Because building up someone's trust, as little as it may be, only to break it again was the last thing you wanted to do today. Lucky for you, he already knows.
You sigh in frustration, "Yes, I've been sent to confiscate the journal from you, Bill. Management thinks it's not... good, for you and can impose danger on our therapists," you struggle to find the proper words, but your message comes across just fine.
"Not good for me, huh?" his face scrunches up in annoyance, "you know what's not good for me? This place! All of it! I would do so much better without it!"
Your composure starts to falter, you're fed up being confronted with lies upon lies, "No, you wouldn't! You would simply resort to whatever you were doing before you were sent here and you know it!"
He starts pointing fingers at you, "like you would know what I've done before I got here! What if I'm innocent!" he flutters his eyelashes playfully.
"Right," you don't buy it.
He wasn't entirely wrong, you didn't know about his life before the Theraprism, hell, you barely knew anything about his life now, but he was here for a reason. Patients in the Theraprism were sent by the Axolotl themselves; if you were to find yourself trapped in one of these rooms, you should realize that you did something wrong, especially in maximum security.
Seeing as this conversation led to nowhere and the both of you grew more and more agitated, you finally took a few steps towards the journal.
"Bill. Escape and or denial is not going to fix any of your problems. If anything, the Theraprism is trying to help you! If you leave they will just find you and bring you back again! - time wasted," you explain, but he seems too stubborn to properly listen.
"Like I'd let myself get caught that easily! I've been stuck here for what? Months? Years? Nothing has changed!"
"Do you even want change?!" you burst out at him, bewildered by the way he's acting like a little child. You stomp your way over to his bed, approaching the journal at a fast pace.
Something about your words strikes him in the wrong way and his yellow color turns into a fierce red. He watches you remove the journal from his bed. A single piece of paper falls from the inside, signifying his rather fast-paced, but honest work.
His fists are balled and shaking with anger, his senses tell him to attack, attack, attack...
Not longer than a few seconds after you get ahold of the journal, a huge hand claws at you. You yelp and drop the journal by surprise, before being flung against the wall with noticeable force.
"Ugh..." you groan. Pain courses through your entire body; it hurts, but it wasn't anything serious. Your body couldn't bruise and was more tolerant to pain than the average employee in the Theraprism. Frail bodies of, for example, humans would need a lot more time to heal up compared to your recovery in seconds. You were practically invincible.
Bill wasn't done, however. His arms stretched out towards you and grabbed you firmly by your ankle, before going for a second, third and forth time. Only then did he let go to hastily grab his journal. He holds at it, as if it were a precious artifact worthy of millions - for him, in a way, it was.
"Did you have enough, yet, or do you want to set a new record?!" he shouts at you, clutching his journal close to his chest and watches you recover from the ground slowly.
"Hand over the journal, Bill. I'm not trying to start a fight," you try to reason with him one last time, despite your obvious frustration. Your body has now fully recovered, everything seemed to be as good as new.
Bill could tell by your composure that you weren't backing down so easily; but neither was he. Trying to keep you at a far distance with his hands occupied by the journal, he decided to kick you instead.
Truth to be told, it stung more than his punches, let alone the chance he didn't miss to literally stomp over you when you were on the ground. Regardless, you found yourself back on your foot in no time. Staring at him with an unimpressed expression.
That upset Bill. He wanted to see you hurt, he wanted to see you bruised.
He wanted to see you on your knees, begging for forgiveness - to see thousands of sorry's spilling from your mouth, just like he had to apologize his entire life for stealing and destroying the one thing he couldn't bring back. To understand that he wasn't the only one who made grave mistakes like this and that it was okay for someone like him to move on. To feel less like a monster and more like himself again.
On the other hand, he grew tired. Having his powers be reduced to mostly shrinking and growing took quite a toll on him. He felt weak, powerless, ...scared?
Who was Bill if not the powerful demon who could make even the strongest of entities cower in fear?
How else could he escape the Theraprism if not for the journal? Would he be stuck here forever? ...Could he ever change?
Something in him breaks and he starts shaking uncontrollably. He backs down onto his bed and into a corner, clutching at the journal with what looked like desperation to you. His eye seems to stare off into nowhere, completely detached from his surroundings.
Your angered expression softens, unsure of what to make of this situation or how to act. Was he playing with you again or has he actually given up? You don't want to believe it, but his face looks so sincere... something is definitely wrong.
Even though your mind was screaming at you not to approach Bill Cipher in his current state, you still had to get that book somehow. The closer your steps get to the edge of his bed, the more Bill seems to squeeze himself into the corner with the journal in hand.
When your hands were practically on the bed, you took one last glance at Bill, who was still stuck in some sort of trance. You slowly stretch out your arm to grab the journal - your fingertips brush over the cover before you grip it lightly and start to pull on it in a very slow fashion.
Bill's eye rips open and he suddenly lunges forward. He drops the journal and starts plunging a pen in and out of your chest to his best ability.
"Why are you not running?" he stabs at your chest again, you scream out in pain. Bill must've grabbed it while you were recovering from the floor or something. He starts punctuating every word that spills from his mouth, "why are you not begging me to stop or," you feel another stab to your chest, "crying!?", he pauses for a second, tears welling up in his eye, "why are you not FIGHTING BACK?"
He keeps stabbing at your chest, despite the lack of blood making it visible just how futile this whole ordeal really was. Sure, you screamed out in pain, but what fun was it if it didn't last longer than five seconds?
His chest heaves heavily and he stops his constant abuse on you. His pupil has been reduced to a small dot as he watches you recover in terror.
Bill's hands leave your chest and he creates an opening for you to grab the journal and dip as fast as you can. When you stand up from the bed, one of his hands reaches towards you weakly before dropping down in defeat.
"W-what are you?" he cries out hopelessly.
A punching bag.
That's what you were, a punching bag.
"I've been sent by staff to remove your journal, there's nothing more important to me you should know," you respond rather formal, watching him break down in front of you as you move towards the door with constant steps.
"I know that, but what is up with you?! Tell me! Why can't I hurt you?!"
This question was nothing new to you, although the tone here was vastly different. Usually people felt challenged to go harder on you, to find a loophole, but Bill seemed incredibly distraught.
"That's because you can't, Bill. I've been sent to your room, because you can't."
You've always played the dummy in these kind of situations. And to be fair, you were sort of destined to do this - destined to take every hit that comes your way, whether it was directed at you specifically or at someone else through you.
Your body was made of matter that would regrow within seconds it's been destroyed. Despite your rather humanoid appearance you were nothing alike humans. Any session with an angry patient who needed to let their frustrations out has had you involved in one way or another, because it was your job. You were just taking it, accepting it everytime.
Despite being physically invincible, you... felt a mental imprint on you.
Those mad patients, seeping with anger took a toll on the way you perceive yourself. And a lot of the times you felt guilty for things you haven't done, things you never had any control over.
The situation with Bill wasn't any different.
Something inside you wants to comfort him, but you know that you have no words that could be of value to him. You are inexperienced, you are no therapist, you know that much.
The least you can do is...
You can't take the journal from him. You just can't. He's a mess, an emotional mess, something he really needs help with, but you're not the right person for the job.
You don't want to be the reason for making him even more miserable than he already is.
Maybe you want to do this for yourself, too. Heal not only physically, but mentally. Do what feels right to you.
You were practically at the door, so close to freedom, so close to leave this room and never come back.
Instead, you turn back to face Bill, who was still sitting on his bed in tears quietly.
You kneel down and drop the journal. There's no going back on this - it lands on the ground with a light thud. The sound brings Bill back from his thoughts and he simply stares at it, wide-eyed, shaking.
You watch him glance at you and back at the journal. He doesn't know what you are doing.
"I... I can't do it. I'm sorry, Bill. I'm sorry for the trouble I've caused you. You obviously dont seem to be in a good mental state and I've only made it worse for you," you mumble, "I will leave now, but I can't promise you someone else will," you mutter your last words, turning into the direction of the door.
Bill only watches you knock on it in shocked silence; unblinking, unmoving. The guards finally peak through the blinds, you give them a nod and a thumbs up. You were lying, but if you were to tell the truth, they would probably not let you out of the room. As soon as the door is opened, you storm out, grab your bag and glance back at the guards one last time.
"I couldn't do it. Tell the ward manager to bring someone who is more experienced than me, I apologize," you tell them, before walking off, pretending not to hear the guards call after you in confusion and irritation. They didn't make a move to catch up to you, though, so you didn't care.
You're a failure, you think. You were given one simple task, simple one would say if they were in your body, but you couldn't even do that. However, you, as in yourself - not the you that was constantly getting beat up over things they haven't done - felt content. As if you had control over your actions for the very first time.
Bill Cipher felt different. He was still shaking and by no means doing any better; he felt absolutely terrible about the whole situation, but you apologized to him like he wanted you to. You felt sorry for something you didn't know you could have control over if given a moment to think and once you realized you picked the better option. He felt some sort of familiarity within you, as well as feeling redeemed.
For the time being, he would accept the quietness in his room to calm down and figure out a way to hide his journal from whoever was next to storm into his room unannounced.