Chapter Text
The next time it happens, he wakes in a violent gasp, bolting upright as his body curls into itself, sobbing, choking, coughing. His lungs burn, his throat is raw, and his hands clutch the sheets in a death grip, the fabric tangled around him like chains. It’s been weeks since the last time—weeks since Mabel placed those little star-shaped night lights in every room. For a while, he’d thought, hoped, that he was past this. That a few soft glimmers of light could chase away the gnawing terror lodged deep in his chest.
How foolish.
The thought slices through him, sharper than the panic currently making his body tremble uncontrollably. Stupid, he scolds himself, each ragged breath hitching painfully. Gods, he's so stupid. His fingers dig into his scalp, tugging at his hair, desperately trying to ground himself, but it feels like he's sinking, deeper and deeper into his own pit of self-loathing. When is this going to end? When will it stop? His chest heaves with every sob, body wracked with tremors, his mind looping the same horrible thoughts.
He presses a hand against his chest, trying to calm the rapid thud of his heart, but the darkness around him feels suffocating, pressing in from all sides. Even the soft glow from the night light across the room seems faint and distant, unable to reach him, unable to pull him out of this drowning sensation.
Careful hands reach for his, prying each trembling finger from his hair with painstaking tenderness, so gentle it feels like a knife twisting in his chest. He wants to scream at the softness, at the care he doesn’t deserve. Every thread of his torment, every waking nightmare, is woven from his own mistakes— his own damn fault. Yet Ford treats him like something fragile, something worth holding together.
A soft kiss brushes against the shell of his ear, light as a feather, and Bill’s breath stutters. The firm press of Ford’s six-fingered hand nudges him back, pushing him down onto the mattress with quiet authority. His body sinks into the bed, cold sweat clinging to his skin, and the weight of Ford’s presence feels like an anchor in the storm, tethering him to the now.
"Sixer—" Bill starts, voice broken and weak, but Ford shushes him, gentle as ever.
"Look up at the ceiling," Ford murmurs, his voice a low hum of reassurance. Bill’s eye flickers upwards, watery and unfocused, but he obeys, expecting the dark expanse above.
Bill’s breath hitches, then steadies as his vision clears, the tears drying just enough for him to see— oh . His eye widens slightly as the dim room sharpens into focus, revealing dozens of soft, glowing stars scattered across the ceiling. They flicker faintly in the darkness, gentle pinpricks of light, and he feels something stir in his chest. Gods .
Ford’s voice is a quiet rumble in his ear, "Count them for me," he whispers, the request calm but grounding. Bill blinks, still raw and shaken, but he obeys, letting his gaze wander across the ceiling. He doesn’t respond, but he knows Ford can tell he’s counting. His breathing begins to slow, and his pulse, so frantic just moments ago, finds a more measured beat. Twenty-one, twenty-two, twenty-three—
"Twenty-four," Bill murmurs eventually, the words slipping out without thinking. Ford presses a kiss to his jaw, feather-light but filled with affection. "Well done," he says softly, and Bill feels something warm unfurl in his chest.
"When did you do that?" Bill asks, voice rough with lingering exhaustion but touched with curiosity.
Ford's lips hover near his ear as he responds, "A little while after Mabel and Dipper left."
Bill’s brow furrows. "What are they?"
Ford smiles, brushing another gentle kiss against Bill's cheek. "Little self-adhesive stars that glow in the dark. The glow gets charged by UV rays."
Bill stares up at them, still counting them absently in his head. The glow is soft, steady, like the night-light Mabel had given him—but there’s something personal about this. Something thoughtful and intimate. He blinks slowly, feeling the weight of sleep tugging at his eyelids. "Thank you," he whispers, the words filled with an earnestness that almost surprises him.
Ford hums softly, brushing one last kiss against his cheek. "Of course," he murmurs, and Bill lets his eye drift shut, the soft warmth of Ford’s body curled against his own lulling him deeper into comfort.
Ford is clever, he thinks, his mind growing hazy with sleep. And he loves him. This is good. Finally, with the glow of the stars still flickering in his mind, Bill lets himself slip into peaceful, dreamless sleep.