It was a quiet afternoon in the shack. Dust floated aimlessly through the air; the dim summer sunlight fell in translucent rays through the window of the living room. Ford had let Bill possess him – not fully – but in that strange new way they had mastered: Bill allowed Ford most of his autonomy, and yet was still present, still there in the physical world, where he had wanted to be so badly ever since they met. Ford was glad that they had been able to reach this sort of compromise: his muse was practically aching for a physical form, and who was he to deny him something so simple?

If not for Bill’s never-ending chatter and the “accidental” bodily harm he so often sought out (the demon seemed to think pain absolutely hilarious – Ford was still coming around that one), it would’ve been perfect. There was nothing quite like the intimacy of sharing a vessel; a mortal form, vital for one of them, trusted not to be destroyed by the other.

Bill Cipher was using Ford’s mouth, Ford’s voice to talk, about this or that – always interesting, never boring – sounding suspiciously like himself; Ford was listening, mostly (he didn’t get many chances to use their shared mouth for his own), and worrying for his vocal chords.

Birds’ chirping rang through the open window, accompanied by a lone cicada’s song. There would be more, later in the evening; insects would come to rise and sing in the soft glow of the night sky.

Occasionally, Ford would sip his tea, and Bill would fall silent. He would move a piece on the chessboard, and Ford would think; and then, he would make his move, and the game would progress further. “Do you think the pieces enjoy striking each other?” Bill asked, suddenly. Ford tried to open his mouth to answer, but felt it close around words again: “Or do you think they scream in terror as we move them against their will, horrified at their own actions?”