Chapter Text
When Stanford decides for it to be his responsibility to tutor Bill after classes (after he, yet again, complained about getting "targeted" by his professors), it both infuriates Bill and warms something inside of his meatsack. Because, firstly, who does this Fordsy even think he is to tutor him? Smartest man alive? (Bill knows it's not possible, because he exists.) But then again, the same so-infuriatingly-stubborn Ford worries about him strong enough to offer Bill his help. And that for sure is something, on account of the fact that Sixer wouldn’t just provide his help so easily for a random someone.
Which brings them here, sitting in the library on a usual wednesday. Finite-Dimensional Vector Spaces, by Paul R. Halmos in Ford's right hand as he reads out an article to Bill, who's currently sitting across the table, cheek heavily leaning on the palm of his hand. He's not even trying to act like he's listening; his eyes shamelessly stuck on the way Ford's lips move as the words escape his mouth. Ears aren't even listening to the content of it though, instead, focusing on the sound of his deep, calm, professional, perfect voice. Fordsy would be a great candidate to do radio announcements, now that Bill really thinks about it. Oh boy, now he really wants to hear Ford do radio announcements.
"Every set of n+1 vectors in an n-dimensional vector space U is linearly dependent. A set of n vectors in U is a basis if and only if it is linearly independent." His voice comes out as quiet and low, so that he wouldn't unwillingly distract the rest of those present around, but it still stays loud enough for Bill to perceive. "Or, alternatively, if and only if every vector in U is a linear combination of elements of the-"
Ford lifts his other hand that isn't holding the book, swiftly adjusting his glasses as they slid down to the edge of his nose and momentarily stops his reading. Bill's gaze immediately follows the movement, brown eye traveles towards the edge of the sleeve of Ford's carefully buttoned up blue shirt. Towards the perfect, soft－ and now revealed－ flesh of his wrist. His gaze travels across it just until he finally notices–
"Jesus- Fuck!" Bill suddenly exclaims－ Ford flinches, meanwhile Bill gets angry-shushed by an old librarian lady that looks like she's ready to execute him on spot. But he doesn't care- he can't- not when he thinks what he saw is what he saw. Bill's already jumping up on his feet as his scrawny hands instinctively reach out across the table to grip Ford's forearm, forcingly lifting up his sleeve. The book drops back on the desk with a thud in the process.
"What the- Bill!" Ford hisses out his protests only to be ignored.
Right under his sleeve, on Ford's wrist, Bill stares at a long red line－ that looks scarily too much like dried blood－ and it is carved into Ford's skin along with few other letters- no. A full word accompanying it. The letters are terribly written: clumsily and carelessly, but Bill can still make out a word "freak". His grip involuntarily tightens around Ford's arm in an almost bruising way, as his eye widens in panic. "Is that from a knife?! Did you disinfect it??" He spits out, frantically looking up at Ford's half-guilty face. "When- who!-"
Ford rapidly brushes Bill's hands off, shoving his sleeve back up. "Yes. I disinfected it. Would you tone it down a little?" He both anxiously and awkwardly glances at other students, who now stare at them. "We're in a library," Ford adds, matter-of-factly.
"Someone carved that you're a freak on your arm! With a knife! On your arm! With a knife!!" Bill looks at Ford like he's crazy, slightly throwing his hands in the air. The librarian shushes aggressively. Again. Bill replies with a death glare, fighting the strong urge to flip her off. He turns his gaze back to Ford, now whispering harshly. "So I'm sorry if it slightly bothers me! It's one thing when they shove us in lockers, it's a whole other thing when they do- this shit! Jeez." He pointedly looks at Ford's arm. "Do you even-"
Ford exhales sharply, dissmisevely raising his left hand to stop the other from rambling. "Bill."
Bill－ suprisingly－ actually shuts up and so Ford momentarily closes his eyes, letting out a sigh, before continuing. "Look, I took care of it. Cleaned it up and made sure the wound didn't and won't infect. That's all that matters, alright?" He's quiet for a moment.
"I really am touched that you're concerned, but those concerns are…not quite what's needed."
Ford puts a calming hand above Bill's wrist as a bonus to his words; the inside of his palm lays on Bill's skin as a comforting, warm anchor. "Still thank you for your care," Ford adds, smiling so perfectly Bill feels his tongue go absolutely numb and his brain fully melt for a brief moment and–
He shortly clears his throat, pretending this didn't just happen. "C'mon Forsdy!" Bill sighs dramatically. "You know we cannot leave this unjustified. I've got a reputation to keep; students to scare! How do ya think people would talk if they learn I let others harm my dear friends without any consequences, hmmm?"
He looks down at Ford's six-fingered hand still atop his, suddenly feeling the need to intertwine their fingers, just to feel the warmth of his palm against his own. He doesn't. Instead he leans slightly closer, smiling slyly. "Come oonn, just give me a name," his one eye stares at the other's two through the thick lenses of Ford's glasses.
Ford blinks. Then sighs. "Bill. We both know how it ends. You'll have a "talk" with them or do something really reckless which will most certainly get headmaster's attention, that will get you in more in even more trouble than you already are. Just one step closer to the edge of getting kicked out of-"
"Backupsmore?" Bill interrupts with a dry huff that is too similiar to a laugh. "The same Backupsmore that would probably be ready to pay students to study here because of how desperate they are?
Name me one time when BMU had actually kicked someone out. One. Please do and I will never ever wear yellow." He crosses his arms across his chest, his eyebrow raising with a challenge written all over his complacent face.
"Well," Ford opens his mouth. Then closes it like a fish. "...touché," He says eventually, as if tasting the word on his tongue. "But it doesn't mean you should be doing awful things just because there's no consequences from your actions. You still have morals!"
"Well, duuhh. And my morals are "bully the bullies,"" Bill couldn't help but to eye Ford's arm again, shoving down the urge to grimace.
Ford probably notices. Says nothing.
Whoever did this to Fordsy would pay, Bill tells himself. Bill knew it even if Ford didn't yet. His mind already flashing with the delicious images of an alternative future. Bill embarrassing the guy completely and fully by creating terrible rumors until they finally quit this college or kill themselves for all he cares. Bill paying someone to beat them up. Bill spitting on them. Bill pressing the edge of a cheap cigarette against their bare skin till it'd leave disgusting mark that will be hurting like hell.
"Besides," Ford snaps him out of his dreamy thoughts. "If you actually do something, you'll just make a scene and then the whole situation worsens for me. Yeah, perhaps they'd stay away for a month or so, but what are the guarantees they wouldn't jump me even harsher soon as their fear dies down?"
"Orrr they shit their pants so hard they'll never even look in your direction," Bill shrugs. "Jeez Fordsy, negative much? Calm down. I got it all handled," his finger reaches out to adjust Ford's glasses up to the bridge of his nose, before lightly tapping the right lense with the tip of his black colored nail. "And ya already spilled the fact it was Davis, sooo I don't think there's somethin' to hide now," Bill announces lightly.
"What? How- no, I didn't- did I?" Ford looks at him, somewhere in between of confused and terrified.
"Yeah, dude. You just did."
Bill grins smugly and Ford looks at him like he had just committed a mass murder. He watches Ford let out a long, exasperated sigh, rubbing the edge of his eyebrows and Bill can't help but giggle- loudly. Probably too loud because the next thing he feels is something solid hitting his temple- a pen(?). Bill sharply whirls around, only to see the same librarian lady, angrily clearing her throat and pointing at the wooden exit door with the gaze of a woman who's ready to publicly beat him up, for even daring to, yet again, make a sound.
Bill exchanges a quick glance with Ford, before quickly scrambling off the chair, unresistingly walking out. He doesn't think twice as he flips her a bird on his way to slamming the door with a huff.