The first thing you notice is the scent.
With such questionable physicality, his scent is a strong one. It isn't an odor or a fragrance, rather sharp. He smells of iron, possibly blood, mixed with rubbing alcohol and winter. More than anything, he smells cold. You take comfort in it, it fits his personality, or lack thereof, like a glove.
You don't recall falling asleep, but this wouldn't be the first time you'd drifted off while working. You only hope Fiddleford isn't going to wake you this time. While not rare, you savor your time with Bill. As much as you enjoy your work, being with him stirs up a sick pleasure you'd never have admitted to a decade or two ago. These days, you have nothing to hide from him, he's seen it all.
Your mind is messier than it used to be, as well. Your memories and passing thoughts used to be tucked away safely in file cabinets, along with aced tests and finger paintings from childhood. Now, papers are strewn about, torn and dirtied and some even scorched. No wonder you can't remember anything. One day, when you're less tired, you'll put everything back in it's place. As things are, you care for nothing but your research and him.
Bill's fingers- five of them, rest on your shoulder, "Where you been, Fordsy? You've not slept for thirty hours!"
He knows where you were. He always knows. Knows where you were, what you had for lunch, what you had for lunch sixteen years ago, what time you had it, what time you were born, what time you were conceived… he always knows. You think he enjoys acting human, just as you enjoy acting above humanity. The only difference is, he enjoys it the same way a child enjoys playing with dolls. You enjoy it in the same way a child wears his father's shoes, in hopes that he'll grow into them.
Bill's hand on your shoulder pulls, and he spins you around to face him. You suck in a breath. Your mouth is dry as you open it to respond, and you wonder why even in the mindscape, you feel physical symptoms, "Work," you respond simply.
Soft, round fingers turn to claws, and they scrape gently and fondly along your neck. Enough to draw blood, but not enough to truly hurt. If anything, you feel a sting. You don't mind. You're used to it and you know when you wake up, there will be no evidence Bill was ever there. His eye crinkles up, and he looks pleased. You watch as his triangular form morphs into something not quite human, but human enough to stand half a foot taller than you and a mouth capable of smiling. He still has his claws when he draws his hand back. His long, snake-like tongue wraps around his finger, cleaning it of your blood. You're positive there wasn't that much five seconds ago. Your heart swells at the notion that he could have seriously hurt you, but chose not to. His nose scrunches up and he gags, "You taste like anxiety."
"It happens."
"Make it stop happening," he spits on the floor, rather on an old polaroid of you and your brother. You should feel bad about the picture, but instead, your guilt is over Bill.
"I would have thought you'd like that," you speak slowly, careful not to upset him.
Bill looks thoughtful, but his expression seems forced. Like he hasn't quite figured out the muscles in a human face. Although, with eyes bugged out and ears half the size of your thumb, you'd hardly call him human, "Nice thinking, Fordsy! Sometimes I wonder why I keep you around, then you say something not entirely idiotic and I remember why I love you," he ruffles your hair, but his claws are still out. You don't move, you don't say a thing. You know it's intentional.
You think back to the days when Bill treated you like an intellectual equal. You don't think on it too long, because you've thought of it plenty before, and you know you like things this way better. You enjoy the challenge, and you savor these small moments where he says something like this.
His hand cups the scrapes on your neck, and somehow, it's warm. Maybe it's the human body, maybe it's Bill being thoughtful. It doesn't last long, though. His hand runs from your neck to your chest, "I've always found the human body particularly disgusting," he speaks again and you notice he's less shrill in this form, "Not to mention vulnerable. Your kind is so easy to please. I move my hand less than a foot and you're covered in weird little bumps. Your muscles are clenched and you can hardly hear what I'm saying over your heartbeat," he leans down, and you tilt your chin up, "There's so many ways I could kill you, right now, if we weren't in the mindscape," his dry lips press to your neck, only for a moment, before greedily swiping his tongue across the surface, "Eheh. You're right. Anxiety is a good flavor on you," he bites down, enough to draw more blood, and this time it hurts. You start to wonder if he gets to decide how much things hurt in the mind. The hairs on the back of your neck stand up and you gasp. He laughs, pulling back and licking his lips before reverting back to his triangle form. He adjusts his bowtie and you can't help but feel disappointed. You learned long ago to never expect anything from Bill, but you're still teaching yourself not to want anything. Because all you feel is desire for access to more. He knows this. You wonder briefly if you'd get more if you didn't want it.
"Bill-" you begin.
"You're right," he repeats, "Anxiety is a good flavor on you. So back to work!"
His eye disappears into a whirlpool of memories, and you find yourself opening your own eyes. Your back aches and your eyes are dry and you know you couldn't have slept more than a few minutes. Back to work.
Back to work.