Since the One of Us version of Ford is usually portrayed as anywhere from being a secret double agent to a brainwashed individual who attacks his family without any true understanding of the wrongness of his actions, I tried to write him as someone who was hoping to become the former, but could easily become the latter if given time, since demons, who are driven entirely by impulsivity and desire, would have a much harder time holding onto any sort of moral code than a human generally would.

Six eyes.

Six eyes to match six fingers.

The change was supposed to make him whole, to make him feel as though he finally belonged – Bill had promised him this – yet he's never felt more like a freak. He's ugly, tainted all the way down to the last dregs of his soul. Were it not for the simple truth that the longer he remained in this form – powerful, omniscient – the more difficult it became to remember that what he's become is a perversion of what he was, a betrayal of everything he stood for, and of everyone who stood with him, the guilt alone would destroy him.

"Hey."

He's floating over the ruins of the gas station he and Fiddleford used to go to for snack and coffee runs when he senses Bill's presence behind him, and whips around, jagged teeth bared in a snarl, acid riding at the tip of a forked tongue, but the one hovering behind him isn't the triangular demon, but a boy in a formal suit and top hat, his black sclera glittering dangerously in the perpetual dying light of the apocalypse.

With a hiss of pain and dismay, Ford recognizes the birthmark on his forehead. "Dipper," he speaks the name as though he still can't believe what he's seeing, " don't tell me he got you, too."

The boy cocks his head with reptilian quickness, as though vastly amused for some indiscernible reason, "No. I didn't choose this, Grunkle Ford."

He sidles up next to him, weightless, and Ford growls low, a warning not to get too close. The chaos magic in him swirls, responding to his discomfort. The boy, for all the resemblance he bears to his grand nephew, could simply be Bill wearing his face, either to test Ford's loyalty or to torture him, because they were friends now, and Bill treated his friends much the same as he treated his enemies.

Below them, a telltale shriek heralds the end of yet another hapless civilian. They tear across a street, hair standing on end with a crazed look in their eyes. Somewhere along the line, they must have passed through a Madness bubble. They could have been one of the first victims, a fool too nonplussed to know when to run, or it could have snuck up on them. Bad things tended to happen to those who stood still for too long.

By the time the demonic vultures swoop down to wrap their wicked claws around their shoulders and carry them off to join the fate of so many others as the latest addition to Bill's throne, it's almost a mercy.

Dipper –

The boy –

The demon watches the proceedings with the apathetic air of an observer, wholly unmoved by the pitiful human's plight and, perhaps, even a little bored. An impish grin crosses his face as an unexpected thought occurs to him. Not quite cruel. Not quite kind. "Sometimes, I think there's a million humans I'd rather be. It's nice to cross one off the list every now and then."

"You're sick, Bill." The smile vanishes. The power becomes oppressive.

"Don't call me that." It eases, backing off as suddenly as it came. "You know, I came all the way here to offer you deal, but this poor reception's making me reconsider. I've got better things to do than prove myself to you."

"A deal?" A scowl darkens Ford's brow. "How do you think I got into this mess? What sort of fool do you take me for?"

"I take you for the sort of fool who'd do anything to be with his family again, to be human again," the crafty being beside him replies, as though Ford knew nothing of the silver tongues with which demons weaved their lies. "I can give you that."

Yet, it didn't sound as though he were lying. Still, these days, Ford trusts his own judgment even less than he trusted his former muse. "How?" Despite his best efforts, the word comes out soaked in desperation. It's practically dripping with it, leaking weakness and gullibility over the fiery ruins below their feet.

Ignoring his discomfort, the demon explains, "Deals among demons are kind of like legacies. Steal their power… And you steal their deals, too."

Unable to believe what he was hearing, Ford asks, "You're saying you own the rights to my soul?"

"Not exactly. Demons from different dimensions carry slightly altered power signatures, but I'm practically an exact match, so I should be able to nullify your deal without any problems. It's only a matter of freeing your soul, right? Simple." After taking a moment to tap his chin with the thoughtful air of a sage, the demon closes one eye, then shoves a pointed finger in Ford's face, invading his personal space in a manner suggesting that the demon held no grasp of the concept.

"Little warning, though: Losing a soul isn't something that would escape a demon's notice. Especially not one as powerful as Bill. The instant the contract is broken, I suggest you run as far as you can from this place. Fast."

It's too good to be true. "But how can I be certain that you're not Bill?" In his youth, Ford had trusted blindly, falling into with the passion of the inexperienced and gullible, but past betrayals had hardened into a bitterness that formed a high wall around his mind and heart, one which required steady pressure and persistence before even the smallest of openings could be found.

"How can you be certain of anything, really?" The demon retorts, the small, bat-like wings protruding from his lower back flapping lazily as he continued to float and bob in a manner that clearly had nothing to do with them. "Hundreds of years ago, humans were certain that the earth was flat. Go back was further, and they were literally the center of the universe." He smirks. "Actually, I'm pretty sure they still think that."

"I don't appreciate mind games." Ford snaps. "Are you or are you not some form of the demon known as Bill Cipher?"

"That's what I'm trying to tell you." The demon flails his arms in frustration, clearly upset with Ford for not reading further into his tangential and nonsensical chatter. "Whether I am him, whether I'm not, not even I always know for sure. Ask again in a hundred years, it could change."

Ford bristles at what he's construed to be a patronizing tone. "You sound like a fickle creature.

"Aw. Now, is that any way to talk to your favorite grand-nephew?" Ford growl comes from deep within his chest. He knows when he is being mocked.

"Look," the demon starts, running a hand through the thick locks of brown hair not concealed by his silly top hat, "you must have realized by now how hollow Bill's promises are." It's such a strange statement to hear from a being displaying so many of his mannerisms, his irresistible charm, and if it rings a little truer, that could easily be part of the trap. "I could turn you back. Give you a chance to atone for your mistakes. But only if you let me."

"It doesn't matter," Ford immediately responds. "They wouldn't forgive me. Not after I've betrayed them." The only way he could possibly redeem himself was to take Bill down from the inside of his inner circle. There was no other option.

"That's the thing about family: They love you no matter what you do… Or what you become."

Ford regards the demon with a mournful expression, allowing himself to see his precious nephew in his features for the last time. "You have no idea how much I wish I could believe that."

But the demon refused to drop the subject. "You've got issues, I get that, but family doesn't have to share any strands of DNA with you to be real. When the world's ending and all hope seems lost, family's who you see standing next to you, and if you look around and still can't see them, that's because they're guarding your back. And if you think Grunkle Stan won't accept you back after spending thirty years trying to find you, then you must not know him very well."

"I grew up with him," Ford mutters in half-hearted protest. Then stiffens. "Wait, how did you-"

"Doesn't matter. There's more to knowing what makes someone tick than spending time with them. It takes work, too. And a whole lot of patience." He says this like he's speaking from experience.

Not bothering to pause for breath when neither of them need air to survive, the demon continues, "It seems like you've decided you can't be forgiven, but was that really your call? Go back. Give your family a chance. With your low expectations, I guarantee they'll surprise you."

After a long hesitation, where Ford was torn, pulled in every direction by his plans, his pain, his past, and the burning desire to see his family as he once was, the desire that was slowly turning to ash in his new form, before the realization struck him that what with his body gone, his family lost to him, and the end of the world already at hand, there was quite literally nothing left to lose. Thus, he gives a slow nod, conveying his grudging acceptance of the demon's deal.

Grinning widely, the demon sticks out a gloved hand wreathed in blue flames. "Put 'er there." And though he is already beginning to regret his decision, Ford takes the plunge, grabbing ahold of the demon's palm with a force that would have crushed the bones of a normal human.

When they separate, the demon shakes his hand out with a pout, reminding Ford once more of a child. "Oh, and last warning," until the illusion is shattered by the serpentine sneer stretching across the demon's features as it closes the distance between them, and all that fills Ford's senses is a set of bared, glittering teeth, manically bright eyes, and a growing, uncomfortable heat on his chest where the demon has laid his palm, directly over where his heart had once been, "this is going to hurt."