Warning: there is blood. And darkness.

Please excuse medical errors; I'm a writer, not a doctor.

Stan barely had time to let out an anguished scream that seemed to come from the very depths of his soul, and jump back to his feet from where he'd fallen, before this thing that was clearly not Dan Corduroy grabbed Ford by his hair, jerking his head back; he yanked the knife out of Ford's shoulder (not good not good not good Stan had been stabbed there before, and while it was better than a gut wound he knew there were still some important veins and arteries and things in shoulders Ford needed a doctor right now) and placed it against Ford's throat.

"How's about you come on in with us, Stanley?" he asked, still grinning. And now Stan recognized Bill's voice, even though he had no idea how it was possible, but it was so hard to think about it one way or another when every thought in his head was busy shrieking FORD FORD FORD FORD'S HURT HELP FORD-

Slowly he followed Bill and Ford into the cabin, relieved that the wound wasn't spraying or leaking extensively, so at least no arteries had been punctured. Once they were all the way inside Bill kicked the door shut with his boot, and then dragged Ford, who was getting paler by the second and starting to loll his head backwards, towards a large wooden chair set up next to the table. He didn't take the knife from his throat until he'd sat Ford down, and even then it was just to grab a few coils of rope off the table and tie him to the chair (which Stan thought was more than a little ridiculous-there was no way his brother was going anywhere on his own right now).

Stan stepped towards them; instantly the knife was on his brother's throat again.

"He needs to have that looked at!" Stan protested. "Please! I can't-"

He swallowed a little, despite his determination not to show weakness in front of this freak.

It should have been me. It's my fault. I need to fix it.

Bill sighed, rolling his eyes. "Stupid fragile flesh sticks, can't handle losing a little blood," he muttered, twirling the knife in irritation. But eventually he conceded, "There's a med kit over there," pointing to a corner where indeed, Stan saw a very large kit. He snatched it, and occupied himself when he returned with cleaning and bandaging Ford's shoulder.

He ignored Bill breathing down his neck, lightly slapping his brother's cheek a few times after he'd finally pasted together the mess as best he could.

"Ford? Stanford? Hey, don't go away now, you gotta stay with me. We've got a bit of a problem, and you're the brains here, Poindexter, so you gotta stay awake and figure out how ta fix it, ya hear me?"

Ford's eyes, glazed with pain behind their glasses, tried their best to focus. They settled on him for a moment, then glanced over his shoulder, and widened with fear.

Stan peered in the same direction; Bill instantly lowered his borrowed hands and stuck his tongue back in his mouth, grinning innocently at him.

"Done now?"

Stan gave a tiny shrug. "I've done all I know how ta do."

"Good." Bill yanked up another chair and flung himself into it. "Then let's talk business, shall we?"

"I mighta known you were the one I'd need ta deal with," Bill said, crossing one leg over the other knee and using the knife blade to start cleaning his nails. "Cuz Fordsy, he's got his head stuck in his mysteries, so he'd believe anything I said as long as I told him how smart he was; he doesn't remember the outside world even exists mosta the time. But you-you're a man of the world, Stanley, and I respect you for that-"

"What did you do ta Corduroy?" Stan wasn't in the mood for this freak's flattery BS.

"Oh, you mean my meat puppet?" Bill smoothed his fingers over the flannel shirt in a way that made Stan distinctly uncomfortable. "Turns out you give a guy a nice enough dream about his girlfriend, she can ask him to do a-ny-thing you want. Am I right?" He cackled, and winked like he was inviting Stan to get in on the joke.

Stan gave him a glare of disgust.

"Oh, get your mind out of the gutter, they were just on a picnic in the woods! And she asked him ta help her out with a favor, and he said he'd do anything for her, so she said-" he made his voice even more high and twittering- "'Thank you, Dan, I know I can count on you, you big strong man!' And then she held out her hand for him to help her up, and-"

"Get ta the point."

"The point? The point is, I wanna hire you!"

Stan blinked, more than a little nonplussed.

Bill groaned. "Didn't you ever watch It's a Wonderful Life? You'd relate to it, the main guy's kinda like you. Thinks the world would be better off if he'd never been born. But you're right, I digress." He leaned forward. "I need Ford to do a job for me, and you're gonna be the incentive for him to do it."

"What kind of job?" Stan put a protective hand on Ford's non-stabbed shoulder.

"I want him to build something! Just a neat little project that'll let me into your world with a physical body of my very own, so I don't have to keep borrowing other people's!" Bill spread his hands with yet another wide grin. Then, just as abruptly, he glared. "I was going to pull him into this gradually, get him invested in the idea through a process, but then you butted in with all your questions and just spoiled everything like always, and that means we gotta do it like this. So here's the deal-" he reached out and flicked Ford's kneecap. "Is everyone paying attention?"

Ford groaned, and shifted away. To Stan's relief, though he still looked dazed, he appeared to be a little more awake now.

"Good. As I was saying, the deal's like this: he does what I say, and I'll let you live, since in this dimension he still cares about you."

Dimension? What's he talking about?

"You do what I say, and I'll let him keep all his limbs. I'll even spare you both after Weirdmageddon happens, and you can go sail around the world like you've always dreamed of! How's that sound?"

Stan had a few choice words to describe how that sounded, even if he had no idea what 'Weirdma-what-now' was. He refrained, however, instead reaching into his coat pocket for the other thing he'd taken out of his duffel earlier: his gun. Which he pointed right at Bill.

Bill blinked-and then cackled scornfully.

"Oh, good try, Stanley, really cute-but no dice. You try using that, you're just gonna kill the meat puppet, you won't get rid of me. And I wonder how the locals are gonna feel about you murdering one of their own-you really that eager to go back to prison?" He stood up and actually pressed his chest right up against the barrel of the gun, waggling his eyebrows in challenge.

Stan's hand trembled with rage...before he lowered the gun.

"Yeah, that's what I thought. Put it away like a good boy so I can get you settled in." And he picked up another coil of rope, obviously intending to tie him up too.

But Stan stood still, mind racing.

"Stan-ley, I'm not playing games here!" Bill's voice became sharp with impatience. "Well, okay, I am playing games, but they're gonna get a whole lot less fun for you if you keep trying to defy me!"

"I just wanna get something straight." Stan's voice, by contrast, was quite soft (by his standards anyway). "You wanna use me as a hostage so Ford'll do what you want?"

"You need me to draw a diagram?" Bill demanded. "Chop chop, h-wait, what?!"

Because Stan raised his arm again-and pointed the gun at his own temple.

...I did warn you.

Just to clarify, Bill wasn't trying to kill Stanley in the last chapter-just incapacitate him. But when Ford got stabbed instead, that worked too. In fact, it was an even better way of keeping Stan at his mercy, since of course he would put Ford's safety above all else.