Sleep, those little slices of death, how I hated them.

-Edgar Allen Poe

Ford vaugely remembered the time when he would sleep soundly. The nights when he could've rolled into bed (heavens to Betsy, bed) and he could've fallen into that deep slumber that all-too-often plagues those who work far too hard. How he would be cursed with the occasional nightmare and wake up in a cold sweat. But often it was just regular dreams, the ones that made scarcely a lick of sense. Those days, of course, are long gone, along with the Ford who would shove his hands down into his pockets and would filter out family and friends for the prospect of something he deemed greater. The Ford who, though he pretended otherwise, was far too trusting. Even farther gone was the Ford who would redily call on his twin brother for assistance (though that one, it seemed, had begun to make the long treck back).

The insomniac was gone as well. The manic young man had hardly stayed two months, and Ford hardly recalled any exact thing that had happened during that time. He remembered only the screaming and biting scratching and "ah, yes, that's where those tally marks came from." He did remember that it had happened, and as he looked upon that memory now, because he had been exausted and reluctant to leave the house to get coffee because Cipher was out there, and Cipher was going to kill him. Cipher was in his head, in his head, in his head, and nobody else deserved to have Cipher in their head, and maybe if Ford kept him occupied long enough. Then came the inevitable "what is long enough?"

All the tally marks in the world couldn't keep that one down.

The trouble began when he had already gone through the portal. As soon as he'd found a safe place to do so, he'd colapsed from exastion, and when he got back up he'd found he didn't really want to sleep anymore. Sleeping was like an invitation for Cipher to enter his mind, and that was the last thing he wanted. So he didn't sleep. When he'd begun his travels, one of his first goals was to find something that made it so he didn't have to sleep. Eventually he'd found it (golden apples were indeed a glorious thing) and he'd stockpiled them, and he hadn't slept. Ever. After all, it had been safer that way, when no threats could sneak up on him and slit his throat while he rested.

Now though, he was home, with nothing but caffine to sustain him, and that really wasn't enough anymore. So he listened to music on the kitchen floor, and he cleaned the house, and he alphabetized the bookshelves. Cipher is dead. Said a voice in his mind. It's all okay, we can sleep now. But he found himself pushing it to the back of his thoughts, and continued not sleeping, and were the children starting to give him strange looks?

One night Mabel had quietly padded down the stairs, lured by the faint sounds of ELO, and found Ford in the kitchen, leaning against the refrigerator door.

"What are you doing up so late?" She'd asked.

"I'm an adult." He'd responded, chin held high and dark circles under his eyes. "I don't have a bedtime. Now you, on the other hand-,"

"You haven't been sleeping, have you?"

He was silent.

"You need sleep. It's good for you. You said it yourself!"

"I don't want sleep. I'm fine."

"No! You aren't fine, you big dumb non-sleeper!"

"Shhh. Dipper doesn't sleep sometimes."

"Yeah, but he sleeps more than he doesn't. You just aren't sleeping at all."

"Why would it matter whether I sleep or not? I still play with you during the daytime."

"Yes, but this isn't just about me. It's about you."

Mabel grabbed the radio and threw it against the ground, breaking it.

"There are better ways to turn a radio off."

"I can never find the button. Now come on! We are going to go into the living room, and we are going to snuggle until you fall asleep!"

So they did.

Ford slept that night, and even if he didn't the night after that, he did a few nights from then.

Perhaps he'd never be quite back to what was considered normal.

But that was fine.

He'd live.

He'd sleep.