There was a stillness to the night. Stanford Pines was not used to stillness. He was used to racing thoughts, hours spent in the rustle of paper. He was used to the sound of blood pounding in his ears, phasers streaking past his head, the tortured cries of enemy and ally alike. He was used to the hum of the porthole in the background, the whispered words of Bill in his mind.

He was even used to the sound of people moving upstairs. Stanley, Mable, Dipper.

But now there was nothing but silence.

Fords mind screamed at the insanity. Wrong, wrong, wrong. The last time he had heard silence was as he was thrown into the other side of the portal, his molecules straining under the pressure, his mind feeling hot, hot, hot, as if it was about to bust, his head aching, his eyes threatening to burst like they were nothing, nothing at all.

Nothing. Nothing, nothing, NOTHING.

Because there had to be/ something/ nothing. No, there had to be a noise, because noise meant you were alive. And Ford had gotten so used to the /noise/ SREAMING.

And he couldn't sleep. /Wouldn't/ /couldn't/ shouldn't sleep. Because the insanity lived just/ around the corner/, no, no, no, right in his HEAD.

FUCK!

And no amounts of charms could ward it off. He could feel it crawling inside his skull, burrowing into his deepest thoughts and pulling out the festering insides.

He choked back a sound. No, no, don't /frighten/ wake anyone else.

Everyone else could cope with the silence.

Everyone else was doing just fine, fine, FINE!

It was just him.

Him.

HIM.

He could feel him dancing at the outside of his vision, a menacing presence, insane, beautiful, horrific. Fuck, he couldn't afford to think about him.

Not in the quiet, silence, nothing.

Layers and layer and layers of scars, and now, his pride had nearly gotten them killed AGAIN.

Killed over and over and over and OVER, and did you know that it was possible in over 12 dimensions? And the agony was real and death was so beautiful when the pain finally stopped.

And it left a longing in Fords heart because it would finally stop- no, no, no!

WEAK!

IDIOT. And you are supposed to be the genius.

Hands fumbling searching, frantic, finding.

Ripping off the cap. Hip flask always at his belt, still full, no time today.

Drinking, the burn down his throat, the slow burn of relief that quenches the agony, fear, terror, HATE!

Damn it, damn it, damn it. He was better than this!

He drank anyway.

One more sip, one more, or e , e.

It hurt.

Noise, silence, oblivion. Oblivion, yes.

Yes.

Y

E

S

Nothing.

Silence.

HIM.