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Bill’s brats were cooing over the white-haired baby from 13’\ as if he were a precious doll. Of course he would have created offspring that cooed over something as insipid as a chubby, drooling larvae. Add it to the pile of recent failures he’d been collecting as of late. Lyra cradled the boy child while Veda warbled some showtune in its ear; the kid clearly had no taste, as he quickly nodded off into a nap at the off-tune melody.
Bill supposed he should have been grateful for the chance to get out of the Theraprism; though still tethered by the axolotl’s deal, he was allowed brief visits to alternate dimensions. He’d been invited to 13’\’s baby shower months ago, mostly because other Bills wanted to know how he’d managed to get the artificial womb he’d slapped together in prison up and running. Small things must amuse small minds, Bill thought, because these other Bills were enchanted with Lyra and Veda, gushing over their alleged sass and cuteness whenever they opened their mouths.
He’d been over to visit 13’\ a few times since, mostly because this version of Ford had taken a shine to them.
Something wasn’t sitting right, though Bill couldn’t quite point to it just yet. It didn’t help that Housewife Ford had just lumbered in, already three months into another litter. Bill scowled at this Ford. If he hadn’t been depending on 13’\ Bill for a taste of freedom, he would have given the guy a talking to for not playing with his toys right. Ford looked exhausted and forlorn, clearly not getting enough sleep from pregnancy pain and looking out for this little brat. Despite the fact he was constantly cooking, Ford was too thin, having lost the muscle mass he’d earned fighting his Bill across the multiverse, growing soft and frail instead. Was 13 letting him eat? And what was he doing for enrichment? Domestic chores didn’t count; Ford needed games, puzzles, at least a dozen projects and academic pursuits to keep from growing bored.
What a waste!
At the very least, Housewife Ford was smiling down on Lyra and Veda, so he wasn’t completely miserable. He ignored Bill outside of a curt nod and a feigned smile, but he instantly fell upon the twins, asking them if they wanted any snacks or about school and blah blah blah. Bill got distracted by a run on Ford’s stockings, a tiny little tear just below the hem of his dress. Bill was transfixed by the hole, staring at the brief flash of skin. Stupid idiot was making his starved, bored Ford wear tattered nylons. Bill would have let Ford run around his fortress in the nightmare realm, given him enough tools to put together as many quantum destabilizers and death rays as possible, fed him good so he stayed nice and hearty for their fights, and definitely would have put him in stockings that didn’t run!
Bill considered hooking one of his fingers through the hole and tugging the ruined stocking off, leaving Ford’s pretty leg exposed.
A timer dinged, and Ford shuffled back to the kitchen to fetch dinner. Veda tailed after him to help set the table, while Lyra stayed behind, holding the baby tightly to her chest as it snoozed. She stared at the baby with a frown.
“Why does he have two eyes,” asked the girl aloud. “Veda and I only have one a piece.”
It wasn’t a bad question, though Bill wouldn’t admit that. He’d spent months trying to get the embryos just right, trying to get his own quirky dna to mesh with his Ford’s genetic coding. Humanoid offspring had been rare; most were twisted chimeras that looked better floating in formaldehyde than going to pre-k. Lyra and Veda had been the closest to viable humans, and even they still ended up cyclopian.
But this kid? Two perfect brown eyes. A near identical clone of Fordsy. That should have been impossible.
This line of thinking was cut off by the arrival of 13 with a few other friends— the 08’s had decided to tag along for the dinner party. 08 Bill’s flashy demigod Ford yawned with boredom as the family sat down for dinner. He only perked up when the Housewife returned carrying a platter of meatloaf out into the dining room. Once dinner was on the table, the boy from 08 got out of his seat and pulled up a chair for the hostess. The demigod guided Ford to the table with a hand resting on the small of his back.
Bill shot a look back and forth at the Fords towards the little guy nursing a bottle in his high chair.
Oh. OH!
God 13 was stupid.
The oblivious 13 would, occasionally, drape his arms around the Housewife’s waist and force a few kisses onto his neck. Ford would grimace as eyelids snaked across his skin and poked him in the eye with eyelashes. Bill hated 13 even more.
Don’t you know he’s only tolerating you? That isn’t winning this game! Winning is having Ford willingly submit after years of conflict! Winning is having him beg for forgiveness and graciously accepting it. He has to love you again, worship you, be willing to eat dead rats out of the palm of your hand! He should be kissing me YOU!
While no one was looking, Bill snaked his arm under the table and snatched the torn stocking down, yanking it free from the garter belt. Bill trailed his fingertips down from soft thigh to slender ankle. Ford jumped, but gave Mr. 08 a warning glower. Satisfied, Bill tucked into his meatloaf, happy he was beneath suspicion.