Wayfarer [Bill Cipher x Reader] [REVISED]

Chapter Twenty-Six: There's a Good Reason These Tables Are Numbered...

Despite Bill's best efforts to convince you not to go, by 8:30 pm you and Debra were ushering him into the car. The three of you arrived at the party to sudden gasps and "Oh my God!" echoing across the well-manicured lawn of the Swiss chalet, and the attention did not let up from there.

Every five minutes, there was someone new running up to Bill, talking about how they hadn't seen him since high school, asking how he'd been, and wow, was this his new girlfriend? Bill responded with wide smiles and affirmatives, looping his arm around yours and chatting a bit before finding some reason or another to leave them for some quiet corner where, sooner or later, the cycle would begin again.

There was one key exception to his half-hearted politeness, though: whenever Debra appeared, he'd make himself scarce. When you asked him why, he shook his head. You wouldn't understand, he said.

As the evening wore on, Bill's smiles grew more strained. Strands of his hair fell out of place. He went to the punch table with greater and greater frequency, his breath growing sweet and sour with the fruitiness and its aftermath.

During one of these trips to the punch table, his nails almost digging into your arm as he dragged you along, the double doors to the deck swung open. Out rolled a cart with a serving tower stacked high with gleaming pastries. A cheer rose up. "The pear tarts are here, man!" one guy called out to another. "Quick, let's grab some!"

Practically everyone at the party swarmed to the dessert table as the pear tarts were set down. Even from this distance, the sheen was captivating. You found yourself drawing closer.

Bill yanked you back. "Stop," he said, slurring slightly. "Don't eat any of those."

"What? Why not?" you snapped back.

"'Cuz pears are the fucking worst."

"No, they're not. They're perfectly good fruit. What's up with you, man?"

"Whassup with me," he said, "is that I'm not parta some... some hive mind. Look at those slobbering idiots." He gestured to the crowd milling around the table, snatching up pear tart after pear tart. "Why'd I wanna be part of them?"

"Okay, you special snowflake." You rolled your eyes. "Has it ever occurred to you that sometimes, stuff is popular for a reason?"

"Yeah. 'Cuz people don't wanna get left out. So they embrace shit that sucks."

The sourness on his breath floated closer and closer with each "s" he uttered. You moved closer to the table. "Oh, I'm sure they're not that bad. Here, let me prove it."

And before he could say anything, you reached out and stuffed a pear tart into your mouth.

As the crust hit your tongue, it melted into a thin, buttery sheen of dough, which tasted just a touch sweet. A surge of cool, sticky sugariness spread through your mouth as your teeth made their way through the pear slices.

"Wow," you found yourself saying. "It's delicious!"

"You—you put it in ya... ? Oh, for FUCK'S sake!" Bill threw his hands up in the air. "Fine. Be like that. Just don't make me watch."

He stalked off, wobbling slightly... only to run smack into Debra. He dropped his cup.

"Bill!" Debra lit up. "I was just looking for you!"

"Well, I wasn't."

He tried to move past her, only for her to seize his arm. "Where are you going? I only want to talk. Stay a while, will you?"

"Oh, fuck off." He shoved her hand away.

"Why, that isn't very nice!"

"Ain't interested in being nice."