Wayfarer [Bill Cipher x Reader] [REVISED]

Chapter Twenty-Eight: That Green Gentleman (Things Have Changed)

Thankfully, after that, it only took a couple of hours for the worst to pass. The crimson faded from Bill's eyes, and soon, he could look at sunlight without clutching his eyes and hissing. So, with a couple last sips of water and some granola, the two of you were back on the road. Once there, you pressed down on the pedal, determined to win back at least some of the hours you'd lost.

At first, it'd been easy. It'd simply been a matter of keeping your eyes on the road, your hands on the wheel, and your foot on the gas as the flat voice of the GPS told you to take this right and keep straight here. Run of the mill, really, except for the pace. You could handle it.

However, bit by bit, nausea set in. It fought its way through the Tylenol, accompanied by unpleasant friends: stomach cramps. Aches. Chills.

Your hands grew clammy and your head foggy, but you gritted your teeth and pressed on. Gotta make it to Yellowstone. Gotta make it to Yellowstone. Gotta make it to Yellowstone. Just gotta make it...

A sharpness, like a dagger buried in your guts, shot through your abdomen, and it was all you could do not to double over completely as it stabbed deeper into you. You forced your head back up, clenching the wheel. A gas station. You needed to get to a gas station. Where—

There! In the distance, a large neon sign rose. A kind of grittiness, tasting of bile, built up in your throat as you swung the car towards it, steering into the parking lot.

You fumbled with the car door, your fingers trembling and catching on the handle twice before you could pry it open. You gasped as your body shuddered and ached, your guts clenching and unclenching over and over and over again as a tight, throbbing knot formed in your guts. You practically fell out of the open door.

Before you could hit the ground, Bill caught you in his arms, steadying you. "Hey, you okay, kid?" he muttered. You shook your head. The curve of his mouth softened, and he slung your arm around his shoulders. "C'mon, let's get you inside."

The two of you half-marched, half-stumbled in through the doors and into the bathroom. Glancing at the mud-brown stalls, something inside you weakened.

You rushed forward. With just a moment to spare, you vomited into the toilet.

You threw up again. And again, and again, and again, until the only thing coming up was stomach acid and the tiniest flecks of mushy orange-peach-brown gunk. You panted and trembled. At least now, the knot of pain in your stomach had faded away, leaving you almost dizzyingly light.

Bill patted your back. "Feeling better now?" A tiny nod. "You know, this is probably because you had those pears last night. Told you not to eat them!"

"Shut up," you croaked, your throat raw and gritty.

He grinned. "Well," he said. "At least you've still got some spunk in you. Now, stay put, okay? I'll be back with some water." He rose and walked out.

As you watched his back recede, you wiped your mouth. You looked back at the toilet. The contents of today's breakfast and yesterday's dinner were all mixed up inside in a frothy, liquidy soup of half-digested food and stomach juices.

You turned away from the sight. With a shaking hand, you flushed the toilet. You knelt down on the floor as the sour smell began to clear from your nostrils, and you took in a deep breath of cold bathroom air. Thank God for Clorox. Its smell seared away a good part of the vomit odor from your nostrils.

You closed your eyes and took deep breaths. In. Out. In. Out. The cold linoleum raised goosebumps on your legs and you concentrated on that coldness, pushing the twist and turn of your stomach to the back of your mind. In. Out. In. Out. In. Out.