Chapter Text
When Ford woke, he was standing with one of his legs in the air, as though he'd been walking forward. He stumbled, arms pinwheeling as he tried to correct his sudden shift in balance, but it was too late. He landed face-first in cold snow, and it immediately started to melt against his skin. He pushed himself up with his hands- no gloves on, he noticed- and scanned his surroundings. He was in the woods, surrounded by trees and snowdrifts. The sky was clouded, with more snow drifting down from them.
Ford stood, brushing himself off as best he could, then turned to face the way he'd come from. His footsteps trailed into and out of the trees in criss-crossing paths, the uneven tracks already filling in with falling snow.
Ford had no idea where in the woods he was, and he was already shivering.
"Dammit, Bill."
Ford picked one of the paths that kept going out of sight, and began to walk.
He walked, and he walked, and he walked. His shivering intensified.
After he didn't know how long of walking, Ford found a landmark. Luckily enough, the path he chose was in almost the right direction. He adjusted his course and kept walking. He breathed into his hands, then rubbed his face. His nose had gone numb.
Ford found a root hidden under the powder snow. His leaden legs were too stiff to correct his balance, and he fell into the snow for the second time. He caught himself on shaky arms, and stared, panting, at the ground.
A few flakes of snow landed on his hands, and didn't melt. In the back of his mind, he knew this was bad. He also knew there was only one thing he could do about it.He lifted his heavy head, blinking blearily. He could see the house from here. Only a little farther.
He slowly, agonizingly, dragged himself to his feet. He wavered, then resumed his slow trek. He wrapped his hands around himself, stuffing his hands into his armpits. It made walking a bit harder, but it would warm his fingers. They were ice cubes against his skin, even through his layered clothes.
Each plodding step brought him ever closer to safety, ever closer to a warm drink and a warm bed.
A thought flickered across his mind, reminding him the house couldn't be trusted, no one could, but Ford brushed it aside. Either the house would eat him, or he would freeze. If he was going to die, he at least wanted to be warm.
As he drew closer, he noticed the door was already open. It was waiting for him, ready and willing to swallow him up.
Ford stumbled on something- a rock, a root, it didn't matter- and hit the snow again. He lay there for a long, still moment. Then he realized he wasn't shivering anymore. Ahead of him, perhaps another hundred steps away, the house groaned.
He didn't move. He took slow, stuttering breaths. The snow chilled his already freezing throat.
The house groaned again, louder, then something cracked like breaking wood. Ford lifted his head slowly, trying hard to focus through snow-covered, askew glasses.
The porch had changed. It had pulled away from the wall, leaving oozing, bleeding gaps where it used to sit. As Ford watched, the porch continued to move. It twisted, movement slow through the heavy snowdrifts. Thick, oozing blood dripped from the planks, but it continued to move. It extended towards him, a bleeding, desperate attempt to reach him.
It was closer now. Perhaps 20 steps away.
On heavy, leaden limbs, Ford forced himself upright. He stumbled forward, gaze focused on his feet.
One, two, three.
Each step was an exercise in futility, he knew. He would die either way, so there was no reason to force his aching muscles to move.
Seven, eight, nine, ten.
He was already warming up, so what was the point? He could just lay back down in the snow and rest.
Thirteen, fourteen, fifteen, sixteen.
His shins hit the edge of the porch, and he fell. His arms were too slow to catch him, so his face cracked against the heavy wooden planks. It was warm against his skin, like a chair that still bore the warmth of its last occupant. He lay there for a moment, maybe two, before the porch moved again. Ford turned his head, watching as it pulled back towards the rest of the house.
It moved slowly, carefully, drawing him closer to its maw.
Ford let his eyes drift shut. The porch made the cracking sound of breaking wood once more, and the angle he was laying at changed. He opened his eyes again. The porch was against the wall again, the junction between planks and logs still oozing blood. He lifted and twisted his head to find that the porch had snapped in the middle. The half he was laying on jumped, jostling him until only his feet hung off the end. It jumped again, but Ford's toes stayed hooked over the edge. The house let out a low, echoing groan, and the porch jumped a third time. He still didn't move.
Ford let out a slow, ponderous blink. It was trying to slide him down, to the broken split of the porch. Why?
Did that really matter, at this point? He was already hypothermic.
He drew his arms up, pressing his numb palms against the warm planks, and rolled over onto his back. He stared up at the porch roof, his thoughts slow and cold like molasses. The planks under him tilted, and he slid down until the broken porch cradled him in the joint of the two halves.
Hot blood seeped into his coat, searing his skin.
Ford rolled his head towards the house, staring into the wide-open front door. Instead of his usual entry room, all Ford could see was white.
Ford blinked slowly.
The porch tilted under him, sending him rolling closer to the maw.
He let it. He didn't really have a choice, anymore. He couldn't feel his limbs. The rolling made him feel dizzy, but Ford wasn't sure if he even had enough control over his muscles to vomit.
The porch jumped again, and Ford tumbled through the door, landing in thick, soft, hot blankets. They molded around his body, cradling him him in warmth. Ford squirmed. It was too hot, too much. The house was cooking him alive. A spike of fear pushed through the numbness.
Ford was going to die. He'd already know this, but he'd thought it would be easy. Either he'd fall asleep and not wake up, or he'd be quickly put out of his misery.
Instead, the house was wrapping him in heat, trapping him to boil in his soaked clothes.
"No." Ford declared. He struggled, fighting to free himself. "M'gonna- Ge' th's coat offa me."
The surface around him twisted, tendrils of blankets lifting and manipulating him like a doll. He tried to fight it, but his body wouldn't cooperate. The house stripped him of his coat, his glasses, his sweater, his boots, his socks, his pants. Then the house wrapped around him, swaddling him into the warm fabric wall. Ford twitched, pushing against his confinement, but the walls only pressed against him in return.
The door was gone. All that was left was the padded room. A steady rhythm pulsed in the walls around him. Exhaustion weighed down his eyelids, but he forced them back open.
"Le'me'ou," He slurred.
The floor rippled, and a table sprang into being. On it sat a can, with a large silly straw sticking out of it. Ford blinked at it. The table legs extended, bringing the straw up to Ford's face. It nudged against his lips, and Ford turned his head away.
He wasn't hungry.
The table and can followed his face until the straw was against his lips again.
Ford kept his lips pressed together. The straw nudged him. Finally, with a petulant noise, he took a sip. It was chicken broth, warmed but not hot. It was delicious.
He gulped it down, feeling the salty liquid trail a heated path down his throat.
The straw pulled away, and Ford gasped in air. He'd forgotten to breathe, too overwhelmed by the comforting, delicious broth. He let his head tip back, pressing against the wall behind him. The fabric gave under the pressure, soft and pliant. He shut his eyes, taking panting gulps of air. As his breathing settled again, the warmth around and inside him left him drowsy, slipping towards slumber. A heavy, thrumming beat seeped into his bones.
The wall jostled him, and his eyes drifted open. Two words were written on the wall in blocky capital letters.
"DONT SLEEP"
Ford nodded, the movement clumsy. "D'nt sleep, c'nt sleep." He agreed muzzily. "Th'demon'll get me."
Something nudged against his lips again, and Ford accepted it. It wasn't the straw, instead it was a thermometer the house shoved under his tongue. He huffed through his nose, but waited.
After two minutes, it was pulled away and replaced with the straw.
He took slower sips this time, savoring the warm broth. All too soon, he reached the bottom, and it was pulled away.
The thermometer returned.
The reading must have been more acceptable, because the room changed. The walls drew closer together, and the pocket holding him loosened slightly until he could move again. Then it tilted, shifting until it was the floor, and Ford was cradled in a thick, warm, heavy sleeping bag.
Ford blinked slowly.
The fabric around him pulsed in that steady, deep rhythm. It vibrated through his skin, a gentle, familiar symphony. His eyes drifted shut. Then he opened them again, fighting to stay conscious.
He had to stay awake. If he didn't, then Bill- he had to stay awake.
The wall that was now the ceiling still had writing on it. It took far too long of staring for his eyes to focus and register the word.
"SLEEP", it said.
Ford yawned and closed his eyes. He hooked a hand in the blanket around him, pulling it close, and did just that.