Work Text:
The hardest part was pretending to be happy.
Not that he wasn't good at it. Not that he hadn't spent the past ten years perfecting the art of puffing himself up and putting on a cheesy grin no matter how bad things were, no matter how cold or hungry or exhausted or desperate he was. Oh, he was good at it.
But this was different. Never before had he had to put on the act while the accusing ghost of his brother lurked behind him, while that dreadful machine waited in the basement and constantly pulled at him, dragging him down like a stone in his heart. But it was the only way, so he rubbed the sleep from his eyes and pulled on the grin and hammed it up for the tourists day in and day out.
Nights were the worst. At night he still had to pretend, but not to any audience as easy as a gaggle of sightseeing rubes. It was himself he had to convince at night, as he labored away over books and schematics—convince himself that he could do this, that he really was smart enough, capable enough to bring his brother back. He knew he wasn't, but he told himself otherwise. Some nights he couldn't lie well enough, collapsing onto his brother's books with a sob, knowing beyond a shadow of doubt that he would never, ever succeed.
He slid with ease and relief into the role of cranky, money-grubbing old man. That was close enough to require very little work, and without that release he didn't think he could have made it. He just had to not let on that there were maybe better reasons for him being cranky and money-grubbing than anyone thought, and he prided himself that indeed he did not let on, not to anybody. Not even Soos, despite the little squirt seeming to see something in Stan that Stan himself never could. Not even Wendy, who prided herselfon her cool cynicism. No, the role fit him like a glove, albeit perhaps a glove with one too many fingers.
Then the kids came, and the hardest part was pretending not to be happy.
Pretending that he didn't like having them around, didn't care about them, that they didn't make him smile, make him proud, even. He knew that like all happiness, he would not be allowed to keep this. He would screw it up somehow, and even if he didn't, they would go back home at the end of the summer. Back home to a family he couldn't bear to visit, who knew him only as a series of fabrications. Easier, much easier, to instead keep being a cranky old man who cared only as far as his wallet.
The hardest part, oh, the hardest part was in dropping all the lies in time to convince the kid not to press the button.
The hardest part was carrying on when there was nothing else to carry on for. He'd kept himself going night by grueling night, driven by the ever-present need to finish what he'd started. Once it was all over he could feel himself starting to crack along the edges, start to splinter under the weight of what now, but he held it together because the kids were still there and he would not let them see him break apart. Carry on, carry on, just the same as always, only now it wasn't until he's back, it was until the end of the summer, and he stayed up late at night not thinking about what would happen after.
The hardest part was that they still wanted more. They wanted him to be a hero. It didn't matter that he told them he was cowardly, that he couldn't do this, that he wanted out. He'd cried wolf for too long. Everyone now was determined to look for something in him that he knew wasn't there. He could not pretend, any longer, that he was good, that he was brave, that he was going to save the day.
The easiest part was pretending to be his brother. Had he not been doing that for thirty years? Did he not know what it was like to put on gloves with too many fingers, and look at the world through cracked glasses, and stand as his brother would stand?
And for once he didn't have to pretend to be happy. Scared and shaking, yes, but that required no acting. It was all so, so easy.
The easiest part was at the very end, alone in his own mind, with no one to con anymore, not even himself.
The easiest part was when, finally, with nothing left to lose, he did not have to pretend to be happy.