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The question came during… well, Stanley couldn’t quite remember how many runs he’d done at the time. He’d stopped keeping count after fifteen. This was, for better or for worse, his life. There was no point in keeping track of how many times he’d relived the same day.
Regardless of when it came, the question was startling for Stanley. He had just completed the Bucket Apartment Ending— he rather liked that one— and was just picking up his Reassurance Bucket again, when the Narrator interrupted his usual dialogue with a question.
“Stanley, what do you think I look like?”
The Narrator’s tone was enough to give Stanley pause. Where it was normally booming and all-encompassing, even a little whiny, the Narrator’s voice was now soft, almost thoughtful. Stanley looked up at the ceiling, as if he were speaking to God Himself. Perhaps, he thought amusedly, he was.
”What?” Stanley signed upward. He technically didn’t need to sign at all. He didn’t know if the Narrator could see his hand movements, and they had a sort of mental link anyway. Certain thoughts could be sent back and forth. After all, if the Narrator was in Stanley’s head, it stood to reason that the reverse was true as well.
The Narrator sighed. “Never mind,” he muttered. “It was… a stupid question.” No berating Stanley for being a poor listener, even though it was clearly not a “what” of not understanding. No sass or sarcasm. Stanley raised an eyebrow.
”Asking me what I think you look like is stupid?” It didn’t seem stupid to Stanley at all. After all, he had been curious about the Narrator for weeks. Months? Years? Did time really matter when it all reset in the end anyway?
The Narrator cleared his throat, and Stanley could’ve sworn he heard rustling papers. “Well— well it’s not like it matters, Stanley,” the Narrator said with an audible nervous smile. “You’re never going to see me, anyway. Now, ah… take your bucket, and let’s get on with the story.“
Stanley hooked the bucket onto his arm, resting its handle on his elbow so he could sign freely. ”I think you look tall,” he said casually. He began walking toward the first choice of the story, the first two doors.
There was a moment of silence, and Stanley could practically hear the Narrator’s shock. He didn’t like the silence, he decided. It reminded him too much of the Skip Button Ending. He did feel bad for that, more often than not, and he wondered if the Narrator remembered how that had gone.
Then, as Stanley found the first two doors and turned right, the Narrator returned. “Ah… tall?” His voice was oddly subdued. Stanley nodded, and the Narrator let out a short, breathy laugh. “Why tall? Why not short, or average sized? Of all choices, why tall?”
This excessive and obsessive questioning wasn’t exactly out of character, but it seemed off somehow. Stanley shrugged. ”Big voice, big personality, big man,” he said plainly. ”It just makes sense to me.”
“…Ah.” The Narrator fell silent again, and Stanley stopped in the employee lounge. Something told him that the story could wait, at least for a little while. He settled down on a chair— very comfortable, he had to admit— and crossed his legs, setting his bucket on his lap with gentle reverence.
He sighed after a moment. [Narrator? You good?] He tapped into their telepathic link, frowning up at the ceiling. He heard a soft yelp, like the Narrator had been startled, and chuckled. He could be cute sometimes, admittedly.
“Wh— um, yes,” the Narrator said with a nervous laugh. “Yes, I’m fine. Just… thinking.” He paused. “Have… have you thought about other aspects of my appearance?” He sounded almost hopeful, excited even. Like he always did when Stanley participated in his story, or when he got a new idea.
Stanley scrunched up his face, trying to think of what he’d imagined sassing him during his worst moments, or demanding to take his bucket. As if he would ever let it happen. He patted the side of the bucket protectively, then lifted his hands to sign.
”You’re older,” he began thoughtfully. ”Like, in your fifties, maybe? That’s just going off the sound of your voice, though. Salt and pepper hair, or maybe full gray.”
For once, the Narrator listened with rapt attention. Stanley couldn’t see him, or even hear him, but he pictured stars forming in his eyes.
”I always imagined you animated,” Stanley said, thinking back to how often he’d pictured the man in his imagination waving his hands in frustration or excitement. ”You move when you talk, and you act out your story. It’s kind of cute. In my head, at least.”
This garnered a reaction from the Narrator. “Wh— cute?!” Stanley imagined a blush forming on cheeks defined by laugh lines and high cheekbones. “Stanley, I am not cute. You take that back right now!”
Stanley snorted. ”How do you want me to describe you then?” he asked snidely. ”You asked how I imagine you. You can’t be mad because I answered your question.”
“Wh— you—“ The Narrator sputtered for a moment, then sighed heavily, groaning exasperatedly. ”Fine,” he huffed, audibly pouting. “Go on with your… ridiculous description. I’ll have you know that you’re getting far too detailed, however.”
Rolling his eyes, Stanley continued. ”You wear a lot of tweed,” he signed confidently. ”a long coat, dress pants. Plus a sweater. The sweater is a must. Glasses, too.” He couldn’t explain why his description was so rigid, but it made sense to him, and that was what mattered.
“Tweed,” the Narrator cried indignantly. “I like to think I have a better fashion sense than that.” Stanley thought of the outfit he’d pictured, and frowned. He thought it was rather dashing, and it fit the Narrator’s energy well. A sort of “dark academia” feel. Still, there was no use trying to change the Narrator’s mind on this.
The Narrator huffed, mumbling something unintelligible. Likely a monologue about how insulting it was for Stanley to say he would wear tweed. He would be stuck on this for a few resets, for sure.
After a moment, the Narrator quieted down. There was a deep sigh that resonated in Stanley’s bones, and then another, meeker question.
“What… er, what about my eyes?”
[Who’s getting specific now,] Stanley teased. The Narrator let out an offended squawk, and Stanley laughed.
He thought for a moment. He really hadn’t given the Narrator’s eyes much thought, at least not specifically. Still, he managed to pull together an explanation, the words not quite coming to him in the way he wanted them to. He supposed it would suffice for now.
”They’re lively,” Stanley signed with a soft smile. ”I imagine them to be dark, but they’re so bright and full of excitement, you wouldn’t notice. They have crow’s feet around them, because you smile more than you frown. They’re full of love, and life, and stories, and…”
Stanley fell still. He could feel a blush rising to his own cheeks now, a combination of flustered confusion and embarrassment. He really was getting far too detailed.
He didn’t know why he’d even thought this hard. It wasn’t like he needed to sleep, so he couldn’t exactly lie awake at night thinking about the disembodied voice that was his only company most of the time. I would if I could, he thought to himself.
The Narrator was shuffling around. Stanley could hear papers rustling, and small vocalizations. Half-formed syllables that were cut off before they could fully escape.
For the first time since Stanley could remember, the Narrator was absolutely at a loss for words. Some part of him felt proud of this achievement. He pictured his gray-haired, bright eyed, imaginary Narrator with a red flush on his face, and he smiled. Flustering this man of mystery was way, way more fun than any ending he could ever come up with.
After what felt like hours, the Narrator finally spoke again. His voice was almost inaudible, and Stanley swore he could hear a smile in the man’s words. “I… you’ve… you’ve put a lot of thought into this…”
Stanley ran his fingers along the edge of his bucket. [Yeah,] he thought at the Narrator, almost sheepishly. [You’d do the same in my position.] Technically, he could never be sure of that, but the Narrator was so imaginative, he couldn’t picture him doing anything other than think nonstop about Stanley, if he was just a disembodied voice.
Did that make Stanley narcissistic? He decided not to ask the Narrator. He wouldn’t like the answer he got.
The Narrator let out a sound that was almost like a whine. “You’re… you’re ridiculous, Stanley. Absolutely ridiculous!” His energy was ramping up, and Stanley braced himself for another seemingly-endless monologue.
“I— what, did you just… spend hours thinking about what I look like? When did you have the time to come up with these… these ludicrous descriptions?! I mean— TWEED, Stanley?! Tweed!”
Stanley just listened as the Narrator rambled. Even when the voice’s pitch reached its normal levels, grating and whiny, Stanley couldn’t stop smiling. He couldn’t help but feel like he’d unlocked a secret. A hidden ending that the Narrator hadn’t planned for. Yet this was so much sweeter than any ending. It felt like more of a beginning… though to what, Stanley had no idea.
“…And— how can eyes be ‘dark’ and ‘bright’ at the same time?! That’s just poor writing, Stanley! It’s plain insulting! I just— Stanley, are you listening to me?” The Narrator’s frown was evident in his tone, and he sounded incredibly hurt.
Stanley was quick to respond. He nodded, smirking up at the ceiling. [I’ve listened enough to know that you’re flustered,] he thought, raising an eyebrow. He took pride in the way the Narrator gasped.
“Wh— I am not,” he stammered, though his voice betrayed him. “Stanley you… you’re impossible, you know that? I don’t know why I made you the protagonist of my story. You know, I could just write a new story, without you in it! It would be so easy, Stanley! A stroke of a pen, and you’re gone. How do you imagine that?”
The Narrator’s triumphant tone was dashed immediately when Stanley laughed out loud. [You wouldn’t do that,] he declared confidently. [You like me too much.]
Truthfully, he was messing with the Narrator. He didn’t know if he fully believed the Narrator liked him, but he liked to think so. After all, he could remember the Zending Ending with perfect clarity. He regretted that one, too. He remembered the heartbreak in the Narrator’s voice as he jumped off the stairs over and over, and his own heart had nearly broken too. Not at the time, of course, but it had looking back.
The Narrator squeaked, and everything was still again. Stanley hugged his bucket. He imagined it whispering to him, “Stanley, leave him. Leave him, and let’s go off together.” But he stayed put on his chair, glancing over at the vending machine that never seemed to work.
“…Stanley?” The Narrator was quiet again, shyness overtaking his voice completely. Stanley looked back up and nodded. He imagined the Narrator tapping his fingers together nervously. He really had thought a lot about this, without even realizing it.
He heard a pen clicking. “I… really, I appreciate it. Your descriptions.” The Narrator laughed softly, yet bitterly. “I’m afraid you’re… very wrong about me, however.”
Well, Stanley couldn’t just ignore that. He raised an eyebrow, signing: ”What do you look like, then?” He practically vibrated with excitement at the idea of his burning question being answered. Even if his imagination was completely off the mark, he could adapt and overcome. He was good at that, after all.
The Narrator cleared his throat awkwardly. “I’d rather not say,” he said shiftily. “You’d only be disappointed.”
Oh, Stanley thought with wide eyes. He’s insecure? He thought back to Cookie9, and realized the Narrator always had been. Mostly about his writing, and constructive criticism. Though, he did admit that Cookie9 had been… less than constructive.
Stanley’s smile softened. ”I won’t judge you,” he signed with an expression he hoped was reassuring. He tried to channel the energy of his bucket, quiet and calming. ”I promise. I’ll accept you no matter what you look like.”
There was a long stretch of absolutely nothing. Even the buzz of the fluorescents and the never-ending tick of the clock seemed to grow still. Stanley wondered if he’d made a mistake and driven the Narrator off. Would the man reset? He had no idea how many details the Narrator remembered from ending to ending, and the idea of him forgetting everything just to stop being embarrassed… well, it hurt.
At last, though, the Narrator spoke. “I… I don’t…” Stanley heard a swallow. “I don’t look like anything.” Stanley frowned and raised an eyebrow, and the Narrator sighed heavily.
“I don’t exactly have a body, Stanley,” he admitted with a hoarse voice. When Stanley said nothing, the Narrator continued, clearly desperate to fill the air waves with something.
“I mean… I have a desk. I have tapes, I have cameras, I have my notes, but I don’t have hands. Or feet, or anything. I don’t know why I don’t have a body, but—“ His voice cracked, and he sounded like he was on the verge of tears. He took a few breaths, as if to compose himself, then sniffed. “It doesn’t really matter, though,” he said drily, unconvincingly. “It’s not like you’d see me, anyway.”
Something about that made Stanley absolutely, unbearably sad. [I’m sorry,] he thought softly. [I didn’t mean to upset you.] It wasn’t a lie. Stanley really hated hearing this side of the Narrator. Subdued, quiet, melancholic. That wasn’t his Narrator. His Narrator was loud, obnoxious, excitable and so, so funny.
Stanley stood up, taking his bucket with him. For once, it was an afterthought, hanging by his side as he slowly began to walk toward the exit of the employee lounge. He didn’t leave just yet, turning back to look at the ceiling. He knew the Narrator followed him everywhere, but the gesture was habitual.
”Narrator?” Stanley’s signing was slow, cautious. He heard shifting, and he briefly wondered how the Narrator could touch things without a body.
“…Yes, Stanley?” The Narrator was quiet.
The gears in Stanley’s head were turning. An idea sparked, and he adjusted the bucket so he could sign more freely. ”This whole story was written by you,” he said, raising an eyebrow pointedly.
“Yes, it was. What’s your point?” Some of the Narrator’s curiosity was returning. He was so easy to please sometimes, Stanley mused with a smile.
”Can you write anything into existence? Anything at all?”
“Yes…?” The Narrator paused. “I should think so, anyway. I’ve never technically tried. This world is crafted from my words, though, so I suppose…”
”Could you make yourself a body?” Stanley was rather proud of himself for coming up with that. Like he always said, the hardest problems required the simplest solutions. Or rather, like he’d said to himself since his coworkers disappeared.
Stanley resumed walking as the Narrator thought to himself. There was nothing telling him what to do as he began to make his way to his boss’s office, but he went anyway. He knew the way, and he remembered the code to the secret facility in the building. He could wait for the Narrator to finish ruminating on his idea.
As Stanley tromped upstairs, the Narrator made a sound halfway between clearing his throat and gasping. “I never thought about making a body,” he said, seemingly to himself. “It doesn’t make much sense, but… yes, yes I suppose I could. I could write myself an avatar of sorts. Oh— oh, Stanley, you’re brilliant!”
Stanley paused, halfway up the stairs. He smirked at the ceiling, warmth pooling in his stomach. [Brilliant?] he thought smugly. [I thought I was “ridiculous!”]
The Narrator scoffed, like he was rolling his eyes. The eyes Stanley knew didn’t exist. “Don’t ruin this for me,” he grumbled, though Stanley could hear a smile in his voice. How could a voice with no body still sound like he was still smiling?
”Well then,” Stanley signed, resuming his journey, ”What kind of body would you write? Since my imagination isn’t enough for you?” He was only teasing, but his words seemed to genuinely disturb the Narrator. Odd, Stanley thought to himself.
Papers shifted. “I— It wasn’t that bad,” the Narrator said awkwardly. “In fact, I… actually sort of like it…” His voice trailed off at the end, and he cleared his throat. He seemed to notice Stanley’s cheeky grin, and just as Stanley began to enter his boss’s office, the door slammed right in his face.
“Ow,” Stanley muttered out loud. The Narrator made a noise, as if to say serves you right. Stanley stuck out his tongue and made a rude gesture toward the ceiling, and the Narrator barked a condescending laugh.
“How mature of you,” he said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. The door swung open again with a loud creaaak, allowing Stanley to walk inside.
Stanley beelined for the keypad behind his boss’s desk. He would likely get fired for this if the Narrator ever disappeared, and if his boss ever came back, but he didn’t really care. For the hell of it, he began pressing random numbers as he projected his thoughts once more.
[So when do I get to see you,] Stanley asked, pressing “7777.” [In person, I mean? I’d love to see how you write what I imagined.]
Something inside of him was buzzing with warmth as he thought of the Narrator basing his body on his imagination. It was like having someone create fan art for something he’d created. He had inspired something, and it was almost enough to make him giggle and kick his feet.
The Narrator hummed. “I don’t know,” he mused. “It takes time to write, you know. Besides, I have to write more endings for us, and find ways to fix it when you inevitably screw it all up.” Despite his words, the Narrator seemed giddy. He was giggling, and the laughter was infectious.
Stanley smiled up at the ceiling, finally pressing in the actual code without even looking. The office shook, and the Narrator cleared his throat loudly. Remembering himself.
“Ah— yes, well… I’ll be working on that, certainly.” Shuffling papers and the scraping of a chair. “Now, shall we get on with the story?”
Stanley patted the side of his bucket, watching as the secret door opened in the wall. [Yes,] he thought with eager excitement. [We shall.]
God, he couldn’t wait to see the Narrator at the end.