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Stanley is unhappy.
It’s clear in the way he practically sulks through the parable, in the expression on his face, in the sharp way he gestures as he signs.
Stanley is unhappy, and the Narrator doesn’t know why. He’s given him anything a human could need in this place, hasn’t he? He doesn’t need to eat, or do any of those repetitive human things, but hasn’t the Narrator given him enough to be happy? He has a story, for one; has companionship in the form of his Narrator; has ample time to rest. Is Stanley unhappy with the game? Is he unhappy with the Narrator? Has the Narrator done something wrong? What can he do to fix this? To make Stanley happy?
The Narrator hems and haws over it all day, trying to be tactful, to not upset Stanley further. It’s as if he’s metaphorically walking over metaphorical eggshells, his words softer than usual, his insistence less… insistent. But he can’t live in this uncertainty for long, can’t keep going with the knowledge that Stanley is unhappy—it just won’t do!
So, finally, the Narrator asks.
“Stanley, um. I promise you that I don’t mean to be rude. It’s just that… you seem unhappy, and I’d like to know if there is anything I can do to help.”
And Stanley jerks his head up toward the ceiling, as he tends to do when directly addressing the Narrator, with a furious expression.
The Narrator fumbles. “Is—is it the game, Stanley? Are you unhappy with the game?”
Stanley rolls his eyes angrily and signs a sharp no.
“Is… have I done something to upset you, Stanley?”
Stanley presses his fingers to the bridge of his nose, signing an even sharper, angrier no. Then a yes. Then an I don’t know.
The Narrator grows even more nervous, unsure of how to receive that. “If I’ve done something to offend you, I do apologize. I… I only want you to be happy.”
That doesn’t seem to make things better though, because Stanley gives an incredulous expression, a shocked, sarcastic-sounding laugh.
Happy, he signs. Yeah, right.
“I-it’s true!” The Narrator insists. Does Stanley not know that? Does he not believe it?
You don’t know the first thing about my happiness.
The Narrator is taken aback by the anger in his expression. That… is that really true? But why hasn’t Stanley mentioned this before? Sure, they’re both limited by the parable, but can’t they be happy anyways?
“What… what can I do to make you happier? You must believe I want to make you happier!”
Oh, I don’t know, Stanley punctuates his gestures with irritable expressions, food? Sleep? The ability to go outside? Other humans, maybe? I’m alone in here, I haven’t touched another person in… in…
In however long they’ve been here, together.
Stanley’s eyes grow teary, and, oh. This must be the crux of the problem, then.
“You… you aren’t alone, Stanley…” The Narrator can’t keep the hurt from seeping into his voice. Sure, he isn’t human, but… is his company not enough? Are they not friends?
Stanley’s face crumples, all the anger leaving it in an instant.
I know, he signs dejectedly. I know. His hands curl into fists at his side as he tries to keep himself from crying, and the Narrator’s nonexistent heart aches. Stanley takes one deep breath, then another, and finally he sighs. You aren’t the problem.
“Stanley, there must be something I can do,” the Narrator tries.
There isn’t, Stanley signs, with a sense of finality, and stubbornly returns to making his way through the parable.
But there has to be something he can do, the Narrator decides. There is something he can do. If Stanley needs physical companionship—if Stanley needs touch—the Narrator will find a way.
And so he spends a good while—is there any real way to measure time here? He spends the amount of time it takes for Stanley to go through many runs of the parable—tinkering with the game, repurposing some old textures, rewriting a few scripts here and there. Not anything that Stanley would notice, and he doesn’t slack in his duties of keeping the story running, but finally, the next time Stanley takes a detour to the employee lounge, he’s ready.
“Stanley decided that now was as good a time as any to take a break, and so he sat down on the slightly worn couch to rest.”
Stanley looks up at the ceiling, raising an eyebrow. This wasn’t a part of the normal script.
“Yes, yes, I know,” says the Narrator, followed by a nervous pause. “I… have something I’d like to show you, Stanley.”
And so Stanley crosses the room and—evidently, just to spite him—sits on the coffee table rather than the couch.
The Narrator huffs, but doesn’t comment. This is too important for him to start a spat about Stanley’s poor listening habits.
“Just… hold on a minute, alright?”
Stanley nods.
And, with a few last-minute tweaks, the Narrator is ready.
He walks through the door at the other side of the lounge.
This form is perfect. He’s just as Stanley has imagined him to look—he knows this because Stanley has talked to him about it before, in hypotheticals: I always picture you with glasses; I picture you with graying hair. Yes, this form will be immediately recognizable to Stanley, the Narrator is sure. He even knows he has the textures right, because he’s used the same ones as Stanley has. He is perfectly human, like this.
The Narrator smiles.
And as soon as he sees him, Stanley stands with a start, eyes wide, hand over his heart as if he’s been given a great scare.
“W-wait, Stanley, it’s only me,” the Narrator rushes to reassure him, waving his new, physical hands about. “I’m sure this is quite a shock, but…” he trails off at the expression on Stanley’s face.
Furious, just like before.
Had… had the Narrator miscalculated? Is his physical form not perfectly designed? Is this not what Stanley wanted?
He takes a step forward, and Stanley tries to take a step back, backing into the coffee table, anger and fear warring in his expression.
“Stanley?” He tries, voice quieter now. He doesn’t understand. This was supposed to make Stanley happy. Why isn’t Stanley happy?
Stanley’s eyes narrow, his cheeks flushing with anger as he finally takes a step toward the Narrator.
The Narrator steps forward, too, and now they’re almost within touching distance.
Stanley raises his arm, and for a moment, the Narrator is quite terrified that Stanley is going to hit him. Stanley grabs the lapel of his jacket tightly in his fist, and the Narrator tenses, his eyes closing of their own accord as he flinches—
But the hit never comes. Slowly, the Narrator opens one eye, then the other.
Stanley has begun to cry.
This, of course, only confuses the Narrator further: it seems his grasp on human emotion is still very weak, because this is wholly unexpected. Moreso when Stanley reaches weakly for his jacket with his other hand, too, holding the Narrator in shaking fists as the tears begin to fall.
“Stanley?” The Narrator tries again, because he has no clue how else to react, how he might soothe and fix and help.
Stanley shakes his head, and his whole body begins to shake, too. He folds himself against the Narrator’s chest, his back bowed over, his legs refusing to support his whole weight. Alarmed, the Narrator’s arms wind round his back, trying to keep him steady, but that act sets off a strange reaction in his human form, his sensors overloaded as he attempts to keep them both standing.
At last, he fails, and the two of them—human and pseudo-human both—fall to their knees, Stanley clinging to the Narrator, the Narrator clinging to Stanley, both their hands shaking. Stanley lets out a broken sob into the Narrator’s chest, and what can the Narrator do except what comes naturally? He brings his hand up and down his back, his voice only breaking a little bit as he attempts words of comfort for them both.
“I... I only meant to help,” his voice is so quiet, this close to Stanley’s ear. “I thought... I thought you needed this. I don’t understand.”
And Stanley shakes his head, trembling from head to toe, but he doesn’t let go of the Narrator’s jacket, doesn’t attempt to move away, doesn’t do anything but cling to him and cry.
But the trembling only gets worse, and suddenly, Stanley’s grip grows weak.
And Stanley collapses in the Narrator’s arms.
---
The transition from unconsciousness to consciousness is one that Stanley knows well: it happens at the end of every run, every time he is reset. So, as usual, Stanley expects to open his eyes to his empty computer screen, its green blinking command unfulfilled, the voice above his head that knows all. This is the way things go. So when Stanley blinks his eyes open to the sight above him, he is very confused for a moment—at least until his memories click into place. The ringing of his ears subsides, and there is the voice he knows so well, his constant companion... but that voice is attached to a person, now. A person with glasses and graying hair and a frown he would know anywhere.
“...ley, please answer me, are you alright?”
Stanley manages a shaky nod, and the Narrator’s eyes widen.
“Oh Stanley, I’m so glad you’re okay,” he says, “I was so worried.”
And yes, that is worry written plainly across his face—his face, his tangible face—as he wrings his hands.
Stanley begins to cry again. There is far too much emotion in his mind at the moment; seeing the Narrator in a human form, after all this time...? He doesn’t understand. Doesn’t know what to do. Doesn’t know what he wants. (He wants to pull the Narrator to him, wants to feel his weight, his solidity, his warmth. He resists these impulses.)
“I’m sorry,” the Narrator says, and how often does he sincerely apologize? “I wanted to make you happy, Stanley. I only wanted to make you happy.” The Narrator looks like he might cry, too.
Stanley shifts, and it takes him time to explain, his hands heavy as he signs: it isn’t that I’m unhappy. I wasn’t expecting this. It’s a lot to deal with when I haven’t so much as seen another human in… his hands fall to his sides slowly.
The Narrator nods, his eyes teary. He wears his emotions on his sleeve in this form, Stanley thinks. Stanley can practically read his thoughts on his face. He believes what the Narrator said, that he had been trying to make Stanley happy. It isn’t as if he could have predicted this outcome. It isn’t as if Stanley could have predicted that this was even possible.
This is... something they’re going to have to deal with very slowly.
Stanley gives a great sigh. This has exhausted him, though he can’t bear the thought of leaving the Narrator now, of making him sad.
Your human form is very good, Stanley tells him, giving the slightest smile as he brightens at the praise.
Where do they even go from here? What do they even do now? Stanley doesn’t know, and he’ll bet that the Narrator hasn’t exactly thought that far ahead.
But, slowly, carefully, Stanley holds out his hand, and the Narrator takes it.
Stanley tries not to dwell on the way it makes his face grow warm.
Perhaps... perhaps this is as much as they can manage for now.
Perhaps Stanley needs sleep.
Perhaps he could curl up on the couch for a bit, and perhaps the Narrator could sit beside him, holding his hand just like this.
And perhaps Stanley could be happy.