Work Text:
Stanley was in the broom closet again. He sat on the cold, probably dirty floor, playing with a wire coiled nearby. The Narrator’s usual dialogue bounced around the closet.
“That, or with drug money. Also, Stanley is addicted to drugs and hookers.”
That line always made him want to laugh. Sex wasn’t his thing. Well, neither were drugs. Anyways, Stanley found the Narrator’s claim funny. Not only was he repulsed by the idea of having sex, but he had never even kissed anyone. He… also had no idea how to kiss someone.
Stanley had never bothered to tell the Narrator this. Mostly because it was unnecessary, and because he wasn’t sure if he wanted to give the Narrator another reason to laugh at him. Although to be a little honest, the omnipresent voice had a nice laugh. Even if it was meanly directed at Stanley.
“I hope you’re not thinking rude comments about me, Stanley,” the voice paused in its broom closet monologue to remark.
He grinned at the ceiling. He would never. No, he was simply thinking about what a kind, benevolent soul the Narrator had. Oh yes, the nicest disembodied voice Stanley had ever met.
“And the only one.”
Hey, the Narrator didn’t know that. What if Stanley had heard hundreds of voices, and concluded that the Narrator was the best?
“Is that so.”
No. Stanley lied.
“You mean you were being rhetorical?”
He shrugged. Whatever. Actually, seeing (hearing?) that the Narrator was off script, Stanley had some criticism.
“Oh, of course you do.”
That didn’t sound like a “no.”
“It wasn’t a ‘yes,’ either. Anywho, Stanley, I don’t have time to be listening to your complaints.”
That was funny. Hilarious, even, considering that they were in a time loop. The Narrator could lose everything and still have time-
“You know what? Take this-” A small piece of paper and a pencil appeared in front of Stanley. “And write down your input. I haven’t done this since those cursed numbered buttons, but what the hell? You — not the, ah, player — can try this time.”
And then the Narrator was back to bemoaning the fragility of humanity. Or something.
Stanley frowned at the ceiling, then at the piece of paper.
We’d love to hear from YOU! it cheerfully proclaimed. Please leave your questions, concerns, and comments below. We’ll address them as soon as we can!
He began drawing a miserably shaped middle finger, then decided he should just tell the Narrator directly.
Would the Narrator shut up for a minute and just listen to Stanley? This had been on his mind for a while, and he felt it was probably important for the Narrator to know! He wasn’t addicted to drugs and hookers because A) he didn’t have access to drugs of any kind, nor had any memory of ever using them, and B) he hated the very idea of having sex. Hell, he had never even touched anyone, and certainly not intimately!
Silence. The office worker suddenly wished a mostly infinite hole would appear beneath him. That was too mean. And, uh, maybe too much information.
The silence crawled on, barely interrupted by the sound of a keyboard clicking. Then, just as Stanley concluded that the Narrator given up on him and vanished, the closet door slowly opened. Someone poked their head inside, looking around until their eyes landed on Stanley.
“Oh, good, you’re still here,” the Narrator said. “I apologize for the dead air, if you will. Anyways-” he stepped inside, closing the door behind him. It then sat down next to Stanley. “I thought it’d be better if we discussed this, ah, in person.”
Stanley looked at the Narrator (he could do that now; amazing) for a few moments, then held up a hand. Give him, like, five minutes to process the fact that the Narrator was no longer a disembodied voice.
“Fine,” it replied with a soft scoff and sat on the floor next to Stanley. This gave the office worker a clear opportunity to fully examine the Narrator’s new form.
It was mostly human, save for the dozens of arrows attached to its back. Each was one of five colors: red, yellow, green, blue, and black. His hair was black too, though it was turning silvery gray in some areas. And streaked through it was red, yellow, green, and blue. Very similar to a certain zen room, whose ending Stanley would rather not remember.
The Narrator’s face appeared older than Stanley’s, worn down and wizened by the looping of time. Its eyes were a sharp contrast; brilliant and intelligent green, framed by square purple glasses. Stanley felt that while he could probably beat the Narrator physically, he was no match intellectually.
“I don’t know if I should perceive that as a compliment or a threat.”
Take it as a neutral observation. The glasses were nice, by the way. Stanley blinked. He wasn’t sure why he thought that. But that was a compliment.
A soft laugh, which inexplicably made Stanley feel warmer. “Thank you for the compliment, then.”
The rest of the Narrator’s outfit consisted of a white blouse, yellow skirt, and black flats. Stanley couldn’t resist grinning when he saw that the skirt was patterned with arrows. Unsurprising.
“At least it’s more creative than your ugly plaid.”
Rude. Maybe if the Narrator gave Stanley a wardrobe as nice as its own, then Stanley wouldn’t be stuck with “ugly plaid” all the time.
“You think my clothing is nice?” it asked quietly, any previous sarcasm gone.
Stanley looked down at the paper with his “feedback,” then crumpled it. His face felt way too hot. Well, yeah, he did think the Narrator’s clothes were nice. Really pretty, actually. Though not as beautiful as the Narrator himself.
A beat passed. Oh, god, why did he say that? It wasn’t a lie, sure, but also not something he should have told the Narrator, especially when he had no idea what prompted him to say that or why he was feeling this way! He covered his face with his hands, not wanting to see the other’s expression.
He was so sorry. If the Narrator wanted to go back to being a bodiless voice and disregard everything Stanley had ever thought, that would be just fine with him. Perfect, even. Then Stanley would never have to think about all these weird feelings that seemed to have multiplied when he saw the Narrator’s physical form.
The realization hit Stanley like a tractor that is sometimes mistaken for a bucket.
He was in love with the Narrator.
That fluttering in his chest whenever the voice went off script to address him directly; the wish that his mannequin wife was not a plastic wife but a flesh and blood husband, perhaps with a honey coated smooth voice; the little leaps of his heart during the Countdown Ending when the Narrator’s voice nearly dipped into a growl; that nagging thought he always had during the Freedom Ending of how he’d love to live in that world (even if it was fictional) with the Narrator — it all fell under the battered yet sturdy umbrella of love.
“Is that so, Stanley? Because I must admit-” A warm smile, one that nearly made Stanley melt. “I’m in love with you too.” He paused, and Stanley was terrified of what the Narrator would say next. Hahaha! Gotcha! Oh, if only you could see your face right now, Stanley. Did you really think anyone could love you?
“Stanley! My god, do you really think I would say that?” The Narrator stared at him, hurt and shocked and very much like a kicked puppy. “I was being sincere when I said I loved you. Do you… not believe me?”
No! No, he did! He really did! He was just so deeply uncertain about everything; it was murky, uncharted waters for him. Stanley tried to smile, and hoped that everything he couldn’t put into words was conveyed to the Narrator. He watched as the other’s crestfallen expression slowly faded. A drop of relief splashed into his mind. Suppose it was a good thing the Narrator could read his thoughts.
“Yes, a good thing indeed,” it murmured.
Wait, what was the Narrator actually going to say then? Before Stanley, well, interrupted.
“Oh! I- I was going to ask if you would be okay with me touching you.”
Stanley’s response was immediate: Yes yes yes please please please let me have this- Then he realized the sheer desperation of said response. Uh, yeah, that was fine. Ignore whatever he thought the first time.
The Narrator took the office worker’s hand. “As you wish, love,” he replied softly.
Stanley took the Narrator’s other hand, intertwining their fingers. Sweet talker. Yet he was grinning goofily, and his face was probably as red as the Countdown Ending’s timer (if the heat he felt was any indication).
“I’ll take that as a compliment. Besides,” the Narrator practically purred, “I know you enjoy hearing me talk.”
Stanley gently smacked the Narrator in response.
“Ack- that was extremely rude of you, Stanley! After all those sappy, sugary love confessions we exchanged, that is how you treat me??”
He snickered. Yeah, just because he and the Narrator confessed their undying love to each other didn’t mean Stanley was going to treat it any differently.
“Well, I was certainly planning on treating you differently.”
How so? He still had that teasing, unserious silliness.
“By kissing you, if I may?”
Stanley froze. Right. Right, that was something couples did. Probably. Well, certainly, if the Narrator was talking about it. But that felt a bit sudden. Was it sudden? He couldn’t deny the hunger he felt for the Narrator’s touch. But Stanley wasn’t sure if he wanted that right now-
“If you don’t,” the Narrator said softly. “Then that’s perfectly fine with me.”
He… did not want that yet. This was enough for him. Stanley took its hands, its wonderfully warm hands, and held them to his cheeks. And he was so so grateful to his Narrator for understanding that.
“I care not about what other couples normally do.” It smiled. “Who needs to follow someone else’s standards anyway? That seems to be your favorite maxim. I do think it’s important to let you have a say in this story.” Its thumbs gently rubbed Stanley’s cheekbones as it gave a content hum.
“Because Stanley, you are more than the protagonist now. You are the co-author.”