Archive of Our Own ^beta

Office chair? Check. 

Race track? Thumbs up to The Adventure Line(™), and check. 

Safety helmet? … close enough. Check.

“Stanley, really?”

Stanley dropped the Bucket onto his head.

“You know that’s not how helmets work, don’t you? Yes, while it’s true that a physical barrier between you and the source of impact is a crucial part of a helmet's resume, that hardly means anything without all the padding in between! Without that, you go from potentially slamming your head against some drywall or carpeted floor, to a sheet of metal. Really, Stanley, you tell me which of these choices seem more appealing to you, because it certainly doesn't seem very appealing to me.”

True, but most helmets didn’t make you feel this good about your decision. That he knew of. Stanley rolled his shoulders once before letting them slump, a content humm drifting out of him. The bucket was like a warm blanket across his shoulders, or a friend offering a supporting hand. Or a helmet that'd definitely protect him if he were to hit his head. When he finally pushed the Bucket up enough to see, the grin on his face was lazy, relaxed. The Buckets influence sweeping everything else aside. Yes, Stanley thought to himself. This was a wonderful idea.

“It most certainly is not.”

That’s what you think. 

At his feet, The Line(™) lazily rolled across the floor as it(™) waited for their game to start- which, in this circumstance, meant that The Line(™) was rapidly ping ponging between the furniture like it was trying to get a high score in The Stanley Parable Pinball Version. For The Line(™), that was practically the equivalent of falling asleep at the wheel. For the most part, it(™) was doing a good job avoiding knocking Stanley over, though Stanley wouldn’t deny having to step aside now and again to avoid the flash of yellow streaking past underfoot. In all fairness, The Line(™) was never meant to be cooped up in a space as small as this for so long.

Speaking of which, it was about time Stanley got this whole thing rolling, wasn’t it?

Stanley gave the Bucket on his head one last adjustment, just to make sure it was secure, before practically leaping onto one of the chairs scattered across the office. The thing jerked forwards from the momentum, slamming into the side of its respective desk.  It was your standard asset- a boring, stock chair that rolled along the carpeted floor easily enough. Which was perfect, that was exactly what he needed right now. Stanley straddled the chair, holding onto the back of the seat, grin growing that extra bit wider in a way that had nothing to do with the Bucket. Then he kicked his leg back, propelling himself forward. 

He made a test loop around the office cubicles just to be sure he had a good handle on the thing. There wasn’t enough space for him to really pick up any speed before he was turning, but he was getting a good feel for how often he should kick back before he was wasting effort for no real gain. Already, the Narrator was sighing at his actions, and he hasn’t even really started yet! Stanley huffed under his breath, rolling his eyes under the brim of the Bucket, and began a second loop around the room- well. He tried anyway. A stanchion was set up across the back of the office that definitely hadn’t been there a moment ago.

Hmm. Stanley wondered who could have possibly put the thing there?

Well then- guess that was it for his test stage. Feeling more confident than was probably safe in this sort of workplace environment, Stanley gave a thumbs up to the Adventure Line(™)- which had been circling Stanley’s chair as he made his slow, lazy loop around the room. Of course, it had outpaced him, spinning a dozen times before Stanley had even finished half of his first one- the concept of escorts and slow moving NPC’s briefly flashed across his mind. It didn’t last long, however, as The Adventure Line(™) responded to his signal by smashing through one of the formerly closed doors leading out of the office. That was followed by a much softer, now distant, sound of it(™) smashing through several more, leaving only the streaks of yellow line behind for him to follow. 

The Narrator made a point in sighing louder.

Not that disappointing him had ever stopped Stanley before- with a kick, Stanley followed after, through a room he normally only managed to access when he’d successfully confused the Narrator beyond all sense of direction, and onto the concrete floor beyond. Now that he was free of the office’s (shitty) carpet his newly acquired mode of transport rolled freely, nearly causing Stanley to topple right over when he was unprepared for the lurch forward he’d get. The Bucket tipped forward at the jolt and covered his eyes, forcing him to come to a stop to fix it. In doing so, he stopped himself from plowing into a pile of boxes. See? A helmet was a good idea after all! The Narrator scoffed at him.

Normally, The Line(™) would weave him back through the office spaces, attempting to lead him to the Story in a journey that… Stanley was never entirely sure if it(™) was successful or not. But that was work, and this was messing around when they should have been working. Instead, The Line(™) took a sharp turn down the hall, uncaring of the Narrator’s obstacles. As evident by the boxes that had been flung to one side of the path, half of them smashed open in the process. Barely, Stanley could make out the Narrator grumbling about it as he passed the wreckage, though he was more invested in experimenting with how much easier it was to twist and spin around in his chair here then it had been back on the carpet to pay the words much mind.

From there The Line(™) had broken open a door to a room Stanley had never been to before. This, this right here was what the whole adventure was about. Trying something new, getting lost in an adventure, and coming out the other end with something new to experiment with in future runs. Stanley followed after with a gleeful spin to his kick, grabbed hold of the doorframe, and swung himself around and inside. And then Stanley couldn’t see anything. 

At first, he assumed he’d run into a loading zone. Up until his lazy roll forward, maintained from his entry into the room, resulted in him bumping right up into something that rattled at him. Stanley jolted and reached out a hand to brace himself, finding a metal frame and a box that was starting to come into view. Stanley blinked a handful of times, and let his eyes adjust to the light. Apparently, the Narrator didn’t feel like turning on the lights for him.

“My my, someone’s getting spoiled. Next you’ll throw a tantrum when I expect you to close your own doors.”

Stanley found himself inside a dim, claustrophobic-inducing room. It was lined with rows and rows of high reaching storage racks, which, rather than simply going straight from one end of the room to the next, twisted and turned into each other. It wasn't quite a maze per se, Stanley got the impression there was a pattern to these placements, if only he could have seen the room from above. But from the vantage point he had to work with, and the limited light,  it would clearly be difficult to navigate through without knocking anything over. Even if he had been on foot.

Perfect.

If he went slow and steady, the room probably wouldn't be much of an issue. But where was the fun in that? Stanley wanted ample challenge here, while still attempting to keep as much speed as possible. He just needed to throw himself to the side here and there, curving his momentum or slingshot himself in a new direction entirely, spinning widely around in circles from the momentum in his little game. The units rattled as he went soaring by, but so long as he didn’t knock anything free, he wouldn't count it as a failure.

“Oh, so now there’s a win condition. Wonderful.”

Yes, yes it was. Stanley spun himself in a circle once for good luck, and set off down a new aisle. He honestly wasn't even sure how to get out of this place, as The Line(™) had chosen to navigate this room on the walls to disappear behind a clump of box-heavy shelving. But it didn’t loop back out the door, so Stanley could only assume there was, in fact, another door somewhere. 

For now he was focused on making it through this room unscathed. He nearly ran over his foot bringing himself to a full stop right before a sharp turn, and kicked himself down the next aisle. That however turned out to be a dead end, forcing him to scramble back and down another, and there wasn’t enough space to turn all the way around before he hit the end of his makeshift runway, so he had to make a blind turn and grab onto the corner of one of the units as he passed, spinning into the next stretch. 

Stanley would have been laughing as he went, if only he was capable of sound. All this topsy-turvy, turn on a dime momentum was going straight to his head, making him feel lightheaded and woozy. Like that time he’d decided to see how long he could do a headstand, which had lasted until the Narrator had started to sound drunk to him. Which- speaking of which, why wasn't he commenting on this? Look at all this nail biting action Stanley was accomplishing, surely the Narrator had a thing or two to say about how cool Stanley looked right now?

"You look like an idiot."

Close enough!

With how fast he was spinning, Stanley had to keep one hand on the Bucket just to keep it in place. Which is probably why he lost control and slammed sideways into one of the shelves. (Definitely had nothing to do with him getting careless). He hissed out a sharp breath- more out of surprise than pain, which was covered by the sounds of miscellaneous clatters and crunching of object hitting the floor. He peaked between the shelves he'd just knocked clear, and- oh, that was a mess alright.

Well. There went his first time perfect clear streak. He probably should have felt worse about the mess he'd just caused- but… the Bucket eased those feelings over. And on he went!

Not that it would've lasted much longer anyways, as he failed a handful times more. Either he couldn’t stop himself in time and slammed a shoulder into one of the shelves, or something caught on the edge of his chair. Spare office supplies- pencils and staplers and the like- hit the floor, and at one point he knocked over a small pallet covered in loose paper, which scattered to the four corners of the room like the world's most depressing party popper. 

It wasn’t too bad. Most damage it did was to his pride- sure, it created an additional hazard here and there, made him slow down more than he'd have liked. But even if something broke, it’d all be put back in order in the next reset anyways. 

The Narrator hummfed at that one. "Oh yes, sure. Leave it all to me to pick up after you, same as always. Why, it's not like I had a story to get back to anything! No, nooooo- why, it seems I've got all the free time in the world, Stanley." There was a thump- if Stanley had to guess, he'd say a stack of papers was just dropped onto a desk. Followed by the currently-unmistakable creaking of someone leaning back in an office chair. "Oh, no no no, in fact, why don't you just keep messing around down there, and I'll be right along after to tidy up your mess. Does that sound good to you?"

Stanley’s foot dug into the ground, bringing his wild ride to a grinding halt. His brow furrowed as he stared absently at a tan box resting on one shelf. Did… did the Narrator need to manually put everything back when things reset? Did he come in here- from wherever he was- and put everything back in place while Stanley was out like a light? It wasn’t automatic? Was that what this storage was for- spares in case Stanley lost or broke something? The thought of the Narrator- a real, physical Narrator- wondering these halls just didn't sit right with Stanley.

(Of course, the Bucket tried to push those thoughts out of his head the moment they made him slightly uncomfortable. Stanley, who wanted to think about this right now thank you very much, pushed back against its influence. But it was a losing battle on his end, and frankley, was making him a little queasy to go around in circles like that.)

The Narrator scoffed. “Of course it’s automatic, Stanley. Really. What do you take me for, some maid following you around sweeping up your mess? As if. I have better uses of my time.” 

Great! Stanley shoved a crate containing boxes of pencils off the nearest shelf, which spectacularly broke apart when it hit the ground and sent pencils scattering in every direction. It didn't go nearly as far as the papers had- created more of a flattened anthill than anything, but it was extremely satisfying. He’d already ruined his run anyways, and the way the Narrator sputtered in half-formed responses was more than worth it. Sure, it also made it extremely difficult to wheel his way out of the final stretch of storage, but Stanley was nothing if not stubborn. 

"But Stanley was so eager to get back to his childish games and his misuse of office equipment, that he didn't stop to consider how unwieldy the chair would become once he'd freed the final leg from the pencil pit and went careening full speed out of the room."

"Maybe, Stanley thought after introducing his face to the brick wall outside, I should have listened to the Narrator earlier and found a better way of protecting my head. Why, I could have even grabbed the pillow- the very one the Bucket had been resting on, and stuffed it inside the Bucket in place of more traditional padding!"

… ow.

Outside was more hall and more rooms- Stanley had always been surprised at how decorated this place was, for how little he was meant to see of it. He passed through a locker room with employee numbers printed across them (but he couldn't find his- it ended somewhere in the 300's), and another with a projector currently flipping its way through a presentation about launching presentations, and all the mechanics you needed to know about. Starting with the evaluation of mankind. Stanley didn't bother sticking around to find out where this one was going.

There was even one that seemed to be a small lunchroom of sorts, with cabinets and a fridge, counters and a cheap folding table that he barely managed to squeeze his chair through. If he managed to convince The Line(™) to do this run again, he'd definitely stop to rummage around a bit, see if it was as well stocked as everything else in this place seemed to be. Maybe he could even show the Narrator how to make an everything bagel sandwich smoothie!

"You make that, I'll make you eat it."

Okay, never mind.

Speaking of The Line(™),  in true fashion, it(™) was getting harder to follow as this went on. It(™) was ducking under tables, weaving in and out of narrow passageways, ducking out one window only to reappear at another a few rooms down. Not that Stanley hadn't expected this per say, it was very much in The Lines(™) character. It was just making it(™) a tad harder to follow when Stanley had resigned himself to spending the whole run zooming around the place on an office chair. 

The sound the Narrator made was somewhere between a balloon deflating and a gawf.

"Oh. Oh is that how it is? Yes, I suppose so. Makes as much sense as anything else you do, I suppose."

Stanley felt confused. What were they talking about again?

"Nothing really. It's just that when I painstakingly try to guide you through the story I handcrafted for you specifically, you always find some way of deviating from the main course." The sound of rustling papers underlines his worlds, like they were being straightened on a desk. "But the Adventure Line(™) runs off into the unknown without nary a care if you'll follow or not, and you start complaining that it's not holding your hand enough?"

Ah, Stanley thought. Okay, so that was where they were at. Okay, look, first of all-

"I mean, really. What am I even doing here, when you've clearly got a guide already?" More shuffling of papers, along with the creek of a chair. Standing up? It sounded like someone was rapidly tapping that stack against a desk, in an effort to organize them. Or workout frustration. "I'm going to go make myself a cup of tea now, Stanley. You just keep on doing whatever it is you think you're accomplishing."

And then it was silent.

His chair rolled to a slow stop, out in one of the hallways. The buzzing from the overhead lights seemed louder now, all of a sudden, and Stanley was fairly sure he could even pick up the rumbling of water pipes in the distance if he focused. It was like a white noise machine- one that had always accompanied the Narrator until Stanley just didn't notice it anymore- had been shut off.

Huh.

Stanley kept rolling around for a bit- at this point, he was starting to recognize the same rooms all over again and- well. He had asked for a track, which by definition had to loop back into itself at some point. And he had lost sight of The Line(™) at this point anyways. It(™) had probably gotten sick of being confined to the inner confines of the office and finally broken out of a ceiling somewhere so it(™) could finally stretch itself(™) out.

He brought the chair to a full stop just outside the door leading back to the office, pulling the bucket off his head in the same motion as he stood up. For a few moments he froze there, simply holding the Bucket, before he took a deep breath, set it on the chair, and let go.

It wasn’t that it felt awful to let the Bucket go or anything. It was just- he was returned to the baseline, to his normal emotional state of the moment. But, when you'd just spent the last however-long in a comfortable, easy bliss, all those other emotions hit like a truck, knocking the air out of Stanley’s lungs. It wasn't unlike pulling a warm blanket off your shoulders to what you first assume to be a freezing room. Sure, you could just rush right back under the covers, or you could accept that no, the room was a perfectly normal temperature, you just needed to give yourself time to adjust. The first few (dozen?) runs he’d had the thing, Stanley had practically refused to let the thing go, bolting to its place on the pedestal at the start of every run and clinging to it the entire time. 

He’d only stopped when the Narrator had tricked him into getting rid of his Bucket and forced him to go cold turkey for a few rounds. Just until he’d calmed down from its loss enough to promise the Narrator he’d be more responsible with it.

Also, his face hurt a lot more than he’d realized while he was still under the Bucket's influence. 

Stanley lifted a finger to his nose and hissed immediately, jerking it back to discover a streak of blood now running across it. Ah. That probably wasn't good. Back to the first office then- once, while rummaging around other peoples things mostly just to annoy the Narrator, he'd discovered some band aids in one of his fellow employees' desks. Hopefully he didn’t need more than that, and if he did, thank resets.

The walk was. Quiet.

It was jarring in a way Stanley hadn’t been expecting. Yes, he knew the Narrator wasn’t present at the moment, but took a few minutes for the silence to really sink in. To walk back through doors that normally locked behind him, but now swung open with a light tap, and not hear a single quip or complaint about Stanley not following his story correctly. While the Narrator was never that chatty at the start, (preferring to wait until he'd seen if Stanley was willing to listen to him or not before exerting the energy needed to properly chastise him), even he had his limits. By the time Stanley had applied the band-aid to his face, having used the reflection caused by the glaring light from the window to turn the computer monitor into a makeshift mirror- the Narrator would have gotten long since bored of his actions.

And spinning around in an office chair just wasn't as fun after what he just went through. Stanley let himself slow to a stop, which ended with him facing the door leading out of this room and further into the office. He tapped his foot a few times, before standing in one swift motion and kicking the chair back into place.

He didn't leave, not yet.

Instead, he started pacing the room, around the printer. He’d been sitting for long enough he definitely needed an excuse to stretch his legs, and after walking these halls for so long the act of performing forward momentum was almost… calming, in a strange way. Put his mind at ease. Something to distract his body while his mind wondered. He stuck his hands in his pockets as he walked, with no designation except the spot he'd started in.

So, all in all, a perfectly normal day in his life. The only difference was that the Narrator wasn't here to throw out a snide comment for every little thing Stanley did. It was almost peaceful around here, imagine that! Stanley kicked a box over in passing. Look at that! He was misbehaving again already!

…

…

…

Hello?

…

… Huh.

He wasn’t truly left alone much, regardless of what the Narrator said at the beginning of each run. By all accounts, it was normally much harder to get a moment without the Narrator metaphorically breathing down his neck than it was to get a moment of silence.  He leaned against a filing cabinet as he looked around, idly clicking his tongue. Stanley supposed he had the run of the place until the Narrator got back which… tea, he'd said? How long did tea take to make? Was he simply going to stand over a pot and watch it boil?

It seemed in character for him.

Stanley grinned wide, let a giggle escape his throat. He could just imagine the man tapping a foot and crossing his arms, complaining to the teapot it wasn’t heating his water fast enough! Maybe he’d even start telling it how to transfer the heat better! Oh, and just imagine the Narrator giving the teapot the countdown speech! The fun of that mental image passed quickly, however. It was always hard to get positive emotions to stick in his brain for very long after he'd just handled the Bucket. Stanley sighed, shook his limbs out, and tried to move his mind onto the next thought.

He felt like he needed to do something while the Narrator was out, have a little fun of his own. The only issue is, he wasn't sure what he could actually… do. The endings felt like they'd just be… boring without hearing what the Narrator had to say about them, assuming he could get into them at all. He’d already had his fun with his little detour, and he’d like to take a break before trying his run again. Give himself time to really digest his first attempt, and come back swinging with a new plan. He could always go make a bigger mess of the storage room, or revisit that kitchen, see how much of a ruckus it would take to get the Narrator to pay attention to him ag-

No. Nope. Stanley wanted to save that for a future race of his. See if he could beat his current time, which he hadn’t actually kept track of. Shoot. Besides, he wasn’t actually sure if there was any good way to keep track without just… remembering it. Oh! Maybe he could write something on the walls while the Narrator wasn't here to stop him! Even add a doodle or two! Stanley nodded and pivoted his way in the direction of the two doors, where the meeting room lay. There'd be plenty of good markers there.

… It was strange, to deliberately head towards the first key junction of the story without the Narrator there. And to be able to mess around with the stuff on the other employees desks without anyone reprimanding him for it. Fun,  but also a bit. Empty. 

Maybe Stanely should just tell himself the story. He certainly knew the opening well enough by heart anyways. But telling himself what to do felt like it flew in the face of everything he stood for, and besides. That was h- the Narrator’s story to tell. He’d be upset if he came back to further 'proof' that Stanley 'didn't need him'. Who knew how big a fit he’d throw at that point.

Stanley rolled his eyes, but was smiling at the thought none the same. So, not that story, what else. Why was he here, alone, at the office? Stanley hovered next to employee 318's desk, looking it up and down. Maybe….

Maybe everyone else was sick, except for Stanley! And instead of just shutting the place down until more of the staff got better, they'd asked Stanley to come into work anyways for… tax reasons. He wasn’t even expected to do any work, he just needed to hang around the office for a bit. He could goof around to his heart's content, and no one got to tell him what to do!

Oh, this was fun. And he was already achieving his goal, without having to shuffle himself through a bunch of doors and across the building! And! His little joyride was plot relevant now, look at him go! See, Narrator, that was how you integrated elements into a Plot. Stanley was practically skipping as he approached the two doors and headed into the right one- because he'd never been good at following directions, honestly, even his own. Besides, without the Narrator, the doors stayed open on their own, and he could always slip into the meeting room and backtrack with a marker of his choice in a bit.

Right now, he wanted to relax in the employee lounge. It would be a long work day here by himself, after all. He could even go up to his bosses office, and no one could stop him from drinking that fancy champagne off to one side of the- no. No. Heading up there was too close to the Narrator’s version of events, he wanted to make something of his own here. Besides… hmm… Stanley hated his boss! Why would he ever willingly go up there if he didn't have to?

Stanley let himself flop down onto the couch, one hand lazily brushing the floor, the other thrown across his chest. He liked to imagine that the employee lounge was normally packed- people always coming and going, hanging out by the water cooler, maybe some people even brought laptops in here to work from. So getting to stretch out on the couch like this was a real treat. He kicked a leg up onto the arm rest and stretched, until something in his back made an audible pop. It felt good, and Stanley sunk into the cushions with an long, drawn out sigh.

… why couldn’t he-

Oh. 

Ah. 

He was prepared to hear the Narrate berate him for dilly dallying in this room. It was just what he was used to, and a part of him had been keeping an ear out for the familiar annoyed tones. Now aware of where his discomfort was coming from, Stanley brushed the thought from his mind and went back to relaxing. Yup. He definitely wasn’t fixating on the buzzing of the lights or the rumbling coming from the motor in the vending machine, waiting to hear the stream of background noise broken by a familiar voice. He definitely didn’t clench his jaw and wonder what was taking the man so long, how hard was it to make tea anyways? No, he was very patiently, very contently, waiting for the Narrator to get- he meant he was enjoying his break. 

With a huff he rolled over onto his side, running a hand along the stiff cushion to distract himself. It made a soft scratching noise when he ran his fingernails over it, and the stiff fabric made his fingertips itch. He wondered what it was made of, exactly. Stanley was no expert on textiles, but he wondered if it was one of those half-plastic ones that never broke down right and was bad for the environment. Probably super cheap. He could just imagine what the Narrator would say about this, what a waste of time it was for-

Stanley flopped back over. First time he’d been free of the voice in who knows how long, and he was already missing his Narrator. What did he need him for, anyways? Stanley was plenty good at entertaining himself! It’s not like he’d do much but berate Stanley for laying around anyways. Get all huffy about him going back to the task on hand, as though he had to accommodate anyone's schedule but his own. Hmm.

A spare thought from earlier, the Narrator wandering around the office sorting things into place, drifted back across his head. Stanley could just imagine him, going from room to room in search of where Stanley had gotten off to, only to find him lazing about on the couch. He’d stomp over louder than was necessary, looming over Stanley with his arms crossed and foot tapping a rhythm into the carpet.

He'd snap at Stanley that he really ought to get back to work, and Stanley would just laugh at him, ‘cause there wasn’t anyone else here to tell them what to do- they were all home sick, remember? It was just the two of them today! They could do whatever they wanted! To punctuate his point, would cross his legs on the arm rest and fold his hands under his head, giving the Narrator the cheekiest grin he could manage.

And the Narrator would sigh and tell Stanley that was a wonderful attitude to get fired for. That was no excuse to slack off work- they were still in the office, after all, and even if all their coworkers were sick, they weren’t, were they? Didn’t Stanley see what an excellent opportunity this was to get ahead? And yet here he was, treating the employee lounge like his personal bedroom! Really, he would say he’d expected better, but this is coming from the same man who had to be stopped from jumping off the lift in storage.

Stanley imagined mimicking the Narrator’s speech with his hand while the other talked, and how that would irritate him to no end. The idea was making him smile, and he followed it down- let’s see. Backstory? How did they know each other? Coworkers? Was the Narrator supposed to be his boss? Stanley imagined the Narrator as one of those middle manager types that didn’t seem to do a whole lot other than boss people around and get permission from their bosses to actually do anything of note. He’d probably try to pull rank on Stanley (was it called that in an office? He couldn’t remember) until Stanley reminded him that, ever since Stanley had been promoted to his own office, they were technically the same rank. Then he imagined himself blowing a raspberry at the Narrator. 

You know, he’d tell his Narrator, if you're so worried about getting work done, why aren't you bothering with yours? What, wanted an excuse to come see me? And his Narrator would turn his nose up at the statement because of course not, and who would want to widdle away their days dealing with his nonsense? You seem to want to, Stanley would replay, and his Narrator would… hmm. How would he respond to that? Probably brush him off, mutter (but loud enough that he’d be sure Stanley had heard) how needy he was. What a handful. You’d think Stanley was trying to get his Narrator to slack off as well, with an attitude like that.

Well. Stanley could take a hint. He imagined grabbing his Narrator's hands- they’d be calloused, he figured, from way more writing than was necessary. Even at their jobs. His Narrator probably hid spare pieces of paper under company files when he was filling them out, and would waste away company hours working on his own novels, his bosses none the wiser. He’d use the grip to tug himself up into a sitting position and then tug his Narrator down with him, leaning into his shoulder until he’d gotten nice and comfortable. Tell me about what you’ve been writing, he’d say, and that would be all the encouragement his Narrator needed. The man loved hearing himself talk, after all. 

In the real world, not in Stanley's head, he was still laying over the couch, one arm thrown over his eyes and the biggest smile he’d had on his face without aid from the Bucket since… pre-Bucket. His other hand was bunched up in the fabric of his shirt, playing with it in faux motion of examining his Narrator's hand, weaving their fingers together until he couldn’t imagine letting it go. His Narrator would fill the silence for him, weaving a story about… hmm. About a man who was so dedicated to his job, he was unable to think of literally anything else. And his job was… sharpening pencils. That’s all he did, day in and day out, hoarding pencil sharpeners from across the building so that people had to come to him if they wanted any sharpened pencils at all. And then, to his horror, the company started to switch to pens! Gasp!

Stanley could be content like that, for a while. Listening to him talk, filling the empty space while Stanley drank in the warmth from his presence. Then he’d start to get twitchy- he needed to move eventually, stretch his legs and walk somewhere. His Narrator would elbow him, ask if he was boring Stanley, in that posh way he got into when he was pretending to be more offended then he really was. What, did Stanley need to go throw himself into the broom closet again for a few hours, for no reason at all?

You could always join me, you know. The door doesn't even lock, Stanley would say. Wait actually, that was a good train of… Then he’d be jumping up and grabbing his Narrator's hands again- or no, he never let go in the first place, and he’d heft him onto his feet, and lead the two back out of the lounge. He knew a shortcut through the maintenance section he’d say, right to the meeting room. And then it would be right down the hall, throwing the definitely-not boarded up doors to the broom closet wide open, laughing like he was greeting an old friend while he threw himself inside. 

He imagined doing a little spin, arms spread wide, showing off the unfurnished room with an elaborate flourish. He didn’t know what the flourish would look like, but it was the thought that counted, right? And his Narrator would look at him like he regretted everything. But he’d still step in after him, closing the door as he went, and tell Stanley he still didn’t see the appeal of this place at all. Maybe roll his eyes at Stanley’s antics, or throw a jab at him about needing more exciting hobbies in his life. Really, what even was the point of this room?

There wasn’t a point, that was the whole point, Stanley would try and explain. He’d lean back against a wall and slide down, until he was sitting on the floor, arms draped lazily over his legs. It’s simply a place to be, it doesn't need to be anything else. 

His Narrator would comment that he didn’t see why Stanley couldn’t just ‘be’ in any of the other rooms- at least the couch was cushioned- but would join Stanley on the floor all the same. Stanley could explain to him that it was too loud in the rest of the building, but the closet was set aside from all that. The singular light bulb didn’t create nearly as obnoxious a buzzing sound, and the walls were thick enough to block out the sounds of the building. He’d lean against the Narrator, and tell him besides, he could hear him better in here. It echoed, came back to him instead of dispersing down empty, barren halls.

It’s hardly like we’re ever apart, Stanley. His Narrator would say. What do the acoustics matter? And that gave Stanley pause- literally, the scene coming to a halt as he thought about where to take it from there. Somewhere in the back of his mind, an old story he’d heard once rattled out of some forgotten, half-formed memory. But how could he incorporate it into his… he’d need something to write with… was there any pencils in the closet? He couldn’t remember-

Oh! Stanley would have been sure to grab a marker on the way out of the meeting room, pocketing it for later. He grabbed it when his Narrator wasn’t looking, distracted by the week's schedule, or the slides, or something.

It was then, in the closet, that he’d take the black pen out of his pocket, and then he’d use his other hand to take his Narrator’s hands in his own. His Narrator would probably be so confused, while Stanley set to work drawing a little string weaving around their interconnected hands, topping it off with a little bow. Stanley liked to think it’d look nice and flowy, even if any attempt he made in real life would be a mess at worst. And then at least it was Stanley’s turn to tell his Narrator a story, one he’d heard a long time ago. He still couldn’t remember from where but that wasn’t important. It was about fate, and a thread that connected people no matter where they were, even if they hadn’t met yet, who were-

FUCK-

The story called for a red line, and Stanley had been imaging a black marker this whole time. That- dammit, and red was literally the only other color of marker the office even had! How had he messed that up so badly?

He was a damn fool, that was how. He could just imagine the Narrator laughing, once he’d caught onto Stanley’s error. He’s pat Stanley on the back, humming cheerfully as though Stanley hadn’t just ruined the whole thing. (And for once, he wasn’t even ruining a story on purpose! Life wasn’t fair). It’s okay, his Narrator would tell Stanley, storytelling takes a lot of work, we all mess up from time to time. And Stanley would just tell him to shut up from where he’d slid near-fully to the floor, only held slightly upright by his hand still wrapped up in his Narrators and his not-red string that probably didn’t even mean anything. Hey, his Narrator would say. Hey, Stanley. Look at me.

And- after plenty of time to regret every choice he’s made in his entire life- Stanley would. He’d turn his gaze upwards, and his Narrator would run his own free hand through Stanley’s hair, down the side of his face, cradling him while he ran a thumb in soothing circles along Stanley’s cheek. He’d lean down, push their foreheads together, close his eyes for a moment and sigh constantly- If I wasn’t willing to stick around past a few silly oversights, his Narrator would say, I’d have left a long time ago. But if you want to get rid of me, you’re going to have to try a lot harder than that. Stanley would laugh a little, ask if that was a challenge, and his Narrator would respond if you’re up for it, but good luck-

Stanley licked his lips. His mouth felt too dry all of a sudden. He imagined pushing himself up by his elbows, closer to his Narrator. The two of them shifting closer still, wrapped up in each other's arms. Nothing that wasn’t safe for the workplace, mind you- Stanley didn’t have those kinds of fantasies about the broom closet. But maybe a kiss. He wondered what his Narrator would taste like, if he’d taste the last cup of tea the Narrator had on his tongue. If he’d dive right in or meet Stanley in the middle, dance around him or dip him down and take the lead. How it’d feel when Stanley ran a hand through his hair, or if he’d smell as strongly of ink as Stanley had always imagined he did. 

A hand on Stanley’s chin, tilting his head for easier access. A hearty chuckle that he could feel start in the other's chest and work its way into his mouth. A content sigh on Stanley’s end, the way his shoulders would relax as he tapped a tuneless little rhythm against the back of his Narrator's hand. It sent a shudder through Stanley as he imagined the moment, tried to captivate it from every angle, rotating the idea round and round in his head until he could almost make himself believe he could actually feel someone’s heartbeat other then his own-

“Oh my.”

Stanley nearly had a heart attack. 

He scrambled back, nearly toppling right over the side of the couch in his frenzy. Had he been able to scream, he absolutely would have, but instead he only had his breath, which was coming out way too fast. He was wheezing, gulping down air like he couldn’t fill his lungs, until he forced himself to take a deep gasp of air and hold it. He shut his eyes and counted to ten in his head, until the thudding in his ears quieted down enough for him to hear himself think, and let the air out agonizingly slowly. His hand hurt. So did his chest. It took Stanley a moment to realize that the hand that had been kneading his shirt was now gripping his chest like a lifeline, and that the thing hammering away at his ribs was his heartbeat. 

Slowly, Stanley lowered himself down from the back of the couch, pulled his foot down from the armrest. He couldn’t actually remember moving- it had been more of a jolt, but now he found himself crammed as far back into one corner of the couch as he was physically able. He slowly unclenched his hand from his shirt, and the other from the back of the couch. He blinked. He realized the room seemed quieter than it had a second ago, the buzzing of the lights not as loud, the vending machine reduced to a hum. Like the whole office was holding its breath, clearing the way for someone else to step up and take center stage.

The door back to the offices had closed itself.

There was laughter in his ears, followed by a tinking sound- it was so out of the ordinary, Stanley didn’t even recognize it at first. It wasn’t until it was followed by two short clinks, and the sound of someone sipping a beverage of some kind, that it clicked in Stanleys mind. A spoon, he figured, being stirred in a teacup before being tapped against the lip. “I must say, Stanley. That wasn’t bad for a first attempt- I didn’t know you had some storyteller in you.” there was a noticeable pause before the Narrator continued, an amused upturn to his tone. “And how nice, you even thought to give me a place in your little world! Oh, I’m sorry, you gave ‘your Narrator’ a starring role, and I’m sure that any similarity to real people is surely a coincidence, hmm?”

Oh no. Oh no. He was back. Great. Stanley wanted to go back to being alone now, but the voice tsked at him. “Now Stanley, don’t tell me you really thought I’d just leave you without supervision? Goodness! I know you much too well for that,” Oh. Oh great. Wonderful. Stanley rolled sideways, falling off the couch and impacting the ground with a dull thud. “No, of course not. I kept an ear on you, at first. But trust me, you had my full attention soon enough!”

“And it really is fascinating to see what goes on in that head of yours, sometimes I just never know what goes on in there. Your deepest, most private desires-” his voice paused as he rustled through unseen papers on his desk. Stanley was too busy crawling into the corner of the room to care what he was up to, in whatever space he occupied. “Such as… let’s see here. Hand holding. Sharing the same air as another human being and- Oh! What’s this here? Kissing even, my my. How scandalous. Keep that sort of thing up, and I’ll have to break out the fainting couch. What’s next?” and the Narrator lowered his voice then, making it sound more sultry, teasing. “Are you going to show some ankle next? What kind of rating are you trying to get my game, Stanley?”

There was a corner table between the couch and the armchair. It wasn’t very big, but it was enough for him to crawl under and hide. Stanley stuffed his face into his hands and hoped the floor would open up and swallow him whole already. 

“Now, I’m not one to disregard a story just getting off the ground- unlike some people around here. Perhaps what you story needs is some more conflict- why did everyone else in the office get sick? Could there have been something in the water? Oh! Or maybe the vending machine was tampered with?” The keening sound that came out of Stanley was one he’d never even known he was capable of making in the first place. “Oh, and perhaps we could revisit those subtle, romantic undertones you were weaving into your narrative. I’m just not sure you were clear enough with your intentions the first time, some of the readers might have missed them.”

“But first.” and the Narrator even sounded closer, his voice a near purr near one of his ears. “If you’re going to tell a proper story, you’re going to need a proper protagonist to tell it.” Stanley didn't know what the Narrator was talking about, and frankly he didn’t have the mental fortitude to care. He curled up tighter, trying to rub away the heat that had gathered in his face, his chest, up to the tips of his ears. He must have been as red as the expo by this point, and all he desperately wanted was for this whole run to be over so they could go back to some form of norm-

There was a hand on his back. 

Stanley didn’t move for the longest time. Shock had struck through his veins like ice, leaving him frozen in place. He’d uncurled slightly, now staring at his clasped hands, the entirety of his attention locked onto that pressure at the center of his back. It felt much too hot, and yet somehow made his skin freeze at the same time. A mixture of sensations that made his head spin, but he couldn’t bring himself to pull away. There was a chuckle in his ear, and the hand moved, drifting towards Stanley’s arm and giving it a light tug.

He followed without much resistance.

Employee 2-4-7 couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen another human being. Early on, when he’d first been thrown into all…. this, the isolation had gotten to him more. It had been before he’d learned to just let the office seep into his mind and sweep those concerns away, back when he’d sometimes think he’d see someone out of the corner of their eye, or imagine he heard voices in the hissing of the vents. Another person down a hall, or snippets of conversation a room away. It was never anyone, really, and though he was never truly alone, there was a difference knowing someone was there and them being there.

The man across from him grinned- it was the smuggest, most egocentric look he’d ever seen on another being. His hand drifted off Stanley’s arm, up to his shoulder, where it gave a little affirmative squeeze. It wasn’t that tight a grip- probably wasn’t even enough to wrinkle his shirt. But it felt like someone was dancing pins and needles across his skin, near burning but not quite there,  a buzzing feeling radiating from the touch outwards. The other man frowned, started to pull his hand away, and Stanley slammed it back into place before he had even thought to do so. 

On some level, where his world hadn’t tilted sideways and taken Stanley tumbling along with it, he knew that this reaction had nothing to do with the makeup of the man across from him. It had been a long time since- too long since he’d had human contact. Long enough that he’d forgotten the itch across his skin, in the same way he’d forgotten what it was like to be thirsty, or hungry, or tired. But now Stanley had gone from nothing to everything, and his body was rejecting the sensation in the same breath it was craving more. It drew a shuddering breath from his lungs it- it was just a lot more real than any memory he had left.

Slowly, ever so slowly, Stanley released his vise grip on the other man's hand. He watched him pull it back successfully now, flexing the fingers on his hand where Stanley had practically dug his own the skin. It surely must have hurt, but he hadn’t reacted with more than an eyebrow raised over the ugliest pair of purple sunglasses Stanley had ever seen in his life. The man scoffed, and- Stanley must have blinked, and now the man's glasses had changed to something much more reasonable. Something closer to what he’d imagine the Narrator would wear- after all, how could this man have been literally anything else?

“Oh, coming back to me now?” the Narrator asked. And his voice wasn’t coming from around Stanley, or from beside his ears, or in his head. It came from his mouth, and sounded out with each curve of his lips. They grinned, and Stanley's attention snapped back up to the rest of the Narrator’s face, then down to the Narrator's hands, one working to fix the cuff sleeve on the other, then to the curve of his jacket against his chest. He couldn’t seem to focus on more than one detail at a time, and- more on autopilot than anything else, reached out to poke the center of the Narrator’s chest.

He hrmfed at the action, but didn’t stop Stanley. So Stanley continued on, poking the middle of the Narrator's forehead, the line of his hair, poked his glasses so they slid further up his nose and forced him to close his eyes. The fabric of his sleeve brought a little static shock to his fingertips, and Stanley could feel the pulse of the Narrator's heart when his hand drifted over the man's collar and closer to the curve of his neck. But despite all his prodding, Stanley couldn’t quiet get his mind to fully accept that this was real, and that he hadn’t died from embarrassment under that table and gone to heaven. 

That drew a short laugh from the Narrator, one still heavy enough to make Stanley jump and look up in surprise “Oh, so I’m heavenly now, am I? Well, isn't that good to know. And here I was worried I was already blotching the audition for your leading love interest.” 

Stanley blinked at him. Yes, Stanley decided. Yeah, this was really the Narrator, and he was actually, literally, standing in front of him. 

So Stanley smacked him.

“Oooow- Stanley!” the Narrator’s whine was somehow high pitched and flat at the same time. It came across more action then reaction, like a child overreacting to a shove by a classmate then pain. He gave Stanley a betrayed glare, gripping his cheek where Stanley had managed to strike him. Which- that was good, he supposed. It’s not like Stanley wanted to hurt him. “What the bloody hell was that for, then?”

After that Stanley trudged back over to the couch and collapsed onto it. He (re)covered his face with his hands, and wished more than anything in the world that he was capable of screaming. Honestly, there was nothing more he’d rather be doing. Footsteps followed his path, and the couch dipped as it bore the weight of a second person. Stanley made the fatal mistake of peeking out between his fingers, only to be met by the Narrator's wide (dazzling) grin beaming down at him, and (god there wasn’t even a hair out of place, was there?) that smug expression back in its proper place, albeit to a lesser extreme then before. (And those eyes-)

Stanley shoved his hands back over his face and tried not to let that image burn itself into his memory forever.

He failed.

“Come now, Stanley.” his voice was softer again, smoother, thicker. Like a cup of chai with a dash of honey, soothing and rich in the same gulp that warmed Stanley right to his core, with that hint of spice that lingered in the back of his throat and left his senses frazzled at the ends. The Narrator chuckled again, but this time there was a bite to it that made Stanley's stomach flop on him. 

“Oh, Stanley- oh, you don’t need to whimper, I understand.” The Narrator patted Stanley’s leg, and even if he couldn’t see the grin on the Narrator’s face, he could feel it in the words.”We all get stage fright our first time, it’s really nothing to worry about. Besides, you don’t really have to worry about anything-” The hand moved off his leg, and the loss of contact briefly made Stanley panic internally, even if he’d been the one slowly curling his leg away from the touch. 

“After all, we already have the settings needed to recreate your story. I pulled those old boards off the broom closet myself… it’s been so long since you’ve been in there, hasn’t it?” Stanley responded by curling further into himself. “Come now, why don’t we give it a try? Take it round for a spin~?” 

“Oh!” and the Narrator's weight shifted suddenly, away from the couch. It was unexpected enough that it lured Stanley into peeking out of his hands a second time to- oh no. Back his hands went, even as the Narrator plucked a marker from a cup that hadn’t been sitting on the table a second ago. “And we mustn't forget that very special marker!”

“Let’s see.. What was it again?” The Narrator's hand reached up, wrapped around Stanley’s shoulder. Kept him from sliding even further against the back of the couch. Stanley’s breath hitched. “To tie us together forever? Like soulmates? My, my.” 

“Of course, the marker has to remain black, otherwise…” and suddenly the Narrator’s hands were on Stanley’s, pushing them aside and when had he gotten so CLOSE- “I would not have cupped your face like so…” The Narrator was close enough now that his breath brushed against him in a gentle caress, bringing with it the aroma of something floral and green, with a tartness to it that vaguely reminded Stanley of an orange. With the hands at his sides Stanley couldn’t look anywhere BUT at the Narrator, not that he wouldn’ve been able to turn his head away anyhow. Not with the way the Narrator was grinning at him with those half-lidded eyes, Whatever thoughts Stanley had melted away from him and shattered somewhere against the ground.

“And said to you-” and it was here the Narrator’s voice dropped to a near whisper, Stanley straining to hear him over the rushing in his ears. “If you want to get rid of me…” he drifted closer, so close, the words themselves breaching the gap between them and brushing against Stanley’s lips, even as the Narrator himself refused to cross that invisible line. “You’re going to have to try a lot harder than that.”

Stanley was staring at the Narrator's lips again, breaths coming out in short, stuttering huffs. His entire world had shrunk and twisted until it was just this, just this moment right here, and a marching band could have passed right through the room and Stanley wouldn’t have noticed. So it really shouldn’t have been a surprise he hadn't noticed the Narrator shifting until he leaned up and away from Stanley, leaning one elbow on the armrest on the opposite end from Stanley and resting his chin on the back of his hand.

“Well? How was that?” the Narrator all but chirped at Stanley, voice bright and bubbly and as calm as an untouched teapot. “Common, be honest, rate my performance- I can take a little criticism here and there. Should I have tilted your head more? Given you the full line?”

Stanley was wrong before. Now he wanted to scream into a pillow more than anything he had ever done in his entire life. Instead he scrambled to get himself upright, huffing the whole way, and grabbed the couches pillow to fling across the gap between them directly into the Narrator’s stupid face. He pointly turned away from the other man and crossed his arms over his chest, glaring daggers at a spot in the floor while slouching over enough that he could rest his folded arms on his legs.

…One of which was bouncing up and down rapidly in a nervous rhythm, his heel tapping a frantic pattern into the carpet. Stanley hissed between his teeth and pushed the limb down, trying to will himself to be, but then the jitters were in his hands. He tried to squeeze tightly onto his arms, only for his jaw to clatter. Stanley slapped his hands back over his face, but now he was tugging at his hair and he just couldn’t sit still-

The Narrator, meanwhile, caught the pillow on its way down, adjusted his glasses where they’d been knocked askew. He hadn’t been prepared for pvp of all things when he’d loaded this model in, but so far he was faring quite well against Stanley’s attacks, if he did say so himself. Perhaps he needed to start going easier on his favorite protagonist? Ah, well. The Narrator gave the pillow a lazy chuck in the direction of one of the armchairs, not even minding if it made it all the way over or not, and was already turning his gaze back towards Stanley. He hadn't thought he’d been that harsh to the poor thing, but clearly someone couldn’t take a joke around here. 

Well, it was Stanley they were talking about here. The Narrator slid over, closer to Stanley, and hummed a moment before lifting a hand up to hover over the man's shoulder. At the moment, Stanley had reburied his face into his hand- something he seemed to be prone to doing a lot lately, mind you.The Narrator didn’t see the point in the gesture- if it was about his skin changing color, it wasn’t like he was doing a very good job of hiding it, and Stanley was the one who seemed to like looking at this model so much, so it made very little sense for him to cover his eyes like that. It was all those little extra actions he was doing alongside it, however, those were the interesting bits.

Strained, worn sounding little gasps, like stretching a balloon too far, and a repeated little hic like letting it snap back into place. His free hand was twirling and tugging a lock of his hair hard enough that a few strands snapped free at the strain, not that Stanley seemed to feel it at the moment. His heel had picked its pace back up, but at least his leg was relatively still this time around, while his mind was such a wash of chemicals the Narrator couldn’t even begin to pick things apart. Poor dear was trying so hard to ground himself, but… well. The Narrator never did expect this man to do everything by himself- the Narrator would be out of a job, if that was the case.

“Oh, Stanley…”

He pressed his hand down. 

The sensation sparked across Stanley’s mind like a firework, fizzling out in random directions and lighting up his nerves in a spectacular display. Stanley gasped again- he didn’t even seem aware of his own bodily reaction to the touch, and once again his entire focus was locked onto the point of contact. “Ah… I see. This is all too much for you, isn't it, Stanley?” he rubbed little circles into the back of Stanley’s hand as he spoke- honestly, he wasn’t going to pretend to understand humans enough to get why Stanley would crave something that seemed to do nothing but aggravate him. Still, the Narrator couldn’t help but notice some of the edge had worn off the sensations- not as sharp, less jarring to his mind.

The Narrator was just about ready to try removing his hand when Stanley reached for it again. Unlike last time, the movement was slow, shaky, interlocking their fingers and tugging the Narrator's hand down until their hands rested together on Stanley’s thigh. The Narrator chose not to commit on the fact that Stanley’s grip was tight enough he was turning his own knuckles white from the strain. 

Stanley slowly removed his hand from his face, letting his arm flop across a leg as his eyes darted between the carpet, the mug on the table, the vending machine across the way, his shoes- everywhere but where their hands were interlocked. Despite the fact that every instinct the man currently had left in his head wanted him to look at that more than any of these other random assorted objects. How particular. He chuckled fondly, and that was apparently enough to cause Stanley’s gaze to snap directly to him.

And oh, weren’t those some pleasant thoughts. The Narrator grinned a little wider, tilted his glasses down to send a wink Stanley’s way, and soaked up all the sputtering noises and half formed compliments his brain conjured up before Stanley could shove them back down. Frankley, he didn’t know how Stanley had managed to hide his little crush from his proctor so well, the man was practically an open book now. Oh, this was prime material for more endings- there was nothing better than truly connecting with your audience, and now that the Narrator knew those feelings were there, he could think of plenty of scenarios to tie them back into his narratives.

But that was for later. Right now, he was in Stanley’s story.

“You know, we’re not on a timetable.” the Narrator rolled his wrist so Stanley was forced to let go, allowing the Narrator to take the other hand in his own, resting Stanley’s fingers on his palm and running his thumb over the knuckles. Everytime the pad of his thumb ran over one of those little bumps, the connected finger twitched. It was slightly amusing, in its own odd little way. “And frankly, you don’t seem ready to get to the meat of your story anytime soon. ” 

“Who knows,” the Narrator said with a laugh. “Maybe someday you’ll work up the courage to hold both of my hands at once!” and while he’d meant the jab mockingly, judging by the panicked reaction he got back from Stanley’s mind, he’d hit a bullseye. He sighed. “Oh, Stanley. Fine then. What’s the term again? Baby steps?”

Stanley gave him a small smile, still hunched into himself and nervously tapping his free hand against the couch, but at least he’d stopped using it to tug on his hair. The Narrator was rather thankful this whole audible thought thing didn’t go two ways, and that he was much better about keeping himself reserved while letting his mind dot over how adorable Stanley looked right now. Hell, with how timid he was being at the moment, you could almost mistake Stanley for a nice, boring, stock office worker- and wasn’t that a nice look on him? 

And besides, his Stanley was finally starting to relax, the humm of his thoughts closer to the level they’d been at prior to the Narrator revealing himself and shattering his fantasy. A shame really. It had been so pleasant, and he would have loved to have seen where it ended up, but he just hadn’t been able to hold himself back any longer. For now, his Stanley seemed content to run his fingers along the palm of the Narrator's hand, relaxing into the side of the couch, and for once the Narrator was in no hurry to rush him out of the lounge.

The corner of the Narrator's lip twitched back upwards. 

“Stanley,” he asked. “Would you like to hear about a story I’ve been working on?”