Chapter Text
When Stanley had first met his Narrator—face-to-face, not just as a voice overhead—he’d been enthralled with the man.
Or, well, perhaps “man” wasn’t quite the right word. While the Narrator’s form had been humanoid, there were certain things that set him apart from a normal human.
They were rather small things, though. His ears were pointed, almost like an elf’s, and he had three thin Adventure Line™-esque tails protruding from his back. It was clear he wasn’t human at all, and he’d stated as much. Honestly, Stanley still isn’t quite sure what exactly he is, but that’s besides the point.
The point is, there was one thing Stanley had never seen of him: his eyes.
Which wouldn’t be quite such a big deal if he were human. But…Stanley has this distinct, nagging feeling that his Narrator’s eyes can’t just be brown or blue. He’s too exotic for that. And, well, sue Stanley, he’s always been the curious type.
So, he devised a plan. It was meant to be quite simple, really. He’d snatch those damned glasses from off the Narrator’s face and get a little glimpse at his eyes, just to quell that ever growing curiosity. It was meant to be easy.
Unfortunately for Stanley, nothing regarding the Narrator is ever easy.
“For the last time, Stanley!” he says shortly, evading Stanley easily as he tries to jump him for the nth time this run. “You cannot touch me! Is it really so hard to respect my boundaries? I respect yours.” He steps to the side, giving the protagonist a rather disappointed look when he tries to sneak up behind him.
Stanley wants to scoff at him. Yeah, right. “Respect” is a strong word for what the Narrator does. It’s something more along the lines of “tolerates,” at least until the point that they mess with the oh-so-precious story of his.
But Stanley signs none of this. He just crosses his arms, pouting angrily at the other being. It isn’t Stanley’s fault that his brain won’t shut up until he does this! And even if he feels a bit guilty trying to invade the Narrator’s boundaries, he’s been accompanied by him for far long enough to know his tells, and he’s rather obviously not saying no for boundary related reasons. So, Stanley doesn’t see that as a means to stop. Until the Narrator at least tells him why he can’t, he’s refusing to stop.
“Stanley!” the Narrator yelps as Stanley attempts to trip him. He disappears into a fizzle of yellow before Stanley can lay a finger on him.
Ah, right, that’s another thing that makes him very clearly not human. His strange ability to teleport across the room. Though, thankfully, he doesn’t seem to be able to go farther than that. He supposes even a nigh-omnipotent god has his setbacks.
The Narrator appears on the other end of the employee lounge, making a disgruntled noise of annoyance. “Will you stop with this petulant behavior?” he bemoans, throwing his hands up in the air and sidestepping another of Stanley’s advances. “You’re acting like a child. What even is the point of the strange obsession? I’ve told you before, Stanley, there is no use whatsoever in you wanting to touch me. In fact, I believe it would be uncomfortable for the both of us. Do you not worry that my skin may be poisonous? Or perhaps I may have self defense mechanisms that could electrocute you.”
Though he grimaces at the idea of being shocked or poisoned to death, Stanley doesn’t relent. “I don’t think you’d risk that,” he signs with a determined flare.
Pinching the bridge of his nose, the Narrator shakes his head. “Well, unlike you, I take the utmost caution when dealing with things,” he jabs, sending a glare Stanley’s way. “I doubt you’ll ever be able to touch me if I don’t allow it.”
Oh, wrong choice of words. Stanley’s grin grows. “Is that a challenge, Narry?”
The Narrator scowls. “Do not call me that, it’s demeaning,” he says with a roll of his eyes, turning away. “You do know I can sense you approaching, Stanley. It’d hardly be a challenge for me.”
Big mistake. The Narrator should know better than to challenge Stanley. If there’s anything that Stanley doesn’t back down from, it’s a challenge, especially when it concerns the Narrator. So bring it on, Narry. Stanley isn’t going to stop until he gets what he wants.
He must see the defiance in Stanley’s gaze, because he lets out a weary sigh. “Nothing I say will convince you, will it?” he deadpans, his mouth twisting into a frown. “Fine, Stanley. I’ll play along. But I’ll warn you now, this will not be a fair fight.”
With a huff, the Narrator disappears again. Stanley clenches his fists at his side, readying himself. He can’t deny the thrill of excitement that trills through him as he hears the Narrator’s laugh. Finally, he’s actually making things fun.
A plume of yellow reveals him standing in the doorway. His grin is wide and taunting, clearly egging Stanley on. “Come and get me then, Stanley,” he teases before he’s gone again, teleporting down the hall.
Oh, Stanley is so ready for this.
He takes off, following speckles of yellow as he runs after the Narrator. As he sprints down the hall, he sees the Narrator teleport into the room to the left. Stanley makes to turn, but he stops. He hears mocking laughter just before catching a glimpse of the bastard running up the stairs towards the boss’s office.
God damnit. He turns around and takes off after him, skipping the steps two at a time to keep up. Stanley can’t deny how thrilling this is, though, something different to spice up the monotony of the Parable. The sound of Oxford shoes clicking against the ground spurs him on, trying to catch up to the Narrator.
Stanley sprints through the office after him, nearly fumbling as the Narrator throws the doors closed in his face, but he doesn’t let that stop him. He barrels onwards, his heart pounding in time with his feet against the floor. The Narrator doesn’t even have to input the code, the wall lifting and allowing him in the moment he sets foot in the room.
Though, ever the bastard, he knocks loose many books from the shelf with those pesky yellow tails as he runs past. Stanley has to pinwheel his arms and kick his feet in order to not trip, sending a glare to the Narrator, who peers at him over his shoulder in amusement.
With a grimace, Stanley watches him disappear right before the elevator. He taps his foot impatiently as he rides the lift downward, praying for it to move faster already. The moment it hits the ground Stanley is booking it down the winding hallway, not even sparing a glance at the “escape” route. He knows the Narrator would never go down that way.
The catwalks in the Mind Control Facility are already raised, clambering metal echoing across the open space as the chase continues. He can see the Narrator nearing the end, glancing behind him to see Stanley gaining on him. He lets out a noise of surprise, moving quicker.
Another great thing about the Narrator is that his teleportation is limited, and if Stanley has been counting right, he should only have one more…
The moment he disappears into another cloud of gold, Stanley puts every ounce of stamina he has left into chasing him down. He knows he’s faster than the Narrator. The Narrator knows that too, that’s why he hasn’t been running the entire time. But Stanley is very determined to win…whatever kind of competition this has turned into, and he’s getting those glasses.
The being reappears right in front of the call button for the elevator. He presses the damn thing repeatedly, looking worriedly between the flashing red light descending and the protagonist who is quickly catching up. He holds his breath, brow furrowed.
Grinning to himself, Stanley reaches out his arm, ever so close to him. But the elevator arrives, and the Narrator practically launches himself inside, trying to close the door.
Like hell Stanley is losing now.
He grips the door before it can close, prying the thing back open and beaming triumphantly. The Narrator goes still, being crowded back against the small elevator wall as Stanley walks in behind him. The lift jolts to life, continuing down into the facility.
Stanley’s gaze sparkles with victory, looking down at the shorter man caged between him and the wall. He’s won.
With a sheepish laugh, the Narrator lowers his head, looking away. “Ah, right. Well done, Stanley. But please do let me go now, you’ve had your fun,” he says, shoulders rigid and uncomfortable. Unfortunately for him, Stanley has no mercy.
Before the Narrator has a chance to stop him, Stanley gently removes his glasses.
The Narrator stares up at him with wide eyes, his mouth falling open. Stanley looks back, his first time ever meeting his gaze, trying to commit the lovely shade of orange to memory.
Ah, wait. They look more of a blood orange, now that he thinks about it. Erring even on the side of red–
The Narrator pushes Stanley off of him. He grunts as his back makes contact with the rail, wincing at the painful impact as the Narrator glares at him with crimson pupils. That makes Stanley give pause. No, he swore they were just orange!
“What the hell was that for, Stanley?” he asks, his voice seething. Stanley stares back at him, blinking rapidly. He didn’t expect this level of anger from him just over wanting to see his eyes. “That was extremely rude! You invade my privacy like that and then take my glasses? What kind of bastard–?”
Stanley doesn’t know what compels him to do it, but he reaches out. The space is small enough that all he has to do to touch the Narrator is lift his arm. His hand falls on the other’s shoulder, and he tries to apologize with a small smile, waiting patiently as the Narrator sputters and cuts himself off.
Fascinatingly, his eyes flash from red to pink to orange, all in the span of a second, before settling into a soft yellow. He lets out a sigh, shaking his head. “This is why I shouldn’t entertain these– these silly notions you have. Really, I never should have let you– Erm, Stanley?”
The Narrator cuts himself off as Stanley grabs him by the face, not roughly, but not quite gently, either. He stares deep into the Narrator’s eyes with wonder, mouth curving upwards as he realizes what’s going on.
He takes his hands back to sign excitedly, ignoring the way they tingle from the contact (and the way he doesn’t want to let go). “That’s it! Your eyes, Narry!” he tells him, unable to stop his grin. “They’re like a mood ring!”
With a raised eyebrow, the Narrator echoes, “A…mood ring.”
“You know,” Stanley continues as the elevator nears the control room, “They change colors with your emotions! Like right now!”
With Stanley’s words, the Narrator’s eyes begin to shift color again, his irises expanding and switching to hold a more magenta hue as he gives an amused huff, the corners of his mouth quirking up. “Stanley, please,” he says, pulling out of his protagonist’s grasp as the lift slows to a stop. He steps into the control room, leaving Stanley to hurry after him. “It’s much more nuanced than that. Someone with your intelligence, however, wouldn’t understand.”
Stanley crosses his arms at the jab, running in front of the Narrator in order to stop him and sign. “I could totally understand,” he tells him defiantly.
The Narrator’s face is a deadpan, eyes flickering purple as he speaks. “The mechanisms in my optical sensors revolve around the intricate interplay of neurochemical messengers including neurotransmitters and neuropeptides, which traverse complex neural pathways to reach and interact with the neurogenic chromoreceptors within the iris,” he says, raising his eyebrows while Stanley stares at him blankly. “Different emotional states elicit the release of unique combinations of these neurochemicals, setting in motion a cascade of intricate signaling events and subsequent modulation of pigmentation-related gene expression.”
With a sheepish chuckle, Stanley signs, “Okay, maybe I didn’t understand just a little bit of that.”
The Narrator breathes out through his nose, pinching the bridge of it and momentarily pausing when he doesn’t hit his glasses before brushing it off. “Exactly. Though incorrect, I suppose ‘mood ring’ would be a better describer,” he admits, shaking his head. “Now, are you done, Stanley? Have you had your fun? Gotten everything out of your system?” He tails twitch behind him, his eyes fading back to yellow again. Stanley assumes that must be his content or neutral state.
“No,” Stanley signs simply, crowding his Narrator’s space once again. The other startles, going tense as Stanley reaches his hand out to poke his forehead. Though he grimaces, the Narrator does nothing to halt him. He continues to glare at Stanley as he boops his nose a couple of times, pinches his cheeks, prods at his face like it’s a mystery.
Eventually, when Stanley goes to jab a finger into his eye, the Narrator snaps, irises burning red as he grabs Stanley by the hand. “Enough of this! Stanley, I can feel all of this, you know. I would rather appreciate you not poking my eye out!” he squabbles, ducking underneath the protagonist’s arm and backing away.
Stanley pouts as the other turns his back to him. But he doesn’t relent, creeping up behind him to try again. The Narrator doesn’t even bat an eye at his antics, one of his tails wrapping around Stanley’s wrist before pushing him away.
“Cheater,” Stanley signs bitterly, yanking his arm back. He stops trying to mess with the other for the time being, though.
“Right, well,” the Narrator carries on, entering the passageway to the control panel. “If we could continue, Stanley? I do believe we’ve had enough of a distraction from the story already.”
Though he wants to argue, Stanley obediently follows along, if only to not upset his Narrator further. He walks up to the panel, watching as the Narrator steps aside and continues his lines where he left on as if they hadn’t skipped half the script in the first place.
His hand drifts between the ON and OFF buttons, fingers skimming along the edge of each teasingly, just to get a rise out of the Narrator. But he decides to spare him for now, pressing down on the OFF button with confidence.
The Narrator decides not to go on with his speech about freedom, instead opting to smile at Stanley with warm irises that remind Stanley of the sunlight slowly creeping into the facility. He always seems happy when Stanley chooses this ending. It’s the “true” ending, after all, even if he knows that the Narrator enjoys all of the different endings he’d lovingly crafted. He’d told Stanley so himself; just because this was the ending he wanted him to go towards in the script didn’t mean he didn’t want Stanley to explore all of the other endings as well.
As the door rises over them and Stanley begins descending the steps towards the artificial air, he pauses to look back, seeing the Narrator stopped behind him. Stanley raises his eyebrows, looking down to see the Narrator’s glasses back in his hands.
Oh, hell no. Stanley isn’t letting that happen again.
He clambers back up the stairs, placing a gentle hand on the Narrator’s wrist to stop him. “I like seeing your eyes,” he signs, hoping it’s enough to convince the Narrator that he doesn’t want him to cover them up. The being isn’t very keen on listening to him, but sometimes…
The Narrator lets out a laugh. “You’re just saying that so you can get a read on me,” he says accusingly, though not with any malice. His eyes flash magenta again.
Hesitant hands lift, fumbling through the beginnings of a few different signs before Stanley decides on what he wants to say. “No,” he starts to sign, but the look he receives from the Narrator makes him chuckle and backtrack. “Okay, maybe a bit,” he admits, his gaze softening. “But I think they’re pretty.”
The Narrator blinks at him, lowering his hands. “Well…I suppose it wouldn’t hurt to keep them off for a bit,” he mutters, slipping the glasses back inside of his pocket. Thankfully, he seems to not notice the fondness with which Stanley signed those words.
And Stanley himself almost misses the flash of pink in his Narrator’s eyes before the world goes dark with the restart.
Four runs later, and the Narrator has still kept his word. Not once has he placed those pesky glasses back atop his nose, something Stanley is grateful for. It honestly makes it all the more exciting, being able to see the beautiful hues of emotion for once, the ones that aren’t already evident in the inflection of his voice.
Stanley also has been slowly deciphering what each color means. Like, for instance, magenta seems to indicate a feeling of playfulness or amusement. He saw it clear as day after the Narrator “tricked him” during the apartment ending. Or red being anger, reflected in his eyes during the countdown ending, and not just from the lights. Or the indifferent gray from when he’d given the Narrator a one-star rating and gone off to explore and play soccer (or “football”, as the Narrator so Britishly corrected him).
Currently, Stanley stares down a purple-eyed Narrator as he pushes the button for the lift, heading back up towards the boss’s office. The Narrator leans against the railing, holding his head in his hands as they’re taken up for the third time, the elevator inching upward at a torturously slow pace. He’s foregone the script at this point, tapping his foot impatiently.
“Really, Stanley, I do not understand why you insist upon this ending,” the Narrator says with a scowl, his fingers drumming along the metal railing. “Surely there are more entertaining things you could be doing than this?”
Stanley just shrugs, looking up from picking at a rather nasty hangnail. “Getting bored, Narry?” he asks with a grin, reveling in the flicker of red before it dissolves back into purple. “Why don’t you read your lines if you’re so bored?”
With a roll of his eyes, the Narrator huffs, “There’s no point. Not like you would appreciate my genius script writing, Stanley. I know you just want to spend your time frolicking about backstage.”
Hm. So purple must be impatience, or something akin to it. Frustration, perhaps?
As the elevator grinds to a halt, Stanley stuffs his hands into his pockets, strolling out into the fancy red carpeted hallway. He doesn’t dignify the Narrator with a response (mostly because he’s correct), instead meandering past the posters he’s read over a dozen times before, walking through the backstage. He glances into the mirror, frowning at his reflection. Then, he frowns at the Narrator’s reflection behind him, meeting his eyes through the glass.
“You, Stanley, are insufferable,” he decides with conviction, his voice terse, but his eyes flicker from the purple to…pink again? No, it’s probably magenta, and he’s simply acting more annoyed than he truly is.
Honestly, Stanley really does like this, being able to have some kind of view into how the Narrator is feeling. It isn’t obsolete, and he hasn’t been told what each color means, it’s all just guesswork, but it’s better than those damn glasses. Plus, if he’s being honest, it’s nice to know that the being isn’t always upset with him.
“Yet you still decide to stick with me,” Stanley replies, his smile smug in the mirror. No, the Narrator’s eyes are definitely pink. Silently, he wonders to himself what that one may mean.
Not giving it much more thought, Stanley walks away, making his way towards the conference room and leaving his Narrator to flounder to keep up. “I’d hardly say ‘decided’! I just– I simply cannot abandon my work, Stanley! And I’m sure, despite your apathetic front, you wouldn’t want me to abandon you either, would you?”
(Faithlessly, Stanley’s mind shoves the image of the escape pod ending to the forefront of his mind. How, the first time he’d seen the idea of escape, he’d run up all those flights to reach it, how he’d nearly sobbed, sprinting towards the pod, only to be reset back to the start before his fingers could graze it. The memory tastes vile on his tongue. How much he used to want to leave, not realizing that there’s someone here he could never leave behind.)
Stanley shoots him an unimpressed look, continuing his climb up towards the press conference stage. He flips the man behind him off, snickering at the murmured, “How very mature, Stanley,” he receives in response, before entering the long runway filled with flashing lights and the microphone at the end. It’s funny to Stanley, ironic, that the Narrator placed a mic there knowing full well he can’t use it.
But instead of walking up to the end of the stage and triggering another reset, Stanley simply sits on the edge, letting his legs dangle into the sea of flashing lights. He winces at the fake paparazzi, sending the Narrator a glare as if he’d purposely been trying to blind Stanley this whole time.
“Come on, Narry,” Stanley signs before patting the spot next to him, an open invitation. Though he clearly is reluctant, the Narrator caves, taking a seat beside him while Stanley beams. “Isn’t it nice to just soak in all the attention?” He points his hand towards all of the flashing cameras, leaning back a bit with a relaxed exhale. “Look at all of these adoring fans. We should strike a pose for the paper. Maybe we could even make the front page of–”
“Stanley, your hand!” the Narrator interrupts, reaching out and grabbing Stanley by the wrist. It isn’t harsh, but enough that Stanley can’t back away immediately. He balks, going still at the contact. He still tries to take his hand back, but the Narrator’s grip is firm. He doesn’t seem to notice the flare of panic that momentarily shoots up Stanley’s spine as he turns over his hand, inspecting where he’d picked at the skin of his hangnail earlier with disapproval.
“I do wish you’d stop doing this, Stanley. Honestly, I’m sure it hurts. Do you really have such little preservation for your nails?” he asks, holding his hand up farther into the bright lights, studying the small patch of angry skin with a gentle touch that makes Stanley freeze up. “You’d do well to take better care of your hands. I mean, look at this, Stanley! You could at least pick out all of that bloody grime beneath your nails instead of mutilating your fingers, don’t you agree?”
Stanley doesn’t know how to react to the Narrator holding his hand with such care, looking over his barely-injured finger and surveying the damage but being careful not to touch it, knowing it will sting more. There isn’t much he can really say in response when he can’t sign properly, and finger-spelling out full sentences is a pain.
The Narrator, after turning Stanley’s palm over in his grip for another moment, idly tracing his fingers along the grooves and lines, seems to snap out of his stupor, letting go and bringing his touch away from Stanley, balling his fists up towards his chest as if he’d been burned.
“Um! My apologies, Stanley. I…suppose I got distracted,” he says sheepishly, slowly letting his shoulders relax. Stanley notes the pink hue in his irises again, being sure to study the color closely and commit it to memory like the rest before he replies.
“You should be careful what you do in front of all the cameras,” he finds himself joking as he gestures to the fake paparazzi again, because when he grows embarrassed, he’s found the most effective thing to do is to spin it back onto the Narrator. “You never know what kind of articles will be written about us if they catch pictures of you holding my hand.”
And there it is again, that gorgeous pink color, more vibrant than the last times. The Narrator gives an awkward laugh, his voice unsteady as he tries to play it off. “I wasn’t holding your hand, I was simply inspecting your injury,” he murmurs defensively with something between a smile and a grimace on his face. “Don’t go twisting my actions, Stanley.”
Stanley just snorts. Okay, whatever the Narrator says. But he was definitely holding his hand.
He decides to spare him though. Stanley stands up with a long stretch, feeling something pop in his back before he walks back over towards the microphone. The Narrator doesn’t get the chance to say anything more before they’re reset.