Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Stanley had been feeling off since the last reset.

Well— off was a sort of broad way to put it. His limbs ached, his throat hurt, and he was tired.
Not tired of the Parable, that is, he’d reached that point a long time ago.
He was truly, genuinely exhausted. It was the first time he’d felt like this since he’d entered the Parable in the first place.

“—up the staircase to his boss’ office.”

Ah. Right.
Not feeling like going through the whole endings that upstairs led to, he started down the steps. Maybe he could just sit down during the ending with the repeating rooms, and wait for the reset.

It might make him feel better. After all, resets did many things, even healed broken bones or brought him back from death. (He knew that one for sure. And he remembered the Zending all too well.)

“But he just couldn’t do it. He considered the possibility of facing his boss…”
Stanley tuned him out.

Wandering around the loop seemed like too exhausting of a thing to do right now, so Stanley sat himself down on the floor in the room with the clocks.
The Narrator continued talking, seeming not to notice.

He’d always wondered why the third clock was labeled ‘B’ instead of ‘3’. It seemed like someone couldn’t count, he mused.

“So he imagined he could fly, and he gently floated off the ground.”

Stanley flailed a little when he started floating into the air— he’d always hated this part, he had nothing to hold on to. This time, he’d gotten so deep in thought that he’d forgotten that this happened. And his eyes clouded over with visions of space, making it even harder to even know which direction he was facing.

When his vision came back, the light made the headache that’d been building up since the last reset flare. He put his head into his hands, trying to block the brightness out. Fantastic.

“Stanley, this would really be more engaging if you were going around the loop, you know.”

Stanley chose not to respond, as he didn’t feel like moving his hands away from his eyes just yet.

“Stanley? Come on, we don’t have all day.”

Stanley groaned quietly, squeezing his eyes shut tight and raising his hands to sign, “Too bright.”

“I— oh. Hm. Okay, one second.”

Stanley waited.

“Okay. There you are.”

Stanley opened his eyes cautiously and found that the lights had been dimmed. The knowledge that the Narrator could do that for him was tucked away into the back of his head for later.

“Thank you.”

“Of course. Can we continue with the story now?”

Stanley sighed.

“Now the voice was describing itself being considered by Stanley, who found it particularly strange. I'm dreaming about a voice describing…”

Stanley felt himself drifting off, sleepiness taking hold. The dimness of the lights and the Narrator’s monologue were enough to make him want to lay down and take a nap right there. He was… tired. Very tired. Very, very….

“Believing that if he's asleep— Woah, woah, Stanley!”

Stanley snapped back awake. He couldn’t have been sleeping for more than a minute, judging by the point that the Narrator had reached in his monologue.

“You weren’t supposed to actually fall asleep! You aren’t even supposed to be able to do that. I made sure of it. Sleeping causes unnecessary delays in the story. Anyways, that’s probably why you woke up, because—“

“I don’t feel well.” Stanley interrupted, frowning.

“Well, of course you don’t feel well! Stanley is as awake right now as he’s ever been in his life.”

“No,” Stanley signed. “I mean physically. I think I’m getting sick.”

“What?” The Narrator replied, voice sharp. “Are you sure? Stanley, that simply isn’t possible.” Stanley’s frown deepened.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean that it isn’t in the code. As long as you’re in the Parable, you don’t need to eat, drink, or rest, and you definitely can’t feel sick.”

“I don’t—“ But Stanley wasn’t able to finish his sentence, as he had to bring the crook of his elbow up to his face to let out a string of harsh coughs. From the startled noise the Narrator made, it sounded like he’d nearly jumped out of his skin (if he even had any).

“Well, that— that isn’t right. It might be, ah, dusty down there, maybe you could move to a different room?”

Stanley rolled his eyes, but started trudging towards the door anyways. He could go to the break room and take a nap on one of the couches, maybe. He might feel better then.

It took him all of five minutes to trace his way to the employee lounge, doors opening for him as he went. He collapsed onto one of the couches with a whumph.
The Narrator so far hadn’t said anything besides muttering under his breath to himself.

Stanley thought it was the longest he’d ever been this quiet.

Either way. It gave him some peace and quiet for once to settle on his back and close his eyes once again.
He was able to rest peacefully for a moment or two, before-

“Stanley, you’d better not be thinking about falling asleep. We’ve been over this! It’s written in the code, you know.”
Stanley cracked an eye open and scowled at the ceiling.

“Yes, yes, I know you’re unhappy with it, but I’m just trying to sort this out without the need of any extreme measures such as that.”
Stanley didn’t respond.

“I think we need to figure out the source of this supposed illness of yours. I have a few theories— well, unless you’re faking it, of course. Stanley, you’re not faking it, are you?”
Stanley glared.

“I’m not.”

“Good. Okay, up now, let’s have a discussion about this.”
Stanley heaved a sigh, which triggered another bout of coughing. Once he had recovered, he simply closed his eyes.

“Stanley.”

“Too tired.” His hand movements were slow from fatigue, and his body ached too much to say any more than that. The Narrator scoffed.

“Did we not just have a discussion about this? I said that you couldn’t sleep. It isn’t possible! It’s written in the code of the game, whether you like it or not. No amount of lazing around is going to help with that. Now, Stanley, let’s get up and keep moving, because I—“

A pause.

“Stanley?”

Stanley had closed his eyes once more, presumably slipping into sleep. He was still breathing, so it was clear he was alive. Just fallen asleep.

“Stanley, come on. This detour really is interrupting the narrative.”

There was no answer. The Narrator seemed to be becoming quite antsy.

“Stanley, this isn’t funny, you know.”

No reply.

The Narrator was quiet for a moment, and then his voice went very small.

“…Stanley? Are you alright? Talk to me, please?”

Stanley didn’t move.

And then the Narrator started to panic.

Chapter Text

“No, no, no, no, no, this can’t be happening. This cannot be happening! I made specifically sure that this couldn’t happen.”

The Narrator had omitted anything in his game that could cause Stanley to fall asleep or feel ill, or even feel hungry.

He knew he did.

But somehow, some way, Stanley was sleeping. And that meant Stanley wasn’t responding to him. He was alone, alone with himself and nothing else.

Flashes of memory caused the Narrator’s head to ache as he paced in the space between realities, breathing fast and shaky.

Stanley standing in front of that godforsaken button, stiff as a board, eyes glassy and blank as the Narrator tried desperately to catch his attention.
The lights flickering out, the plant wilting, water seeping into the box he’d trapped them in.

This wasn’t like Stanley was just ignoring him; no. Stanley couldn’t hear him, and now he had nobody to talk to for lord knows how long.

He trained his gaze on Stanley again, just laying there, motionless save for the rise and fall of his chest. He looked peaceful. Quiet. And it worried the Narrator terribly.

He didn’t like this. He didn’t like it all, he would rather have Stanley’s stupid snark and his petty way of going against him when he gave him instructions. He would choose that any day over being alone.

Alone— the thought twisted something in his chest, and he felt another burst of panic seize his mind.

He had to do something, he had to do something.

“Stanley? Stanley, please, you have to wake up! Stanley, I can’t be alone like this again!”

Stanley didn’t know how long it had been since he fell asleep.
He did, however, know he was dreaming, which wasn’t something that happened super often. It wasn’t the sort of dream that turned out to be real, like the usual ending of that sort, not at all. This was peaceful.

All Stanley could see was a black void. Well. Almost all he could see.

Stanley?

A line of text appeared. It was stark white against the black background of the void.

Is that you?

Stanley lifted up his hands to sign, but found he didn’t have any. So he tried to nod, but found he couldn’t do that either.

Alarm would’ve raced through him had he even felt anything in the first place, and he looked down at himself to find that he wasn’t there.

Stanley.

It’s okay. I can hear you.

No need to panic.

Stanley focused his attention back on the text.

I don’t think I’ve ever met you in person.

Well- this isn’t really in person, but it’s as close as we can get.

Stanley didn’t know what that was supposed to mean.

You know, because I don’t exactly exist anymore? At least not in a tangible—

Nevermind. It doesn’t matter, it just matters that you’re here, now.

Would it be alright to have a little chat?

Two words appeared below the sentence. ‘Yes’ and ‘No’.
Stanley reached out for the ‘Yes’ button.

Great. I was hoping you’d agree. Gosh, I haven’t had anyone to talk to for, well… a very long time.

Stanley reached up to sign again, and then remembered he couldn’t. Frustrated, he put his nonexistent hands back down.

Don’t worry, I know what you’re thinking. Sorry about the lack of body, by the way, I don’t really have the power to give you one.

Anyways.

You wanted to know who I am?

If Stanley could’ve nodded, he would’ve.

Well, that’s… it’s complicated.

I used to be Employee 432. Few desks down from you, actually. Don’t think we ever met.

I don’t… really know what happened after that. I know I’m not 432 anymore, not really. Not the 432 that I was.

I’ve got a few different names for myself these days. Settings Person, Timekeeper, and of course, the good ol’ Employee 432. I might not be 432 anymore, but it’s nice to keep the name.

Stanley didn’t really know what to say. What had happened to whoever this was?

That’s alright. Sorry for being a chatterbox, as I said— I haven’t had anyone to talk to for a very long time.

Say— you don’t really like talking, do you?

Stanley would’ve shrugged if he— well, they both knew the drill at this point. If he couldn’t sign back, conversations were one-sided. He didn’t like using his voice.

Oh— Sorry about that. Try thinking at me. I might be able to hear you then.

Stanley was confused. What did he mean, at him?

Them. At them.

Right, Stanley thought. Sorry. You can hear me think?

Yeah.

Thanks for listening, by the way. You’re good at that.

Well, I’m not sure about that, Stanley thought.

How so?

I like listening to some people. It’s fun to go ignore the guy following me around, though.
It was then that Stanley actually felt the other being’s presence here, through a stirring of warm emotion. He was certain it would’ve sounded like laughter.

Ha. I bet. Seems like he’s easy to annoy.

I’d probably be doing the exact same thing in your place.

Stanley felt the presence sigh.

What I would give to be back in the office.

It’s alright here, but it’s… lonely. I’m the only person that knows I’m here.

You probably don’t even know where here is. I sure don’t.

Either way. How is it down there?

Stanley paused to consider. Did they even know about the disappearance of their coworkers?

Of course I know.

I feel like you wouldn’t even be here if that hadn’t happened.

Your Narrator’s meddling, though… that might become an issue at some point.

Stanley felt himself being shaken. It was a really weird sensation, made weirder by the fact that he didn’t currently seem to exist.

The game can only handle so much.

What? Stanley thought.

I think you’re waking up.

Wait! What do you mean? Stanley thought, feeling himself start to detach from wherever this was.

I don’t have time. I have to keep this going. Keeping you asleep isn’t going to help it at all.

No matter. Will you come back to visit me?

Yes ———— No

Stanley reached out for the yes button, feeling himself dissolve away.

Chapter Text

“Stanley!”

Stanley woke up to something shaking him. Violently.

He groaned, keeping his eyes squeezed shut tight. Everything hurt. It was a deep ache that had settled in his bones.

“Stanley? Stanley! Oh, Stanley, you’re back! Thank god you’re back, I was getting—”

The Narrator’s voice was a lot louder than Stanley was used to it being. And a lot more emotional, at that.

Stanley rubbed his eyes and sat up, wincing at how the ache flared. He could barely recall what he’d dreamed about, and he tried to remember as he blinked open his eyes and—

Stared. Mouth agape.

“—so worried, and I didn’t know when you were going to wake up…”

Stanley could barely process what he was looking at.

There was a man standing in front of him. An actual, human person.

Well. That’s what Stanley thought at first. But the man’s mouth was moving at the same time as the words Stanley was hearing, and a realization slowly dawned upon him.

Stanley was looking directly at… at the Narrator.

He was staring at the guy who’d been describing his every action for what likely had been years on end. Stanley had lost track after two months.

This was the very first time he was seeing him, face to face. Through Stanley’s delirious, definitely-feverish thoughts, he registered that the Narrator’s chosen form looked… good. He liked it.

But that still didn’t stop the shock that was rippling through him.

The Narrator sniffled a little, and reached up to move his glasses out of the way so he could scrub at his eyes, mouth wobbling as he clearly fought not to keep crying.

…Stanley hadn’t heard him actually cry since the room with the lights.

“Goodness, Stanley, I apologize that you have to hear me like this, it’s— it’s just—”

“I can see you.” Stanley interrupted, signing slow and shaky.

The Narrator froze.

“What?” His voice came out in barely more than a croak.

The two of them stared at each other, silent.

Then Stanley’s lungs chose that moment to betray him, spasming as he doubled over in a coughing fit.

“Stanley! Are you alright!?” The Narrator pushed his shock away for the time being in favor of rushing over to Stanley’s side.

He hovered there for a moment, unsure of what to do as Stanley did his best to recover. Still coughing hard, Stanley raised a hand to sign, “Water.”

“Water, yes, right, er—”

The Narrator zipped over to the water cooler, filling a cup and bringing it back to Stanley. He was careful not to spill any on the way over.

Stanley took it, nearly choking on the water as he drank it between coughs.

It took him a good moment to recover, and he set the empty cup on the table next to the couch.

Stanley put his hands over his face, heaving a sigh that triggered another bout of coughing.

He needed to take a moment to process everything that was happening. But his brain was too foggy to properly think.

“...Is it too bright in here? I can dim the lights for you if you’d like, it’s no trouble at all.”

Stanley flinched a little as the Narrator snapped his fingers. The splitting headache was coming back, pounding in his skull as the Narrator continued to talk.

“Really now, Stanley, how did this happen? Did you do something to make yourself ill?”

A nervous chuckle. It seemed at this point the Narrator was just trying to fill the silence. The silence that Stanley desperately needed right now.

Stanley closed his eyes and put his hands over his ears.

“Right. Yes, okay. I’ll, um… I’ll just sit over here, then, Stanley, and you can let me know when you’ll be ready to continue.” And then the Narrator quieted down.

Stanley took a deep breath, held it for a moment, and then let it back out. It was something he’d figured out a while back to get himself to calm down in times of stress.

This was definitely one of those times.

Vague memories of his dream were joining the mix of swarming thoughts that were bombarding Stanley’s brain, causing the headache to flare and making him clench his teeth.

His head hurt, his whole body hurt, and his stomach especially hurt, and it felt like—

Oh. Shit.

Stanley’s eyes shot open.

“Bucket.” Stanley signed to the Narrator, who looked up in surprise.

“What?” The Narrator looked confused. “Stanley, if you wanted the bucket, you should’ve picked it up back in—”

Stanley didn’t have any time to clarify— he was already off the couch and stumbling towards the trash can in the corner of the room.

He made it just in time to collapse in front of it and hurl the contents of his stomach into it.

Stanley couldn’t tell if it was nice or not to know that he was human enough to even have stuff in his stomach.

He panted, swallowing back another gag as he clutched the edge of the trash can with shaky hands.

Stanley couldn’t see the Narrator, but he heard him audibly recoil.

“EuGH! Stanley, what the hell was that!?”

Stanley didn’t respond, just rested his cheek at the edge of the trash can. The coolness of the metal felt heavenly on his skin, and he could feel the intense nausea fading away.

Stanley didn’t move. He felt weak and drained, and he felt like he’d pass out if he moved an inch from where he sat.

The room was quiet for a long moment. And then Stanley could barely make out the bubble of the water dispenser as it was used, and footsteps coming his way. He was too tired to even begin to process what might’ve been going on before the Narrator was crouched next to him, holding a few napkins and some water.

Stanley stared at him through bleary eyes.

The Narrator had his face screwed up in visible disgust, but he seemed determined, still handing Stanley the napkins to wipe his mouth off. Stanley didn’t lift his head from the edge of the trash can— it felt like it was being weighed down. But he took them and did so anyway.

“I thought you might need those. And… earlier you asked for water, er… is it a human thing? Would it make you feel better?”

Stanley nodded. Water seemed like the most heavenly substance right now.

He lifted his head up carefully. It felt like it was made of lead and stuffed full of cotton.

The Narrator handed Stanley the water with surprising care, and Stanley took it, sipping it slowly. The nausea was gone now, but he wanted to be careful.

Clear concern was evident in the Narrator’s face as he looked on.

The Narrator was worried.

He was very worried. Stanley had never done whatever that was before, and Stanley had never acted like this, either. He could tell that something was wrong with his protagonist, very awfully wrong.

The Narrator was… scared. He was scared. Scared for his story. With Stanley in this shape, he knew they wouldn’t be able to continue until he was back to how he usually was.

Most of all, though, he was scared for Stanley.

He watched Stanley carefully drink the water.

“Is there anything else I could do? Some sort of human method of getting you through this?”

Stanley looked up at him through bleary, glazed eyes. He slowly raised a hand to sign, “Sleep.”

The Narrator froze.

“Stanley, I— I can’t let you do that again.” His voice went small.

“I need sleep.” Stanley signed it again, more insistent this time.

“No, Stanley. Anything but that.” The Narrator was firm, but not harsh.

There had to be something else. Anything else.

Stanley’s hand dropped to his side, defeated. He looked down at the ground, and the Narrator could see the exhaustion taking its toll on his protagonist.

Stanley looked like he was feeling the most terrible that he’d ever felt. And the Narrator had seen him fall off of high places and get blown to bits by nuclear bombs. It was really saying something.

The Narrator focused back onto Stanley.

Stanley’s eyes were starting to water.

One tear after another fell down Stanley’s cheeks, and soon, little sniffles had given way to quiet choked sobs that shook his form. Stanley was a grown man, but here he just looked so… small.

The sight made the Narrator’s heart ache deeply.

“No, no, Stanley… Don’t cry…”

He was realizing now that Stanley must’ve been just as afraid as he was in this instance. He very obviously wasn’t functioning correctly, and the Narrator felt like he’d be just as scared— or even more— if he were in Stanley’s position.

Of course he’d be asking for something that gave him a little bit of comfort.

The Narrator took a trembling breath in.

He had to let it happen, if it would make Stanley feel better.

He put a hand on Stanley’s shoulder, and the man looked up at him in surprise.

“It’s— It’s okay. You can sleep.”

Stanley sniffled again, which caused him to cough harshly. The Narrator winced.

“Let’s get you back to the couch.”

The Narrator rose to his feet and watched as Stanley tried to do the same. But he stumbled, legs giving away from beneath him. The Narrator managed to catch him before he fell completely.

Stanley was leaning against the Narrator very heavily as the two made their way back to the couch. The Narrator helped him lay back down.

“Blanket.” Stanley signed, and it took the Narrator a moment to realize that he was asking if there was one. He nodded, and one appeared over Stanley. He hoped it was sufficient.

Stanley snuggled into it, sighing and closing his eyes. The Narrator felt his heart melt a little bit.

But he still waited anxiously, keeping a close eye on the rise and fall of the blanket. Stanley was alive, visibly so, and quite frankly being adorable, but this was still causing him to fear for his protagonist.

The Narrator took a deep breath, feeling the weird sensation of air in lungs that he didn’t need. A chair appeared behind him, and the Narrator sat down in it, ready to sit next to Stanley until he woke up.

Chapter Text

Stanley came to in a familiar black void. It took him a disorienting moment to recall that he’d dreamed this the last time he’d fallen asleep, as well.

Oh dear.

The phrase hung in midair before him.

I know you said you’d come back to visit, but this is too soon.

Something’s wrong, isn’t it?

Stanley figured they already knew the answer to that.

Yeah. You’re right, I do.

I’m just concerned. This hasn’t happened before, has it?

It hadn’t.

Anything even close? Have you felt, well… really off before?

Not even ill, just off.

Besides mood? No. Stanley couldn’t remember a reset in all of these past years where he’d felt even close to this awful.

That’s weird, then.

My only other thought was that you could be glitching. Bad.

If it’s not a usual thing— an inconsistent thing— then it could be a glitch.

Those things are as inconsistent as you can get.

A… Glitch?

Stanley knew he was in a game, the Narrator talked about it all the time. But it still was hard to wrap his head around sometimes.

I do have to give your Narrator credit, though— from what I’ve seen, his code is pretty well made.

To have a glitch this bad means there’s a big hole in the code.

He’s a perfectionist, right? So I find that highly unlikely.

That sounded like the Narrator all right.

Hmm. I’ll take a look after this, how about that?

Stanley was a bit confused. Why were they talking like that? Did they have access to the game’s code or something?

Yeah.

I have access to everything, technically.

When I lost my ability to be human, I think I glitched out and integrated with the code.

That’s my running theory, at least. All I know is I can access what I want, provided I put in a little effort.

Oh. Stanley wasn’t sure he liked that phrasing. ‘Lost the ability to be human’?

You and me both.

Hey, what are your symptoms, by the way? Might make things easier to look out for when I’m looking at the code.

Stanley thought back. There had been the constant soreness of his throat, the headache, and the coughing, mostly. There was also the matter of the fever that he was pretty sure he had. And If he could’ve, he would’ve shuddered at the recollection of the vomiting. That hadn’t been fun.

Seems like a pretty standard case of the flu if I’ve ever seen one.

If you were human, that is.

But you’re a video game character. So, unless it was coded in, it’s not the flu.

Stanley would honestly rather it be the flu.

Yeah, I know.

I think all of us would rather it be the flu.

Wait.

Stanley paused. All of them? Were there more people?

Well… Yes and no.

I was talking about you, your Narrator, and myself, but I’m sure the Curator feels the same.

The Curator??

You do remember the museum, right?

It took Stanley a moment to recall, but it clicked for him. Oh.

I have no doubt she’s been watching over this whole debacle as well.

It only tends to meddle when truly necessary, though, so I’m surprised it hasn’t reached out to you yet.

Stanley was sure that the only time he’d interacted with her was right before the Narrator had been about to crush him in that machine.

Yeah. Situations like that.

I’m pretty sure they’re more powerful than your Narrator, even. Don’t think he likes her much, ha.

Why not?

I… Don’t know, actually.

Maybe it’s the fact that they’re stronger than he is.

I don’t know what their relationship to each other is, either. Wasn’t around for their history.

Well, now Stanley was just downright curious. Maybe he should ask the Narrator about it.

I would advise against that.

He’s a bit… touchy about the subject. Doesn’t like that there’s other folks in his game.

He doesn’t know about me, though. I think he’d flip his lid if he found out.

That same warmth that Stanley recognized as the being’s laughter flooded through the place. It wasn’t as strong this time, but it certainly was there.

Stanley could imagine the Narrator losing it over that.

Wait, speaking of the Narrator… What was he even doing while Stanley was here?

How long had he been here!?

Woah, woah, hey.

It’s alright. You’ve only been asleep a few hours.

Hours!? It had only been minutes!

Time moves differently for you in here. It’s been hours in the Parable.

It’s weird. Don’t know if I could explain it to you, because I’m experiencing time differently than you are.

I can keep track of all of it, though. So don’t worry about it.

Stanley was worrying about it.

Hey, slow down.

I’m pretty sure these past few hours of sleeping have helped break that fever of yours.

Can’t guarantee that it won’t come back, but it has helped.

This little chat has given me some valuable information. I can try and figure out what’s wrong now.

Thanks, Dr. 432.

What?

…Nevermind. I can’t tell if you’re being sarcastic or not.

Look, I’ll just take a look at the code once you’re awake, and see if I can find anything new out.

You’re becoming more conscious as we speak, so I don’t think it’ll take too long.

Right. He’d wake up soon, then.

Stanley waited.

Chapter Text

Stanley felt awful.

His whole head felt like it was packed full of cotton, he couldn’t breathe out of his nose, and he had a pounding headache. Sleeping on the couch had done no favors to his neck, which was stiff and achy.

He wanted to go back to sleep, but deep down, he knew that wasn’t possible.

Stanley sat up slowly, wincing at the ache in his muscles.

He tried to blink the fatigue away, but it seemed that it was stuck fast and there to stay. He let out a quiet groan before turning to face the middle of the room. Where was the—

Oh. There he was.

The Narrator somehow had found (or conjured?) an armchair, and was fast asleep in it, glasses crooked on the bridge of his nose. It appeared he’d been waiting for Stanley to wake up and he’d dozed off.

If Stanley was being honest, that was… kind of adorable.

He honestly didn’t want to wake him up. But it wasn’t as if he had very much of a choice in the matter, because a second later, a harsh sneeze crept up on him.

The sound caused the Narrator to jolt upright in the chair. The motion almost knocked his glasses clean off of the bridge of his nose.

“Ggh!” The Narrator made a surprised noise, looking around before his gaze finally settled back on Stanley. “O-Oh! Stanley, you’re awake! How are you feeling?”

The answer came as a sniffle. The Narrator couldn’t help but screw up his face in disgust as he fixed his glasses again.

“Eugh. You’re leaking.”

Stanley rolled his eyes, raising his hands to sign.

“Can I have some tissues?”

“Yes, yes, do whatever, as long as you get that taken care of.” The Narrator waved a hand, and a box of tissues appeared in Stanley’s lap. He didn’t look at Stanley while he cleaned himself up, but after a moment, he did turn back to him.

“…Are you feeling any better?” The question was hesitant, almost unsure.

Stanley shook his head. He wasn’t feeling delirious anymore, but he honestly felt worse than he did before he’d taken a nap.

The Narrator frowned, a brief flicker of genuine concern crossing his face.

“Right. Okay.” He said, almost as if to himself. “How do you get better, then? Stanley, you have to remember, I’m not very good with… with human things.”

Stanley paused. Well, he’d have to think about that. He’d never been sick before in the Parable, and he couldn’t remember much about outside the Parable to compare it to.

“…Maybe some tea would be nice,” He signed hesitantly. “With honey in it or something. I think I remember that it helps with the coughing.”

The Narrator raised his eyebrows. His expression seemed unamused.

“I think drinking a lot of fluids is important. I don’t remember why, but it helps. I think.” Stanley paused to cough a few times, but he continued after a moment. “And resting. Sleeping and not doing anything demanding.”

Now the Narrator looked just plain annoyed. He scoffed.

“Stanley, those are two settings that shouldn’t even be on. I don’t see why—“

“Narrator, do you want me to get better or not?” Stanley’s hand movements were a little sharper than he intended them to be— but he was growing frustrated. He was exhausted and thirsty and he felt downright awful, so sue him if his fuse was a little short.

“If you don’t want to make tea, that’s fine. I understand it’s more effort than you want to put into this. If you don’t want to get the water, that’s fine, I can do it myself. And I know you hate it, but the very least that I can ask you to do is just suck it up and wait for me to get better. Settings on.”

The Narrator looked taken aback. He opened his mouth to say something, but Stanley interrupted him, frustration growing.

“And don’t say anything about ‘delaying the story’ or whatever. It’s only going to get worse if I keep having to go through your damn story. That’s all I can tell you.” Stanley paused. “Now, I’m going to go get water.”

Stanley stood up.

Well… Standing up was a bit of a kind way to put it. He pushed himself into a very wobbly standing position, and as soon as he took a step, his legs gave out from beneath him.

“Stanley!?” The Narrator was up and out of his chair fast enough to catch him right before he hit the floor, gently pulling him back into a sitting position on the couch. Dazed, Stanley looked up at his face, which held no trace of the previous irritation— now it was creased with worry.

“Stanley, are you alright??”

Stanley groaned, shaking his head slightly. That had sent his head spinning, and now he was disoriented. The room was wobbling in his vision, and he had to shut his eyes.

He heard quick footsteps, and something was put into his hand. Stanley blinked open his eyes to see a little paper cup of water.

“…Thank you.” He signed, before chugging it all in one go. This triggered a bout of coughing, and the Narrator made a worried noise, taking Stanley’s cup to go refill it.

Stanley could only really recover after he had the second cup of water. He sipped it slowly this time, to avoid choking on it. Damn, that had hurt. It felt like his throat was being torn apart.

The Narrator hovered there awkwardly for a moment before retreating back to his armchair, sitting down in it. He looked rather tense. Almost… Afraid.

Stanley set his cup down, tapping on the side table to get the Narrator’s attention.

“…Something wrong?”

“Stanley, you of all people should know the answer to that right now. Yes, something is wrong. I don’t know what’s going on with you. You aren’t faking it, that I can see clearly, but otherwise, I have no explanation!”

He stood up from the chair and began to pace.

“I didn’t code this in. You shouldn’t even be having these— these human reflexes. How in the world did you get them?”

Stanley shrugged.

“I built my code too well for there to be glitches of this intensity. What did you do!?”

Stanley was taken aback. What did he do??

“Hey! I didn’t do anything.” Stanley signed to him, scowling.

The Narrator pushed up his glasses so that he could pinch the bridge of his nose with a sigh.

“I suppose you didn’t.” He muttered. “I just… Stanley, I can’t see any way this could happen.”

The Narrator stopped, his head snapping up in realization.

“Unless…”

“What? What is it?” Stanley signed.

“Stanley… What if you have a virus?”

“Well, obviously I have a virus! I’m sick, Narrator, viruses are what cause human sickness.”

“Wh— Humans get computer viruses!?”

There was a moment of awkward silence.

Then, Stanley burst out laughing.

Chapter Text

“What? Stanley, this is a dire matter, how can it be funny to you?”

“Narrator,” Stanley snickered. “Are you telling me that computer viruses are the same as normal viruses? Like, they get video game characters sick?”

“Well, that’s not the only thing they do!” The Narrator huffed.

“So, if I touched you, would that infect you, too?” Stanley reached out to him, a mischievous grin on his face, and the Narrator hopped backwards.

“Don’t you dare!” He squawked in indignation. “Stanley, this is serious!”

Stanley paused, squinting. The Narrator looked confused, and then Stanley tore a few tissues out of the box, letting out a loud sneeze into them. The Narrator first jumped at the sound, and then his face screwed up in disgust.

After Stanley recovered, he continued.

“Is it? I mean, all I need to do is rest, right? It can’t be that serious.”

“It is! It could spread to the rest of the game if we’re not careful, Stanley! How many places have you visited since you started feeling sick?”

Stanley shrugged.

The Narrator groaned, dragging his hands down his face. He collapsed in his chair.

“Ohh, my game… my story… It’s all to be ruined, isn’t it?” He sounded positively miserable. “If only I had an anti-virus software…”

“Is an anti-virus software like medicine?”

The Narrator glared at him, and Stanley looked away innocently.

“I thought the game was airtight! I wouldn’t need an anti-virus software!” He whined. “The game was perfect as it was! It wasn’t going to be infected with any virus.”

“…But it was.”

“It was.” The Narrator echoed. “I just… Good lord, I wish I hadn’t been so foolish. Something as simple as a firewall would have been enough to prevent this.”

Stanley wondered if a firewall was similar to a vaccination, but hearing the tone of the Narrator’s voice— plus an actual admission of the entity being wrong— he kept this thought to himself.

And then the Narrator was silent for a moment. A long moment. He seemed to be turning something over in his head.

“This really is it, isn’t it?” He murmured, softer than Stanley was expecting. Stanley looked up, and the Narrator had leaned forwards, head in his hands.

“My game, my story… and…” He paused, and all at once Stanley understood what was left unsaid.

…Was Stanley going to die if this continued? This thought sent a spike of dread through him.

And to Stanley’s surprise, the Narrator sniffled.

“I would have to start this all over. To make a new game. And… And a new…”

Protagonist. The word hung silently in the air.

Stanley understood how much this game meant to the Narrator— he spoke about it all the time. The game, the story, yadda yadda.

…But he hadn’t thought that he meant as much to the Narrator.

He thought he was replaceable. One of hundreds of characters. But from the cadence of the Narrator’s voice, Stanley could gather that he was unique. That the Narrator did not want to lose him.

If he was reading it right, that is. But the Narrator was comparing Stanley at the same level as his story, his game.

Was he really that important?

The thought sent a pang of sorrow through him. Oh.

…He didn’t want to die. That was a usual desire, but now seeing the Narrator’s shoulders trembling and seeing the shine on his cheeks that meant tears, that desire increased tenfold.

He was not going to die.

He reached forwards, tapping the Narrator’s knee. The Narrator jumped in surprise, recoiling, and Stanley frowned.

“Narrator…” He signed. “I’m not going to let that happen. I don’t know how yet, but I won’t just let your game die. And I don’t really want to die, either.”

“I appreciate the concern, Stanley—“ The Narrator paused to sniffle again, pushing up his glasses to scrub at one of his eyes. “—but you cannot do anything. I do hate to say it, but you’re just a character, Stanley. A character of my creation. You do not have any power to stop this from happening.”

Stanley paused, and then hesitantly offered the box of tissues to him. The Narrator looked at it, then back up to Stanley.

“Stanley? I don’t—“

Stanley set the box back in his lap.

“They’re to clean your face up a little. I noticed you wiping your eyes and sniffling.”

“Well— That’s because I’m… Crying, Stanley. I’m not ill.” He sighed. “I’m… I’m sorry, Stanley. I don’t know what came over me.” He took a deep breath, trying to regain his composure, but Stanley wasn’t about to let him gloss over this. He offered up the box of tissues again.

The Narrator hesitated, then gingerly took a few.

“…Thank you, Stanley.” And it seemed to be just about in time, too, because Stanley saw that the Narrator’s eyes were beginning to water, and his voice was wavering.

“I— I don’t know what I’m going to do without this, Stanley. It’s my life’s work, and— and— I don’t know what it’s going to be like without you.”

Stanley’s face was the picture of pure concern. He’d seen the Narrator crying when he woke up and saw him for the first time, but he’d been too dazed and confused to really register that.

“I wasn’t able to create any protagonist like you, Stanley. All the others were bland and showed no emotion, but you—“ He hiccuped, burying his face in his hands.

“You wer—were perfect. Frustratingly sentient, b-but perfect. And— And n-now you’re going to be gone!”

The Narrator was spiraling. He was getting trapped on one thought— that thought being losing Stanley— and Stanley could easily tell.

And he felt his heart pang, hearing all this. He… Didn’t really know much about his initial creation, and he would’ve like to know more, but the Narrator’s speech had been reduced to little sobs. He took top priority over anything.

So he stood up, stepped forward, and gave the Narrator a hug.

The Narrator first sucked in a sharp breath, trying to wriggle away.

“Stanley! D-Don’t touch me, you’re— you’re—“

But Stanley only gave him a gentle squeeze, running a hand up and down his back. And despite his initial disgust, the Narrator melted at this. Stanley could reasonably guess the Narrator had never experienced a hug before.

The entity buried his face in Stanley’s shoulder, his arms coming up to reciprocate the embrace. He was clutching onto Stanley like his life depended on it.

Or… Like Stanley’s life depended on it.

The Narrator wept into Stanley’s shoulder, and Stanley could feel him trembling in his arms. He continued to run a gentle hand up and down his back.

The Narrator let out a quiet whine, and Stanley leaned to rest his cheek on the entity’s head.

“…I— I’m sorry, Stanley.” His words were muffled into Stanley’s shoulder until he turned his head. “I— I just—“

Stanley shook his head. He didn’t want the Narrator to be apologizing for this— it was normal to be upset!

But the Narrator either didn’t feel this or didn’t understand what it was supposed to mean, because he continued.

“I d-don’t want to—to lose this. My story. My game. My… you.” He sniffled, breathing still shaky. “It took so much— so much time to perfect, a-and…”

Stanley had to gently push the Narrator away so he could catch a few sharp coughs into his elbow. This only seemed to add to the distress in the Narrator’s expression.

Stanley’s frown deepened.

“Narrator…” He signed. “You’re getting really worked up about this. I… I don’t know if I’ve ever seen you this upset before.” The tickle in his throat still hadn’t gone away, and he had to pause again to cough another few times. It hurt, but he tried not to show it.

“…Is it really that bad? I can’t just rest and heal?”

The Narrator let out a long sigh. He wasn’t crying anymore, but he still looked dejected.

“Oh, how I wish it was that simple. If it was, I would not hesitate giving you time to properly rest up.”

Alarm raced through Stanley.

“Wait, what?” He signed, somewhat rapidly. “Are you just going to make me get up and— and go through all of this?” He made a wide gesture to the room around him— and by extension, the Parable.

“I don’t see why not. If you aren’t going to be around for much longer—“ The Narrator swallowed. “—Then I suppose we shall make the best of our time.”

Chapter Text

“Are you out of your mind? Narrator, I can’t even get up!”

“A simple reset will fix that. Won’t it?”

“No! You can’t just reset all your problems away, I—“

Everything was giving way to crushing despair. Was he really going to have to spend all this time— up until the moment he inevitably died, apparently— just going through the story? Loops and loops, while feeling this achingly awful?

After all that had just happened, what— just going back to normal? Never seeing the Narrator in a visible form again? Just going through the story until he simply collapsed and did not get up again?

The thought sent genuine fear through him. He’d have no time to process the fact that he was going to die. He would have no time to rest. Just trudge on, and on, and on.

And to think he thought the Narrator cared.

“Please, Narrator.” He begged, hands shaking. “Just let me have this.”

“Stanley. I would like to make the best of my story before it’s gone.” Despite how even the Narrator managed to keep his voice, Stanley could see the conflicted pain behind his eyes.

“And I’d like to make the best of my life before it’s gone!”

The Narrator flinched at this.

“Stanley. It’s not worth it to have that attitude. There is nothing we can do. Wouldn’t you much rather spend your life walking around than—“

“No!” Stanley interjected, his signs sharp and fast. “I feel awful! All I want to do is lay down and go to sleep and get better, and I want to be able to have you here with me while that happens, and—“ Stanley could feel his eyes prickling with unshed tears— both angry and sad.

“…I’m scared, Narrator.” Stanley admitted. He sniffled, the tears brimming in his eyes. ”I don’t want to die. And— And if that’s what’s going to happen, then— I just want to have a little time to rest. I’ve never been able to rest before. You’ve never let me.”

“Oh,” The Narrator said softly. “…Really? Have I never…”

Stanley shook his head.

“This is the first time you’ve just let it happen. Any time before you’d just nag me and push me to continue.” Stanley sniffled again, reaching up to rub his sleeve over his eyes, but it did nothing to stop the tears— they just kept coming.

The Narrator was silent.

“…Well, I… I suppose I could give you some time. Not too much, but… Some time.”

Stanley’s shoulders slumped in relief. His exhaustion seemed to hit him all at once.

He… Didn’t exactly look any happier. He still looked very dejected, tired, and pained.

“…I’m gonna go back to sleep.” He signed.

“Okay, Stanley, I… Then I will go back to—“

But Stanley had grabbed onto his wrist as quickly as he could to stop him. The idea of being alone for all of this was even more painful, and brought a fresh surge of tears to his eyes.

“No! Please,” He signed, and then let go of the Narrator’s wrist. “Stay. I… I don’t want to be alone. I’m scared.”

The Narrator looked deeply conflicted, but after a moment, he lowered himself back down into the armchair. Stanley sighed shakily in relief.

Stanley slowly laid himself down on the couch again. Instead of closing his eyes, though, he stared vacantly.

There was a long moment of silence between them, and it was only broken by the beginnings of tiny stifled sobs coming from Stanley.

He didn’t want to die. He didn’t. He was scared and confused and even though the Narrator was sitting just a few feet away, he still felt alone. The Narrator was just doing this to be able to get on with the story, wasn’t he? He definitely had seemed like he had cared a few moments ago, but that had changed when he’d started talking about the story again.

The unevenness of Stanley’s breathing sent him into a harsh coughing fit, and that only made the him feel worse.

All the feelings churning inside him felt so very painful, and through it all, Stanley still felt alone.

He… He wished there was another human being around. He longed for a hug from someone— anyone. Ever since he hugged the Narrator and remembered what human contact felt like, he… He just wanted it again. From someone who understood. And knowing he wouldn’t get it, well…

Stanley wasn’t able to stifle his sobs anymore, and he curled in on himself, burying his face in his hands. His shoulders shook with the force of the tears. And all the while, the Narrator probably just sat there and watched. Maybe he was concerned. Maybe he wasn’t.

He probably wasn’t. Stanley was just a character, wasn’t he? Stanley’s only companion was more concerned about his game than he was concerned about him. He could make another Stanley. Stanley was replaceable.

And that thought struck deepest of all. It hurt. And the whole time, the Narrator probably just sat there and—

Stanley felt a pressure beside him on the couch. And then there were arms around him, gently raising him into a sitting position, pulling him into an embrace.

“Oh, Stanley…” The Narrator murmured softly, sadly.

At first, Stanley thought he was hallucinating, perhaps from delirious fever. But the Narrator’s arms holding him securely seemed real. They felt real.

Stanley’s breathing caught in his chest again, and he let out a choked, warbling sound before he clutched onto his Narrator as tightly as he could. He buried his face in the Narrator’s shoulder.

“You’re… You’re safe here, Stanley.” The Narrator said softly.

And at that, Stanley finally allowed himself to fully break down.

Chapter Text

The Narrator rubbed gentle circles in Stanley’s back as he cried. If Stanley could hold onto him any tighter, he would.

He continued to cry into the Narrator’s shoulder until he had no tears to shed, and still, he clung onto him.

The Narrator was surprisingly warm, and Stanley cherished that warmness, knowing he might never feel it again.

It all felt too good to be real.

It felt way, way too good to be real.

…Hadn’t the Narrator just finished telling him that he should continue the story?

Stanley pulled away, and was met with the face of a very concerned Narrator.

“…Why are you doing this?” Stanley signed.

“Doing what, Stanley?” The Narrator said, sounding puzzled.

“All this! Giving me a hug, letting me rest, taking care of me— You were just saying that you want me to continue through the game. So why are you—“

Stanley paused, and then realization dawned on his face. His expression fell, causing a fresh wave of tears to spring in his eyes.

No. No, of course that had to be it.

“…You’re just doing this for the story, aren’t you? You— You don’t care about me, you just want to see me do your story again before it’s gone.”

A conflicted expression came over the Narrator’s face. He opened his mouth and closed it again, trying to find something to say.

Something akin to betrayal swept across Stanley’s face.

“…Why did I ever think you would?” He was signing the words before he could properly think through them.

Stanley brought his knees to his chest, folding his arms over them and putting his head down. He didn’t want to look at the Narrator, but he couldn’t exactly move elsewhere.

He felt a gentle hand on his shoulder, and he jolted away, causing the hand to flinch back. It was a very clear ‘don’t-touch-me’ motion, and Stanley was at least glad the Narrator respected that.

If Stanley was able to cry, he would’ve been doing so. But now he just felt hollow. Empty and exhausted. He wished he had nothing to do with all this. But that wasn’t possible— he was stuck here, destined to run story after story for an entity’s own amusement. To do it all until he died.

“Stanley?”

Stanley didn’t acknowledge him.

“I… I’m sorry, Stanley.”

The only movement Stanley made was to curl up tighter. He shuddered a little as he coughed harshly.

The Narrator was quiet for a while.

“…I admit that… That part of my motive was indeed to continue the story. I am concerned that with this… This problem, I suppose, we will not be able to move along with it. I had so much content planned, Stanley! If only—“

Stanley did his best to turn away from the Narrator, and he shifted to cover his ears.

The Narrator went silent again.

They sat there for a long time, both motionless. Stanley had begun sniffling again, but it was impossible to tell if it was from tears or his illness.

The Narrator stood, taking Stanley’s cup from the side table to go refill it.

Just in time, too, because Stanley surfaced with another coughing fit, scrabbling for his water. The Narrator handed it to him, and he gulped it down. He set the cup back on the table, shoulders slumping, and he went back exactly to how he’d been before.

The Narrator lowered himself into the armchair. What in the world could he say to remedy this? He’d messed up terribly, it was clear. He was genuinely worried about his protag— No, his Stanley. But now Stanley didn’t believe him.

He distantly recalled what Stanley had said before, about things that might make him better. The thought of tea came to his mind again.

…It would be worth it to give it a try, wouldn’t it?

The Narrator stood up, walking over to the coffee maker. He could’ve just brought a cup of tea into existence, but no— he wanted to make it himself. He… He wanted to show that he was willing to put effort into helping his Stanley get better. For Stanley’s own sake. To hell with his story, he hated seeing his protagonist feeling this awful.

He brought in each ingredient, transforming the coffee maker into a kettle. He took a mug from one of the tables in the room, putting the tea bag in. He hoped Stanley was alright with chamomile.

When the water was hot enough, he poured it in, and watched as color seeped out of the tea bag. And then he added some honey, and…

The Narrator brought it over to where Stanley sat, setting it town next to his water cup and retreating back a few steps.

It took Stanley a moment, but he slowly lifted his head, sniffing the air before turning his head to look.

About a dozen different emotions flickered through his face, and he reached out a hand to touch the mug, as if seeing if it was real. He flinched back when it was hot. But it wasn’t too hot to hold, and so shakily, he reached out to pick it up, cradling it close to his chest.

He finally, finally glanced over to the Narrator, a look of baffled wonder on his face.

“I…” The Narrator began. “I… I care about you, Stanley.”

Stanley still looked like he didn’t believe him.

“I… Suppose it’s understandable if you don’t believe me. I know my behavior hasn’t exactly pointed to it being true. I don’t know what I can do to convince you.”

Stanley sighed, turning his attention to the tea again.

“…What about a promise?”

Stanley didn’t look up at him.

“I, The Narrator, promise that I will not make you do anything against your will until you are completely and entirely rested up and healed. And only you, Stanley, may tell me when that is.”

Stanley was looking at him now. It was difficult to gauge his expression.

“…Does that sound alright?”

Stanley paused. And then he nodded, once.

“Good,” The Narrator sighed in relief. “May I come closer?”

Stanley hesitated, and then nodded again, shifting a little to make some room on the couch. The Narrator had meant his armchair, but… He supposed now that he was being given the offer, he’d take it.

There was a rather tense silence as Stanley and the Narrator sat there. Stanley was holding his mug of tea close to his chest. Almost as if he were afraid to drink it.

“…Stanley, I can make you more. You don’t have to save it.”

Stanley switched his mug to one hand to sign, “Warm.”

“Is it too hot to drink? I can cool it—“

Stanley shook his head.

“It’s good. I like it.”

“Oh.”

Stanley settled both hands around the side of the mug again, letting out a quiet sigh. He paused, looking at it curiously, and then went to take a sip.

Delight— or as much delight as he could have in this state— crossed over his face. A small smile even bloomed as he looked back over to the Narrator.

“…Do you like it, Stanley? I wasn’t sure whether to—“

“Yes! Thank you.” He took another sip, and then let out a rather contented sigh. He looked worlds better than he had a few minutes ago, and the Narrator was relieved.

“Just tell me when you want more, and I can get it for you.” The Narrator paused, and shifted awkwardly.

“...Is there anything else you need, Stanley?”

Stanley shook his head. Then he hesitated, before setting his tea down.

“...Can I go back to sleep after this? I’m still tired.”

“Of course, Stanley. Whatever you need.”

Stanley gave him a soft smile.

“Thank you, Narrator.”

Chapter Text

Stanley was slow to drink his tea, savoring it. It was the best mug of tea he’d had in… Well, a while, since he hadn’t been allowed to have anything like this.

He… Still honestly didn’t fully trust the Narrator. He expected him at any moment to tell him it was time to continue the story, but… the being just sat there patiently, humming a little tune to himself.

…Stanley was honestly curious as to why he’d done all this. This sudden change of heart was uncharacteristic for him.

He set down his tea for a moment to sign to the Narrator.

“…Why are you doing this?” He asked. The Narrator looked a bit confused.

“‘This?’ What do you mean? Sitting next to you? Making tea? Stanley, you have to be more specific here, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“All of it,” Stanley replied. “You were just doing this kind of stuff to continue with the story a little bit ago. And… I guess you agreeing to actually let me rest is something, but… I’m just a little wary of all this. It feels too nice.”

Stanley picked up his tea again.

“Too nice? Really?” The Narrator sounded genuinely surprised.

“Well, I… suppose there definitely is a valid reason behind your concerns, Stanley.”

He looked away for a moment.

“Once again, I… apologize. I haven’t exactly been the best… well, caretaker, if we’re being frank. Seeing as I am the only person here who could do it.”

That last comment sent a bitter wave of frustration through Stanley, but he did his best to shove it down. He didn’t have the energy to start an argument.

It seemed the Narrator had picked up on his expression, though, and he winced.

“Hm. That probably wasn’t the right thing to say, was it?”

Stanley shook his head.

“Right. Well, uh… Is there anything else you need, Stanley?”

Stanley hesitated, and then nodded, setting his tea down.

“Can I have another blanket? It’s cold in here.”

“What? It seems like a perfectly fine temperature to—“

The Narrator snapped his mouth shut— and from the expression on his face and the pained whine that followed, Stanley could assume he’d bitten down on his own tongue.

Once The Narrator regained his bearings, he cleared his throat.

“…Of course, Stanley.” A second blanket materialized over Stanley. Stanley looked absolutely bewildered.

He’d been expecting the Narrator to continue prattling on and on about how it wasn’t actually cold in here and how Stanley wouldn’t need it, but… he’d actually stopped himself before he could continue. And Stanley hadn’t been expecting that by any means.

“…Thank you, Narrator.” Stanley signed.

The Narrator gave him a nod, but he didn’t say anything else. So Stanley picked up his tea again, taking another sip.

It was beginning to cool down at this point, but it was still pleasantly warm, and Stanley held it close to his chest.

He closed his eyes with a sigh, content to just sit there for a moment and let the warmth flow through his hands. It was… actually kind of nice.

But unfortunately, it didn’t last long. The steam from the tea was causing his nose to run. Stanley sniffed, and quickly moved to set down his tea so he could sneeze without spilling it all over himself.

Surprisingly, the Narrator didn’t react. But when Stanley sneezed again, he made a quiet noise of disgust. Stanley heard him move to find the box of tissues and felt them drop onto his lap.

“Thank you.” Stanley signed.

The Narrator scoffed, making a vague gesture, and Stanley chuckled softly.

The two sat in silence for a moment, and then Stanley raised his hands to sign.

“I think I’m going to go back to sleep now.”

“Aren’t you going to finish the rest of your tea?” The Narrator questioned, and Stanley shook his head.

“It’s getting kind of cold, I think I’m done with it for now.”

Stanley paused.

“…Could I have some more when I wake up?” He asked, rather hesitantly. He honestly didn’t know if the Narrator was willing to make tea for him again, but he was hoping he was. It felt… Really nice to have something like that. Something from another person. It was rare that the Narrator did things like this for him.

And to his surprise, the Narrator nodded.

“Of course you may, Stanley. I… Honestly rather enjoyed the process, but the concept baffles me. Letting leaves sit in water? Well, I just don’t think I’d drink that.”

“It’s not just leaves. Sometimes it’s things like spices and flowers, too.”

“What? Stanley, why are humans so partial to drinking this sort of thing? This… wouldn’t it make a sludge, Stanley?”

Stanley laughed quietly.

“No. They’re all in a bag so that doesn’t happen. It’s just the flavor. And it has all sorts of good effects depending on the tea. A lot of them can calm you down or make you feel less sick.”

“Really? Either you have awful taste, or I may be missing out on something.”

“It’s good. You should try it sometime.”

“…Perhaps I will.”

Stanley yawned, the drowsiness beginning to settle within him again. It was heavy and hard-hitting this time, like all the energy had just left his body. The warm tea had done a number on him.

“…I’m tired.”

“Okay, well… Feel free to rest, then, Stanley.”

Stanley didn’t have to wait for an answer. He was already carefully laying himself back, shifting so he was thoroughly covered by the blanket. He let out a long sigh, letting his eyes slide shut, and waited for sleep to come.

It came a lot quicker than he expected— almost as soon as he was comfortable.

Stanley had drifted off for only a moment before he woke again to something touching his forehead. He flinched, eyes fluttering open just in time to see a hand jolt back.

“Stanley! A-Apologies, I was just… Your hair was out of place.” A familiar voice said. Stanley would have tried to identify them, but his eyelids felt like they were being weighed down, and he could barely keep them open. And so he didn’t.

A sleepy smile crossed his face. He shook his head, untangling his hands from the blanket to sluggishly sign, “It’s okay. I was just surprised, and…”

He felt himself begin to drift off again before he could finish the sentence, and his eyes fluttered back open for a moment as he tried to stay awake.

“I don’t mind.” Was the final bit.

Then he snuggled into the blanket again with a long and content sigh.

What had that been? Who had that been?

Stanley was too tired to really think about it much, but it had felt good. He liked it.

As Stanley finally slipped into sleep, he swore he could still feel fingers gently running through his hair.

Chapter Text

Hello, Stanley.

It took Stanley a disorienting moment to remember where he was. Or… that he’d been in this space before. He still had no idea where this was.

It’s alright. Take a moment if you need to.

I understand that this can be jarring.

The words faded as 432 waited patiently.

And it was jarring, Stanley had to admit. But he recovered soon enough.

Hi.

Are you feeling any better?

Stanley hesitated. Was he? He couldn’t feel his body here, so he didn’t know. He tried to remember how he was feeling before he fell asleep.

A little, I think.

That’s good to hear.

Yeah.

Stanley paused.

Does that mean you won’t have to figure out what’s going on with me?

No. Unfortunately.

I have a good idea of what’s going on, I think. And it’s not good.

Oh. So… I’m not getting better?

Not without some help.

But I think I can start to fight it.

Fight what?

There’s a virus.

Well, duh. I wouldn’t be sick if there wasn’t.

I meant a computer virus.

I know. That’s what the Narrator thinks, too.

I’m surprised he picked up on that so soon. He didn’t make an antivirus software.

What, medicine?

Hahaha.

It looked rather monotone in text form, but Stanley hadn’t seen 432 use any sort of sound effect in their words before. Plus, Stanley did feel a trace of that same happiness from way before. They’d thought it was funny!

Stanley would’ve grinned triumphantly had he been able to.

I guess you could put it that way. Or a vaccine.

Stanley had completely forgotten that 432 mentioned they used to be… well, they hadn’t exactly used the word human. But Stanley could assume, since they’d supposedly been one of his coworkers.

Supposedly? I was.

Well… I guess you probably aren’t able to remember.

You don’t remember anything from before this, do you?

Not really.

Ah. That makes sense.

Anyways. That’s off-topic.

As I said, there’s a virus that’s somehow gotten into the code.

I’m not sure how it got there or where it came from.

But there’s good news and bad news.

Can I have the bad news first? It makes the good news better.

Oh. Alright.

432 seemed rather surprised.

The Bad News: The virus began at your model, and it seems to be steadily spreading throughout other lines of code.

Oh. That doesn’t sound good.

It’s not.

But the Good News: I think I can find a way to fight it back.

So, you’re like my immune system?

Ha. Maybe.

It might take a while, but it’s not a majorly damaging virus. I think.

I’m sure I’ll be able to contain and erase it, given time.

Does that mean I’m not getting better for a while?

I’m afraid so.

The words faded, and there was silence from them both for a long moment.

…Is the virus able to infect the Narrator, too?

I’m not actually sure.

As an entity, I’d assume not. He’s not an asset, so I doubt the virus could spread to him.

That’s good.

Well… maybe.

Now that I’m thinking about it, his situation is a bit concerning.

By making himself an actual model, he’s basically put himself into an asset.

Stanley felt dread climb through his nonexistent form.

Oh. And if he’s an asset, he can…

Get infected. Yeah.

I know it probably shouldn’t, but it honestly makes me worried.

Me too.

Both of them were quiet for a moment.

Maybe I should tell him when I wake up.

I wouldn’t. He would question you on how you know so much about the code.

That might lead to finding me.

He might try and kick me out if he finds out about me. Then I wouldn’t be able to kill the virus.

Oh. Okay. I won’t tell him, then.

Thanks.

…Is he in any danger if he gets infected?

That depends.

If he decided to ditch his model, I bet he’d be just fine. Even if the model had been infected.

But he might be too stubborn to do that.

Yeah, that… sounds like him.

Either way. I’m going to work on detangling the virus from the code.

Hopefully I can stop it before it comes to that.

Looks like it’s time to let you go again, too.

Just sit tight. I’ll see you when you fall asleep again.

Talk soon.

Before Stanley could think another word to them, he was dragged out of sleep.

Chapter Text

Stanley had been sleeping for quite a long time at this point, and the Narrator had to admit: He was becoming rather… bored.

The first time Stanley had gone to sleep, he’d spent all his time panicking, and the second time, he’d ended up falling asleep as well (though, this experience was not one he wanted to repeat). Now, he was calm and alert, and all he could do was sit here. He’d taken to quietly reciting the script to himself, seeing how much he could remember without stopping. It reminded him a lot of what he’d tried to do to keep himself occupied during the godforsaken skip button incident, and the very idea filled him with dread, making him shudder.

But as long as he didn’t think about it, the action had become a little game. And yet, it was still terribly boring.

So when Stanley finally stirred again, the Narrator perked up.

“There you are, Stanley! Welcome back.”

It took the man a long moment to fully wake, and he sat up slowly, squinting his eyes against the light. The Narrator noted his change in behavior very quickly. Stanley seemed far more sluggish and confused than he had before he had gone to sleep. It was slightly concerning, but he seemed to have trouble waking up every time, so the Narrator assumed it was just something that was unique to Stanley.

Stanley didn’t even seem to register the fact that he was even awake at all at first. He just looked around slowly, not quite taking in his surroundings.

He made a noise that sounded like he was attempting to clear his throat, but instead, it immediately triggered a coughing fit. The coughs sounded rather rough, and the Narrator winced at the harsh sound, standing up from his chair to go and refill Stanley’s water.

Stanley was quite slow to remember that it was there at first, but once he did realize it, he picked it up. Seeing that it had been refilled, he took a long drink of it, calming down the coughs.

“Thanks.” Stanley signed, continuing to sip the water carefully. It seemed he was still booting up, per se, and hadn’t quite processed much yet.

The Narrator sat back down in his chair, fidgeting with his hands as he watched Stanley recover. He was ready to get more water for him if he needed it.

As the Narrator checked him over for any more signs that he needed anything, his eyes fell on Stanley’s hair. Some of it had been shifted out of place, and there were strands sticking to his forehead, which appeared to have a sheen of wetness on it that the Narrator certainly had not noticed before.

…The hair out of place would be the only thing he’d possibly be able to notice until it was taken care of. And Stanley had said he didn’t mind, hadn’t he?

The Narrator leaned forward, intending to brush the strands ever so gently back into place.

But when his hand made contact with Stanley’s forehead, he flinched back, visibly surprised.

“Stanley! You’re— you’re hot!”

Stanley blinked blearily, confused, and then he carefully set his water cup down, the beginnings of a smile showing on his face, one that was barely able to be contained.

“Thanks! You designed me!” Stanley signed, unable to hold the loopy and mischievous grin back anymore.

It took a moment for the Narrator to realize what Stanley was implying, and he sputtered, color rising to his face.

“Wh— Stanley!” He scolded, flustered indignation lacing his tone. “Don’t be crass!”

Stanley was snickering uncontrollably. He seemed delirious, all hazy and muddled.

“You know very well that is not what I meant!” The Narrator was desperately trying to salvage his error. He was still greatly concerned— Stanley hadn’t felt like he was emitting much heat the last time the Narrator had touched his forehead (which had been purely out of impulse, and he chided himself for it again.)

He could feel his own face burning. Was it simply something that was meant to happen in human bodies?

“You— When I touched your face, it was warm. Much higher of a temperature than I feel it should be, Stanley. I am concerned.”

Stanley blinked, taken aback, as if he had forgotten completely that he was ill. He looked confused, and then something clicked.

“Fever.” He signed.

“Fever? What do you mean?”

Stanley seemed to sober up for a moment, frowning.

“I’m getting too warm.”

“Is that a good thing?”

Stanley shook his head, and the Narrator made a noise of concern.

“Stanley, I— I don’t know how to help.”

“Water. Don’t want to dehydrate.”

“But what about the heat? You said you were too warm, is there some way to cool you off?”

Stanley nodded.

“Ice. Or a wet towel,” He tapped his forehead. “It works best if I put it here.”

The Narrator noted that he’d begun to shiver.

“Ice? Stanley, are you certain that’s a good idea?”

Stanley seemed to hesitate. The man looked like he was freezing cold, trembling uncontrollably. But he nodded.

“Yeah. I’m too warm.”

The Narrator was beginning to become rather skeptical of this. From his perspective, Stanley appeared to be miserably chilly.

...But then again, Stanley was human, and the Narrator very much was not. Stanley was the one who knew what he needed. So whatever bizarre human thing this was, the Narrator needed to go with it.

“Alright,” He said, with such gentleness in his tone that it surprised even him. “Lie back down. You said a, a wet towel? Was that it?”

Stanley nodded, and then settled back down with a sigh, folding his arms over his chest. The Narrator moved towards the water cooler, bringing a hand towel into existence as he did so. He assumed a bath towel would be far too large if he needed to put it on Stanley’s forehead.

The Narrator hesitated, eyeing the cooler warily. He dreaded the idea of getting water all over the carpet.

But… He did suppose that since this was for Stanley’s wellbeing, it would be alright. It would dry, after all.

The Narrator held the towel under the spout, and flicked the switch.

Immediately, cold water doused his hands, and he fumbled with the towel, letting out an embarrassing squeak of surprise. He lunged to turn the water off, but the damage had long since been done. The towel was thoroughly soaked, as was the floor, his hands and sleeves, and the front of his sweater. He grumbled in annoyance.

Squeezing the excess water out of the towel (he and the floor were already sodden, it truly did not matter if they got much more so), the Narrator turned around, and caught the tail end of the sentence that Stanley was signing at him.

“—ry? You okay?”

The Narrator blinked in confusion. He hadn’t caught the first word, but he was sure he could puzzle it out on his own. He was embarrassed enough as it was, he didn’t want to ask Stanley to repeat whatever he had signed.

What words ended in r and y?

Well, he supposed that story did, and the idea filled him with a sense of hope. But he knew Stanley didn’t want to engage with the story right now. Ooh, or hairy, but that one didn’t fit, either. Berry? Fury? Or angry! Yes, that had to be it! Stanley was asking if he was angry!

“Well, yes, I am a bit upset, I suppose. The water got everywhere, Stanley. It was dreadful.”

Stanley giggled.

“Oh, don’t laugh at me! It’s not my fault it comes out fast!”

This only made Stanley laugh harder, and the Narrator rolled his eyes, grumbling under his breath as he folded the towel carefully. The laughs quickly turned into coughs, making the Narrator frown in concern. Stanley finished his water as the Narrator made his way over, and he slumped back down with a gravelly sigh.

“I have a towel for you here.” The Narrator informed him. Stanley nodded, eyes closed, and the Narrator took it as a cue for him to go ahead and place it on his forehead.

Very gently, he brushed Stanley’s hair off his forehead, feeling the softness of it even through the dampness. His skin was terribly warm, and it worried the Narrator greatly.

…Goodness, when had he begun to worry so much about Stanley? He— well, he supposed, that he needed to if he wanted the story to continue. It couldn’t go on properly without Stanley. Yes. That was it.

As he moved Stanley’s hair out of the way, he resisted the urge to comb his fingers through it again. The thought filled him with a fluttery feeling he could not identify.

The Narrator carefully positioned the towel on Stanley’s forehead. Stanley flinched at the sudden cold before letting out a sigh of relief. The Narrator let the man’s hair flop back into place, disappointment churning through him. Stanley cracked open his eyes, glancing up at him.

“Thank you.” He signed, and the Narrator leaned back into his chair, nodding.

“To answer your earlier question, though being soaked so suddenly by ice-cold water— oh, don’t laugh at me like that— it was a bit upsetting, yes, but I was not angry.”

The snickers died down, and Stanley looked at him in confusion.

“...Why would you be angry about that? Well… I guess you’re… you, so I wouldn’t blame you, but…”

“What is that supposed to mean, Stanley?” Offense laced his tone, and Stanley quickly waved his hands, sheepishly moving to explain.

“Not what I meant! I was trying to say that I could see you getting mad about it, is all. It would make a lot of people mad. It was surprising and you probably didn’t like it. But… What do you mean when you say my ‘question’?”

“You asked me if I was angry, Stanley. Did you not?”

Confusion crossed Stanley’s face again.

“What? I asked if you were okay, not if you were angry.”

“But what you said first— well, I’ll admit, I only saw the tail end of it, and ‘angry’ seemed to be the most likely word to fit, given the context.”

Stanley paused, and then realization dawned upon him, his mouth briefly curling into an ‘o’ shape. He giggled.

“I didn’t say angry! I was asking you if you were okay.”

“Yes, Stanley, I’m aware, but—”

“N-A-R-R-Y. It’s a lot faster to spell than ‘Narrator.’ Well, I guess I could’ve gone with N-A-R, but…”

It took the Narrator a good moment for it to click.

Stanley had been signing a nickname. Completely out of the blue, no prompt at all. Narry. He absolutely despised it, that wasn’t his title, his name!

…But at the same time, it filled him with that same fluttery feeling that he got when he touched Stanley’s hair. It was the equivalent to bubbles rising up inside him, maybe. Or butterflies. Hundreds and hundreds of butterflies.

The Narrator put a hand to his mouth, trying to process all this. He glanced up just in time to see Stanley signing again.

“—Not like it? Sorry, I probably should’ve asked.”

“What? No! No, no, nonono, I do… appreciate it, Stanley, it’s just…” He trailed off, swallowing. He needed to figure out how to explain this feeling without having such an awfully stupid description of it. Really? Butterflies? There were very much better ways to put it, he was absolutely certain, but none came to him.

It was a good feeling. He liked it, actually. It made him feel… well, he wasn’t sure. But even through that, something within him was attempting to tuck the feeling away, to not let it be spoken aloud. As if he were a fool for having it.

And so he let it.

“Just…?” Stanley prompted, snapping the Narrator back into reality. Right. He had to continue whatever he was saying, however he said it.

The Narrator could feel heat rising to his face again. It almost burned, he was so warm, and he moved his hand from his mouth to his cheek. And then he remembered something, and he moved his hand from his cheek to his forehead, feeling the strands of his own hair tickling his skin. And the warmth that came from it.

…Oh.

That had to be it.

“...Stanley? About the… the fever thing you were talking about…”

Chapter Text

Stanley frowned, his face creasing in concern.

“...Go on.” He signed carefully.

“Well, it’s—” The Narrator pressed a hand to his cheek again, then back to his forehead. “I feel quite warm. You said that was a human thing, yes? An irregular temperature? Now, I’m not exactly sure why it would be affecting me, since I am decidedly not human, mind you—”

“Narrator, do you think you’re running a fever?” Stanley interrupted.

A confused expression flitted across the Narrator’s face.

“Wh— Fever, maybe, but I’m clearly not running anywh—”

He was cut off again as Stanley leaned forward, taking the Narrator’s hand off his face and replacing it with his own. The towel fell off his forehead, but he didn’t seem to notice, expression rife with… worry?

No, no, that would be absurd. Stanley had no reason to worry about him. He didn’t even need to be worried about!

The Narrator felt that same feeling from before— it bloomed in his chest again as his gaze drifted to where Stanley still held his hand. Stanley’s hand was rather rough compared to his own, but it was warm— just a little but past pleasantly so, but he assumed that had Stanley been without a fever—

He pushed the remainder of the thought from his mind, using Stanley moving his hand back and forth between his forehead and his cheek as a distraction. He was being especially touchy about this, and the Narrator realized it was from lingering delirium.

Before he could process any further, Stanley leaned back, frowning deeply.

“...You feel warm.” He signed slowly.

“Stanley, I distinctly recall you telling me that a fever is characterized as being warmer than usual. You also said that was a bad thing, yes? As there is the possibility of— of dehydrating?”

Stanley nodded.

“Why exactly does that happen? I feel there’s no practical reason for the human body to need to dehydrate itself.”

Stanley hesitated. He looked like he was deep in thought, turning something over in his head.

“...Narrator, fevers happen when your body is trying to fight something.” He signed carefully.

”Fight something? Stanley, there’s nothing in this room that I could possibly fight. Well— except you, of course, but honestly, I wouldn’t really want—”

Stanley shook his head.

“No. Not physically fighting something.” He paused, as if he were once again carefully considering something. Then he continued, albeit slowly.

“Fevers happen when your body is trying to fight off an illness. A… A virus.”

The Narrator, all at once, felt like he’d been plunged into a body of icy water.

“Stanley,” He began, rather shakily, sounding a lot fainter than he’d like. “Do you mean to say that I’ve been infected?”

Stanley winced, but he didn’t move to say anything else.

The Narrator let out a huff, chest very tight all of a sudden, and he found that it was rather difficult to breathe.

“Oh, god. Oh, no, no, nononono, this isn’t happening. It cannot be happening. I— I—”

He threw a helpless glance over at Stanley.

“Stanley, I cannot be infected by this virus. There must be a mistake!”

Stanley sucked in a breath through his teeth, looking away.

The Narrator shot up from his chair, and immediately launched himself into a rhythm of pacing.

“How did it spread so quickly!? It’s only been, what, a few hours since we first discovered it?”

Back and forth through the room he went, running a hand repeatedly through his hair.

“Oh, goodness. It might be a lot worse than I feared. It cannot have entered my model this quickly. I— I haven’t had time to put the proper protections in place, and I—”

The Narrator felt something touch his shoulder, and he yelped, whirling around to see… Stanley.

Stanley was standing there, swaying a little on his feet, a concerned expression plastered on his face.

“Sorry. It’s just me.” He signed, and the Narrator fumbled to find words. But before he could, Stanley continued.

“I didn’t know how else to get your attention. You’re getting yourself really worked up about this.”

“Well, of course I’m going to get worked up about it, Stanley! If I’ve been infected, then we are running out of time! Can’t you see? This game cannot exist without me!”

“...Narrator.” Stanley signed slowly. “Calm down for a moment.”

“Stanley, I shouldn’t— I cannot be calm right now! I— I have to do something about this! I haven’t been productive enough, Stanley, I’ve just been sitting here and—” He huffed out a breath, shaking his head. “The fact of the matter is, the virus has spread. I’ve wasted all my time just—”

Stanley interrupted him by putting his hands firmly on his shoulders.

The Narrator jolted, and then redirected his attention to him immediately. Stanley’s expression seemed to soften a little, and he pulled his hands back to sign.

“Narry,” He signed, and the Narrator felt that same warmth— feverish, he recognized distantly— crawling up into his face. “You’re not going to be able to get anything done if you’re panicking about it. Just breathe for a second. It’ll be okay.”

The Narrator said nothing. His heart was still pounding, and he felt frantic. His hands twitched— he need to get to work, or this wouldn’t get fixed and it would just get worse—

He felt Stanley squeeze his shoulder, and he snapped out of his train of thought, his gaze flicking back to Stanley’s face.

There sat that worried expression again.

…Right.

“You said breathe, yes?” He managed to choke out.

Stanley nodded.

“But— But Stanley, I already am breathing. I’m not sure what you want from me.”

“There’s a specific pattern you have to breathe in to calm down. Watch.”

Stanley took a deep breath, counting with his fingers— one, two, three, four. Then he held it, and counted to seven. Finally, he let it out slowly, counting to eight.

“Like that.” He signed.

“Seems a bit odd,” The Narrator commented.

…But from what Stanley was saying, he knew he should probably wrangle his breathing into cooperation once more— he was breathing far differently than Stanley had shown him, and this version of breathing was starting to hurt.

He… He didn’t know why, exactly, he was placing this much trust into Stanley. Perhaps he was willing to place his faith in his protagonist a little more than he thought. Or perhaps he was just a little desperate.

So the Narrator took a deep, shaky breath in. He held it until he thought his chest would simply burst, and then he let it out slowly.

“Remember to count.” Stanley signed, and the Narrator nodded quickly.

He took a breath in for four seconds, held it for— seven, was it? Stanley was holding up seven fingers in front of him now, as a reminder. Yes. Right. Then he let it out in a long breath, counting to eight.

Already, he could feel himself beginning to calm, to his absolute wonder.

But that progress was quickly undone when he focused on Stanley again.

“I need to go sit down.” Stanley signed, a bit sloppily. He looked rather pale, as if he was about to topple over, and the Narrator felt anxiety stirring up within him again. He took a step forward toward Stanley, ready to race to his protagonist’s side if need be.

“Stanley? Are you alright?”

Stanley nodded quickly, taking in a deep breath.

“Yeah. I’m fine,” He signed. “Just… keep breathing until you feel calm again. I’m gonna go sit down.”

He carefully shuffled over to the couch, and only once the Narrator was certain that he had settled did he let his eyes fall shut, picking up the pattern Stanley had shown him again.

The room went silent, and the Narrator felt Stanley’s gaze fixed on him. He let himself relax, focusing on counting.

It only took a few rounds of it until he felt himself calm completely, as if by some magical external force.

He opened his eyes, fixing his gaze on Stanley again.

“...How did you know to do that, Stanley?”

“It’s a human thing.” Stanley signed. “I remember getting really anxious sometimes, and my breathing would go all over the place. That helped.”

“I see,” The Narrator said softly. “Yes, I… That certainly sounds familiar.”

The Narrator sighed, his shoulders slumping, and he moved his glasses up to pinch the bridge of his nose— continuing to count to himself as he felt that anxious pressure threatening to escape.

“So,” He said after a moment, and a little weakly. “Okay. The…”

He took another deep breath. Held it. Exhaled slowly.

“...The virus. Shall we discuss what to do about it next?”