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queenburd · 1 year

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okay all, here’s the last TSP fic I will be doing for now. it’s a really tidy closing point, and I have a couple other writing projects to work on. one’s really short, but the other is a monster I keep taking breaks from.

THIS IS NOT THE END OF TSP, I definitely have more ideas for these fellas, but right now it’s just a good place to pause on the fic front.

Read All My TSP Fics Here

anyway, here ya’ll go.

co-op mode.

Stanley is in high spirits today!

There is no particular reason for this, or perhaps it’s a multitude of things. A while back, he had convinced the narrator to occasionally swap the lounge out with that stocked employee break room, and it’s on one of his most recent runs that he’s had the luck of it spawning. Well fed and hydrated, he’d had a power nap in the boss’s office, then done the press conference ending for the hell of it. Both he and the narrator get a good chuckle out of it, he’s found, and have ever since that first run where the fellow had really strung him along for a few minutes.

So yeah, he’s feeling in excellent form today! He’s even feeling up for a speed run, or maybe a run at the 430 door achievement. Oh, sure, he got those achievements years ago, but they still put a pep in his step, and invigorate both of them.

The narrator seems in good spirits as well, if a bit on the quiet side. He usually gets like this when he’s trying to work on something alongside the narration, or if he’s examining the files after a recent bug (once, during the insanity ending, Stanley found the next room in the loop didn’t spawn, door only leading to blackness, and he fell through the floor to the fellow’s panic; the narrator had spent a good 20 minutes trying to understand what went wrong, before Stanley had play tested it and discovered the prior door hadn’t yet closed, resulting in the next room not loading in until he’d forced the door shut).

But he stays on his narration, if only using some of the varied, shorter lines, and he still seems delighted to go along with Stanley’s detours. Perhaps the good energy is just contagious.

Stanley spins in his chair at the beginning of this new loop. He’s definitely thinking speed run, yeah.

“Stanley? Can I call for a pause before you get started?”

Stanley blinks, looks up at the tiles of the ceiling, and grins, his hands behind his head. What can he do for the fellow this fine day?

“Well, aren’t you just in the loveliest of moods.” It’s only a little mocking, but still pleased. “Well, I—I have a surprise for you, but I do think I need a few minutes to get it all set up. What do you say to running the story proper, only on your own, for a round? And then,” and here he sounds full of nervous anticipation, “next turn, you head to the Stanley Parable 2 exhibit show?”

Sure thing, bud. Should Stanley take his time with the run?

“Mm, no, I think I can have this all sorted by the time you’ve finished that speed run you’re so eager for. The wonders of loading screens, you know.”

That he does. It’ll be a bit weird to do it without the voice, but he knows those lines by heart. He can manage a run.

Hang on—surprise? Wait, did the fellow—

“Ah-ah! No spoilers!”

Oh he totally did. Stanley snickers and gets to his feet.

[ Race you. ]

“Brat,” the narrator says fondly. “Shall I count down, or—oh, you little cheat!” Because Stanley has already run out his office and through the first room full of cubicles, laughing. His friend’s own surprised laughter follows him to the room with the doors.

Stanley zips through the halls and up the stairs with a newfound eagerness. He’s got motivation, and enthusiasm, and he crosses the length of the boss’s office with a hum. The narrator has not opened the secret passageway for him, but since there’s no narration, Stanley is able to punch in the code without pause. Mm, those beeps always sound so pleasing.

An elevator ride down, a jog through the open doors under the large emboldened letters, and then down the catwalk to the button that turns on the lights. One metal fence, two, and then another elevator. Stanley drums out a beat on his thigh as it ascends, bouncing in place.

A room filled with beautiful, colorful buttons—oh, the hours he’s spent in this room, just to see if any of them affect any of the monitors, any of the digital battery symbols. (The narrator has joked about one day coding in a secret puzzle, too complex to solve within the time-frame at all, which would reset at a single error. It’s mean. Stanley hopes he’ll do it.)

He mustn’t get distracted—he’s almost finished with the run, and then he gets to finally see—

He hits the OFF switch hard enough that it stings his palm. Come on, come on, open faster!

And then Stanley is bolting down the catwalk to the grass. An artificial breeze ruffles his hair. He grins like a loon. The sky looks a little brighter than usual, but maybe that’s just him. He’s just so damn happy.

THEENDISNEVERTHEENDISNEVERTHEENDISLOADING

Stanley inhales deeply, letting his chest full up to the brim. That felt ridiculously good. The intense elation has passed, but there’s still a small ribbon of satisfaction tied neatly around his heart. Damn.

He can feel his heart thudding in his chest, but this time he knows it’s out of anticipation. He’s nervous, it’s hard not to be, but Stanley feels more excited than anything.

He stands, stretches his spine, and rolls up his sleeves. And then Stanley leaves his office.

There’s no voice to greet him, which he expected, but it’s still always a little eerie. He makes his way through the office, past the cubicles and the bucket, and there, where door 416 used to be, is the New Content door.

Still no chatter, as he rides the track and then the elevator. Nothing when he enters the modern entrance room, or weaves through the halls, or walks past the signs. Not even anything on the stairs or the red carpet.

Stanley’s work shoes click on the tile of the show room. Now that he’s here he finds that he’s slowing down, heart rate ramping up and thudding loud in his ears. He’s… anxious. Why is he anxious?

What if he misinterpreted the surprise? What if it’s something else entirely, and he has to work to not seem disappointed? What if he did accidentally have some predisposed mental image that doesn’t match—

Stanley passes under the archway beneath the stairs, and stops in his tracks.

Looking up at the large Collectible statue is a stranger. It smiles up at the Stanlurine, examining it closely, hands clasped behind their back as they rock on their heels. The gentleman is comfortably dressed, knitted green jumper over a faded yellow collared shirt, simple black slacks absolutely covered in creases, and loafers that look well loved.

The individual glances in Stanley’s direction. For a moment, their eyes go round behind the large frames of their spectacles—and then the fellow smiles, like he’s truly so genuinely happy to see Stanley that he can’t help how the grin breaks across his face.

He hasn’t said a word, but Stanley knows him. Stanley knows his best friend.

The narrator waits, smile still lighting up his face, as Stanley finally approaches. Stanley is… slow to move. Almost hesitant. He takes so long, just staring wordlessly and thoughtlessly, that the smile starts to become a bit strained. The narrator’s eyes flick from his face, away, and then back.

Stanley stops in front of him, and the fellow swallows. The smile finally slips off, giving way to uncertainty. Stanley can tell his hands are fidgeting behind his back.

The narrator opens his mouth, a croak of a syllable slipping out in the same moment Stanley lifts his hands to sign.

“I—“

[ Can I touch? ]

The narrator’s mouth snaps shut. He stares at Stanley like a deer caught in headlights, and then nods.

Stanley’s hands seem to have a mind of their own. They place themselves first on the shoulders (wider than Stanley’s, solid, the jumper texture so soft he would think it’s knitted by hand) then the upper arms (firm), and then one of his hands finds its way to the fellow’s cheek.

The face that is looking up at him is older than his, lined with creases. Thick eyebrows, springy hair in varying shades of gray. The kind of hair that could be styled quite nicely, but is prone to being tugged at and made a mess of when one is in a panic.

The hand not on a cheek cups an ear. These ears are large, indicative of a good listener. It traces a pert nose, turned up at the end, perfect for sneering down the length of with great pretension. His thumb follows the Cupid’s bow, covered by a thick mustache that merges into a full beard which hides the swell of a second chin.

His eyes, bright and full of life, are hazel—they live somewhere between light green and gold, almost like the hazel of cat eyes. Stanley imagines the color would look different under different lighting.

He looks exactly like the sort of person who would have the voice that he does. Someone who wants to seem wise and full of important things to say, but can be lazy and proud and prone to overthinking.

He cups his narrator’s face.

It suits him.

The smile returns, if a little more shy this go around. Those cheeks flush pink, just a little, and Stanley feels the muscles under his hands move and heat. The narrator wiggles in place happily, looking ever so pleased with himself.

God, his wiggles. Stanley’s not gonna get over this for a long, long time.

Stanley finally releases his face and can’t resist the temptation to loosely sink the fingers of one hand into that mess of curls. It’s just a little bit coarse, individual strands springing between his knuckles.

Yeah. Yeah, he likes this model a lot.

That smile has taken on a smug sheen. “Truly my best creation to date, wouldn’t you say? I’d go so far as to call it a masterpiece.”

Stanley takes his hands back. Nope. Not entertaining this fellow’s ego, no matter how much Stanley likes him and likes this thing he's made.

“Oh, don’t be so contrarian,” the narrator tuts, still looking far too satisfied. “Please, do go on about how appealing and pleasant you find my features. I’m looking for real feedback here.”

No, he is fishing for compliments.

He pouts, lower lip jutting forward. Stanley looks away quickly. “Well then,” the gentleman sniffs, turning his nose up (oh god he was right, it’s perfect for that, dammit), “I suppose I’ll just have to put it away then, if it’s not all that impressive—“

He’s nearly knocked over by how his protagonist loops arms around his waist and lifts him, spinning them in the air.

“H-hey! S-Stanley, ah!��

Stanley is grinning again, really grinning so much it nearly hurts.

Look, this is what he wanted, isn’t it? His model being beheld and appreciated? Stanley needs to know about the whole thing!

“Down, down, put me down! We’re going to fall, you—you stupid—stupid!!”

The narrator is a good solid weight, and although Stanley is taller by a good few inches, he’s not exactly made of muscle, so even while arms loop around his neck for support he’s putting his friend back down, soles on the pristine floors.

Winded, his narrator glares at him. He’s—oh, he’s quite close. Their noses are nearly touching. His arms don’t dislodge from where they are on Stanley’s shoulders and Stanley’s arms don’t unwind from his firm, soft middle.

Stanley blinks. Feels how his cheeks heat.

The glare shifts into that smug smile again.

“Flatterer.”

He didn’t—!

“It’s all over your face, Stanley. You’re an open book to me,” comes the condescending tease.

Alright, you know what, two can play at this game. Stanley remembers what the narrator said last time he had a body. Just how long did he spend trying to find, what was it? “Lips worthy of kissing him”?

And there goes the smile. Those eyes (gosh, Stanley can see so much variation in the colors, this close) flick away like a nervous rabbit, before he closes them and sneers irritably. “I’m not going to dignify that with a response,” he sniffs.

Wow. That long, huh.

The eyes fly open again, outraged. “I said—!”

Stanley laughs, and then he presses his forehead to the fellow’s. He feels just so utterly content in this moment.

His friend is here. He’s warm, he’s expressive, he’s here.

“O-Oh,” the exclamation is soft, “Hello.”

Stanley opens his eyes. The narrator looks up at him through fine lashes, expression a bit dazed.

Okay?

“I—yes,” he says, though he seems unsure. “It’s okay. Oh, do you really like it?”

His voice, so quiet, is sincere and perhaps desperate for approval. Like he’s truly uncertain. Stanley nudges their noses together for a moment.

Yeah. Yeah, he loves it, he really does. No jokes, no teasing, no pandering or anything. And not just because it’s another person either.

It just really, really fits his friend. Honestly it does. It’s the exact kind of person Stanley would expect to be sitting at a writing desk for hours, fussing over a story and its details, making a cup of tea and then forgetting about it entirely, surrounded by crumpled papers of rejected ideas and tugging at his hair when he’s frustrated. The kind of person who’s just a little lazy and forgetful, and wants to make lovely things for other people but is utterly temperamental and prone to irritation.

It’s him, it’s so him. He did such a good job.

“Not—not all of that was complimentary, you know,” the fellow huffs gently, though there’s no heat in it. He seems mostly enraptured by the sheer fondness in Stanley’s thoughts.

Yeah, Stanley knows it wasn’t all sweet. But then, the narrator has an ego and Stanley can’t help but tease a bit. Besides, doesn’t it all seem completely correct?

“Yes,” the narrator grumbles, averting his gaze. “It does sound like the kind of human I would be.”

Stanley squeezes him gently one more time, and then finally releases his friend. The narrator seems reluctant to part, but he takes the offered hand. Stanley twines their fingers.

He’s wondering what to show him first. Maybe the hole? Or the balloons? They can go to the merch booth and feel out the different textures of the shirts, since the fellow probably doesn’t have a lot of experience yet. Would he like coffee? Soda? Will they be able to get back to the office? Did the narrator fix the issue with resetting?

The narrator laughs at his enthusiasm. “Slow down, Stanley! What’s the rush?”

But there’s just so much to show him!

His tone gentles. It is a tender thing, full of real, quiet joy.

“We have all the time in the world.”

#the stanley parable #The Sparrow Parable #may writes #tsp #im mad bc they still dont kiss. sorry guys #they choose to be affectionate and intimate in so many other tender ways but KISSING???#NOOOOOOO #fuckers.

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