Chapter Text
-o-
He was bored, if he were being honest.
For whatever reason, Stanley had decided to venture left for what felt like the tenth time in a row. Unable to figure out exactly what had possessed him to do so, he was once again stood in the meeting room, looking around at the furniture, papers, and mugs that never, ever changed, no matter how many times he came this way.
Seriously, why was he here? He could have gone right - the better direction, always - to one of the more interesting areas of the office. Perhaps he could have gone to the apartment with the odd mannequin, or to the coloured doors that held some of the most wonderful deviations from the story. Anything would be preferable to seeing this dull area once more.
He needed a little variation sometimes. Was that too much to ask? Admittedly, doing the same ending more than three times in quick succession wasn't too tedious a task, due to his ever present love for routine, but a different kind of mental stimulation was required after a while. His mind craved it.
And going through the right passage always offered more varied lines from the Narrator, regardless of which direction he chose after getting to the cargo lift.
Sure, the left door meant he could go to the endless loop of rooms to float about for a bit; that was always fun, despite the narration drifting into a panicked tangent of dreams and reality. He could also opt to go to the museum thing, and talk to the other voice for a bit.
But he didn't want to do either of those things. Not really. The Narrator - the true one that followed him through all but a single ending - was who he wanted the stimulus from. Yes, the Narrator could be a pain, and was wont to be more than a little irritable if Stanley acted out just a bit more than necessary, but he was infinitely more entertaining than anything else this place offered.
At least the Narrator changed, unlike the choices and endings. Although it was quite hard to elicit a reaction or line of dialogue that wasn't the usual scripted words from the man, it was possible. Once it did happen, Stanley was always filled with an elation he couldn't gain from anything else. Getting any sort of non-practiced reaction from the Narrator was a victory in his book, even if it was merely a syllable - and Stanley liked winning.
Blowing out a sigh, Stanley glanced around the room despondently. His legs had brought him here - unbelievable how his body could be traitorous to itself - and now he was stuck on this path. Any point past the meeting room held the least amount of opportunities to bug the Narrator into messing up. What a bore that was.
Groaning, Stanley swiped a hand over his hot face. No sweat covered his skin, despite how warm he felt. Thankful for that - he loathed the stickiness it created - Stanley huffed out a tiny sigh, before stepping over to the open door.
As he walked through and out of the meeting room, he absently let his fingers trail over the wood of the white barricade that would soon close behind him. Licking his lips to moisten the dry skin, he continued forwards, the tips of his fingers dropping off the door and shifting to the wall on his direct left. The touch was light, just a soft brush against the beige.
"Wha—"
A stuttered cry emitted from somewhere in the space surrounding him, and Stanley froze. Eyebrows scrunching into a frown, he glanced up at the ceiling in confusion.
Had the Narrator tried to say something? Why had he cut himself off? It sounded like he'd been about to ask a question, but the words hadn't quite made it out. Blinking a few times, Stanley waited, his body still and unmoving. The Narrator never spoke any lines when he left the meeting room, so what had prompted that interruption?
Stanley didn't really care, because it was new and it was different, and he wanted it to continue. Trying to remain patient, a niggle of irritation began poking at his mind when nothing more came. The heat in his body began to rise as his chest heaved with a frustrated growl. He fought the urge to rub his face.
'Come on, say it,' he thought, wondering what the delay was. Clearly the Narrator had something to tell him, yet here he was, keeping Stanley in agonising silence. What was the deal?
Letting his frustration show in the form of a mumbled grunt, Stanley shook his head as something dark began to bubble inside him. His jaw clenched. This was unfair. Surely the Narrator could tell he wanted more from him, right? Denying Stanley of this was strangely cruel, and his rage clung to him, speaking sweet nothings into his mind, egging him on to lash out at the perpetrator of his annoyance.
He denied himself of scratching that itch, though. Stanley was many things, but violent was not one of them.
Shoulder's sagging as all the tension in them drained, Stanley once again shook his head as his arm dropped to his side. It really wasn't fair, but what could he do? Nothing, his mind supplied, and the reality of that truth almost made him laugh. Not in amusement, of course, because nothing was funny about this.
The Narrator was being an ass - deliberately or not - and Stanley had ways of getting back at him.
Deciding that he would go and get the Mind Control Facility blown up in retaliation of the Narrator's inept ability to shower him with what he desired, Stanley snorted. Bringing his hand back up to the wall, he gave it a good two taps, full palm, in a spiteful last ditch effort to convey his mood.
"A—!"
This time, the sound that shot through the air was practically a squeak. Jerking in surprise, Stanley's eyes widened, and he found his gaze darting to the ceiling yet again.
What on Earth...?
Eye twitching as bewilderment took over every thought process, Stanley found his mouth parting as he tried to understand what the hell had gotten into his companion. Breaths quick but quiet, Stanley mulled over the past minute. What was going on? Something was clearly triggering the Narrator to display some rather unorthodox reactions, but what was it?
Closing his mouth, Stanley let his gaze drop back down, his mind occupied with questions. There had to be a reason - the Narrator didn't make noise unless it was to prompt an action on Stanley's part, or due to Stanley causing him to speak in surprise or disdain at one of his choices during a run.
But this? This was different. This was unexpected. Stanley wasn't doing anything. He wasn't at an ending. Hell, he hadn't even chosen the wrong door! All he was doing was standing here, in this insignificant spot between the broom closet and the meeting room doors, with his hand grazing the wall.
Stanley blinked.
Then, coming up with an impossible, stupendously absurd idea, his eyes very slowly turned to focus on the hand he still had pressed against the smooth plaster on his left. He stared dumbly at it for a moment.
No.
There was just no way.
What he was thinking could not be true.
It couldn't be.
Biting his lip, Stanley's eyes narrowed somewhat as he tried to come up with another explanation, because the one running through his brain was terribly stupid. Clearing his throat for a lack of anything better to do, Stanley nodded once, then again, silently reassuring himself that he was going mad. Regardless, he was going to test out his theory.
Paying close attention to nothing but his hand and the wall, Stanley curled his fingers until he was basically scratching at the paint beneath them.
The response was instantaneous.
"What are you doing?!" the Narrator spluttered out, voice a tad few octaves higher than normal.
A huff of disbelief tore out Stanley's mouth as his lips tugged up at the corners.
Holy shit, he was right?
Stopping the giggle before it manifested into the outside world, Stanley's mouth rose into a full-blown grin. He glanced up at the ceiling, his smile large and toothy. He didn't care how goofy it looked - his appearance was the least important thing right now, because apparently he'd found a secret.
Keeping his fingers bent up, he nonchalantly dragged his hand down the wall, applying much more pressure than was necessary.
The gasp that came in response was glorious. "St-Stanley, stop it."
It was supposed to be an order. Unlike the scripted lines that flowed from the Narrator's mouth whenever he came to a set of two doors, offering choice, that statement held zero indication that Stanley could deviate from its instruction. Spoken with a fiercely authoritative tone - one that Stanley rarely garnered from the man - the statement was obviously a warning.
Raising an eyebrow, Stanley chuckled, his shoulders shaking with the giddy joy that was rapidly filling him. Did the Narrator really think he wouldn't challenge that attempt at a command? Please.
Flattening his hand until it was flush against the wall, Stanley began tapping a single finger against the solid surface.
"Stanley," the Narrator started, voice gruff, "why don't you continue on with the story, hm? You've been dawdling in this pointless hallway for quite some time now. It's disconcerting, to say the least. Don't you want to be free?"
He stopped tapping. Okay, so the Narrator could control his reaction through a rhythmic touch. How quaint. Shifting his attention back to the wall - the suddenly, oh so interesting, beautiful, gorgeous wall - Stanley moved his hand away slightly, leaving about an inch gap between himself and the inanimate plaster. He heard what could only be described as a relieved sigh, before a whispered 'thank you' met his ears.
His lips pursed tightly as he tried his hardest not to laugh. The Narrator definitely hadn't wanted him to hear that. Amusement filling him, Stanley felt the beat of his heart quicken in anticipation as he readied his next move. Smile unwavering and eyes probably sparkling with unabashed mirth, he struck his hand back against the wall.
The Narrator yelped, his voice a cacophony of a squeal and a shout.
Not bothering to wait for a reprimand, Stanley turned his body until he was facing the wall directly. He brought his right hand up to join his left one. Placing them both centimetres from the wall, Stanley began brushing his fingers against the surface, rapidly and lightly, so just the tips were making contact.
"Sta—" The Narrator's voice was breathy as he attempted to form coherent words. "Stanley. Thi-This is ridicu—" He was interrupted by his own voice catching on what sounded like a laugh.
Stanley paused momentarily, surprised by the new sound. He only barely registered the Narrator clearing his throat, letting out a cough to try and hide what had obviously been an involuntary snicker. He needed a second to process this new piece of information. Was... Was the Narrator... Did he just react as though he'd been...?
Stanley was aware that he'd taken this all rather calmly up until now. The Narrator could feel it when he touched the walls. It was a strange piece of reality, a truth that should have probably been a bit more frightening. But no, that hadn't been enough to break his brain.
This, though? The idea of the man being ticklish was apparently the final nail in the coffin.
It had finally happened, hadn't it? Stanley had gone insane. Awesome.
Welp, might as well enjoy it whilst he could.
Stanley hummed. Coming to a decision, he prepared to begin fiddling with the wall once again, because why not? If he'd lost his marbles, then it wouldn't do any harm to indulge a little.
He heard the Narrator drag in a sharp breath when his hands moved, and Stanley couldn't stop the flutter in his heart. Maybe he wasn't completely crazy, after all. The Narrator wouldn't react if it wasn't real, would he?
Stanley swallowed, realising the kind of power this actually gave him. This was something that couldn't be taken away. It wasn't like the Narrator could make the walls disappear. And he most certainly couldn't board them up, halting any interaction Stanley might want from them, like he'd done with the broom closet that one time.
Stanley smiled. He finally had control.
Not caring to prevent his smile from twisting into a smirk, Stanley eyed the ceiling, his expression magnificently cheeky.
And then everything went black.
-o-