Chapter Text
Stanley wasn’t quite awake when he felt movement, warm body in his hands stirring and mumbling something grumpy. He squeezes harder on instinct, wanting to keep it close, until he wakes enough to understand that he was currently being blamed for Narrator’s “annoying corporeal need to empty the bladder”. He lets go, reluctantly, and by the time Narrator is back and ready to chastise him even more, he is fast asleep and hugging a pillow instead. Narrator sighs, and marvels at the display — Stanley asleep is charmingly open, his mind a pleasant static buzz.
When Stanley wakes up the second time, he is alone, and for a second he feels so sad about it he whimpers, until he remembers the earlier interaction and realizes Narrator is probably just up and working. The sound of an electric kettle diligently boiling water calms him down completely, and after a morning routine that make him feel like a person again, he saunters into the kitchen.
Narrator is bent over the counter, and is trying to read small writing on a box of tea, so engulfed in the process he doesn’t register Stanley coming in.
He is leaning forward, trying to use sunlight filtering through the windows to help himself see, almost lying on the counter space, as his back arches a little.
Stanley catches himself staring at his ass and feels such a vibrant cocktail off affection, desire and mischief bubble in his chest, that it is only seconds from when the impulse comes to him and when he acts on it, putting a hand to his lovers back.
There is a loud smack.
Narrator squeaks, and the box falls out of his hands.
“Stanley!”
He than deflates quickly and sighs with all the weight and disappointment of a tired parent.
“Stanley.” he repeats, stern. And slowly turns to face the man, clearly unimpressed.
Stanley bites his cheek and pointedly fixates his mind on the feeling of air entering and exiting his lungs. His face is slowly heating up in shame.
“Really? After that, you are just going to stand there? How very mature of you.”
Narrator is not moving from his position, which for some reason makes Stanley even more anxious. It somehow underlines how much Narrator actually trusts Stanley and how much of a violation of trust what he did is. For the first time in a long time he is feeling fear tighten in his chest.
“So that is what I am to you, Stanley? Just a piece of meat? You drag me intro this… meat-suite, into this real-world, and what do I get? Respect? Basic decency? No-o-o-o-o-o.” Narrator supports his had with one hand, while the other is gesticulating, taking as much advantage from his “meat-suit” as he can. He is not even looking at Stanley anymore, engrossed into his monologue.
“No, I get it. You are a lonely mammal, and you just wanted someone to relief those mammalian urges with. That’s what I am, a glorified body pillow for you to hug through the night, and this crass development is just an extension of that! My sophisticated mind, my brilliant ideas — sure, you can ignore that, not like any of that ever mattered to you, see how you where just constantly ignoring my story-”
He is full on rambling now. Stanley is completely red — he feels nauseated with guilt, and can’t find strength in himself to do anything other than nod shakily, even though normally he wouldn’t pass an opportunity to engage in some friendly banter.
The persistent lack of feedback is exactly what tips Narrator off, distracting him from his tirade.
“Are you not going to argue with that?! Stanley!” he finally looks at the man properly, and it barely takes him a second to realize he is taking this way more seriously than the situation requires.
He curses his own chattiness under his breath — Stanley looks positively miserable!
And is insistently blocking him out.
And is not even looking at him.
“Oh, what am I to do with you?” Narrator exclaims in defeat. He sighs deeply and finally moves from his position to upright, to gently put his hand on Stanley’s arm.
Stanley jolts at the touch, his gaze moving from the floor to meet Narrators, eyes big and full of unshed tears, annoyingly similar to a kicked puppy.
“Stanley, dear. I need you to take a moment and tell me, what do you think I am angry about. Because-” he continues fast, seeing Stanley take a shuddering breath in. “-your reaction is telling me, that maybe — just maybe — we are not interpreting the current situation in the same manner. So if you could, perhaps, help me bridge the gap in communication? … Pleeeeeeease?”
In a turn of events that is too gruesome to be called lucky, but is nevertheless fortunate for this particular situation they find themselves in — Stanley is conditioned to react to his pleading tone with immediate, searing anger; which leads to that short, precise pang of aggression shocking Stanley out of his stupor.
It allows him to breath in a steadying breath and try to explain his plight.
[I didn’t want… to hurt you, I didn’t think… I know you are very sensitive, you never were a human before, I didn’t- I should’ve asked first, I never- I should’ve been slower, did it more gently-]
“It was pretty gentle, I-” the words get stuck in his throat a second but he forces them out, appalled at the idea of Stanley being so distressed. “I appreciate it, Stanley. You are always mindful of the limits of this body, of its- sensitivities, for the lack of the better word. Oh, gods. What I’m saying is, you didn’t hurt me physically in the slightest.” And as he feels Stanley’s mind flare in panic again — “Nor mentally! It was just my pride that suffered, dear boy, and you are the one to know I have plenty of that to go around.”
He expects Stanley to at least chuckle to that, and it breaks his heart to see him look at Narrator with his wide wet eyes.
So you are all right? Are you sure? I didn’t want to cross any boundary, you weren’t- I didn’t mean to-
Their connection is filling with static again, words getting lost in the ocean of Stanley’s emotions, and Narrator, yet again has to sigh.
“As I said, Stanley, I am perfectly fine. Need I remind you, I am much bigger that this frail body I’m inhabiting, and you would know, because you knew me for millennia that I didn’t have it. Which is not even relevant, as you have not hurt it.”
Stanley lets out a shaky breath, and brings unsteady hands — slowly, gently — to the sides of Narrator’s face. It’s the most soft, fluttering contact, almost not touching him at all, and Narrator can’t help but heat up a little at the (very recent, very indecent) memory of what those hands can do.
He is unfortunately torn from this short, pleasurable distraction back to Stanley’s distraught mind.
But you will still experience it — the real You, you will know pain, I- I don’t want you to- Don’t want to cross any boundaries- I would never- Not like this- Never-
“Shhhhh….” Stanley’s lip is quivering, and Narrator brings his own hands on Stanley’s, presses them into his face confidently, reassuringly, trying to show him how much he enjoys the touch (and actually — enjoying it.) “Breath with me, love. You are getting carried away.” He squeezes his pliant hands into himself a bit more. “I won’t break. You, however, is what I, with all my literary brilliance, can only call a mess.”
Stanley finally snorts at that, involuntarily and through tears, but Narrator latches onto that little victory and keeps going.
“Really, what am I to do with you, crying your eyes out so early in the morning? What if we decide to go for a walk later and people see your red eyes? They’ll think I am doing something awful to you behind the closed doors.”
The next bout of giggles is punched out of Stanley, albeit a bit hysterical.
“No, really! They’ll think I’m an awful roommate, and call the services, and we will have to spend the entire day in the police station, instead of at the quaint duck pond. Could you imagine!”
Narrator is in his element here, telling a story, purposefully absurd as it is. Stanley is choking on little laughs now, and though he still looks quite shaken, Narrator can see his usual self returning to him.
“What a disgrace that would be.” he finishes, voice deeper and quieter, chuckling a bit, waiting patiently for his protagonist to recover.
[Sorry, I- I overreacted. And should've asked you first, I just-] , he blushes, and now that it’s from being flustered, it looks rather cute on him. [I was in the mood. I thought- I wanted to touch you. And last night-] he blushes even deeper, and honestly, Narrator only doesn’t interrupt him because it is clearly so hard for Stanley to speak already. Because Narrator sure has a few words to say about last night and last day and how Stanley was the one who initiated the entire thing so why is he the one being shy while Narrator has to stand there and be all wise and mature-
Narrator keeps his cool though; he can complain later, when Stanley is feeling better, when he is his usual bratty self.
[Last night I’ve touched you more than ever before and I- I really liked it and I just wanted to keep touching and it was an impulse and I didn’t think and then I realized and you where upset-]
“All right, all right, slow down there Stanley, you are rambling…”
Stanley stops, hands shaky as he finishes a bit slower.
[And I kinda panicked.]
Narrator lets out a big, tired sigh.
“Yes, I’ve noticed that last one.”
He looks at Stanley’s awkward, shy smile and his flushed face and before he knows it, his arm is outstretched and he is cradling Stanley’s face, thumb gliding absently over his cheek.
“Oh, Stanley, what am I to do with you… what am I to do.” he repeats again, quieter now, rhetorical mantra at this point.
Stanley weakly covers his hand with his own, shaky one and Narrator can practically feel the need radiating of him to move forward and get more, hungry for proper touch now that he got a taste of it.
As entertaining as the idea of making him work for it is, Narrator can’t bring himself to be cruel to Stanley when he is like that. (He notes with faint distress, how at the prospect of doing that to Stanley — there is a pang of what he can’t identify as anything but lust). So he moves forward himself, inviting Stanley into his space, settling into a a hug and nuzzles his shoulder. It’s disturbingly simple to do, to settle into him, like he is coming home. Stanley puts his hands around him, still shaky with leftover panic and hungry for contact, and Narrator guides him, reassuringly shifting into his space, head falling onto his shoulder.
Oh, how he wants to make a snarky remark about how he was right, and Stanley does use him like an oversized stress-pillow, but he is too scared of shattering the fragile peace Stanley seems to finally be settling in.
Stanley squeezes a bit more and Narrator hums in wordless encouragement.
“You won’t break me.” he whispers, intimate against his cheek, and feels the body he is pressing against shudder. “No, really. I am a non-Platonic being, extending far beyond this plane of existence. You quite literally cannot do irreparable damage to me.”
Stanley lets out a soft mumbling sound, like he is disagreeing. Narrator just sighs, lulling into a soft rhythm of petting his cheek and swaying a little in the hug. Stanley’s hands are all over him, exploring like they didn’t do it all previous day, like he needs reassurance that it is real, that he is still allowed.
“We do have to wash your face, dear boy, or the story I’ve told will not be a joke. People will report me to the police station if they see you like that.”
Stanley snorts. His breathing has finally evened out, and he takes in a big gulp of air to let it out slowly, finding a footing that he lost. He unglues himself from Narrator reluctantly and moves hands to his face instead, touch sure again.
Narrator leans forward and up, touches his forehead to Stanley's, a mirror of the first proper contact they’ve had in his corporeality, and the warm memory feels both of their hearts with reassurance.
“Better?” Narrator asks, quite.
Stanley breaks the contact to nod and shakes out the rest of the tension out of his hands and arms.
“Well, now that that is dealt with, how about I make us some beverages while you tidy yourself up?”
Stanley nods, grateful, and there is only slight hesitance to his movements as he leans in to lay a grateful peck on Narrators lips, before heading to the bathroom.
Narrator stands for long seconds, bringing his fingers to his lips, tracing the shadow of Stanley’s touch — realizing this new contact could become casual, could be something they do all the time. There is thinly veiled heat in him at the thought and he decides immediately to hide it under fulfilling his promise to Stanley and making him coffee and subsequently — under billion chores that shall follow.
And if his tongue chases the taste of other lips on his, while he is distractedly reaching out for the džezva — than who is there to see?