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“Ah, there you are, my dear.” The Narrator untied the small bit of string gently securing his cucumber plant to the garden trellis. Its spindly little tendrils had finally attached on their own, supporting the stem as it grew higher toward the artificial sun lamps above.
The garden was coming along nicely, his new greenhouse (which he and Stanley had finished installing a few weeks ago,) was large, and allowed a wide variety of crops to flourish, even in the depths of winter.
The Narrator had the layout intricately planned out, pairing plants which worked well together, separating plants which didn’t. It was all perfectly optimized for an ideal harvest. Three sisters, tomato and basil, kale and potatoes, on and on it went. To that end, he’d planted marigolds along the borders of his plots, (which Stanley had also so nicely made up for him,) to improve the quality of the soil. Soon they’d have proper abundance, their produce superior in taste and nutrition, the perfect addition to Stanley’s meals.
He wouldn’t be lacking in vitamins this winter!
“I was wondering if you’d ever catch on, you know.” The Narrator spoke softly as he activated the hose, soaking the carrot bed beside him. “Really, having to tie you up just to get you to do as I say? You must be spending too much time with Stanley.”
The Narrator continued his watering rounds, checking the development of each plant and finding no issues with any of them. Not that he expected any, of course.
He paused as he heard a car pull up to the drive. Unlatching the greenhouse door and stepping outside, The Narrator spotted Stanley nearly trip out of the driver's seat to his car, which he’d apparently taken with him to the studio again, the little thief.
“Well, speak of the devil.” The Narrator smiled, removing his gloves as he crossed the lawn. “Hello, Stanley! You’re home early!”
Stanley looked at him, blearily. He was bent over himself, half clutching his stomach; his face pale and features sunken. “It wasn’t a cold.” He signed.
“Well, don’t you look awful.” The Narrator put an arm around his shoulders. “Come inside.”
“I threw up in your car.”
“My Mini Cooper!?” The Narrator exclaimed, frantically looking back toward his precious vehicle, its exterior so spotless, you’d never guess what horrors lay within. But he’d have to abandon it to its fate, for now. Only for Stanley.
“That’s quite, um, that's alright! I’ll take it in for cleaning later.”
Stanley gave a noncommittal nod, and threw up in the grass.
…
After nourishing their yard with a raw, bodily solution composed primarily of foul smelling acid, Stanley barely made it past the front door before he surrendered himself to the couch.
He laid face down against the cushions, limbs loose and hanging off the side, undershirt clearly visible from where he’d sweated through his button-up.
“Oh dear.” The Narrator sat in the small bit of remaining space at the end of the couch. “Would you like to change into something more comfortable, Stanley?”
Stanley just sighed, deep and dramatic.
“Um.” The Narrator didn’t know what to do, not really. He knew Stanley was in pain, but he didn’t know how to ease it. “Would you like a cup of tea?”
Stanley rolled over, and it seemed to take considerable effort. “No.” He said, gaze glassy, facing the ceiling. “I need a bowl, though.”
“A bowl?”
“A sick bowl, for when I throw up.”
“I don’t think we have a bowl for that.” The Narrator tried to recall. They had a first aid kit, but it didn’t contain any dishware.
“Just get me a mixing bowl, the biggest one.”
The Narrator bristled. “You want to use one of my mixing bowls for your vomit!?”
“Yes, and hurry.” Stanley was turning significantly more green.
“Already!?”
The Narrator sputtered a moment, but ultimately hurried to fetch his, ugh, his very nice mixing bowl set from the kitchen cabinets. It had been a gift, too. From Stanley.
“We can just clean it after, it’s not a big deal.” Stanley accepted the bowl with a look of relief. “That’s what we did as a kid.”
“You’d really eat food made in a vomit bowl?”
“I don’t care--” Stanley stopped, sat up, and retched up something lower in volume than the previous bout, but just as horrible.
Digestion truly was a beautiful process, under normal circumstances. A complex conversion of matter into energy, it inherently required the sacrifice of one living thing to serve the survival of another. Even fruit, designed to assist in the spread of seed, took such considerable effort to produce, it might kill a weaker plant, or one left underprepared. It was an innocent sort of violence, the consumption of food. Stanley had no say over the way he’d been born, it was in his nature to tear away and to change, to convert and absorb things into himself. It’s what he’d done with The Narrator, and he’d never been more thankful for anything.
But beautiful or no, The Narrator wasn’t exactly keen on viewing the digestive process when aborted. It was, and he meant it with love, also extremely disgusting.
“There, there,” The Narrator patted Stanley’s back, but the man pulled away.
“Don’t touch me, I’m so gross right now.”
“Not any more than usual, Stanley. Everything coming out of you was already inside.”
This seemed to make Stanley even more unhappy.
“I’ll um, I’ll empty that for you, then.” The Narrator took the bowl, and intensely regretted his decision to add an olfactory processor to his form. Was there blood in his vomit? Probably a result of irritation to Stanley's scarred larynx, the cause of his muteness. Curse that damned thing, for all the trouble it caused him.
“You said it wasn’t a cold?” The Narrator returned the scrubbed down bowl back to Stanley. That morning, he'd had left claiming to be fine, already on the mend. Stanley had a tendency to push through pain that reflected on his time before the parable, when life was hard and his feelings mattered very little.
“I caught the norovirus from Rebeca. I must have, when I went to visit her.” Stanley looked forward, but at nothing. His mouth scrunched in pain. “I brought her a vegan breakfast casserole at her lowest, and this is the thanks I get!? I’m so mad at her!”
“Now now,” The Narrator raised a hand to Stanley’s forehead. “May I?”
Stanley hesitantly nodded.
The Narrator clicked his tongue, Stanley's skin almost slimy under his touch. “Thirty-nine degrees.” He said, and Stanley furrowed his brow. “A-hundred-and-three. That’s very bad.”
“When did you get mom powers?”
“You have to go to the hospital, Stanley.”
His eyes widened. “No, I can’t, it’s too expensive.”
“What are you talking about? You have very good insurance, I made sure of that.” Were the scars of his past really that deep?
“The healthcare system is a leech,” Stanley leaned forward, frantic. “It's unethical to go to the hospital. You really wanna support that kind of--um. Insti--. Insi-” He stumbled with his fingers.
“Institution.” The Narrator signed. The fever must be eating his brain.
“Ugh, no! I hate hospitals. Nothing good happens in hospitals! Besides, no one understands me and the food fucking sucks.” Stanley looked like he was about to cry. “Can’t I just stay here and die at home?”
“I’m not saying goodbye to you just yet, Stanley, get up.” The Narrator stood, gesturing to the door.
Stanley clutched tightly to his bowl, much the same way he used to clutch the bucket for comfort. It set a bloom of nostalgic affection in The Narrator’s chest. “Stanley, it’s alright. The doctor will give you some human medicine, you’ll feel better, and we’ll come home and finish The Princess Bride. I’ll be there with you, as your staunch advocate.”
Stanley sighed, and shakily let The Narrator lead him to their other, greatly inferior, non-electric vehicle.
…
“I’m afraid you can’t go with him.” The receptionist smiled, putting on her best attempt at sympathy.
“No, I have to. He needs an interpreter.” The Narrator peered back at Stanley, slumped in one of the waiting room chairs like a haphazardly placed corpse. He should not have driven himself home.
“Oh, no need to worry. We provide interpretive assistance for the deaf and hard of hearing free of charge. We rely solely on certified interpreters to ensure accurate communication between patient and doctor…” She trailed off, as though trying to remember the rest. “You understand?”
“Oh, yes, of course, that makes sense. But he isn’t hard of hearing.”
“What language does he speak?”
“ASL.”
“...Right.” She said, already turning back to her computer. “Only immediate family is allowed past the reception room.”
“Yes! I’m his husband, we’re married.”
The lady tensed. “Oh! O-Oh. Well. We, um, we normally--er.” She laughed awkwardly, looking at her desk mate, who only shrugged. “Um. Right. Well. When the doctor calls, I guess you’ll go ahead!” There was something very pained in her expression.
“Stanley,” The Narrator said, walking back to their seats. The ER was surprisingly sparse today, only a handful of others were dotted around the space. It was a good thing, he supposed. “I’ve secured our place in line. You need to fill out this form, but I don’t recommend talking to the worker at the desk.” He snuck a glance back, and found her watching them from across the room. “She’s a total weirdo.”
Stanley’s only response was a small, pained exhale.
…
“Who are you texting, Stanley?” The Narrator leaned forward from the chair he’d positioned beside the hospital bed. They had Stanley in a flimsy gown, which was at least better than his sweat stained clothes, although given the scratchy material, The Narrator guessed it wasn’t an enormous improvement. The main boon was the IV they’d administered, as Stanley sheepishly admitted he hadn’t drank anything since yesterday afternoon.
“Rebeca. Telling her she gave me the norovirus. Apparently her run lasted a week, so I said I'm putting a hit on her. She said she'll bring by a casserole.”
“Please don’t start assassinating your friends, Stanley." The Narrator said. The hospital machines buzzed incessantly. "Also, it's just ‘norovirus’, there is no ‘the’ at the start.”
“What? But my family--” Stanley paused. “Maybe it’s a southern thing?”
“You’re not southern. Er, are you?”
Stanley leaned back into his pillow. “That’s the problem. Too southern for the midwest, too midwestern for the south. Unloved and unwanted by both, left to fend for ourselves. Being from Missouri…is a metaphor…for being bisexual.”
“What the hell did they give you, Stanley?”
“...Saline.”
…
Stanley’s care instructions were fairly simple. Give fluids often, gradually introduce bland foods like crackers and toast, get plenty of rest. Treatment was complicated slightly by Stanley’s wrathful voice box, however.
Any normal person would experience throat pain as a result of the vomiting, but Stanley could hardly bear it. His larynx was temperamental at the best of times, but it was especially bad in the dry, winter air. Normally a humidifier and a cup of honey tea would fight off the worst of the discomfort, but now Stanley wouldn’t even drink. He was laying in bed, barely propped up with a sitting pillow, spitting into a glass cup, because it proved easier than swallowing.
The capillaries in his eyes had burst, his was skin grey, his cheeks gaunt. He looked awful, red-eyed and cold; so dramatically unwell, it was borderline horrifying.
Was it even possible for humans to look worse? Obviously it was, Stanley wasn’t dying. He’d get better after a couple days, and simply move on like nothing happened. That was what all The Narrator’s sources claimed, at least.
But, Stanley wouldn’t have gotten sick in the parable, not ever. Whatever pain he experienced, The Narrator could simply undo with the snap of his fingers. Now, he was nothing. He couldn’t help Stanley when he needed him, he was left bumbling about like an ignorant fool. He should have done more research into how to properly care for an unwell human, why had he so stupidly assumed this wouldn’t happen to them?
For the first time in quite a while, The Narrator longed for a return to his prior power. But the outside world didn’t respect his authority, it simply refused to bend to his will.
He knew that full well going in, knew he’d be forced to give up an enormous amount of control to live in the real world with Stanley, and he’d chosen to anyway. He enjoyed pretending to be human, usually. It was soothing, and rustic, and it made him feel close to Stanley, like he might really understand life from his perspective.
But this was different, it was awful. It made The Narrator’s stomach churn, and he didn’t even have one.
Of course it didn’t help that what he could do, Stanley tried to reject.
“You need calories, Stanley. Your body won’t have any energy to fight the virus if you don’t eat something.” The Narrator held up a bowl of chicken broth. Barely anything, just salt and flavoring, really, but it was better than nothing.
“There’s no point. I’ll just throw it up again.”
It wasn’t an unfounded concern. The Narrator set the bowl on the nightstand, and instead retrieved a little yellow bottle full of big, bright orange pills. “All right, take the nausea medication.”
Stanley shook his head. “I can’t swallow those, they’re huge!”
The Narrator huffed. He grabbed the second bottle beside it. “Take the pain meds first, then.”
“No, I can’t take pain meds, are you crazy? I’ll get addicted to opium!” He looked genuinely distressed.
The Narrator blinked. “These--these aren’t opioids, Stanley, they’re anti-inflammatories. Is this a real fear of yours? Getting addicted to prescription medication?”
“It’s a healthy fear, it's well grounded! No, if I take pain meds now, I’ll end up addicted to heroin, we’ll have to sell the house, I’ll die in a cold, wet alleyway, and the state will donate my body to science!”
“What?” The Narrator wasn’t used to seeing this side of Stanley, so seemingly afraid of his own capacity for self-destruction. “You don’t have a history of addiction, Stanley. And even if you picked up an unhealthy habit, I wouldn’t just stand by and let you hurt yourself.”
“I’ll shoot up beside a dumpster, and you’ll see me with the needle, and you’ll think “He used to look at me like that…”, but I’ll be too far gone, I’ll basically be dead already!”
“Stanley, remind me to better encourage your forays into creative writing.” The Narrator held a hand to Stanley’s forehead. “Damn it, your fevers back. Okay, wait here.”
…
“Alright Stanley, here’s my plan. I have for you a cup of warm, throat-comfort tea with plenty of honey. That’s the first step, drink the tea to soothe and coat the esophagus. Yes, I know it will hurt, but it's necessary for further treatment. Now, I’ve divided one dose of the non-opiate, non-addictive pain-relief medication into four pieces. Look, Stanley, see how small they are? You can take them on their own, or eat them with applesauce, which should make them go down more simply.”
“Oh come on, I’m not a dog.”
“Listen, Stanley, this is important. The pain-relief takes about thirty minutes to activate, at which point your pain receptors will be partially blocked, and you’ll be able to take the medication for nausea-relief, too. The nausea-relief also takes about thirty minutes to kick in, but it should settle your stomach enough for you to finally eat something. Depending on the effectiveness, we can try more applesauce, broth, or we can move straight to butter crackers.”
“But I’ll just throw it up again.” Stanley held tightly to the mixing bowl on his lap, which was already starting to stain. It was sad, but The Narrator would have to throw it away, perhaps after a tasteful funeral.
“What sounds better, Stanley? Throwing up butter crackers and apple sauce, or stomach acid?” It was something of a gamble, The Narrator didn’t actually know which was preferable, he only vaguely recalled reading about it somewhere.
Stanley let out a long, pained breath. He took the mug from The Narrator’s hands, and winced as he forced down a small sip. He continued drinking with the same resigned misery as a man polishing the gun set to be used in his own execution. When the cup was half empty, he gestured for the pills.
“Do you want the applesauce?” The Narrator had brought some, just in case. Stanley simply stared, fighting a drawn-out battle in his own mind.
“...yeah.” He said, defeated. “Gimmie the applesauce.”
…
“I think this level is broken.”
“Broken?” The Narrator looked up from his book. They were lying in bed, Stanley no longer feverish, but not much better off than he was the previous day. At least he’d finally gotten some food in him. So far he was doing a great job of keeping his buttered toast down long enough to actually digest it.
“I think it's literally impossible to beat it, like, it's a soft-lock or something.” Stanley gestured to his game on the TV, some open-world platformer he’d bought specifically to play while sick in bed.
“This was a triple-A release Stanley, I don’t think they’d let their game go to market with a soft-locked win condition.”
“But I’ve tried everything! Besides, triple-A games are full of jank, you know that.”
“Here, let me give it a try.”
Stanley passed the controller, but didn’t seem to expect much. The Narrator moved the character around a little, before attempting to cross some cliff-side ravine. He fell into the darkness and used up a life.
“See? I told you!”
He respawned, and took another look around the environment.
“It’s literally not possible to do it--”
“Oh, here it is.” The Narrator easily crossed the chasm. “The flowers are bouncy, Stanley.”
Stanley stared at the screen in utter disbelief. “How was I supposed to know you could jump on the flowers!?”
“They’re huge and bright yellow. Don’t you know the first thing you do when stuck in a game is look for anything painted yellow?
Stanley crossed his arms and looked away, a small bit of color returning to his pale-grey cheeks. Was he blushing?
The Narrator smiled. “Your facilities aren’t all there, are they, Stanley?”
“You try paying attention when your body's trying to kill you!”
…
“You know, I think this scene awakened something in me when I was younger.”
“This scene, Stanley?”
“Yeah, I mean, you know. I remember as a teenager, I kind of wanted to be Westley here.”
“On the torture rack!?”
“I didn’t literally want to get tortured! You know what I mean, and besides, we’ve—Oh come on! Christopher Guest is like, really hot here. …don’t give me that look! I know the shit you whisper to your plants, you freak! You old pervert!”
“That’s not very nice, Stanley. I think I’m going to have to tie you to the torture rack.”
“If I liked you, I’d say something like, “oh Narry, but you’ve already taken all my years!””
“Really, you’d use that line? Well, then I’m glad you don’t. Would you like some more tea?”
“Fuck you. And yes, please.”
…
“...Can you order me a pizza?” Stanley asked from his spot on the couch. He was wrapped in blankets and half-way in the fetal position, but at least he was out of bed.
“Er sure, we--Yes! Yes, we absolutely can order a pizza, Stanley! Yes!”
“Woah, calm down.”
“Absolutely not! You’ve spent days fighting me on every meal--
“It hasn’t been every meal.”
“--and now you’re actually asking for food!? Oh, joyous day, Stanley!”
“I saw an ad for this promotion thing, like, a pizza with a literal pound of cheese on top.”
“Oh.” The Narrator stilled. “Ew.”
Stanley gasped. “You don’t eat, you have no room to pass judgement!”
“But surely you want to put something slightly more wholesome than that in your body, don’t you?”
“Hey everyone, check out this beggar! He’s choosing.”
The Narrator rolled his eyes, and went to get his phone.
…
Stanley slept, his body turned toward The Narrator, an arm thrown over his chest. He looked almost normal, sleeping peacefully now, instead of fretfully. His fever was gone, his body nourished and clean.
The Narrator ran a hand through Stanley’s hair, still a bit wet from the bath. Simple things really seemed to exhaust him, eating and bathing and trying to read. It was only six in the evening, but he was already out cold.
Still, Stanley was getting better. The end was in sight, The Narrator just had to keep tending to him, offering his support like he was the most precious cucumber plant in the garden. No, he was so much more than that, Stanley was the sacred figure unto which all the cucumbers would eventually be sacrificed.
Which meant it was imperative he made sure Stanley ate, and drank, and felt safe. The Narrator would change the bedsheets again in the morning, get Stanley into a fresh set of pajamas, and make him more tea. They’d pick another movie from Stanley’s to-watch list, and he’d pray it was interesting enough to serve as an effective distraction from the discomfort. Although it didn’t really matter, Stanley would sleep through half of it regardless.
The Narrator just needed to keep doing what he could, offering up what little power he had.
Stanley’s eyelids fluttered, slightly. He shifted closer, pressing himself against The Narrator’s side.
…
“I was worried. I hated feeling so useless, Stanley, I couldn’t help you.”
“No, is that really how you felt?” Stanley leaned against The Narrator’s shoulder, gently swaying back and forth on their backyard porch swing. He’d insisted on coming out to help The Narrator tend his now blooming garden, but in truth he still couldn’t do much. It was a pleasant day, especially for January. Because the earth was dying. “You did help me, Narrator. You helped me so much. You were there the whole time, even when I was being super pissy.”
“No more than normal.” The Narrator said, and Stanley scoffed. “But that was just--I was just doing what I had to. I couldn’t leave you to that kind of suffering, Stanley. I only wished I could’ve done more.”
“Aw, it’s alright. I haven’t been so bedridden since…since I was a kid, I think. And if it weren’t for you, I don’t know what I’d have done. You walked through hell with me and pulled me back out. Maybe that’s a dramatic way of putting it, but--
“No, Stanley, you look like you’ve been dragged through hell.”
“Hey! I took a shower today.”
The Narrator kissed his hair. “And I’m very proud of you.”
They continued rocking back and forth a while, listening to the birds. The sun glinted off the greenhouse's glass roof.
“You take good care of me.” Stanley mumbled, movements small. "Thank you."
The Narrator held him close, for once rendered speechless. He didn't trust he'd be able to form a coherent reply. Of all the sappy things that might have been said, all the romantic poetry which might have been recited, he was certain nothing could have made him happier than that.