#also i haven't proofread it yet so there may be typos but i'll get to them later

[the-haunted-office]

"Hey, Stanley."

Stanley looks up from where he is sitting in a grouping of cubicles, playing Solitaire. Solitaire is his forte, and he is totally unmatched by any other not only in the Office, but in the entire world. The fact that the rest of humanity has ceased to exist as a result of the apocalypse is irrelevant. If they were still around, Stanley would still be the unmatched Solitaire champion, and that is a fact. As it is, this knowledge is something that everyone is blissfully unaware of, even as he plays game after game after game of it, day in and day out.

Alas. This is how anyone who finds Stanley knows they'll find him. They don't mind interrupting him, and - on the whole - Stanley doesn't mind being interrupted. He can play the game to his heart's content, at his own whim, per his own free will, because here, now, outside the Parable, he can make his own choices, even though that's sometimes difficult for him to do. It's never difficult for him to choose to play Solitaire. Solitaire is his go-to choice. His "default", you might say.

(Cut here due to length!!)

Choosing how to respond to Thursday, though... is something entirely different.

He doesn't know how to respond to her. Not now.

It was easy at first, when they first met, when she came at him with excitement and adoration, the way the rest of them did. A new Stanley. Not just a new guest in the Office, but a whole new Stanley. Whatever that meant. Of course, he learned with time that he was not a lone Stanley, perhaps not even the first, perhaps not even the last, but one of many, one of a long, long line of Stanleys, a circle, a fractal, a never-ending parade of Protagonists going by the same name with the same purpose, a man created to fill this... role of a man named Stanley. And these people loved him for it. For that one, simple fact.

It took Stanley a while to come to terms with that. Not just that one, simple fact, but the whole of it. His role, his existence, the fact that there was one who came before him, what happened to the one who came before him, what this meant for him now, what this meant for all Stanleys out there, what he wanted for himself, if this meant that he was really free or not, just... who was he really? He's still trying to figure all these things out. Was still trying to figure out all those things when The Big Event Happened, bringing him to now.

Which brings Thursday to him now. Again. He can feel it. There's no other reason for her to be here. At first, back at the beginning, she'd have approached him with unbridled joy and excitement, pulled him along by one of his arms on some adventure or other, and he'd have gone along willingly enough. She was fun to be around, as much fun as any of the others, but now...

Stanley regards her with the same look he's been regarding her with for the last seven months - one of guarded acknowledgement, like letting her know he can see her, but that's about it. He doesn't want to engage her much in any other way. There's too much resentment there now.

He does decide to grace her with a small nod, though, and in response to that Thursday seems to brighten. Moves closer. Says, "How are you?"

Stanley shrugs. Looks back at his computer screen. Moves some cards around.

Thursday deflates at that. Sighs.

"Stanley, I, um... Can we talk, please?" she asks, tone low and soft.

Stanley doesn't really want to talk to her. Not now. Not ever, really. Not after everything that happened. Not after what she did to him. But who knows. Maybe she'll have something different to say this time. And knowing her, she won't leave him alone until she says what she has to say, so he may as well sit here and let her say it and then he can get back to playing Solitaire.

He shrugs again and moves a few more cards around before sitting back in his chair and giving her at least some semblance of his attention.

Thursday stands like she doesn't know whether she should sit or stand or approach him in some other way. Like he might attack her. Like he's a loaded weapon. Or a delicate wet piece of paper. Either way, she stands there, her hands opening and closing in a moment of indecision before she finally spits it out. "I'm sorry, Stanley. I'm sorry for what I did. For going against your wishes and- and putting your body in that bag, and then- and then putting it in the freezer. Okay? I'm- I really thought- Honestly, Stanley, I thought that's what you wanted- what you would have wanted. I didn't know that you wanted to- that you didn't want that. I didn't know."

Stanley doesn't answer her at first. He just sits there quietly, not looking at her, not only because this is a touchy subject for both of them - it's not only a touchy subject, it's the subject, The Big Event - but because he can't stand the look she's giving him, that beseeching look. She's the one who violated him. Who violated his autonomy. Who took away his right to die. Who stuck his body into a bag and put it in a freezer. Like an experiment. Where was his right to any dignity in any of that? And yet she wants to look at him like she's the victim?

Every time. Every time she does this, just like his Narrator. And he can't fucking stand it.

Taking in a sharp breath, Stanley finally raises his gaze and looks at her. Pins her with his sharp, dark eyes. Raises his hands and signs, "I tried to tell you. I tried, when I was a ghost, and you wouldn't listen. You wouldn't listen to me. You-"

Thursday tries to cut in, "But, Stanley-"

But Stanley doesn't let her. He puts up a hand, stopping her. And then he continues. "You instead put up a sign in that freezer telling other people NOT to help me. Telling other people NOT to move my body, NOT to bury me. You wanted to keep me prisoner here!"

"I didn't want you to die, Stanley!" Thursday interjects, a bit angrily.

"I was already dead!" Stanley counters, the contraction of his expression illustrating his own anger.

"Wh- You know what I mean! I didn't want you to stay dead! And I thought you didn't want that either! What happened to you was an accident! A genuine, freak of an accident! I was trying to preserve your body until we could find a way of bringing you back! That's why I did what I did!"

Stanley huffs a sharp puff of air between his lips. "Except I DID try to tell you-"

Thursday scoffs, rolling her eyes. "Oh, come off it, Stanley! Tried to tell me how exactly? Huh? By shoving me down the stairs and killing me? Exploding a bunch of light bulbs over my head?" Thursday illustrates all this by waving her hands over her head dramatically. "How exactly is that clear? And you know what? I didn't hold that against you! And yet you're- you're- rrrrrgggh! - you're gonna sit there and hold all this against me! Only me?"

Stanley presses his lips together, folds his arms, and leans back in his chair, raising his eyebrows at her, as if to say, Yeah, as a matter of fact, I am, what do you plan to do about it?

"Ohhhhh, that's great, Stanley, just great," Thursday practically growls back at him. "So that's it then? This is it? You're just gonna- You're just- You're gonna be mad at me forever? You're gonna-" Her voice breaks, and it must have been unexpected because she presses both hands against her face, as if trying to stop herself from crying. "You're gonna hate me forever for trying to help you. For what I thought was the right thing. For- For making a mistake. An honest mistake."

There's a beat of silence. Of no reaction from Stanley.

And then...

...another quiet shrug from him.

For a moment, as Stanley sits there and looks at her, seeing the passage of emotions on her face, he sees fire there. He sees rage. He sees a serious moment pass where she looks like she wants to hurt him. Like she wants to shove him out of his chair, or worse.

She doesn't do any of that though, although the anger remains there. She says, "What about Cyrus?"

Stanley's eyebrows go up in question.

"Cyrus - what about him?" she repeats.

Scoffing, Stanley signs, "What about him?"

"You've forgave him. Why?"

Stanley doesn't answer, because he doesn't understand what she's getting at. So he sits there quietly, and waits for her to elaborate. A moment later, she does.

"Cyrus did the exact same thing I did, and yet you have forgiven him. In full. For all of it. Did you know that?" she says, breathing hard with anger, perhaps with something else Stanley doesn't understand. There are tears in her eyes and she looks like she wants to hurt him again. "Yeah. He was right there with me, shovel in hand, scooping up your splattered remains off the ground and loading it onto that cart. Pouring it into that body bag. Zipping it up. Loading it into the freezer. I mean, sure, he didn't write the sign and didn't touch all your insides as much as I did because he's a lot more squeamish than I am, so don't blame him for that, but other than that, he agreed with it all. With everything else. He agreed to keep you in there until we could find a way of bringing you back. And yet you didn't fucking attack him. Didn't shove him down the stairs. Didn't explode light bulbs over his head. Haven't held anything over his head. Nope. You've forgiven him completely. Gone right back to having tea time right up there in the control booth with him. Why?"

Stanley still doesn't answer. Doesn't have an answer for all that. Because he didn't know. He had no idea. Why had his ghost latched so easily onto the idea that Thursday had acted alone and that Cyrus hadn't had anything to do with any of it? Was it because he loved Cyrus? Or was it because... something else? Some other reason he couldn't understand? Was Thursday just messing with him now? What was going on?

"Pfft," Thursday scoffs. It seems all her anger has been redirected, funneled into a different direction. "I'll tell you why, Stanley. It's because you never thought he could do it. You never stopped to think he could, because Cyrus is perfect, isn't he? Cyrus can't do any wrong in your eyes. But me? I'm just the fuck-up. The one who makes mistakes. The obnoxious girl who... who what, Stanley? Won't leave you alone? Won't let you die? Well. All right. You get your wish now. I'll leave you alone now." She pauses only to wipe away some tears that have fallen, seeming more annoyed by them than anything else. "And I want you to leave me alone, too. And Mae. I don't- I don't want you around us. I don't care what else you do. I don't give a shit anymore, Stanley. I can't care anymore. Just stay the fuck away from me and my daughter."

And that's it. That's the last thing Thursday says before sniffing back more tears, turning, and leaving. Leaving Stanley to his Solitaire. Still the best in the entire world.

[thedevillionaire]

14, 17, and 25 for the asks!! :)

Absolutely! :D

14 - where do you get your inspiration?

Answered here!

17 - talk about your writing and editing process

Under the cut time...

Ohh...yeah, I don't recommend it. 🤣 haha, but anyway, and be that as it may, the process is usually: - Scene/event plays out in my head. This stage can take several repeating years lol. - I'll usually start by writing down particular phrases that I definitely need included there, either precisely (in the case of quotes of conversation) or in reference - so, something like rem to inc bit w/ A and L arriving pre phonecall, for example. I know what the note means and what happens, but haven't got the words for the pictures (in my head) yet. On rare occasions I'll write a fic from start to end in one go, in order, but...it's rare. And a lot of scrawling ideas down roughly in two ways, mostly - a lot of stuff, or not much stuff. My commonest notes to myself on a WIP are you need to put in smg about [this thing] here, and SIMPLIFY! - Then there's a lot of fleshing it out, and rearranging stuff so the 'form' is right, along with the content. I do a lot of the step away/step back/read again kind of business; try and pretend I have no clue who these people are and what they've been doing, and see if it makes sense. See if it's clunky or misleading or too florid even for me lol - Reread final version. Vet for typos. Vet for accidental repeated words - a favourite regular error. Print it. Leave it alone for a while. - Reread, but this time on paper. Fix the things I missed when I read the screen version. There will be some things. -Okay. Post it. Reread Tumblr's version and unsmoosh the words it's smooshed together. Not the ones I do on purpose, the ones Tumblr likes to do when I paste in the text for Reasons, I Guess. Fun, huh? I don't use spellcheck, so the typo-vetting is critical. I'm a pedant about the quality of my content, even when it's a super minor thing that literally nobody will care about if they even notice. I envy you "no beta not proofread here you go!" types out there; it's...definitely not me lol

25 - besides writing, what are your other hobbies?

I'm getting better at orchid growing, yay! I read a lot, though recently I've read a lot more online content than in-print content. Still reading, though, of course. I listen to music a lot, and see live bands when I can/when they come out here - does that count as a hobby? Hmm, maybe not. Here's a suitably dorky thing I enjoy, though, that is definitely a hobby - I love word games and play a bunch of them, both online (Words With Friends, Wordle, etc) and IRL (Scrabble, Upwords, Boggle etc) as well as regularly doing crosswords and wordsearches and the like. I'm the kid who read the dictionary for fun lol I also like to spend time bothering my cat.