Chapter Text
As part of rehabilitating the mannequin who wished to be real, Narrator and Stanley were - for want of a better word - ‘assigned’ to socialize her outside of work. Curator had been taking care of this in the museum, after all, having given Mariella positions that let her observe the patrons without looking weird and having brought her along on tours and meetings, which meant that excursions outside were up to the boys.
Stanley had taken her to a bar for his assignment, and god only knew how that ended. If it was anything like the poetry reading Narrator brought her to, then he assumed it at least involved her staring at everyone in the room but the one on stage.
Now it was time for a group outing (sans Curator, of course), and for some unholy reason karaoke was the selection.
“So I’m thinking maybe like, Friday or Saturday?” Mariella suggested.
“Not Saturday-” Narrator answered as Stanley said. “Eh, I got a thing on Saturday.”
“-I’ve got something scheduled already.” Narrator continued.
Despite them talking over each other, Mariella parsed them just fine. Perks of experience in a busy cafe and having multiple bodies to listen from. Any staring at Narrator and Stanley came from her wondering if she was about to ask something genuinely, or to tease them.
She made up her mind: “... Together?”
Narrator and Stanley blinked, and then were very quick to answer-
“What? No-!”
“No!”
“Different events entirely!”
“Completely unrelated to each other!” Stanley finished.
Narrator cleared his throat and straightened his posture, clawing some composure back.
“Ahem, Yes - I don’t know what Stanley is doing, but my business is with Curator.”
Mariella nodded, and said, “Friday, then?”
“Yeah, sounds good.” Stanley said as Narrator answered, “Friday is good, yes.”
“Awesome!” Mariella said, beaming. “I’ll book us in!”
-
Ostensibly, the booth was private: somewhat soundproof on the outside, no windows on the inside. This did nothing to make Narrator less agitated.
“Now, karaoke is both performance and participation,” Stanley said, severely over-selling it, “singing is like the oldest form of human expression and bonding!”
“Oooh!” Mariella said, like she didn’t spend the last year living in an art and history museum.
Narrator did not even waste the energy to roll his eyes. He was too busy bracing himself for Stanley’s performance physically by leaning into the back of the booth seating and mentally by taking a long pull of his drink. The true saving grace of this booth was the drinks menu, and price was no object for Narrator.
It would not be an object even if he didn’t have a generous salary, an assessment Stanley proved correct by beginning B-52’s Rock Lobster.
We were at a party!
His ear lobe fell in the deep! (“Wait that’s the line-?”)
Someone reached in and grabbed it-
It was a rock lobster!
Stanley was obviously trying to hype up the energy in the booth despite one party being incapable of natural emotions and the other being Narrator. He bounced along to the beat and did his best impression of the way the ‘singer’ of the band performed.
It wasn’t a rock!
It was a rock - lobster!
With a different crowd, it might have even worked. Mariella could at least take a cue, smiling and tilting her head to the beat and then finally clapping when Stanley was done.
Unlike Mariella, Narrator did not feign interest or amusement, convincingly or at all, really.
“Okay, who’s next?” Stanley asked into the mic like that was even a question.
“Me!” Mariella said immediately (though her window to volunteer was very generous as Narrator would have preferred death first).
Stanley passed her the mic on his way to the seats, where he flopped down a little too close for Narrator’s comfort.
(Though to be fair, his personal bubble was about the size of the room at present.)
Stanley drank deep from his water, slowing down at each swallow as Mariella’s song kicked in, and then as she started singing.
We were at a party!
His ear lobe fell in the deep!
Stanley lowered his glass and just watched. He gave it until the end of the chorus before he leaned in a little closer to Narrator to check real quick.
Motion in the ocean! (ooo-ah)
His air hose broke! (hooo-ah)
Lots of trouble! (ooo-ah!)
Lots of bubble! (hooo-ah!)
He was in a jam (ooo-ah!)
S’in a giant clam!! (hooo-ah!)
“So, it’s weird she’s doing the voices, right?” he asked.
Narrator nodded.
Stanley nodded back, and sat upright again, and tapped his fingers on the table as he tried to come up with feedback and a tactful way to phrase it.
In walked a jellyfish! (weuhhhh)
There goes a dogfish! (prrr-eow!)
Chased by a catfish! (oo AH oo-oo-)
In flew a searobin! (la la la!)
When Mariella was done, she turned around with a beam on her face, and Stanley (and reluctantly, Narrator, after a polite elbow) applauded.
“Mariella,” Stanley said diplomatically, “that was great, but you can pick a different song, and uh, you don’t have to sound exactly like the original.”
He tried to make the last part sound light, like it was a joke, ha ha (but also serious): “It’s not, ha ha, y’know, a contest.”
“Oh!” Mariella said. “I thought you were supposed to get as close as you could!”
Stanley struggled.
“Well - yeah - but as yourself.” he said.
“But it was myself? I was the one singing.”
Stanley hesitated, then calculated how serious Mariella sounded and when she usually was serious, and then flattened his brow.
“I mean, your default voice, come on.”
Mariella shrugged, unperturbed, and walked back to her seat, handing the mic off on her way.
Stanley shook his head and went to the machine, and Narrator just sort of checked his phone until he heard the first notes and shut his eyes.
Sometimes I feel, I’ve got to - (dun dun)
Run away, I’ve got to - (bun bun)
Get away, from the pain you drive into the heart of me!
The love we share
seems to go nowhere-
“Ugh, Soft Cell.” he said to himself, well below the volume in the booth. As if the 80s couldn’t get any worse.
Once I ran to you (I raaann)
Now I run from you,
This tainted love you’ve given,
I gave you all a boy could give you,
Take my tears and that’s not nearly
Alll - tainted love (ohhh-oh-ohhh)-
-
“-Tainted Love?” his friend said in utter disgust, many many years ago.
Annoyed, Narrator opened his eyes, hit pause on the discman, and pulled his headphones down.
“Excuse me?”
“I said, ‘he put Soft Cell on here and it wasn’t even Tainted Love?’ Y’know, their one good song?” his friend said, looking up from the CD case they’d taken from the side table.
The quiet lounge was a common area and rather sparse these days, consisting of several comfortable chairs with small side-tables between them. There were curated magazines and newspapers available, though any of them were allowed to bring their own books or other entertainment along with them, so long as they were quiet. Like Narrator, his portable CD player, and his new mix CD.
“I’ll rephrase myself: What are you doing?” Narrator said, and reached for the CD case.
His friend, as always, was a second ahead of him, turning just enough to keep the case out of his reach.
“Judging how much he loves synth-pop and new wave.” they said as they made their way down the tracklist. “God I hope you dumped him for this.”
“Do you have any new material?” Narrator sniped while making another lunge.
His friend stepped perfectly out of the way without letting it interrupt them. “Hey, I’m just commenting on your life; if it’s stale that’s on you, mate.”
“What’s wrong with Soft Cell, anyway?” Narrator said, defensive even though he hadn’t listened to that half of the mix CD yet.
“Soft Cell had exactly one good song,” his friend said confidently, “and your man didn’t even use it.”
(His friend thought that one good song was also rather fitting, but they also knew how receptive Narrator was to criticism about his personal choices and chose their battles accordingly.)
Narrator rolled his eyes and crossed his arms. “He didn’t make it for you.”
His friend just shook their head.
“Honestly, we need to do something about your taste.” They said, avoiding the point.
“Oh, please tell me what’s wrong with my taste in music.” Narrator said (and wondered if it was too soon for another eyeroll), bracing to hear how boring and awful he was yet again.
“That’s it - you don’t have taste in music, or movies or anything.” his friend said instead. “You just take whatever people give you without comment and assume it's all decent.”
Which wasn’t quite what Narrator had been expecting. He blinked, but otherwise kept the reaction off his face beyond an expertly raised eyebrow.
“And you’re going to fix that by just giving me something else to listen to, are you?” Narrator said at a pace he hoped was condescending.
“Yep!” his friend said, ignoring the irony. They tapped the case against their palm, paused, then opened it slightly to peek in.
Narrator narrowed his eyes, but before he could say anything, his friend snapped the case shut and held it towards Narrator. On a hunch, Narrator opened his discman.
“Look, we’re off on our next assignment tomorrow - I’ll bring my stuff along and we’ll narrow your tastes down.” his friend said. “I’ll even let you insult all of it without saying a word back to you.”
His mix CD was still where it should be, so Narrator sighed and drawled, “You’re so generous.”
“Yep, regular saint over here.” his friend said with a grin. “See ya then.”
His friend vanished in the second it took Narrator to shut the discman. Which was about as long as it took him to realize that they left with his CD case.
And, as he found after hitting play, hearing nothing, and checking once more: his mix CD.
-
I love you, though you hurt me so
Now I’m gonna pack my things and go!
Narrator waited patiently through the repetitive ending lyrics, until the last notes faded. Being honest, this was preferable to hearing Rock Lobster a third time, or the B-52s at all. This may have been damning with faint praise.
“Okay, now it’s your turn, in your own voice.” Stanley said.
Narrator raised his head to watch the mic-hand off and the switching of seats again, capped this time by Stanley downing half his pint of water. Mariella’s choice of music was quite economical, as Narrator didn’t have to change his scowl much to show his approval for Britney Spears.
He waited through the opening beats of the song - and truth be told, it still took him until the end of the first verse to know which one it was.
I think I did it again
I made you believe
We’re more than just friends.
Oh baby,
It might seem like a crush
But it doesn’t mean
That I’m serious-
Narrator leaned over to Stanley, who was seconds from sipping his cocktail, and said “Too soon?”
Stanley thankfully had just enough time to move the glass down instead of drink, and shot Narrator an annoyed look.
Narrator had his expression hidden behind his own drink.
Oops, you think I’m in love-
That I’m sent from abooove,
I’m not that innocent!