Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

You think if anxiety had a human form, it would be Stanley Poole but with better hair.

He walks into Eve’s Garden, a wide-eyed, twitchy mess, acting as if the entire establishment is going to be raided by cops any second now.

You’re more than used to your share of nervous patrons. Maybe the culture doesn’t condemn a place like this, but word can travel fast if you let it, and you know better than anyone that most of these men don’t want their wives to know where they’re going so late.

But Stanley Poole has no reason to be nervous. Scratch that, Stanley Poole never has a reason to be nervous, but he is anyway. Frankly, it’d be cause for alarm if he wasn’t nervous.

You watch Stanley from the corner of your eye as he enters, making a pointed effort not to stare. There are plenty of patrons already doing that for you. He takes one look at the dancer on stage and immediately averts his eyes, as if it’s not her literal job to be ogled at while she dances.

There’s no doubt in your mind that Stanley has never seen a single tiddy in his life, and from the way he keeps his back turned to the performer, he doesn’t intend to start today.

“What can I getcha?” you ask. It’s a question you’ve asked at least a dozen times tonight, but while it comes out monotonous, there’s an edge of curiosity in your voice you can’t deny.

Stanley Poole in a strip club is bound to turn some heads, not because such a thing is inherently obscene, but because it’s Stanley Poole and the only thing he’s horny for is unethical journalism.

It’s hard not to laugh at how Stanley goes immediately rigid, like you’re going to put him under arrest any second now. He’s twitchier than his reputation would make it seem, which is as funny as it is sad. You try your best reassuring smile, usually reserved for crying drunkards and emotionally exhausted exotic dancers.

Stanley orders a Shirley Temple. What you wouldn’t give to study this man.

“I-I’m looking for a little side info,” Stanley says, caught halfway between a stage-whisper and an out-of-breath mouse. “And I’ve heard you’re the bartender to go to.”

As a bartender, you traffic in information. It’s quite literally part of your job, if an unspoken one. Both Atlas and Ryan have made you offers for secrets, and you try to divvy the info up based on who could get the least out of it while sprinkling in just enough useful stuff to stay on their payrolls. It’s funnier this way, and the extra coin can go a long way on the slower days.

“What can I getcha?” you ask, lowering your voice a little. It’s enough if people know what they’re asking for, but also just vague enough for you to claim plausible deniability if any spies come poking around.

It strikes you as odd that Stanley would come to you, though. Between the two of you, Stanley has much more experience sticking his nose where it doesn’t belong. Then again, maybe that’s why. No one trusts a slimy journalist, but a bartender… You get the feeling the type of information the two of you receive rarely matches.

“What do you know about the Big Daddies?” he asks. He glances at the man to his right, but it hardly matters. Like everyone else, the man is far more interested in the woman dancing than a conversation about the roided-up divers that follow around the creepy-eyed little girls.

“Depends on what you want to know,” you answer. You have a list of stock answers that usually work well enough for the average inquirer. How to kill a Big Daddy, where they come from, if they’re really people. Again, for plausible deniability, you answer these questions with a disclaimer that you’ve only heard this, but you neglect to mention that you’ve heard it from Andrew Ryan himself.

“Do they, uh… like going out for coffee?”

You stop in your tracks. Out of all the things you expected to hear from Stanley, this was not one of them.

“Can they even drink coffee?” he continues. “Wait, how do they get food in those diver helmets?”

Leave it to Stanley Poole to be the one person to stump you, to ask you a question you finally don’t know the answer to. “I think there’s a built-in straw?” you say, but it comes out sounding more like a second question than an answer. “But I think he can just take off the helmet.”

“Oh. I knew that.” Stanley chuckles to himself, making it very clear that he did not in fact know that. “Guess I should introduce myself, eh? Stanley Poole.”

He offers you his hand, which you do not take. You’ve heard the rumors that he doesn’t wash his hands after using the restroom, and you’d rather not confirm nor deny those rumors through personal experience.

After a brief, awkward beat between you, he lowers his hand. You’re not in the business of giving your name away to strangers. Especially when they have a bad habit of publishing articles without their interviewee’s consent.

“So, uh…” Stanley glances side to side, offering you a cheeky grin, as if you’re his buddy instead of a bartender who’s not being paid enough for this. “That Delta, huh?”

You’ve heard that name before. It would be hard not to, considering who he’s connected to. Sofia Lamb is a name you hear much less often, save for the people cursing her with every mouthful of whiskey.

Stanley continues unprompted, “W-well, Topside too. Even making him one of those waterlogged superbeasts didn’t make him any less of a charmer.”

Now that’s enough to raise your eyebrows. It’s hard to imagine Stanley in a sexual sense—the man radiates the sexless charisma of an office desk lamp—but once the image enters your mind, just like Stanley himself, it’s hard to get rid of.

Of course, it’s not a surprise that people are attracted to the Big Daddies. You’ve heard the stories, though you really deeply wish you hadn’t. But you can get where Stanley is coming from.

“Last guy that tried to sleep with a Big Daddy is still ribbons on the floor by one of those Little Sister vents,” you say, unimpressed. According to the rumors, the man was well-built. And if he didn’t have a fighting chance, there was no way Stanley Poole would last long enough to enjoy himself.

“Well, yeah, you can’t just grab a guy without any warning.” Stanley pauses to chuckle. You do not join in. “I was looking for something a little more casual—a-a coffee date maybe.”

“So you want dating advice?” you ask.

His eyes don’t look through you so much as they fail to perceive you altogether. Like making eye contact with someone on the other side of a two-way mirror. You know they can’t see you, but for a brief, fleeting second, you feel like maybe they could if they were just a little more perceptive.

“I just want a chance to talk to him—well, not talk to him. I know they can’t talk. But to spend time with him, I guess?”

It finally dawns on you why Stanley came to you of all people. Because you’re working in customer service, you’re one of the only people whose tip depends on the fact that you can’t laugh him out of the room.

For whatever reason, you want to help Stanley. It’s not his charisma, at least not in the traditional sense. You’re reminded of the ugliest dog in the animal shelter, the shivering, bug-eyed mutt with the weird teeth. Just a hair off from being a purebred, but close enough to inherit all the weird birth defects.  

“I’ll see what I can do,” you say finally. What that means, you’re not sure, but you are morbidly curious enough to see how this pans out.

And Stanley lights up. Or maybe that’s just the lighting change after the new exotic dancer comes on stage. They all have different routines, different lighting preferences, and it would make you feel bad for the tech guy if he didn’t leave such a mess at the bar any time he orders. Either way, Stanley looks happy.

“Thank you so much!” he says. For a second, he looks like he’s going to dive over the bar and hug you, so you take a cautionary step back. Your shift doesn’t end for five more hours, after all, and he gives off the aura that says you should shower after hugging him.

“Bring payment next time you come here,” you say. You don’t give him an exact amount, mainly because you don’t even know how you’d go about charging for this. It’s the first time you’ve tried to hook someone up for a lunch date.

Stanley nods, and it reminds you of one of those novelty bobbleheads in the cheaper stores of Fort Frolic. Not cute enough to constitute the price and rather grimy-looking. “Yeah, absolutely! Now, I gotta split before people start asking questions,” he says, as if his existence alone isn’t confusing enough.

He leaves without another word, but any time to dwell on what just happened is overshadowed when two men take his place at the bar and ask for the cheapest strong gin their meager paychecks can afford them. Still, Stanley remains a force that floats gently in the back of your mind, so absurd that you find yourself smiling into bottles of vodka when your back is turned to the customers.

Well, your weekend just got interesting.

Chapter Text

Stanley shows up with payment, exactly as promised.

Part of you was hoping he’d forget, but the other part of you is desperately, morbidly curious to see how this will all play out. Maybe it’s mean to be hoping for a tragedy, but Cohen’s hackneyed plays stopped being interesting when they all shifted to feature frustrated artists who could do no wrong. This is the best entertainment you can afford.

The envelope is bulging with cash, and at a glance, you can see there has to be well over two thousand dollars in here. And just like that, you have enough money for rent and dinner. Unfortunately, this leaves you with a very real, very different problem.

How the fuck are you going to get Subject Delta to go on a date with Stanley Poole?

Big Daddies don’t exactly have off-hours. Even if that Little Sister of his isn’t glued to his side, he’ll still be patrolling. You think it’s something in their conditioning, like they’re giving areas a cursory glance before summoning the Sisters, but it’s not something you’ve wasted too much time thinking about. So how to coax him into escorting Stanley instead?

Of course, there’s a plasmid for that, but you don’t have the cash or the ADAM, so a slipshod distraction scheme will have to work in its place. Yes, Stanley might die, but that’s a sacrifice you’re willing to make.

Step 1: Distract the girl.

Granted, the best possible distraction would be a corpse, and since you’d rather not make one yourself, store bought will have to do. Thankfully, some unlucky bastard hopped up on ADAM bit the big one right in front of Sir Prize, so it’s only a matter of grabbing the sucker by the ankle and dragging him to the other end of the mall.

It does a number on your back, and while some people spare you confused glances, corpses are only becoming more and more commonplace in Rapture. Besides, this is for your rent and your own questionable curiosity. Who cares what they think?

Stanley’s chosen date spot is the single most expensive coffee shop in Rapture—which is a feat, considering how prices are skyrocketing. Cream of the Crop, in your opinion, is not worth the asking price. Especially when you’re trying to woo a Big Daddy. Do they even have the ability to taste? It’s too late to bring it up now.

You leave the corpse right beside the escalator, so there’s little chance of Delta’s Little Sister missing it. If she even comes by.

Asking around, you found that she frequents this place, but it’s not like she has a routine. That kind of predictability is dangerous—especially for little girls with giant targets on their backs.

Step 2: Pray that Delta even shows up.

You glance across the aisle at Stanley, who’s reserved one of the tables directly in front of the shop. It’s a little out of the way, and it won’t bother the other customers, but anyone looking at him would say he looks extremely shady. And to be less from twenty feet away from someone positioning a corpse, that’s quite the feat.

The two of you don’t talk, thankfully. Or to put it more plainly, Stanley is too nervous to give up his table and you make no effort to go over and talk to him. You’re sure he’s a fine conversationalist, but you’d rather stick close to the body in case something goes wrong.

People have been acting strangely lately, and not even dead bodies are safe. Last week, you walked outside to find people looting the corpses in front of your apartment, long after the bodies had anything of value on them. Is it habit? Compulsion? Either way, it makes you antsy for reasons you can’t explain.

Fifteen minutes creeps to a half an hour, and suddenly you’re wishing you brought a book with you. Of course, there’s probably a bookshop somewhere around here, but you’d trust Stanley to watch a corpse about as soon as you’d trust him to watch a baby.

You stop checking your watch after a while, but it feels like an hour before things start going your way. Not that Stanley has the means to get his money back if this plan were to fail. But it’s certainly more interesting to see things pan out this way.

The ceiling above you rumbles, trembling under the telltale stomp of a Big Daddy. You wonder if they’re ever going to reinforce the floors. It’s probably only a matter of time before one of these Big Daddies falls right through.

And thank God—or whatever passes for God down here—the Big Daddy that traipses down the escalator is just the one you’re looking for.

The Little Sister—you think her name is Eleanor? There was a big scandal but it’s not like you pay that much attention—beams. “An angel!” she squeals, making a beeline for the corpse you so thoughtfully laid out for her.

Delta trails dutifully behind her, wielding his drill with grim determination. When he sees you watching him, he revs it, as if he’s daring you to try.

And somehow Stanley sees this as his opening.

You’d say that level of confidence is rather impressive, if it weren’t so sad. For someone who looks like a strong enough breeze could bowl him over, he’s got a hell of a lot of nerve.

Stanley walks up to Delta without a shred of fear. “Seems your little one’s got her hands full with that poor bub, eh?” He folds his arms and shifts his weight, as if expecting Delta to fill the silence.

Delta doesn’t move, and only now does it hit you just how hard it’s going to be to read this guy’s body language. It’s hard to move all locked up in a big bodysuit like that.

However, this doesn’t stop Stanley. This is both a virtue and a shortcoming.

“My buddy can give you a shout if things go south, but I think your little lady is in good hands.”

You’ve heard that gatherings can draw in the most unsavory characters, people so spliced up on ADAM that they forgot who they used to be, but you’ve never seen any around Fort Frolic. Even if they did, you’ve got a baseball bat and the cold focused fury from working a low-paying customer service job. You’d like to see them try.

You give Stanley and Delta a thumbs-up, one that Stanley returns and Delta stares at you for.

Right away you can tell this isn’t going to work. You’ve seen enough of Delta’s trail of bodies to know that he takes his role as a protector deathly seriously. Asking him to sit so much as thirty feet away is out of the question, so you’ll just have to bring the date to them.

Before Stanley can flounder—or God forbid, keeping babbling—you sprint over to Cream of the Crop, grab Stanley’s previously unoccupied set of table and chairs, and bring them to put right beside the corpse. People are definitely staring now, and someone might be contacting a manager, but you’d like to see the person that willingly walks up to a Big Daddy to complain at him.

“Please. Sit.” You gesture to the farther chair, looking at Delta as you do so. This way, he can watch over Eleanor without completely ignoring Stanley. You give Stanley’s chair a little nudge, moving it so it purposefully doesn’t obscure his view of Eleanor, and finally, Delta agrees.

Delta uneasily sinks into his chair, which creaks and groans under his solid weight. It’s probably the first time you’ve ever seen a Big Daddy sit down, and now that your brain has the image, you aren’t quite sure what to do with it.

Is it hard for them to sit down in those suits? Or do they stand all the time because there’s such a high probability of them breaking chairs?

You don’t know, but you don’t really care either, so you take your post at a distance. Close enough to eavesdrop, of course, but not close enough that you could be dragged into this conversation should Stanley start to flounder.

“You stay right here,” Stanley tells Delta with a grin. “I’m about to get you the finest cup of joe you have ever had, my friend.”

He’s off like a shot, and just like that, you’re alone with a killing machine and Daddy’s little drug addict.

Out of the corner of your eye, you can see that Delta’s head is turned in your direction.

He’s watching you. That much is clear. You try to ignore it, but you don’t think he’s going to stop. It’s almost like he’s observing you. Asking for answers.

In the end, all you can do is shrug. “People have weird taste.”

Delta responds in kind. A slight, almost imperceptible upturn of his shoulders, a shrug if you’ve ever seen one.

“Daddy? Are we taking a break?” Eleanor scurries over, climbing right into the Big Daddy’s lap. It can’t be comfortable, barely a step above sitting on a statue, but Eleanor beams like there’s no place she’d rather be.

Stanley returns a few moments later, a cup of coffee in each hand and a donut hooked around his pinkie. He sets one cup in front of his spot, the other in front of Delta, and offers the donut to Eleanor.

And while Delta watches him carefully—or at least, you think he does—it’s hard to get aggressive when Eleanor squeals with joy and digs in.

You’ve never seen a Little Sister eat before, but you try not to think about that too much. It’s just a little girl eating a donut, or at least that’s what you tell yourself when you try your damnedest not to look at her.

Stanley opens by telling Delta a little bit about himself, but it’s nothing that you don’t already know. Reporter for the Rapture Tribune, one who covered Delta’s story when he stumbled upon Rapture and was quickly incarcerated. You watch Delta a little closer when that gets brought up.

What you’re waiting for, you’re not entirely sure. A twinge of anger, a flash of recognition? Hardly matters when everything is obscured by that helmet, but you’ve always wondered just how much these Daddies remember of their old lives.

Delta listens, and his quiet attentiveness only goads Stanley on further. If you felt like being generous, you’d say it’s probably been years since Stanley had someone so willing to listen to him. But you’re not, and you know that Stanley couldn’t shut up if his life depended on it.

You hate to admit how intensely you’re watching him from the corner of your eye. Part of you wishes that the little girl would talk, just so they could tell you something you don’t know. Those drug-happy little monsters must have a million stories to tell, and it would be leagues more interesting than hearing the details of Stanley’s degree in journalism.

Thankfully, Delta seems to have the same idea. He reaches over, placing one of his immense paws over Stanley’s thin hand.

Stanley stops—not just midsentence, but mid-word—as a heat overtakes his face.

“Uh…” Stanley trails off, glancing between Delta’s face and their joined hands as if one of them is set to open fire any second. “Kinda stopped all my thoughts cold there, mister.”

Delta nods, a barely discernible incline of his head. If you were the romantic type, you might deign to call that kind of gesture affectionate, but being as you are, you just think Delta is trying to communicate in what few ways he can. He rubs his giant gloved thumb over the back of Stanley’s hand.

“Oh… never gotten this affectionate with a fella before.” Stanley chuckles, unable to shake the redness staining the tips of his ears. He turns his hand, holding Delta’s massive fingers against his palm, and cups his other hand over Delta’s knuckles.

You turn your head away, trying to give them privacy while simultaneously pretending to guard them and also completely nosing into their business. Even now, in what appears to be the most intimate gesture you’ve ever seen a Big Daddy make, you’re not sure what to make of it. Half of you is in such a state of disbelief that you almost expect him to start swinging, as if the next move will finally be one too many, but it never happens.

In fact, you almost might call Delta happy.

Eleanor gasps, breaking the moment with a single sound. Delta is back to high alert, his attention entirely trained on his Little Sister. Stanley retracts his hands, awkwardly arranging them in his lap.

Eleanor turns to Delta, beaming at him. You can see the way smiling makes the sickly green hue of her eyes glow, and you almost wish she wasn’t so happy. “ADAM, Daddy!” And before Stanley can even stutter a goodbye, she’s scrambling off Delta’s lap and making a beeline for Sinclair Spirits.

Delta stands as fast as he’s able, turning his head to Stanley. Again, another nod, barely there, barely anything, but the most he can offer.

Part of you wishes you’d brought another corpse, only to be reminded that you weren’t paid enough to haul two dead bodies all over Fort Frolic, and then the pair of them are gone, just as quickly as they appeared.

Well, mission complete? Your plan petered out after step two, and everything beyond the desecration of the dead was total improv, but it all worked out in the end. Now what? Go home? Go to work?

But before you can slink out of sight, Stanley catches you. He doesn’t seem to care about the abandoned café table, and since you don’t even intend on coming back to this place, you also decide to leave it be.

“Thank ya.” Before you can duck out of range, his grimy hand is shaking yours. You’d like to think the moisture is from Subject Delta’s gloves, but with Stanley, you can never be sure. “Really. Truly. I couldna done this withoutcha.”

Unsure of what else to say, you can only nod in response. Something unnaturally slimy is smearing against your palm, and you can only fear the worst.

“Let me treat ya to a drink,” he offers.

“Absolutely not.”

But Stanley only chuckles. “Fair enough.” He fishes into his pocket, producing a twenty-dollar bill. “For your troubles.”

If you’re lucky, it’ll be enough to cover the cost of the ride home, but you smile regardless. It’s better than nothing, after all.

“Give me a call if you need anything,” Stanley says. He hands you a card of his contact info, which you never intend to make use of.  

Yeah, you need to go home after this. Go home and process.

But still, you accept the card and excuse yourself as quickly as could be considered polite. Even as you retire to bed for the night, you still aren’t sure what to make of the whole ordeal.

This is a weird story you tell at a party, a moniker that identifies you before anything else. You’re “that person that got Stanley Poole a coffee date with a Big Daddy.”

Whether that’s a good thing is yet to be seen.