Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It all began when Stanley’s wife left him.

No fights, no scandals, no smashed dishes. If this story had started on the Instagram feed of some sentimental woman, there’d surely be a photo of a rainy landscape with the caption: "The only thing broken was his heart." A lie? Not at all. Something inside the loving husband had snapped. Strangely, the brown-eyed man remained eerily calm.

They parted amicably. Melissa said many things, but through the fog in his mind, Stanley only caught fragments: "I’m sorry, darling. Our marriage has run its course. But you’ll find someone else! Plenty of fish in the sea."

At that moment, only one thought crossed his mind: "What other fish? There’s only one I want—and she’s swimming away, only to return with divorce papers."

That night, Stanley stared at the ceiling—plain white plaster he’d never noticed before. The room was dark, lit only by the dim glow from the window. "Love makes any shack a paradise," they say. Melissa must have believed that… once.

Stanley was just an office clerk. His skills? Pressing buttons, alphabetizing files, maybe playing solitaire. What more did a man need to be happy? Tea with three sugars from his favorite mug, chatting with coworkers, then home to his beloved wife, who’d baked something sweet, filling their tiny apartment with warmth.

But Melissa was gone. No more pastries. No one to kiss when he came home. No one to scold him for forgetting the orange juice for breakfast.

As dawn approached, Stanley agonized: What had he done wrong? Not enough attention? Too few tender words? Had he hurt her once, and the wound festered? He’d never know. His eyes didn’t close that night.

Slowly, the little joys vanished from Stanley’s life. Then the big ones. Exhaustion weighed heavier each day. Sometimes, he couldn’t muster the strength to get out of bed—too weak even to cry. His emotions were dulled, as if wrapped in cotton.

Work became sporadic. The moment he stepped into the office, white noise filled his skull, razor wire twisting in his brain. Household chores fared no better—every task felt like sandpaper scraping him raw. Washing a T-shirt? Each motion was agony. Every failure invited monstrous thoughts and rage (the only emotion left undulled).

Self-loathing took root. He blamed himself for every mistake, every misstep with Melissa. Sometimes, he’d scroll through her social media, twisting his wedding ring—still on his finger after months.

Eventually, Stanley was fired. Now he barely left the house. Unemployment checks barely covered rent and bills. What little remained for food, he hoarded—even when starving. His appetite, once insatiable, now tormented him. He bought cereal—sugar-laden, eaten dry—because it was cheap. His room became a wasteland of trash, scattered clothes, and colorful cereal boxes—the only brightness in the gloom.

Oh, and the cockroaches. Funny how they’d scuttle over his face during those rare moments when exhaustion beat insomnia and he managed a few hours of fitful sleep. "Thanks for waking me, buddy."

"But what was he saving for?" you ask.

A coffin.

"Oh, Dr. Henry Narr is amazing! So charismatic, so understanding!" sighed lovestruck psychiatry interns.
"Oh, Dr. Henry Narr works miracles! No one prescribes better!" gushed grateful patients.
"Oh, Dr. Henry Narr—" And who was he, really?

A portly fifty-five-year-old, slightly below average height, silver-haired. Behind mismatched glasses (to "match the clientele"), sharp green eyes gleamed. His sunny yellow vest cheered patients up; the chick-yellow tie, however, was overkill. But hey, whatever kept him treating people.

Colleagues told a different story: "Pompous. Sneaky. British." Some added: "Never shuts up." Hence his nickname—Narrator.

Henry was a psychiatrist. And today, he was on acute intake duty.

Which was why Stanley stood at his door. Not by choice, of course.

The brown-eyed man—tall, gaunt, slouched—stared at the wall, ignoring his new doctor. Unkempt curls were dusted with plaster. A scraggly beard screamed neglect. Dark circles under his eyes completed the picture.

And beneath his plaid shirt—a livid red line around his neck.

Seemed Stanley had saved up enough after all.

"Stanley," Henry’s voice was stern. "Do you realize how close you came to irreversible consequences?"

Stanley kept staring at a painting of a cat with a bow. Shame burned through him. Being scolded like a misbehaving puppy was humiliating. What did this quack care about his suffering? Anger flared—he wanted to snap back, but his voice refused to cooperate.

Henry frowned, stood, and shut the window (bars or not, trust was limited). He gestured to an orderly outside: "Watch him." A hulking man stepped in, leaving Henry to confront two colleagues in the hall.

"You see his state. Why wasn’t he hospitalized? He’s shaking like a leaf! I’m not interrogating him like this—get him sedated. Mildly."

The tall orderly nodded. The female nurse snapped: "The acute-care psychiatrist quit yesterday! Either he sees you, or he gets nothing all weekend. You know how these cases get buried!"

A person in the waiting area flinched at her shout. Dark, unruly hair tied back; bangs nearly covering their eyes. Multiple watches adorned their wrists, each showing different times. Long legs jittered nervously.

Henry ignored them. "Calm him down first. Then we’ll talk. He’s in shock—he doesn’t need me right now!"

The nurse opened her mouth—but the watcher interrupted, voice raspy: "Mr. Narr—"

Henry spun. "Wear your badge or stop pretending to be a patient!"

With a flick, the lanky figure revealed a badge: "Tim Kipper. Attending Psychiatrist."

"If you don’t want him," Tim offered, "I’ll take him. Easy fix—no hospitalization. Just a little... creative treatment."

Henry’s blood boiled. He and Tim were rivals—the older, respected doctor versus the brilliant upstart. Stealing a difficult patient? That was like stealing a wife. Worse.

"No need. I’ll handle him." Henry forced a smile. "Thanks, Timmy. Your concern is so touching."

As he turned, Tim’s parting shot hit: "Pity. I could’ve spared him the ward. You know what it’s like there."

A trap. Tim didn’t care about risks—they just wanted Henry gone.

The bait was taken.

Henry locked the door. The orderly was dismissed. Stanley still stared at the cat painting.

Time for a new approach.

"Mr. Pratt," Henry softened his tone. "Let’s talk. No judgment—just help."

(And to wipe that smirk off Tim’s face.)

Stanley trembled. This saccharine kindness enraged him. He wanted to scream—about Henry, the staff, that weirdo in the hall. But his voice was gone. So he bolted for the door.

"Stanley Pratt." Henry’s voice turned icy. Stanley froze—as if yanked by a leash. "Sit. Now."

Stanley knocked over a pencil cup. Graphite snapped underfoot.

Henry raised a brow. Disobedience usually annoyed him—but this felt different. Like a game.

Stanley stormed toward the exit, destroying everything in his path. Books toppled. A plant crashed. A chair flipped. Each act of vandalism stoked his despair.

Trapped. Branded a madman. No wife. No job. No future. Just him and his sickness, alone.

A sob tore from his throat. Hot tears spilled—the first in months. His legs gave out. Knees hit the floor, skin splitting. Hands braced against cold tile. He barely stayed upright.

Then—weight settled beside him. Henry Narr, pristine white coat and all, sat on the floor. Henry Narr never sat on floors.

A hand slid up Stanley’s back—gentle, soothing. Silent strokes. Permission to collapse into that yellow-vested chest and weep.

Stanley was stunned. So was Henry. This breached every ethical line. Yet here they were.

Something about Stanley had cracked Henry’s icy professionalism. The defiance? The breakdown? Or—

Maybe Stanley reminded him of himself.

For the first time in months, Stanley felt human touch. Not a cockroach skittering over his arm. A person. Warm. Alive. The strokes lulled him. His sobs quieted. Exhaustion won.

He fell asleep.

Henry murmured, "Rest, Stanley. We’ll fix this."

No mask. No act. Just raw compassion.

Fingers brushed the rope burn on Stanley’s neck.

"I’ll help you, you little pest."

Tim’s hook had sunk deep. Henry wouldn’t send Stanley to the ward—to sterile meals, screeching TVs, and hopelessness.

He was keeping him.

"This is a contract. Anti-suicide. Ever heard of one?" (Please say no.) Henry added extra clauses—accountability, mostly. Stanley just blinked. Thank God.

The tear-streaked man sat across from Henry, surrounded by wreckage.

"Terms: You don’t harm yourself. No starvation, no self-torture with disturbing content, no sleep deprivation. I will notice. And if I do—" Henry leaned in. "I’ll strip you naked and inspect every inch of you."

A bluff. But Stanley needed fear. One slip—and he’d be a corpse.

"No attempts. And you call me. Here’s my number." Henry wrote it elegantly.

Stanley raised a brow: "Are you joking?"

Oh. Right. The rope had stolen his voice.

"Fine. Text me." Henry smirked. "Lastly—I need your emergency contact. That ring suggests a... partner." He chose the word carefully. "They’ll share responsibility for you."

Stanley returned home.

Dirty. Broken. His bedroom still bore the scars—the uprooted chandelier, the severed rope neighbors had cut down after the crash.

A crumpled note on the table: "Melissa, forgive me."

Outside, dawn crept closer.

Chapter Text

 Today was Saturday.
Ah, what a marvelous day! If one ignored the fact that the Narrator had spent the entire Friday night awake, calming a particularly volatile patient. A patient who (rather adorably, if one could call it that) had smashed half the office to bits, shattered a couple of ficus pots—personally bought by one of the psychologists to "brighten up" the hospital—nearly broke a chair, and, in a fit of rage, tore up some old papers. (This loss, admittedly, stung the good Doctor Narr the most, even if the casualties were just third-rate romance novels about literature teachers and a few magazines meant to fill the shelves.) And then... the patient burst into tears. Oh, and the minor detail—he’d landed here after a rather hasty attempt to exit life altogether.

So how could our ever-so-kind doctor refuse to help, throwing himself into the fray to rescue the "princess" from the clutches of the evil dragon known as "hospitalization"?

But today... Today, Henry had to drag himself back to work. After two hours of sleep, a rushed shower, and a slapdash breakfast—the same as always: sugarless yogurt and muesli. Some might wrinkle their noses at that, but the psychiatrist adored it. Bland, cardboard-like, utterly tasteless. But hey, it had dried fruit! A far cry from the cereal Stanley used to devour by the box during his darker days.

Speaking of Stanley! It was for him that Doctor Narr had decided to show up at work today, opting for a taxi. The same kind of car he’d sent the brown-eyed patient home in last night, with strict instructions to the driver: "Don’t let him out near bridges. Deliver him straight to his door. I’ll double the fare if you send me the GPS coordinates." Home, it seemed, the troublemaker had reached. But the scheduled appointment with our esteemed mental health specialist? That, he’d graciously skipped.

The meeting was set for exactly one o’clock. With every passing minute, the Narrator spiraled deeper into agitation, perched in his office chair—usually so comfortable, now unbearably stiff. No calls, no texts from Stan. Henry didn’t even have the man’s number. Hadn’t thought to ask yesterday, the fool.

The silver-haired doctor was furious. Livid. Not only had Stanley Pratt tried to off himself and broken their agreement, but now he’d left Henry hanging with his no-show! The doctor had personally dragged his colleague—the best clinical psychologist on staff—out of her vacation just to assess Stan. And now? Now Victoria loomed over him, watching as Narr swept up the remains of her friend Mariella’s ficus. The plant lay splayed across the floor, soil wedged between the tiles. That mess, at least, he’d leave for the janitor.

"And where’s your little friend, the one we had a rendezvous with?" Tori leaned against the wall, eyes fixed on the flustered man. She was loving this—Henry in her debt, squirming. Pure delight for her. The good doctor, meanwhile, was a nervous wreck. The broom refused to cooperate, the shards of the pot still wouldn’t go into the dustpan—each failure stoking his rage. Our usually chatty Narrator just grumbled, "He’ll be here," and buried his face in his hands.

Anxiety gnawed at him. Every fiber screamed that something was wrong. Why hadn’t Stanley come? He was the one who needed this! Needed hospitalization (which, by some miracle and the doctor’s kindness, he’d avoided), needed a diagnosis, needed therapy and pills. Needed group sessions, the "Hope" club, socialization! So why the hell hadn’t he shown up?! The question echoed in Henry’s skull. No one had the answer.

And so, a thoroughly rattled psychiatrist stormed into the office across the hall—the "lair" of his greatest "foe," the undefeated dragon: Tim Kipper. Empty. Undeterred, Henry marched straight to the desk. A knock on the wood surface. A faint rustling from underneath it.

"Listening." Ah. That familiar, creaky little voice. There they were—the hospital’s second-best psychiatrist.

"Timmy, how long do you plan to lounge under there? Not that I can dictate your actions, but—" Narr’s gaze swept the desk. Nothing new: neat stacks of paperwork, pencil sharpeners, and an army of graphite soldiers sorted by hardness. (All documents, mind you, were filled out exclusively in pencil. Early on, Tim had even tried writing prescriptions that way—until a few incidents where patients "prescribed" themselves entirely wrong medications. That put a stop to it.)

"Until I’ve slept... Or until the janitor chases me out with a mop. I handled all your crisis cases last night, you know? Thanks so much for that, Narry." Oh, how Henry loathed that "Narry." Probably as much as Kipper hated "Timmy" from his colleague’s lips.

"Not my fault my patient was complicated. Anyway—I need the apartment number of that suicidal idiot you saw in the hallway last night." A thud—head meeting desk.

"Apartment number?! Want his full address while we’re at it? I’m not a directory! And why the hell do you need it? That moron was supposed to be hospitalized!"

"Thanks, I know the address. And I know you eavesdrop on the orderlies. Loose lips, Timmy—I’m well aware. But if you won’t talk..." Henry reached for a pencil. A horrified clatter from below.

*"Twenty-seven! Now give me back my 8B!"* A dark figure scrambled out from under the desk.

"That’s more like it." Henry tossed the pencil at his colleague and strode out.

The wooden hostage landed safely in its owner’s hands. Tim finally exhaled.

Stanley’s apartment door was slightly ajar. "Couldn’t even bother to lock it!" A bitter thought flashed through the silver-haired man’s mind. But for a split second, relief flared—maybe Stanley was okay. That hope burned bright, then crumbled just as fast. Behind that door, anything could be waiting. Even the lifeless body of his newest patient.

Was Narr worried about legal consequences? Yes. But right now, all he cared about was the person inside that tiny, rented box—utterly alone.

On stiff legs, the doctor crept into the grim, filthy dwelling. Trash everywhere—boxes, dirty clothes, clutter. The moment he stepped inside, something crunched underfoot. A large, brown, mustachioed cockroach. Its guts smeared across the psychiatrist’s shoe. Unbidden, Henry thought of Stanley. Just as lonely, just as crushed—maybe not metaphorically anymore. A lump rose in his throat. That tiny detail broke him. Who’d have thought a bug would be the thing to fell this battle-hardened psychiatrist, who’d faced more than one psychotic episode head-on?

"God Almighty! This is all my fault—my damned sentimentality. Old fool!"

Panicked, he bolted for the bedroom, scanning every corner, the ceiling, the doorknobs. Sweaty, trembling hands shoved the door—but something heavy blocked it. Barricaded from inside. The world stopped. No. It can’t be. With a surge of rage, he shoved harder. Again. It gave way.

He stumbled inside, tripping over shoes. Something clattered from his pocket under the bed—irrelevant now. The room was pitch-black, curtains drawn tight. In the gloom, Narr barely made out what had blocked the door: a trash bag. Huge, bulging with something heavy. A chandelier’s outline pressed against the dark plastic.

Henry exhaled. Just garbage. Not his precious patient. Tension ebbed—replaced by childish relief. Thank God.

"But where the hell is—" A cereal box slammed into his head.

"Ah. There he is." Dry cereal rained down—sweet, shaped flakes in his hair, on his clothes. Marshmallows stuck to his face. The cardboard missile knocked off his glasses, leaving him defenseless. All he could do was yell:

"Stanley! You heartless bastard, it’s me! What the hell—" A pillow hit him mid-curse.

"So, Stanley." The doctor’s tone was stern, mismatched with the absurd scene: Narr sat on the bed while Stanley picked "sweet garbage" from his hair—scolding him all the while. "I get that you’re struggling! But I scheduled your session late so you’d have time to get here. I pulled strings for you! Now I owe favors, and you couldn’t even show up? What’s this about, huh?"

The brown-eyed man wasn’t listening. He was mesmerized by those silver strands—soft at the nape, the stubborn forelock like a little arrow. Delighted, he couldn’t stop touching them. Fingers tangled in the curls, massaging gently. The psychiatrist shuddered. A jolt of electricity down his spine. "This breaches ethics!" screamed his brain.

Stanley, snapped from his trance, flushed.

Recognizing his patient’s fragile state, Henry leaned back into those tender hands—masking nerves with chatter. "I suppose tactile therapy helps? I’ll note that, Stan." His trademark strained smile appeared. "But leaving my head aside... What’s going on in yours? What’s troubling you?"

Stanley froze, gripping his hair. Henry yelped.

The question had to come eventually. Silence hung. Then—realization. Stanley’s injury left him mute. Narr fumbled for his ancient smartphone (the book-style case a dead giveaway of his age) and handed it over.

Minutes later, the text-to-speech announced: "I can’t live like this."

Henry patted the space beside him. Stanley obeyed. In the screen’s glow, his exhaustion was stark—deep wrinkles, bags under his eyes. He looked decades older.

"Stanley. Be specific. What else hurts?" A lost stare. Narr sighed. "I’ll list. Nod, okay?"

"Apathy?" Nod. "Low mood?" Nod. "No appetite?" Shake.

The interrogation dragged on. The diagnosis? Clear depression. Insomnia. A week of nothing but dry pasta and cereal. "Saving for a coffin, our frugal friend..." Extensive testing was needed, but for now, Henry would help without pills. Stanley had time for "happy pills" later.

"Up you get, Stanley Pratt! Today, your life changes! We’re cleaning this dump and making you human again!" Narr yanked open the curtains. Sunlight flooded the room.

What followed was a purge. Stanley resisted but was enlisted anyway—dusting, dishes. The rest fell on the "savior." Including care. By the time they hauled the last bag out, only mold and roaches remained. A miracle. The place was brighter, cleaner. Even the missing chandelier (now in a landfill, along with a length of rope) didn’t dampen the mood.

Notably, Stanley smiled. More than once. Even laughed at Henry’s jokes. A shock. Patients in his state didn’t just smile—let alone laugh—after a near-suicide. Unless they were psychotic.

That smile warmed Narr’s soul like nothing else. Every glimpse of those lips, twisted in a grin or a chuckle, made his heart sing.

Unethical. He knew it. Didn’t care.

"Hold still, Stan. Or I’ll nick you." Henry shaved off the patient’s scruffy beard. Who’d have thought he’d do this? Not that he was squeamish—but touching another man’s unkempt face? Unpleasant. Yet here he was, ego shoved aside for Stanley Pratt. Or... maybe for himself?

Stanley reminded him of his younger self. Lonely, beaten down, jobless, depressed. Before diagnoses and prescriptions, Narr had been a writer. A decent one. But grand prose eluded him—short scripts and stories were his forte. A tiny agency paid his bills... until they accused him of plagiarism and threw him out. Other firms rejected him: "Your ‘British humor’ isn’t funny. You’re a boring hack. Shut your endless word-spout!" (One of the kinder reviews.)

Those blows silenced him for years. Snuffed out the spark in his eyes.

But now... After Stanley, embers flickered back to life. Helping him felt like saving his own past. The birds sang louder. Life seemed brighter.

"There. Now you won’t disgust anyone who kisses you." Narr smirked—then gasped. "Wait!" He cupped Stanley’s cheek, tilting his face to fix a stray patch of stubble. Fingers gentle, not gripping.

Stanley’s heart threatened to crack his ribs. How could he feel like this toward his psychiatrist? But to the lonely man, Henry was a friend first. Maybe the only one who’d ever held him so tenderly.

This wasn’t just professional concern. No doctor would fret over a no-show, then rush to scold him and clean his apartment. Stanley didn’t understand the motives—but he knew. This wasn’t just a psychiatrist. This was a friend.

And since he knew nothing of "psychiatric laws" or medical ethics, this closeness felt... allowed. Maybe even good for treatment.

Those butterflies? The jolt at every touch? He chalked it up to Henry’s skill. Or just craving contact after six months of isolation.

Right?

"Now get in the tub!" Stanley balked, shaking his head.

Henry rolled his eyes. "You’re not a child. I need to wash that mop—you can’t cut those curls yourself! Protest, and I won’t order dinner. And you want something that isn’t pure sugar, don’t you?"

The promise of real food broke him. Hot, savory—not cloying cereal. He surrendered.

The bath was heaven. Hot water, foamy bubbles—luxuries long forgotten. Henry had boiled kettle after kettle to temper the rusty, cold tap water. (The building’s hot water had been cut off.)

Now, clean and trimmed, Stanley sat at the kitchen table. Water dripped from his curls—painstakingly detangled by the psychiatrist. His weakness had eased; physical care had worked wonders. Yesterday, he could barely rise from bed. Today?

Love worked miracles. Or maybe it was Henry’s relentless nagging. Once that man latched onto an idea, he’d talk anyone into compliance. Or order them.

Now the psychiatrist rummaged for his wallet. The food would arrive any minute—and Stanley’s last pennies had gone to his coffin fund. Little devil. But Henry kept bossing him around.

"Tea—in that mug. No additives, no sugar. I won’t tolerate that sacrilege. And the My Little Pony one—I like that one. Don’t be stingy, Stan! Dinner’s on me, remember?" Laughing, smug, he headed to the bedroom.

Giggles from the kitchen. The kettle clicked on.

Henry hunted for his wallet—dropped somewhere in Stanley’s chaos. Under the bed, he spotted... a note. It must’ve fallen during the curtain-opening. He unfolded it, read Stanley’s farewell words, then folded it neatly and pocketed it.

"You won’t need this anymore." Smiling, he grabbed his wallet and hummed "Stanley" like a cheesy elevator tune.