Disclaimer: I own nothing except this fic.
A/N: There are some vague comic/movie references, as well as the incorporation of the comic's slightly darker feel. Oh, and a hint of Joker/Mask.
The Ties that Bind
He supposes it's curiosity that has led him here, to the Edge City library's dusty aisles and darker hallways. He's fairly certain this is where the old woman at the front desk directed him to, assuring him he would find what he was looking for, documentation and books on old Norse mythology, here. But these halls seem deserted, and he has a sick feeling, if the flickering lights and cobwebs are any indication, that not many people venture this far into the library. In fact, he is pretty sure he isn't even supposed to be here. All in all, this will likely turn out to be just another fine mess that zoot-suited trouble-maker will have gotten him into – which is a feat, Stanley will admit, considering the Mask has had no real influence on the situation at hand; this is all Stanley and his sheer and sudden urge to understand his alter-ego a little bit better.
At the sound of footsteps, slow and cautious behind him, Stanley wastes no time in ducking into the nearest corridor, breath hitching. There's a door behind him and he fumbles with the knob, only to hear the sound of the lock never relenting its hold. "Damn," he curses under his breath, then closes his eyes and forces himself to relax. The click-clack of high heels on marble has come to a stop, and he wonders if he maybe imagined it. Lately, as his connection to the Mask has become regrettably stronger, he has had a habit of hearing a second pair of footsteps follow him wherever he goes, among other things. Yeah, he thinks, that had to have been it – his mind playing tricks on him again.
But Stanley Ipkiss has been wrong before. Many times, in fact.
"You do know you shouldn't be down here, right?" says a voice that makes him snap his attention to the end of the short passageway. There's a young woman standing there, one hand on her hip, the other cradling folders and books to her chest.
Of course, he should have realized the Mask does not often opt for women's footwear, unless the time calls for such. Combing his fingers through his hair as he steps forward, a shy, sheepish smile on his lips, he says, "I... think I took a wrong turn somewhere over there." He points down the vast hallway, then furrows his brow as he points in the opposite direction, unsure of where he was going and where he came from anymore, "or over there. I'm not really sure."
The girl rolls her eyes. "Whatever. Come on," she says, turning on her heel and starting on her way to lead him back into the main halls.
"Wait! Maybe you can help me?" he asks as he follows obediently. "I was looking for some information on Norse mythology? Preferably on Loki? The woman at the front desk said I'd find it somewhere in the back and – "
She chuckles and tucks a lock of her dark hair behind an ear. "I think she meant somewhere in the back aisles. That's where all of our older stuff is."
"Oh," he mumbles quietly, a blush forming on his cheeks.
Nice one, that unmistakable voice jeers from somewhere in the back of his mind, making Stanley wince and place the heel of his palm to his forehead.
"You alright?" the archivist asks, cocking an eyebrow at the older man.
"Fine," he quickly replies. "Just," he points to his head and rolls his eyes, "a headache. Nothing to worry about."
She buys it, and moves on to something she feels is more important. "Norse mythology, right?"
"Right."
And she intends to send him on his way minutes later with an armful of books; The Poetic Edda: Translated from the Icelandic with an Introduction and Notes by Henry Adams Bellows, "The God Loki from Snaptun" as collected in Oldtidens Ansigt: Faces of the Past by Hans Jørgen Madsen, and Norse Mythology: A Guide to the Gods, Heroes, Rituals, and Beliefs by John Lindow are among the many titles she's recommended.
"Thank you, Miss...?"
She rolls her eyes again and points to the name tag on her blouse. He leans in to get a better, proper look, then winces once again at the sound of a klaxon blaring through his skull, followed by a wolf-whistle and heavy panting.
Oh, bab-ay! sounds the alter-ego as Stanley's eyes venture lower to her breasts.
She clears her throat, and when he looks up to her face once more she's clearly not amused by his prolonged glance at her name tag.
"Miss Larsen," Stanley says quickly, balancing the books awkwardly in one arm as he holds out his hand to her.
"Call me Skye. Miss makes me feel old," she tells him, accepting his hand and giving it a brief shake.
"Right," he mumbles, shifting the books into both arms again, straightening them out using his chin and chest. "Well, thank you very much, Skye."
"Just doing my job, Mr...?"
"Ipkiss. Stanley Ipkiss. Just Stanley'll do."
"Sure thing," she says, eyes wandering up and down his body briefly. He returns the once-over somewhat bashfully.
"I – I better go," he says, voice a little cracked, backing up slowly, fighting off the urge to thank her for a third time.
"Catch you on the flip side," Skye drawls, waving with her free hand before he turns on his heel and heads for the front desk to check his selection out, his stride clumsy as he tries to keep the books from toppling out of his grasp.
You have no idea, babe.
He reads through every book she gave him, cover-to-cover, in the course of a few days, and by the time he pushes the last away his mind is numbed and reeling with names like Baldr and Freyja and images of giant wolves and eight-legged horses. But for all it was worth, he finds no mention of the mask.
"Figures," he mumbles to himself, slumping back on the couch and scratching behind Milo's ear. The little dog whines as he comes closer and lays his head on his owner's lap, content to provide what little comfort he can in return for some attention.
Stanley's hand stills on the Jack Russel as he glances at the wooden mask propped up on the coffee table. He can feel its pull, like a gravity, but, as he has for the last week or so, resists. He knows if he dons the mask, especially now with his mind warped and strained, nothing good will come of it; he will have no control and he will head over to the library in that dizzying whirlwind to do God-knows-what.
A buzzer rings in his mind, the kind that sounds when a contestant on a cheesy game show gets the answer to a question wrong. You know exactly what'll happen.
Stanley shakes his head. Milo whines.
And you want it, too.
"I do not!" Stanley snaps, glaring at the mask, and Milo's tail finds its way between his legs.
Liar, liar, pants on fire!
"Just shut up," he mumbles, defeated, because he knows the Mask is right. The Mask is always right. But that doesn't mean Stanley is about to give in so easily this time.
Oh, you are just no fun sometimes.
"Did you find what you were looking for, Stan?" Skye asks as Stanley sets the pile of books down on the main desk. She doesn't notice the older man's cocked eyebrow and curious stare; a girl hasn't called him Stan since high school.
"A little," he says, then sucks on his teeth and shakes his head. "No. Not at all, really." He smiles sheepishly at her, drumming his fingers against the polished wood.
"That sucks," she mumbles, busy putting the books aside one-by-one into the return pile.
"Yeah," Stanley says with a sigh, and he has yet to make any effort to leave.
"Out of pure curiosity," Skye asks once she's finished with his books, "what were you looking for exactly?"
He rubs at the back of his neck. "I... was hoping to find some information on this mask I heard about."
"Go on," she says, one eyebrow cocked as she leans over the desk, arms folded to prop herself up on her elbows.
"It belonged to Loki? Or something. I'm not really sure."
She purses her lips and hums in thought, brow furrowed. Her eyes widen a few seconds later. "You know, I think I read something like that while I was in college. About this mask that, like, could grant its wearer some sort of power and remove all inhibitions instilled by society."
Hey, hey now. Don't make it all about me, baby. Let's talk about Skye Larsen.
"Yeah, that's the one," Stanley nods, closing his eyes and taking a breath to suppress that incredibly-hard-to-ignore-voice that decides to make itself known at the worst possible times.
She cocks an eyebrow at him. "How'd you hear about it? That's a story that's not on many shelves."
"Oh, you know... Heard it on the grapevine," he says. "A buddy of mine's a mythology major and told me about it awhile go."
She leans back and nods slowly. "Uh huh." A coy smirk finds its way onto her lips before she walks around the desk to stand in front of him, now with nothing to separate them. "You really wanna know the whole story?"
"It'd be greatly appreciated," Stanley says, swallowing hard and bells and chimes and whistles are sounding in his head as though he's won some sort of prize. Apparently his other half senses something he is a little too naïve to pick up on, despite it being glaringly obvious.
"Then I guess I could call up my professor and ask for a copy of the manuscripts. You seem genuinely interested."
Oh, we are.
Stanley nods. "That would be really, really wonderful."
"Your place. Friday. Say, seven o'clock?" Skye inquires, head cocked to the side in a manner that seems almost coquettish, but Stanley may have been imagining that. The Mask knows better and there goes the klaxon again.
He licks his bottom lip, adjusting the collar of his shirt as he asks, "Miss Larsen, are you asking me out?"
"Yes or no, slick," she muses. "I got a job to get back to."
Friday comes and Friday goes, and Skye leaves Stanley with a folder full of photocopied papers and pictures he has no real intention of looking at anymore. He is far more interested in the quirky library archivist, and the mask is not going anywhere for awhile to come. He has all the time he needs to skim through his personal copies of those rare documents.
He spends the night wide awake with Milo sleeping beside him, kicking and growling as he dreams. The folder is forgotten in the living room on the coffee table, beside the mask, and his mind wanders away from the green-faced menace to the promise of Monday, when he will be meeting with her again. Strictly to speak of mythology and masks, of course.
And who is he trying to kid?
He has no intention of bringing up the mask again on Monday, and he has a feeling that neither does she. It's a coincidental common ground they share and have exploited and used to their advantage in order to get to know one another better.
You know, as much I love all of this attention, I really hate being the third wheel.
And there's malice and trickery in his voice.
Stanley's stomach churns and knots. He does not trust the Mask one bit, so he resolves not to wear it again until the time is absolutely necessary – because while Gotham has its Batman, Edge City only has the Mask to rely on. Kellaway does an alright job, but the lieutenant is far too world-wary and caught up on catching the Mask now to really do his job right. Officer Doyle is of no help, either.
Stanley Ipkiss decides he hates Mondays as he walks passed the alleyway near his apartment complex and sees some poor Joe – a lanky high school student – being backed into a corner and threatened by a thug in leather and donning a bandanna. He hears things like "loan" and "pay up"and winces when the distinct sound of a switchblade opening up graces his ears after the kid tells the gangster he has no money at the time.
He could easily keep walking, pretend like he saw nothing and continue on his way to the café just a few blocks away where he's scheduled to meet Skye. He could, but he doesn't because it's his job as the unofficial anti-hero of Edge City to do something about this before another innocent somebody gets killed.
So Stanley runs back to his apartment, fumbles with the keys and stumbles inside, nearly tripping over Milo on his way to the coffee table and the mask. He lifts it to his face slowly. "Please, don't make me regret this," he whimpers before placing the woodwork over his face entirely.
It expands and constricts and suffocates as the world spins out of control – or is that him spinning while the world stands still? No matter; when the spinning stops, he stands there with his perpetual shit-eating grin and bright yellow zoot-suit, adjusting his red and black tie.
"Would you look at the time?" he muses before an alarm sounds on the over-sized watch suddenly around his wrist. "This guy's worried about some boob's lunch money when he has a total babe waiting on him! Unbelievable!" He clamps a hand over the watch and it disappears before he runs at superhuman speed outside.
Only to find his legs stop working as he passes the alley, causing him to trip and stumble to the ground. He grits his teeth and narrows his eyes. "Oh, no. We're doing this my way this time!"
And Stanley has to wonder: isn't always the Mask's way?
Help the kid!
"He can take care of himself!" Then his body is hoisted up and dragged reluctantly backward, head forced to look into the alley. He skews his face, seeing the kid now on his knees, shirt torn and the big guy in quite the curious position; pants down around his ankles, one hand on the kid's head.
"You'll pay with somethin' else till you can give back the money you owe me," the thug says, pushing his hips forward.
"Ew," the Mask grimaces and Stanley relinquishes his hold for the time being, trusting the Mask to oblige. Which he does, all be it reluctantly.
"Oopsie daisy. Looks like somebody was caught with his pants down!" he jeers from behind the thug suddenly. The boy whirls around, switchblade at the ready, and the Mask skips backward, glancing downward amusedly.
"You know, I had no idea they came in that size," he muses, and when the leather-head lunges forward he grabs his wrist and slaps the knife from his hand. "They have pills for guys like you," he continues on, then flips the guy over onto his back and holds him easily in place, pinned to the ground with a foot to his chest.
He looks to the would-be-victim, huddled and wide-eyed. "Get outta here," he says, jerking his thumb toward the entrance of the alley, putting on a Brooklyn accent. The kid scrambles away, practically shouting his thanks as he runs passed and away as fast as he can.
"Now, as for you," he turns his attention back to the thug on the ground, thrashing and struggling and cursing at him. Leaving his foot where it is, he moves a few feet away to pick up the discarded switchblade, leg stretching as he goes. He hop-skips back over and squats, waving the knife in front of the boy's sudden pale face.
It only takes a second, and he walks away whistling as the boy writhes on the ground, not daring to move about too much – for too much movement may only cause the blade's handle to sink deeper into his anus.
The moment he steps out of the alley, he finds his arms raising, hands reaching for the back of his head. He gasps, a loud and exaggerated intake of breath as he realizes what his other half is trying to do.
"Oh, no you don't!" he snaps, taking control of one arm and using it to slap the other hand away from the base of his skull.
I don't need you anymore! Stanley's hand reaches for the Mask's, pinching at a nerve that makes him screech.
"Who cares what you need?" The Mask shakes the sting off, then makes another attempt to grab the other hand again. "I gotta get my freak on!"
She doesn't know about you! You can't do that!
"Watch me," he grins wide, though grits his teeth a few seconds later as Stanley's arm continues to evade capture. "Stanley, you're making this ve-ery difficult," he sing-songs maliciously, reaching behind his back. "Whattaya say you take five, kiddo?"
Then he pulls an insanely large mallet out of nowhere and wastes no time in hitting himself in the head with it, silencing Stanley for the time being. Tiny animated twinkling stars encircle his head as he sinks, cross-eyed and tongue lolling out of the corner of his mouth, to the ground. The mallet has vanished without a trace.
"He'll feel that in the morning," he slurs before shaking his head, the stars disappearing with popping sounds as he stands himself up and brushes off his suit. He glances at his wrist, to that too-big watch again and notices he's already five minutes late for Stanley and Skye's date.
He doesn't mind playing hero now and then, when he has nothing better to do, but this date is certainly more important than any old crime-in-the-making. At least, it is in the Mask's opinion.
Without a moment to spare, he makes his way to the café as a blur of yellow and white and green spinning out of control.
He finds her seated at an outdoor table, slouched over the table for two and looking over the selection of coffees and pastries displayed on the menu resting between her elbows. Not a second later, he's seated across from her, grinning broadly and waggling his eyebrows at her. He's delighted to see her jerk back and gasp, placing a hand over her heart.
"Can I help you?" she inquires, her brow knitting together as she looks the strange green-faced man up and down.
"Oh yes," he practically purrs, rubbing the toe of his shoe against her ankle.
She doesn't hesitate to kick his foot away and push back from the table. "Look, I'm waiting for somebody."
"You are a saucy flirt," he says.
"And you're seriously rude," she retorts. "Screw off, will you?"
"Right here? In public?" he feigns bashfulness, covering his mouth with one hand. Then he shrugs and grins wickedly, and there's the sound of a zipper being undone. "If you insist!"
"Ugh, you pig!" She says, making a face and finally standing. "Get away from me!"
She's leaving!
"Oh, no. Not you again," the Mask says with a roll of his eyes. Skye stares at him, one eyebrow cocked.
"Excuse me?"
"Not you, dollface." He then proceeds to pull a mirror out of his pocket and glower at his reflection. "Mind your business!"
This is my business!
And that's when Stanley manages to take control once more, his hold weak but strong enough to cause the Mask to freeze up and drop the mirror.
"C-crap," the Mask winces as the body is forced to stand. "You can't d-do this!"
Oh, yes, I can, Stanley murmurs smugly. Now move it!
Reluctantly, the body staggers away, the Mask cursing under his breath all the while. Once mind gets body into a dark alley, the Mask slumps against a wall and Stanley allows him to put a hand to his head, massaging a temple.
"That was dirty, Stan," he mumbles, as he cracks his neck and rolls his shoulders to work the kinks Stanley's retaliation caused.
And moving in on my date wasn't? Stanley scoffs.
"Call it saving face," the Mask retorts with a grin.
Sure. And speaking of faces...
The hands come up and reach for the back of the head, fingers digging in under a layer of that strange green second skin. The Mask shouts in protest as Stanley breaks free of its hold, taking a deep breath and running a hand over his face.
"You're more trouble than you're worth," he mumbles, glaring at the wooden mask in his hand, casting green reflections as the sunlight plays across its surface. His mind is silent and he sighs in relief as he tucks the mask away inside the inner pocket of his jacket, then leaves the alley in a hurry, hoping Skye will still be at the café waiting for him. Though, if she decided to run off, he will completely understand.
He is exceedingly grateful to find her waiting for him, and he apologizes for being late. She tells him not to worry, that it's only been ten minutes or so, then proceeds to inform him of the green-faced man that had been flirting with her mere moments ago. He chuckles nervously as she says the Mask a creep and a sleaze and she hopes she never sees him again.
And Stanley Ipkiss has never been happier to change the subject.
Neither of them really believe in fate, or that destiny is something scripted and that everyone has a role to fill and play, but she's starting to believe in coincidences and irony. She stares at him, eyes wide and mouth hanging open slightly as the whirlwind dies down and the Mask becomes Stanley once again. He is oblivious to her presence for all but a second, then stumbles backward and nearly into a dumpster, eyes equally wide and heart pounding.
This it, he thinks. The end of everything he had been working so hard to obtain.
"Skye," he chokes out, fingering the knot of his tie which suddenly seems too tight. Which is just fine, because he wouldn't mind having a noose right about now. "I - I can't explain." He hides the mask behind his back.
She clears her throat quietly as she steps into the alley and makes her way to him somewhat cautiously. "You? You're that - ?"
He slumps his shoulders and hangs his head, leaning against the dirty wall behind him, bringing the mask out into view once more. "One and the same. Sort of."
She reaches for the mask, and, against his better judgement, lets her take it. "This is... Holy shit," she whispers, looking from the woodwork to Stanley's face again. Not a second later she shoves the mask back against his chest roughly, causing him to let out a quiet grunt of surprise, while the Mask muses in the back of his mind, ooh, baby, you know I like it rough! "You asshole! You were holding out on me this whole time!"
Stanley can only cock his head to the side and stare at her in confusion. "W-what?"
"I knew there was something up with you and your weird fixation on that damn mask! I just never thought you'd actually own the friggen thing!" she exclaims, throwing her arms up in the air.
"I - I didn't think it'd be a good idea to tell you about it – and – "
"And nothing, Stan!" she snaps, then takes a breath to calm herself down as much as she can. She glares at him for a few seconds before her eyes wander back to the mask clasped between his hands. She takes one more, deeper breath before saying, "so... the mythology had a ring of truth after all. It really does give the wearer superhuman powers and removes all inhibitions."
"You could say that," Stanley says, unsure if he should be worried or relieved that she seems to have calmed down. He's dated firecracker-women before, so he knows it's very possible - and likely - that she could blow a fuse again at any given moment. "It's a bit more complex than that, I think."
"Care to share the details over lunch?" she asks, and he breathes a huge sigh of relief.
"If you don't mind horror stories," he says with a lopsided smirk.
So he tells her his story over hot dogs and pepsi, as they stroll through a nearby park. He tells her how he found the mask in the harbor and almost every incident thereafter, and isn't in the least bit surprised to find her alternating between laughter and horrified gasps.
Sometimes, he scares himself, too.
And by the time he's finished, they've found themselves back in front of his apartment with the sun setting in the distance, and she leans up to kiss him on the lips softly. Not even the Mask reacts, but Stanley's positive he heard the distinct sound of a bottom jaw unhinging and hitting the floor.
"What was that for?" he asks quietly.
"For being such an interesting guy," Skye says with a wink.
You? Interesting? Now that's a first, the Mask drawls.
"Oh, come on," Stanley murmurs bashfully.
"I mean it, Stanley. I've never met a guy like you before," she pauses and grins at him, glancing to the lump the mask makes in his jacket. "Either of you."
"I thought you thought the Mask was a sleaze and a creep?"
I knew she'd come around.
"Don't get me wrong, I do," she says with a roll of her eyes. "But even so, you have to admit he's really something else. I mean, he's practically a living artifact."
Stanley can't help but grimace.
She assures him with her everything that it's just for research and there's no ulterior motive, and he sighs and agrees because he just can't say no to her. And for the first time in a long time, he closes his eyes as he puts the mask to his face and lets his alter ego take over. From there, things seem to only get stranger as Stanley remains quiet in the back of the Mask's mind and the anti-hero of Edge City flirts and woos with some success. A laugh, a smile, a blush on Skye's part, and Stanley knows his whole relationship with her has been thrown off whack.
As the days go by, Stanley finds himself competing with the Mask for her affection. She assures the banker that she has no interest in the Mask, at least not in that sense, but that doesn't stop her from asking for his company or reverting back into a giggling school girl whenever he's around.
One day the Mask is going in for the kill, an exaggerated bouquet made up of out-of-this-world flowers shaped like hearts and puckered lips. She accepts, only to find the flowers lift off the stems, the hearts exploding like small firecrackers and the lips planting burning kisses wherever they may land.
She laughs and blushes and waves away the pink dust left behind after everything has vanished, but something inside knots up and her heart skips a beat when the Mask suddenly has her in his arms, dipped.
"That's how you make me feel, babe," he purrs.
"Like fireworks and kisses?" she laughs, cautiously wrapping her arms around him.
"Like explosions and burns," he says darkly before pushing his lips to hers.
And when it's Stanley's turn again, he takes the day off work and spends those few precious extra hours wandering the city and collecting some of the most expensive flowers he can find. Later, when Skye comes over, he presents the flowers to her, and she squeals in delight before wrapping her arms around him and kissing him full on the mouth.
"They're beautiful," she breathes as she pulls away, bringing the assortment to her face and inhaling the mingling scents.
"Really?" he asks, smiling crookedly, "even if they can't, you know, turn into things that explode or give you kisses?"
She laughs softly. "Really."
Stanley gnaws on his bottom lip for a moment, then gently takes the flowers from her and sets them down on the coffee table before pulling her close.
"How do I make you feel?" he whispers, brushing her hair out of her face.
She cups a cheek and thumbs his bottom lip. "Like no other, silly."
Then he sees her glance at the mask as it lays beside the flowers, and can't help but ask: "Explosions and burns?"
Pulling her gaze away from the antique, she shakes her head. "Fireworks and kisses," she corrects him.
There was a difference at first, a definitive line between the two, but now she's not so sure. It's been months and suddenly it's hard to tell Stanley apart from the Mask, and the Mask apart from Stanley. That line grows finer each time the Mask begs for her attention, quite literally pawing and panting after her like a lovesick puppy; each time Stanley says something a little too bold that makes the butterflies trapped within her ribcage flutter a little harder.
She voices her concern one day to Stanley, and he waves the notion off, saying she's probably only imagining it. But she knows that even he fears losing himself entirely to the Mask, and she watches him suddenly grow quiet, losing all interest in the movie they rented. Deep down inside he knows she's on the right track, and he fears this is a one-way ride because God knows he's tried to be himself but the more he pushes, the more the Mask pulls.
Or is it: the more the Mask pushes, the more Stanley pulls?
Somewhere along the way, it stopped mattering.
It's going out on a limb, she decides, but she informs the Mask one night of how she feels that line that separates Stanley from himself is being blurred. Her suspicion is confirmed when he says nothing to defend himself. He merely sits there, somber and staring at her with deep brown eyes that suddenly seem like they go on into forever. She's used to eyes that reflect nothing but mischief and mayhem and chaos, eyes that could have been made of lines and ink and pastel colors.
She's never seen him so motionless, this near-mad man who rarely, if ever, stands still long enough to blink twice in the same place. And in the time in takes for him to reach over and pull her hand up to his mouth, pressing green lips to the pale flesh of her knuckles, she decides this is too much. This is wrong, and enough is enough.
The break up is anything but easy. She takes him to the library, to the dark hall where they first met and presses him into the corner, head bowed, eyes unable to meet his – if only because she doesn't know those eyes anymore.
"We have to talk," she says the four words that every significant other dreads and he sighs, leaning back against the wall.
He says nothing as she spills everything to him; how much she loves him and how, even if he denies it, she knows the personalities are mingling and she's losing both of them to the other – how this isn't what she wants anymore.
The tears are finally streaking their way down her cheeks and she slaps his hand away, shaking her head. "Don't. Just tell me you understand."
A part of him does and a part of him doesn't, and he can't figure out which of those halves are really him. He shakes his head, running a hand through his hair. "Not really, Skye."
The part of her that isn't entirely as mature as she would like it to be forces her to whine and stomp a foot against the floor in frustration. "This is tearing you apart!" she snaps. "Being with me is tearing you apart, and I refuse to let that happen." She starts to back up with every intention of walking away and never looking back.
"Wait – "
"Look me up when you've straightened yourself out."
It takes several more months before Stanley's head is clear and he and the Mask are separate personalities again. But just because his little amalgamation problem has been fixed, does not mean his relationship problem is just as easily solved. He doesn't seek her out, though he knows where to find her, what numbers to call to reach her, but he doesn't bother.
Now that he's gone through the process of separating his personality from the Mask's, he's afraid being with her again will only cause the same thing to happen yet again. And he doesn't want that, for her sake and his; it took a toll on both of them and he'd be insane to subject them to it all over again just because he's still in love with her.
Nice guys really do finish last, huh, chump? the Mask drawls sneeringly.
"So what?" Stanley mumbles, laying down on the sofa and holding the mask above his head, face-to-face – a habit he's developed whenever his other half feels the need to speak up for more than a few passing seconds at a time.
So, I'm not about to let you roll over and die like this.
"Since when do you care?"
The Mask chooses not to answer that question in particular.
"I thought so. Well what do you suggest I do?" and Stanley rolls his eyes because he has a pretty good guess. "Get dressed and go clubbing? I don't think so."
No, I suggest you haul ass and go get your girl back, moron.
Stanley laughs hollowly. "Oh, sure. I'll just march up to her and tell her all the kinks have been worked out. She'll jump at the chance to be with me again."
The Mask snarls. If you won't do it, I will.
And for the first time, Stanley's arms aren't in his control and he has to fight to keep from placing the mask to his face.
"Are you insane?"
Possibly. But that's not the topic at hand.
"S-stop it!" Stanley grunts, turning his face away as his own hands bring the mask closer. But the Mask's will is stronger, and after the miniature thunderstorm dies down, he runs over to the library faster than humanly possible. It doesn't take long for him to find her, up on a ladder and placing old romance novels on the top shelves.
He wolf-whistles, a sound that makes her look down, lose her footing and fall – right into his open arms. He waggles his eyebrows and grins. "Did you miss me?"
She stares up at him with wide-eyes. "Mask?"
"The one and only," he winks.
She wriggles out of his arms and adjusts her skirt once she's standing again. "It's... good to see you again," she says softly. "How have you been?"
"I've been getting by," he says nonchalantly, "but Stanley on the other hand – "
"What about him?" Skye inquires, suddenly playing her hands together and the Mask knows he's got her bagged.
"Total wreck without you. He's been slacking at work, boring at home – I think he's even been skipping showers," he whispers the last part, then waves a hand in front of his face. "If he weren't already so much of a pussy, I'd say he grew a mangina 'cause of you."
She laughs and blushes, then clears her throat. "Why are you here, Mask?"
"To get you two crazy kids back together so he can stop moping around. Ever try going to the Coco Bongo and having fun when your other half manifests its misery in the form of a rain cloud that follows you wherever you go? So not fun!"
She's still smiling when she leans forward and pulls him closer by his tie. "No more merging?" she asks.
"You kiddin'? That was the worse experience of my life!" He waves the notion away, and then the grin softens into a crooked smile. "Besides, it took you putting him through the wringer for us realize that while I love you, he's in love with you."
He hadn't known she could smile any wider, but seeing her expression makes him grin again. "I love you, too," she says with a chuckle.
And suddenly he's holding a hand out to her, pinkie extended, clad in a skimpy school girl's uniform, bad make up and worse hair completing the get-up. "Omigod," he squeal, voice pitched to sound feminine, "like, B.F.F?"
She entwines her pinky with his. "Forever," she promises, and when their hands part and he's dressed in his usual yellow suit once more, he reaches up and pulls the mask from his face.
For the first time, it doesn't scream.
When it's just Skye and Stanley, he starts to stammer and apologize, but she silences him with a kiss to his lips. And when they break apart, he smirks at her.
"You're sure about this?"
"Mhmm. I think we'll all get along just fine now."
-End