Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The road is getting bumpy, as Dad swerves the car off the highway. They’re going past actual farm houses now; which does nothing to improve Craig’s mood. It’s been hours since Mom stopped leaning over the back of the passenger seat to talk to him, though. So at least there’s that. There has never been a time in his life where Craig has wanted to be left alone more. He stares straight ahead into the darkness, his ear-buds firmly shoved in; his disc-man playing the same Nick Cave song over and over: People they ain’t no good, people they ain’t no good…
Sure, it’s kind of a sweeping statement, but it’s one he can definitely get behind. Crammed sideways into the back seat since his sister won’t be joining them for another two weeks, Craig’s braced his back against the window and stretched his long legs out where Tricia’s legs would normally go. The heating in their ancient Ford Station Wagon has long since died, and his parents can’t afford to pay for its reincarnation; so Craig just dragged down his duvet from his old room, still in its cover. Dark blue, covered in little swirling galaxies. He’s wearing his seatbelt over it, obviously, because Craig Tucker may be pissed as hell, but he’s no idiot. The anger squirms inside of him like an evil bellyache, and he’s not even sure who he’s the angriest with. With his parents, for both landing jobs at the Bank of South Park and basically uprooting his entire life? With Tricia, who gets to spend a whole extra week with grandma while Craig will have to haul all of her shit inside their new house when the van arrives, on top of his own? Or with Thomas – not that Craig wants to think about his ex. But right on cue, Nick Cave croons, To our love, send back all the letters, and Craig can’t help but let his hand drop, run his fingers over the ratty old backpack he’s stuffed full of all the things his former boyfriend had forced Craig to take back before he left. To our love, a Valentine in blood. All the secretive love-letters, written “To T” and signed simply “C”, because the hell if Craig could deal with people finding out about them. Every last note and present, even that smooth, heart-shaped stone he’d found and pressed into Thomas’ hand, that time they went out to the pond to skim rocks at night. To our love, let all the jilted lovers cry, that people they just ain’t no good. All shoved into a bulging plastic bag with the Sephora logo on it, because Thomas’ mom is a regional manager there, and their house is always full of makeup samples and Sephora bags. Craig had had no choice but to empty his school bag out and hide it all in there, before anybody could start asking awkward questions like Why are you buying makeup.
“It’s your choice,” Thomas had said, making the whole thing Craig’s fault somehow. They’d gone for this really long walk and Thomas had issued him an ultimatum; told him they could do long-distance in exchange for one thing – that Craig would tell his parents the truth. About the two of them; about himself. But that price had been too high. Coming out hadn’t been so hard for Thomas; it was just him and his mom, and there is no kinder human being in the world than Thomas’ mom. Craig, on the other hand, has no idea how his parents will react, if they ever find out they have a gay son. There’s a part of him that wants to tell them, he just can’t, and he’d tried to explain all this to Thomas at the time. The words just hadn’t come out right, because Craig’s not good at talking about feelings and stuff like that.
Now, Craig drums his fingers against the faded leather logo on the front, wondering what he’s even supposed to do with all this stuff. The sum total of his love; discarded and thrust back at him like it was… recycling, or something. But he can’t just chuck it all away; Craig knows he’ll never be able to move on if he doesn’t dispose of these things properly. He’s pissed enough to burn it all, or so he tells himself, but it’s not like his parents won’t notice if he makes a bonfire in their new back yard.
The dirt road has given way to actual streets by now, though it’s no less of a bumpy ride. As the disc-man hisses and spins, starting the song over, they go past the bulky façade of a U-Store-It, before Dad abruptly breaks and swears. People, they ain’t no good…
“Roadblock,” Dad grunts, swerving the car, “Typical."
I think that’s well understood, the song goes on, as Dad takes them past some fairly sketchy-looking buildings, and then a second roadblock. Do people even live here, Craig wonders, and he can see Mom starting to fidget in the passenger seat. Not many things frighten his mom. You can see it everywhere you look. People just ain’t no good.
“If we double back,” Mom begins, but then the other car slams into them. And the whole world turns white.

It’s the most annoying sound in the world. This high-pitched, persistent bleeping that just will not stop. Alarm clock? If he can open his eyes, he can turn it off, Craig decides, but his eyelids are so damn heavy.
“Craig,” a voice is saying – a woman’s voice. “Craig, are you awake?”
“Mm,” he mutters, raising his hand to rub his eyes. But his left hand, his dominant hand, is so cold and heavy. And there’s something attached to his right hand. Craig’s suddenly wide awake, because this is a hospital bed, because there’s a drip sticking out of his right hand, sending waves of pain up to his elbow when he jerks upright. And his left arm, oh shit, is encased in a cast up to the elbow. That pain is only a dull, sick throbbing under his skin though – for now.
A black woman in hospital scrubs is suddenly there, clicking her tongue as she pushes him back down into the mattress. “Try to relax, honey,” she says. “You were in an accident. Can you tell me your name?”
“Craig,” he croaks; his voice all dry and scratchy. The woman – the nurse – sticks a straw in his mouth, and Craig drinks as fast as he can without choking. Some kind of vaguely lemon-flavored squash. It’s too sweet. It tastes amazing. “Craig Tucker,” he says, sounding more normal now, once he’s drained the glass and spat the straw back out. Now that he knows to be careful, he brings his right hand up to his head. His fingertips brush against a bandage.
“Oh, thank God!” Craig realizes there’s some Hispanic lady sitting by his bedside. Her dark hair is pinned back with a sparkly bee-shaped barrette, and she grabs his hand between both of hers. For some reason he notices that her nails have been painted a deep, almost purplish red. Mom wouldn’t be seen dead, Craig thinks groggily, with a tacky colour like that.
“Well, that’s a relief!” Over by the door there’s a tall (though nowhere near as tall as Craig’s dad) blonde guy with square glasses and a moustache. He’s smiling, and he sure seems friendly enough, but something about this guy makes Craig hope he stays right where he is.
There’s no sign of his parents, and the sudden understanding of what that might mean is enough for Craig’s breath to hitch up. “My mom and dad,” he begs, “Are my mom and dad okay?”
The Hispanic lady blinks. “Craig,” she says, with a lilting accent, reaching out to stroke the side of his face, “We are your mom and dad.”
“No,” he says, his voice quivering, “No way!” Craig jerks back from this strange woman’s touch. “You’re not my real parents!”
“Listen, son,” the guy with the moustache and glasses starts across the floor, and Craig instinctively pulls back even further, so he can feel the rails of the hospital bed digging into his back through the bunched-up, flimsy pillow. “They say you hit your head pretty hard in the crash, you know? Your memories are probably just…” He smiles, but it’s not reassuring at all – more like this guy has practiced smiling in a mirror. “Just a bit scrambled up.”
“Hey,” Craig is getting angry now, “I think I’d know what my own parents look like!”
The Hispanic lady turns away, covering her mouth with her hand like she’s about to cry. But this is insane, she’s not…!
“Don’t go upsetting your poor mother now,” the nurse tells him, pushing Craig back down into the bed. “You’ve all been through enough tonight. When you’ve had some sleep –”
“The hell with that,” Craig yells, and yanks the drip out, needle and all. Blood sprays out of his hand in a big red arc, and it takes them all completely by surprise. He vaults out of bed, bare feet slapping unsteadily against the icy floor, and almost topples over. But the panic gives him superpowers, and Craig runs – somehow, he runs – out into a deserted hospital hallway. It’s lined with empty beds and equipment, which he can grab onto for support as he half staggers, half flies, towards the bank of elevators at the far end. All this movement must have jarred his left arm, because the throbbing suddenly escalates to white-hot, buzzing pain. Still – that doesn’t matter now. What matters is getting out of here.
Behind him, people are shouting and running, so waiting for the lift is suddenly not an option anymore – but the stairs are right there. And they wouldn’t expect him to run up, right? Craig flings himself up the stairs, backless robe flapping open behind him, cradling his bleeding hand against his chest. He’s been leaving a trail of blood, but if the trail stops –
A hand grabs his elbow and pulls, and in the end, that’s all it takes. Craig falls backwards, right into the arms of the man with glasses. He almost knocks them both over. The guy grunts, but finds his footing, and he’s strong. Now he’s got Craig pinned, and it’s too late by the time he thinks of using the cast as a weapon.
“Let go of me, let go,” Craig screams, as the panic finally boils over, “You’re not my dad!”
“Calm down, son,” Glasses Guy says, and his lips part in a self-satisfied little smirk, showing off the gold crown on one of his upper teeth. He knows he’s won.
“Craig, Dios mio, you mustn’t scare us like that!” The Hispanic lady has finally caught up to them, and now she grabs Craig’s face between both her hands. Her nails dig into his cheeks, and he tries to twist his face away – not my mom, not my mom – but Glasses Guy is holding him too tight for that.
“Let’s,” The nurse is there too, bent over with her hands on her knees and panting, “Let’s get you back,” She straightens up, fanning her face, “Back into bed, Craig. It would probably be best if he spends the night…”
“Ah,” the Glasses Guy says, raising his hand. “If Craig’s not seriously hurt, I’m afraid we can’t…”
Of course we can’t afford it, Craig wants to yell, but he bites his lip instead. Okay, so these people did their research, figured out just how broke his family is. Saying he doesn’t believe them is clearly getting him nowhere; the nurse believes this random couple over him – and why wouldn’t she? For all she knows, Craig hit his head in the crash, and got amnesia or some shit. And anyway, grownups always back each other up. But if these people have taken his parents’ place – and why the hell would anybody want to do that? – then they must know what happened to his real parents, right?
The words burn in his throat, but what choice does he have? “I’m sorry, Mom,” Craig chokes out, “Sorry Dad. I guess I’m… feeling a little confused.”
And bam, once the magic words have been spoken, they all stop acting like Craig is crazy. All of a sudden, the nurse is assuring him that it’s completely normal to feel disoriented after a car crash, and his fake mom starts talking about getting Craig his clothes and shoes back. Even Glasses Guy, aka Fake Dad, loosens his hold a little; though he doesn’t actually let go of Craig at all; he’s basically frog-marching Craig back to that hospital room.
Meanwhile, Craig’s mind is spinning, because what the hell is going on here anyway?

Their new house – the house Mom and Dad bought, not these two assholes – is on a quiet suburban streets lined with hedges and streetlights. That turns out to be a good thing, because it means Craig’s fake dad doesn’t run over the half-naked boy who’s standing in their driveway.
“Shit,” Glasses Guy yells, braking hard enough to jar Craig’s broken arm and make him hiss with pain, before slamming down the horn. Whatever they put in that IV, it’s long since worn off.
The noise instantly wakes the other boy up, and he goes from eerily calm to screaming his head off – screaming like this is some kind of sound battle between him and the Tucker family’s now dented Ford Station Wagon.
In the glare of the headlights, Craig can see that this kid – broad-shouldered and brown-haired – is wearing a rain coat with the hood up, over a pair of boxers and a green T-shirt. Before he just plops down on his ass, that is, blinking like an owl caught in a flashlight beam.
He looks like he might be Craig’s own age – that and he looks confused as hell, mouth opening and closing soundlessly while Fake Dad keeps the horn blaring. All along the street, there are lights coming on behind the curtains.
“Will you stop!” All of a sudden, there’s a guy Dad’s age – Craig’s real dad, that is; Fake Dad is younger – climbing through his own flower beds so he can get to the kid; trench coat flapping open over his striped pyjamas. They’re so obviously father and son, even though the old guy’s smaller and wearing glasses. “He’s sleepwalking,” he goes on, waving both hands at the car like he hasn’t quite realized it’s already stopped, or that his kid is awake now. Awake-ish, anyway.
Maybe those two can’t see into the car very well, but in the rearview mirror, Craig can see his fake parents’ faces all too clearly. His real mom and dad would be worried; they’d be getting out and checking the kid over, offering to help. But these two just look pissed off. So Craig clumsily pops his door open right-handed – God, having his arm in a sling is such a pain in the ass – and climbs out, holding onto the car door for balance.
“Are you okay,” he says, to the shell-shocked looking brown-haired kid, holding his right hand towards him. Now that he’s out of the car, Craig can see that he’s also wearing rubber boots, and recognise the Adidas logo on his chest.
The kid stares at Craig for a second, before he takes his hand. “Thanks,” he says hesitantly – not like he isn’t sure about letting Craig help him up; more like he’s trying to remember how to talk. “Uh, I’m Clyde? I wear clothes sometimes,” he adds; with an embarrassed little laugh. And for some reason, that’s all it takes for Craig to decide he likes him. Clyde doesn’t actually let Craig pull that much – it’s more like he bounds to his feet, and Craig’s hand is just there as a reminder of which way is up.
Meanwhile, it seems the adults aren’t warming to each other much at all. “I could’ve run him over,” Fake Dad is saying, leaning out of the window he’s rolled down. “You need to lock your doors at night, man!”
Even in his pyjamas, Clyde’s father bristles. “What a wonderful idea,” he says, tugging on the sleeve of Clyde’s raincoat. “It’s just nuts that I’d never thought about it. Come on, Clyde,” he goes on, tugging again, and nodding his head towards their house. “Let’s get you back inside.”
“Sorry, Dad,” Clyde mutters, before he leads the way around Craig’s parents’ car and up his own driveway. This is when Craig realizes that he forgot to introduce himself, but it would be weird to yell it over the hedge now.
“Asshole,” Craig’s fake dad growls from the front seat.
Takes one to know one, Craig thinks. Slinging both his backpacks over his right shoulder, he abandons his bedding in the car for now, and follows the strange couple inside. It’s funny, he was telling himself the whole way to South Park that at least he’d get to choose his room and Tricia would just have to take the last bedroom – how important that had seemed.
Of course, the house is empty. The previous owners have left their fridge behind – unplugged, which is annoying, but it’s not like they’ve got anything to put in it. Craig’s real mom was planning to drive round the area and look for convenience store once they’d unloaded their bags, but his fake parents wouldn’t have got the memo. Everything’s bound to be closed by now, anyway.
He trudges up the stairs with their worn-down grey carpet, and he doesn’t even care that there’s no food. It’s ridiculous, because he’s about to spend the night in a strange house with two people who, if Craig is being completely honest with himself, kind of scare him. But he’s so bone tired that he already knows he’s going to sleep like the dead. Tomorrow, though – tomorrow he needs to figure this shit out.
I need to call Grandma, Craig decides firmly. There are no phones in this house either; but maybe he can borrow the phone next door. Tomorrow.

Chapter Text

Tweek instantly knows this is the new kid. South Park isn’t exactly a teeming metropolis; you pretty much recognize everyone in school. Every single boring face. But this kid, with his navy blue backpack dangling off one arm and the other resting in a sling, he seems… interesting. He’s tall and lean, wearing a zip-up hoodie (also navy blue) and black jeans that just make his long legs look even longer. He’s also scowling under that blue chullo hat he must’ve forgotten to take off, as he shoves textbook after textbook into his new locker one-handed. Tweek, who just happens to have the locker next to his, keeps sneaking little glances over at him; because even when he’s scowling, the new kid’s kind of good-looking.
Would it be weird to say hi? This is kind of his perfect chance, now that he thinks about it, and maybe it would be weirder not to say hi, because if he says hi later, the new kid will wonder why Tweek didn’t say it when they were standing shoulder to shoulder – or rather, shoulder to nose, because Tweek’s not exactly tall – before first bell.
Maybe if he says hi now, they can be friends. And if he waits, maybe Stan and those assholes will snap the new kid up first, which would be a tragedy when you think about it. The new kid doesn’t look like an asshole, Tweek thinks, so then he’d probably be massively unhappy if he hung out with Stan’s gang; and Tweek isn’t letting his own past experience cloud his judgement at all. It doesn’t even matter that the new kid’s handsome; Tweek would want to save anybody from that, because...
“It’s a fate worse than death!”
As soon as he hears those words spoken out loud, Tweek realizes he was the one who went and said it. And he wasn’t exactly being quiet, either. All along the row of lockers, there are kids rolling their eyes at him, there’s even a half-hearted “Shaddup, Tweek,” from the far end of the hall.
“What is?”
It takes Tweek a second to process this – that the tall, cool new kid is actually talking to him – and when it does register, he can feel himself turning bright tomato red. “Oh Jesus,” he groans, shaking his head – why did he have to go and screw up so badly?
Now that they’re looking right at each other, Tweek can see that the new kid has brown eyes. His face is kind of long, but hello cheekbones; and he’s got a nice tan going on.
Not that Tweek’s staring or anything. “What’s what,” he says, rather intelligently.
“What’s a fate worse than death?” His voice is flat, and a little nasal, which kind of makes it sound like the new kid is supremely bored. He doesn’t even look that interested; he may be staring right at Tweek, but those brown eyes are a million miles away.
“It’s… a long story?” Tweek tries for a friendly smile, but he probably just looks ill. “I’m Tweek,” he goes on, feeling the heat spread through his cheeks. “I… have no self-control. Hi.”
“Craig,” the new kid replies, and whatever he was thinking about a second ago, he must be done with it, because now Tweek is squirming under the full force of his unflinching stare. “Craig Tucker. You in Sophomore year?”
“Yeah that’s where me and my big mouth… attend,” Tweek answers lamely, and then he bites his lip so he won’t actually go and laugh. “So, ah…” Small talk, small talk, Jesus, think of something, ah! “So how’d you break your arm, anyway? At least it’s not your right one, eh?”
“I’m left-handed,” Craig Tucker replies, as his eyebrows disappear under his hat.
Tweek feels his bottom jaw start to sag, and quickly shuts his mouth with a loud clack of teeth. “That is… unfortunate,” he says, and immediately regrets it, because not even his grandpa talks like that!
But then – the impossible happens. The new kid raises an eyebrow and snorts – like he thought what just Tweek said was funny?! “Yeah,” he drawls, his expression perfectly deadpan, “You could say that. I can’t even take notes like this.”
That is unfortunate, because Tweek takes notes the way Pablo Picasso painted – minus the genius. Otherwise, lending his notes to Craig after class would have been the perfect way to get to know him. Sure, in theory Tweek could go ahead and mention Token’s notes, which are so tidy and beautifully written that they belong in a museum or something, except he knows Token would hate that. People are always badgering Token to copy his notes. So there’s nothing for it, really.
Tweek takes a deep breath. “Listen, if you can decipher my handwriting,” he begins, tugging on his Led Zeppelin T-shirt. But then a hand lands on his shoulder, and Tweek forgets all about holding a normal conversation and not freaking the new kid out.
“HOLYSHITAARGH,” he yells, grabbing the first thing his grasping hand can find, which just happens to be his big green ring-binder, and swinging it at the intruder.
But no, crap, crappity crap, it’s not an intruder at all, it’s Clyde!
“Tweek, calm down,” Clyde is saying, rubbing the side of his face where Tweek smacked him with his binder. “It’s only me. Uh, hi again,” he adds, and suddenly he’s looking down at the floor.
Reality itself does a summersault. “You guys know each other already,” Tweek all but yells into Clyde’s ear.
“I, ah, sleepwalked on his lawn last night,” Clyde mutters, and now his whole face is turning red. “Sorry about that, by the way.”
Wait, so it was Craig’s parents who bought the vacant house next to Clyde’s? But ugh, this is really not good. Clyde only sleepwalks when he’s stressed out, and Tweek’s got a pretty good idea about what – or who – could be interfering with Clyde’s peace of mind.
“Dude, it’s not like you can help that shit.” Craig says that like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. Which Tweek totally agrees with; only he knows Clyde doesn’t see it like that. “Nice, ah, outfit, by the way.”
Tweek is clearly missing something here. One, Clyde is wearing his usual “uniform” of football jacket over a wrinkled flannel shirt (green today), and equally wrinkled T-shirt (Guns’n’Roses, because Clyde loves sentimental bullshit rock) and jeans with a hole in one knee. Just the one hole, which always messes with Tweek’s sense of symmetry. And two, Clyde immediately starts to laugh.
“I was wearing like, underpants and rain boots,” he snorts, by way of an explanation, grinning down at Tweek. “Uh,” he looks back at Craig, and irritatingly those two are practically the same height, “I didn’t see you on the bus this morning?”
It’s probably just because he’s staring, because okay, fine, Tweek has been staring pretty consistently at the new kid, that he catches that weird look on Craig’s face. “Oh, that’s because… my parents insisted on driving me to school,” he says, and if Tweek hadn’t just met the guy, he’d be making some pretty invasive assumptions right about now. Because that tone Craig took when he said “my parents” almost made it sound like he hates them or something. Or like… Like he’s afraid of them?
“Hey, new kid!” Tweek feels his spine go stiff as a board at the sound of Stan Marsh’s voice. Ugh, great. At least he didn’t flinch like Clyde just did. With the inevitability of a character in any given horror movie, Tweek slowly turns around, and there he is. The legendary quarterback himself; flanked by Kyle Broflovski and Kenny McCormick – both of whom are taller; so at least the three of them look kind of symmetrical. Stan’s strutting around in his football jacket like he owns the whole school – while Clyde wears his like it’s a security blanket with sleeves, Stan wears his like it’s some kind of robe of office or something. Like he’s saying, Look at me, I’m high school royalty. Meanwhile, Kyle’s got his friendly face on, which is one of those things Tweek’s really learned to dread, and Kenny just shuffles along with his hands jammed into his pockets. You can’t even see Kenny’s face from this angle; he’s got his hood up like Obi Wan Kenobi.
Craig is awesome, though. He doesn’t even respond. All he does is raise an eyebrow, because of course he doesn’t know who Stan is yet.
“Welcome to South Park High,” Kyle says, obviously picking up on that eyebrow. “You’re Craig, right? I’m Kyle, and this is Stan…”
“Hey,” Stan says, locking eyes with Craig.
“… and Kenny. Kenny,” he repeats, reaching past Stan to nudge him.
Poor Kenny, who hates being put on the spot like that, mumbles something that might have been “Hello.”
“Okay,” Craig replies, still in that super measured tone. Like he’s just waiting for those three to walk away. He’s been maintaining eye contact with Stan long enough to make Tweek start to sweat. Tweek gets the feeling Craig’s taken an instant dislike to Stan. That would be kind of cool.
“Listen, Craig,” Stan begins, effortlessly keeping up the staring contest, “Since you’re new here, let me give you some advice. You wouldn’t want people to see you hanging out with the spazz kid –”
“Hey,” Tweek snaps, but of course Stan ignores him, though he can see Kenny flinch a little.
“…or the guy who killed his own mom.”
The whole hallway abruptly goes silent, as literally everyone turns to stare at Clyde. Probably wondering if this’ll be the day he finally snaps and goes after Stan. Is that what Stan was hoping for? He’d never pull this crap if Jimmy and Token were here; after all. Tweek can hear Clyde’s breath hitch, and he knows that if he so much as looks in his friend’s direction, it’s bound to kickstart the waterworks. So instead, he puffs himself up to his full height, not that this amounts to very much, and shoves his way in front of Clyde. Tweek may be short, but he’s hardly a weakling.
“You,” Tweek growls up at Stan, holding his hand up, his thumb and forefinger only the thickness of a quarter apart, “Are this close to getting a fastball special.”
But Stan, that bastard, looks like he’s about to laugh. “I think he’s too busy crying to –”
“Dude,” Craig cuts him off, and his voice is so cold that even Tweek, who’s clearly not the one Craig is talking to, takes a step back and bumps against Clyde’s chest. “You know who I’m the least likely to hang out with? People who go around talking shit about others.” With that, Craig shoves his middle finger so close to Stan’s face that it almost goes up his nostril.
Oh shit, Tweek thinks, because this is pretty much enough to make him fall in love on the spot. And that could get seriously awkward.
“Want me to break your other arm,” Stan asks; his voice all silky with rage, his offer of friendship instantly forgotten.
Craig returns his stare like it’s just the two of them in here, but his voice is still the same measured monotone. “You can try.”
That’s when the bell rings, and Tweek’s knees buckle with relief. Kyle and Kenny grab Stan by one arm each and pull him away – at least Cartman isn’t here yet! – and Craig slams his locker door shut. He’s glaring after them like he wouldn’t have minded slamming it shut on Stan’s head. All of a sudden, people are moving again, hurrying off to their lessons, deprived of a quick, vicious fight to start the day off right.
“He was telling the truth, though,” Clyde says, before he snorts a bunch of snot back up his nose. Tweek can finally risk looking at him, and to his immense relief, Clyde doesn’t actually look like he’s shed any tears – he just came dangerously close, back then.
Tweek is about to tell him for like the millionth time not to be stupid, but Craig beats him to it. Hey,” he says, raising his left arm inside the sling so he can point at Clyde. “You don’t owe me any kind of explanation. I mean, I practically just met you.”
Tweek has to close his eyes for a second. Deep breath through his nose. Falling for this probably very hetero guy that he’s known for all of five minutes would be such a big mistake.
“Okay,” Clyde is saying, and Tweek can hear the relief in his voice – relief and something a little bit like hero-worship. “Want me to lock that up for you?”
“Thanks, dude.” Tweek finally opens his eyes, because it would be weird to keep them shut for much longer. He can see how Craig winces as he repositions his arm inside the sling, saying, “Having just the one good arm seriously blows.”
“I can get your bag,” Tweek offers, and he has to shout to be heard over the second bell. “All of Sophomore year’s got homeroom now, so I know for sure we’ll be in the same classroom.”
“Thanks, I’m good.” Craig slings his backpack over his right shoulder. There’s a single button fastened to the front pocket, with the Superman symbol on it. That’s too vague to tell Tweek if he’s a proper nerd; after all, you can buy Superman stuff literally anywhere. He’s pretty damn sure, for instance, that he saw Superman pyjamas the last time Mom dragged him along to Target. But hey, he’s allowed to hope.
“Dude, I’m stronger than I look!” Tweek hopes Craig thinks he’s just offended, and not… flustered, or whatever the hell this feeling is; like he’s swallowed a whole colony of butterflies. Not like he’s gone and fallen in love like an idiot.
“Sure,” Craig shrugs and grins down at him – he actually grins! This tall, unsmiling monolith person! And he effortlessly falls into step between Tweek and Clyde, letting them lead the way. “So, what’s a fastball special?”
Clyde clears his throat. “That’s when I throw Tweek at people so he can punch them in the head.”
Craig snorts, but then he looks down at Tweek again, frowning. “Oh,” he says, “I see.”

Turns out it’s a total free-for-all when it comes to where you sit; and Tweek explains that the most popular seats are the ones at the back. Kids are squeezing past each other to get through the door first, and Craig is quietly grateful that Tweek and Clyde just go lean against the wall on either side of him. Just moving his left arm is painful; he doesn’t want to think about some asshole shoving their elbow into it. And he’s so damn hungry. His fake parents may have insisted on driving him to school, but they didn’t bother getting anything for breakfast; and the cupboards had all been empty. There are a few vending machines dotted around the school, but Craig doesn’t have a lot of cash and he needs to conserve it for stuff like payphones. Maybe even an emergency bus ticket out of here…
“…haven’t even been here ten minutes and Stan Marsh already hates you,” Clyde is saying. Like this is a totally awesome thing.
“Yeah, well,” Craig replies, raising his eyebrow, “It’s mutual. What an asshat.”
This makes Tweek let out a big, unguarded laugh. “Dude,” he says, “I like you!”
For a few seconds, white noise fills up Craig’s entire head. What’s he supposed to say to that? This blonde kid with his weird-ass nickname – he probably has some really boring-ass regular name like Nathaniel or Elijah – is being nicer to him than Craig’s really used to, and… It just so happens that he is exactly Craig’s type. Small and kind of jumpy; he seems mildly nuts but thoughtlessly charming at the same time. Like Thomas without the issues. And he’s so damn cute that Craig doesn’t want to look at him – not directly, anyway. He doesn’t want to be caught staring.
“You’ll have to p-pardon Tweek,” someone says, pulling Craig out of his thoughts, “He literally has no s-s-s…” Craig looks up from the floor – is he blushing? Shit, he hopes he isn’t blushing – and sees that two other boys have joined their little group. “No idea of how to behave around p-people,” the stuttering kid amends, shrugging. “I’m Jimmy, and that – ” he nods at the tall black kid standing next to him, “Is Token.”
“Dude!” Tweek folds his arms and glares up at Jimmy. But his tone tells Craig that Tweek’s not really pissed. These guys are obviously friends.
Jimmy is shorter than Craig, though not by much. He’s wearing a yellow zip-up hoodie over a grey ALF T-shirt, and leaning on a pair of crutches. They’re the kind with proper grips that sort of wrap around his muscular arms. Craig can’t help but notice that Jimmy’s legs, in contrast, look kind of spindly. So whatever is up with that, it seems to be pretty permanent.
“I’m Craig,” he says, and of course that’s when his empty stomach has to growl.
Token, the African-American kid, actually holds his hand out like a politician, “Nice to meet you, Craig. Sounds like you skipped breakfast?” He’s not at all bad looking, Token, with his warm brown eyes and easy-going smile. He’s got crazy good posture too, and he’s dressed sort of… unconsciously tidy; like he’s doing his best to fit in with the high school crowd but secretly has the soul of a ninety-year-old professor. He’s wearing a flannel shirt, for instance, black and white checks, but he’s buttoned it all the way up, and Craig secretly thinks that all that’s missing is a bowtie.
“Yeah, I…” He considers it, just for a second, as he shakes Token’s hand. What if he actually told these guys, I’m living with strangers, and I don’t know where my parents are? But common sense wins out. Why should they believe him, anyway? They do seem nice, but that’s precisely why Craig needs to keep his mouth shut. “I overslept.”
“Shit, dude, why didn’t you tell me,” Tweek exclaims, and starts frantically digging through his green backpack. Out comes a textbook, then the binder he hit Clyde with, both tossed carelessly on the floor. “I brought leftovers today, Jesus!”
“Tweek’s parents have a coffee shop,” Token explains, just as Tweek thrusts a paper bag out at Craig, “So he sometimes brings leftover pastries to share with –”
“Take it,” Tweek yells, interrupting him. “Hide it in the sling if you’re a slow eater! Then you can eat it in homeroom!”
Craig’s stomach contracts painfully, because whatever is in that bag smells delicious. “Okay,” he says, mind instantly made up, and takes the paper bag from Tweek. His fingertips brush over Tweek’s knuckles for a second. As if he’d just been given an electric shock, Craig yanks his hand back, and the sudden movement makes Tweek jump.
“Uh, I mean,” Craig mutters, as he busies himself stuffing the bag inside the sling like Tweek suggested, “Thanks.”
“Don’t mention it, Jesus,” Tweek splutters, waving his thanks away.
“Everyone! Stop shoving and let Jimmy through already!” Craig turns his head and recognizes the kid who just spoke – Kyle. It’s hard to forget someone with that kind of intensely red hair; he looks like a teenaged Pennywise for God’s sake. “I can’t believe how selfish you all are,” Kyle goes on, “There are students with disabilities at this school!”
Jimmy, meanwhile, is breathing through his nose, and turning kind of red in the face. “Dude,” Token is saying, putting a hand on Jimmy’s shoulder, “Just leave it.”
“Disabilities like Kyle’s permanent foot-in-mouth syndrome,” Tweek mutters, just loud enough for their little huddle to hear – and that, finally, makes Jimmy relax.
“C’mon,” Clyde jerks his head at the door, “Let’s at least get some seats in the middle, so Craig can, uh…”
“M-masturbate,” Jimmy fills in, as he hobbles past Craig towards the door. And it’s like Craig can see him swallow all that bile and embarrassment, literally turning his frown upside down.
“That depends on how hot the teacher is,” he fires back, which makes Jimmy cackle happily.

Thanks to Kyle – no wait, shouldn’t that be because of Kyle? Anyway, since Kyle ran his mouth off and the five of them got in earlier than expected, they score seats together. Not on the same row, but in a little huddle; which is actually better for stuff like passing notes. Clyde and Jimmy sit on the second row, with Craig and Token behind them on the third row. Tweek claimed the only fourth-row seat, mostly because he’d feel weird – weird? More like nervous enough to actually die – sitting next to Craig. If Craig’s the kind of guy who wants to talk to you during class, Tweek and his nerves wouldn’t exactly be the ideal conversation partner. Besides, sitting behind the guy means Tweek gets to study him – on the sly, of course. He still hasn’t taken his hat off, so now Tweek’s biggest problem is his urge to snatch it off of Craig’s head. That probably wouldn’t go down too well, though. And it’s not like he had the right opening back there to explain that he’s got ADHD.
“All right, you little shits,” their homeroom teacher is saying, turning from the blackboard to face them with a swish of black skirts, “Shut up this instant, or I’ll be handing some lines out!”
Tweek hears a sharp intake of breath from Craig, and realizes that what he should have taken the time to explain, was actually Mrs Garrison. Possibly the most incompetent teacher in the school, if not the world; and weirdly obsessed with how schools were run in Victorian England. Mrs Garrison dresses like a Victorian school marm too; with all the lacy black dresses and corsets that involves. She had gender reassignment surgery rather late in life; so that’s another advantage to wearing the big black bonnet that comes with the outfit – it hides the bald patch.
He can see Craig turn to Token with a look of wild-eyed disbelief on his face; while Token shakes his head ever so slightly and holds his finger over his lips. Mrs Garrison is awfully fond of making people write lines, and Tweek can’t quite see her giving a damn about Craig’s arm being broken.
“It seems we have a new student, class,” Mrs Garrison is saying, fussing with the watch that’s pinned to the front of her gown. She’s wearing lacy fingerless gloves today, which is like, going that one surreal touch too far. Tweek can feel a giggle starting to tickle his throat, and does his best to choke it back down. He doesn’t have time for writing lines and detention. “Why don’t you tell the class a little bit about yourself, uh,” Mrs Garrison peers at a piece of card pinned to the front of the manila folder she carried in here, “Craig?”
Craig pushes his chair back as he stands up, until it bumps against Tweek’s desk. For a second, he seems to be considering whether he should walk down to the front of the classroom or not; but then he obviously decides to keep Mrs Garrison at a sensible distance. Just as he’s about to open his mouth, the door slams open, and Tweek thinks, Shit. How could he have forgotten about him? There he is, in the flesh – and there’s a lot of flesh to go around, when it comes to Eric Cartman.
“Oh,” Cartman says, like he didn’t show up late at all, “Who’s the spic?”

Chapter Text

Before he even knows it, Tweek has pushed his chair back and jumped to his feet. Too worked up to speak with actual coherent words, he growls and twitches; eyes wide and nostrils flaring. Tweek can’t even remember the last time he felt this angry; red-hot fury pulsates in his belly, because how dare he? How dare Eric Cartman just waltz into class five minutes late and say shit like that!?
“You racist sack of shit,” Kyle yells, pointing right at Cartman. Mr Champion of Justice himself, Tweek thinks sourly – mostly because Kyle got that out before him. Tweek can never get things right, say things right. He overthinks things, drops the ball, misses his chance. But not now, damn it – this is too important for him to chicken out and clam up! Tweek draws a deep, deep breath. He can do this.
“How… dare you,” Tweek grinds out the words between clenched teeth, finding his voice at last.
“Now, now, Eric,” Mrs Garrison says, waving one lace-gloved hand in the air like she’s trying to swat a fly, “If you go on acting all racist,” there comes that hand-wave again, “It’ll lead to God-awful things like meetings with the principal and phone calls from Kyle’s mother, and who’s going to be at the center of that shit-storm?” Mrs Garrison now presses her hand against her bosom, “Why, little old me, of course! So you plop your plump little buttocks down, before I give you some lines for being late!”
Tweek hears a strangled sound crawling out of his own throat – what should he expect; this is Mrs Garrison after all, but GAH! It’s just so damn embarrassing, that the first thing to happen to Craig at his new school should be this!
“What’s that, Mr Tweak,” Mrs Garrison drawls, raising one tufty white eyebrow, “Do you fancy two hundred lines for holding my class up?”
Tweek opens his mouth, fully intending to say that Mrs Garrison can shove those lines up her ass, but that’s when Craig turns around and puts his right hand on Tweek’s shoulder. He smiles too – a blink-and-you’ll-miss-it kind of smile – before he firmly shakes his head and gives Tweek’s left shoulder a downward push. So Tweek sits his ass down, because if Craig doesn’t want to turn this into a thing, then Tweek figures he doesn’t have the right to.
“My parents adopted me from Peru,” Craig says, in that same, bored-sounding flat voice he used earlier, “Which is why I’m browner than most of you.”
“Ah-hah!” Cartman holds up a sausage-finger in triumph, “So you agree with me! Craig thinks of himself as a spic, so therefore,” up comes a second chubby finger, “It doesn’t count as being ra –”
“I don’t think of myself as anything,” Craig cuts him off, still so calm and unflappable. It’s like the whole classroom is holding its breath now, just waiting for what he’s going to say next, but it seems like Craig is done.
“And that’s two hundred lines for you, Eric,” Mrs Garrison snaps, “For showing up late and not sitting down when you’re told!”
“But Mrs Garrison,” Cartman whines, plodding over to the only empty desk left – on the front row, right by the door.
“You want to make that five hundred lines,” Mrs Garrison sounds like she’s starting to get properly pissed now, and Cartman quickly shakes his head. Even he’s learned not to push his luck with their homeroom teacher. “And you, Craig, why’re you still standing up?”
Craig doesn’t answer, just gets back into his seat. Maybe his sense of humor is even weirder than Tweek’s, because the new kid seems to find this whole thing funny. Or, well – why else would he be smiling?

“But why Victorian novels,” Craig asks Clyde, as the two of them reach an empty four-person table.
“I honestly have no idea.” Clyde puts down the tray he’s been carrying in the middle of the table. There are five water glasses on it, filled almost to the brim, along with cutlery for five people. “She didn’t used to be like that – obsessed with Victorian novels, I mean – back when she was a man. Garrison was always a huge racist, though,” he adds, suddenly dropping his gaze to the chair he’s just lifted from a neighbouring table.
“Dude,” Craig says as he sinks into one of the chairs, “Don’t worry about it.” I don’t usually get called a spic before lunch; he wants to say. So that was refreshing! But, Craig knows his personal brand of humor isn’t for everybody. “I’ll watch the table,” he says instead, “Just go get in line.”
Clyde looks immensely relieved. “Okay, so what do you want? You can pay me back later,” he adds, when Craig starts to shake his head, “It’s no big deal.”
“I’m not hungry,” Craig lies, and gives Clyde his best blank stare to drive that home. And his instincts are on the money; because it’s only a second or two before Clyde ducks his head again and nods.
“Well okay,” Clyde mutters, “If you’re sure.” Then he goes back up to join the lunch line, and Craig helps himself to a glass of water. He can’t afford to waste what little cash he’s got on cafeteria food. Craig hadn’t wanted to argue, when Clyde had asked him to sit with them earlier. He needs to find a payphone more than he needs to eat, but then again… maybe these guys know somewhere he could use the phone for free?
“Jesus Christ,” Tweek exclaims, loud enough to make Craig twitch. He drops his lunch tray on the table – right in front of Craig. “I can’t eat all this. Help a guy out, will you?”
Craig raises an eyebrow. It sure smells of charity, except that really is a huge helping of… whatever the hell that is. It kind of looks like lasagne, except it’s green, and practically flowing over Tweek’s plate and onto his tray.
Before Craig has a chance to say either sure or no thanks – and he isn’t too sure himself, which of those to go with – someone says “Here,” and he turns to see Token taking two pots of Jell-O off an overflowing tray, “Your reward, for watching the table.” One pot is bright green, the other orange. “Pick the one you like,” he goes on, as he carefully sets down an obscenely full tray. “I like both.”
Meanwhile Jimmy’s pulling a chair out for himself with one crutch, and grinning down at Craig. “Cripple p-privilege,” he says, with a lop-sided grin, as he starts helping himself to some of the stuff – a burger on a plate, a pot of yellow Jell-O. “It t-trumps Token’s race card.”
“Oh, zip it up, Jimmy,” Token says, snapping his finger into the side of Jimmy’s head. He’s grinning, though, like an exasperated dad. “Newcomers should be eased into your brand of humor.”
Craig surprised himself, as much as the rest of them, when he starts to laugh. Now Clyde’s back, and squeezing into the seat on his right. Tweek already sitting on Craig’s other side, sort of squeezed in next to him since he’s got the fifth chair. He’s close enough that Craig can smell the mintiness of his shampoo, and when Tweek also starts laughing, his nose scrunches up. It’s so damn cute that just for a second, Craig forgets that his parents are missing, and has to focus all his energy on not blushing like an idiot.
“Dude,” Tweek tells him, once they’ve all calmed down, “It’s not mold, I swear – it’s just spinach. The green parts of the lasagne,” he goes on, when Craig just blinks at him. “It’s vegetarian.”
“Oh,” Craig says. And he literally can’t think of anything else to say, which is kind of mortifying.
In the heavy silence that follows, Clyde – who’s also having a burger – reaches across the table to snatch a handful of fries from the bowl next to Jimmy’s plate. And Jimmy doesn’t even bat an eyelid, so… So maybe it isn’t charity at all. Maybe these guys are just that close; maybe they’re just cool with sharing everything.
Tweek’s smile is starting to waver a little. Craig watches his Adam’s apple move as he swallows. “But, I mean,” he says, “It’s totally okay if you don’t want –”
“Craig,” Token interrupts him, as he empties his salad bowl onto his main plate, next to his burger and fries – it fits, but only just, “Take this. At least eat lasagne like a civilized person.”
There’s really nothing for it but to accept, is there? “Sure,” Craig says, as he grabs the bowl and clumsily starts spooning some of Tweek’s green food into it. “Thanks.”
Tweek’s whole face just lights right up, and Craig’s heart contracts into a painful little ball.
On his other side, Craig can hear Clyde heave a big sigh. He’s been pretty quiet this whole time, but now he says, “We’re not all assholes, you know. It’s just… Writing the same thing two hundred times takes so long.”
Craig turns and looks at him – what, is this kid feeling guilty because he didn’t say anything back there? “I wouldn’t worry about it,” he says, hacking off a piece of the pasta and scooping it up with some of that green stuff. About half of it immediately slides right off his fork again, but the bits he does get to eat… actually taste kind of good? “So anyway,” he says, as soon as he’s finished chewing, because now the subject needs changing, “Victorian novels. Why the hell?”
“Because Mrs Garrison’s obsessed with them,” Tweek growls, picking his backpack up off the floor. “She flat-out refuses to teach anything else,” he goes on, as he pulls out a green tartan thermos and uncorks it. “Gah! I hate Thomas Hardy! And don’t give me that lyrical prose bullshit, okay? He’s too damn depressing!”
Craig blinks at the thick, bitter smell. Never mind that he’s got no idea who Thomas Hardy is – or was. Is this kid seriously going to drink coffee with his lasagne?
“I th-thought you hated D-D-Dickens more,” Jimmy asks, with a crooked grin like what he’s really doing is priming Tweek to release another salvo.
“Charles Dickens can go die,” Tweek snarls, “But at least he didn’t write Jude the Obscure!”
“Charles Dickens is already dead,” Token points out, before he takes a bite of his burger.
“Well, I hope he reincarnates as a slug, and gets sprayed with pesticides!”
“For me, it’s M-Mansfield Park,” Jimmy sighs, offering his bowl of French fries first to Clyde – who takes a few more – and then to Craig, who shakes his head. “Like, I don’t m-mind Jane Austen in theory, okay? Girls love a guy they can d-d-d… talk about Pride and P-Prejudice with, but Mansfield Park?”
“Fanny Price,” Token and Clyde chorus sadly.
“The only heroine who made me wish she was real,” Tweek throws in, “Just so I could beat her with a plank. A plank with nails in it,” he adds, when Craig can’t help but snort. “I can live with the Bronte’s, though. Even if Heathcliffe is kind of an asshole.”
“Well sure,” Token says, “But Rochester – ”
“Is a lovable asshole,” Tweek insists, and punctuates this statement by taking a huge swig from the green plastic cup from his thermos. He doesn’t even add milk to it, or sugar, and Craig is kind of secretly impressed by that.
“He kept his ex-wife locked up in the attic,” Token counters, grabbing the last, unclaimed glass of water and putting it down in front of Tweek. “And you’re not drinking enough water.”
“Guys,” Clyde suddenly speaks up, “Please. We’re in high school. We’re all dudes. Why are we even talking about Victorian novels?”
“Because w-we’ve all been b-b-brainwashed,” Jimmy says, so solemnly that he’s got to be kidding.
“At least we’ve got Token’s system,” Tweek begins, but whatever else he’s about to say is drowned out by a feminine voice yelling, “Craig! Cariño, there you are!”
Craig looks up from his bowl of green slime and pasta to see his fake mother running toward him. She’s weaving around the tables and the kids with their trays, wobbling on her high heels. In the teller’s uniform for the South Park bank she got in the mail two weeks ago, so at least that adds up, but… she’s got a purse Craig has never seen before swinging from one shoulder. That’s one more things these fakes got completely wrong. Mom always carries this one purse, and it’s green leather – her favorite color. She’s never even owned an ugly patterned brown thing like this one.
When this woman hugs him, the stink of her perfume almost makes Craig gag. “My poor boy, I’m so sorry I forgot to give you money for your lunch,” she says as she pulls back, in that lilting accent. “There was just so much going on, mi vida.” For an awful moment or two, Craig actually thinks she’s going to kiss his cheek, but Fake Mom seems to change her mind at the last second. Probably doesn’t want to smudge that red lipstick. She settles for pinching his cheek instead, which is infinitely worse. Goddamn it, does this woman want to wreck his new social life, before he’s even got one?!
All over the cafeteria, this lady pretending to be his mother is attracting some attention that Craig could really do without. There are hoots and yells, which he does his best to ignore, including an insipid shout of “Oh my God, Craig, your mom looks just like you!” That’s Cartman’s voice, for sure, and it makes Craig want to grab one of the lunch trays and break it over the fat boy’s head. But nah, the trays are plastic, not plywood, and you need two good arms for that sort of thing, anyway.
The guys are all laughing, too, like they just can’t wait to rib him about this later. Except for Tweek – of course Craig has to look right at Tweek, as if he isn’t already about to die from humiliation. But Tweek isn’t even smiling. He’s chewing his bottom lip, holding a forkful of forgotten lasagne up, like a character on TV that’s been put on pause. Or like one of those old paintings where people are holding up totally random stuff, like a compass, or a squirrel. Boy With Pasta.
Craig is abruptly yanked back to reality when Fake Mom takes his hand, and presses a twenty into it – and then, while he’s still reeling from the shock of that, she digs through that hideous purse and gives him a tube of pills, too. It’s see-through, with a navy blue cork, and a label with tiny writing taped to it. “Don’t you remember, cariño? They gave us a prescription for your arm. For the pain,” she adds, and that’s when Craig realizes he’s just staring at her. “I picked it up from the pharmacy on the way here!”
The implication hangs heavy in the air, that the least he can do is say thanks. So Craig grinds out a sour-faced “Thank you,” but he doesn’t call her Mom, because he just can’t. He puts up with her fussing over him some more, and taking his hat off to kiss him on the forehead before she leaves. At least he can add an extra twenty dollars to his getaway fund, but Craig’s not sure he can trust those pills.
At least Jimmy waits until Fake Mom has left before he lets out a long whistle and says, “Damn, Craig! Your old lady’s f-f-fine!”
Craig’s got nothing to say to that, so he just rubs the back of his hand over his forehead to make sure he’s got all the lipstick off. Then he puts his hat back on.
“Jimmy, come on,” Clyde yelps, obviously thinking Craig must be pissed because he doesn’t reply, “You can’t just say that about somebody’s mom!”
Because the intense embarrassment makes him hyper-aware of his surroundings, Craig catches that odd look Tweek exchanges with Token. “Imitation,” Tweek asks, frowning.
“Nope, that was the real deal,” Token replies, with no hesitation whatsoever. Then he clears his throat and says, in an official-sounding tone, “Right, gang. Who votes to forget what just happened?”
“C-consciously, sure,” Jimmy responds, holding one hand up, “But I can’t vouch for my d-dreaming mind!” Whatever the hell that means; it makes Tweek sit up straight and growl, while he points right at Jimmy – who seems to find this hysterical. It’s obviously some sort of in-joke; these four have probably been friends for years.
“Jimmy told Tweek he had a…” Clyde begins, only for Tweek’s arm to swivel over, pointing his now shaking index finger at him.
“Don’t even,” Tweek says – half pleading, half threatening.
“Sorry,” Clyde shrugs, “And I forgot already. What I’m supposed to be forgetting,” he adds, winking and giving Craig a very careful nudge.
“I’m forgetting it as we speak.” Tweek seems to have calmed down, after whatever-that-was, and now he smiles cautiously at Craig. “Anyway, if you want to see embarrassing, you should meet my parents. Jesus!”
The relief is so strong, Craig almost feels dizzy. Sure, a whole bunch of people saw that shit, but if these four, the people he wants to hang out with, are prepared to pretend it never happened… Then that’s all he needs to care about right now. But even while he’s saying thanks, there’s something else, nagging at the edges of Craig’s attention, something about… Tweek’s parents?
“Tweek, did someone say your parents have a coffee shop?”
“Uh, yeah,” Tweek replies, blinking. “Yeah, they do. It’s like, a fifteen minute walk from school if you want to –”
“Does it have a phone?”

Tweek literally cannot believe his insane luck. Craig – the hot stuff new kid himself – wants to hang out with him after school. With him! He’s feeling so many things at once that it’s just about making him dizzy. Trying and failing to stop smiling as he walks through the corridors next to Craig. His friends have already hived off – Token’s got class rep stuff to do, Jimmy’s got the school paper, and Clyde’s got football practice. Not that Tweek doesn’t love those three to death, of course, he just…
I just want Craig to myself.
At least in the privacy of his own thoughts, Tweek can admit that. For a split second, he even wonders if Craig needs to use the phone, but he quickly dismisses that thought with a shake of his head. Craig wouldn’t have asked about payphones in the school then. He wouldn’t have looked so disappointed when Token told him there are literally none; the one they used to have got removed after that asinine phone prank Cartman pulled last year.
“Hey,” Craig suddenly says, pulling Tweek out of his thoughts, “Wait up.” He’s stopped in front of one of the vending machines; the one right by the entrance that sells “healthier” snacks like granola bars and all the flavors of TicTacs you could want. Craig swings his backpack off his shoulder and digs through it for a second, before he holds up that tube of pills his mom dropped off earlier. “Wouldn’t you say these kind of look like TicTacs?”
Tweek leans in to study the pills more closely, and then he presses his nose against the vending machine to get a good look. “I… think so? Why?”
Next thing he knows, Craig’s stuck the pills in his pocket, and pulled out a battered-looking wallet. “Can you hold out your hand?”
“Sure?” To his infinite embarrassment, Tweek realizes he’s gone and fogged up the glass of the vending machine with his breath, so he gives that a quick wipe with his sleeve before he cups both hands together for Craig. Like he’d thought, Craig just pours all his coins in there so he can sort through them, selecting what he needs and clumsily slotting them inside the machine.
Tweek’s been friends with Jimmy long enough that he knows there’s absolutely no point in offering to put the remaining coins back in. So he just snatches Craig’s wallet from him and does it for him. He doesn’t quite have the guts to stuff it down Craig’s back pocket, though. Just thinking about it is enough to make Tweek blush. Never mind that Craig might not take kindly to another dude touching his butt, Tweek feels like somebody would be bound to see it; in fact he’s got the distinctive feeling that he’s being watched right now… Wait a minute.
Turning around, Tweek comes face to face – or rather, face to cavernous dark space inside orange hood – with Kenny McCormick. His heart doesn’t do the full summersault today; he’s got Craig there after all, packing his pills away along with that box of white TicTacs he just bought. Still, it’s kind of pounding a little.
“Hi, Kenny,” Tweek says, smiling up at the taller boy. He deliberately doesn’t say any more than that, even though there’s something about Kenny that always makes him want to fill the silence with chatter.
After school is when the truce kicks in, if you can call it that – the friendship amnesty. Because even though Stan Marsh acts like he owns Kenny, and Kyle, too – he knows how badly Kenny needs his job at Tweak Bros.
Kenny mutters something that might have been “Hi, Tweek,” before he ducks his head and starts rubbing the tip of his beat-up sneaker against the hallway floor. Obviously, Craig’s presence is affecting him too – talking to strangers has never exactly been Kenny’s favourite thing to do.
“Kenny’s working a shift at the coffee shop,” Tweek tells Craig, feeling like he needs to justify Kenny’s silent, looming presence. “I promise you Kenny’s cool,” he adds, when Craig immediately raises an eyebrow, “He’s the only one of Stan’s friends I’ve never wanted to set on fire.”
That gets him a quiet chuckle from inside the hood, and a wry grin from Craig. “That’s what I call a resounding endorsement,” Craig drawls, and Tweek snorts like a dork. After a whole day of classes together, he still wouldn’t have guessed that Craig could be funny.
Craig gives him a look – like Tweek just went and did something surprising – before he swings his backpack over his good arm and says, “I’m done. Let’s go.”
So far so good. The three of them step outside the main doors, blinking in the afternoon sunlight. It’s early autumn, but still warm enough that Tweek doesn’t need his jacket.
“Golden hour,” Craig says, staring out past the school yard and the cars pulling up to the kerb; parents coming to collect their kids. His brown eyes are a million miles away.
Kenny still hangs back for a second to put his parka on – also orange; a hand-me-down from his brother Kevin – but Tweek knows Kenny and his long legs will have no trouble catching up. So he just keeps on walking. “What’s golden hour,” he asks, eager to get Craig talking, hoping he’ll let some secret slip. Some clue about who he really is, behind that stoic, give-a-shit façade.
“Oh,” Craig replies, still distracted, “That’s when the light – goddamn it!” Tweek suddenly finds himself in the very weird position of having a guy who’s nearly twice his height trying to crouch and hide behind him. “That’s my parents’ car,” Craig hisses, and now there’s something very much like panic creeping into his voice.
Tweek remembers how uneasy he’d felt, the last time Craig briefly mentioned his parents. He’s hung around Kenny and his siblings enough to know what that usually means. “Come on,” he whispers, slipping his hand through Craig’s without even thinking, pulling the taller boy back inside the school building. “We can leave through the janitor’s entrance, he’s really nice. Kenny, just meet us at the basketball courts, okay?”
Kenny nods and grunts a brief reply, before he runs down the front steps. He probably heard it, too; how Craig was very carefully not freaking out. He probably drew his own conclusions.
“Dude, I can explain,” Craig is saying, as Tweek pulls him – by the hand, still! – through the now empty hallways.
“You don’t have to tell me anything you’re not comfortable with,” Tweek cuts him off, because that needs to be said. He’s kind of secretly hoping his words will have the opposite effect, though, because nothing good comes from bottling your shit up forever. And because it would be kind of nice, if Craig decided he could trust him.
“They’re not…” Craig abruptly stops, and because Tweek’s been power-walking towards the janitor’s office, he gets yanked backwards kind of forcefully. He needs to pull some serious ballet moves not to end up bumping right into Craig and his broken arm. And now Craig is looking down at their linked hands like he’s finally realized they’ve been holding hands this whole time, and of course he lets go. “Sorry,” he says, dropping his gaze to the floor, “I didn’t mean to…”
Tweek wants to growl like a dog, because that’s the moment well and truly broken. “Don’t worry about it.” He’s careful not to mention that he was the one who took Craig’s hand in the first place. “Come on, we’re nearly there.”

After Tweek has successfully smuggled him out through a back door and around the block, Craig finally starts to relax. This might actually work – he can call Grandma, from that coffee shop, and she can call the police, and maybe Craig won’t even have to go back to that house. Maybe he can just hang out with Tweek while his fake parents are getting arrested. It’s not just going to be the two of them, though – that’s kind of a massive bummer and a huge relief, all rolled into one. Because that tall kid with the orange hoodie was waiting for them at the basketball courts, like Tweek asked him to. By now he’s picked up a little girl – a sister, probably, who slipped behind Kenny’s leg when she saw Craig running next to Tweek.
After he and Tweek had caught their breath, the four of them head off, walking slowly enough for Kenny’s sister and her stubby little legs. The girl looks like she might be around Tricia’s age, with her hair in a messy ponytail and somehow covering half her face. You can just see a grey-blue eye peeking out through the brown strands.
“Kenny’s been working there for a while now,” Tweek’s saying, craning his neck and striving for eye contact, “Haven’t you, Kenny?”
A non-committal grunt comes out of the hood, but Tweek treats that like it was perfectly spoken English, and carries right on with this one-sided conversation. “Kenny’s brother works there too,” he goes on, “And Karen, she also likes to help out sometimes. Don’t you, Karen?”
Instead of responding, Karen buries her face in the sleeve of her big brother’s jacket.
“I see,” Craig says, because he figures somebody needs to say something.
“So anyway,” Tweek’s gaze flickers from Craig, to Kenny, and back to Craig again, “Do you like coffee?!” His tone is kind of shrill for a mundane question like that, as if the answer matters a hell of a lot.
“Not really.” Truth is; Craig’s never actually tasted coffee. He just can’t get past the smell. Mom and Dad – his real mom and dad – they both love the stuff, though.
“Oh.” Tweek sounds disappointed, but not surprized. “Well, maybe I could make you something! We’ve got syrups, you know,” he goes on, “Like, hazelnut? Or chocolate, or vanilla? I make a mean mocha, or at least according to Token I do, he’s kind of hooked on them now…”
While poor Tweek has to keep four peoples’ worth of conversation rolling, and props to him for trying, Craig does his best to memorize their route. They go past the police station he noticed on his way to school – shit, if only he could go in there and ask for help, but why should the police believe him? At the post office they hang a left, and Tweek leads them through a side street and past a crusty-looking movie theatre. “That’s the Bijou,” he tells Craig, with a grand wave of his arm. “Tickets are cheap; just don’t ever touch the popcorn. And some their customers come to us, waiting for their movie to start. So what’s not to love, right?”
“Right.” To Craig’s relief, that seems to have been the answer Tweek was hoping for. And he can see it now, sitting next to the cinema – a flat-roofed one-story building with “Tweak Bros” painted on the big glass window at the front. Ah, so that explains Tweek’s nickname.
As they get closer, Craig spots two men crouched up on the roof – he can’t see much from down here, except that one of them has curly hair and the other’s wearing a red baseball cap. But Kenny’s little sister suddenly makes a sound back there; and it’s not a happy sound. Even Tweek goes all quiet, as he pulls the glass door open, making a bell tinkle – and shoos them all inside.
Craig’s not sure what he was expecting – some smoky place crammed with bookshelves maybe, and with artwork for sale on the walls. But Tweak Bros is surprisingly neat and clean, with little round tables spread out; though it’s almost empty. Just a tiny old man reading a book, in between taking precise little bites from his slice of cake, and a lady in a business suit sifting through paperwork and drinking coffee. Anyway, as soon as you walk in, there’s a long counter, with a glass case full of pastries and handwritten menus pinned to the corkboard hanging above it. And the lady with the apron who comes out from behind the counter - even from a distance, Craig can see the similarity to Tweek.
“Tweek, can you –” she begins, before Tweek picks her right up and swings her in a big circle. Tweek’s mom yelps like a startled puppy, while the skirt of her ankle-length dress flares out, flapping like wings.
“Craig,” Tweek is grinning from ear to ear, and completely ignoring the two paying customers he’s most definitely disturbing, “This is my mom!”
“Put me down,” Tweek’s mom yells, though it comes out more like a plea than a direct order, “Tweek!”
Craig can’t help but smile. Right behind him, someone’s snickering – Craig has a hunch that it’s Kenny, and that he’ll stop if Craig turns around to check. The bell on the door tinkles again, but Craig’s too busy watching Tweek spin to pay it any mind.
Finally, Tweek’s mom is back on terra firma, one hand gripping the counter, the other pressed against her temple, while she blinks and sways on her feet. “Don’t do that,” she chides her son, and Craig can see that Tweek – who’s standing with his back to the door and laughing – is taller than his mom; but only just.
Next thing Craig knows, someone’s pushed past him – it’s not Kenny, but the only thing Craig registers about the guy is his curly hair. This guy just grabs Tweek by the waist and flips him upside down, sending pens and textbooks and that tartan thermos spilling out of his backpack and all over the floor.
“And I’m his dad,” the curly-haired guy declares, grinning at Craig while Tweek is flailing in his grip and shouting, “Dad! Jesus Christ!”
Huh, looks like Tweek’s family’s all touchy-feely; maybe that’s why he grabbed Craig’s hand earlier? Maybe that stuff comes naturally to him, and Craig’s the one being weird about it, overthinking how it felt to hold that small, warm hand inside his own. But Craig’s family – his real family – isn’t like that at all.
“Nice to meet you, sir,” Craig says, fighting to keep his smirk under control, “I’m Craig Tucker.” He considers it for a second, the holds his right hand out for a shake. “I was wondering if I could use your phone?”
“Unless you’re planning on calling Ulan Bator,” Tweek’s dad flips Tweek back on his feet, with an ease that tells Craig this isn’t the first time, “I don’t see why not.” He gives Craig a firm shake, and even if the resemblance isn’t as striking, Craig can see the guy’s got exactly the same eye color as Tweek. Bright blue like the sky in summer. “Tweek can take you round back, when he’s regained his balance.”
“Dad, come on,” Tweek grumbles, squatting down and just sweeping all his stuff back inside his bag, with zero regard for what ends up bent or upside-down.
Both the customers, Craig realizes, have been watching the whole show – and he’s not the only one trying not to laugh.
Meanwhile, Tweek’s mom has turned to Kenny, who’s actually pulled his hood down! He’s really not bad looking, except his nose looks kind of swollen. “Kenny, listen,” she’s saying, “You’re not in any trouble, but Kevin didn’t show up for his shift yesterday.”
Instantly, it’s like Kenny shrinks – and he towers over Tweek’s mom, but he just sort of folds in on himself. “ ‘m sorry,” he mutters, “I would’ve covered for him if I’d known.”
“We know you would have,” Tweek’s dad says, with a pained little smile. “Like Helen said, you’re not in any trouble. But we were relying on Kevin to cover for me when I went to the bank, and as it was, I barely made it there before they closed.”
“And you know it isn’t the first time.” Tweek’s mom looks sad. “If he keeps this up…”
“He won’t!” The desperation in Kenny’s voice is enough to make Craig look away. “I’ll talk to him, okay? Just please don’t…”
“Hey,” Tweek whispers, putting his hand on Craig’s good arm, “Craig. Come on.” He’s obviously not eager to stick around for this either; and that suits Craig just fine.
Tweek lets go of his arm, before he leads Craig to the brown door marked “STAFF”. As Craig slips in there behind him, he sees Kenny’s sister pull a crushed bunch of flowers out of the pocket of her purple windbreaker, and hand them to Tweek’s mom. It’s the saddest thing Craig’s seen in… he doesn’t even know how long.
Tweek’s taken him to what seems to be both a break room and some sort of kitchen. There’s a tall fridge, a stove and a cook-top, and a long counter that runs along the far wall, underneath the single window. That one’s got four of those tall barstool type of seats under it, and there, finally, Craig sees a wall-mounted khaki green phone.
“If you don’t want me to hear,” Tweek begins, but Craig immediately shakes his head.
“No, that’s fine, I…” it’s so weird, and maybe it really is just that he finds Tweek painfully cute, but Craig just… “I trust you,” he tells the smaller boy, and it feels weird but also kind of good to say that out loud.
That makes Tweek smile. “Okay,” he says, “Then I’ll just make us something. You’re hungry, right?” Tweek swings the fridge door open, and starts pulling things out. A carton of eggs, a whole broccoli, a jar of sauce. “Kenny won’t say no thanks if I’m cooking for all four of us.”
Craig gets the sense that there’s a bigger picture here, but he doesn’t have the time, or the mental energy. So he pushes that thought aside and walks over to where that phone hangs, and dials Grandma’s number from memory. Leans against the wall with his eyes shut, the cool plastic of the receiver pressed against his jaw. It rings and it rings, but neither Grandma nor Tricia picks up the call. Craig finally opens his eyes, to flip his wrist around and check his watch. He watches the seconds tick by as he lets it ring for five minutes straight. Nothing. Goddamn it!
“You can try again after we’ve eaten,” Tweek suggests. He’s got a chopping board out, and is cutting up some carrots. Where did those even come from? There’s a plain white bowl of neatly cut broccoli florets on the counter already.
“I…” Craig swallows his disappointment, “Yeah. Thanks.”
“So listen…” Tweek turns his back on Craig and opens one of the cupboards over the counter, and pulls out a big bag of what turns out to be corkscrew pasta, “It’s none of my business, and I know that,” he says, talking into the cupboard, “But if things aren’t okay with your parents?”
“They’re not,” Craig says, and maybe it’s because he was counting so hard on Grandma being there. But he suddenly wants to tell Tweek everything.
“They’re not okay,” Tweek asks him cautiously, turning around at last. His eyes are so blue, and so huge.
“They’re not my parents,” Craig tells him.

Chapter Text

Tweek blinks. “Oh,” he says, and puts the knife down on the chopping board, next to the half-chopped carrot, “Okay.” He looks up at Craig’s face, just to make sure this isn’t a joke. “This isn’t about being adopted, is it,” he asks, and Craig immediately shakes his head.
“You’re gonna think I’m crazy,” Craig says, but his deep brown eyes lock onto Tweek’s, and Tweek just knows he isn’t lying. Or at least, he knows that Craig believes he’s telling the truth.
“Nah,” Tweek tells him, smiling crookedly, “You seem too boring to be crazy.”
That makes Craig snort. “Thanks a lot,” he counters, dropping his gaze. “Listen, the car-crash where I broke my arm… My real parents were in the car with me then. When the other car hit us. But when I woke up in hospital…” He looks up at Tweek again, and it’s like the memory is tearing him apart, “They’d been replaced. By total strangers.”
Tweek feels his mouth slowly slide open, because holy shit! “Do you have a picture,” he asks, not quite managing to keep his voice from trembling.
Craig draws a deep, pissed-off breath. “I thought I did! But when I looked inside my wallet, it was gone.”
“So you think they took it,” Tweek suggests, taking a step closer to Craig as he lowers his voice, “To cover their tracks?”
That’s when Craig sort of pulls his head back, narrowing his eyes as he stares at Tweek. “You really do believe me,” he says, like he can’t quite believe it himself.
Tweek thinks about it for a second, and then he remembers what Token told him at lunch time. “Dude,” he says, “Do you know what kind of handbag your new mom has?”
Craig’s eyebrows pull together in annoyance. “What’s that got to do with – ” he cuts himself off abruptly, “I don’t know! It’s just some ugly bag.”
“It’s an expensive ugly bag,” Tweek corrects him, holding up one finger. “Your new mom – ”
“Fake mom,” Craig corrects him, almost distractedly, and Tweek shrugs.
“Fake mom, okay. She shows up in a bank-teller’s uniform, and I know that because I’ve been in there like a thousand times to deposit our cash with my mom or dad, okay? And she’s got an L.V. bag. You can’t buy something like that on a bank-teller’s salary.”
“What?” Still frowning, Craig says, “Yeah, both my real parents got jobs at the bank. I guess the fakes are just… Filling in for them or something. But how do you even know about that bag stuff?”
“Because of Token’s mom,” Tweek tells him. “Token doesn’t like to talk about it, but his parents are loaded, okay? And Token’s mom has a bag like that.” He pauses for a second, then for the sake of honesty, he adds, “Only bigger.”
“Huh.” Is it just wishful thinking, or does Craig actually sound a little impressed? “I never would’ve noticed something like that.”
It’s hard not to feel happy, not to grin like an idiot at what feels an awful lot like praise. “Well it’s just, you know,” Tweek babbles, “On those TV shows where you watch customs officers catch drug mules and stuff? They always look for the stuff that doesn’t quite add up, right? Like, if some woman’s wearing these shiny white sneakers that don’t go with her outfit, there could be cocaine or something hidden inside the soles!”
Craig gives him this really bemused look, and Tweek realizes he’s been talking kind of fast. Shit, shit, why do cute guys like Craig always have this effect on him? Why do they wake up this deep-seated subconscious urge Tweek seems to have to make an ass of himself? “Okay,” Craig says, after an unbearably long pause, “So this lady’s got a handbag that’s too fancy for her job – or her life, even,” he goes on, with a little eye-roll, “I mean, my family’s not exactly… Fancy handbag material.”
Wait a second – is Craig… embarrassed?
“Dude,” Tweek quickly assures him, “My mom shops for handbags at Target!”
Craig snorts again, and his bottom lip is twitching. “Now you’re just trying to make me feel better.” Then his smile falters, and he says, “I don’t know what to do though. If Trish or Grandma don’t pick up the phone.” He laughs, quick and bitter. “Sometimes, it feels like it’s me, like I really am going crazy…”
“You’re not,” Tweek insists, “And I’m going to help you. We’ll come up with a way to catch them out, and prove your parents aren’t who they say they are.” This is the moment Tweek realizes he’s holding Craig’s hand between his own, and falters for a second, because seriously? How could he go and do something like that? But Craig doesn’t seem to have noticed yet, so maybe if Tweek just keeps talking, he won’t? “I believe you, Craig,” Tweek says, and that’s when the door opens.

Kenny closes his eyes and lets out a quiet sigh of relief. Absolute disaster has been averted – for now, anyway. Right now he’s got no idea where Kevin is, or why he thought blowing off his shift at the one place that puts food on their table was a smart thing to do. But there will be clues, once he gets back home – and where there are clues, there are also solutions. Kenny’s just learned that you need to search harder for those.
“Why don’t you stock the napkin dispensers, Karen,” Mrs Tweak is saying, and Kenny jerks back into the present with a little shake of his head. He knows exactly where the spare napkins are kept, of course – in the menu cabinet right above the till, the one that’s got the teas, chai and hot chocolate options copied out in Mrs Tweak’s flowy handwriting on the front. So he swings that cupboard open, pushing the door up and out, and snatches a packet of napkins down. There are advantages to being tall. Disadvantages, too – like people noticing you, for one thing.
“Thanks.” Karen smiles up at him as she takes the packet with both hands. He and Kevin are on the books, but Karen’s just too young for the Tweaks to actually hire her. They pay her a little bit anyway – pocket money, out of their own pockets probably – but that’s not why Karen’s here. He’s glad she tagged along, anyway. Bad enough she spent most of the day back at the house with Mom. It’s messed up that elementary school doesn’t start at the same time as high school in dumb-ass Park County.
Kenny pulls his sweater over his head and shoves it into his backpack, before he grabs himself an apron from the shelf underneath the counter. Damn, but he feels naked without a hood over his head. Still, rules are rules, and of course he gets it. Normal people like to see the face of the person they’re talking to. Nobody wants to get served from like, inside a hood.
The shop bell dings, and Mr Tweak says “Hello boys,” in a jolly tone that means it’s definitely not Kenny’s friends – Cartman’s practically been banned from coming here, after he spread that rumour about the crystal meth, but Tweek’s parents aren’t exactly fond of Stan or Kyle, either.
“Heya, Kenny!” Kenny looks up, and comes face to face with Scott Malkinson and his freckles. “Can I have one of those chais with asbestos?”
So there was that time Scott came in here and asked Kenny exactly what a dirty chai is, and Kenny had mumbled his reply so badly that when he said “Espresso,” Scott had heard “Asbestos”. That’s what Scott is referring to; grinning like it’s some in-joke the two of them share.
Kenny grins back – it’s hard not to, with someone as friendly and uncomplicated as Scott. “One asbestos chai, coming up,” he mutters while he writes the order down on his pad, making sure it’s too quiet for Tweek’s dad to catch.
Scott’s grin widens just a fraction. “Kevin’s paying,” he says, with the smug air of a guy who’s won a bet, “So make it a big one. And let me just see if I can eat any of these…” As Scott meanders over to look at the pastries, Kevin Stoley pulls his wallet out with a deep, dramatic sigh. Kenny’s seen this thing before, but he can never quite get over the nerdiness of such an everyday object. It’s a fold-over Star Trek wallet with the spaceship from Next Generation printed on it; above some kind of… space nebula. Almost idly, Kenny wonders if the spaceship bit also glows in the dark, but he can’t quite make himself ask.
“The usual for me,” Kevin says, deadpan, as he reaches one long arm out to flick Scott in the back of the head. That means a large double-shot cappuccino and a brownie; Kevin is nothing if not predictable. “Bradley?”
“Hi, Kenny,” Bradley Biggle says cheerfully, swinging his backpack with the yellow X-Men logo printed all over it off his shoulder, “Mint tea and a blueberry muffin, please!”
Kenny grunts his agreement, before he remembers there’s something called customer service, and plasters a smile across his face. “Coming right up,” he beams at the other three; he can hear the drone of the coffee machine behind him so chances are Mr Tweak’s already making Scott and Kevin’s drinks. It absolutely kills him, but Kenny knows he’ll need to make some small talk – after what his brother did, he needs to remind the Tweaks why they bother helping his stupid family out. So he keeps right on smiling, even though it’s starting to hurt his mouth a little bit, smiling that wide. “Butters not coming,” he asks, since that’s the most obvious question – the Geek Squad, as Stan likes to call these guys, is missing its fourth member.
“Nah,” Kevin sighs, “His dad grounded him again, because of…” He spreads his hands out and shrugs, “…something.”
Kenny winces in sympathy; Mr Stotch is pretty legendary – in the way that, say; Freddie Krueger is legendary. “Bummer.”
“I know, right,” Bradley chimes in, holding a note out to Kevin, but the head nerd shakes his head.
“It was a bet, and I lost,” Kevin says mournfully. “There’s honor among geeks,” he adds, with a blink-and-you’ll-miss-it wink that makes Scott snort loudly from over by the pastry case.
“Can I have a cherry scone,” Scott asks, frowning at the selection like he’s thinking hard, “With cream, but hold the jam?” Kenny finds it weird that Scott, who’s got diabetes, can eat some kinds of sugar, but not all the time. And that other times, he needs to eat something with a lot of sugar in it. But it all makes sense to Scott and his friends, who are decent enough to keep an eye on him at school and stuff, and can tell when he’s starting to get sick.
“Sure,” Kenny says again, and goes over to the till to ring up the total. He’s got a pretty good idea what sort of bet it was Kevin lost; and just thinking about it is making his cheeks burn.
After Kenny’s popped the till open to stuff the money in and give Kenny his change, Mrs Tweak suddenly appears at his elbow. “Why don’t you go whip up some fresh cream for Scott,” Tweek’s mom says, and Kenny’s knees almost buckle with relief, because this amount of small talk drains the life out of him. “Don’t add any sugar, of course.”
“Sure thing, Mrs Tweak,” Kenny replies, ducking his head as he hurries towards the kitchen; which also doubles as the break room. He can just hear Scott telling Mrs Tweak that they don’t need to go to the trouble, and Mrs Tweak telling him it’s the least they can do for one of their loyal customers. The Starbucks that opened last month is on the other side town, but Tweek’s parents are already feeling the pinch.
Pulling the door open, Kenny slips inside the kitchen, doing a quick scan of his surroundings just out of habit. But then he jerks back in shock, because Tweek is holding the new kid’s hand between both of his own. Kenny’s just in time to catch the end of what sounds like a long, ranty Tweek-sentence. “…prove your parents aren’t who they say they are,” Tweek says, and he’s giving the other boy the kind of intense eye contact that would knock Kenny flat on his ass, “I believe you, Craig.” Tweek looks like he’s about to say something else – only then, he twigs that Kenny has entered the room.
The transformation is instant, as Tweek, little ball of nerves that he is, practically jumps out of his own skin. “GAH! KENNY!”

Craig yanks his hand out of Tweek’s grip. Goddamn it! Tweek is just so damn sweet, and his eyes are like the purest shade of blue, and his hands are so warm and not clammy at all, but goddamn it! Craig needs to remember that this is a guy who goes around punching people in the head, even if he is a tiny little squirt. He needs to remember that he knows exactly nothing about Tweek, who he just went and spilled his guts to. “I, ah,” he says, “I mean. Uh.” Think, brain! Excuse, any excuse…! “I’m going to order a drink,” Craig says, as firmly as he can manage when his whole face is on fire, “Out there.”
Then he turns on his heel and strides towards the door that leads back into the café. Tweek doesn’t try to stop him, or punch him in the head. Craig even manages to somehow not shove that Kenny kid as he squeezes past him, or maybe Kenny just ducked out of the way real quick?
As soon as he steps into the coffee shop proper, someone says his name. For a second, Craig actually thinks it was Tweek, but then he realizes that the voice isn’t coming from behind him at all. Some blonde kid with a bowl-cut and the most irritating smile is waving at him, from over by one of the tables. “Craig,” he says again, “Hi!”
“You have no idea who we are, do you,” a second kid says, as he takes the tray of drinks and pastries Mrs Tweak is passing him over the counter. This kid looks less cornfed and more… Asian? His hair is black, and very straight. Half Asian, maybe? “I’m Kevin.”
“We’re in your class,” the last boy in the group chimes in, hooking a fourth chair with his foot and pulling it over in obvious invitation. “Sorry Garrison was such an asshole to you.” This guy’s wide where that Kevin kid is tall and willowy; broad-shouldered and built like a football player. And he’s got freckles. “You can always count on Cartman to spout his crap. But Garrison should’ve never let him get away with it.”
“Cartman’s been calling me and my sister “slant-eyes” since forever.” Kevin carefully places the tray in the middle of the table. “Our mom’s Chinese, but our dad’s just A4 white American. In case you were wondering.” As soon as his hands are freed up, Kevin grabs his backpack off the floor and starts digging through it. “Anyway, this one time at school? Garrison’s actually asked the two of us what we’re “supposed to be”. I had to like, sit on Esther, or she’d have slapped him in the face.”
“Her,” Bowl-cut corrects Kevin, with a snarky little grin. “Don’t forget, Garrison’s a lady now.”
“Well, she was a man at the time,” Kevin says, as he pulls out what looks like a homemade zine of some sort and holds it up. “Issue One! Here, Craig, you can have this.” With that, Kevin shoves the zine – no, wait, that’s a comic book – at Craig, who takes it because what the hell else is he supposed to do. “Just to show you that not everybody in class is an asshole.”
“Shameless plug,” the kid with the freckles says, running his hands through his wavy brown hair, which is almost long enough to tie back. “You don’t have to read that if you don’t want it.”
“Geez, way to promote our comic, Scott,” Bowl-cut cuts in, and something in his tone makes Craig sit his ass right down and flip their comic book open on the table.
“You guys made this,” he asks, only half interested, as he flicks through the pages. Craig’s too distracted to read this thing properly; he keeps thinking of Tweek, with his forehead crinkled up in worry. Those pure blue eyes going all cloudy. Those warm, slightly shaky hands. Anyway, it’s not terrible, whatever this is supposed to be. Some kind of superhero story, he supposes. Craig can’t help but like the art – there’s a weird sort of energy to it, even if the anatomy’s a little off sometimes. The main character looks like the Green Goblin crossed with the Phantom; his costume’s all purple and green, except for what appears to be an actual pair of Y-fronts worn on top of his tights – those are left white. The thing that really jumps out at you is the question mark, though, which is attached to the characters’ head with a curly spring.
“Oh yeah, we do this whole thing as a team,” Kevin says, like he’s been holding back out of politeness but Craig just said the magic words. “We all brainstorm the plots, though of course we base them on real events, and then I write the script. After we storyboard, one of the guys’ll draw the pencils and the other two will ink; and Bradley always does the lettering because he’s got the tidiest handwriting. And then we take turns begging our parents to photocopy them at work,” he adds, with a crooked little grin. “Before we all pitch in with the coloring.”
“Butters pencilled this one,” Bowl-cut – Bradley – cuts in, reaching over to flip a few pages back. Craig secretly finds that kind of irritating, but whatever. “His style’s so dynamic, but he’s not that great with buildings and stuff, so Scott did the backgrounds for him. I did the cover, though.” With that, Bradley flips the whole thing over, and fair enough. It is kind of a cool cover, with a sloping, all-caps logo that says “MYSTERION”, and the main character sort of punching his way out of the comic.
“Not bad,” Craig concedes, wondering how he can even begin to extract himself from this situation. These guys aren’t seriously expecting him to sit here and read the whole thing from cover to cover, are they? He taps the main character, right on the question mark. “How’d you come up with him?”
“You mean, with Mysterion,” Scott asks, crestfallen, before the other two start to laugh.
“Dude, he’s real,” Kevin tells Craig, with what almost looks like a religious shine in his eyes, “Mysterion’s like a real-life vigilante! Right here in South Park! He takes down drug dealers, saves people from getting mugged; he foiled that break-in at the mall…”
“He’s an actual hero,” Bradley says reverently, and that’s when Kenny almost drops a bowl on his head. Shit, that kid’s so quiet, Craig hadn’t even realized he’d come out from the staff room!
“Sorry ‘bout that,” Kenny mutters, putting the bowl down in front of Scott. Now, Craig can see that it’s full of whipped cream. “Hand musta slipped.” Without the hoodie on, Craig can see how badly the guy is blushing. He puts down a plate with some sort of… bread roll or whatever, also in front of Scott, before he runs off to hide behind the counter.
“Okay,” Craig says, figuring that this is the perfect opening to flee from the nerds and go check on Tweek. “Thanks.” He tucks the comic inside the sling, which is at least turning into a useful place to store stuff. “I’ll read this…” he almost says, when I get back home, but at the last moment, he changes it to, “Later.” Because that house isn’t home; not without his real family in it.

Chapter Text

The glass door opens with a merry tinkle of bells, and that other guy Craig spotted up on the roof earlier comes swaggering inside. He’s kind of skinny, with a wispy brown moustache that matches the hair poking out from under his red baseball cap, and there’s just something… unclean about this guy. Like, sure his jeans and flannel shirt look kind of grubby, and his cowboy boots – ancient and chapped – are caked with dirt. But it’s the greasy vibe he gives off, like he doesn’t remember to wash that often – plus there’s a smell. It’s not sweat exactly, or at least it’s not all sweat, and it makes Craig gag just a little bit.
“Yup,” the guy says to Tweek’s dad, like he’s just continuing a conversation from a minute ago, “Got the pigeon shit and feathers blocking the drains up there.”
“I knew that already, Stuart,” Tweek’s dad replies, and something in his tone tells Craig that he’s starting to get pissed, “That’s why I called you. To clear the drains and, uh,” he falters for a second; shooting a quick glance at the staff room door like he’s worried Tweek will overhear, “And deal with the pigeons.”
Just for a second, there’s this look that flickers across this Stuart dude’s face. Like he’d like to pull a knife and shank Tweek’s dad, right there in front of the customers. “Just need a piss,” he says, with the kind of slow insolence Craig would expect to see from a high school bully, not a grown-ass man, “Then I’ll get right back on that for you.” Then he ambles over to the door marked “Toilet”, whistling under his breath, like he’s got all the time in the world.
Suddenly, just as he’s walking past Kenny, Stuart’s hand shoots up – Kenny’s taller, but not by much - and closes around the kid’s ear. “You get back to work,” he hisses, “The Tweaks ain’t paying you to hang out yapping with your friends.”
It’s kind of a stupid emotional reaction, but Craig finds himself… deeply disliking this guy. Hate is a strong word, and it’s not like Stuart there has done anything to him personally. Normally he wouldn’t even say something, but the unfairness of the whole thing – this asshole has clearly not been doing any work, up there on the roof – is what makes him snap, “Kenny is working.”
Kenny’s eyes go wide with surprise, even as Stuart lets go of him and spins on his heel to lock eyes with Craig. “What did you say,” he almost croons, his voice going all silky with hostility.
If Craig’s being completely honest with himself, the effect is pretty terrifying, but if there’s one thing his parents – his real parents – have instilled in him, it’s this: Stand your ground. Stand your ground, when you see someone doing something wrong. So he draws a deep breath, and forces himself to return that eye contact with interest. “Kenny’s working,” he repeats, thinking, That’s more than I could say for you. “He’s serving that table just now.”
Doesn’t look like Stuart is used to kids answering back, because his eyes go all slitty with anger, and his face starts to turn red. He opens his mouth, but before he can say anything, Kenny yelps, “Dad! He didn’t mean anything by it!”
The shock makes Craig blink, and break eye contact, because what the hell? Shy, mumbling Kenny has this evil shitheel for a dad? But it’s got to be true – Kenny’s blushing like crazy and looks about ready to die from embarrassment. And Karen is literally hiding behind Mrs Tweak’s leg; Craig can just see one eye and a tuft of brown hair – same shade of brown as Stuart’s – poking out from behind her skirts.
There’s this moment where it feels like anything could happen, and the air inside the coffee shop is charged with something almost electric. But then, Stuart just says “Hmph,” and turns away, swaggering over to the toilet and slamming the door shut behind him.
After that, unfortunately, Craig can’t help but look over at Kenny, who’s rubbing his ear. “Dude,” he says, because what the hell do you even say after something this messed up has happened?
“Thanks,” Kenny mutters, looking him right in the eye for a split second, before he ducks his head again. “Sorry about that.”
Before Craig can tell Kenny that he’s got nothing to be sorry for, Mr Tweak’s put his arm around Craig’s shoulders and is steering him gently but firmly – obviously mindful of the cast – towards the staff room door. “Why don’t you go see how Tweek’s doing in there,” Tweek’s dad says, grinning wide with fake cheer. “You kids must be hungry after school, right?”

“So your name is literally Tweek,” Craig is saying, his plate of pasta and veggies forgotten, “As in, Tweek Tweak? Why would your parents…” He stops, lost for words. If Craig hadn’t met Dad back there, and if his ear hadn’t been smarting quite so much, Kenny might even have laughed.
“Ask my dad!” Tweek rolls his eyes at the ceiling, “It was his idea! He filled in the paperwork while my mom was unconscious!”
Craig blinks. “What, like after she gave birth to you? Is that even legal?”
“I don’t know,” Tweek spears a piece of carrot on his fork like he’s picturing stabbing his dad in the face. “It shouldn’t be!”
Tweek sure sounds exhasperated, but… Kenny likes to think that he’s got to know the guy a little, and he kind of secretly prides himself in his ability to read people. So he’s started to think that maybe, if you find yourself going through life with a name like Tweek Tweak, you learn to milk it for comedy. Tweek seems to save that for special occasions though, which means he’s probably trying to impress the new kid. And it’s pretty common knowledge that Tweek isn’t straight.
“So are you saving up to change it,” Craig asks, while he clumsily stabs at the food on his plate, “Once you turn eighteen?”
The three of them are sitting at the counter that runs along the wall to eat; Tweek in the middle (of course), while Kenny skulks on his right side and Craig is awkwardly balanced on his left.
“And call myself what?” Tweek shakes his head and smiles. “I’m way too used to it by now. Which was probably Dad’s plan all along…” He stops and frowns for a second, “If he even had a plan.”
Now, Craig laughs – and it looks like that was exactly what Tweek’s been hoping for, from how he’s grinning and laughing along. Kenny snorts quietly, smiling into his food. Whatever this is called, it’s really good. There’s a rich, creamy sauce, lots of pasta and at least five different kinds of veggies. People who say they don’t like vegetarian food just should pull their heads out of their assholes, and come taste Tweek’s cooking.
“Say, Craig?” Suddenly Tweek’s all serious again, “Maybe you could show Kenny those pills? Kenny knows about stuff like that,” he goes on, when Craig abruptly stops smiling, “He can tell you if they’re anything funny.”
“I’m not a drug dealer,” Kenny blurts out, and his cheeks immediately start to heat up.
Tweek blinks at him, honestly startled. “I didn’t mean,” he begins, but then Craig sighs and pulls a tube of pills out of his pocket.
“Okay,” he says, as he puts it down in front of Kenny’s plate. “Just let me swap these out with the TicTacs I bought first, in case you need to analyse ’em or whatever.” Craig doesn’t say anything else – like what he thinks these white capsules might be, so Kenny picks the tube up and shakes one into his palm for a closer look. It’s long and white, though it’s not a capsule – it’s divided into four little segments, and looks more like a tiny power-bar. The first segment has a capital “G” printed on it, and the other three have the numbers 37, 2 and 2. Still… Craig probably could pass the TicTacs off as these things, as long as nobody gets too close a look.
“Ngh, I know it says they’re painkillers on there,” Tweek blurts out, like he’s been trying to keep his mouth shut but just can’t. “We think they might be sedatives, though.”
“We do, huh?” Kenny shoots Tweek a quick, sidelong glance; the kid is blushing now. Well, damn. Whatever this Craig kid is mixed up in, at least Kenny knows why Tweek is so dead set on helping him. Kenny quickly looks away again, it’s not like he wants to be an asshole to Tweek. He smiles, to show that he’s kidding, “I could always just give one to my dad?”
Tweek just stares at him in utter shock for a second; then a huge snort just explodes out of his mouth. And in the silence that follows, the new kid suddenly says, “Why stop at one?”
Kenny has no chance in hell then, even though he hates for strangers to hear his stupid laugh. “I’ll see what my brother thinks,” he mutters, when he’s got himself back under control, “But, um… It looks like a benzo to me.” He glances over at Craig, who stares right back at him, expectantly. “And yeah, Benzos are basically tranquilizers.”
Craig’s bottom lip twists with grim satisfaction. “Huh,” he says, “Figures.” He doesn’t ask how Kenny knows this stuff, which is decent of him. That, plus how he stood up to Dad on Kenny’s behalf earlier, is enough to make him decide that Craig is one of the good guys.
“Here,” Tweek puts his fork down and holds out his hand, “I’ll do it while you eat. You’ve been granted busted arm privileges,” he adds, and that last bit actually makes Craig smile as he hands the pills and the TicTacs over.
Tweek, who doesn’t have the world’s steadiest hands, puts the salt and pepper shakers on the floor; before he spreads out a napkin in the middle of the table. He shakes the pills out on one side, the mints on the other, as slowly and carefully as he can, only looking up to smile when Craig quietly thanks him.
Okay, that’s it. Kenny owes Tweek’s parents – and by that logic, Tweek himself, too – big time. And Tweek clearly has a thing for this Craig kid. So, if something really is up with Craig’s parents – if, like he overheard Tweek saying before, they’re not who they say they are; then maybe he should…
The staff room door smacks into the wall, loud enough to make Tweek yelp, and then Mrs Tweak says, “Oops! Sorry!” She’s lugging the first-aid kit, and pushing Karen inside at the same time. “All done! Go get yourself some dinner, okay? And Kenny,” Tweek’s mom gives him a look he can only meet for a second or two, while Karen runs over to the stove to pick up the ladle and the spare bowl Tweek left out for her. “I talked to your father. Karen’s going to come help out all day tomorrow, isn’t that right?”
“Uh-huh,” Karen agrees, as she slides into the empty seat next to Kenny’s at the counter. She gives him a quick grin, full of relief and cautious happiness, before she leans over her bowl and starts inhaling the free food.
Up this close, he can see how Tweek’s mom has cleaned up Karen’s eye and even put plasters on the two biggest scratches. The light’s better out in the coffee shop; and it’s not like the regulars haven’t seen this kind of thing before. Kenny’s overwhelmed with this feeling that’s half sniveling gratitude and half toe-curling shame; because he wishes he could do that. Look after his baby sister properly. But there’s school, and work, and… And he just can’t be there to stop Mom all the time when she’s been drinking.
“Thanks, Mrs Tweak,” he mutters. Out of the corner of his eye, Kenny also sees Craig discreetly slide the pill tube, now filled with nothing but TicTacs – into his sling. That leaves the TicTacs box for Kenny to pocket, all chill and natural. Pretending like he’s someone who can afford to buy stuff like that on the regular.
“Nothing to thank me for,” Mrs Tweak says, and Kenny can tell she’s a little bit sad, even though she’s trying to sound all upbeat. Disinfecting a nine-year-old girl’s black eye would probably have that effect on most people – decent people, that is. “You kids eat up now; we can always boil more pasta.”
Kenny’s pretty sure there’s more to it than that; anyone can boil a pan of pasta. Making it taste like this, now that takes some real skill. But he ducks his head and says “Yes m’am,” because the hell if he’s arguing with Tweek’s mom, and helps himself to another mouthful.
Tonight, he tells himself. That’s when he starts paying off all this debt. It’s a promise. Tonight.

It’s funny, what a full belly will do for you. By the time they’re almost done eating, Craig’s told them about how he’s got a little sister called Tricia who’s the same age as Karen, and how he’s “in between guinea pigs right now,” whatever that means. But, most intriguingly, he’s mentioned that he has a tattooed grandma.
“What,” Tweek says, dropping his knife and fork on either side of his bowl. They clank kind of loudly, not to mention they splatter some Four Cheeses sauce on the counter. But it’s not like Tweek’s got time to worry about that. “For real?!”
“Dude,” Craig says, and he seems a bit… taken aback by his reaction, “It’s not like that. Grandma doesn’t have a, a heart with “Johnny” on it on her arm, okay? She just got her missing nails tattooed back on.”
Tweek just blinks at him for a second or two. “The what now?”
“She’s had kind of a hard life, I guess,” Craig gives an uncomfortable shrug, “And like, along the way she lost a bunch of toenails, an a couple finger nails. On these two fingers.” Holding up his right hand, he wiggles his middle and index fingers right under Tweek’s nose. “But then Grandma found this tattoo artist lady who specialized in stuff like that.” Story told, Craig hunkers back over his bowl and manages to scoop up the very last piece of Fusilli with the side of his fork.
Has Tweek been watching him for too long already? Is he staring too hard at the tufts of black hair poking out from under that blue hat and sort of framing Craig’s face? Craig looks kind of stern, he decides, but kind of majestic, too. Wait, he’s totally still staring, isn’t he. “That’s, that’s cool!”
Oh shit, that just came out way too spazzy! Craig’s giving him this raised-eyebrow look, and Tweek is just about ready to die from embarrassment. But then Kenny says, “Yeah,” which seems to startle Craig a little. “I mean,” he mutters, dropping his gaze to the counter, “Just getting a splinter stuck under your nail hurts. So getting poked by a needle there’s got to hurt.”
“I know, right,” Tweek hastily chimes in, so grateful he could almost cry.
Thank you, Kenny, for making me look sane.
Maybe this would be a good time to ask Craig if he likes brownies, or if he’s ever had a chai latte?
But that’s when Dad opens the door and says, “Craig, your –” That’s as far as he gets, before that lady from the school cafeteria, Craig’s fake mom, squeezes past him. Tweek notices exactly two things about her. One: she’s still carrying that Louis Vuitton bag on her arm, and two: she’s crying, but her makeup isn’t smudged at all. That alone is enough to make Tweek suspicious; he’s spent enough time around crying girls to know what they look like when they cry for real.
“Craig, cariño,” she’s saying, running over to the counter as if Craig were just hauled out of a collapsed mine shaft or something, “I can’t believe you’d make me worry like that!”
“I just,” Craig mutters, sliding off the stool and pushing her hands off. “Went along. To see the coffee shop.”
“Well, you have to call home to tell us, mi vida, before you do something like that again!” The woman – Tweek’s starting to call her the LV lady in his mind – is acting kind of stern now, poking Craig in the chest with her finger. He’s significantly taller than her, so that ruins the effect a little. “You are lucky I talked to Roger,” she goes on; then carries on when Craig frowns in confusion, “Roger who lives next door! His son said you told him you were coming here, and… And you have to be careful! With your head injury! What if you forget where we live now, or…”
“I’m sorry,” Craig snaps – not like he means it; and more like he hopes this will shut the LV lady up. “I just… wanted to make some new friends, I guess.”
And that just seals the deal, because a real mom would smell the bullshit a mile away, Tweek’s own mom sure would! He can even hear a discreet cough coming from Dad’s direction, like he’s thinking Yeah, right. But this lady buys Craig’s cheesy lie right off the bat. “Oh Craig,” she croons, “I know moving to a new place is hard. But I don’t know what I’d do if something happened to my little boy!”
“I’ll see you in school tomorrow?” Those words have left Tweek’s mouth before he’s even had a chance to think them, but Craig gives him a quick smile of pure relief.
“Yeah,” he says, and there comes that smile again, before his fake mom hustles him out into the main coffee shop and through the front door.
“Wow,” Dad says, as soon as the bell’s finished tinkling and he knows they’re out of earshot, “And I thought Clyde’s mother was nuts.”
“Dad, come on.” Tweek does his best to copy Mom’s reproachful tone, but what he’s thinking is that this proves it. There’s no way that woman really is Craig’s mom!

Chapter Text

When Craig’s fake mom parks the dented Ford in the driveway, it isn’t nearly soon enough. Craig’s got the door open in seconds, and almost stumbles on the gravel in his eagerness to get out. Something about that woman gives him the creeps; and it’s not just the obvious thing, that she’s not his mother. He’d almost say she smells wrong or something, but that’d just be weird. The whole drive back here was spent zoning out her voice while she talked about how worried she’d been about him and blah blah, just nodding and grunting “Sorry” whenever she stopped for air. He needs to get away, maybe go sit in one of the rooms upstairs – he’s still not decided which of the smaller ones to claim – and think. If nobody was answering the phone at Grandma’s…
“Hey, dude!”
Craig jerks upright and whips his head around. But it’s just Clyde, peering at him over the hedge that separates their yards. “Hey,” he replies, in the most neutral tone he can muster. Clyde’s house is bound to have a phone, if Craig can just think of a reason to go in there that isn’t too obvious… “How was, uh…” What the hell did Clyde run off to do, anyway, when school finished? “…How was your football stuff?”
Clyde’s face just lights right up; to the extent that it makes Craig think Oh shit. “Practice was great,” he declares, throwing his arms out wide like he wants to hug the whole world. “But, uh, is there any stuff you guys need? I mean, Dad and I noticed the movers haven’t got here yet, so…”
Movers, Craig thinks. Wait. That’s important. Because one thing he remembers Mom packing – not that she’d throw them out or anything! – were all their family albums. He’s not sure if she’d needed two or three cardboard boxes to pack them all, but that doesn’t matter; what matters are the pictures! So many damn photos of his parents, of his family, of all of them together – that’s what’s going to solve all this!
“The movers are supposed to come tomorrow,” Craig replies, struggling to keep his sudden burst of excitement out of his voice. Then he forces himself to add, “Isn’t that right, Mom?” Even though calling her “Mom” makes him want to puke.
“Oh, didn’t I tell you?” Craig’s fake mom blinks, and gives him the most innocent smile, “They had to postpone! Our things won’t arrive before Wednesday.”
That sinking feeling in his stomach, that roaring sound in his ears. It doesn’t even matter, that he still won’t have a bed to sleep on, but the albums…! “Wednesday.”
“At the earliest,” Fake Mom even manages to sound like she’s sorry. “Anyway, one of the other neighbours brought a casserole over, so we can have dinner ready in no time. And after that, Daddy’s going to see about getting you a camp bed,” she goes on, as she walks over to unlock the front door, “Or maybe an air mattress…”
“Wait,” Clyde says, and he sounds almost… angry, “Are you saying Craig’s been sleeping on the floor, with a broken arm? Ma’am,” he adds, obviously as an afterthought.
Fake Mom bristles. “We arrived at four in the morning,” she fires back, no longer quite so sweet, “Because of the crash! And this morning, my husband and I had to go straight to work.” It’s clear she doesn’t like where this conversation is heading.
“Oh no, of course, I just…” Clyde’s obviously not great with getting snapped at; he goes from glaring at Fake Mom to staring at the ground in five seconds flat. “We’ve got an air mattress. That you guys can borrow.” Then he draws a deep breath, like he’s sucking in pure courage through his nose, or something. “Or Craig could come sleep over,” Clyde goes on, raising his head and locking eyes with Craig, “If he wants? You can have my bed, and I’ll take the air mattress.”
Well, damn. Craig is literally struck speechless, because he’s barely known this kid for a day. And then, to get an offer like this – it’s almost too much…
“Or I can sleep downstairs, if the sleepwalking creeps you out,” Clyde is saying, clearly taking Craig’s silence for refusal.
“That’s very generous of you, son. But we couldn’t possibly inconvenience y’all like that.” Craig’s entire body instantly tenses up, as Fake Dad opens the front door up from the inside and steps out on the porch. He slips his arm around Fake Mom, who’s still got her key in her hand, and at least those two are believable as a couple. Craig will have to give them that. Maybe they are a real couple, back in their real lives! He’s got no way of knowing that, after all. “But what we could use are some towels,” Fake Dad goes on, “For the shower, you know?”
“And that air mattress, of course,” Fake Mom shoots in, giving Clyde a big, fake smile.
“Oh, sure! Um… Was that Mrs Valmer? With the casserole,” Clyde clarifies, all shifty-eyed and wistful. “Black hair, super friendly, probably wearing yellow? My dad won’t be home until ten,” he adds, before he goes back to scraping at the ground with his shoe.
“It was indeed,” Fake Dad beams, and Craig decides that if Clyde can lend him an air mattress, the least he can do is invite Clyde to dinner.
“You want to join us,” Craig says, loudly and firmly. “That’s okay, right – Mom?”
Fake Mom and Fake Dad exchange an unreadable glance, before Fake Dad says, “Sure! It’s great that Craig’s making friends in the neighbourhood!” Whatever that twang in his voice was before – Texan? – it’s gone now, almost like the guy’s trying to hide his accent and sound more normal. More forgettable, even.

Since Craig’s still kind of full from that pasta thing Tweek made, it’s a small relief that whatever’s in that glass baking dish Jimmy’s mom brought over needs about twenty minutes in the oven. He leads the way upstairs, on the pretext of asking Clyde to help him pick a room, and the fakes don’t seem to mind. Maybe they need some privacy to discuss whatever the hell they’re up to. Shit, maybe Craig needs to find a way to spy on them, if he can overhear –
“I think you should go with this one,” Clyde says, walking right into the room Craig didn’t spend last night in.
“It’s the smaller one,” Craig counters, raising an eyebrow.
“It’s not that much smaller,” Clyde throws those words over his shoulder as he walks over to the window and pushes it up, before he raises his finger to point, “And my room’s right across there.”
Craig’s eyes widen. Damn, that could be useful! “Okay,” Craig says, mind instantly made up.
“Really?” Now Clyde’s looking at him with a kind of budding puppy-dog devotion, and Craig finds himself taking a step back.
“Yeah, why not,” he drawls, making his voice as neutral as possible. He shrugs, too, just to add to the whole “I don’t actually give a shit” vibe; it won’t do to get too attached to people.
Clyde doesn’t seem to pick up on subtleties like that, though. “Awesome,” he declares, in what is definitely not an indoor voice. “Hey, do you like D and D?”
The change of tack is so quick; it takes Craig’s brain a second to catch up. “What, Dungeons and Dragons?” He almost says, That shit’s for nerds. But the truth is; Craig’s always thought it sounded kind of fun. It was just really not a done thing at his old school back in Colorado Springs. So Craig just shrugs and says, “Never had the chance to try it.”
“Oh, dude!” Clyde’s grinning really wide now, and Craig is starting to mildly regret not going with his first answer. “It’s gonna be so much fun! We’re playing at Jimmy’s house tomorrow night; it’s the red one on the corner! Token’s girlfriend DM’s it, and she’s badass! Tweek’s Drow elf died last week, and Nicole was all, “No second chances!” so he’ll be starting a new character, too. So it won’t just be you!”
How exactly is that supposed to sell him on joining? And what is a Drow elf, anyway?
“We can photocopy the form for you in the school library,” Clyde goes on, way too excited, “I’ll run down to Jimmy’s after we eat, and tell him to bring the handbook tomorrow! Jimmy’s mom always cooks for us,” he adds, “And her cooking is insane.”
Craig frowns. “Insane as in “good”, right?” That probably explains why Clyde was angling for a dinner invitation.
“Insane as in “amazing”. As in, you’ll grow an extra stomach just so you can keep eating! I mean…” Clyde suddenly looks all embarrassed, “My dad and I can kind of cook? But Mrs Valmer, I swear she could open her own restaurant, you know?”
And that’s when Craig screws up big time. Because Clyde’s so goofy and friendly, it almost feels like they know each other already, like Craig can trust him with the big secret. So like an idiot, Craig drops his voice to a whisper and says, “My real mom’s a pretty good cook, too.”
“Huh?” Clyde looks utterly crestfallen. “You mean, is that… your step-mom?”
“No!” Craig quickly walks over to the window, and stands as close to Clyde as he dares. “Can you keep a secret?”
This seems to throw Clyde for a loop. “Uh, I guess,” he says, looking expectantly at Craig, who shakes his head. Jesus, this guy’s just missing a pair of floppy ears and a tail!
“Those people are just pretending to be my parents!”
Clyde lets out an uncertain laugh. “Is this, like… adoption humor,” he asks, with a half-hearted smile that looks more like a wince. When Craig can only stare at him, he adds, “Like Jimmy, you know? And how he jokes around about –”
“No, this is serious,” Craig hisses, pointing at the floor – and by extension, at his fake parents down there in the kitchen. “Those two used the car crash to swap places with my real parents!” Craig’s making sure to keep his voice down, in case they’re spying on him. “My real dad has red hair, and he’s balding on top. And my mom’s blonde! If I still had a picture, but they must’ve taken the photo from my wallet!”
Clyde literally goes on pause. He just looks at Craig for a minute, face completely blank, before he sort of shakes himself awake and says, “Hey, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t intrude on you guys. When it’s your first dinner in your new house and stuff. I’ll… see you in school tomorrow?”
Goddamn it. “Sure,” Craig replies, and does his best to make it sound like he doesn’t feel like throwing up. He sighs. “See you tomorrow.”

After he’d finished his homework in the staff room, Tweek caught the bus back home so he could get some piano practice in. Tweak Bros shuts at eight on Thursdays through Saturdays, and since Mom and Dad are both working late; that means Tweek’s got the whole house to himself.
Tweek’s black jean jacket lands over the bottom knot on the bannister, where he always throws it, and his sneakers smack against the radiator as he kicks them off. Then he runs upstairs to his bedroom and dumps his backpack on the floor, before he wrings his sweaty Led Zeppelin T-shirt over his head and drops that, too. Shirtless and panting, he throws himself down on the bed. He lies there for a minute or two, just staring up at the model airplanes as they swing slowly on their plastic strings. Until his breathing’s slowed down, and he can think clearly enough to say it out loud: “Shit, I’m in love.”
As soon as those words have left his lips, Tweek sits bolt upright and groans. “Gah! What am I supposed to do now?!”
He taps his fingers on the bedframe for a second, before he jumps decisively to his feet and goes over to the desk. Because his parents don’t want to “medicate his developing brain”, as Mom puts it, the three of them have tried a lot of different things to help keep Tweek’s OCD in check. And it was almost by chance that, three years ago now, Tweek had tagged along with Dad to this alternative bookstore in Denver and picked up a tarot deck. Something about it had just appealed to him – not so much for the fortune telling, which is just mumbo jumbo anyway… But because he’d realized that he was holding a whole system for organizing his thoughts, right there in his hand. And Tweek’s thoughts used to churn something fierce – at night, when he was supposed to sleep, at school, when he was supposed to be learning stuff…
Tweek slips the cards out of the pouch Mom made for them, out of an old silk scarf that had a hole in it, and his hands start to shuffle out of habit. This is another thing that helps calm Tweek’s nerves, and he sinks back down on the comforter, tucking his legs under him tailor-fashion. There’s more than enough space on his bed for a Celtic Cross spread.
Tweek’s kept the whole Tarot thing mostly on the downlow; the guys know of course, and he’s done loads of spreads for them. Nobody ever gets a more scarily accurate reading that Clyde; and Tweek can’t remember a time when the Queen of Swords hasn’t shown up in Clyde’s spread. Usually upside down too, as if someone out there wants to hammer the point home. At least Clyde’s got a sense of humor about it, Tweek thinks, as he divides the deck into three neat piles and then stacks them again. Now whenever Clyde sees the Queen of Swords, he’ll say “Hi, Mom!”
“Craig,” Tweek whispers, and feels instantly guilty – like he’s spying on Craig or something! “I just… I want to know what’s up with him,” he adds, before he pulls the first card. It’s the three of swords – literally three swords shoved through a big red heart. Tweek swallows. This is getting creepy, because the three of swords basically means separation and loss – like Craig getting separated from his real parents?! Jesus, and to think he’s barely even started this spread!
The second card, which crosses the first since it’s basically whatever’s counteracting it, is the Page of Cups, also right side up. Huh. Swish, swish go the cards, and Tweek tries not to think too hard about it until he’s finished the whole spread. Then he leans back against the headboard, chewing on his bottom lip.
So there’s the Tower – major disaster, basically – in Craig’s direct past, which could mean both the car crash and the whole “new set of creepy parents” thing… But it’s not all bad, because the Two of Cups is in Craig’s immediate future, and that means… Tweek can feel himself start to blush; that’s the card for falling in love.
But wait. That doesn’t mean squat. It probably means Craig will meet one of the prettier girls in class soon, like Bebe or Esther, and fall madly in love with her. “Get a grip,” Tweek mutters, shaking his head. As if someone as cool and gorgeous as Craig would like him, after all.
He quickly goes over the rest of the cards, and the seventh one gives him pause. The Fool; so that’s Craig’s opinion of this whole mess he’s in – the card that’s all about following your instincts and taking a risk… Well, confiding in Tweek might’ve felt like that, not to mention having to trust Kenny with the whole mystery pills thing. That’s probably it. The eighth card is the Devil, another Major Arcana, and here that could mean… Tweek frowns, because he doesn’t think it’s the old “material possessions mean more than spiritual gains” chestnut in this situation. Not even “physical desires over spiritual pursuits”, since Craig hasn’t met any of the cute girls in class yet – how not-tragic is that, right? Tweek ends up diving under his bed to dig out the Tarot manual, much-thumbed and annotated in three different color pens, to figure the Devil card out. But in the end, he thinks it’s got something to do with clouded judgement. So the people around Craig don’t think he can see the forest for the trees, huh? That could mean his fake mom and dad think they’ve got him convinced they’re the real deal by now.
The ninth card – Craig’s hopes and fears – is the Nine of Wands; and that one’s easy. That one guy on the card maybe be surrounded by quarterstaff-wielding enemies, and he may be leaning on his own staff and panting. But what he isn’t doing, is giving up. Strength through opposition; Craig’s not giving up without a fight. And the last card is…
Tweek’s blush is suddenly back, and this time it’s thermo-nuclear, because the tenth card – the final outcome card – is the Lovers.
“Gah, screw this,” he yowls, sweeping his hand over the spread and messing the whole thing up. That’ll teach him for spying on his brand new friend with Tarot cards!
The last thing he was expecting, was for the phone to ring – now, of all times! Tweek almost falls right off his bed, and runs out into the hallway, half expecting it to be Craig. Half expecting Craig to know he’s been up to some morally shady shit. “Jesus,” he pants, yanking the receiver off, “What do you want from me?!”
“Uh, hi Tweek?” It’s only Clyde, and Tweek goes weak at the knees with relief. “Can I… talk to you about something?”
“Why me,” Tweek blurts out, as he sits right down on the floor next to the phone table, and pulls the whole phone down so he can rest it on one knee. Normally, the go-to guys for advice would be either Token or Jimmy, depending on the category of advice you need. “I mean, sure,” he quickly amends, because it’s actually kind of nice, that somebody’s asking him for a change. “Are you trying to cook?”
“No, I…” Clyde goes quiet for a second or two. “Listen, you hung out with Craig, right? After school?”
Wait. Is this going to be Clyde telling him that he noticed how Tweek was drooling all over the new kid, and maybe ask him if he did something stupid? Or what if Craig asked Clyde which of the girls in class are single, and how to get their phone numbers, and Clyde’s just trying to tell him, in a nice way, that he’s got no hope in hell?
“Tweek? Are you still there, dude?”
“Gah! Yes!” Deep breaths, deep breaths. “And yeah, he came to Tweak Bros with me and Kenny. Why do you ask,” he adds, as casually as humanly possible.
Now it’s Clyde’s turn to go all quiet. “Oh nothing, really, it’s just… Did Craig seem kinda, I don’t know… Did he say anything weird?”
Okay, so this was definitely not what Tweek was expecting. Does this mean Craig told Clyde about the whole fake parents thing? It’s supposed to be a secret, and Tweek shouldn’t even mention this stuff to Clyde in case Clyde is talking about something else entirely, but how is he supposed to know what Craig’s said and done in front of Clyde? Not to mention he’s starting to get cold now, sitting here in the hallway with no shirt on.
“Weird,” Tweek says at last, turning it into a question.
On the other end of the phone, Clyde sighs. “Craig believes his parents have been replaced, okay? By like, these two impostors that he’d never seen until yesterday.”
Tweek closes his eyes in relief. That makes everything a lot easier. “Yeah, he told me the same thing,” he says, but before he can as Clyde if he’s got any ideas on how to help Craig prove that he’s right, Clyde cuts him off.
“This is like my mom all over again.” Clyde sounds both frightened and sad at the same time. “Remember how she used to think…” He doesn’t finish that sentence, but then he doesn’t have to. Tweek remembers, all right, but this isn’t the same thing!
“Dude,” he snaps, maybe a little too harshly – but that’s just because Tweek’s feeling ticked-off on Craig’s behalf! “I know I haven’t met his dad yet? But there’s a lot of stuff about Craig’s mom that doesn’t add up, okay? I mean, her handbag –”
“Wait, what? Tweek, listen, Craig may seem super nice and stuff, but we only just met the guy! He could be like, all kinds of crazy –”
“Or he could be telling the truth,” Tweek growls, holding the receiver out in front of him and glaring at it, “And you could be shitting all over the trust he just placed in you.” Then he clamps his teeth firmly shut, so he won’t go and say the one unforgivable thing. That just because Clyde’s mom was insane, doesn’t mean Craig has to be. Clyde is his best friend, after all.
“Okay,” Clyde says, after he’s spent a few seconds breathing deeply and loudly, and probably swallowed a thing or two he wanted to tell Tweek, “This isn’t getting us anywhere. Let’s just –”
“You are not telling Token!”
“…call Token,” Clyde keeps right on talking, before he realizes what Tweek’s just said. “What, Tweek, you can’t be serious!”
“No Token,” Tweek insists, as firmly as he can manage, “And no Jimmy. Not until Craig agrees to tell them himself. Is that fair? Come on,” he wheedles, tucking the receiver under his ear so he can fold his arms across his chest and rub them. He’s really starting to wish he’d put a shirt on. “You don’t want to bring up something like this on a Friday, dude. You’ll ruin DnD!”
Clyde sighs again. “Fine. He’s joining us, you know. Tomorrow at Jimmy’s.”
“What, Craig? Craig is gonna play DnD?!” For some reason, that seems much less plausible to Tweek than Craig’s parents being replaced by aliens, or whatever they are. Because, well… Craig just seems too cool for tabletop gaming!
“Yeah, maybe you could help him make a character or something?” Clyde is clearly eager to change the subject; confrontations have never been his strong point. “Since you’re making a new one for yourself, and all.”
“Huh, how do you know I haven’t finished my character,” Tweek asks, secretly relieved to have put that whole argument, or whatever it was, to one side for now. There are few things worse than being in a fight with Clyde, after all.
“Oh puh-lease,” Clyde instantly fires back; “I know you!”
Tweek has to laugh. “Okay,” he says, “That’s fair.”

Chapter Text

When they get back home, Kevin’s sitting on the front steps smoking weed. The sun’s already set but the sky’s still that soft, not-quite navy blue it gets before true darkness sets in. Kenny can see the first few stars up there, because there’s not much light pollution around here – you need things like street lamps for that, and those stopped working a long time ago.
“Hey,” his brother says, before taking another long, lazy drag. It’s getting cold, but Kevin’s out here wearing just his Grateful Dead T-shirt, the one that used to be Dad’s; and his disgusting old flip-flops.
Anger flares inside of Kenny’s chest. “Why’d you blow off your shift, man?”
Sure, Kenny will do anything to fade into the background at school; never raise his voice, never make a fuss. But it’s different at home; at home he’s got to speak up. For Karen’s sake, as much as for his own. And Kevin knows they need their jobs at Tweak Bros!
“Pfft.” Kevin blows out a cloud of sour-smelling smoke. “Wednesdays are dead at Tweak Bros, anyway,” he drawls, addressing his words up at that soft blue sky.
Kenny’s legs are long, it only takes him five strides to get over there and slap the joint out of his brother’s hand. That sure gets his brother’s attention.
“Dude, what the hell!” Kevin instantly bounds to his feet, ready to throw down, every inch Dad’s son.
“What are we gonna do if they fire us,” Kenny counters, and his anger lends him the courage he needs to get right up in his big brother’s face. “Even if they only fire you! Do you wanna go back to eating pop tarts for dinner?!”
“Huh,” Kevin abruptly twists his head to one side, breaking their eye contact, “Pop tarts sound good right about now, actually.” Then he turns back to Kenny with a big, give-a-shit grin stretching across his face, “Weed always gives me the munchies, you know?”
He could punch that grin right off of Kevin’s face. They’re pretty evenly matched these days, but Kenny’ll have the element of surprise on his side. Karen’s standing right there, though. Sporting the shiner that Mom gave her. He can’t go starting a fight with Kevin in front of Karen.
“You can shove a pop tart up your ass,” Kenny growls instead, as he lets his fist drop to his side.
“Relax, baby brother!” Kevin squats on the ground to pick up his still-glowing roach, though Kenny can’t help but notice that his brother isn’t taking his eyes off him. Good, let the shithead be on his guard. “I got a new gig,” Kevin goes on, blowing some dirt off it before he sticks the joint back in his mouth, “Starting yesterday, as a matter of fact. Pays way better than your stingy coffee shop hippies.”
Kenny closes his eyes. The Tweaks don’t even need us, he wants to say. Giving us jobs is just their excuse to hand us some pocket money and make us dinner.
“And what might that be,” he says instead, dropping to his haunches and locking eyes with his brother again, “This fancy new job of yours?” Part of Kenny thinks that they should see him now, all those guys at school who talk shit about him and push him around.
But Kevin’s prepared for him now, and blows that sour smoke right into Kenny’s eyes. It burns. “Like I’d ever tell you.”

A few hours later, and there’s a very different Kenny running from shadow to shadow on the empty suburban street. Tool belt stocked with firecrackers, grappling hook and line dangling right above his hip. His cape flutters behind him, and the handgun in its holster is a reassuring presence against the back of his spine. That’s the main reason for the cape – to hide the gun; or so Kenny tells himself. Truth is; he kind of likes the cape.
Tonight, he needs to scope out the new kid’s house, because some shit is definitely up with Craig Tucker and the people who say they’re his parents. It’s not just the stuff Kenny overheard Craig telling Tweek back at the coffee shop; it’s all the little things that don’t add up. How Craig’s mom showed up at school, hugging and fussing over him, but didn’t bother making him a lunch to take to school. Or even breakfast, judging by how Kenny spent most of first period jealously watching Craig munching on the chocolate croissant hidden inside his sling; Tweek normally saves the baked goods for lunch. But, before he can do that…
Crouched by the trash cans outside Bebe Stevens’ house, Kenny closes his eyes and sighs. It’s not like he wants to do this. But Kenny can’t be everywhere at once. And it’s not like the guy he has in mind won’t be happy to help. So he dashes across Bebe’s front yard and past the locked garage, quickly and silently. His cape is fluttering behind him again, and it almost makes Kenny feel like he could be flying. Instead, he throws his grappling hook, once he’s positioned himself underneath the right window. Catching the window-ledge on his second try, which isn’t bad at all, Kenny tests the line and decides it’s anchored well enough to risk the climb. Using one of the carabiner hooks hanging from his utility belt; Kenny hooks the cable on it. This is serious mountaineering gear he’s using, and it wasn’t exactly cheap, but God was it worth every cent. It’s saved Kenny from so many nasty falls, even if he did wind up swinging himself feet-first through a window and cutting his legs up on the glass.
Once you teach yourself not to look down, Kenny thinks, Climbing up a wall is almost easy. Just keep on feeding the line through your hands – and remember to wear gloves, for God’s sake! – and plant your feet firmly. Step by step, safe as houses.
If anyone could see him right now, what would they even think? That he’s just some kid out playing superhero; or a pervert with a Batman fetish doing some breaking and entering?
Finally, he’s up. Kenny pushes the window open all the way – this guy always leaves a little gap, almost like he’s hoping for Kenny to stop by at night – and swings his torso over the windowsill, poking his nose through the curtains.
Wow, he thinks, blinking in surprise, Someone’s been busy. There’s practically a whole wall devoted to blurry snapshots and newspaper clippings now, pinned on top of a map of South Park. Twine criss-crosses the map – just plain twine; this would have looked even crazier if it were red string. And the guy he needs to talk to is sitting right there at his desk, totally oblivious, with his nose buried in the pages spread out before him.
“Hey,” Kenny says, to make sure the kid’s spun around to face him in time to see him nonchalantly swing his legs over and into the room. He deliberately drops his voice as deep as he can, just to make it harder to recognize him. “I see you took the poster down.”
“Mysterion,” Kevin Stoley breathes, rising from his blue desk chair. “I still, uh, I keep the poster up during the day. To cover up all the, ah…” He waves his arm in the general direction of what he must know looks a lot like a serial killer wall, “… stuff.”
“You’ve been tracking my movements,” Kenny says, still in his growly voice. It’s not a question, it’s a statement of fact; Mysterion doesn’t go around doubting himself or apologizing for being alive the way good old Kenny does.
“Well, duh,” Kevin counters, with a shrug and a sudden, genuine grin. “You give us the best material for the comic, just by doing your thing.”
Ugh, yeah, that damn comic. Now that he’s come inside, Kenny can see that the papers Kevin was poring over earlier have got artwork all over them, of him biffing and posing his way through a fight with some knife-wielding dude. God almighty, this shit’s getting embarrassing. Looks like Kevin was gluing speech bubbles to the pages; there’s a stick of UHU standing there with the cap off.
“Okay, well…” Kenny figures he might as well just come out and say it, “This time, I need your help.”
“Whu-what? Really?” Kevin Stoley looks so shocked, and so happy, that the guilt is like a punch in the gut. Where does Kenny even get off, lying to a nice guy like Kevin Stoley? “Sure, man – anything!”
“Thank you,” Kenny growls, with a curt little nod. “You know the kid who just moved in, between the Biggles and the Donovans?”
Kevin frowns, “Craig Tucker, right? I haven’t talked to him much, but sure, I know who he is.”
“I need someone to keep an eye on Craig’s family,” he tells Kevin, “Or whatever they are, on my behalf. I think his parents might be up to something.”
“Do I have your permission to tell Scott and the guys,” Kevin immediately counters, without offering any kind of agreement – Kenny can kind of respect that. “It’s just, if there’s more of us, we can divide the spying up between us, you know? Make it a little less obvious.”
Bingo – that was exactly what Kenny had been hoping he’d say. But he plays it cool, shrugs and growls, “I don’t see why not.” After all, Mysterion doesn’t do shit like punch the air and go “Yessss” like a balloon that’s just been popped.
“In that case,” Kevin holds out an ink-stained hand, “You can count us in! So what’re we looking for, exactly?”
Ah yes, that’s the hard bit, isn’t it. “I have no idea,” Kenny admits. “Anything that seems out of place, I suppose.” He can’t resist giving his cape a little flap with his hand, just so it’ll billow around him nicely as he turns back to the window. “You’ll probably know what it is when you see it.”

Chapter Text

It’s kind of impossible not to think about Craig. When he’d finally got round to his piano practice, it had seemed to Tweek that every key sang Craig’s name when he’d pressed it. And while he was eating with his parents, every chew-chew-chew had been like a small echo of Craig’s name inside Tweek’s head. It had seemed almost… weird, for his parents not to notice that something’s up, that he’s got a secret now.
Dad was the one who made dinner, with a lot of clanging and swearing; Tweek kept hearing things like, “Because he can’t just pick up a hammer, can he?” coming out of the kitchen. Sitting at the piano and trying to concentrate on the Liszt etude he needs to have ready for Monday’s lesson, Tweek had been thinking that at least he didn’t have a Chopin piece to work on. You’re supposed to play Chopin quietly and gently; Tweek wouldn’t have been able to hear himself.
Mom, coming up from the basement with a basket full of laundry, had given Tweek a wry smile and said, “Think you can play loud enough to drown him out?”
Tweek had snorted and promised to try, before he got up and found his copy of Grieg’s Hall of the Mountain King. Now there’s a piece that just gives you unashamed permission to bash the piano keys as hard as you dare. Tweek’s been playing that one since he was eleven and had a lot less control over his ADHD. So it’s kind of an old favourite.
Mom’s smile had widened, and she’d given him a thumbs-up before she dumped the basket on an empty chair and started folding the laundry on the dining table. Hiring as many members of the McCormick family as possible had been Mom’s idea; Tweek knows that for a fact because he heard his parents arguing about it just last week, when Kenny’s dad had been supposed to start surveying the roof but didn’t show. And Mom and Dad almost never argue about stuff; Tweek’s grown up almost embarrassed by how happy his parents are together, so that had been… unsettling.
Still, Dad seems to have expended most of his suppressed rage on cooking; he made garlic and bean Kievs from scratch and they were delish. With baby carrots and spinach leaves, and fluffy white rice on the side. Tweek and Mom had both made a big deal out of how good it all was, and it had sure looked like Dad was relaxing and basking in their praise. But now, after they’ve all cleared the table and stacked the dishwasher together, Dad suddenly smacks his palm against the kitchen counter and says, out of the blue, “And did you hear how the bastard berated his son for “not working”?! When all he’d been doing up there…!”
Mom sighs. “Come on, Richie,” she says, putting her hand on Dad’s arm, tilting her head to look up at him. “Getting that worked up about it isn’t doing you any favours. Why don’t we have a nice family meditation,” she goes on, when Dad just growls something unintelligible at the ceiling. “You won’t be able to sleep when you’re that worked up. I know you,” Mom says, as the closing line of her sales pitch, and stands on tip-toe to kiss Dad on the cheek.
Dad lets out a deep, resigned sigh. “Fine,” he says, and nuzzles the top of Mom’s head for a second, because Mom’s got Dad wrapped around her finger and he knows it. “Put a CD on, will you?”
Family mediation means all three of them, so Tweek lies down in his usual spot between the dining table and the window, discreetly popping the top button of his jeans open because that was some dinner. He hears the quiet tick of the stereo before Mom’s favourite meditation album starts up –Way of the Dolphin, which is equal parts synth and squeaks. Tweek has heard it so many times now that his shoulders just instantly start to relax; muscle memory. Ahhh.
“Close your eyes,” Mom is saying, from her perch on the sofa, “And let the tensions slip away from your body. Put your thoughts of the day aside, and let them go.”
Completely unbidden, an actual memory pops into Tweek’s head, of how Craig had lied about skipping breakfast this morning. There had clearly been no breakfast; had there, and at the time he’d been so sure this was another Kenny situation. Good thing the guys agreed to help with getting Craig some lunch; Tweek thinks. Sneaky does it; like how he’d asked the lunch lady to put both the portions of lasagne he bought on the one plate. Craig hadn’t suspected a thing.
Wait, no. Don’t think about Craig. Jesus, he’s supposed to be relaxing, here! Tweek is starting to get annoyed with himself.
From far away, he can hear Mom’s voice: “Picture a meadow. You’ve been here before; this is a safe place you can always return to. You are lying in the soft grass, completely at ease, while a bird –”
“And he has the gall to take our money,” Dad suddenly snarls, making Tweek’s limbs jerk in surprise. “The gall!”
Mom sighs. “In your meadow,” she says, her tone just firm enough to convey a little irritation, “There is no space for the Stuart McCormick’s of this world. There is only peace.”
“Sorry, honey,” Dad says, and Tweek does his best to choke down his snicker.
In his meadow, Tweek imagines another body lying next to his. No cast on his arm, no perma-frown etched into his face; just Craig, smiling up at the blue sky. Just the two of them, at peace, together, and goddamn it! He’s doing it again!
Stop thinking about Craig, Tweek tells himself sternly, while Mom has started talking about feeling one with the earth, and one with the universe. Now that he’s admitted it to himself, though, it’s hard not to think about Craig. About the love that’s pulsating inside him like a living thing; a little ball of white-hot love beating in time with Tweek’s heart. Sure, Craig will never feel the same way about him, but that doesn’t make the feeling any less overwhelming and wonderful.
“You are breathing,” Mom says, seemingly from far away, “One breath at a time. Breathe in… And breathe out. Everything on Earth is breathing alongside you, and if a thought pops into your mind? Let that thought arise, then let it go.” Mom always says that bit; but Tweek can’t help but feel that today, it’s directed at Dad. “Come back to the breath. In, then out. We –”
“We’re paying that man to just sit on the roof!”
“I’m pretty sure he’s smoking weed up there, Dad,” Tweek says, completely unable to help himself.
Mom sighs again. “You two are not making this easy for me,” she says, with the slightest edge of annoyance in her voice.
“Sorry, Mom.”
“Sorry, honey. It’s just that – ”
“Richard,” Mom snaps, talking right over Dad, “You are in the meadow. You are breathing in and out. Your thoughts are free and your mouth is shut.”
Tweek turns his face into the carpet, snorting quietly.
“Now,” Mom goes on, “Feel the warmth in your chest. Let it rise up and form a ball, a glowing orb of love and kindness…”
“Oh come on, honey,” Dad protests, because he, like Tweek, can tell exactly where this is going.
“And this orb is rising from inside you,” Mom snaps, in that tone she uses when Tweek – or Dad, for that matter – has gone and done something really stupid; “And floating out over your meadow. Now, picture another figure there, someone who just might be…”
Tweek can hear Dad groan, almost inaudibly, from where he’s stretched out between the coffee table and the TV.
“Stuart McCormick,” Mom says, very firmly. “Or in Tweek’s case, someone else who could use a little love and kindness.”
Someone like Craig, Tweek thinks. Craig, who wears that weird old hat of his indoors for whatever mysterious reason; Craig who’s so firmly left-handed that he even struggles to eat with his right hand. And now he’s done it, because he can’t picture anyone but Craig standing in his meadow now; knee deep in the tall grass. Blue hat askew on his head, hands jammed into his pockets – at least in Tweek’s meditation space, Craig is spared from having a cast on his arm. Now he looks up from the ground, and his brown eyes seem to bore into Tweek’s very soul.
Far, far away, there is a voice that just might be Mom’s saying, “Now your orb hovers above his head; before it slowly expands into a golden cocoon. It spreads out around him, wraps him up in your love and understanding.”
As he hears the words, Tweek watches it happen; sees the glow of all his love encasing Craig, making his dusky skin glow, lighting Craig’s eyes up. But oh, what’s the use? Tweek can pour all his love like water into Craig’s hands, but Craig will never feel this way about him.
Suddenly, a hand on his shoulder makes Tweek’s eyes snap open, pulling him out of the meditation. He can see Mom’s face, right above his own, frowning with worry. He can feel the wetness on his cheeks.
“Hey, kiddo,” Mom says, very softly, “What’s wrong?”

This is almost starting to look like a bedroom, Craig thinks, as he sinks down on the borrowed air mattress. Clyde had dragged it over, with the help of a square-jawed, friendly guy who’d turned out to be Jimmy’s dad. Jimmy and his mom had tagged along too, with a bunch of bath towels (which Jimmy had carried, slung over one shoulder in a yellow IKEA bag) and a plastic basin crammed full of plates, mugs and cutlery. Four of everything; because Craig had mentioned having a sister at school; and Jimmy had actually remembered. They’re borrowing those towels from the Valmers, too, because apparently the towels at Clyde’s house “defy description”; whatever Jimmy’s dad had meant by that. It had made Clyde turn red, anyway.
“Until you get a dishwasher,” Jimmy’s mom had told Fake Mom, “You can use the basin to rinse the soap-suds off the dishes!” Then she’d smiled at her own good idea, and pulled out a full bottle of dish soap, too. There had even been a brand-new brush in that basin, tucked under the four stacked cereal bowls.
Clyde, who it turned out had just run over to the Valmers for his dinner, like one of those cats that eats at every house in the neighbourhood, had been pretending very hard that their conversation from earlier never happened. He and Jimmy had hung out for a bit in Craig’s new room, while Jimmy’s parents stayed in the living room with the fakes, sitting on the patio furniture Fake Dad had carried in from the garage. Craig and Jimmy had sat on either end of the air mattress, while Clyde leaned against the wall, right by the window. They’d only talked about normal stuff, or as normal as things seem to get around here, like tomorrow’s game night and their mind-boggling homeroom teacher. Jimmy had even thoughtfully brought over some of Mrs Garrison’s favourite reading material, at the bottom of that IKEA bag; his own well-worn and annotated copies of Mansfield Park, Wuthering Heights and Jane Eyre. Craig hasn’t quite managed to bring himself to crack one open yet. Though maybe, if his sleeplessness persists, he can just read one of those olde-worlde style bodice rippers until he passes out from the boredom.
Now that he’s all alone, Craig pulls his Discman out of his school bag – miraculously, this thing survived the crash – and he doesn’t feel the need to run that one song on repeat anymore. Instead, he lets the whole Nick Cave album just flow. Song after sonorous song, stretched out on Clyde’s air mattress while he watches the sky slowly darken outside, because he doesn’t even have curtains yet.
Tweek, he thinks, out of nowhere, in the middle of There Is a Kingdom. Tweek, with his cute bushy hair; and his Led Zeppelin shirt with the little coffee stain on it. Tweek, who apparently gets into fights on a regular basis, and could probably kick Craig’s head clean off like a football, given enough of a flying start.
Craig snorts. Yeah, right.
But more importantly, Tweek is the one who believed him, the only one who has, so far. And he’d pulled Craig into his own friend group without a second thought; he’d even made vegetarian food taste good. So is Craig really prepared to nurture his crush on this guy, who most definitely deserves better, and isn’t likely to like him back anyway?
Still. He hasn’t really thought that much about Thomas today. Not since Tweek had screamed “FATE WORSE THAN DEATH” into his ear. Craig smiles at the memory.
By now, it’s gone completely dark outside. Craig gets up, just as Far From Me starts playing. He could conduct an experiment, he decides, sloping over to the closet where he’d dumped his other backpack. The one crammed full of all things Thomas. He’s already got a box of matches in the front pocket, shoved in there while he was packing all this shit up and considering just piling it up and burning it all. It feels so light in his hand, that matchbox.
Craig unzips the backpack, shoves his good hand inside and roots around for a second. Grabs a piece of paper at random, and pulls out a unmarked but scuffed envelope. There’s just one page inside, and Craig instantly recognizes the poem, not to mention how soft the paper is. How round the corners have become. He’d like to think that Thomas read this one again and again.
You are the fire, he’d written back then. You are the fire and I am the night.
He shakes his head at those words now. A poem written in another life. He doesn’t even need the piece of paper; he can still recite the damn thing to himself if he closes his eyes:

You are the fire and I am the night.
All of my darkness shrinks from your light.
You are the sheath, I am the knife.
I was a stone. You gave me life.

“Jesus Christ,” Craig says out loud, and surprises himself by actually laughing a little. This thing honestly deserves to burn. Before he can change his mind, he goes over to the window. Holds the poem, envelope and matches in his left hand while he pushes it open with his right, careful not to bump the cast. Craig spends a clumsy minute stuffing the poem back inside the envelope – not easy when just moving his fingers sends shooting pains all the way up to his shoulder – because even the envelope, handled by Thomas, needs to be destroyed. Then, he lights a single match.
“To hell with you,” he says, out loud but still very quietly, before he puts the match to the paper. It catches on the first try, and as the envelope starts to curl up, Craig holds it out over the windowsill. Just watching that little flame light up the darkness.
Tweek, he thinks again. Maybe it’s not so bad after all, having a crush.

Chapter Text

Up and at ‘em, rise and shine and shit… Craig tries to rub the sand out of his eyes and conks himself in the face with his cast instead – that’s when he remembers he’s got a cast. Duh.
He yawns as he sits up on his borrowed air mattress; at least he finally got a good night’s sleep in thanks to this thing. Clyde had brought over one of those sheets with elastic sewn into the edges, to go over the corners – it had been very clean, but somehow also kind of… crunchy. What kind of industrial grade detergent does Clyde even use, Craig wonders absently, as he gets up and digs his toes into the rug. At least the rooms are carpeted in this damn house. Not much else left over from the previous owners.
Craig’s still got maybe two days’ left of clean clothes, which he “unpacked” right onto the floor yesterday, in neat little piles – socks, briefs, T-shirts, spare jeans – since the only closet doesn’t have shelves in it. Or coat hangers. Today’s definitely the day to bust out his clean jeans – the black ones are starting to smell, so blue jeans it is. But he hesitates when it comes to picking a T-shirt, because, well… Which one of them is the least boring one? There’s the black one, which, okay, is just black, but that doesn’t have to be a bad thing. You’re not pinned down by a black T-shirt, you don’t have to defend how you like Star Wars or PacMan or whatever. Then there’s the blue one, that has this… kind of a grid pattern all over it, in slightly darker blue. Craig’s real mom got him that shirt from Old Navy at the start of the summer, because Craig rarely gives enough of a damn to buy his own T-shirts, and at the time he’d thought it was okay. Kind of cool, even. But like, what would Tweek think?
In the end, Craig decides that if he wears the geometric blue shirt with his blue hoodie over blue jeans, that’ll just be way too much blue. It’ll still be kind of boring, but… That’s when he remembers that T-shirt Thomas got him. It’s crammed into his “Toxic Waste” bag, of course, along with all the love letters and crap, but maybe… If Craig wears it just today, maybe that wouldn’t be too bad. He goes over to the closet, digs through his old backpack without looking into it, and pulls it out. A cobalt blue T-shirt with the Superman logo spread out across the chest.
Like a lightning bolt to the brain, the memory hits him. Thomas had wrapped this thing so meticulously, and in the nicest wrapping paper – navy blue covered with gold stars. Craig had asked him what the occasion was, and Thomas had blurted out “Cock!” He’d instantly turned red and looked down, muttering, “It’s not like I need an occasion. I just wanted to, shit! To get you something.”
Craig had gently kicked Thomas’ scruffy white sneaker. “Hey,” he’d said, as soon as Thomas had looked back up, “Thank you.”
And the way Thomas had smiled at him then…
Ah, shit. Craig isn’t even sure this is a good idea anymore. “Just for today,” he says out loud. Just so Tweek won’t think he’s boring.
Craig shakes his head, like that’ll shake his thoughts into place, because seriously! What Tweek thinks about his choice of T-shirt doesn’t even matter, in the grand scheme of Craig’s life. No, what matters is getting hold of Grandma and Tricia, and getting them to post him – hell, FedEx him! – a picture of Mom and Dad. Or they could come to South Park; Grandma could get them bus tickets or something, and then they could show up and prove to Craig that he’s not crazy.
No, wait. He’s getting ahead of himself. First things first; he needs to get hold of Grandma, which means borrowing the phone somewhere. He could try going over to Clyde’s, but chances are the fakes will be watching him, and if they are… Then maybe at school? Sure, there won’t be any payphones, but maybe if he could get into the counsellor’s office or something? Craig knows he’s just got to keep looking for an opening.

Well, last night was a big ol' waste of time. Aside from setting up his little arrangement with Kevin Stoley, Kenny didn’t really get a lot done. He’d hoped to figure out what his brother’s been up to; what’s been paying better than Tweak Bros. His original suspicion – that Dad and his old buddies were cooking up meth again, and that Kevin’s now dealing for them – had turned out to be a bust. Dad’s old “workshop”, or whatever you’d call these places, was empty, all the equipment scattered and smashed up from the last police raid. He’s guessing none of those lowlives, Dad included, is willing to risk another raid quite this soon. But, if it isn’t meth… What is it? Kenny’s good at getting a spot at the back of the classroom; and he’s tall. He’s got a perfect view of Craig Tucker, who’s currently got Hard Times open on his desk and the Player’s Handbook, also open, balanced on his lap. If Mrs Garrison can tell, she doesn’t seem to give a damn; in fact Kenny can see what looks like a porn mag tucked inside that folder on the teacher’s desk. Wow, literally nobody gives a damn about this lesson, huh? Kenny ducks his head so that his hood will hide his smile.
“Now can anybody tell me,” Mrs Garrison drawls, sounding supremely bored, “What the dickens the author is trying to accomplish by having Bounderby constantly introduce himself as “Josiah Bounderby of Coketown”?”
Immediately, a whole bunch of people raise their hands – the usual suspects, of course, being Wendy, Kyle and Token; but Jimmy Valmer and Scott Malkinson also seem to have an opinion on the subject. Kenny just snorts quietly into his own hand. Never mind the shitty pun; he just can’t get over the fact that the characters all live somewhere called “Coketown”.
Mrs Garrison looks up from what is most definitely a porn mag, eyes scanning the classroom maliciously. “Tweek,” she says, lips twisting in a snide grin.
Tweek, who’s got what looks like photocopied character sheets spread out on his desk behind that green folder he lugs everywhere, gives a guilty yelp. “Gah! It’s ah, it’s all part of his fake persona!”
Kenny, who has the benefit of being study-buddies with Kyle Broflofski, finds himself nodding. Everybody always goes and hates on Gradgrind, he thinks, because Gradgrind is the most obvious villain. But in Kenny’s opinion there’s nobody more hateful than that puffed-up fake Bounderby. He’s spent enough time at work listening to Tweek talk about putting a spike through St John from Jane Eyre’s eye, or braining Fanny from Mansfield Park with a tyre iron. Or how Stan once said he wants his license and a time machine so he can tie Jude Fawley up and run over him. When Kyle had pointed out that Jude is a fictional character, Stan had just amended it to running over Thomas Hardy. And it’s not like Kenny can’t relate, but there is something about Bounderby that just fundamentally offends him.
“Go on,” Mrs Garrison is saying to Tweek, raising an eyebrow.
“I mean, uh…” Tweek, who hates being put on the spot like this, not to mention he’s probably terrified of getting detention if Mrs Garrison spots what he’s been doing for half the lesson, runs a shaky hand through his blonde shag-mop of hair. “I mean, Bounderby’s just running a con, you know? He’s invented this whole, ah, this whole fake history for himself where he lies about his parents abandoning him as a kid and sh–” Tweek cuts himself short, hastily amending that to, “Stuff. Just to make it look like he worked his way from the bottom to the top,” now Tweek starts waving both hands around in agitation, like he’s trying to grab invisible boobs or something, “Only then his mom shows up and it turns out his parents loved him after all, and gave him this whole education, and…” Tweek’s hands abruptly drop to his sides, “And GAH! I can’t stand that guy!”
That’s exactly it, of course – the same reason Kenny wishes Bounderby was real, so he could treat him to an evening with Mysterion. How someone who’s got it all, who’s got parents who love and care about him, can go around saying those same parents just threw him away like he was trash… Anybody who has that should just count themselves lucky, in Kenny’s opinion. If Kenny was going to lie about his childhood, he’d invent a set of parents who gave a damn. Maybe he’d give them a coffee shop, or a shoe store like what Clyde’s dad has, but he’d always specify how they made time for their kids. How they’d be working hard, running their business, but Kenny had still been able to go to them with problems and homework without getting hit. How they wouldn’t have minded buying all three of their kids gym uniforms, instead of saying “Get a job and buy your own.” Kevin had funded his gym uniform by dealing weed, for God’s sake…
“Tweek makes a good point,” Mrs Garrison drawls, yanking Kenny back into the here-and-now, before she flips over a page in her magazine. “Now, why would Mr Bounderby go to the trouble of lying about his childhood? Heidi.”
Huh, seems Mrs Garrison’s making a point of singling out whoever isn’t raising their hand today; Kenny will have to raise his for her next question to stay safely in the background. He knows what to say, in theory, but the words always just turn to mush in his mouth when everybody turns to stare in his direction.
“Mrs Garrison?” There’s Cartman waving his hand like a flag, and even being sort-of friends with the guy, Kenny cringes in mortified anticipation. “The book has a lot of “swarthy types” too, right? I’m talking about the circus people who kidnap Tom Gradgrind,” Cartman goes on, glancing slyly in Craig’s direction, and making Kenny think oh no. “My question, Mrs Garrison, is this – where the circus people what you might call spics?”
A sort of rush goes through the classroom, as people gasp. And even though he knows how shitty getting stared at must be, Kenny can’t help but sneak another look at Craig. He’s just calmly flipping through his DnD book, like he doesn’t give a damn what Cartman just said. At the lockers before first bell today, Kenny overheard Clyde whispering to Token this morning about Craig’s parents making him sleep on the floor. “With a broken arm,” Clyde had hissed, as if Token hasn’t spotted the massive cast on Craig Tucker’s arm yet. At least Kenny and his siblings each have their own mattress back home.
“Eric raises an interesting point,” Mrs Garrison drawls, sitting back in her chair. “Did Tom run away with the circus willingly, or was there an element of coercion involved?”
Kenny closes his eyes. Damn, so much for Mrs Garrison slapping Cartman down for his racist garbage.
“Excuse me, Mrs Garrison?” Tweek’s chair scrapes as he stands up, waving his right hand in the air, “I think I can answer that.” Tweek’s standing on one foot now, Kenny notices, and he’s covertly tugging his sneaker off with his other hand. He also notices how Craig is gazing over at Tweek with what seems to be mild interest, except the kid is holding his breath.
“Go ahead, Tweek,” Mrs Garrison raises one eyebrow, like she’s got her doubts Tweek can come up with anything clever to say about the writing of Charles Dickens.
“Thank you, Mrs Garrison,” Tweek says, switching his shoe over to his right hand. “Firstly,” he starts walking while he talks, “There’s no mention in the novel of what skin color the people in the circus troupe have.” He comes to a stop right in front of Cartman’s desk. “Secondly,” Tweek punctuates this by backhanding Cartman across the face with his own shoe, “Tom Gradgrind,” he raises his voice to be heard over Cartman’s startled wail, “Had just robbed a bank!” Whack goes Tweek’s shoe again, “He was going on the run!” Whack! “And the circus people were helping him escape!”
“Goddamn it, Tweek!” Cartman stops trying to cover his head with his arms and gets up too, deliberately tipping his own desk over, before he balls his fist up, “You little faggot!”
Tweek takes Cartman’s punch to the stomach like a pro; he doubles over the fatso’s fist but he stays on his feet! Kenny can’t help but be impressed.
“Language,” Mrs Garrison bellows, in a rather unfeminine manner, and all her layers of frilly skirts and petticoats seem to bounce as she springs to her feet. “That’s hate speech, young man! Five hundred lines – ”
“But Mrs Garrison,” Cartman wails, raising a hand to the shoe-print on his cheek, “Tweek’s the one who started – ”
“Five hundred lines,” Mrs Garrison repeats, raising a gloved hand to point at the door, “And you’re going straight to the counselor! Right now, Eric,” she growls, still in that deep, manly tone, “Before I make it eight hundred!”
At least Cartman knows when he’s beat. He picks up his red backpack off the floor and stomps out of the classroom, pulling the door shut behind him to make it slam. In the silence that follows, Craig Tucker of all people suddenly speaks up. “Tweek,” he says, and he actually sounds worried, “Are you okay?”
And Tweek straightens up as much as he can after a punch like that, which is about halfway, and treats Craig Tucker to a huge, dazzling grin. “I couldn’t let Cartman badmouth the circus people,” he says, nimbly side-stepping Craig’s question, “They’re about the only decent characters in that novel!”
It’s like the whole class lets out a big breath of relief, and it’s impossible not to laugh along with everyone else. Hell, even Mrs Garrison cracks a smile. “It’s nice to see young kids getting passionate about literature,” she says, while Tweek walks back to his seat, doing his best to make it look like it doesn’t hurt to move.
If being called… that in front of everybody bugs him, Tweek doesn’t give any indication. Kenny has a feeling it really doesn’t, though. Tweek clearly gives zero ounces of a damn what people think about him, and Kenny can really respect that.
Seems everyone but him’s too busy watching Tweek sit back down to pay any attention to Craig, who’s now staring at the kid like he’s Craig’s own personal Jesus. Huh, Kenny thinks. Interesting.

Chapter Text

“I don’t get it,” Craig says in a hushed whisper, pointing at the three empty character sheets spread out in front of him. “This says “wisdom”, and this says “intelligence” – aren’t those basically the same thing?”
Craig’s whispering because they’re in the school library pretending to study – when really, they’re here to build character profiles for tonight’s game. Every Friday, Tweek’s class has a free period right after lunch for “self-study”, so here he is. With Craig. Just the two of them again. It’s kind of nerve wracking, but kind of nice, too.
“Okay,” Tweek says, and draws a deep breath, trying to remember how Token once explained this to him, “Wisdom is like; you know to look out for cars when you cross the road? And intelligence is more like, when you cross the road; you know what brands all the cars are. ”
“Like common sense versus book-learning,” Craig asks, raising an eyebrow. Jesus, is he regretting this already?
“Y-yeah, kinda,” Tweek blurts out, a little loudly maybe. But he’s desperate for Craig to stay in his seat, and not just storm out of the library because the geek factor got too high.
“Okay. Listen, Tweek, I…” Craig starts shuffling the pages of his character sheets around, though he’s looking right at Tweek, “I wanted to say thanks. For that… thing with the shoe.”
Tweek can feel his cheeks heating up. “That’s… okay,” he replies, tapping his pencil against the table-top. “It’s not like I got any lines.” Three sheets of paper are fanned out in front of him – the three pages of the character form copied from Jimmy’s player’s Handbook. In duplicate, because he’s filling out Craig’s one, too. “You should, ah, try that yourself sometime,” he goes on, babbling nervously, “Smacking Cartman in the face. It’s pretty satisfying. But maybe wait until your arm’s healed up,” he adds, finally daring to look up and flash a quick grin at Craig.
Craig’s just staring at him, and if Tweek hadn’t seen this whole other side to him yesterday, he'd be wondering if Craig Tucker even has emotions. Then suddenly, Craig cracks the most miniscule smile in the world. It feels like a gift.
“That’d probably be best,” he drawls, while the left corner of his mouth twitches even further upward. Maybe this is the Craig Tucker version of a hearty guffaw.
“Uh, so anyway,” Tweek hurriedly directs his attention back to the character sheets. Good thing he mostly managed to fill in his own character stats during English. “Have you thought of a name for him yet? For your thief, I mean?”
There’s a pause, then Craig says, “Feldspar.”
“That’s cool,” Tweek blurts out – a little loudly for a library setting maybe. He’s just so relieved that Craig didn’t cook up some lame-ass bottom-of-the-barrel fantasy novel name. Feldspar, they can work with. “Does it mean anything?”
Craig gives him another one of those funny looks. “It’s a type of rock,” he says, with a little sideways smile. “In DC, there’s even a piece of Feldspar from the moon. Museum of Natural History,” he adds, as if daring Tweek not to believe him. Craig’s eyes are such a warm shade of brown, his stare is so direct. “The dudes on Apollo 16 brought it back in the seventies.”
Something tells Tweek that this, right here, is a clue. A rock from the moon. A piece in the puzzle that is Craig Tucker. He almost feels guilty, like he’s seen too much, so of course he has to crack a stupid joke: “So basically, your guy’s named Moonstone.”
Immediately, Craig flips him off, his middle finger right under the tip of Tweek’s nose, but he’s actually laughing! Very quietly, but still – Tweek can’t help but feel like that was an achievement. “Don’t you even,” Craig tells him, but it’s more of a plea than a threat. For a second or two, all they do is smile at each other, and Tweek must be crazy for even thinking this, but maybe…? Maybe he really does have a chance?
That’s when Craig says, “So what’re you gonna call your character,” and Tweek thinks, Why the hell not. Why not drop a hint and see if it floats.
“Twink,” he says, looking at Craig expectantly. “Twink the Barbarian.”
Craig frowns, like he can tell there’s a joke there somewhere but he can’t work it out, and the only thing that’s sinking is Tweek’s heart. But then Craig gets that glint in his eye, and says, “That short for Twinkletoes,” and Tweek forgets all about how Craig doesn’t seem to know gay slang, because he’s too busy laughing his ass off.
There’s a chorus of “Shhh!” from all around them, and Tweek winds up stuffing half his fist in his mouth to muffle himself. By the time he’s done, he’s red-faced and panting, scrubbing away tears of laughter with his sleeve.
Craig’s gone quiet, though. “Dude,” he whispers, jerking his head back towards the library entrance, “Is it just me, or is that guy spying on us.”
“What,” Tweek hisses, and feels himself instantly go cold all over. He cranes his neck to look past Craig’s shoulder, but the only person he can see at that four-person table is… “Kevin Stoley?”
“Yeah, that’s the one,” Craig replies, leaning closer to Tweek, “I think he followed us in here, too.”
“But that’s…” Tweek shrugs, his mind is boggling, “Kevin Stoley.” Words like “harmless” and “nerd” float to the surface of his mind. “Why would Kevin Stoley want to…” It’s so ridiculous; he can’t even make himself say it. He glances over at Kevin again, who’s got most of the table covered in printer paper. “Look,” Tweek leans in a little closer, “He’s probably just working on a storyboard again. That’s like, a sketch version of –”
“I know what a storyboard is,” Craig snaps, not raising his voice at all, but somehow lowering the temperature in the entire library, “And I know what I saw.”
Oh shit, oh shit! Tweek feels the panic bubbling in his belly like the world’s biggest fart. He needs to fix this, and fast, but how?! “I’m not saying I don’t believe you,” he whispers frantically, “But why would Kevin Stoley be spying on us?” Then the thought hits him, like a lightning bolt through the brain; “You think your fake parents could be paying him?”
He can see Craig relax as that idea takes hold. “Paying him to keep an eye on me,” he mutters, slowly nodding his head. “Yeah, that could be it.” Then he gives Tweek a look that seems to skewer his immortal soul, and says, “So you do still believe me.”
Tweek’s so relieved, it feels like being drunk. “Of course I believe you,” he whispers fiercely. “Have they…” He falters, trying to put the words together right, “…done anything else weird?”
Craig sighs. “What’s weird is how… normal they suddenly got. Like, this morning? I woke up and Fake Mom had made my favorite breakfast. Pancakes,” he adds, “With bacon and blueberry jam. But she’d made ‘em wrong. Mom’s pancakes are fluffier, these ones were just… stodgy, you know? And she didn’t know to add the vanilla, so they just tasted plain. But she still knew,” he goes on, “Somehow, she knew what my favorite breakfast was.”
“That’s creepy,” Tweek agrees, biting his bottom lip. “What about the guy?”
“Fake Dad?” Is it just his imagination, or does Craig shiver a little bit when he says that? “He’s… aloof, I guess. Doesn’t talk to me much, but I’m kind of glad.”
Tweek opens his mouth, then closes it again, because what can he even say? I’m sorry your fake dad terrifies you? Yeah, right. There must be something he can do for Craig, some practical way he can help, like how Clyde brought the air mattress over… Wait, that’s it! In his eagerness, Tweek leans forwards and grabs Craig’s good hand between both of his own. “If you ever need to hide from them,” he whispers fiercely, “Clyde’s dad hides the spare garage key under the pot plant by the front door. The pot with the blue windmill on it. Clyde keeps his bike in the garage too,” he goes on, as another idea manifests itself, “And if you have to take it to save your life, I know he won’t mind!”
Then he realizes that he’s basically holding hands with Craig, whose eyes are wide open with surprise. Tweek lets go as if the touch has burned him.
Luckily, Craig seems to decide to just ignore the whole thing, because he’s nice enough to change the subject after Tweek’s pulled his hand back. “To be honest,” he says, “I kind of blew it with Clyde.”
“I know you told him about… that,” Tweek blurts out quickly, because he already feels guilty enough about keeping the whole tarot spread thing from Craig. “Thing is, it’s only because of his mom that Clyde freaked out, I mean she used to believe –”
“Heya Tweek,” Butters Stotch says, literally from out of nowhere, and Tweek screams as he leaps out of his seat. This has the unfortunate effect of rendering the already quiet library deathly silent, so the sound of Tweek’s wooden chair banging against the floor seems as loud as a gunshot.
“Sorry, sorry,” he whimpers, and of course the damn chair has to scrape as he pulls it back upright. It feels like a thousand eyes are glaring at him, drilling into his neck.
At least Butters is by himself; the poor kid has Eric Cartman for a neighbor so he’s kind of been forced into being friendly with the guy. There’s no doubt in Tweek’s mind that Cartman’s planning some heinous revenge for the shoe thing right about now.
“Aw shucks, I’m awful sorry,” Butters is saying, swinging his bag off his shoulder and dumping it on their table. “I was just talking to Kenny in the john,” Butters goes on, with no verbal filter whatsoever, as he starts digging through his backpack. “And he was saying how nobody’s gone and signed Craig’s cast yet, so maybe you’d like something drawn on it? And since I’d brought a bunch of these bad boys to school today…” He holds up a fistful of colour markers, and Tweek has to smile, because it’s just like Butters, to think of something like that. Knowing him, he probably wants to help Craig feel welcome, in spite of Cartman and his bullcrap.
Now Kevin’s left his post at his own table to come join them, shaking his head and grinning, like he’s doing his best not to laugh. “I promise you he can draw,” he tells Craig, jerking his head at Butters. “Best artist in my whole crew,” he adds, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, “But don’t tell Bradley I said that.”
Tweek can’t help but notice how Craig’s lip curls a little at the mention of Bradley’s name. Then he realizes that he never asked to sign Craig’s cast, and instantly feels terrible about it.
“Okay,” Craig says, after a moment’s consideration. “You have anything in mind?”
“Oh my gosh, yes,” Butters lights right up at the prospect of drawing, like a kid who’s been promised a treat. “I was thinkin’ of doing a superhero thing? Cause of your shirt,” he adds, pointing at the golden “S” poking out from Craig’s zipped-up hoodie. “You’re one of us!”
Tweek can pretty much see the moment Craig gives in, overwhelmed by the other boy’s puppy-dog enthusiasm. “Fine,” he says, before he rolls his sleeve up all the way past the edge of the cast. “Knock yourself out.”
Since Tweek’s already standing, it seems natural to give his seat up to Butters. He’s feeling way too fidgety to sit, anyway, after he went and made such a royal ass of himself. It’s kind of fascinating, though, watching Butters work. He’s so fast, blocking out the body and where the joints go, and it doesn’t take Tweek long to realize that he’s not just drawing any old superhero. He’s drawing Craig as a superhero, levitating off the ground with one fist pointing right at you. Complete with his dead-on stare and his blue and yellow hat.
“You should draw him giving the finger,” Tweek suggests cheekily, and Craig rewards him with a raised eyebrow and a snort.
“Sure, why not,” Butters says distractedly, swapping markers and quickly amending the hand with a few, quick strokes of the black one. He’s in the zone now, and you’d pretty much have to drive a freight-train through the building to break his concentration.
A few of the girls from class – Nicole, Red and Wendy – slowly drift over, forming a loose half-circle around the table. Red immediately slides under Kevin’s arm, and Tweek catches the sly grin on her face when Kevin gives her butt a quick, sneaky squeeze – seriously, those two! Bebe comes over too; but she seems less interested in the drawing as she winds her arm through Tweek’s, pulling him to one side. “Do you have time to help me make a character,” she whispers, her breath tickling his ear, “After cheerleading practice?”
Tweek’s eyes widen – shit, he’s forgotten all about the Master Plan, and it hasn’t even been a week since he cooked it up with Bebe and Nicole! Bebe joining them for DnD had even been his idea, a chance for her to spend some quality time with Clyde in a stress-free environment. A totally non-obvious way to get the two of them together and just talking. The girls on the cheerleading team all see Tweek as their “man on the inside” as far as other boys are concerned. If this works, Bebe and Clyde won’t be the first couple Tweek’s helped hook up.
“Sure,” Tweek whispers, and Bebe gives him a quick peck on the cheek. It’s funny, she and Clyde literally grew up on the same street – they’d be neighbors if the Stoleys’ house wasn’t in between theirs – and they even used to play wedding together back in kindergarten. But maybe that’s precisely the reason it’s been harder for them to start dating for real, now that they’re older. Even though they’re clearly nuts about each other.
“Ta-dah!” Butters lifts his pen with a flourish, and Tweek can see that he’s signed the drawing in the bottom right corner, with his usual “BS!” artists’ tag. Now that it’s done, wow – that drawing really is something. He’s most definitely drawn Craig – dusky olive skin, perma-frown and all – in a navy blue spandex suit with his hoodie worn over it, unzipped to reveal the golden “S” on his chest as he lifts off the ground, middle finger raised at the sky. And Craig’s face when he looks at this thing, shaking his head in wonder! Tweek can see how happy that makes Butters, who’s grinning from ear to ear.
“Thanks, man,” Craig says, and he even cracks a smile, “This is really cool. I feel like I should pay you or something.”
“Aw heck no,” Butters waves that idea away, like a cat swiping at a fly, “This is what I do for fun!”
“Well,” Bebe says, releasing Tweek’s arm, “Would you like the rest of us to sign it, too? I’m warning you though; the most I can draw is a flower.”
Craig shrugs, and says, “I guess,” like it’s no big deal, having the prettiest girl in class sign his cast.
“We’re practically neighbors, you know,” Bebe is saying, as she roots through Butters’ pencil case and selects the red pen. “I’m in the red house on the corner, next to Kevin and Esther’s house.” She writes “Get well soon” in her pretty, swirly handwriting, before drawing a flower with the stem sort of curling under the words and underlining them.
Tweek doesn’t even let her finish signing it before he blurts out, “Me next, okay?!” Because he suddenly knows exactly what he’s going to write. He grabs a bright green pen, and as soon as Bebe’s done, he nudges Butters off his seat and starts drawing a half-full health bar underneath his superhero picture. Then he writes “May Super Craig regain his HP ASAP!!” and scrawls his messy signature underneath.
Craig cranes his neck to read it, and then, to Tweek’s utter shock, he tips his head back and laughs so hard and so loud that he gets them all kicked out of the library.

Chapter Text

After he’d put the suggestion in Butters’ mind to go draw on Craig’s cast, Kenny had tracked his brother down behind the gym. This morning, Kevin had been gone when Kenny woke up. Off on his oh-so-important new job, probably – it had been fifty-fifty if he’d even show up in school today. Anyway, behind the gym is Kevin’s usual place of business, and sure enough, Kenny walks right in on his… transaction with Cartman, of all people. Kenny arrives just in time to see a small, flat packet wrapped in silver foil disappear into Cartman’s back pocket.
“Hey Kenny,” the Cartman says, in that tone that always hovers so close to malice that you can’t tell if he’s about to go after you or not. “Can’t afford lunch, huh?”
Kenny ducks his head and mutters a quiet “Hi” in response. Why is Cartman even here? Kenny’s never seen him do drugs, which is one of the few nice things he can say about the other boy.
That Goth chick, Henrietta, is there too, scowling at Kenny. She’s just smoking Camels though, not that most people would be stupid enough to smoke an actual joint in school. It seems like kind of an odd brand for a girl who wears all black lace everything, though, but then Henrietta’s been smoking Camels for as long as Kenny can remember. She smoked them for her entire two-month stint of dating Stan, back when he had his Goth phase, and Stan’s clothes reeked of them.
Kevin greets him with a cheery “Hello dickhead,” that has a bit of an edge to it, so Kenny quickly pulls out Craig’s pills.
“Here,” he says, handing them over as a kind of peace offering. Oblong white pills, packed tightly inside the TicTac tube Tweek had put them in. “You know what these are?”
Kevin counters that question with another one, “Where’d you get these?”
Kenny ducks his head and shrugs. “New kid in my class,” he mutters, doing his best to sound indifferent. “Guess he’s got issues.”
Cartman’s round face sort of splits itself apart as he smiles. “You stole Craig’s meds? Not bad, Kenny, not bad! Messing with Tweek would be too obvious,” he goes on, “Not to mention it’d put your precious job in danger, but this? Messing with his boyfriend?” Cartman chef’s kisses his own fingertips, “Genius.”
Oh. Right. Cartman thinks Kenny stole these from Craig to get even for him. But Kenny’s been feeling iffy about their friendship for a few years now, if he’s being honest. Watching him go after Craig like that, like Cartman’s trying to chip away at the new kid until he blows up, has only made Kenny more uneasy. After all, Cartman and Tweek have been enemies since like, the dawn of time, and Kenny’s almost grown to expect stuff like Tweek’s stunt with the shoe. But Craig hasn’t done anything to deserve Cartman’s bullshit.
“I don’t think he’s Tweek’s boyfriend,” is all Kenny can come up with, when it becomes clear that Cartman expects some kind of response.
“Pft,” Cartman waves that statement away, “Tweek’s still nursing a boner for that brown asshole! That’s all that matters!”
“Ugh, God,” Henrietta groans, before taking a deep drag of her cigarette, “You’re talking about that guy with the mom, aren’t you.” Wow, seems like word really had spread fast. “His mom showed up in the cafeteria,” Henrietta goes on, when Kevin just stares blankly at her, “Showered him with kisses and shit.” She makes it sound like the worst fate on the planet – Craig would probably agree with her, actually. “Anyway,” Henrietta drops her cancer-stick and grinds it into the dirt with one boot-heel, “I’ll see you around.” This last is directed at Kevin, who gives her one of those big, charming grins that never ever reach his eyes.
“I’m counting on it, Henri,” he replies, before he shakes one pill out onto his palm. “Obviously,” Kevin goes on, slouching against the wall, “These are some kind of benzo. But you knew that already.” Not a question, that last bit, and Kenny nods.
“Benzo,” Cartman asks, eyes sparkling with eagerness – he clearly thinks he’s gathering dirt on Craig. “What’s that?
“Ben-zo-di-a-ze-pines,” Kevin says, chopping the word up into bite-size pieces while he rolls his eyes at the sky. “That’s like, a family of tranquilizers, okay? Just like sheep and cows are part of the herbivore family,” he adds, like he’s explaining Santa Claus to a child. The message is clear – don’t interrupt me, dickweed. And from the way Cartman’s expression sours, he definitely gets the message. “I’d have to take one to help me figure out more, though.” He snorts, thinking about it, then adds, “Might put an acceptable spin on Spanish, actually.”
“Be my guest,” Kenny shrugs, because a mellowed-out brother beats a pissed-off and highly suspicious brother any day of the week. He won’t even suggest lacing Mom and Dad’s food with them, har-de-har. He won’t ask for a cut, either – that’s kind of the point. To let Kevin think he’s weak and scared, scared enough of his big bro to give him a generous helping of prime merch just like that. Kenny doesn’t want any money from Kevin’s drug sales anyway, not even to buy stuff for Karen. As Mysterion, there are some lines he can’t cross.
“C’mon Kenny,” Cartman says, winking and patting his pocket, “Let’s go put this weed in Tweek’s locker now. You still know the combination, right?”
The shock of what Cartman just said is enough to make Kenny’s head spin. So that’s why the fat boy was buying from Kevin! And what the hell is he supposed to do? He can’t tell Cartman no, and he most definitely can’t rat him out to Tweek; Cartman would know it was him! But at the same time, he can’t let Tweek get into this kind of trouble – this is the stuff that gets kids expelled! Not to mention how disappointed Tweek’s parents would be, or how badly Tweek himself would freak out. No, no, no.
“I don’t,” Kenny mutters, letting his shoulders slump before he shoots a quick glance up at Cartman. “I think he changes it at least weekly, after what Stan did.”
It’s hard to keep the accusing tone out of his voice, because Kenny will never forget Tweek’s face when he’d gone to get his textbooks and a literal river of gay porn had rushed out. Magazines and video tapes all over the floor, with kids tripping over the tape boxes and slipping on the glossy covers. Tweek had never asked if he’d been the one who gave up his locker code, but Kenny thinks he might have suspected.
Tweek had pulled himself together so well, though – sure, he’d been speechless and horrified for about half a minute, but then he’d said, “Aw, you guys! It isn’t even my birthday!” Then Jimmy had started asking people for plastic bags so Tweek could carry his new “collection” home, while Clyde and Token had made a big deal out of dusting off all the stuff and exclaiming over the covers. And as a team, as the most badass friend unit in the world, those four had turned the whole thing into a joke. Stan had been furious.
“Pft, paranoid little fruit,” Cartman says dismissively, but he seems to buy it. He starts waddling towards the corner of the gym; just as the bell goes off, so sure Kenny’s going to follow him that he doesn’t even bother looking.
So Kenny decides to go with his gut feeling; throw the dice and all that jazz, and hangs back. “I heard something, you know,” he mutters, just loud enough for his brother to hear. “I heard Craig doesn’t even think that lady is his mom.”
There’s absolute silence between the two of them, thick and heavy, and oh God this was a terrible idea! What was he thinking; betraying Craig’s trust… except that Kevin just flinched a little bit there, didn’t he?
“Well,” Kevin says, after waiting just a little too long, “That just proves how crazy he is, right?”
He knows something, Kenny thinks, but Cartman’s finally noticed that he’s walking alone and started shouting for him – “Kenny, c’mon you underage benefits fraud!” – and that breaks the spell.
“Hasta la vista, baby brother,” Kevin drawls, hands in pockets, back in control of himself again. Then he jogs around the other side of the building, going for the shortcut past the Home Ec. room, and Kenny is alone.
“Come on, you asshole,” Cartman is yelling, “Do you have Ebola or something? I heard that’s a poor people disease!”
Ah well, Kenny thinks, as he pulls his hands into his sleeves and breaks into a light jog to catch up with his sort-of friend, Not all alone.

As the whole lot of them walk to Geography together, Craig just sort of happens to fall into step next to Tweek. Who, in his effortlessly cool way, is wearing a purple Purple Rain T-shirt that Craig has been sneakily staring at it all morning, and through lunch. A pun and a shirt, rolled into one. He’d been thinking that he should’ve just worn his stupid Superman shirt backwards, instead of thinking it makes him look even remotely cool. Only then, it kind of turned into a thing at the library, didn’t it, so maybe the Superman shirt wasn’t such a bad idea after all…
Butters’ brightly-coloured drawing almost looks like a tattoo on his cast. But it’s Tweek’s message underneath it that really puts a secretive smile on Craig’s face. “It’s funny,” he says, before he can chicken out, voice low enough that only Tweek will hear, “But when I was little? My parents used to call me Super Craig. Sarcastically,” he hastily adds, when Tweek’s eyebrows shoot up and disappear into his fluffy blonde hair. If cotton candy came in a lemon flavor, that’s what Tweek’s hair would look like.
“Okay, so… You can not just leave it like that,” Tweek grins up at him, before he carefully nudges Craig in the ribs.
It’s exhilarating, having Tweek’s undivided attention. It’s hard to keep his voice all chill when he replies, “Why not?” Totally worth it, though, when Tweek growls out loud in frustration.
“Argh! Because!” He looks like a puppy, all pissed because you’re dangling a toy just out of reach, the way he’s clawing at the air with his hands.
“What’re you fellas talking about,” Butters asks, because of course Tweek’s attracted pretty much everybody’s attention.
“Oh,” Craig shrugs, “I’m just messing with him.”
“Gah! You even admit it,” Tweek howls, so frustrated that he’s pulling his own hair. It’s hilarious and adorable. The girls are all laughing at him now, and that blonde girl who signed Craig’s cast first gently unknots Tweek’s hands before she – goddamn it – winds her own arm through Tweek’s. Shit, are those two a thing? They act more like, like siblings than like a thing, Craig tells himself, as the blonde girl tuts and tells Tweek to leave his hair alone.
But then, luckily, she spots someone – it’s Clyde, walking between Token and that ginger asshole, Kyle. “Clyde,” she yells, waving as she lets go of Tweek and runs over to the boys, “Are you coming to watch us?”
“What, cheerleading practice? Sure!” Clyde’s grinning and blushing, and then he does this retarded “we’re-just-buddies” move where he elbows the girl. At least he’s clearly not using his full strength. “Who doesn’t want to watch cute girls doing stretchy things?” Even someone as clueless as Craig can see how desperately Clyde’s pretending not to be into this girl; Craig rolls his eyes at the ceiling and sighs as quietly as he’s capable of.
“Oh Clyde, you sexist pig, you,” the black girl – Nicole? – teases as she slips under Token’s arm and stands on tip-toe to give him a quick, chaste kiss on the lips.
“Yeah, come on,” the girl with the long red hair says, “You’re forgetting all about Tweek!”
Wait, what now? Craig whips his head around to stare at Tweek, who isn’t busy furiously denying it, he’s… smiling? “I’m the cornerstone of the human pyramid,” he tells Craig, and he even sounds kind of proud. “Dude,” he adds with a laugh, “It gets me out of so much stupid sports crap!”
“You love it, really,” the blonde girl argues, grinning from her spot next to Clyde. Craig doesn’t claim to understand girls at all, but he gets a feeling Clyde won’t have to try very hard, if he wants this one for his girlfriend.
“I personally find Tweek very inspiring,” Token drawls, “When I’m out on the pitch.” Just a raised eyebrow gives away the fact that he’s kidding. Nicole snorts and buries her face in his shoulder.
While everybody’s laughing at Token, Craig has to look over at Tweek, who’s gone very still. If life was a Micky Mouse cartoon; you’d be able to see the light bulb hovering right above his head. Their eyes meet, and Tweek seems to reach some kind of decision.
“Hsst, dude,” Tweek whispers, pulling Craig back by one sleeve as everyone starts filing past them, “I just got this idea, okay? For how you can get to a phone,” he explains, “And call your grandma. But you have to trust me and do what I say.”
Craig’s heart is starting to pound now, because Tweek is standing so very, very close. There’s a longish thread sticking out of the shoulder of his Purple Rain shirt, pale purple, mingling with Tweek’s messy half-curls. And he smells so damn good.
“How,” Craig begins, and then he has to swallow, “How could I not trust the world’s only male cheerleader?”
Tweek is startled into laughing. “You asshole,” he snorts, before he grabs Craig’s sleeve and starts towing him down a different corridor. “They’ve got male cheerleaders in Japan, you know! They wear gloves and black uniforms, I saw it on TV. And, ah, I may have taped it,” he adds, grinning up at Craig, “In case some asshole doesn’t believe me.”
Is Tweek seriously inviting him to his house to watch some taped show about Japanese cheerleading? Hell, is Tweek inviting Craig to his house, full stop?! Before he can work up the nerve to ask, Tweek stops walking, and Craig realizes he’s taken them back to where their lockers are.
“I’m taking you to the counselor’s office in a minute,” Tweek tells him, frowning with concentration as he enters the combination on his lock. “I just need to pick up a prop first.” What’s he storing in there anyway, Craig wonders, because Tweek’s not using the simple padlock the school issues you with; he’s got one of those number locks. And what the hell does he mean, pick up a prop?
Just as Craig is starting to wonder if Tweek’s planning to threaten the counselor with one of those fake knives that retract into the hilt, Tweek goes “Ah-hah,” and pulls out… a blue hat with a red poofball on it, and what looks like black hair sticking out from under the red rim. It must be sewn into the lining, Craig figures, but why…?
“Stan Marsh,” Tweek says, in the kind of tone you might use to say something like “serial rapist” or “child murderer”, “Wore a hat like this throughout elementary school. He’s even got one now that’s almost identical, and even if he only wears it outside…” Tweek’s face is lit up by a downright diabolical smile, “If people see the hat, they’ll see Stan. That’s like, common psychology.”
“Oh,” Craig says, trying to hide that he’s kind of impressed. “So your disguise is a hat. Right.” That must be some grudge Tweek is holding, for him to keep this kind of thing in his locker.
“You’re just jealous,” Tweek stuffs the hat, hair and all, down the front of his jeans, “Because you didn’t think of it first!” He grins while he’s arranging his T-shirt over it; you’d never know he was carrying a homemade hat-wig. “It’s not too far from here. I’m gonna show you his door, and then I’ll go throw a rock through Mr Mackie’s window from the lawn. Okay?”
Craig blinks at him. “Okay.”
“Don’t worry,” Tweek tells him, in a tone that’s probably meant to be reassuring, “I’m fast. I’ll be in Geography before the lesson’s even started! Now I just need to find the perfect rock...”

The last thing Tweek had done before dashing off on his rock hunt; was warn Craig about Mr Mackie’s head. It’s a good thing he did too, because hot damn; that is some noggin the poor guy is sporting.
Dude, Craig thinks but doesn’t say, You must have neck muscles of steel.
“Come on in and take a seat, m’kay,” the counsellor says, as he steps back from the door to let Craig in. “Now, remind me of your name again, son?”
“We’ve actually never met before,” Craig tells him, before he perches on the very edge of the visitor’s chair. From where he’s now sitting, he’s got a perfect view out the window, but no sign of Tweek yet. Craig’s palms feel so sweaty all of a sudden. “My name’s Craig Tucker? I started yesterday.”
“Oh, right, is that so?” Mr Mackie pulls his own chair out and sinks into it; and he looks so thin and old that for a second Craig feels incredibly bad about this whole crazy plan. But what’s he supposed to do, tell this counselor he just met about his parents getting replaced?
“Now, in order for me to be able to help you, Craig,” Mr Mackie prompts, “I need to know why you’re here.”
Oh shit. What’s he supposed to say to that? What would be a good reason to go bug this tired old guy, when in fact Craig ought to be in Geography?
“There’s this fat kid,” he says, after an uncomfortable silence that stretches out way too long, “Who keeps calling me a spic.” As soon as he’s said it, Craig almost wishes he hadn’t, because the old guy looks so damn ashamed.
“That would’ve been Eric Cartman, wouldn’t it,” Mr Mackie sighs, running a liver-spotted hand through the thin tufts of his hair. “Craig, on behalf of the school, first let me apolo –”
There’s a crash, and Craig realizes that Tweek must’ve snuck up behind those trees out there while he was busy looking at the counselor. There’s half a red brick lying on the carpet now – man, Tweek’s hunt for the perfect rock was a resounding success – surrounded by a halo of broken glass. And now Tweek’s hightailing it out of there, only he’s not running too fast, like he wants to make sure Mr Mackie gets a good look at that hat.
“Stan Marsh,” Mr Mackie yells, and all the tendons in his thin neck are straining with anger. He’s already forgotten that Craig’s in here with him. The old guy may not be that fast but he’s got long legs, and he stalks out of his office with the crazy speed of a startled spider, letting the door slam shut behind him. Yes!
Craig’s on his feet and pulling the grey rotary phone towards him in seconds, and sliding his left arm out of his sling without thinking. Just so he can dial properly, even though it hurts worse than toothache to move his fingers. He’s known Grandma’s number by heart since he was five years old.
It rings and rings, for a whole, agonizing minute, before someone finally picks up. “Grandma,” Craig blurts out, heart pounding, “Grandma, you’re not going to believe this, but –”
“But what,” his sister asks sharply. “Yeah, sorry, Craig,” she goes on, her voice thick with sarcasm, “It’s only me.”
“Where the hell were you guys yesterday,” Craig blurts out, instantly falling back into their old push-and-pull, you-stole-my-cracker relationship; he can’t help himself. “I called you, and nobody picked up!”
“Grandma took me shopping,” Tricia tells him smugly, “For school supplies and stuff. And then we went to see a movie.”
Ugh, goddamn how much that brat is enjoying having Grandma to herself. Just listening to her is starting to piss him off, but that’s not the point here! “Okay,” Craig snaps, “So I actually give zero shits about that, but I need to talk to Grandma. Please, Trish,” he adds, when this is met by nothing but angry silence. “There’s some insane shit going on here, and Mom and Dad are gone! These two insanely creepy people took their place after the car crash – I broke my damn arm, you know! – and I need you guys to come down here, to confirm that they’re fakes!”
Shit, Craig can’t remember the last time he talked so much, or so fast, to his little sister. They haven’t exactly been on fantastic terms lately; Mom had been saying it was because Trish was becoming a woman, and Craig had told her that he knew what periods are. That hadn’t gone down well.
On the other end of the line, his sister draws her breath. “Are you done,” she asks, and for a second she sounds so much like Mom that Craig doesn’t even mind her sounding super pissed.
“Well yeah, but –”
“Do you honestly expect me to believe all that crap?”
It’s like all the air leaves his body at once; and it takes Craig valuable seconds to make his voice work again. “I’m not lying, you little asshole,” he snarls, before he cuts himself off. Breathe, breathe. Tricia isn’t going to do what he wants if he starts arguing and swearing at her. “Shit, I’m sorry, Trish,” he chokes out, even though the apology burns his throat in its unfairness. “But listen, can’t you just put Grandma on?”
“As if, shithead,” his sister snarls, and Craig doesn’t quite yank the receiver away from his ear in time to escape the slam as she ends the call. Goddamn it!

Chapter Text

“…n-not listening at all, are you, K-K-Kenny?”
“Huh?” Jimmy Valmer’s voice pulls him right back to reality, and Kenny realizes the other boy is now walking next to him down the corridor. Kenny’s feet have been taking him to Geography, even if his mind’s been a million miles away.
“T-too busy fantasizing about b-boobs?” Jimmy grins at him, and it’s impossible not to grin right back. “I w-was just saying,” he goes on, while his crutches go clack-clack-clack against the floor, -“That we’re p-p-p…” temporarily stuck, Jimmy shakes his head a little, like that’s supposed to shake the word loose, “Playing D and D tonight at my house. W-wanna come?”
It’s a sad thing indeed that the first thing Kenny does is look around them – as in, a three sixty degree spin – to make sure Stan’s nowhere in earshot. Of course he knows all about how those guys have invited Craig and Bebe Stevens to join their DnD group. It’s kind of a shame Kevin Stoley isn’t going too, now that he thinks about it, because that would’ve been a good way to keep tabs on Craig.
But anyway, Jimmy’s one of those guys who can straddle two friend groups with ease; and Stan’s actually pretty cool with him. Still, if Kenny goes tonight, it won’t be like working at Tweak Bros at all. It’ll be actively hanging out with Clyde, who for whatever mysterious reason is Stan’s longest serving mortal enemy. Not to mention how Stan’s not exactly keen on Craig, either…
“Think of m-my house as S-S-Switzerland,” Jimmy tells him with a little wink. No surprise there; that Jimmy could guess exactly what he was thinking. “Unless you want to sit around Kyle’s house and w-watch Friends with his dad?”
“Bwa-ha!” Laughter explodes out of Kenny’s mouth, because what Jimmy means is, does he want to join Kyle’s dad in beating off to Friends. The two of them had caught Mr Broflovski doing exactly that during one legendary sleepover in sixth grade.
But wait, now everybody’s staring, and Kenny can feel his shoulders climbing up under his ears. Ugh. He reaches for his hood and pulls it down so it covers his face, though he imagines his cheeks must be glowing like hot coals.
“Maybe,” he mutters, when it becomes clear that Jimmy’s still waiting for some kind of answer.
“Kenny, p-please,” Jimmy nudges his ribs carefully. Not much padding there, even with the sweatshirt, and everybody knows it. “I just w-wanna see the look on Craig’s face when your c-c-character p-pops up!”
Well, now. Jimmy’s been a guest player at plenty of Stan’s DnD nights, and there’s this unspoken rule in class that you can bring over your character from your main game; so Jimmy always joins Stan’s group on adventures with his “imaginatively” named Jimmy the Bard. You even get to carry over the EXP you gain from one game to another, and that could come in useful. Cartman’s always finding excuses to make his own character ridiculously overpowered, it’s like a race to keep up sometimes.
“Let’s just keep it on the down-low,” Kenny says, agreeing at last. This will let Kenny keep an eye on Craig in person – without having to put his cape and costume on. This will be useful, he tells himself. Hell, it might even be fun.
That’s when Kyle’s voice suddenly cuts through the din of chatter: “Remember to be considerate, people! Give Jimmy some space to get inside, okay?”
Just for a second, Jimmy stands really still, and Kenny starts to wonder if this’ll be the day Kyle gets a crutch to the face. But then the moment’s passed, and Jimmy quietly hobbles past everyone as they part for him like the Red Sea parting for Moses.
As Kyle walks up to him with the smug smile from a job well done on his face, Kenny suddenly can’t take it anymore. “Nice going,” he mutters, glaring at Kyle from inside the hood.
“What?” Kyle sounds honestly puzzled, and Kenny bites back a retort about how Kyle might like it if he walked around school holding up a poster that said Make Space For Jews.
“Nevermind.” Kenny just doesn’t have the energy, or anyone else to sit with in Geography. Cartman always sits with Butters during Geography because Butters lets him copy his notes – as in, literally photocopy them – after class; Kyle’s been very firm in his refusal to help the fatass if he won’t study or pay attention in class. And Stan always blows off Geography, for God only knows what reason; Mrs Kelly doesn’t even bother saying his name during roll-call anymore.
Everybody’s still busy taking their seats when Tweek shows up, breathless and leaning against the doorframe, panting, “OhJesusamIlate?!”
Like most teachers, Mrs Kelly has a hard time not liking Tweek, so she just smiles and waves her hand at the desk Tweek always shares with Token. She doesn’t even ask Tweek where he’s been. Now Kenny can hear those two whispering, since he’s only sitting one double desk away with Wendy and Bebe between them.
“I’ve been thinking,” Token is saying, “When it comes to picking a country? Why don’t we pick Peru. And then we’ll ask Craig to be in our group.”
“He can be our r-r-resident expert,” Jimmy chimes in, leaning over from the seat next to Token’s. He’s sharing with Clyde, who also seems to be in on this plan since he’s grinning and giving a thumb’s up. Mrs Kelly dictated that seating arrangement; Tweek and Clyde get into way too much trouble if you let them sit together.
“I love it,” Tweek declares, a little too loudly, before he pulls Token into a headlock and proceeds to vigorously rub the other boy’s hair. “Peru has those badass cloth mummies too! And shrunken heads,” he goes on, while Token squirms out of his hold, “Everybody loves shrunken heads, right?!”
“I personally do not,” Mrs Kelly says, and she sounds more like an indulgent aunt than a teacher being strict, because Tweek just has that effect on some people. “But, if that’s everyone,” she claps her hands together, “Let’s get this lesson started, all right?”
Mrs Kelly is still kind of hot for a grown-up lady; not that she looks all that old. And she’s real fit; that white pencil skirt she’s wearing hits her in all the right places. There are rumours going around that Mrs Kelly’s majorly into doing aerobics in her living room, and has all these matching leotards and leg warmers that she’ll wear; a different color for every day of the week. Kenny himself would never go spy on Mrs Kelly at her house, but… he can kind of see it.
“Let’s team up with Wendy and Bebe,” Kyle whispers, and Kenny nods. Even if he has to watch Kyle painfully flirting with Bebe, it’ll still beat doing a project with Cartman and Butters.
Clearly eager to get the lesson started, Mrs Kelly wizzes through roll-call, and gets to the letter S in no time. “Esther Stoley?”
“Here,” Kevin Stoley’s twin says, listlessly pushing the tip of her pencil right through the open page of her notebook. Cartman likes to say that Esther looks like the chick from Ringu; the dead one that climbs out of the well. After all, Esther’s half Asian and has long black hair that she likes to hide behind. So it’s not that big a stretch of the imagination – it’s just mean. Esther’s clearly going through some kind of shit, and it probably isn’t helping that all three of her brother’s artist buddies are basically competing for her. It’s a friendly kind of competition; and Kenny has no idea what those three would do if Esther actually agreed to go out with one of them – pat the “winner” on the back, probably; the geek squad is another one of those tight-knit crews. Still, Esther clearly doesn’t relish the attention; or any kind of attention at all. That’s something Kenny can relate to.
“Kevin Stoley,” Mrs Kelly goes on, and Kevin gives her a loud, cheery “Here,” from his seat next to Red. Those two have been a thing since like, primary school, so they’re practically like an old married couple by now. But they’ll still do ridiculously cute shit for one another, like the time Red managed to casually slip like a year’s worth of vintage Alpha Flight issues into Kevin’s backpack. He’d only realized in the middle of Chemistry and nearly knocked his dissected frog off the table; his scream of joy had made all the beakers rattle on the shelf. Kenny is secretly a little jealous of whatever it is those two have, but it’s not like he’d have time for a girlfriend if any girls even liked him. He’s too busy being Mysterion, and looking after his baby sister.
Anyway, that’s why the last two members of Kevin Stoley’s gang, Scott and Bradley, usually wind up sitting together. Except today, Scott had to leave early for a doctor’s appointment – could be something to do with his diabetes; Kenny doesn’t talk to Scott that much. So Bradley’s sitting alone, absently sketching Mysterion in profile (Ugh, goddamn it) on the inside cover of the textbook.
Bebe Stevens has just raised her hand and said “Here,” when Craig casually steps inside the classroom. He’s wearing the sling around his neck like a scarf, broken arm dangling at his side, and tied that zip-up Nasa hoodie around his waist. And his brown eyes are simmering with rage.

“Hi,” Craig says, doing his best to sound all neutral and chill, “Sorry I couldn’t find this place in time. I’m new.”
“Oh, so you’re…” The teacher, a little Asian lady with glasses, takes a quick look at that page she’s been checking names off of, “Craig Tucker! That’s absolutely fine, Craig, just grab a seat somewhere. And then we can get started!” She seems to be genuinely looking forward to teaching this lesson, and Craig doesn’t know if he can handle this much perkiness when he’s just failed to reach Grandma – again.
Instinctively, he looks around for Tweek, but of course he’s sitting with Token already. Craig fights down a sour burst of disappointment. Tweek’s trying to catch his eye, raising one eyebrow in a wordless question, and Craig gives a quick shake of his head in response. All of Tweek’s efforts to get him access to the phone in Mackie’s office were for nothing.
“Hey Craig,” someone says, in the most irritatingly cheerful tone, and Craig whips his head around to see that blonde douche nozzle with the freckles waving at him like they’re old friends. What was that kid’s name again – Bradley. Craig doesn’t make much effort to remember people he doesn’t like, and he can’t even explain what it is about Bradley that puts his teeth on edge. “You can sit here,” Bradley’s saying, and Craig notices with mounting horror that not only is the seat next to Bradley empty; he’s even wearing an identical Superman shirt to his own! What are the goddamn odds?! “We even match!” Bradley says that last bit with a huge smile, and for some reason, that’s it. That’s what tips the Craig scales from neutral to asshole, because Tricia was being such a little shit on the phone. Because he didn’t get to talk to Grandma. Because what’s even happened to Mom and Dad, they could be dead and Craig could be stuck with the grinning fakes forever.
That’s probably why Craig yanks the sling off, dropping it on the closest desk, and pulls his Superman shirt over his head, turning it inside out. Then he wads it up into a little ball of fabric and throws it like a basketball into the nearest trash can.
The entire classroom is silent for a few long seconds. Long enough for Craig to think, Oh shit. But it’s too late to take it back now; and anyway, he doesn’t even want to. He busies himself stuffing his sling into his back pocket with his right hand, he’ll need to put that back on soon, because his stupid arm is throbbing something fierce.
Then there’s the sound of a chair scraping as Token stands up, swinging his purple backpack over his shoulder. “Sit with Tweek,” he tells Craig, who isn’t quite able to meet that direct gaze. Then Token walks over to the empty seat next to Bradley and sits down next to the kid, and suddenly the tension is broken. There’s nothing to do but walk bare-chested down the middle of the classroom and sit on Token’s vacated chair, which is still warm. The stares drill into his exposed back, while Craig clumsily unties his hoodie from around his waist – not easy to do when he’s partially sitting on it – and slips it on.
He’s almost scared of looking at Tweek, but when he finally does – because he can’t avoid it, now that they’re sharing a desk after all – Craig is relieved and a little ashamed to see that Tweek only looks worried. Worried and a little sad.

You think you know someone, and then they do something that makes you wonder. Tweek spent the rest of Geography sneakily looking at Craig, and wondering if he has a crush on a bully. That would suck, but Tweek really doesn’t think so. Craig’s probably just upset, since Operation: Mackie’s Office turned out to be a bust. Of course he only calls it that in his head; he doesn’t want Craig to think he’s a total nerd; and he clearly cares way too much what Craig thinks of him. Tweek knows that. But…
“I’ve never been back to Peru though,” Craig is saying to Token, and maybe it’s just Tweek’s imagination. But Craig sure looks relieved that Token and the guys are still speaking to him.
“Not like that’s a p-p-problem,” Jimmy assures him, shrugging. Jimmy also looks a little relieved – he doesn’t exactly shy away from confrontation, but Tweek knows Jimmy prefers people to just get along. “That’s w-what the library’s for!”
Tweek’s starting to realize that none of them wants to bring up what Craig did in class, that they’re all pretending it either didn’t happen or that they’ve forgotten.
“Maybe the nature and science museum’s got a shrunken head or something,” Clyde asks hopefully. “Maybe we could call them and ask?” Something about what Clyde just said strikes a weird chord with Tweek – call them and ask – but he’s not sure why that is. Not yet. “Or maybe we could try and make one? A fake one,” he hastily adds, with a nervous little giggle, when everybody stops walking and turns to look at him.
“Don’t worry, Clyde,” Token finally smiles, and lightly punches Clyde on the shoulder, “Nobody thinks you’ve got human heads sitting in formaldehyde tanks at home!”
They’re nearly at the bank of lockers where Tweek and his friends all have theirs, which is what gives him the idea. “I’ve got a spare shirt in my locker,” he blurts out, while everybody’s still chuckling. It probably sounds like the world’s worst attempt at changing the subject, but it’s true, and Craig clearly needs a shirt. Tweek always brings an extra T-shirt to wear after cheerleading practice anyway; he just loves the feeling of wearing something clean after getting out of the shower. “This one’s even kind of big on me,” he goes on, gathering verbal speed while his inner monologue voice is yelling for him to stop, stop! Jesus, what if Craig thinks Tweek’s saying he’s fat or something?! “So I mean, it wouldn’t be too short for you!”
“Ugh, Tweek,” Cartman’s suddenly there, waddling uncomfortably close to Tweek, no doubt eager and peachy keen to score some revenge points for being beaten with a shoe, “Stop telling Craig about your penis!”
Tweek’s still got his mouth open – does Cartman know?! How does he know?! – when Craig pushes past him to shove his left hand, cast and all, under Cartman’s nose with his middle finger sticking up. “Back off,” Craig tells him, very firmly. There’s no “or else” tacked onto that; Craig clearly expects the fatso to do what he’s told. “Thanks Tweek,” he says, now ignoring Cartman completely, “That’d be great.”
Cartman does back up, but not nearly as far away as Tweek would’ve liked him to. He quickly enters the day’s locker combination and opens his locker up, and by the time he’s turned back to Craig with his Metallica shirt in his hand, Cartman’s gone. At least that’s good news. “Would Sir like to inspect his wardrobe option,” Tweek says, in his best English accent – after watching as much Monty Python at Jimmy’s house as the four of them have, it’s practically impossible not to develop a terrible English accent – while he shakes his band shirt out and holds it up for Craig to inspect.
This band shirt’s a good one, if Tweek does say so himself – and he’s got a separate drawer for band shirts. It’s a concert tee from their ’92 tour, which Tweek himself was of course way too young to attend at the time. And it's second hand, which is why it fits more like a tunic on him, but Tweek doesn’t care. It’s got the skeleton dude – the Executioner – holding a burning brand in one hand and a hanged guy in the other – printed on the front. Weirdly, that shade of blue on the scarf he’s wearing matches Tweek pale blue jeans perfectly, so he wears this shirt a lot. There’s a print on the back too, of faceless people wandering through space towards the planet Earth, which is surrounded by a red nimbus that’s probably supposed to represent pollution or something. Tweek feels that, while a back print makes any shirt twice as awesome, this one’s good enough to be worn on the front of a regular shirt. He’s often thought that he should wear the shirt backwards sometime, to get like, the maximum mileage out of it, but he just loves the Executioner way too much.
“Thanks,” Craig says, and it’s impossible to tell if he thinks the shirt’s awesome or hideous. “I’ll just…” he jerks his head towards the Men’s room down the hall, and suddenly he looks embarrassed. “Listen,” he says, “I kind of hated that old shirt anyway. It was a present from this ex… best friend of mine.” Is there the tiniest hesitation in his voice, between the words “ex” and “best friend”? “So I’ve been meaning to get rid of it…”
That’s when it all suddenly clicks in Tweek’s brain. Of course, of course! “I have to piss like crazy,” he declares, shoving his backpack into his locker and slamming the thing shut. His hands tremble with excitement as he clicks the lock shut, “So wait for me! Okay, Craig?”
“Sure?” Craig sounds confused, but the guys are all laughing and Jimmy even musses Tweek’s hair before the three of them head off – they’re all used to him and his randomness.
Tweek practically drags Craig into the Men’s room, and at first glance it appears empty, but he makes sure to check all the toilet stalls anyway. Then he climbs up on the last toilet seat, because he’s just bursting with this idea he’s had, and says, “Dude! We have to call him!”
Craig frowns, like he’s struggling to keep up. “Call who?”
“Your ex best friend, of course! I mean, come on,” Tweek spreads his arms wide enough to smack his right hand into the side of the stall, “Ow! If you guys were best friends, he should know what your parents look like. Right?!”
Craig opens his mouth, and closes it again. “I…” he says at last. “I don’t think that’d be a good idea.”
“Gah! If you really can’t reach your grandma,” Tweek all but growls at him, “It could be your only chance! And if he really used to be your best friend,” Tweek makes himself stop so he can draw a deep, steadying breath, “Then I’m sure he’d do it for you. No matter how bad you pissed each other off.”
“Do what?”
“Come to South Park, of course! And see the fakes for himself!”
All the color instantly drains out from Craig’s face. “No,” he whispers hoarsely, “No way!”

Chapter Text

The boys’ changing room only has red metal benches and hooks on the wall; there are no lockers at all. Not that this matters to Craig, because a broken arm means no Phys Ed. That’s a no-brainer for the gym teacher, who also made a point of forbidding Jimmy to take part. Mr Turner, who also coaches the football team, then told Craig that he and Jimmy can either watch most of the class play mixed-gender netball inside the gym, or the cheerleading team practicing outside.
Jimmy, still glowering from being told he can’t play basketball (all Craig can think is, How? Not that he’d ask), gives Craig a sidelong glance. “Outside,” he asks hopefully.
“Sure,” Craig replies with a shrug; secretly relieved that he didn’t have to try and convince Jimmy to watch the cheerleaders. To watch Tweek.
“All right!” Jimmy’s grin almost hides how he’s still pissed – almost – and he hightails it to the far end of the boys’ changing room, to where there’s a door that leads right outside to the ball field. Clack, clack, clack. He’s faster than Craig would’ve expected; after he’s nodded a quick goodbye to the rest of the guys, he has to run to catch up.
Would’ve been nice to catch Tweek without his shirt on, Craig thinks to himself, then snorts and shakes his head. What if someone should notice him staring at another guy getting changed? Stupid, stupid.
Tweek’s Metallica T-shirt, which fits him perfectly, is much more of a – shit, can you call it a fashion statement? Some kind of statement, anyway – than what Craig would normally walk around in. It’s making him feel super self-conscious. Not to mention there’s the secret thrill of actually wearing Tweek’s shirt, like the day after Craig decided he’s allowed to have a crush on him. That’s why he starts the conversation with, “I wouldn’t have thought this was Tweek’s vibe,” pulling at the shirt as he sinks down on the bench next to Jimmy. “You know, skeleton dude torturing people?”
That makes Jimmy laugh for a second or two. “Tweek’s a c-c-c-complex little guy,” he says, raising an eyebrow and prompting an instant, sour flare of panic in Craig’s stomach. Shit, can Jimmy tell he likes Tweek? “You’ll n-notice s-s—sooner or later,” he goes on, as Craig sits down next to him, “How Tweek doesn’t own a single T-shirt that doesn’t have a b-band name on it.”
Craig snorts. “Oh God, don’t tell me Tweek’s one of those music snobs.”
Jimmy’s grin widens. “Only when Clyde tries to p-put on a Bryan Adams CD.”
“Ah. So he’s more good taste police then,” Craig drawls, even though he secretly doesn’t mind a bit of Bryan Adams.
That goes down very well with Jimmy, who tips his head back and laughs properly now, and for a while, too. “I’ll t-tell him you said that!”
“Ugh, please don’t.” Talking about Tweek is kind of maddening, because there’s so much stuff Craig wishes he could ask Jimmy about him. Not to mention how it’s also making Craig remember that Tweek is dead set on phoning Thomas and asking him to come all the way to South Park. For Craig, who wouldn’t even come out to his own parents for Thomas’ sake. Big fat “yeah right”, no way is Thomas even going to hear Tweek out – if Craig even gives him Thomas’ home number. Which he still remembers by heart, God damn it.
“I notice you haven’t asked,” Jimmy suddenly says, completely without stuttering, yanking Craig right out of his thoughts.
“Asked about what?” Shit, is Jimmy an actual mind reader? Can he tell that there’s like a million things Craig’s dying to know about Tweek?
“About w-what’s wrong with me,” Jimmy clarifies, as he treats Craig a very direct stare.
Craig blinks, because that was pretty much the last thing he’d have expected. “I figured that’s your business,” he says, shrugging, after taking a second to consider. Honesty is best, when you don’t have to lie.
Jimmy lets out a surprised huff. “Oh,” he says, like Craig’s answer wasn’t what he was expecting. “Well, it’s cerebral p-palsy. In case you were w-w-wondering.”
This is when the cheerleading team runs out on the pitch, all of them wearing green and white uniforms, and that saves Craig from having to answer. Tweek’s right there in the middle of the group; wearing a shorts and tank top combo that matches the girls’ green mini-skirts and puff-sleeved white T-shirts. Holding a pair of green pom-poms in one hand, and waving at the two of them with the other, he shouts, “Craig! Check this manly shit out!”
With that, Tweek puts one hand – holding one of the pom-poms – on his hip, before he thrusts his other arm forward, waving his remaining pom-pom and wiggling his hips.
Laughter explodes out of Craig’s mouth, and pretty soon he’s doubled over next to Jimmy, who’s slapping the bench and cackling.
“Tweek, come on,” that blonde chick Clyde likes is running up to him, holding two silver pom-poms, “We’re supposed to start out with one of each!”
The two of them trade, while the lady who trains the cheerleaders – some white lady with grey hair piled up in a bun – gets all of them to line up. One behind the other, with Tweek squarely in the middle of the row, and what’s her name – Bebe! – at the very front.
“All right, ladies and gentleman,” the cheerleading coach says, crouching by a black boom-box, “Let’s get you all warmed up with the first half of the new routine!”
With that, she flips the music on. It’s some upbeat bullshit that’s exhausting just to listen to; Craig can’t imagine having to move in time to it. But then, the routine starts and Craig forgets all about how irritating the music is. One by one, and super fast, the cheerleaders all raise their left hand, quickly forming a line of green pom-poms. As soon as the person at the very back has raised theirs, Bebe lets her left arm drop, and her right arm instantly shoots up instead. Thrusting that silver pom-pom at the sky, and starting a new tidal wave of movement. From where he’s sitting, Craig can see that Tweek’s grinning. He’s obviously enjoying the hell out of this, and to Craig, that makes it worth watching.
The cheer squad goes through this whole sequence where everybody jumps, then squats with their hands on the ground, one by one. Then each of them leaves their pom-poms lying on the ground, do this weird crouching side turn, and stand up holding two of one colour. Bebe’s got two green ones now, and so does Tweek.
More pom-pom waving follows, and even with Tweek to look at, Craig is starting to get distracted. That’s when Jimmy stands up, surprisingly graceful. Then again, it’s not like he won’t be used to the crutches, if he’s had them all his life. “I’ll be right b-back,” he tells Craig quietly, waggling those bushy eyebrows of his. “Officially, I went to the b-b-b…” He sighs, very softly, before he amends himself, “The toilet. Okay?”
Huh. Craig’s got the distinctive feeling that Jimmy is up to some shit. “Sure,” he says, shrugging like he isn’t insanely intrigued by this.
By now, the cheer team are done waving their arms and doing sparkly semaphore, or whatever the hell that was. They’re forming a circle, heads together, pompoms held in the middle while they shake them. Then they all spin to face outwards, and as luck would have it, Tweek winds up facing Craig. Holding their arms out straight for a second, before that Bebe chick raises her arms and the girl next to her follows suit, and the whole thing seems to flow like water, green and silver bobbing up and down in a kind of human moebius strip. It’s mesmerizing; Craig even forgets to stare at Tweek as he takes the whole shape in. Maybe cheerleading isn’t as stupid as he’s always thought.
Then the coach is clapping her hands over her head and yelling for them to stop. Craig is suddenly seized by the impulse to see exactly what it was Jimmy snuck off to do, when he lied about going to the bathroom. Tweek’s busy anyway, so Craig doesn’t even feel bad about going back inside.
In the changing room, Jimmy is busy at work stuffing all of Kyle Broflofski’s clothes into a plastic Safeway bag. Green flannel shirt, black jeans, even his ugly Adidas sneakers.
Jimmy looks up guiltily, and meets Craig’s gaze. “I-I-I’m not throwing them out,” he says hopefully; like this is what’ll make Craig not tell, “J-just hiding them in m-my locker.”
“Dude,” Craig says in his most firm tone, holding his hand out for the bag, “Give me that.” Jimmy clearly thinks the jig is up, so Craig can’t suppress a little smirk when he adds, “Your locker’s the first place that asshat’s gonna look. Let me stash this shit in mine.”

“Oof!” Kenny goes down hard when Clyde pushes him, deliberately letting his own face smack into the floor. His half-healed nose instantly flares with pain, bad enough to make him gasp. But he’s been wracking his brain for a solution ever since Cartman bought that weed from his brother, and this was the only thing he could come up with. Five minutes ago was when Kenny realized he was out of time – that’s when Cartman had whined about needing to take a really big shit, and slipped out of the gym. He’s probably breaking into Tweek’s locker right now.
“Dude, are you okay?!” Clyde sounds like he’s on the verge of panic, as he drops to his knees next to Kenny. All around them, the game is grinding to a halt; everyone forming a circle around the two of them. Kenny just stares at the three perfectly round drops of blood right in front of him, so bright against the polished brown floor.
“Back off, Clyde,” Stan growls, grabbing the other boy by the shoulders and yanking him away from Kenny. As if Clyde just tried to ice him or something. “Haven’t you done enough?”
“But I didn’t mean to!” Clyde is kind of famous for not knowing his own strength, though. For hurting people by accident – people like his own mom. He’s already starting to sniffle, tearing up with remorse, and Kenny’s feeling like a prize asshole.
Mr Turner finally blows his whistle, even though the game’s already gone on pause.
“Stan,” Kyle says, before the teacher can intervene and start handing out detentions, “Calm down, okay? He said he didn’t mean it!” Kyle sounds so calm, standing there sandwiched between Stan, who looks ready to throw down, and Clyde, who looks ready to cry.
If he’s being honest with himself, Kenny was kind of hoping for Kyle to do that. Takes the attention off of him, as he accepts Bradley Biggle’s hand and lets the smaller kid pull him to his feet. “Thanks,” he mutters, staring down at their feet. At his own gross sneakers, hand-me-downs from Kevin, opposite Bradley’s scuffed but still almost new Nike Airs with the mint green swoosh on the side.
“Here ya go, Kenny!” Butters is suddenly there, thrusting a packet of Kleenex up under Kenny’s throbbing nose. “That don’t look too bad,” he goes on, with that big, eternally optimistic smile of his, “But you probably ought to see the nurse, huh?”
From the horrified stares of the kids around them, Kenny gets a feeling that the only reason Butters doesn’t think it looks too bad, is that he’s also got a dad who beats him. “Yeah, maybe,” he mutters, body thrumming with the need to get out of here, to run down the hallways and stop Cartman before it’s too late, “Kinda hurts.”
Mr Turner agrees, and Kenny only keeps up the pretence of being dizzy and concussed until he’s safely out of the gym. Then, he runs like the wind. Walls, doors and lockers become a blurry tunnel around him as he runs; runs until his throat starts to burn.
“Hey, what’re you doing?” The voice is oddly familiar, toneless and sort of nasal, and Kenny rounds the corner to find Craig there – of course, Craig! – glaring at Cartman, with a Safeway’s bag dangling from his good hand. Glaring at Cartman, who is frozen in the middle of rooting through Tweek’s locker. Some of Tweek’s possessions are scattered on the floor around his feet; books and school supplies but also random crap like a ball of twine and box of coffee filters.
But Cartman – shit! Kenny flings himself against the wall, ducking back behind that same corner, biting his lip so he won’t cry out from the pain. Because now, it suddenly feels like his whole face is about to melt off. At least this confirms it; his nose has got to be broken.
“None of your business, Craig,” Cartman says, in that infuriating sing-song tone of his. He’s obviously – to Kenny, anyway – trying to bluff his way out of this. Using his bulk to block Craig from seeing what he’s doing. “And I really don’t think you, of all people, should go around accusing people of –”
“Of what?” Craig counters, dropping the Safeway bag on the floor. He clearly isn’t falling for the fatso’s bullshit. Grabbing Cartman by the shoulder and somehow forcing the other boy to face him, even though you could fit like five of him into the one Cartman, Craig growls; “Now show me what you just put in Tweek’s locker.”
That’s when a door further down the hall is flung open – the door to the Teachers’ Lounge, oh God! “What’re you boys screwing around with,” Mr Adler from shop class demands, while Kenny does his best to become one with the wall, and to not breathe at all. At least, he thinks, squeezing his eyes shut, This means nobody’ll believe that packet of weed in Cartman’s hand was ever Tweek’s.

“This isn’t funny,” Kyle Broflovski is saying, clearly struggling to keep his irritation under control, “Where the hell are my clothes?!”
And where the hell is Craig, Tweek thinks but doesn’t ask. He’s pretty sure Craig was watching when he and the girls started practice, but then Tweek got too into the routines to keep checking. Besides, you’re supposed to concentrate when you’re doing stuff like throwing a girl up in the air, in case you fail to catch her afterwards. By the time they were done, Jimmy had still been there, but Craig had vanished from his seat. So there’s a good chance Jimmy’ll know, but Tweek won’t be getting much of anything out of him, because…
“You were here,” Kyle Broflovski is saying, in that irritating, insistent tone he likes to take, “You were the only one here! So it’s got to be you!”
Kyle dramatically points right at Jimmy, who’s sitting on the bench with the most angelic expression on his face. And it really wouldn’t have been half as funny if Kyle had been wearing pants.
“I d-d-d-d-d…” Jimmy says, his eyes rolling wildly in the apparent effort it takes him to get just one word out, “D-d-d-don’t know w-w-w…”
“Just give me my damn clothes back, Jimmy,” Kyle howls, hands raised and clawing at the air. He’s literally wearing just a towel; Kyle just kicked off his gym uniform and dived straight for the showers when PE was over. He only just noticed how suspiciously empty his corner of the bench was.
“I t-t-t-t…” There it is, that diabolical gleam in Jimmy’s eyes that tells Tweek that he most definitely did steal Kyle’s stuff, and that his friend is like, seconds away from losing his shit. “T-t-told you, K-K-K…”
While most of the boys in class are busy laughing their asses off, Tweek sidles up to Token, who’s discreetly leaning against Clyde. Propping himself up while he sniggers as discreetly as possible. Clyde, on the other hand, doesn’t look like he can see the funny side in this, or anything.
“Dude, what happened,” Tweek whispers, carefully nudging Token, who’s notoriously ticklish, in the ribs. That sure wipes the smile off Token’s face real fast.
“Clyde tackled Kenny too hard,” Token whispers, as if Clyde was not, in fact, standing right there, “Totally by accident. And there’s a good chance Kenny’s nose is broken.”
“I didn’t mean to,” Clyde says, very quietly. It reminds Tweek so much of the night Clyde’s mom died that he almost starts tearing up.
So Tweek does what any good friend would do; tries to distract Clyde before the waterworks can start. “Have you seen Craig,” he whispers, and he’s not even expecting much of a reply. Just a shrug and a “nah” would do, but…
Clyde draws a deep, sniffling breath. “I’ve been thinking about Craig,” he says – quietly for Clyde, but not too quietly for Token to catch – “And I’ve decided. I want you to do a reading about it, and if the reading says to believe him…” Clyde has to pause to snort some more snot back up his nose, but his gaze is firm and his tone is resolute, “Then I will.”
“Oh,” Tweek says, blinking up at the taller boy. Every now and then, Clyde will go and surprise you. “Okay.”
“Do a reading about what,” Token hisses; he hates being left out of anything.
Shit. Tweek can’t exactly break Craig’s trust and tell someone he hasn’t okayed to tell yet, but if he’s being honest, he would really love to clue Token and Jimmy in on this whole mess. They’re both so smart – and in very different ways, too; Token’s all logic and Jimmy operates on sideways thinking. So it’d be like programming two supercomputers to solve the same problem, but they’d be using different equations… or something. Tweek sucks at metaphors, honestly.
Tweek opens his mouth to respond, not that he’s even got the vaguest idea what he’ll say to Token yet - these things usually just kind of come to him as he goes along – when Kyle yells, “And would you stop it with the fake stutter already?! Everybody knows your stutter isn’t that bad!” Kyle’s climbed up on the bench while Tweek wasn’t looking, with that towel tied round his waist like one of those Hawaiian grass skirts. And those ratty old flip-flops Kyle insists on wearing in the school showers, since he’s paranoid about catching athlete’s foot or whatever, are still on his feet, dripping water through the slats in the bench. Maybe he’s scared to take them off, in case Jimmy steals them, too?
This is enough to thoroughly distract Token, who smiles very wide, revealing a lot of perfect teeth. “That’s rather ableist of you, Kyle,” he says, raising a single eyebrow. “I’d have expected you to show a little more tolerance.”
A chorus of “Ooh” goes through the changing room, while Kyle goes all pale and just sits right down on the bench. Tweek almost feels sorry for him, but of course his stupid bestie has to leap to Kyle’s defence.
“Just give him back his clothes, Jimmy,” Stan snaps, folding his arms. “What did Kyle ever do to you?”
“W-well, Stan,” Jimmy replies, and maybe he’s starting to sound a little bit too smug; “He actually p-p-p-p…”
Stan rolls his eyes at the ceiling. “Jesus Christ, Jimmy!”
“Hey Kyle,” Tweek shouts, because he just can’t help himself anymore, “Do the hula!”
At least that earns him a snort from Clyde, but now Stan Marsh is glaring daggers in Tweek’s direction. “I bet Tweek was in on it,” Stan growls, but before he can say anything else, the changing room door slams open. In walks balding, nicotine-patch obsessed Mr Adler from shop class with his thumbs thrust through his belt loops – followed by Craig, carrying a Safeway’s bag.
“Young what’s-his-name here’s got something to say,” Mr Adler says pointedly, looking over his shoulder at Craig.
Craig sighs. “I thought it would be hilarious if I took all your shit,” he tells Kyle, as he reaches one long arm out and drops that plastic bag on the floor by Kyle’s feet. “But now I’ve learned the error of my ways, and also I have detention.”
While Tweek pulls out the back of Token’s sweatshirt and buries his whole face in it, to at least muffle his laughter, Mr Adler pointedly clears his throat.
“Oh, and I’m sorry,” Craig adds, and Tweek looks up just in time to see him deliver the world’s most uncaring shrug.
That’s what does it. Well, that and the look of utter horror on Kyle’s face, as he realizes he went and accused the disabled kid of stealing; when Craig just took the blame. Why, Kyle's inner boy-scout must be having seizures. Tweek hears himself make a sound straight out of a nature documentary, before he doubles over. Laughing so hard he has to sit down, so hard he can feel his throat start to burn. Through his tears of laughter, Tweek thinks he can see a very slight smirk on Craig’s face, but that could just be his imagination.
“Jimmy, I didn’t mean,” Kyle begins, before he stops himself dead. “Well, I mean, of course I meant it at the time, but I didn’t know –”
“I’ll see your thieving ass in detention, Tucker,” Stan says, pointing his finger right under the tip of Craig’s nose. Because of course Stan wound up with detention as well, even though he insisted he never put that rock through Mr Mackie’s window. This could probably be a really bad thing, Tweek realizes, it’s just that he can’t stop laughing.
“Well I’m a b-bit hurt, to be honest,” Jimmy deadpans, and that’s when Kevin Stoley squeaks like a balloon that’s getting the air let out of it.
Clyde finally gives in, and lets out a deep, warm belly-laugh. “Someone’s making enemies left, right and center,” Token mutters, raising both eyebrows, just loud enough for Tweek to hear now that he’s finally running out of steam.
“Tweek,” Mr Adler suddenly says, “Quit screwing around for a second. I know that’s hard for you,” he adds, which Tweek honestly can’t blame him for. Mr Adler then holds up a small… packet of some sort? It’s wrapped in silver foil, and sparkles in the light of the lamps. “Does this look familiar?”
“Nope,” Tweek says firmly, shaking his head. That thing stinks, he realizes, as he takes a step closer. In fact, the smell kind of reminds Tweek of Kenny’s dad… His eyes widen with sudden understanding, “Wait, is that…”
Just as suddenly as it appeared, the packet disappears into one of Mr Adler’s pockets. “You don’t need to worry about that,” the shop teacher says firmly, as he turns on his heel, “But Stan! And what’s his name! I’ll see you both in the Home Ec room – you’ve got ten minutes!”
Stan’s still not wearing a shirt yet, or his shoes, but of course Craig’s fully dressed since he didn’t have Phys Ed. “I’ll explain later,” he whispers to Tweek, all mysterious, on his way out the door.
Which is so damn infuriating. But also so damn hot. Gah!

Chapter Text

“Kenny, I’m so sorry!” Clyde Donovan is getting into his personal space in a big way, sniffling and holding up… a pager, of all things. “I’ll make it up to you, okay? I’ll pay whatever it costs to fix, I mean, this is my dad!” Clyde shoves the pager right under Kenny’s swollen nose; then seems to realize how insane that sounds. “This is from my dad,” he corrects himself, and Kenny can’t help but smile a little as he carefully pulls his orange hoodie right over his gym uniform T-shirt. All he wanted was to slip back inside and get changed. To not let on that he’d watched Cartman trying to plant weed in Tweek’s locker, and just be left alone. But here’s Clyde thinking that tackle was his fault, and Kyle thinking Jimmy stole his clothes, which might explain what Craig was doing in the hallway…
“One of the college kids didn’t show up for his shift again,” Clyde is saying, and at least the kid’s not bawling – not yet. “So now I’m gonna get the bus out to the mall and put some hours in, okay? And then I’ll pay for –”
“Then don’t let the door hit you in the ass, Clyde,” Stan snaps, deliberately giving the other boy a shove as he shoulders his way past him. Stan’s got detention to get to, after all. Though what the hell possessed him to go lob a brick through Mr Mackie’s window… That doesn’t quite add up.
Kenny holds his breath for a second, but of course Clyde doesn’t retaliate. It’s like he doesn’t think he deserves to.
“Oh, and Kyle?” Stan grabs the other boy by the arm – he’s fully dressed already; Kenny’s never actually seen Kyle get ready so fast. It’s like he’s scared someone else will swipe his clothes if he so much as blinks.
“Yeah?”
“Take Kenny to see my mom, okay?”
All of a sudden, Kyle looks a little happier – probably because he’s been given a task, something to help out with. “Oh, that’s a great idea, Stan,” he exclaims, waving as Stan leaves, “I’ll see you later! You seen Cartman, by the way,” he then adds, and Kenny chokes on his own saliva.
“Um,” he mutters, one foot through his trouser leg, suddenly unsure about what to do. Kyle’s probably the only person he can safely tell. But Cartman would find out eventually that it came from Kenny, because Kyle can’t keep a secret to save his life.
“I mean, he said he had to use the bathroom,” Kyle goes on, completely oblivious, “But that was right before you got hurt. Maybe he just went home, I mean, it wouldn’t be the first time…”
“Uh-huh,” Kenny says, ducking his head before he shrugs. If you break your nose but don’t do anything about it, can your nose get gangrene? Probably, he figures. Kenny tries to imagine a life with no nose, just a hole in the middle of his face. Tries, but really doesn’t want to.
“…got some Advil in here somewhere,” Kyle is saying, because of course he does, with a mom like Mrs Broflovski. Painkillers, plasters, a packet of Kleenex and a packet of wet-wipes; Kyle’s mom goes and puts all that stuff in his backpack. Kyle’s dad is a lawyer though, so it figures his wife can blow money on those kinds of things.
The school nurse already gave Kenny some kind of pill, bubblegum pink and shaped like a Smartie; though it had been bigger. But he chooses not to mention that, because clearly it’s doing nothing to help with this pain.
“Ah-hah!” Kyle triumphantly holds up a little cardboard box with ADVIL printed down the side.
“Thanks,” Kenny mutters, holding his hand out expecting Kyle to drop one or two pills into it. But instead, Kyle just gives him the whole box.
“What,” he says, when Kenny’s hand doesn’t immediately close around in, “It’s not like you won’t need ‘em later, even if Stan’s mom can get you seen for free.”
Right. Kenny closes his eyes. So that’s what Stan meant. Mrs Marsh works at that clinic in town after all; has done since they were all little. It’s one thing to accept help from people like the Tweaks, who let him work to pay it off. Kind of another to just sit back on his ass and take hand-outs from one of Stan’s parents. Still. What choice does he have?
“Okay,” Kenny says, and shrugs. “Thanks.”

The Tucker family’s beat-up Ford Station Wagon is waiting right outside the school gates, and Tweek feels a little jolt when he sees it. The man sitting in there must be Craig’s fake dad, with his light brown hair and… ambitious mustache. There’s kind of this aura of menace radiating from the guy, and pretty much the last thing Tweek wants to do is go over there and talk to him.
But, Mad Tache over there is obviously here today because Craig managed to give his wife (or is she?) the slip yesterday. He’s probably going to raise all kinds of stink when Craig fails to show, again. So Tweek draws a deep breath through his nostrils and starts walking over to that long blue Ford, while Token and Jimmy both make surprised noises behind him.
“Excuse me,” Tweek ducks his head so he can talk through that small open crack at the top of the window, “Mr Tucker?”
Mad Tache frowns. “Yeah,” he says, rolling the window down further. “You a friend of Craig’s?”
“Uh, most definitely,” Tweek says, like an absolute moron, “I mean, I am. Yes. And he’s in detention. So…” His voice trails off, because there’s just something about the guy’s granite stare that doesn’t lend itself well to babbling like an idiot.
“I see.” The guy’s accent, Tweek notices, is kind of carefully nondescript. If he wasn’t so deeply creeped out by Craig’s fake dad, he might even have a chance at hearing what sort of accent he’s trying to hide, but… Nah. “And when is that likely to be done?”
Okay, so Mad Tache is clearly pissed, but Tweek gets the feeling it’s less about Craig misbehaving, and more about the extra time he’ll have to wait. For one thing, he doesn’t even seem to care what Craig’s done to get detention, and that’s a definite sign this isn’t Craig’s real dad!
“I’d say about an hour from now, Sir.” Token appears at Tweek’s elbow, and effortlessly inserts himself into the conversation. “Give or take.”
Meanwhile, Jimmy comes over to stand on Tweek’s other side, and it almost feels like his friends are defending him or something – like they, too, have sensed something about this man that they really, really don’t like. Jimmy stays quiet – maybe because Craig landing in detention was his fault.
“I see,” Mad Tache repeats, though he does give each of them a pinched little smile. “Thank you, boys.” It’s clearly a dismissal, and Tweek is more than happy to comply.
“Have a nice day, sir,” he says, on auto-pilot, before he hurries away from the car.
“That m-mustache d-deserves its own p-p-postcode,” Jimmy says, as soon as they’re out of earshot. He’s grinning and wagging his eyebrows, but something about his tone and the set of his shoulders tells Tweek that Mad Tache creeped Jimmy out something fierce.
“I hope Craig won’t be in too much trouble,” Token chimes in, rubbing his arms and sort of unconsciously hugging himself. Clearly he’s feeling weird about that encounter, too.
“Wait,” Tweek says, and closes his eyes for a second. Shit, he hates breaking a promise, but Jimmy and Token both seem to sense that something’s up. And this is kind of an emergency. “Okay, so…” he opens his eyes, and starts walking again, without any kind of warning. His friends scramble to catch up, even though Tweek’s the shortest of them all. He doesn’t say anything else until they’re off the school grounds and well past the bus stop where half the kids from school are waiting and chewing gum.
“W-what gives, Tweek,” Jimmy asks, because they’re supposed to catch that bus too, back to Jimmy’s house. To hang out before DnD; and bask in that sweet Friday afternoon freedom.
“You owe Craig for taking the heat like that,” Tweek says, surprising himself a little.
Jimmy makes a startled sound – he wasn’t expecting that, either – before he nods. “Okay,” he says. “That’s f-fair. I do.”
“Thing is,” Tweek swallows, before he lowers his voice, “Craig needs our help. All our help.” He looks over at Token, who raises a single eyebrow. “There’s something I haven’t told you guys about Craig’s parents…”

The home economics room is lined with electric cookers, and at least that’s a good thing. Craig’s old school had gas cookers, and those made him more nervous than he liked to admit. There was something about having to stick your whole arm inside a dark, ancient oven, holding a lit match in your shaking hand… Ugh. Anyway, in here it’s all hot plates interspersed with Formica counter-tops in this ugly, fake wood veneer. There are two big metal sinks, too, and not a single dishwasher, to Craig’s deep-seated disgust.
In the middle of the room, there are two longish tables. Each one has blue chairs clustered around it, where students can sit to write down recipes and eat what they cook, God help them. That fat Cartman kid’s already sitting at one table, writing what seems to be the same sentence over and over – right, that’d be his punishment from Mrs Garrison.
Craig goes right over to the opposite table and pulls out a chair. He’s never actually had detention before, but you’re supposed to do homework, right? Token lent him a copy of that book they were going over in English, Hard Times – Craig figures he might as well try reading that.
Mr Adler has taken one of those chairs and pulled it up against the far wall, so he can keep an eye on them. He’s got a newspaper spread out across his lap, but Craig doesn’t think for a minute that this means the old guy will forget to watch them.
Just as Craig’s managed to pull the book out of his bag, the door swings open again and Stan Marsh appears, scowling. “Cartman,” he says, nodding to the fat kid, before he turns to Craig. “Asshole.”
Without thinking, Craig flips him off.
“Quit screwing around,” Mr Adler instantly snaps, so Craig drops his hand and goes back to his book. Only he’s too agitated to read; his eyes just keep on trailing across the same short paragraph over and over again, and the tiny hairs at the back of his neck have gone all tingly. He’s just waiting for Stan to jump him.
But nothing happens, except that there’s a thud as Stan drops his backpack to the floor. “I shouldn’t even be here,” he mutters, and strictly speaking, that’s the truth. It was Tweek, after all, who threw that brick through the counsellor’s window and framed Stan for it. Still, Craig doesn’t exactly feel sorry for Stan, who takes a seat on the same side of the table as Cartman. It’s as if he doesn’t want to turn his back on Craig, or something. That’s almost funny.
Stan doesn’t even pretend to do homework, just slouches there in his seat after he’s draped his football jacket over the back. Slowly tipping the chair backwards so it teeters on two legs, then tipping it forward again. It’s kind of mesmerising to watch. Peering over the edge of his book, Craig has the strongest impulse to go over there and kick that chair out from under Stan in mid-tip. But no, that would definitely count as screwing around.
“Ugh,” Stan suddenly groans, “It’s too cold in here.”
“You have a jacket, don’t you,” Craig snaps, before he can even think about it.
“Hey,” Mr Adler says, lowering his newspaper and giving them both a warning look.
“I see you’ve adapted well to our climate, Craig,” Cartman drawls, his voice all syrupy with fake sincerity.
“Well, I wear a jacket when I’m cold, so,” Craig retorts, with a shrug – and a little more fire in his belly. Our climate, my ass, he thinks.
Mr Adler pointedly clears his throat, and Craig buries his face in the book again. The very first scene is set in a classroom, which would be ironic and funny if he didn’t feel like throwing everyone who’s in here with him out the window. Yes, even Mr Adler and his damn paper.
“And you’re wearing one of Tweek’s shirts right now,” Stan’s voice is thick with venom, “Is he your new boyfriend, then? Careful, you’ll make Clyde jealous.”
Craig doesn’t even realize he’s stood up until he hears the bang of his chair hitting the floor. Panting, with rage or panic or maybe both, because how the hell did Stan figure him out so fast?! For a few seconds, time seems to have frozen up, and Craig can pick out every little detail. Mr Adler with his mouth open, took shocked to even shush Stan. Cartman, with the world’s widest grin on his face; eager as a little kid for Craig to explode. And Stan, leaning forward across the table, looks almost… hungry.
Maybe he hasn’t figured out shit, Craig thinks, maybe he’ll just say anything to make me throw the first punch.
It’s a gamble, but Craig will do anything to draw attention away from how Stan just said “Tweek” and “boyfriend” in the same sentence. And he’ll need to do it fast, before Mr Adler can shush them and threaten them with what, more detention? So Craig shakes his head and says, “Jesus, dude, what is your problem with Clyde?”
“Guy killed his own mom,” Stan begins, only for Cartman, who’s clearly bored with writing lines, to cut him off.
“And he didn’t invite Stan to his birthday party,” the fat kid says, his voice thick with fake sympathy, “In the fourth grade. When he even invited Scott Malkinson, who has diabetes.”
At least Stan seems to have the basic humanity to be embarrassed.
“Fourth grade,” Craig says, and he can hear how his own voice has gone all silky with anger, “Are you serious? You’re bullying the shit out of this kid because of stuff that happened when you were what, nine?”
Stan opens and closes his mouth twice, before he spits out, “I warned you not to hang out with Tweek and those guys!”
“What,” Craig counters, now past the point where he even cares if he gets extra detention, “Because your friends are so damn awesome? I mean, did Kyle go home, or did he go looking for more disabled people to yell at?”
“It’s not like anybody’s allowed to kick the shit out of Jimmy,” Stan bellows, instantly going red in the face, “So why’d you even take the heat for it, when he was obviously the one who took –”
“That’s enough screwing around!” Mr Adler’s standing up too, and he’s rolled up his newspaper, which he slaps against the nearest table for emphasis. “Both of you! Now sit back down, and shut on up, Stan and,” he falters, “And what’s-your-name.”
“His name’s Craig, Mr Adler,” Cartman coos, “But he looks more like a Carlos, huh?”
Craig almost does it, too – almost sits his ass right back down and rides out this detention from hell with his teeth clamped shut. Only that’s when the door opens, and a dumpy older woman with her hair in a bun pokes her head inside the room.
“Excuse me, Mr Adler,” she whispers, “But Mrs Cartman’s waiting in the Principal’s office…”
“Well, well,” Cartman sounds absurdly pleased by the prospect of his mom finding out that he brought weed to school and tried to plant it on another student. Oh wait, it’s because he gets to leave, isn’t it? “Kept me waiting long enough,” he goes on; as he closes the exercise book he’s been writing in and slides it into his black satchel. “Lazy bitch,” Cartman adds under his breath, making Craig jerk his head back in shock.
“Can I trust you two,” Mr Adler asks, eyeballing each of them in turn, “Stan, and Craig, to stay in your seats like civilized people, while I hand Eric here over to his mother?”
“Yessir,” Craig mutters, and now he does sit down. Across from him, Stan does the same thing.
Mr Adler just looks at them both for a second, before he sighs and shrugs. “All right, then,” he says, “Eric. Come on now.”
The door slips closed behind the three of them, and in the following silence, Craig can hear their footsteps slowly disappear down the hall. “I,” Craig begins, and then Stan’s fist smacks into the side of his face.

Chapter Text

Craig blinks. He’s on the floor. How the hell did that happen?
He raises his hand, and his movements are slow, the way you’d move in a dream. The side of his jaw is throbbing, and he prods it with care. “Oh,” he says, and then he puts the pieces together, figures it out. Stan Marsh just punched him in the face!
“What gives, asshole,” he snarls, but before Craig can even begin to find his feet, Stan’s on top of him. He barely has time to blink before Stan’s fist connects again, and pain blossoms around his left eye. “Gah! Jesus Christ!”
Stan’s leaning over him now, inspecting his handiwork, too distracted to notice that Craig is pulling his left knee up. Until it connects with the soft, gooey center of Stan Marsh, that is. Stan was definitely not expecting this, and while he’s gasping for air, Craig finally manages to shove Stan off his chest. He scrambles away on all fours, crawling backwards until his butt bumps against one of the cookers.
Now Stan’s doubled over, wheezing and glaring at Craig. The bastard! All outraged like it wasn’t even him who started this shit!
“The hell did I ever do to you,” Craig demands, before honesty compels him to add, “Except call you out for being a douchebag to Clyde?”
“Huh,” Stan pants, as he climbs to his feet using the edge of the nearest table to pull himself up, “Why don’t you ask him?” Stan’s face twists with the venom of what he’s saying, “Ask your new boyfriend how his mom died.”
That’s when everything turns sort of red.
All that stuff Craig’s constantly thinking about? About where Mom and Dad are, and if they’re still alive, and why Trish won’t believe him and how to get hold of Grandma? All of those worries melt away in the heat of his rage. He gets up, crosses the distance between them in two angry strides, and grabs Stan by his shirtfront with both hands. The pain in his left arm’s almost satisfying, even though a small part of him knows this’ll land him in even more trouble. Craig bites down on the pain, tells himself to ignore it as he moves his left hand – Jesus shit, that hurts! – to the back of the other boy’s neck, while Stan’s still too surprised to fight back. Easier to steer that way, and to ram Stan, forehead first, into the tabletop. Once, bam, then bam! again. But now, Craig can feel Stan’s muscles starting to shift under his hands. Knowing he needs to move fast, Craig releases him, and sends Stan sprawling across the table. Then, Craig practically dances away, his legs move that fast, his feet taking him all the way over to the row of windows. And not one moment too soon; Stan’s just raised his head, with a glare of absolute bottomless hatred on his face. But more importantly, the door behind him is starting to open!
“Tuckerrrr…!” Stan growls, and with a weird sort of detachment, Craig realizes the kid is actually bleeding! There’s a long, jagged red stripe running from his eyebrow, all the way down the bridge of his nose, which is literally gushing.
“Hey,” Mr Adler snaps as he flings the door open, “You two have been screwing around!” Would he even believe it, if Craig told him Stan swung first? The past few days haven’t exactly done anything to strengthen Craig’s faith in adults.
“Oh no, sir,” Craig lies, desperately keeping his voice calm, as he reaches over, grabs the handle, and pulls the closest window open. “I was just letting some air in. Since Stan was feeling faint.”
Mr Adler’s eyes narrow; you’d be hard pressed not to smell the bullshit from miles away. Meanwhile, Stan’s gaze flickers quickly over to Craig, like he can’t believe Craig didn’t rat him out. Yeah right, because Craig just wants to add snitch to the list of shit Stan’s spreading behind his back.
“You,” Mr Adler points at Stan, “Nurse. And you,” he goes on, as Stan sweeps his backpack off the floor, “Just sit. Don’t talk,” he adds, as the door smacks shut behind Stan.
Craig takes this as his cue to go back to his old seat. His legs are shaking, now that it’s all over. Shit, Tweek must be rubbing off on him or something! Before. Craig probably would’ve just taken Stan’s punches and lived with the sour embarrassment of it. Anything to stay under the radar. The chair scrapes loudly against the floor as he pulls it out one-handed.
“It isn’t easy, being new,” Mr Adler suddenly says, right after Craig’s sat back down.
Craig’s head snaps up in surprise.
“Just be yourself,” Mr Adler goes on, “And don’t try to impress people by being a jackass. Then you’ll be fine in the long run.”
It’s like Craig can suddenly see the human being underneath the teacher façade, or whatever you call it. He suddenly notices how there are all these little flaws in the hand knitted vest Mr Adler is wearing, where someone forgot to knit one or pearl one, Craig’s not too steady on knitting terminology.
“I like your vest,” he says, before he can stop himself.
Mr Adler’s stern features relax into what might almost be a smile. “My wife died in a plane crash,” he says, and while Craig’s still picking his jaw up, he goes on, pulling at the vest a little, “She made it for me.”
Craig doesn’t even realize he’s touching his hat until he says, “My real mom made me this.”
Back when Craig had been seven years old, too clever for his own good, he’d finally put two and two together. He’d asked Mom and Dad flat out if he was adopted one day, in the middle of dinner. Mom, who’d been trying to coax Tricia into eating some mashed-up baby crap, had dropped the spoon right on the kitchen floor. Dad had been so startled, he’d flipped her off. They’d pulled a shoebox down from a high shelf and shown Craig pictures of desert landscapes, a ramshackle hospital, and a tiny brown baby. Mom had pulled the hat out last; soft blue wool with long ties and a yellow pompom. “Your mommy said she knitted you this hat while you were still in her tummy,” Mom had said, blinking like crazy, “And she asked us to give it to you when you were all grown up. So it’s probably a bit big for you now, but if you want it…?”
Craig’s pretty much worn that hat every day since, except in that part of summer when wearing anything on your head is just plain nasty. It helped, finding out that his first mom didn’t give him away because she hated him – if she had, she’d never have knitted him this hat. And it helped, too, that Mom wanted him to have it – that had almost been even more important. That Mom had wanted him to know his first mom would’ve kept him if she could.
Mr Adler draws a deep breath through his nose, before he rubs his eyes with his palms. “Tell you what,” he says, before he abruptly stands up, his chair scraping horribly against the floor, “It’s Friday afternoon. Go on home, and put some ice on that eye, all right? And don’t tell anyone I let you off early. Deal?”
Craig bounds to his feet fast enough to make himself dizzy. “Deal!”

The first thing Jimmy did when the three of them piled inside his living room; was switch on MTV. It’s not a bad idea, it’ll drown out their conversation since Mrs Valmer’s at home; not to mention it’s what they usually do to unwind between school and DnD. So right now, Return of the Mac is playing and the three boys are scattered across the Valmers’ sofa, sort-of watching the Mac swagger through some hip-hop party that’s been set up under a railway bridge, and pass the DJ an LP.
“That’s just bad etiquette,” Token says, raising one eyebrow. “I hate it when people bring their own CD’s to someone else’s party.”
“Ugh, I know, right,” Tweek groans. “Like that time at Bradley’s?”
“What, when you f-f-frisbee’d Cartman’s CD out the w-window?” Jimmy shakes his head, and gives Tweek a grin that’s 49% exasperated and 51% fond.
“But it was Boyzone,” Tweek growls, nostrils flaring at the memory, “It was that album where they raped a perfectly good Cat Stevens song, how was I not supposed to –”
“No, no,” Token holds his hand up, “We all agreed that it had to be done. Anyway,” he nods at the screen, “Gotta love his Stasi interrogation technique.”
It takes Tweek a second before he understands that of course Token’s now talking about the Mac, who’s set up a creepy little office for himself in the train tunnels, shining a couple of lamps at his ex-girlfriend while he sings at her from behind his desk. And busting some moves, too; thanks to the magic of low-budget video editing, the Mac is flanked by two all-singing all-dancing versions of himself.
“J-just look at asshole,” Jimmy says, nudging Tweek, who’s sitting in the middle, before he points at the screen. “Dude’s in three p-places at once.”
Tweek snorts as he sees what Jimmy means.
“Oh, black people can do that,” Token deadpans, “If we get angry enough.”
Tweek can feel Jimmy starting to twitch next to him, as he does his best to hold his laugh in. They both seem to sense that there’s more coming; and Token can be so damn funny when he decides to stop watching his mouth that it’d be a shame to interrupt him now. Tweek wouldn’t want to miss this for like, a lifetime supply of coffee.
“I can only materialize one copy so far,” Token goes on, still with the most angelic look on his face, “But I’m kind of a mellow guy, I guess? Now my dad, he claims he did four copies once,” Token leans back against the armrest, and fixes that perfectly innocent gaze on Tweek, of all people, who’s already about to bust a gut from not laughing. “Hallway, my parents’ bedroom, the kitchen and downstairs toilet,” Token holds one hand up, and counts each room off on his long, slim fingers. “But I’m pretty sure he was just bragging.”
Next to Tweek, Jimmy makes a sound like a frog that’s been stepped on, and suddenly Tweek would die if he held it in any longer. So now the two of them are laughing their asses off, while Token just smirks like a cat that’s caught a mouse. For a few seconds Tweek forgets all about Craig and his impostor parents.
“I’ll be sure to ask Steven for a demonstration,” Jimmy’s mom suddenly says, like she’s the one who’s just materialized out of nowhere.
“GAH!” Tweek jumps to his feet and spins around, heart pounding like the war-drums of an Orc army.
Of course, Mrs Valmer’s only stepped out of the kitchen, wearing a white lace apron over her yellow dress and holding a plate of sandwiches in each hand. Jimmy’s mom smiles, shaking her head at Tweek. “These,” she holds up the plate with yellow flowers around the rim, “Are safe for you to eat, Tweek. You don’t eat nearly enough,” she adds, putting both plates down on the dining table, “Especially not with all the coffee you drink.”
“Thanks Mrs Valmer, I mean, no m’am,” Tweek babbles, suddenly feeling relieved that he’d just finished his cup of coffee when Jimmy’s mom walked in. Otherwise he’d probably have splashed it all over the sofa, and the rug. He hurries over to the table and grabs himself a sandwich, cut into a perfect triangle, bites down and grunts out loud with pleasure. Brie, spinach leaves and sliced tomato – Mrs Valmer makes sandwiches good enough to sell at Tweak Bros!
“I’ll get us some plates.” Token disappears into the kitchen for a second – they’ve all been in and out of each other’s homes for so many years that Tweek also knows exactly where everything is. Now he can hear the kettle, too – Token must’ve put it on.
“I’m surprised Clyde isn’t here,” Mrs Valmer says, and while Jimmy’s explaining that Clyde had to work, Tweek grabs his empty mug from the side table and shuffles out to make himself more coffee. Jimmy’s parents have a nice French press that Tweek’s allowed to use.
“So what’s the big secret,” Token asks him in a hushed tone, passing Tweek the top plate from the stack he’s holding.
Tweek jerks his head at the living room, eyes wide and disbelieving. Why would Token even bring that up, with Jimmy’s mom still in the house?!
Token shrugs, before he walks past Tweek carrying the remaining plates. Tweek pads after him on his stockinged feet, like a dog.
“You boys will be all right on your own,” Jimmy’s mom is saying, as she takes her frilly apron off, “I just want to drop by Roger and Clyde’s, since they’re not home. Put some laundry on, you know how it is.”
The three boys all grin, because they know exactly how it is – Mrs Valmer keeps a separate supply of fabric softeners just for occasions like this, since Clyde’s dad believes in washing stuff at a heat slightly lower than the heart of the sun. “You have to make sure you kill all the bacteria,” Mr Donovan likes to say, as if he runs some kind of chemical plant instead of a shoe store.
The front door has barely clicked shut behind his mom before Jimmy rounds on Tweek, pointing the baloney sandwich he’s been eating at him like it’s a microphone. “So s-s-spill already,” Jimmy says, and Token reaches out to nudge him because Jimmy’s talking with his mouth full. “What’s,” Jimmy swallows the whole mouthful in one big gulp, “What’s going on with Craig?”
Tweek draws a deep breath. “Okay,” he says, “The thing is…”

After Kenny’s had his nose reset – at zero charge – he and Kyle get the bus out to Tweak Bros. Kenny gets on first, to stop Kyle trying to pay for him. One freebie per day is enough, thanks very much, and Kenny hasn’t forgotten about the almost-full box of Advil Kyle pressed on him earlier. Matter of fact, it’s kind of burning a hole in his pocket. At least that doctor Kenny saw seemed to have fun yanking his broken nose back into place, with a creepily long set of tongs. It made a change, the doctor had told him, from all the breaking and sawing he’d normally have to do to someone’s nose. He’d even written Kenny a prescription for free – most doctors charge for that, as Kenny is very well aware. Kenny has no intention of picking it up, of course; Kyle already gave him free painkillers after all. But faced with all that money saved, the small extravagance of taking the bus is something Kenny decides he can get away with.
“I thought you didn’t have to work today,” Kyle says as he steps into the bus aisle behind Kenny, pocketing his ticket.
“I don’t,” Kenny mutters, sliding into an empty double seat and pushing his hood back a little – that’s okay when it’s just Kyle and him. “But I have to make sure Kevin’s turned up.” And if he hasn’t, Kenny will just have to step in and cover for his brother, and blow off Jimmy’s invitation to DnD. Maybe that’ll be just as well, since Jimmy’s kind of a sore topic with Kyle right now.
“Right.” Kyle’s quiet for a little while, which Kenny quite likes. There aren’t many people he can just sit and be quiet with; Cartman for example, that guy always has to talk about something. But just as they pull up outside the Photo Dojo, Kyle says, “My mom said you and Karen can come, if you like. For Shabbat,” he adds, in a much softer tone, like Kyle always does when he’s talking about “Jew stuff”, as Cartman likes to call it.
Kenny doesn’t quite know what to say. “Thanks,” he mutters, then buys himself some time adjusting his hood. Friday dinners at Kyle’s house are pretty legendary, even Cartman agrees. So much food, and it’s always heavy, filling stuff that’ll even last you past breakfast on the following Saturday. Can he really afford to turn down an offer like that – for Karen’s sake? But the truth is, Kenny doesn’t get to do that many things just for his own sake, and he knows Tweek’s mom will make sure Karen’s had enough to eat by the time she goes to bed. And he just… kind of really wants to play DnD with Tweek and those guys tonight. “Thing is…”
“That’s our stop,” Kyle says, yanking Kenny out of his thoughts as he reaches past him to pull the chord.
They trudge past the Bijou and the smell of popcorn that whafting out of there, while Kenny pulls his hood back up. Thinking that it’s a good thing their little gang always plays DnD on Sundays after church. Kyle had suggested it, eternal diplomat that he is, just so different guys can bop their characters between different games. It’s not always easy; like if you wind up with Cartman and Tweek in your party, God help you. Those two are just as likely to have their characters attack each other. Meanwhile, Kyle’s talking about what his mom’s making for tonight, and Kenny’s sort of half listening, half tuning him out, when he suddenly senses that there’s somebody walking right behind them. Deliberately keeping pace with them. Shit! Kenny spins around, arms raised to block in case it’s one of the local junkies looking to a mug them… Only to find Mr Tweak there, grinning and shaking his head. He’s got that backpack he always uses to deposit the cash slung over one shoulder, and a plastic bag with an unfamiliar logo dangling from one wrist.
“Can’t sneak up on you, Kenny,” Mr Tweak says, a little regretfully. Kenny can’t help but smile under his hood; he knows the guy lives for scaring his family. “I was just on my way back from the bank,” Mr Tweak goes on, digging through his plastic bag, “When I decided to swing by the mall to pick up this.” And then he holds out an honest-to-God pager, still mounted inside the plastic wrapping! “This is for you, Kenny. In case we have a sudden… staff shortage.”
“But,” Kenny splutters, “But I can’t accept….! And shouldn’t you be giving Tweek…?!”
“Do you think Tweek would enjoy having a pager he’d worry about losing,” Mr Tweak drawls, and Kenny has to admit he’s got a point. “Besides, I can write this off as a business expense. Probably.”
Kenny has no choice but to take the pager. It’s bright orange, just like his favorite hoodie. He stares down at it, because presents don’t happen to him very often, so he doesn’t quite trust himself to look at his boss just yet. “Thank you, sir,” he says, his voice barely louder than a whisper.
“Anyway,” Mr Tweak gives Kenny a pat on the shoulder that he doesn’t bother dodging, “Your brother actually turned up today, ten minutes early. And your sister’s helping Helen sort the stockroom; they can both have dinner with us. So you’re free to play Dungeons and Dragons with Tweek and the gang!”
Oh no. Kenny looks up, and forces himself to meet Kyle’s eyes, because there’s no way this isn’t going to sound bad. “I’m, I’m sure you could come,” he mutters, even as Kyle’s expression tells him his friend will do no such thing. “You know, after your… Shabbat stuff.”
“That’s all right,” Kyle says, his tone all icy as he turns away, “I don’t consort with thieves.”

“This it is insane,” Token whispers, as soon as Tweek is done talking. The three of them are now huddled around the dining table at Jimmy’s house, whispering even though Jimmy’s mom isn’t home yet.
“Sure,” Jimmy agrees, “But that doesn’t m-mean it’s not t-t-true.”
“Well…” Token grabs his backpack from the hallways and pulls out his big notebook. Token’s got several; this is the A4 one with blank pages, so he can sketch diagrams and stuff in class – and opens it on a blank page. “Supposing it is true? Then that couple have got to be doing it for a reason.” He selects a red pencil from his Lion King pencil-case – it’s an old birthday present from Tweek, who’s secretly so happy that Token’s still using that thing – and writes “WHY IMPERSONATE CRAIG’S PARENTS?” in the top left corner of the page.
“T-take Craig out of the equation,” Jimmy says, pulling out a plain 2HB pencil, seemingly just so he’ll have something to chew on. “Why w-would anyone w-w-want to impersonate Mr and Mrs T-T-Tucker?” Jimmy takes Token’s pencil out of his mouth and points it directly at him, like a microphone, “What do we know about his real p-p-parents?”
“They were in the car-crash with Craig,” Token immediately replies, “That’s where Craig thinks the switch took place, right?”
“Good p-point. Tweek?”
“Gah, Jesus,” Tweek squawks; he hates being put on the spot like this. “They both work at the bank?!”
“Huh,” Token says thoughtfully, “That’s right.” Underneath his all-caps question, he writes, “Work at Bank” and then “Car crash –switch?” right below that. “You can keep that pencil, by the way,” he adds, treating Jimmy to a raised eyebrow.
Jimmy grins enormously, teeth still clamped around the pencil. “Christmas c-came early,” he drawls, making the pencil bob up and down, like he’s talking around a cigar.
“And his mom’s purse is all wrong,” Tweek blurts out, then instantly turns bright red. Just saying that out loud reminds him of talking to Craig about it in the back room of Tweak Bros.
“Oh, right,” Token blinks at him, “That LV bag she couldn’t help flaunting. I’d forgotten about that, but that was weird.”
Jimmy’s staring at them both like they just started speaking a whole other language or something. “The w-what now,” he asks, finally taking the pencil out of his mouth.
Token sighs. “If I explain this to you,” he says, locking eyes with Jimmy, “You are absolutely not allowed to rag on me for knowing about this stuff. Deal?”
Jimmy shrugs. “Deal.”
“Okay, so…” Token claps his long-fingered hands together, before tapping the index fingers against his lips for a second, “The bag Craig’s supposed mom carries is called a Louis Vuitton Speedy. It’s what you’d call a budget designer bag,” he goes on, now folding his hands. “I mean, don’t get me wrong, it’ll still set you back about a grand, okay? But it’s one of the cheaper designer bags on the market.”
“But Craig’s parents are supposed to be kind of broke, right,” Tweek cuts in. “Like, they’re using some bottom of the barrel moving agency that won’t deliver their stuff for what, another week? They’re too cheap to go out and buy anything new, like not even a camp bed for Craig to sleep on, you know? So how come his mom’s walking around with a thousand-dollar bag?”
Jimmy whistles. “That is odd,” he concedes, nodding to himself. “And she s-seemed kind of…” Jimmy frowns, staring down at the two sandwich plates, now empty except for a few crumbs, “I d-don’t know, like she was trying too hard to act like a m-mom?”
Token snaps his fingers and points right at Jimmy. “You said it.”
“And can we talk about how terrifying his fake dad is,” Tweek blurts out, hugging himself as the memory makes him shiver.
“There was definitely an aura of menace,” Token agrees, nodding to himself. “I mean, I’d be concerned about Craig’s home life even if you hadn’t told us this stuff, but now…?”
“W-whatever help he needs,” Jimmy’s nodding too, as he holds his hand out flat, palm down towards the table-top, “Craig’s g-got it.”
Tweek immediately puts his hand on top of Jimmy’s, and then Token’s hand goes on top of Tweek’s. There’s only one hand missing from their little pile, of course.
As if on cue, the doorbell rings. “That’ll be Clyde,” Token says, jumping out of his seat before Jimmy has a chance to stand up. Jimmy looks mildly annoyed by that, so Tweek takes this opportunity to lean across the table and whisper, “You’re not the only one who scored a point against the Assholes today.”
Jimmy’s face immediately lights right up. “You m-mean; that really wasn’t Stan who threw the b-b-brick?”
Tweek grins back at him. “Just me and my Stan hat.”
Jimmy silently offers him a high-five, which Tweek returns with gusto. Then he jumps off his seat and runs out to the hallway. “Hi Clyde,” he half says, half yells, as he pulls his own school bag down from one of the many hooks on the wall.
“Oh, uh, hey Tweek,” Clyde replies. He’s busy pulling his uniform shirt from the store over his head, name tag and all. Then he stands there, bare-chested and completely unselfconscious, digging through his backpack for a spare shirt.
Tweek, meanwhile, has found his tarot cards, wrapped in their purple silk scarf. “And now…” He pulls the whole bundle out and holds it under right under Clyde’s nose, while his friend’s eyes widen and cross in an effort to see what it is. “Now it’s Tarot time,” Tweek says, and Clyde swallows.
“You make that sound like a threat,” Token drawls, crossing his arms.
Tweek grins up at him. “It kind of is.”

Chapter Text

The corridors are empty – it’s Friday after all – and Craig is walking fast enough to make his unzipped hoodie flap behind him. He’s so focused on getting out of school that he only realizes he’s screwed up after he’s pushed through the front doors. Because that’s when he sees the dented blue Ford Station Wagon, the one that belongs to Craig’s real parents. The one his fake parents are currently driving around it. Stupid, stupid!
At least Fake Dad is on his own in there. Just a man and his moustache. Craig doesn’t think he could handle both of them right now.
Running isn’t an option – he should’ve taken the route Tweek showed him yesterday, if he was going to run. And Fake Dad has obviously spotted him; he’s flashing the headlights at Craig now. There’s nothing for it but to jog down the front steps and through the school gates, though he doesn’t wave. No power on Earth can make Craig wave to this asshole.
“I heard you got detention, son,” Fake Dad drawls, while Craig is climbing into the passenger seat. A bit like he’s implying there will be unpleasant consequences for that.
“It was a misunderstanding,” Craig sort-of lies, then adds, “Sir” because he feels like maybe he has to. “Somebody stole this kid’s clothes, and I got the blame. Probably because I’m new,” he adds, shrugging. “But I talked to the teacher, and he let me go early.”
“I see.” Fake Dad pulls out of his parking spot while Craig is still fumbling with his seat belt. “And what about your face?”
A quick glance in the rear-view mirror makes Craig wince. He’s already puffing up and turning purple. So much for keeping his fight with Stan Marsh on the downlow.
“This kid named Stan jumped me,” he says, as casually as humanly possible, “Because I was standing up for Clyde. Or he just doesn’t like me,” he adds, as the seat belt finally clicks into place.
“Clyde,” Fake Dad says, like he honestly has no idea who Craig is talking about.
“You know, Clyde next door? The sleepwalking kid?” It’s weird, normally Craig is the quiet one, but there’s something about Fake Dad’s silence that makes him want to fill it. He discreetly pulls down his sleeve to cover Butters’ drawing on his cast, because he really isn’t feeling up to explaining Super Craig to the fakes.
“Oh. That kid.” Fake Dad doesn’t sound like he could possibly give less of a shit. “Well,” he says, as the school disappears behind them, “Least you seem to have made a friend.”
“Yeah, I…” Better say it now, Craig decides – he’s probably got a much higher chance of getting permission from Fake Dad on his own, since Fake Mom was acting pretty hysterical about letting Craig out of her sight yesterday. “I kind of made friends with a bunch of people? And they invited me to play DnD tonight. It’s only at Jimmy’s house, you know, Jimmy Valmer? So it’s not like you’d even have to drive me there, since he lives like, two doors down?” Shit, does Craig sound as panicky as he thinks he sounds? Breathe, he reminds himself, staring resolutely down at the dashboard, with all its familiar scuff marks and stains. Breathe, breathe, breathe.
Fake Dad is quiet for what feels like a century, but Craig refuses to look up. Finally, he hears the guy say, “I personally don’t see why not. But let’s see what your mother thinks.”
Goddamn it, Craig thinks, but then he reminds himself that it’s still not a total loss. After all, it doesn’t look like it’s even occurred to Fake Dad to ground him. Fingers crossed, he can make it to Jimmy’s. Hell, at this rate, Craig’s even prepared to give Tweek Thomas’ number, if he fails to get through to Grandma again. But, if it all works out, he could have Grandma on the first bus down here tomorrow morning. Fingers crossed.

They go through the spread card by card, Tweek reading and Clyde nodding, while Jimmy and Token lean in to watch. Tweek hasn’t said out loud what the spread is for, but he doesn’t need to, since each card ties to obviously into Clyde’s situation with Craig. The past cards are all stress and negative crap – four of swords, the tower – while the future cards are ridiculously positive – the sun, ten of pentacles, and even two of cups as the tenth card. That’s the card for perfect love and understanding, there’s even a straight couple toasting each other on the picture, and Clyde suddenly snatches that one right off the table.
“But look at this,” he says, as soon as Tweek’s finished talking about how the ten of pentacles ties back to the very first card, which was seven of pentacles. “Does this mean I get with Bebe after tonight?”
Tweek just draws the deepest breath in the world and rolls his eyes at the ceiling.
That makes Jimmy laugh, while Token reaches across the table to snap his fingers into Clyde’s forehead.
“Ow, dude!”
“This reading isn’t about you and Bebe though, is it,” Token says, as he leans back in his seat. Crossing his arms and stating a fact.
“It’s about Clyde and Craig,” Tweek agrees, snatching the card out of Clyde’s grip and putting it back in its proper place in the spread. “And anyway, the two of cups doesn’t have to mean you fall in love or whatever,” he goes on, “It could just be like a really awesome friendship. Or something,” he adds, when it starts to feel like his friends aren’t so much watching him, as staring at him. It’s not like Tweek’s blushing or anything.
“P-p-platonic love,” Jimmy says, nodding like that makes perfect sense to him.
“Hey,” Clyde protests, “I’m not gonna go fall in any kind of love with a dude! No offence, Tweek,” he adds, dropping his gaze to the cards again.
Okay, now he is blushing, goodamn it. “Dude, you’re fine,” Tweek waves it away, hoping the guys don’t realize the reason he’s gone all red is because they’re talking about Craig.
Token sighs. “Don’t tell me you don’t know what platonic…”
“It means caveman,” Clyde exclaims, and now he sounds even more exasperated than Token. “You know, the people in the cave with the shadows on the wall?”
Jimmy snorts, long and loud, and even Token is finding it hard to stay serious.
“What,” Clyde demands, getting huffy. “That Greek dude wrote a book about it!”
Tweek slaps his palms down on the table, hard enough to make the tarot cards slide around a little. “Guys,” he groans, “Plato’s cave has nothing to do with the two of cups! Okay?” He eyeballs Clyde on that last word, and Clyde ducks his head and mutters, “Yeah, okay.”
“You’re c-cute when you’re b-b-being strict, Tweek,” Jimmy says, which Tweek decides to ignore. If he rises to Jimmy’s nonsense, they’ll still be looking at this spread when everyone shows up for DnD.
“I think what this card means,” Tweek picks up the Two of Cups again, “Is that if you play your cards right, Clyde, Craig might be the best friend you’ve ever had.” There’s a slightly sour taste in his mouth from saying that, since Clyde is supposed to be Tweek’s best friend, but what the hell. The cards don’t lie.
“One of my best friends,” Clyde corrects him, very quietly. Because that’s the thing about best friends, isn’t it. They can read your damn mind sometimes.
“Yeah, so,” Tweek puts the card back down, and taps the seventh card with his fingertip, “This is where you’re at now. Three of swords, dude. Upside-down.”
Clyde’s eyes immediately narrow. “Is that bad?”
Tweek can see where he’s coming from, since on the picture, three swords have been jammed through a heart like it’s a pin cushion. “Doesn’t need to be,” he assures Clyde, “And when it’s upside-down, that’ll change things too. So now it’s more like…” Suddenly, Tweek is the one who can’t quite look Clyde in the eye, “Letting go of sad stuff. Like, stuff that’s been holding you back, or…” he glances over at Token, who’s nodding along, “Or changing the way you think about… stuff.”
“Or g-getting over your mom,” Jimmy shoots in, and then the temperature in the whole room instantly drops.
“Or,” Token says, now reaching out to rap Jimmy gently on the forehead with his knuckles, “It could mean letting go of the idea that Craig might have the same thing she did.”
Damn. You’ve got to hand it to Token.
Clyde’s eyes flicker over to the ninth card. The Queen of Pentacles, the one card that’s popped up in every reading Tweek’s done for him. Ever. “You could be onto something there,” he says, before he reaches over to turn that card over, pattern side up. That feels… significant. The ninth card shows your hopes and fears, and Clyde most definitely knows that.
“Well, see, while you’ve been worried about that,” Tweek taps the card, but leaves it face-down, “The rest of us…” he taps the eighth card, the Knight of Wands, “The rest of us have been thinking that you’re doing pretty okay. This guy’s like…” he stops and thinks about it for a second, “Someone who can stand up to the Stan Marshes in the world. A guy who isn’t afraid to take a chance on,” he falters, because it’s starting to sound so obvious, “On someone he doesn’t know that well.”
“Oh,” Clyde said, like it doesn’t sound like bullshit to him at all. “And if I take this chance, Craig and I will be tight like caveman bros?”
Tweek shakes his head and laughs, because he can’t not laugh. “Something like that, yeah.”
Then there’s like thirty seconds where Clyde does nothing but stare into space, while the other three steal sneaky glances at each other and exchange shrugs. You can practically hear the creaking of Clyde’s thoughts, even though his face is unreadable.
“All right then,” he suddenly says, pushing his chair back, “Caveman bros it is.”
Tweek can feel the biggest smile in the world spread across his face. “Awesome,” he says, holding his hand out for a high-five, which Clyde returns with gusto.

By the time Kenny’s made it to Jimmy’s house – on foot, because two bus tickets in the one afternoon will eat way too deep into his cash – pretty much everyone seems to be there already. There’s a familiar car sitting at the kerb, a white Medical Transport van with the ramp – Kenny always thinks of it as the gangplank – already out. So he decides to wait around; he can already hear the buzz of the electric wheelchair, and soon enough – there he is, driving down that thing and grinning from ear to ear. “Timmy!”
“Heya, Timmy,” Kenny says, pushing his hood back and so Timmy can see his face. He’s one of the few people Kenny’s never felt helplessly shy around, just because concepts like “shy” don’t seem to exist in Timmy’s worldview. Also, it’s hard to know exactly how much Timmy understands, and Kenny has a feeling that, when you talk to him, Timmy gets maybe half his info from your expression alone. So he does his best to loosen his shoulders and smile. “You looking forward to the game?”
“You bet he has!” The wide-set black guy who hops out on the passenger side of the van is one of the assistants at the home Timmy’s been staying at, ever since his parents had to admit they couldn’t look after him anymore. Josh, Kenny thinks, because he makes a point of remembering peoples’ names. “Been talking about nothing else all day, have you, buddy?”
A happy “Timmy” of agreement, which is followed by a quick sign language exchange that Kenny can’t follow. He never had that much to do with Timmy in primary school, not enough to learn – and back then, before Timmy got relegated to the Special classes in the little side building, Jimmy always acted as interpreter anyway.
“I’m gonna come on in,” Josh says, while the ramp retracts back into the van with a hiss and whirring of machinery, “And just read my book while you guys play, alright? So just give me a holler if you need me, Timbo.” Josh pats the bulging satchel slung over his shoulder, and Kenny remembers that Josh is working at the home to pay his way through his studies. He can’t for the life of him remember what, though – just that it’s not medical school. Some kind of engineering degree, maybe?
“Timmy,” Timmy asks, sort of sideways pointing at Kenny with his twisted right hand.
Kenny can guess what he means. “Yeah, the princess is joining you guys tonight,” he says, stepping back to let Timmy go past him and up the Valmers’ driveway. Someone’s put the little yellow ramp out, and when Kenny reaches past Timmy, the door’s already open. “Hope you don’t mind?”
“Timmy,” Timmy retorts, in a tone that translates to, Oh please, before he steers the wheelchair up the ramp and inside.
“Well, that’s you told,” Josh says, reaching out to give Kenny a pat on the back that he sidesteps out of habit. Not that Josh seems to take offence, he just shrugs it off and follows Timmy’s assistant into the Valmers’ house.
Immediately, there’s a shout of, “Kenny!” and of course it’s Clyde, pushing past his friends to crowd Kenny up against the wall in the tiny hallway. Looks like a pretty full house, Kenny thinks, before he drops his gaze to that little strip of wood that separates the warm, golden brown flooring from the yellow and orange wallpaper. He’s never too sure what the pattern’s supposed to be – sunflowers? Or actual suns, maybe?
“How’s your nose, dude,” Clyde is asking, pushing up so close that it takes all of Kenny’s willpower to stop himself from just grabbing the guy, and slamming him against the wall next to the mirror. Clyde doesn’t mean anything by it, and the mirror might fall down and break. Kenny knows it’s vintage, so he can’t possibly afford to replace it.
“It’s fine,” he mutters, talking to the wallpaper. “Got it reset for free at Stan’s mom’s work.”
There’s a semi-organized row of everybody’s shoes along the wall, so while Clyde’s talking, Kenny carefully kicks his own gross trainers off and adds them to the end of the line-up.
“Oh thank God,” Clyde is saying, and he sounds so relieved that Kenny feels like an utter piece of shit. “Listen, if you need painkillers or anything?”
“It’s fine,” Kenny repeats, and he wants this conversation to be over so bad that he pulls that damn prescription out of his back pocket and waves it under Clyde’s nose. “See? He gave me this.”
To his surprise, Clyde snatches the paper out of his fingers – too fast for Kenny to react. “You didn’t pick it up, though,” he says, with the righteous satisfaction of someone who can finally make everything better, and Kenny thinks, Oh no. “That’s perfect, my dad said to check if you got a prescription! He’s gonna swing by the all-night pharmacy at the mall and get you this, okay? Mrs Valmer already said I could use the fax machine!”
Ah, Jesus. There’s nothing for it but to give up, is there? “ ‘kay,” Kenny mutters, shrugging and forcing him to look up at Clyde. “Thanks.” That puppydog eagerness on his classmate’s face is almost too much to deal with. “Then we’re even?”
“If you say so, man,” Clyde replies, looking so happy and relieved that Kenny worries the kid might start to cry. “C’mon in, Jimmy’s mom made like a mountain of sandwiches!”
In the living room, all the usual suspects are spread out on the furniture. Josh has gone and stretched out on the love seat by the window with his book, and a single sandwich on a plate. There’s a whole stack of plates, and two rows of glasses, next to the three towers of sandwiches and four different flavours of soda. Kenny’s stomach starts to contract at the sight of this insane luxury, and he knows for a fact that nobody here’s going to comment on how much he might eat. Hanging out with Tweek’s gang is nothing like hanging out with Stan and the guys, and having Cartman watch – and comment on – practically every bite he eats. So Kenny decides he might as well put four sandwiches on his plate – four different ones, of course, so it’ll be like he’s only doing it to try all the flavors. Then he pours himself a glass of fizzy lemonade, so full that he has to slurp off the top of the glass before he even dares to lift it, and starts looking around for somewhere to sit.
Jimmy’s over by the door chatting to Timmy, propped up on his crutches, nodding while Timmy’s hands are flying. The occasional “Timmy” comes out too, but Jimmy seems to tune those out.
Token’s over by the window, peering out the curtains while sipping thoughtfully on his glass of soda, and raises his hand to Kenny in a quick wave. Who’s he on the lookout for, then – Craig? Because Craig’s not here, though he must be the only one that’s missing. Nicole’s got her map and her rulebooks spread out on the coffee table already, with that dead-set serious look on her face she always gets when she’s about to DM a game. Bebe is crouched next to her, as the two bend their heads over what looks like character sheets, black curls mingling with blonde. And in the far corner of the sofa, Esther Stoley, of all people, is crouched, arms folded and glaring at everyone who even looks in her general direction. There’s a free space next to her, but before Kenny can even debate whether he wants to risk Esther’s icy disapproval, Butters has climbed over the back of the sofa to take it.
“Roast beef and prawn cocktail,” he says, holding out a plate with one sandwich on it until Esther sighs and takes it. “Your favorite, right? And here…” Butters produces a glass with a brownish tinge to it, “Doctor Pepper!”
“Thanks,” Esther mutters, squishing up further into her corner, “I guess.”
“Oh hey there, Kenny!” Butters seems so happy to see him that Kenny actually starts to blush – thank God he remembered to put his hood back up. “C’mon, sit,” he insists, patting the couch on his other side, “There’s space for you, too!”
There’s nothing for it but to painstakingly walk around Bebe and Nicole, carrying his glass like it’s an unexploded grenade for fear that he’ll spill soda on the carpet. At least Butters can keep up the talk for all three of them, but Kenny still has to ask, “I thought you’d be at Kevin’s house?”
That makes Butters laugh. “Nah,” he says, “I finished all my inking and stuff, and Eric knows to look for me there. He got all those lines today, so he’ll be lookin’ to make me copy ‘em. Figured I might as well hide out here, and have some fun to boot!”
“Cartman doesn’t own you,” Esther says, and it’s so unexpected that even Butters seems to be lost for an answer.
“She’s right,” Kenny mutters, before he takes a bite out of his first sandwich. And man, did he luck out, it’s the same kind Butters just brought Esther – roast beef and prawn cocktail on seeded brown bread that he’s got a feeling Mrs Valmer may have baked herself. It tastes so good that it’s almost like an out of body experience, like nothing in the world matters more than this sandwich, in this moment now.
Suddenly, Token’s voice cuts through the chatter in the living room. All he says is “Incoming,” but he says it with such measured authority that everybody else just stops talking at once. Not to mention, it’s followed by a “GAH!” from Tweek, who standing at the top of the staircase – probably been to the toilet, Kenny figures.
“Ahholyshit,” Tweek yowls, taking the stairs two at a time in his rush to get through the living room, then out in the hallway. Seconds later, the front door slams shut behind him.
“Think he remembered to put his shoes on,” Token drawls, letting the curtains drop.
“I’ve got lots of s-s-socks,” Jimmy says, like he already knows Tweek didn’t. “Craig’s here,” he adds, for the benefit of the room at large.
Immediately, Bebe starts to giggle, and Nicole holds a finger to her lips to shush her. All around the Valmers’ living room, people are looking at each other like they’re in on a big secret, and Jimmy’s already furiously whispering something to Timmy, who starts to smile. Wait, is this what Kenny thinks it is?
“Apparently, Tweek’s gone and got himself a crush,” Butters whispers, winking at Kenny. “Wouldn’t that be nice, if it all worked out.”
“Hmph,” Esther says, before she takes a long drink of her soda.
Wow, so literally everyone in this room is in on it now? Kenny remembers walking into the back room at Tweak Bros, to find Tweek clutching Craig’s hand. How fast Tweek had let go.
“That would be nice,” Kenny mutters, and he means it, too. He’s just honestly not sure which way the new kid swings.

Chapter Text

“Craig!” Tweek hurtles out the Valmers’ front door, taking the concrete steps two at a time. “You made it!” And then he stops dead, because Craig is sporting one doozy of a black eye. He’s also flanked by both of his so-called parents. He doesn’t look like he’s off to have fun at a friend’s house; he looks like he’s being frog-marched to his own execution. “And so did… your mom and dad,” Tweek finishes lamely, and feels his face stretch into a fake smile. “Um, hi?” This is also when he realizes that one, he forgot to put his shoes on, and two; the gravel in the Valmers’ driveway is pointy and sharp. Ow.
“We just wanted to make sure Craig got here in one piece,” Mad Tache says, and somehow it almost sounds like a threat. Like what he really wanted to make sure of was that Craig didn’t try to make a break for it.
“He’s been getting so confused,” the LV Lady chimes in, before she honest-to-God reaches over to pinch Craig’s cheek, “After the accident, you know. Haven’t you, carino?” Craig squirms out of her grip, muttering something that might’ve been “Yeah, sure”, but could just as easily have been “go die”. He looks about embarrassed enough to take that sling off and hang himself with it.
“But you guys live like, three houses down,” Tweek blurts out, before he can stop himself. And because it’s the LV Lady he happens to be staring at, he sees it – that quick look of something flickering across her face. Something that might have been anger.
As quickly as it appeared, it’s gone, replaced with an almost nauseatingly sweet smile. “We wanted to drop in,” the LV Lady says, in her lilting accent, “And say hello to the Valmers, as well. Since we live, as you say,” her eyes narrow, just a little bit, “Three doors away.”
The mere thought of these two creeps sitting in on their DnD game is almost more than Tweek can handle. Shifting – okay, more like hopping – from one foot to the other, because not only is the gravel sharp, it’s also wet – Tweek says, “But Jimmy’s parents aren’t even here!” The best thing is, that’s one hundred percent true. “They’ve gone to catch a movie at the Bijou!”
“What,” Mad Tache says – just that one word, but it’s enough to make Tweek’s insides squirm. Hot damn, that guy makes him uncomfortable!
“The old movie theater,” he replies, feeling kind of proud of himself that his voice doesn’t tremble. Even though he must be standing in a puddle or something, because Tweek can definitely feel water seeping up through his left sock, he still manages to keep his cool. “It’s just across the road from Tweak Bros? My parents’ coffee shop,” he adds, when this is met with another blank look. “You, ah, you might even catch them in there if you go, like, now,” Tweek goes on, hit by a sudden inspiration. “Jimmy’s parents always drop by to say hi to my mom and dad.” That’s not exactly true, but Tweak Bros is one of those places where all his friends’ parents like to go – and not just because Mom and Dad give them a staff discount. “I mean, I don’t know what they’re watching this week, but the Bijou always put the week’s schedules in the Friday paper, so –”
“I’ll be fine,” Craig suddenly says, speaking up for what Tweek realizes is the first time. “You don’t have to…” Tweek can tell that Craig swallows the first thing he was going to say, “Worry about me. Mom,” he adds, slightly too late for it to sound natural.
The couple pretending to be Craig’s parents look at one another then, and Tweek wishes he could read minds so damn hard. Their faces are like plastic, though, it’s like watching shop dummies in a window.
“Maybe I should stay with Craig,” the LV-lady says, raising her eyebrows as she looks at Mad Tache. “Just in case you have another episode.” She says that last bit to Craig, cupping her hand around his cheek, and from the way Craig instantly stiffens, Tweek can just see him slapping her hand away.
So Tweek does the first thing he can think of – he grabs Craig’s right wrist, holding his arm up high like a boxing champ, and yells, “Well, I’ve got him now, Mrs Tucker! There’s no escape from my death grip!”
The two fakes just stare at him, like humor doesn’t exist where they come from. Then Mad Tache forces a little laugh out, and says, “You kids don’t want us grownups cramping your style, I get it. Let’s just pick him up at nine, honey.” He looks at the LV-lady with this very firm gaze that Tweek knows he’d never, ever be able to hold for long. And sure enough, she sighs and nods. “All right, Craig.” That’s not a question at all, and Craig seems to know it, he just ducks his head and stares at his own feet. Or at Tweek’s, maybe, it’s impossible to tell. Man; that would be awkward, though.
“Yessir,” Craig mutters, and if he minds that Tweek’s still holding onto his wrist, he doesn’t show it.
“I promise to return him in mint condition,” Tweek says, because unfortunately there’s no stopping himself once he gets going. He bounds up on the first step, which gets his feet off the stabby gravel and has the added advantage of putting him almost at Craig’s eye height. “We’ll even spray him with air freshener, to get the nerd stink out!”
A tiny snort comes out of Craig’s mouth, which is pretty neat. He lets Tweek pull him up the rest of the stairs, past the makeshift ramp they put out for Timmy. He doesn’t wave at the fakes, and he doesn’t speak until Tweek’s pushed the door shut and leaned against it with a huge, relieved gasp of air.
“Thanks,” Craig says, and now he finally smiles a little, “For the save, I mean.”
“Dude, anytime!” Tweek had to let go of Craig’s wrist to close the door, which was probably a good thing, but now he misses the feel of it against his palm – bonier than his own wrists, but also wider. “But, uh…” now that it’s just the two of them, his heart is starting to beat faster, “What happened to your eye?”
“What happened to your shoes,” Craig counters, like his eye is the last thing he wants to talk about. And like he’s only just noticed that Tweek’s socks are soggy and filthy.
“I’m, uh, a barbarian?” Tweek knows that’s a lame-ass thing to say as soon as the words leave his mouth, but goddamn it, it’s not like he can erase the past and take them back! “I mean,” he goes on, fastening his eyes firmly on one of those orange triangle things on the wallpaper, “Barbarians don’t wear shoes, right?”
“Oh,” Craig says, like Tweek’s answer has honestly thrown him for a loop. “I thought you’d have…” he frowns, “Sandals or something?”
“Socks and sandals,” Tweek jokes weakly, “Now that is kinda barbaric!”
Craig stares at him.
Wow. Just wow, Tweek thinks, pulling a hand through his hair and giving it the smallest of tugs. The frosted glass door between the hallway and the rest of the house is still shut, which is a good thing – his friends do not need to hear this shit.
“So anyway,” he says, doing his best to distract Craig by changing the subject completely, “I only came out to like, warn you in advance. About Timmy, I mean. Just so it won’t feel weird?”
Craig frowns, obviously trying to remember if there’s a Timmy in their class. Or he’s wondering if he’d be better off with the fakes than with a spaz like Tweek; it’s not like Tweek could even blame him if he did. “I don’t think…”
“Oh, you won’t have met him,” Tweek hurriedly assures Craig, as he starts pulling off his right sock – damp and gross now, from going outside with no shoes like an idiot. “Timmy’s in one of the special classes. Like, he used to be in our class, back in primary school? But they decided he wouldn’t be able to keep up after the fifth grade, so…” Tweek shrugs, as the sock slides off his foot. “Anyway, Timmy’s got cerebral palsy –”
“Like Jimmy,” Craig interrupts, nodding.
“Yeah, like Jimmy,” Tweek agrees, as he goes to work on his left sock, just trying to nonchalantly slide it off without Craig realizing what a dork he is. “Only Timmy’s is much worse, so he’s in a wheelchair. And his speech is kind of…” Tweek stops for a second, looking for the right word, “Limited, I guess? But he can use sign language. Most of us know some, but Jimmy’s the expert, he always interprets. Just, uh, don’t be startled when Timmy starts shouting his own name, okay? He’s got Tourette’s Syndrome too, so the “Timmy’s” just sort of… come out?”
Craig’s eyes are suddenly a million miles away. “I used to have a friend with Tourette’s,” he says. “I get it.”
“Was that… your ex-best friend,” Tweek blurts out, before he can stop himself. Gah! That’s probably the last thing Craig wants to talk about right now! Or ever! He busies himself draping his disgusting socks over the low radiator that runs along the wall; making sure to straighten them out completely because he’s frankly terrified of looking Craig in the eye.
But, when his socks have been flattened to perfection and Tweek has no choice but to look up, Craig doesn’t look mad at all. “Yeah,” he says, “That was him.” Craig doesn’t sound like he’s weirded out by the prospect of Timmy at all, and Tweek mentally awards him seven hundred gold stars. This is exactly the kind of thing that’s likely to make him fall even more head over heels with a guy, too. “Speaking of that…” Craig digs around the pockets of his jeans for a second, then pulls out a note with a scratchily scribbled phone number on it, “That’s for his house. When you call him, because the hell if I will,” Craig adds, and suddenly there’s so much hurt in his voice, and his eyes are so angry, that if he’d been anyone else Tweek would’ve just jumped on him and hugged Craig tight.
“Okay,” he says instead, pocketing the note for later. “What’s his name?”
“Thomas,” Craig replies, staring down at his shoes. Like even meeting Tweek’s eyes would be too much for him right now. Damn, it must be killing him to ask this Thomas kid for any kind of favour! “Anyway,” he kicks them both off neatly, before he positions his shoes next to Kenny’s worn-out trainers at the far end of the row, “Stan Marsh is what happened. To my eye,” he clarifies, when Tweek is thrown for a loop. “Asshat jumped me in detention.” Craig shrugs, and adds; “I got his nose, though.”
“I’m so sorry, Craig,” Tweek blurts out, because Stan Marsh wouldn’t even have been in detention if not for Tweek’s stunt with the brick.
Craig shrugs again. “It’s fine.”
“Have you seen yourself,” Tweek yelps, and Craig visibly flinches at how loud and shrill he suddenly got. Shit, shit! Tweek draws a long breath through his nostrils, and imagines it filling his lungs completely. Then he breathes back out, plasters a smile across his face and says, “I’ll get you an ice pack, Jimmy’s mom keeps like a hundred of them in the freezer.”
“…Okay,” Craig mutters, but he actually smiles back! A tiny, kind of shy smile. That’s got to mean Tweek didn’t screw up too badly just now, right? “I mean, thanks.”
“Anytime, dude!” Tweek swings the door open and sings out, “Hey everybody, Craig’s here!”

Kenny’s had all those four sandwiches by now, and he’s working his way through a fifth one. He’s also had three glasses of pop, a different flavour each time. There’s Dr Pepper in his glass now, and since he’s starting to get full, Kenny takes the time to close his eyes and just enjoy the feeling of tiny bubbles hitting the tip of his nose.
Next to him on the sofa, Butters is working away on a sketchpad, humming contentedly to himself. In the far corner, Esther has uncurled slightly from her human ball to talk to Bebe, who’s showing her the character sheets she just went over with Nicole. Why is Esther here, again? She stopped playing DnD last year, around the same time she quit the cheerleading team. He remembers Cartman’s comment – “Not that she had much to jiggle, anyway” – delivered with a shrug after Wendy had mentioned it to Stan, and how mad Wendy had been. And, except for the odd Wonder Woman T-shirt and those Converse she ironed a bunch of star patches on, Esther Stoley now wears all black everything.
“What do you think?” Butters says, jerking Kenny out of his thoughts. He’s holding his sketchpad up, and Kenny instantly recognizes the character he’s drawn. It’s Timmy’s paladin, Sir Timothy, standing up straight and holding his white charger by the reins – and it’s an unmistakable likeness of Timmy himself. “You think he’ll like it?”
Trust Butters to be worried about something like that; the kid really is too nice for his own good.
“ ‘Course,” Kenny mutters, and gives Butters a quick smile before he decides that enough is enough and pulls his hood back up. “ ‘Course he will.”
That seems to be all the reassurance Butters needs; he jumps to his feet and says, “Thanks, Kenny!” before he hurries over to Timmy and Jimmy. Those two are deep in conversation about something – Jimmy’s half sitting on one armrest of the sofa, one foot balanced with cheerful insolence on Timmy’s wheelchair. While Kenny watches, Timmy suddenly stretches his neck, mouth open and gaping over Jimmy’s big toe. Jimmy sees it too, and snatches his foot back real fast, to delighted cackles from Timmy. Then Butters is there, holding the sketchpad up, and there’s almost instantly a loud “Timmy” of approval.
Kenny grins to himself around another mouthful of roast beef and bread. Told you so, he thinks.
Then the glass door opens and Tweek’s there dragging Craig inside, literally pulling on the sling. Barefoot and grinning, talking a mile a minute – “Timmy! Dude, it’s so good to see you, and this is Craig…!”
And you’ve got to hand it to Craig, he looks at that drawing Butters did and says, “Nice. Here’s one Butters did for me,” and holds his cast up for Timmy to inspect. Not even batting an eyelid.
“Timmy!” Timmy gets beyond excited, leaning closer to peer at Butters’ drawing of Super Craig. Then he holds up one twisted, claw-like hand and mimes writing, before he looks hopefully up at Craig. “Timmy?”
“You wanna sign it? Sure,” Craig shrugs, then looks around, “Anybody got a pen?”
Butters immediately produces a red fine-liner, since red has always been Timmy’s favorite color, and pretty soon Craig’s cast is sporting his big, jaggedy all-caps signature.
“Nice,” Craig says, then jerks his head back as Token tosses a pair of balled-up socks right past his nose and into Tweek’s open hands.
“I took the liberty,” Token says, raising one eyebrow in Jimmy’s direction.
“Mi sock drawer es su s-s-sock drawer,” Jimmy replies with a shrug, while Tweek starts pulling the first sock on, hopping on one foot.
“Dude,” Tweek says, “Do you have any socks that aren’t novelty socks?” From where he’s standing, Kenny can see that Tweek’s borrowed socks have little red cups of French fries printed all over them; like the kind you get at McDonald’s.
Jimmy shrugs. “P-probably not? Do you have any T-T-shirts that aren’t band shirts?”
“I thought you’d prefer this pair to the burger socks,” Token tells Tweek, “Being a vegetarian an all.”
“Touché,” Tweek points at Jimmy, grinning, “And yes,” he adds, now pointing at Token. His grin widens. “That’s so thoughtful of you, man, I kind of get what Nicole sees in you now…”
“Little shit,” Token tells him affectionately, shaking his head. “Uh, Nicole? Are we good to go, now that Craig’s here?”
Nicole, who has her dead serious face on, closes one of her plastic folders and taps it against the coffee table, just once, to align all the papers. “We are,” she says, “Since Tweek’s already handed in his and Craig’s character sheets, and we just finished Bebe’s.”
Bebe claps her hands together and exclaims, “Oh my god, let’s do this! Is it weird that I’m so excited?” She laughs at herself, quickly and nervously, and Kenny notices how she’s changed into a different top from the one she wore at school. This one is black, covered in lots of tiny flowers, and shows a hell of a lot more cleavage. And well, Bebe is no slouch in the cleavage department. She smells different too, and not just like she took a shower after cheerleading practice. Perfume? If she went home and dressed up for DnD, Kenny thinks, there’s definitely someone here Bebe’s trying to impress.
“Nah,” Clyde assures her, dropping into the seat directly opposite Bebe’s, “It’s kind of…” he suddenly turns bright red, and drops his gaze to the table top, “Neat.”
Oh-ho, Kenny thinks, when Bebe also looks down and muffles a nervous giggle with her hand. Kyle never had a chance with her at all, did he?
“Right then,” Jimmy says, grabbing his mother’s guitar from where it rests against the piano. Carrying it and walking with just one crutch, he makes his way over to the big Lazy-boy. “Let’s g-get this show on the road,” Jimmy goes on, as he sinks into the chair. Since his character is a bard, Jimmy insists on doing this, every single time they play – not that anybody seems to mind.
“T’was a sad, sad tale,” he begins, strumming and clearly making it up as he goes along, “When last we met, and our Drow Elf friend wound up very dead…”
Token and Clyde are both groaning at the terrible rhyme, and as Kenny sits down on the ottoman, he can hear Tweek telling Craig, “It’s fine, just sit wherever you want!”
Craig just shrugs in response, but he also sits down right next to Tweek on the old saggy bean bag. And Tweek’s clearly trying to hide how pleased he is about it.
“Our party’s depleted, and blood has been shed,” Jimmy does some dramatic strumming, which cracks up Butters something fierce, “But a stranger’s but a friend thou hast not yet met,” Jimmy finishes – he never stutters when he sings. Then he suddenly puts the guitar down and eyeballs Craig. “I can see w-what you’re thinking,” he tells Craig, “And yes, I’m p-pulling these l-l-lyrics right out of my ass!”
That startles a laugh out of Craig, and it’s downright weird hearing the kid laugh, when he’s usually so serious.
Nicole clears her throat. “At the inn at the crossroads,” she begins, “Our weary travellers have had a night to rest and wash the elf blood out of their clothes.” This makes a few people snicker, while Tweek snorts and shakes his head. “Now you’re all sitting down for some breakfast gruel, and maybe a pint of watery ale. The inn is very full,” she goes on, “So you have been forced to share a table with a few other travellers. You spot a couple of familiar faces,” Here, she eyeballs first Butters, and then Kenny, who meets her eyes for a full count of three. “And a few completely new ones. Now,” Nicole claps her hands together, “Perhaps you could all introduce and describe yourselves? Starting with you, your majesty?”
That’s a cue if Kenny’s ever heard one before. He closes his eyes for a second, just to make sure he’ll get the Voice right, and when he opens them, well – it’s like when he decides to be Mysterion, only now he’s decided to be…
“Princess Kenny,” Kenny says, pulling his hood down and folding his hands under his chin. It’s weird, how easily the Voice comes to him, and sort of tells him what to do and say – he doesn’t even have to think about it that much, which is a relief. In his everyday life, Kenny thinks pretty much every sentence to death before he opens his mouth. And then he hardly talks at all. “A pleasure to meet me, I’m very sure! And this,” he reaches out to weave his arm through Butters’ arm, “Is my faithful and handsome paladin, Butters!”
Butters laughs good-naturedly at his antics, like he always does when Kenny brings the Princess out to play. The look on Craig’s face though – Kenny has to look away fast, so he won’t crack up and ruin the moment.
“I like kittens and needlework and shooting things in the eyeball with my bow and arrow,” Kenny goes on, “And just generally, you know, fighting evil stuff! I’m a rogue-class fighter, and I am terribly pretty,” he adds, mostly for Craig’s benefit since everyone else here has encountered the Princess already.
Once he’s done, Jimmy lets out a hoot and starts applauding, and pretty much everyone else joins in – with the notable exception of Craig, who’s still staring at him like Kenny just grew a second head.
“Well howdy,” Butters says, when the shouts have died down, “Like her highness just said, I’m Paladin Butters, sworn to serve and protect Princess Kenny! I’m tall and buff, I suppose, and I’ve got a two-handed broadsword and some nifty armour. Nice to meet you!”
Everyone choruses “Nice to meet you, Butters,” like it’s an AA meeting or something – everyone except Craig, who’s still too stunned to talk, and Esther, who doesn’t seem to be in the mood.
Tweek clears his throat. “I,” he says, dropping his voice about as deep as it’s humanly possible for Tweek to go, “Is Twink.” This provokes a few knowing snickers around the room. “Is short for Twinkletoes,” he goes on, to more snickers. “I is wear no shirt, since barbarian is no need stupid shirt. And so I can show off body paint. Is black, and I is wear it on face and chest. Is look little bit like Arnold Schwarzenegger in Conan,” he adds, which is the bit that makes Token, of all people, completely lose his shit. “And little bit like He-Man.”
“Well,” Bebe cuts in, and maybe she thinks it’s her turn next since Tweek’s sitting between her and Craig. Or maybe she’s just that eager, “I’m just a little red Tiefling! I’m not very powerful, but I’ve got these nifty winged boots that let me fly! Oh, and my name’s Infantine.” Wow – and here Kenny thought Token’s character name took the cake. Bebe just went and raised the bar! “I can fly and cast spells, but I kind of forget what I’m doing sometimes if I see shiny things!” Then, as if she’s been doing this her whole life, Bebe turns to Kenny and squeals, “Like that thing! What’s that in your hair, Princess!? I’m gonna fly over there and have a look!”
“It’s an earring, Infantine,” Kenny replies, in character and loving it – Bebe’s going to fit right in! “I’ll take it out and let you play with it for a bit, yeah?”
“Ooh yes! Shiny,” Bebe exclaims, clearly having the time of her life.
“But who’s that,” Nicole says, looking right at Craig now, “Skulking in the shadows by the door?”
Craig jerks upright; he must know it’s his turn to talk now, but he’s clearly not comfortable messing around like this.
“Twink will bring,” Tweek declares, and nudges Craig gently in the ribs. “Twink is pick up this guy and carry over to table! I buy you drink, little man,” he goes on, and nudges Craig again until the kid finally cracks a smile, “Is only taste little bit of horse piss!”
“Ugh, put me down already,” Craig grouses, and even though he can’t look at anyone but Tweek, at least he’s taking part! “Right, so I’m Feldspar. I wear a hat,” Craig tugs on one of the tassels on his blue chullo, “And I… liberate peoples’ stuff, I guess. I mean,” he half smiles at Tweek, “If you go and tell people you’re a thief, they make assumptions, right?”
“Well, let me just keep an extra firm hand on my royal purse,” Kenny chimes in, “Along with my other royal goodies. Although, for a handsome fellow like this Feldspar…” he bats his eyelashes at Craig, “I might decide to leave certain doors unlocked!”
Jimmy cackles and strums a chord on his guitar. “Princes K-Kenny, ladies and gentlemen,” he says, while Craig looks like his head is about to explode. “In c-case my f-fame doesn’t precede me,” Jimmy goes on, putting the guitar down on the floor, “I’m Jimmy the Bard, and I can w-w-weave spells with my m-music. And my friend here is the f-f-famous p-paladin, Sir Timothy!”
“Timmy!”
“Who r-rides a white ch-charger called Ruckus,” Jimmy continues, “And w-wields an enchanted lance that he g-got from a lady in a l-l-lake.”
“Timmy,” Timmy agrees, looking pleased as punch.
“Well anyway,” Token speaks up, “I’m Voucher LeNoir, mage extraordinaire at your service. I wear robes of purple silk, though they have been liberally stained with elf blood, and…”
“And I’m Ranger Donovan,” Clyde cuts in, slapping both palms on the table top. “I’m really a prince in exile, which I normally don’t tell people unless I’ve known 'em for a long time, but what the heck. I’m still feeling sad about our dead elf bro…”
Tweek silently holds his hand up for a high-five, which Clyde gives him without breaking his verbal stride.
“ …so I’ve been having a lot of this watery ale. In fact – I drunk I might be think!”
That makes Bebe laugh a little extra hard. She’s staring at Clyde like he’s the funniest guy to ever walk the earth, while Clyde’s staring back at her like he’s been hit around the head with a plank. Like he can’t quite believe what he’s seeing.
“Sho, Infantine,” Clyde suddenly drawls, throwing a big, goofy grin Bebe’s way, “An’ everybody elshe. You guysh up for an advenchure?”

Nicole’s just declared a toilet and refuelling break, and most of the group are piling into the kitchen looking for snacks.
“Thank Christ for that,” Esther Stoley says, and she’s been sitting there so quietly in her corner of the sofa that Butters literally jumps when she stands up.
“Esther?” Bebe, who’s clearly been having the time of her life, suddenly looks worried. But Esther’s already left, and that frosted glass door is clicking shut behind her.
Either she’s gone to use the little toilet Craig spotted when he first came inside with Tweek, that’s sort of tucked under the staircase, or she’s gone home. Didn’t seem to be enjoying herself much anyway, Craig thinks with a shrug.
“Oh dear,” Butters says, with a nervous little giggle, “Esther’s in a mood tonight, eh?”
Suddenly, a big hand closes around Craig’s good shoulder, and he almost jumps out of his own skin. But it’s only Clyde, with a goofy grin on his face. “Sorry, dude,” Clyde says, jerking his head up the stairs, “But can I talk to you for a second?”
Now what? Craig feels himself freeze in place, bent double with his ass still hovering over the huge flattened beanbag he’s been sharing with Tweek. He’s not exactly keen on trying convincing Clyde he’s not nuts – again. Also, this would’ve been the perfect opportunity for them to sneak off and call Thomas together – not that Craig was planning to do much of the talking, more like telling Tweek what to say…
He’s half expecting Tweek to save him, but instead, Tweek just says, “I think that’s a really good idea,” and gives Craig a pat on the back before he disappears into the kitchen. Goddamn it.
“Uh, sure?” Craig isn’t sure what to expect after last time, but he follows Clyde upstairs anyway, past framed holiday photos of the Valmers hung on the wall. Clyde heads past the upstairs toilet – Craig can hear flushing – before he slips into what must be the guest bedroom. Craig follows him, even though he doesn’t like sneaking around other peoples’ homes like this. There’s sunflower wallpaper in here, but only on the wall right behind the bed, which also has a single big sunflower-shaped cushion lying in the middle of the yellow bedspread.
“I’ll give you one guess what Mrs Valmer’s favorite color is,” Clyde says, sinking down on the foot end of the bed and pulling that cushion into his lap.
Craig doesn’t have it in him to laugh, not after the last talk he had with Clyde.
“You having fun, dude,” Clyde asks, when Craig stays silent.
Craig blinks. “Uh. I guess? But that “Princess Kenny”…” he shakes his head, and now he does laugh.
Clyde joins in, with a big, relieved grin on his face. “I know, right? He’s like, the shyest human being in the world, and then… First time we got the Princess in our party, Tweek was convinced Kenny’d been replaced with an alien!”
He may be laughing his heartfelt, dopey laugh, but Clyde’s also very carefully not making eye contact. Still… Clyde could be downstairs in the kitchen hitting on Bebe, instead of up here talking to Craig. But he’s obviously decided it’s more important to make things right between the two of them.
Ah, to hell with it! They might as well get this awkwardness over with.
“Listen,” Craig begins, “I know I said some stuff the other day –”
“I believe you,” Clyde cuts him off, loud enough to make Craig jump a little. “I’ve decided to believe you,” Clyde elaborates, looking up and right into Craig’s eyes. His eyes seem to bore right into Craig’s soul. “The reason I was such a jerkass before –”
“You weren’t, though,” Craig quickly counters, “I mean, I know what it must’ve sounded like…”
Clyde laughs again, but quietly this time, and shakes his head. “Believe me, I’ve heard worse. From my mom, I mean. She, ah, she had schizophrenia, you know?”
Craig feels his jaw slide open. “I, uh, I didn’t know,” he stammers, and what do you even say when someone tells you shit like this?
“She used to hear voices and stuff,” Clyde goes on, hugging that sunflower cushion against his chest, “And she used to believe all kinds of crazy things. Like, this one time, when I was eight? She told me our house was trying to kill her.”
“Jesus, dude,” Craig mutters, sinking down on the bed cover next to Clyde. Not too close though, because who knows what Clyde might think.
“So now you know. Why you kind of… scared the crap out of me,” Clyde says, looking up at Craig. His smile is so hopeful and sad that it makes Craig’s chest hurt.
Shit, what do you do in this kind of situation?! Craig feels like he should – like he needs to put his arm around Clyde’s shoulder, but will Clyde figure out he’s gay if he does? Will he yell Eww, dude, and shake Craig’s arm off, and will that ruin everything?
“There’s a chance I might have it too, you know,” Clyde adds, shrugging again. “So it’s not like I’m one to talk.”
Okay, that’s it. Craig can’t just sit here and do nothing, not after hearing that. So he puts his good arm around Clyde’s shoulder anyway, and braces himself for the other boy to swear and shove him away. But all Clyde does is lean into him like a dog.
“Thanks,” Craig says, and then clears his throat when he realizes how thick his voice is. “For deciding to believe me, I mean. I kind of…” he doesn’t want to say it, but after what Clyde just admitted to, Craig can’t not say it, “I kind of wondered if I was the one going crazy. But I remember my real parents,” he goes on, “And I think they might be in some serious shit.”
Clyde nods, slowly and ponderously. “We’ll figure something out,” he says, before he abruptly stands up. “Come on, we’d better go back before they send up a rescue party.”
They head back downstairs, not talking, but it’s not like they need to talk. When was the last time anybody trusted Craig with heavy shit like this? Not since Thomas showed him the scars from where he’d tried to slice his wrist open, and that was two years ago – and anyway, Craig doesn’t want to think about Thomas. He doesn’t want to think about Tweek talking to Thomas either, but he’s the idiot who went and gave Tweek Thomas’ number, so there you go.
“Is there even any food left,” Clyde suddenly yells, running past Craig and making a beeline for the kitchen.
“Timmy!”
“Dude, are you a b-b-bottomless p-pit, or what?”
While everybody’s laughing and poking fun at Clyde, Craig suddenly gets this feeling. He slips the frosted glass door open, and sees that there’s a pair of shoes missing from the tidy row by the radiator. That pair of red Converse that someone had customized with golden stars. Tweeks’ socks are still spread out and cooking on there, though, and Craig has to shake his head and laugh a little when he spots them. Tweek’s something else, all right. Then he steps into his own blue Converse, flattening the backs and shuffling outside before he can think twice about it.
And there she is, just as he’d thought. Esther Stoley, sitting on the brick wall by the flowerbeds and crying her heart out. She looks up when she hears the door click shut behind him, and gives Craig the iciest stare in the world.
“What do you want,” Esther asks, pulling at the black jean jacket she’s got draped over her shoulders. Though it must be hard to sound that tough, Craig thinks, with snot rubbed across her cheek.
Craig digs through his pockets for a second. “All I’ve got is a Tweak Bros napkin,” he says, holding it out – crumpled but clean, a forgotten souvenir from that time Tweek cooked him dinner in the back room.
“Thanks.” Esther plucks the napkin out of his hand, shakes it out, and blows her nose – loud as a foghorn. Then she looks up, and even though he’s never, ever been attracted to a girl in his life, Craig can suddenly see how someone might find Esther Stoley pretty – now that she’s finally let her guard down. That heart-shaped face, her golden skin, those huge, almond-shaped eyes – maybe it’s not so weird after all, how Kevin’s friends are climbing over each other to date her. “I mean,” she says, “I guess I always knew I never stood a chance, but…” she shakes her head, making her long black hair cascade around her face in messy waves, “But watching Bebe flirting with Clyde just now, it…” She pauses to blow her nose again, though the napkin’s practically in tatters by now, “It just hammered the nail in the coffin, I guess.”
Oh. Oh wow. “You like Bebe,” Craig says, and now all sorts of things are starting to make sense.
Esther glares at him. “What if I do?”
“Well,” Craig shrugs, but he feels like he has to spill his secret, now that this girl he barely even knows has gone and spilled hers, “I’m queer myself, so…”
“Gah! Goddamn it,” Esther yells up at the sky, with such force that Craig takes a step back, and then another, before he can even stop himself. “And goddamn my stupid brother for making me come here!” She shakes her hands at the clouds, hard enough that her jacket slips off and lands on the ground – not that Esther even seems to notice. “Like you even need keeping an eye on, Christ! Some people,” she goes on, “Have all the luck. I mean,” she spins around, glaring at Craig, “I bet you think Tweek is cute, right?!”
“Uh,” Craig says, looking over his shoulder, because he suddenly wants no part of this conversation at all.
“You do know Tweek’s gay, right,” Esther all but snarls in his face, “No? Well, he’s gay as hell, and he’s got the biggest crush on you, and Jesus! Why can’t things ever be fair?!” With that, she snatches her jacket off the ground and storms off. Running down the driveway and up the road, where she disappears inside the second-last house on their street. And Craig is left staring after her, mouth hanging open.
Tweek? Tweek is gay, and has a crush on him?! Craig thinks about it for a second, then firmly shakes his head. Okay, so that’s impossible. Even if Tweek is gay, which would be amazing, then he’s still way too cool to like someone as boring as Craig. Someone who doesn’t even own a single band shirt. Someone who’s too scared of being outed to even stand up for himself when the class bully starts calling him racist crap.
Nope, no way, Craig thinks, before he surreptitiously pulls up the collar of his borrowed Metallica T-shirt and sniffs it. He’s been wearing that thing for a few hours now, but it still smells of Tweek.
But wait – Craig knows he’s forgetting something. Something important… What did Esther mean, about her brother sending her here? Specifically to keep an eye on him?! Tweek was right all along, Craig realizes – Kevin Stoley has been spying on them!

Chapter Text

While everyone else is busy getting snacks, Tweek slips out of the kitchen with a red apple in his hand and makes for Mr Valmer’s office. Jimmy does spot him, but Tweek mouths the word “Later” and Jimmy immediately nods and turns away.
The little office is, technically, a guest room, with a sofa-bed currently in sofa mode against one wall. The desk is collapsible too, put together from the extender plates from the dining room table and two of those triangle shaped extra table leg things. So the whole thing can be packed away to make this place more comfortable for guests.
That’s the Valmers for you, Tweek thinks, Always so damn thoughtful.
He picks up the yellow rotary phone and carries it over to the sofa, careful not to snag the cord. All the phones at Jimmy’s house are yellow, and Tweek thinks that’s kind of nice. With his head propped up against one of the armrests, he lies flat on his back with that yellow phone on his stomach. His ankles are balanced on the other armrest, and he’s holding Craig’s note up between two fingers while he dials with his other hand.
Maybe Tweek could have waited until he got back home, only by then it would be late… And it’s not like he’s calling the Dalai Lama in Tibet, now is it.
Tweek frowns. Would the Dalai Lama even have a phone line, he wonders briefly. A phone would probably be practical, even if you’re living in a monastery in the mountains. Like, what if one of the monks got really sick, right? Or would they count that as the Dalai Lama having a worldly possession, even if it was just a boring-ass gray one?
Anyway, the point is, Tweek knows Jimmy’s parents wouldn’t mind. Though the real reason, of course, is that he’s just so damn curious about this ex-best friend of Craig’s. This Thomas. Will he be quiet and serious like Craig is, or more on the… bubbly side of the human spectrum? Tweek closes his eyes while the wait-tone blips quietly in his ear. He’ll just have to wait and see – or hear. Whatever.
When someone finally answers, it’s a woman’s voice, breathless from running. “I’m so sorry,” she pants, “We only just got home, who is this?”
Ah yes, this is where Tweek always finds himself when he’s calling a stranger out of the blue – at this murky moral crossroads. Experience has taught him that, while there are people out there who will instantly accept that “Tweek Tweak” is his actual name, most people will just think it’s a crank call. Thank you, Mom and Dad. It’s not like he enjoys lying, but Tweek can’t afford to let Thomas’ mom hang up on him, so…
“My name’s Clyde Donovan,” Tweek lies smoothly, using the most normal name he can think of, “And I was hoping I could talk to Thomas? I’m a friend of Craig’s,” he adds, when Thomas’ mom stays quiet on the other end.
“Are you, now,” Thomas’ mom says, her tone abruptly turning cold and suspicious. “Or are you just calling to make fun of my son again?”
Oh crap. Crappity crap, how could Tweek not have thought of this? That Thomas would probably have an army of bullies who live for crank calling him? “I would never do that,” Tweek blurts out, and the desperation makes him sound downright angry. “One of my best friends has Tourette’s,” he adds, feeling a little bad because it’s almost like he’s using Timmy as an excuse – even if it is true. “So I would never! But Craig’s here – upstairs, I think,” Tweek goes on, doing his best to channel that voice Dad uses whenever a customer gets unreasonable. “If your son doesn’t want to talk to a stranger, which, fair enough, I’ll go find him. And then we’ll call you back together. Would that be okay?”
“I…” Thomas’ mom abruptly cuts herself off, and she stays quiet for a while, like she’s thinking it all through. Tweek closes his eyes, breathes through his nose, and thinks: A ship for those with oceans to cross, a bridge for those with rives to cross.
Those are lines from a Buddhist prayer Mom likes to recite, and Tweek suddenly feels like he understands that prayer now, more than ever. He’s going to act as a ship, as a bridge, and close the awful gap between Craig and Thomas. As long as Thomas’ mom will let him. Suddenly she’s talking again, only now she must be covering the receiver with her hand, because Tweek can only barely make out the words “Says he’s a friend of Craig’s”.
Tweek swallows. A ship for those with…
“Hello?” It’s a boy’s voice now, measured and suspicious.
“Hi,” Tweek blurts out, so relieved he has to stand up and stomp his feet on the carpet a little bit, just to work off some of this happy energy before he says something stupid. “I’m sorry for just calling you out of the blue like this, but Craig could really use your help! He’s the one who gave me your number,” Tweek adds, in case that makes this sound more convincing.
“I didn’t think Craig would – cock! Stupid shit,” Thomas suddenly snaps, and Tweek just about jumps out of his own skin.
“Gah,” he yelps, plopping his butt back down on the sofa.
For a moment or two, it’s like neither of them dares to say anything.
Then Thomas, his voice thick with shame, says, “I didn’t mean to say that stuff. I don’t know if Craig explained…”
“About the Tourette’s? No, I mean yeah! He did,” Tweek clears his throat. “Don’t worry about it, okay? My friend Timmy has it,” he adds, “So I’m kind of used to the whole…” he waves his hand in the air, grasping for the right words, “Outburst thing.”
“Oh.” Thomas goes quiet for a minute, like maybe he’s wondering if Tweek just made this Timmy person up or something. Tweek wants to give the guy all the time he needs, because talking to Thomas feels a bit like trying to convince a cat to eat out of your hand. Like the smallest thing could spook him for good. But on the other hand, they’re going to start playing again soon, and the last thing Tweek wants is for someone to walk in here and interrupt him.
“Dude, listen,” he says, “I wouldn’t be calling you if this wasn’t important. But Craig and his parents were in a car crash…”
“Wait, what,” Thomas screeches, “Cock! Holy shit, is he okay?”
“Craig’s fine,” Tweek quickly assures him, “Except he broke his arm. His parents, though…”
“Are they dead,” Thomas yowls, and Tweek bumps his head against the backrest of the fold-out couch. Of course Thomas would think that, from what Tweek just said! Just for a second, he closes his eyes. Why can’t he do stuff like plan what he’s going to say in advance? Take Token, for instance, who always writes stuff down beforehand, if he knows he’s going to have a tricky phone call.
“Not… exactly,” Tweek finally says, suddenly reluctant to say anything at all. “Look, this is going to sound absolutely batshit, okay? But you just have to hear me out.”
“Okay,” Thomas says, followed by a much quieter “Stupid shit” that makes Tweek think Thomas must’ve felt the outburst coming, and managed to pull the receiver away. Damn, what must it be like to live with that crap?
“Thank you.” Tweek draws a deep breath. “Craig says he didn’t recognize them when he woke up. That they’re totally different people from his real parents.”
There’s a long pause on the other end of the line – long enough for Tweek to start wondering if this was too much, too fast. But then, Thomas says, “How are they different,” and Tweek can feel his shoulders starting to sink down.
“Craig didn’t really say? But like, I’ve met them, and they’re creepy, okay? And they don’t even act like they’re his parents…” Tweek looks up, searching for the right words. “Like they don’t know how parents are supposed to behave? But since nobody here’s ever met Craig’s family before, we don’t even have a way of checking if Craig’s right, or…” Tweek kind of hates saying it, but it has to be said, “Or even telling the truth?”
“Cocksucking shit,” Thomas snaps, and he sounds so angry for a second, only to sound super apologetic the next. “Sorry, sorry. Craig isn’t…” Tweek can hear him drawing a deep breath on the other end, “Someone who lies. If he says it, he believes it.”
Wow. After whatever friendship Armageddon those two have gone through, for Thomas to still be able to say something like that… “You’re a really good friend,” Tweek blurts out, and then he instantly wants to scream. Because who even talks like that, right?! “I mean, Jesus, not that I’ve ever met you or anything,” he goes on, rowing frantically without even knowing where he’s going to end up.
On the other end, there’s a quiet huff of air. “Is that what Craig told you,” Thomas mutters, like he’s talking to himself. Like Tweek just… confirmed something to him, that he was just about to ask. “Anyway, shit, Craig’s dad is really… distinctive,” Thomas goes on, talking at a more normal volume, “He’s like, six foot three with red hair – going kind of bald though. And I mean,” he suddenly sounds embarrassed, “They’re both white. And Craig is like, clearly not.”
That tugs on something in Tweek’s subconscious, but he files it away for now, under “Not Helpful At All”. Of course Craig’s ex-best friend would know that Craig’s adopted. “The fake mom’s Hispanic,” Tweek says, “And the fake dad’s not that tall. And he’s got a full head of brown hair!”
“But why would anybody, shitsucking peckerwood, sorry, want to pretend to be them?” Thomas sounds honestly confused. “I don’t mean that in a nasty way,” he hurriedly adds, “It’s just… They wouldn’t have anything worth stealing.”
Ah yes, it always comes back to the “why”, but Tweek is starting to feel like maybe “why” isn’t the only question he should be looking at. “Dude,” he says, “I shouldn’t even be asking you this, but could you come out here? Just to see for yourself? I work part-time at my parents’ coffee shop,” he goes on, verbal snowball rolling away merrily, “So I can totally pay you back for the bus! If you could just come to the coffee shop,” Tweek can feel the idea starting to take shape, “And I’ll make sure they’re already there? You could write down on a napkin if it’s them or not, and I’d get your message when I cleared you plate away!”
Tweek is rather pleased with his own idea, even if he did just ask this kid he’s never met to travel ridiculous amounts of miles for someone he isn’t even friends with anymore. “Uh,” he ventures cautiously, when the silence has stretched out for what must be more than a minute, “Maybe I –”
“This coffee shop,” Thomas suddenly says, “Does it have a name?”

Wow, Kenny’s impulse to follow Tweek was on the money, all right. Leaning sideways against the door to Mr Valmer’s office with his empty soda glass pressed against the surface, he listens to Tweek giving this Thomas person directions to Tweak Bros. “Right next to the Bijou,” he’s saying, “That’s the only movie theater in town, basically.”
Now Kenny knows everything – or at least as much of everything as Tweek does. He’s had a feeling from the start, of course, that Craig’s parents were no good. Like that whole thing when his mom showed up in the cafeteria at school, swinging her handbag around and covering Craig in kisses. Kenny doesn’t need to be an expert in what makes someone a good mom to know that lady didn’t care about Craig at all. But, that’s still a few leaps away from believing she’d been posing as his mom, right? It’s not like your parents have to love you, Kenny knows that very well. You’d almost think Craig was crazy, that he’d made this all up as a cry for help or whatever. Kenny has a lot of faith in Tweek’s good person radar, but it still wouldn’t hurt to…
“Oh, and before I go,” he suddenly hears Tweek say, “My name’s not really Clyde…”
Eyes widening, Kenny decides that this is definitely the moment he needs to get the hell away from here. So he palms the glass and hurries back into the hallway, feeling about fifty percent elated and fifty percent like shit. Eavesdropping as Kenny is very different from doing it as Mysterion – but now, he’s technically still the Princess, and the Princess doesn’t sweat the small stuff. Kenny’s insides might be tying themselves in knots right now, but thinking as the Princess, Mysterion needs as much information as possible if he’s going to save Craig from those two creepy shitheels. Kenny knows what good parents look like, and Craig’s – fake or not – definitely aren’t it.
He knows where they live, of course – everybody knows the Tuckers bought the empty house between the Stoleys’ and the Donovans’. And it’s practically next door. Twisting his pager on its string, Kenny thinks, I ought to do some surveillance on that place.
Either he can find an excuse to hang around after the game as himself, and see what he can find out. Or… there’s always Mysterion.
Frowning, Kenny drifts back towards the living room, where Bebe and Nicole have cornered his paladin and are giving him the what-for. Butters is backed against the sideboard, hands flailing, almost close enough to knock the big yellow lamp over with his elbow. Craig’s also been roped into this confrontation, or whatever it is, though he looks like he’s about ready to fling himself out of the window to get away from it all.
“But,” Butters is saying, “But all I did was try and act like a gentleman! I’d never wanna go around upsettin’ her or nothin’!”
“Because being fought over like an object would never be upsetting,” Bebe’s counters, her voice thick with sarcasm as she folds her arms under her breasts. “I’ve had a taste of that, remember? All that “biggest boobs in class” crap?”
Kenny remembers that, all right – how Bebe was the first girl in class to get boobs, and a period. Cartman had made sure the whole class heard about that, the time a red stain showed up on Bebe’s skirt. Kenny had been a little shit himself back then; he’d thought it was absolutely hilarious. Well, until Bebe had run out of the classroom crying, anyway.
Kenny’s free hand closes around the orange pager while he tries to think like Mysterion. He wears it around his neck now, on a length of twine. Like a good luck charm. Kevin’s supposed to work the early shift at Tweak Bros tomorrow, but he’ll probably be more than happy for Kenny to take over. Then he can see for himself, how Craig’s old friend reacts to Craig’s parents. As Kenny, he’s grown used to trusting Tweek’s judgement. But Mysterion knows that, no matter how much faith Tweek seems to have in Craig, he could still be wrong. Still – one look at this Thomas kid’s face might just tell him everything he needs to know.
“It’s not like you were doing it on purpose,” Nicole is saying, in a much more gentle tone, as she reaches out to pet Butters’ arm. “I just think that, with all three of you going after her, it’s become a bit much, you know?”
Butters drops his gaze to the carpet and nods. “I got a feelin’ for a while,” he mutters, “That Esther likes someone else, anyway. That’s why I was kinda… tryin’ extra hard tonight. I’d never want to make her cry or nothing!”
“I’m sure it wasn’t just your fault,” Craig drawls, and Kenny realizes he’s kind of frantically trying to get eye contact. What, is he expecting Kenny to get him out of this awkward mess? Ha, dream on, Tucker. “Just, maybe tell the other two to back off?”
“Okay,” Butters says, still firmly staring at his own feet. He sniffs, just once. “I can do that.”
“Oh Butters,” Bebe sighs, and suddenly it’s like she’s not mad anymore at all. “I’m sorry I snapped at you, okay?” Now she’s putting her arms around Butters and smushing his face against her shoulder – and probably giving him an excellent view of those very nice boobs, too. “I’ve just been so worried about Esther, you know?”
“Uh-huh,” Butters replies, as he pulls out of the hug, and Kenny feels so bad for him that… Ah, to hell with it.
Channelling the Princess for all he’s worth, Kenny skips over there and sort of topples himself backwards into the arms of a very startled Butters. Of course he’s got all of Mysterion’s reflexes to call on, should Butters fail to catch him, but the kid acts on instinct and sort of scoops Kenny up like a bride.
“Uh,” is all Butters has time to say, before Kenny cheerfully cuts him off.
“Oh honey, even if you never get a girlfriend,” Kenny gushes, batting his eyes up at the other boy, “You’ll always have the Princess and her double D’s!”
That actually makes Butters laugh, along with the girls, though Craig just stands there with his mouth open. And then the boys start coming back out from the kitchen, where Kenny realizes they must’ve been hiding while all this was going on.
“Perhaps,” Token says, sliding his arm around Nicole’s waist, “The two of you could invite her to your sleepover. You are staying over at Bebe’s, right?”
“That’s a fantastic idea,” Bebe exclaims, while Nicole bats her eyelashes at Token and drawls, “So thoughtful! No wonder Wendy would dump Stan for you!”
“Ugh! A hundred years ago," Token groans, and lets go of her real fast. They’re obviously just messing around, though. Even though they’re not like Kevin Stoley and Red at all, Token and Nicole are still another one of those couples. One of those ridiculously contented couples.
“Thanks, Kenny,” Butters says, with a big, sad smile, “That’s sure gone and cheered me up!” Kenny takes this as his cue to disentangle himself and stand up properly. Just as well, his back was starting to twinge from the way he sort of had to bend himself double, since Butters is so much shorter.
“Don’t mention it,” Kenny mutters, ducking his head, as embarrassment rushes over him like a river. Going from the Princess and back to his normal self often has that effect on him. Shit, his cheeks feel like they’re on fire!
Now Nicole is pulling Token back into their hug and giving him a quick kiss, right on the lips. “You know I was only messing with you, right?”
Instead of replying, Token just kisses her again, though Kenny supposes that is kind of a reply, in its own way. Damn, do those two even know how lucky they are?
“R-right then,” Jimmy says, just as Tweek finally slips inside the living room and sidles up to Craig, “Let’s get this game g-g-going again!”
“Dude, I’m so sorry I forgot,” Tweek’s saying, just loud enough for everyone to hear, as he starts tugging on Craig’s good arm. “About that icepack?
Craig, who’s clearly still a little shell-shocked from watching Princess Kenny in action, just stares at the smaller boy. “Huh?”
“I mean,” Tweek is probably trying to subtly incline his head towards the kitchen, not that the word “subtle” can be applied to anything Tweek will say or do, “The icepack for your eye?” It’s painfully obvious to Kenny, how desperate Tweek is to get Craig alone for a minute.
“But it’s fine,” Craig mutters, looking embarrassed all of a sudden. As if nobody can see the shiner on his face. They’ve all just sort of… pretended it wasn’t there, since Craig didn’t seem to be in the mood to talk about it. But it’s a doozy.
“It doesn’t look fine,” Tweek counters, and now Kenny can see that he’s starting to drag on Craig’s arm for real, “It looks like you got punched in the face by Stan Marsh!”
The second he’s said it, Tweek seems to realize that this was a mistake, because Clyde just puts his glass of soda right down on that little table by the door and says, “Stan did that,” in this eerily calm voice. It takes a lot to get Clyde mad, but Tweek certainly seems to have hit the jackpot now.
“It’s fine,” Craig says again, more firmly this time, as he slides his arm out of the sling and puts his hand on Clyde’s shoulder. “I got his nose. With my fist,” he adds, when Clyde just stares at him blankly. “Bad enough to get the asshole sent home from detention.”
Clyde blinks. “Oh,” he says, and then it’s like he’s back to normal again – or nearly, anyway. “Good.”
As if he’s acting on some sort of telepathic cue, Token lets go of his girlfriend and goes over to put Clyde in the world’s most cautious headlock. “Middle Earth to Ranger Donovan,” he says, and that makes Clyde laugh like his good old goofy self.
Just for a moment, Kenny feels a weird stab of jealousy. He can’t quite see Stan or Kyle doing something like that for him.
“Hurry up and g-get yourself an ice-pack, Craig,” Jimmy says, as he hobbles back to his seat, “Mi freezer es su freezer!”

“They’ve got a whole drawer just for ice packs,” Tweek says, almost reverently, as he pulls the middle drawer of the freezer open. Craig doesn’t think he’s ever seen this many ice packs in the same place before. “Jimmy’s always getting muscle pains, you know? Here,” Tweek picks up a small one, perfectly round, hissing at the cold, “This’ll be fine. Can you grab me a towel? Drawer underneath the sink.”
“Uh, sure.” The kitchen towels aren’t yellow, which kind of comes as a surprise – most things in this house seem to be. Even the fridge is yellow, which is another thing Craig’s never seen before. Craig takes one from the top of the stack – white, with a green windowpane pattern – and wordlessly hands it over to Tweek. Now that it’s just the two of them, it feels like his tongue is swelling in his mouth. After all, Esther said…
“Sit down for a second, will you?” Tweek’s pulling out one of the three kitchen chairs. “You’re too damn tall!”
Too damn tall… for what? For just a second, Craig imagines what it would feel like to have Tweek slide onto his lap and kiss him. What would Tweek taste like? Coffee, probably.
No, don’t be stupid. Craig sinks down on the yellow gingham seat cushion, squeezing his swollen eye shut. As if Esther wasn’t full of shit. As if Tweek could ever be into him.
“So listen,” Tweek says, as he gently presses the towel-wrapped ice pack over Craig’s eye. “I just called him.” After the first awful burst of chill, the cold starts taking some of the edge off the steady throbbing. Tweek’s breath really does smell of coffee, and what’s he talking about, anyway?
“Called who,” Craig says, raising his clumsy right hand to take over the ice pack. Just for a second, his fingers brush the back of Tweek’s hand, and it makes Tweek’s whole arm twitch. But that feeling of a vein underneath Craig’s fingertips, or maybe it was a tendon, is still enough to make them tingle – even if it was just for a second.
“Thomas,” Tweek replies, like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
“What?!”
Clunk goes the ice pack against the kitchen floor, and Craig supposes he’s only lucky it didn’t land on his toe or anything.
“Gah!” Tweek does a sort of flailing backwards jump that has him bumping into the kitchen table and pushing it halfway across the floor tiles. It makes the most awful sound, like nails-on-a-blackboard meets the Brown Note, and both boys instantly clap their hands over their ears.
Craig grinds his teeth as the sudden movement jars his broken arm, and for a second he even forgets about what Tweek’s gone and done. But then he’s hit with the knowledge that his crush just talked to his ex, and he just wants to tip back his head and howl. “Why?”
Tweek's sort of bent sideways over that damn table, doing his best to mop up the water from the vase he upended with one side of the now-wonky yellow gingham tablecloth. He turns his head and frowns at Craig. “Uh,” he says, “You gave me his number?”
Unbelievable! “I didn’t mean for you to call him now,” Craig hisses, fighting down the panic that’s bubbling inside him.
“Then maybe you should’ve told me that?!” Tweek looks like he’s actually starting to get a little pissed. He slams the vase back upright, flowers poking out of it every which way, before he very deliberately drags the table back into place.
“Jesus, dude,” Craig groans, wincing at the sound.
For a few long, unpleasant seconds, Tweek doesn’t say anything at all. But then he gives Craig a stare so direct that it’s hard to maintain eye contact, and says, “I don’t get it.” He sounds pretty pissed, too, which is just what Craig needed.
Goddamn it. “You don’t get what,” Craig counters. He can’t stand this kind of cryptic bullshit.
“This Thomas kid,” Tweek says, folding his arms across his scrawny chest, “He was ready to drop everything and come right down here the second he heard you were in trouble. So just I don’t get why you hate him so much.”
Tweek glares at him from underneath that bushy blonde fringe. And it suddenly hits Craig how badly he’s screwed up.
“I don’t hate him,” he mutters, bending over to pick the icepack back up. No way can he look at Tweek right now. There’s already a little pool of melted water on the floor, freezing cold, and Craig mops it with one corner of the towel. Did Thomas really offer to come all the way here?
Tweek lets out a long puff of air. “Well that’s okay then,” he says, and now he sounds more like himself again. “All you need to do, is get the fakes to Tweak Bros between eleven thirty and three tomorrow.”
Craig finally looks up, blinking in confusion. “Why…?”
“Because that’s when Thomas can be there,” Tweek sounds very pleased with himself, “To confirm that they’re not who they say they are! We came up with this whole plan,” he goes on, “Me and Thomas, that is.”
“Oh.” If there’s anything scarier than his crush cooking up mysterious plans with his ex, Craig can’t think of it right now. Because holy shit, what else have they talked about?
“All you need to do…” Tweek suddenly aims a huge, brilliant smile at Craig, “Is convince them to treat you to coffee and cake there, the day after you got detention.”
Craig starts to laugh, in spite of himself. “You make it sound so easy.” It shouldn’t be possible to feel this terrified, but also this amazing, at the same time.
“C’mon,” Tweek offers him a hand up, “I’ll tell you the rest later. The others’ll be wondering what we’re up to.”
It hits Craig then, how lucky he is – just to have made a friend like Tweek. Never mind which way he swings, or if Tweek is into him or not, or even how badly Craig needs all the help he can get. “Thanks,” he says, as his right hand closes around Tweek’s left.
This time, Tweek’s hand is warm. “Don’t mention it!"

Chapter Text

Nine o’clock comes way too soon, and Nicole leaves their party camping out in an enchanted forest – whether or not that’s a good idea is anybody’s guess. But DnD is over for now, and while everyone’s saying their goodbyes, Craig grabs Tweek’s elbow and pulls him over to one of the living room windows. The curtains are all down, but they’re flapping, and one glance outside tells him that the Fake Dad is already walking up the Valmers’ driveway. Shit, he’ll have to make this fast!
“Two things,” Craig hisses into Tweek’s soft hair, and his breath makes it move a little bit. He can see Tweek’s ear now, like a pale, curved shell sticking out of that blonde mess. For a crazy split-second, Craig imagines pressing his lips against that ear, but he shoves that thought roughly aside. “If the guys to come to Tweak Bros tomorrow, so we can all study for that Peru thing together…?”
Tweek’s grin is instant and wicked. “I think I can wing that,” he whispers, with so much conviction that Craig actually feels relieved. He’s standing so close that it’s getting hard to look at Tweek without grinning back, like some kind of idiot. “And the other thing…?”
“You were right about Kevin Stoley.”
That smile slips right off Tweek’s face, as his eyes widen with understanding. “So that’s why Esther came,” he mutters, clearly talking to himself.
Over by the sofa, Clyde’s stepping awkwardly from one foot to another, and blushing so hard he looks like he’s got one flashlight stuffed inside each cheek. “I could walk you girls home if you like,” he offers, while Bebe turns her face into Nicole’s curls and giggles.
“We’re actually going to Esther and Kevin’s first,” Nicole says, and she’s probably buying time for Bebe to collect herself. “I’m not sure how long we’ll be, and it’s only up the road anyway…?”
“It’s… super sweet of you to offer, though,” Bebe tells him, giving Clyde a sort of sideways look that doesn’t quite meet his eyes. Smiling and chewing the middle of her lip at the same time. “But like, if you’re free tomorrow?”
“Poor Clyde,” Tweek suddenly whispers, and Craig feels his cheeks start to head up as he realizes he’s been staring. “I mean, whatever they’re planning? We’re basically gonna ruin it.”
“He’s free to date her after three o’clock,” Craig retorts, hating himself for blushing. “Anyway,” he goes on, in something a little closer to the volume a normal conversation would have, hoping Tweek will take the hint and act casual, “I’ll see you tomorrow then. From eleven ‘till three.”
“It’s a d… deal,” Tweek replies, fumbling that last word and suddenly blushing for some reason. “I mean, uh! See you tomorrow, Craig!” He practically shouts that last bit, loud enough to make Craig wince. Pretty much everyone who’s still in the living room is staring at them now, Jesus Christ… Then Token coughs into his fist and they all look away quickly – at least these people are used to Tweek and his… his Tweekness.
Grunting his agreement, Craig quickly ducks into the hallway. He’s just managed to pull one shoe on when somebody starts leaning on the doorbell. Shit, no prizes for guessing who that might be. The hell with the fakes, he thinks, stuffing his shoe laces down the sides of his foot, rather than try to tie them for the short walk back to the house. He’s going to put his other shoe on first, and Fake Dad can just damn well wait.
“I’ll get that,” Tweek suddenly sings out, practically leaping past Craig to pull the chain off the door and fling it wide open. “Hello, Mr Tucker,” he more or less yells, beaming up at Fake Dad, “Craig’s not grounded, is he?!”
It takes all of his self-restraint not to bury his face in his hands, because what is Tweek even thinking?! Tweek’s question actually seems to have thrown Fake Dad for a loop, though, because he frowns like he’s genuinely thinking about it. “I suppose not,” he says, after what feels like a hundred years. Sounding one hundred percent like it doesn’t matter to him either way. Like he doesn’t even care what Craig did or didn’t do to get detention.
That jolt of bone-deep relief is almost enough to knock Craig on his ass. “Uh,” he says, “I mean, thank you. Sir.”
“Awesome,” Tweek says, before he gives Craig a slap across his back that actually makes him stagger, it’s that hard. “See you for study-group tomorrow, then!”
Oh, Craig can totally tell what he’s trying to do. In fact, Tweek might as well have been waving around a handmade sign with “SECRET PLAN” written on it.
“Tweek,” Jimmy says, as he hobbles in from the living room, a battered olive green backpack slung over one shoulder. “You’ll n-need this then, d-d-dipshit. Oh, hi Mr T-T-Tucker!” He sounds all jolly, but Craig still gets the weirdest feeling. Like there’s an almost undetectable note of steel in Jimmy’s voice, if you just listen hard enough. Like this is Jimmy trying to tell him that he’s got Craig’s back or something.
Craig shrugs. Nah. Probably just imagining things.
While Tweek’s growling counter-insults at Jimmy, Craig gets his second shoe on and stuffs both laces into it.
“Are you coming, Craig,” Fake Dad says, and now his voice is so flat and cold that Craig kind of wishes he could just stay here, with the yellow fridge and sunflower cushions. And with Tweek.
“Yes, sir,” he says, making sure to speak clearly.

Standing next to Jimmy on the front porch, Tweek waves goodbye to the medical transport van until it’s disappeared around the corner of Bebe’s house. “Man,” he says, “That was a good game.”
“C-Craig f-f-fits right in,” Jimmy agrees, and now that pretty much all his guests have left, the exhaustion is starting to show. Just in little things, like the slump in his shoulders as he half leans against the doorframe, half props himself up on just one crutch. Or like how he isn’t smiling anymore, unless Tweek looks right at him.
“Dude,” Tweek says, because with Jimmy it’s better to just say these things, “Go get some sleep.”
“Mm,” Jimmy agrees, before he visibly pulls himself together. “B-but first, what’s w-w-with the s-s-s…” There’s practically steam coming out of his ears from all the effort, but the word’s stuck, and no way is Tweek going to break stutter etiquette and say “study-group”, no way in hell. “Thing you w-were talking about,” Jimmy finally amends, giving up with a frustrated sigh.
No sign of Token or Clyde, so Tweek figures he might as well tell the guys about the plan one by one. “Craig needs to be in Tweak Bros tomorrow with the fakes,” he whispers, “So this guy called Thomas can see if they’re actually fakes or not.”
Jimmy blinks at him. “Wait,” he says, “W-what?”
“Okay, so Craig has this ex-best-friend who still lives in Colorado Springs, right? Where Craig used to live?”
“Ex-b-best-friend?” Jimmy raises an eyebrow. “Craig d-doesn’t look twelve.”
“Dude, I don’t know what went down between ‘em,” Tweek counters, “I just know Thomas is prepared to get up at the ass-crack of dawn to catch the first bus over here, and then sit in Tweak Bros for another four hours, just to take one look at Craig’s parents. Fake parents,” he adds, looking Jimmy square in the eye.
“D-doesn’t sound v-v-very “ex” to me,” Jimmy drawls, before breaking into a big yawn.
“I know right?” Tweek feels downright excited about this part of the plan, “That’s why we can totally use this to make him and Craig patch things up and be friends again! After he identifies the fakes as fakes.”
“So w-when am I showing up at T-T-Tweak Bros? There’s your d-d-dad, by the w-way.”
“Eleven o’clock, until three! But I’ll feed you guys lunch, I swear!”
By the time Dad’s white Datsun is parked on the road outside Clyde’s house, Tweek’s managed to put on his jacket (under his backpack, whee!) and shoes. He’s also stuffed his now crunchy socks into the front pocket of his school bag, where his keys live. That way, he figures, he won’t forget about them, or at least he won’t forget about them forever.
“Tweek,” Dad yells, popping the door open and sort of half climbing out, “Get Token, will you? I’m dropping him off on the way!”
Token, who’s literally just stepped out on the front porch behind Tweek, yells, “Sure, Mr Tweak” and makes Tweek jump like half a foot.
“GAH! Dude!”
“Sorry,” Token says, slipping his arm around Tweek’s shoulders, though he really doesn’t look that sorry. “C’mon Tweek, let’s go. Then you can fill me in on the way,” he adds, much more quietly.
Huh, trust Token to twig that he’s been up to something. Tweek nods, though how they’re going to do that in the car without getting Dad way too curious isn’t exactly a problem he feels up to solving.
The two of them turn around to wave their goodbyes. Clyde and Kenny are the only ones who haven’t gone yet. Kenny has to wait around for Clyde’s dad, who’s bringing the pain meds for his broken nose. He doesn’t exactly look too comfortable there, sandwiched between Clyde and Jimmy, so ridiculously thin compared to the other two. Not for the first time, Tweek wishes there was something he could do to help Kenny. Something more… permanent than teaching the other boy latte art or forcing the leftover pastries on him. And Tweek’s pretty sure most of those pastries would’ve gone to his sister, anyways.
“You’re being suspiciously quiet,” Dad says, as Tweek slides into the back seat behind him.
“I’m thinking about stuff,” Tweek replies, more than a little bit indignant.
“Uh-huh,” Dad counters, before he reaches over to the passenger seat and grabs the two brown paper bags that have been sitting there. “Token,” he says, just as Token – who walked around the car – gets in next to Tweek. “Your mom called the store, asked me to pick you up. She’s got another one of those migraines,” the two paper bags land on the middle seat, and now Tweek can see that of course they’ve got the Tweak Bros’ coffee cup logo on them, “So there’s a chocolate muffin for her. And one for you,” he adds, with a wink, “To make it fair.”
Every now and then, Token’s mom will come down with a migraine so bad, she either starts throwing up or seeing actual rainbows in the air. Sometimes even both. Obviously she can’t drive with that going on, but the good news is that eating chocolate usually makes it stop.
“Thanks, Mr Tweak,” Token says, and if he’s worried, he doesn’t show it. Token’s family has enough money for Mrs Black to get every test under the sun done. And for her to have a whole separate fridge full of chocolate, so it’s not like Dad even needs to give her that muffin.
Anyway, from what Token’s told Tweek and the guys, his mom’s condition isn’t dangerous at all. Just nasty and inconvenient. “These smell really good,” he’s saying, like he didn’t eat his own body weight in Valmer sandwiches back there.
Tweek shakes his head fondly. Token and his famous sweet tooth.
“Oh, and I scraped some leftover dough out of a pan for you, son,” Dad goes on, grinning at Tweek in the rear-view mirror.
Tweek snorts and opens the smaller bag, and of course there’s a muffin in there too – a lemon one. Tweek’s favorite – zesty and not too sweet. He breaks off part of the crust – Dad won’t care if they eat in the car, as long as they catch most of the crumbs – and shoves it in his mouth before he says thanks, talking while he chews. Next to him, Token takes a huge bite of his own muffin, chewing away like a chimpmunk.
Meanwhile, Clyde and Kenny are about to take the shortcut through the hedges, which means running across the Biggles’ yard and into Clyde’s. But before they go, Clyde stops and points right at the Datsun – one index finger at Token, the other at Tweek. The Datsun’s windows are all shut, but they can just about hear him yelling through the glass, pretending to be all huffy: “Hey, where’s mine?”
“Next time,” Dad promises, waving his hand like he’s trying to get Clyde to move. But then a car horn blares, from right behind them, cutting him off and making him jump in the driver’s seat. Tweek realizes he must’ve forgotten all about Butters, because there’s Mr Stotch’s Ford Station Wagon. Scott Malkinson christened that thing the Turdmobile back in the sixth grade, and it really is the perfect shade of shit brown. It’s also diagonally blocking their exit right now. Like Butters’ dad honestly believes you can open the doors on a Datsun and make it fly like a James Bond car.
“Are you serious,” Dad mutters under his breath, before he wrenches the door open and climbs out. As soon as he’s slammed it shut and started walking down the driveway to give Mr Stotch what-for, Token turns to Tweek and hisses, “So what’d you do?”
“Craig had this friend back in Colorado Springs,” Tweek whispers back, as soon as he’s swallowed his mouthful. “They got in a fight before Craig left, so that’s why I had to call him,” he goes on, peeling some of the paper off the side of his muffin. “You know, when we had our break?”
Token treats Tweek to his usual half-smile and single raised eyebrow combo, and nods his approval. “I figured you were up to something,” he says, and judging by his tone, so did most of their DnD group, probably. Oh well, the fakes are the only people they really need to fool, so Tweek doesn’t suppose it even matters that all his friends can read him like a damn book.
“So anyway,” Tweek says, glancing over his shoulder to see Dad standing there with his arms folded and the Turdmobile still blocking their exit, “This guy, Thomas? He’s like the nicest human being ever, because he’s coming to South Park tomorrow.”
“To check Craig’s ‘parents’ out,” Token asks, doing air quotes with his fingers.
From the bottom of the driveway, the Turdmobile’s horn blares so loud that Tweek just nods.
Token whistles. “Damn,” he says, “That is some friend!”
“I know, right,” Tweek agrees, glancing over his shoulder again.
Dad is now pacing up and down the driveway, hands jammed into his pockets, and the Turdmobile shows no sign of budging at all. There comes another almighty honk, too. This is definitely not good.
“Uh, so Thomas thinks he can be at Tweak Bros by eleven. And Craig thinks if we all go work on our Geography project at the shop, he can get the fakes to take him there. I already told Jimmy, and he’s in.”
“Clyde’s going to love that,” Token drawls, before he seems to remember that he’s holding onto a chocolate muffin and takes another huge bite.
Tweek’s shoulders slump. “I know,” he mutters, looking outside again. Dad’s stopped pacing and is now knocking on the Turdmobile’s windshield, which is kind of worrying.
“I’ll call Clyde,” Token is saying, as Tweek pops the car door open, “Soon as I get home and make sure my mom’s okay.”
“Dude, that’d be great,” Tweek replies, unbuckling his seat belt. He doesn’t honestly think his dad’s going to have like, fisticuffs with Butters’ dad. But he also knows Dad wants to get back to the shop in time to help Mom and Kevin close up, and it’s not like it’s impossible to piss Dad off…
Just as Tweek runs back down the driveway to join Dad, Butters comes running out of Jimmy’s house, and Mr Stotch flings the car door open. “Butters,” he yells, “You kept me waiting! You’ve inconvenienced Mr Tweak, and made me look like an absolute fool! What’ve you got to say for yourself, young man?!”
This is pretty much the most unfair thing Tweek has heard in forever, and Dad’s eyes are just about bugging out of his head in shock, but Butters just hangs his head and takes it.
“I’m sorry, sir,” he wheezes, and it’s not even clear if he’s saying it to Tweek’s dad or his own, “I, ah, I had to do a really big Number Two!” His eyes, Tweek realizes as Butters hurries up to the Turdmobile, are all red and puffy.
"Number Two, my asshole," Tweek mutters, and then he just has to snigger; in spite of how awful this whole situation is.
Token looks over at him and rolls his eyes, but he's totally trying not to laugh, too.
“You’re grounded,” Mr Stotch barks, as Butters opens the back seat and climbs in behind his dad. His answer – if there even is one – disappears behind the closed door. Finally, Mr Stotch revs up the Trudmobile, and drives off in a small cloud of gravel and dust.
“Jackass,” Dad mutters, glaring after the Turdmobile as it drives off.
“Poor Butters,” Tweek says, and he can’t help but shudder.
Dad puts his hand between his shoulder blades and gently steers him back towards the Datsun. “So can you guess,” Dad asks, “Who showed up at the shop this afternoon?”
“Craig’s parents,” Tweek immediately replies, which makes Dad laugh as he climbs back inside their car.
“They were looking for Ryan and Sarah,” he says, turning the key in the ignition, “But those two had gone off to the Bijou by then, so your mother and I convinced them to stick around for a bit.”
Dad carefully backs the Datsun out of the driveway and flips it out on the road, while Token rolls his window down so he and Tweek can wave at Jimmy. “I hope he goes straight to bed,” Token mutters, and Tweek agrees. Even at a distance, Jimmy looks exhausted.
“So what… did you think of them, Mr Tweak,” Token asks, in a carefully neutral tone.
“Oh, I don’t know if you can trust first impressions,” Dad replies, in this carefree tone that tells Tweek straightaway that he still doesn’t like the fakes very much, “Or second impressions, for that matter.”
Tweek snorts into his hand, trying to make it look like he’s clearing his throat… Only to actually choke on his own saliva a second later, when Dad drops the following bombshell: “That’s probably why your mother invited them for dinner tomorrow.”
“Gah! What?! Jesus Christ, Mom,” Tweek wails, even though Mom’s not even in here. How is he supposed to have Craig and the fakes over, and not die?! Just the thought of Craig coming to his house is enough to make white noise start to whine inside Tweek’s ears, because how can he even deal with that kind of pressure? Like, what if Craig sees his bedroom, and decides Tweek is some kind of pointless nerd?! Not to mention that the thought of Craig in his bedroom is making Tweek’s brain go in all sorts of directions it really doesn’t need to.
“Huh? I thought you and Craig got along,” Dad says, and Tweek can see him raising an eyebrow in the rear-view mirror, as if Tweek’s reaction had been weird and uncalled for. “I thought it might be fun for you to, ah, get to know him a little better.” And then, because this whole situation isn’t already torturous enough, Dad actually winks at him.
“Ngh,” Tweek growls, before he buries his hands in his hair and just pulls. He’s blushing like a damn tomato too, he can literally feel his own cheeks glowing. “Goddamn it!”

Thank God that’s all over with, Kenny thinks, pulling on his purple tights. He should have just worn Mysterion’s outfit under his clothes today. Or brought it, even. Kenny’s made himself a false bottom in the ugly old gym bag he takes to school, so he totally could have. Then he’d have snuck out the back door at Jimmy’s, changed in the bushes, and gone straight to Kevin Stoley's. But he’s spent too long as Kenny today, too long trapped as a shy, indecisive loser. It hadn’t been so bad during DnD; but hanging out at Clyde’s house afterwards had been pure torture. The two of them never hang out; not since they were kids. Not since before Stan’s stupid feud with Clyde started, over God knows what. But even then, there would always be other people around, like Cartman or Kyle, to do the talking.
“Poor Butters,” Clyde had said, as he dug his key out to unlock his front door.
Kenny had just responded with a grunt. He wouldn’t even trade his own parents for Butters’ parents, and Lord knows Mom and Dad suck.
He remembers kicking his gross old sneakers off in the hallway, while Clyde hopped on one foot at a time to remove his shoes. And they’d been so damn cool that Kenny had figured, of course Clyde would be careful with sneakers like that. Nike runners, with those spikes on the bottom for extra grip. Burgundy with a pale blue swoosh on the sides, and they’d looked almost new, too.
But then he’d realized how jealously he’d been staring at those damn shoes, because Clyde had got all embarrassed and started explaining how his dad lets him “earn” new shoes instead of money when he works at the store, and how they have a system for adding his hours up. "Or I can work for money," Clyde had explained, blushing furiously, "Like today, so I could pay for your nose meds!”
And Clyde’s dad had taken so damn long to get back home. Kenny had offered to leave and just collect the pills tomorrow, but Clyde insisted he stick around. The only thing that made the whole torture session worth it, was when Token had called to tell Clyde about Tweek’s plan for tomorrow. Which Mysterion knows all about, since Kenny slipped into the hallway while Clyde was talking on the living room phone, and gently slipped the receiver off the cradle on the hallway phone. He doubts Clyde even heard the click; he was too busy freaking out over the idea of studying on a Saturday.
Clyde’s house had been so quiet, Kenny thinks. His parents are arguing, of course, with Kevin throwing in a sullen couple of words every now and then – taking Dad’s side, from what Kenny can tell. The TV is on, too, blaring country music that nobody’s listening to. He hopes Karen’s managed to hide herself, but since he can’t hear her voice at all…
Kenny shoves that thought to the back of his mind. His sister knows to make herself scarce on a Friday night. He checks himself over real quick – he’s got his good shoes on, the pair of crisp white sneakers he never lets himself wear unless he’s in costume. They’re some mysterious brand he found in a sale bin at Target, but they fit, and he can run for hours in them without getting blisters. His tights and top are both dark purple, and made from the kind mesh material runners wear. Being purple, they were from the ladies’ sportswear section at Old Navy, but Kenny’s thin enough that they fit him just fine. He had to let out the crotch a bit though, to make space for his junk; that’s why Kenny wears the white Y-fronts on top. To hide his shitty stitches. In theory, he doesn’t even need the cape; his runner’s set is so warm… But he wouldn’t be Mysterion without the cape, now would he. Plus, Kenny thinks as he slips it over his shoulders and fastens it, the cape does a good job of hiding the Beretta strapped to his back. It’s an ex-military nine mil that Dad thinks he took to the pawn shop years ago – that’s one good thing about his father getting stoned all the time. It screws with his memory. Kenny’s held on to this thing for years now – taught himself to shoot it, and to take the recoil, if not like a man, then at least not like a bitch. The Beretta has saved his life more times than he can count.
Wait a second… The calibre of the fight has changed – Mom sounds like she’s given up, and there goes the front door, creak and slam. Kenny needs to get his shit together and get out there, fast, if he’s going to follow Dad and Kevin to wherever it is they’re going. He’s already pushed the dresser away from the hole in his wall, and now he crawls out, through the grey plastic tube he’s installed that leads to the busted washing machine out back. Kenny took the drum out ages ago, and nobody even noticed – who pays attention to junk, right? The shift happens while he’s crawling, and the person who pushes the washing machine door open is not the same person who climbed into the tube.
Mysterion hops out on the ground and immediately belly-crawls around the corner of the house, hidden by the tall, uncut grass. He crouches behind the gutted wreck of the burned-out Fiat Compact in the front yard, and sees that his targets are still there, putting their heads together to light up their roaches on a single match. Mysterion’s lip twists in a silent sneer. At this rate, he’ll be able to follow them by the smell alone.
Loping behind them, ducking around buildings and crouching behind cars, Mysterion follows the two of them through the ramshackle streets of Sodosopa. They’re walking with purpose, like they know exactly where they’re going… but they’re also dragging their feet. Like maybe they’re enjoying their little smoke and don’t want to have to stub the joints out early. Or maybe they don’t like the idea of going wherever it is they’re headed. Deep down, Stuart McCormick is a grade-A yellow-belly; and the same goes for Kevin. That’s why they like to take the easy way out – cooking meth for the father, dealing weed for the son. God forbid they make a real effort at life and fail something important on the first try.
They come to a stop at the empty building opposite the U-Stor-It; two stories of grey brick and broken windows. It’s been abandoned for as long as Mysterion’s been alive, but there used to be a hardware store on the ground floor. God knows what went on upstairs, or if there’s also a basement… The place has always been locked up tight, so he’s never had the chance to investigate. So if he goes in there now, he’ll be going in blind, no idea of the lay of the land… Mysterion doesn’t like the thought of that; too much is riding on him not getting caught tonight.
The two McCormicks both pause to stub their joints out; Stuart grinds his under the heel of his cowboy boot while Kevin puts it out against the sole of his shoe, before stashing it in his pocket for later. Then they do a half-hearted swagger towards an unassuming side door, painted gunmetal grey to make it look like just another section of the wall. Stuart raises his hand, but before he can knock, the door swings open. Not even the tiniest creak; that means whoever’s using this building must’ve oiled it. Interesting.
“You’re late,” the voice says, matter-of-factly. There’s a Texan twang to it that immediately makes Mysterion think of the man who claims to be Craig Tucker’s father. No moustache, though, he can make out that much in the light of the one surviving streetlamp nearby.
“Sorry, Sir,” Stuart says, and he sounds nothing like when he’s pretending to fix the roof at Tweak Bros. Whoever it is he’s talking to, Stuart McCormick is afraid of him.
“I don’t suppose it matters,” the Texan replies, like it actually doesn’t bother him at all. “I was just heading back myself. But they're starting to get testy down there.”
Downstairs? So there is a basement… at least he’s learned one thing tonight.
“We’re on it, Sir,” Kevin replies – and he sounds afraid, yes, but also like he’s trying to suck up to this guy. Like he’s working extra hard to end up on the Texan’s good side, even though Kevin McCormick is about as charming as roadkill. Mysterion rolls his eyes at the night sky.
The Texan is holding the door open for Stuart and Kevin while they slink inside – not all the way open, so that thing must be heavy. Steel reinforced, maybe? It thumps shut, and then the Texan locks it from the outside, effectively locking them in there with whoever’s in the basement.
Mysterion is faced with a choice – stick around and try to eavesdrop, or follow the Texan – and the second option wins out. The guy’s cautious though, which keeps him on his toes, almost like he thinks he’s being followed – or maybe he’s taking precautions against being followed? Because he’s going across the road to the U-Stor-It and basically hugging the fence. Which would’ve forced Mysterion out into the road if he didn’t know this area so well – when the Texan suddenly slips around the corner of the big storage lot, he knows to hang back and wait. Either the guy’s heading off into the forest, but his shoes sounded too light for hiking boots, which means he’s probably got…
Bingo. A car engine coughs gently into life, and all Mysterion has to do is wait, and memorize the license plate. Maybe even follow this car, which sounds like it needs a few parts replaced, so Mysterion might just be able to keep up on foot…
But then the car slides out from behind the corner, and Mysterion almost falls right on his ass – and into the beam of the headlights – in his shock. Because that’s Craig Tucker’s dad, or whatever he is, behind the wheel. Moustache firmly in place. And the car he’s driving is a blue Ford Station Wagon, with a great big dent in one side.

Chapter Text

Mysterion hangs from the windowsill, legs braced against the wall, peering through the window. It’s dark in there, but why wouldn’t they be asleep? At least that means he won’t need to worry about making his entrance flashy. Maybe that’s a good thing. Mysterion is just… tired.
So he crawls over that window ledge ass first, and squats down on his haunches – it’d be pretty stupid to cast a silhouette against the curtains. Then he tucks his grappling hook back in its pouch, spools his line back in, and waits for his eyes to adjust. Once they have, the first thing Mysterion sees, are locks of long red hair spilling across the bedspread. They don’t call Stoley’s girlfriend “Red” for nothing. At least she’s sleeping on the inside, closest to the wall. He wants to avoid waking her, if he can.
How exactly a nerd like Kevin Stoley landed a babe like Roberta McArthur would’ve been more of a riddle if he hadn’t landed her in like, the first or second grade. Kenny’s memory is fuzzy on just when those two became a thing, and Mysterion doesn’t exactly care. Might’ve been Kindergarten, for all he knows. Anyway, he didn’t realize the two of them were actually… well.
Red stirs and murmurs something, like she can feel him staring, and Mysterion hastily takes a step back. He can probably rouse Kevin without rousing her. Or so he hopes.
Drawing a deep breath, Mysterion reaches out a gloved hand and shakes Kevin Stoley by the shoulder. “Wake up,” he growls, as quietly as he can manage.
“Guh,” Kevin yelps, jerking out of sleep and sitting bolt upright. He somehow manages not to roll out of bed though, even if he’s lying right on the edge, but he’s panting like he’s just run a mile. “Dude,” he hisses, one hand on his chest, “Could you be a little less creepy?”
“Sorry,” Mysterion whispers, while Kevin’s still working on slowing his breathing down, “But it’s important. And you’re hard to find.” Hard enough that he’d wound up climbing through Bradley Biggle’s window after he failed to find Kevin in his own bedroom. Bradley was the one who’d suggested Red’s house.
“You’re not the only guy who can climb a drainpipe,” Kevin smirks, as he swings his legs over the edge of the bed.
That actually pulls a quick bark of laughter out of Mysterion’s mouth. He can’t quite figure out what the deal is here though, because when Kevin stands up, careful not to dislodge Red, Mysterion can see that Kevin was sleeping in a long-sleeved blue T-shirt. It has one of those Star Trek badges printed right over his heart, and matching stripes on the sleeves. When he swings his legs over the bed, Kevin also turns out to be wearing tracksuit pants. And socks. His girlfriend, in stark contrast, is wearing some kind of lacy thing that doesn’t even have sleeves, just spaghetti straps, and her pale arms remind Mysterions of seeing white rocks underwater.
“Is this about Craig?”
Just then, Red stars muttering again. It’s completely unintelligible, and it she quiets back down pretty fast when Kevin wraps the comforter around her. It’s such an intimate thing to see that Mysterion finds himself turning away. He’s definitely not blushing, though!
Mysterion nods. “I have fresh intel,” he growls, as quietly as he can manage. “You know that empty building opposite the U-Stor-It? There’s something shady going on there, and Craig Tucker’s father is involved. Hiring some of the local shitkickers to guard the place, too,” he goes on, when Kevin does nothing but stare at him.
“I know the building you’re talking about,” Kevin says, as he shuffles over to the swivel chair by Red’s desk and sinks into it. There’s a cardigan draped over the back, bright yellow and sort of… frilly. Kevin doesn’t even seem to realize that he’s pulling it over his shoulders. “What do you need me to do?”
“Go over there in the daytime. Nose around discreetly, and tell me what you see.”
“Hm, I could always get a disposable camera,” Kevin mutters, while he weaves his legs into the lotus position up there on his chair. How is that even comfortable? “If anybody asks, I’ll say it’s for reference photos. Maybe Red’ll come along and pose,” he goes on, getting more and more into his own idea, “Then we can put a scene in the next issue where you rescue –”
“No,” Mysterion snaps, louder than he’d intended, “Don’t drag your girlfriend into this!”
“Dude, shh!” Kevin’s eyes widen in alarm, and his whole body just freezes up. Like he’s even afraid to move. For a few seconds he just stares at Red’s bedroom door like he’s expecting Satan himself to come strolling through it. When nothing happens, he heaves a great big sigh and slumps forwards, hands on his calves. “Her dad could rip my head off with a single yank, okay,” Kevin whispers fiercely, giving Mysterion a very direct stare. “And I’m not white enough to date his daughter, never mind…” With a sweep of his arm, Kevin takes in the bedroom – the posters of Jared Leto and Leonardo DiCaprio tacked up over the floral wallpaper, the shelf of old stuffed toys, the sleeping girl.
This is not the conversation Mysterion came here to have. “Right,” he says, blinking. So Kevin was sleeping fully clothed, more or less, in case he needs to take off in a hurry. “I’m sorry.”
“I keep my shoes over there,” Kevin says, still keeping his voice quiet, as he finally gets up from his perch to walk across the room. There, on the pale pink carpet close to that window he climbed in through, Mysterion sees a pair of navy blue sneakers with their laces tied together. “This is so I can wear them around my neck when I climb down,” Kevin explains; and he even demonstrates before he puts them back on the floor. “And I always stash my jacked behind their trash cans,” he goes on. “In a plastic bag, so it won’t get wet overnight.”
Mysterion’s lip twists sideways in a grin. “Forward planning,” he says, giving Kevin a quick nod. “Always useful. Anyway, those guys are bad news, so don’t endanger your girlfriend.”
“Well I definitely can’t get my sister to do it,” Kevin fires back, “Esther’s still pissed at me for sending her to Jimmy’s to watch Craig. She didn’t even learn anything useful, and she ripped my Arkham Asylum comic in half!” he adds, and that’s when Mysterion can’t help but quietly lose his shit for a second. Kevin Stoley just sounds so damn outraged. “Dude, it was a graphic novel! Hardback! Those aren’t cheap, okay?”
“Get one of your friends to put on a dress,” Mysterion tells the other boy, once he’s back in control of himself. “And for God’s sake, only go there in the daytime. Tomorrow between eleven and three would be ideal,” he adds, fluffing his cape out, because it’s high time for him to leave.
“What, you can’t honestly expect us to spend four hours –” Kevin is saying, but Mysterion has already swung himself over the windowsill. Here’s hoping the curtains will be flapping dramatically behind him.

When he got into bed last night, Tweek thought for sure he’d be way too excited to sleep. But it had literally been like pulling the cord out on the vacuum cleaner – the last thing he remembers is yawning.
Tweek sits up in bed, yawning again. He slides one hand under the old Springsteen T-shirt he likes to sleep in (it’s soft, and kind of enormous), scratching his stomach for a second. The comforter is bunched up at the bottom of the bed and his bare legs are freezing, and Tweek is this close to pulling the thing back up, all the way under the tip of his nose. It’s a Saturday, after all, and he knows he doesn’t have a shift to work. But wait. No. He’s forgetting something – Craig! Craig is coming here, tonight, with his fake parents!
Just thinking of Craig Tucker standing here, in Tweek’s actual bedroom, is enough to make his head spin. Sure, it’s not too messy right now and at least all his dirty laundry’s in the hamper, but what if Craig decides Tweek’s room is lame? What if he looks up at all the model planes dangling from the ceiling and says something like, “Oh, you’re into that stuff?”
“No,” Tweek tells himself out loud, before he can tumble any further down that rabbit hole. Like Craig doesn’t have more important stuff on his mind, like how to find his real mom and dad, to even care about other peoples’ weird hobbies.
But now, all Tweek can think of is everything that could go wrong. And holy balls, there are a lot of things that could go wrong, in this scenario that Tweek himself has gone and set up! Number one, at the very top of the list, being that Thomas might not make it after all. Jesus Christ! And number two – what if Craig’s parents really do refuse to take him to Tweak Bros? If they can’t be in the same place as Thomas, literally everything will unravel, and then Craig won’t –
No. Tweek shuts that thought right down. “Nyet, nein, nada,” he tells himself, very firmly, staring his own reflection down in the mirror that’s built into one of the wardrobe doors. This is going to work, because it has to. “Because I say so.”
Damn, but he looks like a mess, though. Is his hair always this… Tweek tugs on a stray piece of it, frowning, this… feral? Since he can’t actually remember the last time he washed it, Tweek decides to have a shower before he goes downstairs for coffee. Sure, his parents will think he got replaced by an alien, but he’s actually feeling so well-rested that he doesn’t even need coffee yet.
Over on the bookshelf, Tweek’s (deactivated) alarm clock is almost at a quarter to eight! Tweek’s whole family usually gets up around six. That way, they can have a quick bite together, and his parents can open the coffee shop for seven after they drop Tweek off at the bus stop. But now, he’s slept in for almost two extra hours! Dad will have been working for forty-five minutes already, but when he cracks his bedroom door open, Tweek can just about hear Mom clanging something, downstairs in the kitchen. He sniffs the air – French toast? That would be a good start to the day!
But first, shower! Wash his hair, so Craig won’t think he looks like a damn troll doll, and come up with an outfit that isn’t lame, but also doesn’t look like he tried too hard. Gah, the pressure! Tweek can feel it building up in him like a tidal wave, and it’s the last damn thing he needs right now. So he squeezes his eyes shut, forces himself to breathe, and whispers, “May I be, now and forever, a guide for those who have lost their way, a ship for those with oceans to cross, a bridge for those with rivers to cross, a lamp for those without light, and a servant to all in need.”
By the time he’s done speaking, his heartbeat has slowed right down. Tweek can do this. He can take on today, and show the day who’s boss. Shower. French Toast. Fake parents. Piece of cake, he tells himself, before he runs down the hallway to the empty bathroom.

Turns out Mom was making more than just French toast; she was getting an early start on dinner. While she was slicing up three big aubergines for marinating, she’d explained to Tweek how she wants to make a four or five different dishes, so the Tuckers are more likely to find something they’ll like. Not that she’s sure what all four or five, six at most, are going to be. And she wants to get a start on tidying the house up, maybe make the dessert early too, and go to Trader Joe’s for some fresh flowers and ice cream… Just listening to all that planning was enough to make Tweek’s head spin.
So after the two of them had finished their French toast, topped with blueberries and a whole banana each, Tweek ran upstairs to empty his school bag on the bed, crammed it full of all the books he’s likely to need, and then ran down the road to catch the bus. Dad had given him this super knowing look as he’d tried to casually stroll into Tweak Bros at a quarter past ten, and Tweek had growled loud enough that poor Kenny had jumped a foot. At least Token had showed up ten minutes later, making Tweek look a little less pathetic, sitting there at a four-person table with just a pile of books for company. And Jimmy’s mom had dropped him and Clyde off at ten to eleven, and stuck around to grab her usual cappuccino before taking off again. No sign of Craig yet, though.
“So I brought the football,” Clyde says, as he dumps his bag on the chair opposite Tweek’s. “And I see you brought… every last book you own?”
“Rude,” Tweek says, snapping his fingers into Clyde’s forehead, though it’s hard not to grin.
“Football,” Token says, looking totally confused – Clyde logic will do that to you. “I think it was the Mayans who invented football, but…”
“The football I’m making the shrunken head from, duh!” Clyde rolls his eyes at Token; like this should be completely obvious. “Here,” he unzips his red and blue backpack, pulling out something wrinkled and hairy, “Check this baby out!”
Tweek finds himself gaping, because now that he’s getting a proper look at it, it actually doesn’t look too bad. The innards of the ball really do resemble long, grubby brown hair, parted to show a portion of the leather. There’s a big, flat bit sticking out in the middle, and it kind of looks like a nose. Tweek can see the stitches, surprisingly small and even given Clyde’s pie-sized firsts. Clyde’s always been good with his hands, though.
“See, there was this loose flap from where the ball got a cut,” Clyde is saying, while Jimmy pulls out the last chair with one crutch, “So I figured I’d turn that into the nose, right? And I don’t know if they actually sewed the mouth and eyes shut, but I brought the rest of the leather thread, and the knife from the tool-kit –”
“No knives on the shop floor, Clyde,” Dad says from behind the counter, where he’s already making Jimmy’s cappuccino and Clyde’s hot chocolate. He doesn’t so much sound stern as like he’s trying not to laugh. “If you’re cutting something, do it in the staff room, okay?”
“Sure thing, Mr Tweak,” Clyde replies, while Token’s already leafing through one of the books he brought, hunting for shrunken head pictures.
In spite of how crusty and gross it looks, Tweek finds himself taking the fake head out of Clyde’s hands and turning it from side to side.
“I v-vote we name it Phyllis,” Jimmy says, prompting an indignant yowl from Clyde.
“Dude, it’s a male head!”
“Reginald,” Token suggests, very deadpan, and takes a sip of his vanilla latte. Tweek can see the sides of his mouth trying to tug upwards, though, but Token has iron self-control.
“And it’s not a wimp head! God’s sake!”
“Is it weird that I want to comb the hair,” Tweek says, before he can stop and think.
At least the guys all laugh though, and maybe it’s a good thing Craig’s not here yet. Maybe Tweek can get all the weirdness and nerves out of his system before Craig shows up?
Then someone says “I think it’s cool,” from right behind Tweek, and people really shouldn’t do that.
“JESUS,” Tweek yowls, flinging both arms out, and practically levitating from his seat.
It’s only Kenny, holding a Tweak Bros mug in each hand, caught in mid-balletic swivel. Somehow, he manages to dodge Tweek’s flailing limbs and not spill a single drop. He looks exhausted though; and the greyish tinge to his skin only emphasizes the purples and blues of his swollen nose.
“Hey, Tweek,” Kenny mutters, addressing his words to the floor. “Didn’t mean to startle you.”
Tweek looks around the coffee shop – thankfully most of the customers are regulars, who know what to expect when they walk through these doors. Although there’s one guy Tweek’s never seen before who’ll probably never be back, judging from the look on his face. He’s a beefy-looking white guy with a black hair and a terrible comb-over; arm frozen in place, mug held just in front of his open mouth. Over by the counter, Dad’s shaking his head, though at least he doesn’t seem annoyed.
“Sorry,” Tweek mutters, while Kenny deftly places the two drinks on the table. He looks almost naked without his hoodie, Tweek thinks. Kind of like a plucked chicken – no wait, that’s just gross. Like a sheep that’s just been sheared.
Satisfied with his own metaphor, Tweek takes a fortifying swig of the so-called latte he fixed himself when he was making Token’s drink. So-called because there’s four shots of espresso in his mug, which is the nice big tartan one he keeps in the staff room for break times, and not a lot of milk.
“How about Raoul,” Tweek says, desperate to pull his friends’ attention back to what they were talking about, before he embarrassed himself. “For the head,” he asks, when they all just stare at him.
Clyde looks like he’s trying to figure out if Tweek’s making fun or not, frowning and chewing his bottom lip. “I guess,” he finally says. “At least it’s manlier than Reggie.”
“Reginald,” Token corrects him, raising one eyebrow.
“Reginald S. Head,” Jimmy chimes in, grinning oh-so-slightly. “The S s-stands for s-s-severed.”
“You guys!” Clyde throws his hands up in frustration, “At least Raoul sounds Hispanic! And he’s supposed to be from Peru!”
“I think it’s cool,” Kenny mutters again, so quiet that only Tweek seems to hear him, “The head, I mean.”
Before Tweek can reply, Kenny’s gone, retreating behind the counter to pick up a wash-cloth and the bottle of multi-surface Windex Tweek’s parents keep back there. That balding dude Tweek startled just got up and put his coat on, and Kenny’s already spraying and wiping his table down.
“Earth to Tweek,” Token’s saying, and Tweek shakes himself like a dog.
“Ngh! Sorry, what was that?”
Just then, at eleven on the dot, the doorbell tinkles and a guy walks in – and Tweek just knows that this is Thomas. Sure, there are obvious things like how he’s their age and he promised to be here by eleven, but there’s also this, this vibe he gives off that reminds Tweek of Craig somehow. He can’t quite put his finger on what it is – Thomas is also quite tall, but that’s not it. He’s got sandy brown hair in an undercut, and he’s wearing an unremarkable grey windbreaker over blue jeans. Olive green backpack slung over one shoulder, and he walks with a slouch. A pair of scuffed checkerboard Van’s are the only noticeable thing about his outfit. Did Thomas actually try to look as forgettable as possible, Tweek wonders, so he can just fade into the background when the Fakes show up with Craig?
Anyway, it’s not like this kid even looks like Craig. It’s more like this sense Tweek gets – that those two must have friends for so long, they rubbed off on each other. And Thomas also seems to be the quiet type, Tweek thinks, just as Thomas gives an almighty twitch and exclaims, “Shit!”
Like a flash, Tweek is out of his seat and up behind the counter next to Dad. “I’ll serve this one,” he says, as casually as humanly possible.
Dad just gives him one of those looks. Like he knows full well that Tweek is up to something, and relishes the challenge of figuring out exactly what that might be.
“You probably need a bathroom break,” Tweek says pointedly, “Right?” He’s trying his best not to growl, but he’s not exactly succeeding.
“I’m fine, actually,” Dad replies, and Tweek just knows he’s being infuriating on purpose. Then he turns and beams at Thomas with that crazed full-wattage smile he uses to convince people they want a pastry to go with their drink. “Welcome to Tweak Bros, son! What can we get you?”
Thomas is already blushing, and staring fixedly down at the counter. “I’m sorry about the cussing,” he mutters, “I’ll try to be quiet, but I can’t help–”
“It’s just Tourette’s, right?” Tweek just wants to push Thomas away from the counter so he can bang his forehead on it. “Don’t worry about it, son.” Dad goes on. “Now, can we get you set up with a coffee?”
“Um, could I have a tea, actually,” Thomas says, and he doesn’t sound like Dad just shit all over his disability at all. More like he’s not used to encountering adults who don’t tell him off. “Stupid shit,” he adds, abruptly turning his head to one side.
Tweek almost, almost tells him that “we don’t have that flavour”, but for once in his life he’s got some control over his mouth. Whew. “Flavours are up there,” he says instead, pointing up at Mom’s handwritten list on the cupboard door that just happens to be right above the till. He remembers how she painted all the cupboards with blackboard paint, back when they first moved here and had the whole place remodelled. Back before it was Tweak Bros at all, but an abandoned Tex Mex restaurant called Los Desperados.
“I’ll get the water, you ring him up, Tweek.” Dad is always so damn clueless, but for once he’s passing up a chance to on-sell a pastry. It’s like he can actually tell how wildly uncomfortable Thomas is, with both of them giving him their full attention. Hell, the rest of the coffee shop’s probably staring too; their regulars may be used to Tweek spazzing out, but poor Thomas just brought a whole new ballgame to town.
“Cactus tea,” Thomas says, frowning up at the board. “Is that good?” He does seem marginally less nervous, now that Dad’s gone to fill up one of the little teapots.
“It’s made from green tea and prickly pear,” Tweek tells him, trying for a reassuring smile. He’s never bothered tasting any of their teas besides the jasmine. “My mom really likes it,” he adds, because at least that’s true. Mom’s the only one who takes any interest in the teas they stock, so they’re basically just all her favourites.
“Cock,” Thomas growls, then shakes his head. “I’m really sorry. Can I have that, and uh, a brownie?”
“Sure,” Tweek says, as he slides the biggest brownie he can find onto a plate and passes it over the counter. And he only rings up the tea on the till – Thomas is getting a brownie on the house, so help him. “Just grab a table, I’ll bring your tea over.”
“Thanks,” Thomas replies, and then the fastest smile ever flickers across his face. Damn, Tweek thinks, This kid could actually be considered cute! Then Thomas has turned his back on him, and is shuffling over that table right at the back near the toilets. He drapes his jacket over the chair and pulls a book out of his bag – too far away for Tweek to read the title – clearly settling in for the long haul.
“You know that kid,” Dad asks, as he puts the teapot down on the tray he’s already prepped, with a stirrer and two sachets of sugar laid out on top of a napkin.
“Not exactly,” Tweek replies, ducking under the counter to grab a small mug, and incidentally avoiding meeting Dad’s eyes.
“Is this one of those long stories?” Dad sounds so unbelievably smug that Tweek has to close his eyes and count to ten – ten, not three! – before he straightens back up.
“You could say that,” Tweek tells him, as he plonks that mug down on the tray and walks off with it. Phase one, complete, he thinks, like a total nerd. Grinning his face off, because he just can’t help himself.

“I don’t see why you’re so hung up on bringing us along,” Fake Dad is saying, as he pulls up in the little parking lot outside Tweak Bros at a quarter to one. You could maybe only fit six cars in here, seven in a pinch, and there are already three. He slides the dented Station Wagon in next to an almost as battered red Volkswagen Beetle that has a little peace sign shaped air-freshener dangling from the mirror.
“Oh, I think it’s nice,” Fake Mom says in her lilting accent – she’d been the easiest one to persuade. “Craig just wants us to be friends with the parents of his new friends – isn’t that right, mi amor?” Then she reaches back from the passenger seat and tries to honest-to-god pinch Craig’s cheek. Craig doesn’t feel bad about evading it; popping the car door open and practically jumping outside. Nobody would put up with that shit from any kind of parents, real or fake!
He decided to go as all out as you can, when you have like three wardrobe options, and wear the geometric T-shirt today. Navy blue, just like his jeans and hoodie, and his crusty navy blue sneakers that are also his one and only pair of shoes – at least until Wednesday. Tweek’ll probably think he looks like a damn berry, or something.
The little bell on the glass door chimes as Craig pushes it open, and music wraps around him like a blanket. It’s been so long since he listened to anything but his one Nick Cave CD, but this is Nat King Cole singing Autumn Leaves. This is Dad’s music – his real dad, that is.
Craig walks in first, and maybe it was because of that bell, but he spots Thomas right away since his head whips up from his book. His sandy hair’s been cut into a different style, and it looks impossibly lame, but… But it still doesn’t make him any less good-looking.
Just for a second, or maybe two, their eyes meet. Thomas is the one who breaks it off, looking down at the open book on the table and turning a page. Hiding behind that book he’s pretending to read.
That’s when the song hits the chorus, and that soft voice sings; “And I miss you most of all, my darling… When autumn leaves start to fall.”
Craig swallows; his throat is suddenly so dry. What could Thomas even be thinking about right now? All of a sudden, Craig's remembering how it felt when Thomas’ calloused fingertips rubbed spirals into the back of his hand. How fast he’d let go, even at the smallest sound.
Dating Thomas had been like taming a fox, he thinks out of nowhere. Earning his trust by increments, until he was allowed to run his fingers through that sandy hair – longer, shaggier back then. Quick kisses that tasted like Pepsi, frantic heartbeats felt through a soft flannel shirt, the faint smell of Axe Cologne. Lying in the grass on a cool summer’s night with their heads pressed together, stargazing and pointing out constellations to each other, Thomas’ fingers laced through his in the coarse grass.
“Hey dude,” Tweek yells, yanking Craig out of his thoughts. He’s wearing a white T-shirt with the album art for the Beatles’ Revolver today, peeking out from under an open olive green cargo shirt. It looks cool enough that Craig’s starting to feel downright ashamed of his own stupid geometric shirt. “Over here, over here!” Tweek’s waving, even though the coffee shop’s not exactly big.
“I can see you perfectly fine,” Craig replies, secretly grateful, “You’re not that short.”
Tweek lets out a yowl of indignation, while Token shushes him, Jimmy holds his hand up like he wants Craig to high-five him, and Clyde… Clyde leaps to his feet, swinging what looks very much like a decomposing head by the hair. “Craig,” he says, like he’s not out in public at all, “Check out Raoul!”
“It’s just a football he turned inside out,” Token groans, because Fake Mom is looking kind of horrified. “Clyde, c’mon! Sit down, there’s other customers…”
Oh. Right. That torn-up old football Clyde had found in his basement. That makes… some kind of sense. “It’s the ugliest thing I’ve seen in my life,” Craig deadpans.
Clyde seems to take that as the highest praise, though. “Awesome!”
By now, that damn song has ended, which is a relief and a half. Now there’s something else starting up, just piano for now, which is fine by Craig. Meanwhile, the fakes are looking at each other like this is a special kind of sewer, where all the rats can talk. Fake Mom walks over to the counter, where Mr Tweak is just shaking his head and smiling. “They’re in here studying on a Saturday morning,” he says, with a little shrug. “I’m just choosing to appreciate that minor miracle. Now, what can I get you all?”
“Can’t run away from you, my dear,” a woman’s voice suddenly croons from the loudspeakers, “I’ve tried so hard, but I fear, you’ll always follow me near and far…”
“Goddamn it,” Craig mutters, pushing his good hand up under his hat and through his fringe.
“Craig,” Fake Dad says, very softly, right into his ear, “Pick something.” So we can get out of here, is the unspoken rest of that sentence, but Craig’s just glad they’ll be leaving soon. Who cares if his fake parents like Tweak Bros or hate it; he’s pretty damn sure Mom would love it here. Just about her favorite thing to do is sneak off to a café with a book and read. Dad’s never really been one for coffee shops, but he’d appreciate the music, anyway.
“You keep coming back like a song,” that woman’s voice goes on, husky like smoke, “A song that keeps saying, Remember?” Craig’s chest is starting to hurt something fierce, like Thomas is some kind of magnet, tugging at him. “The sweet used-to-be, that was once you and me…”
“Cinnamon swirl,” Craig says, because it’s the first thing he spots in the pastry case. He’s most definitely not going to look in Thomas’ direction again, and not just because he doesn’t want to give this whole stupid game away. “And, uh, some kind of tea?” He looks up at the board, where a pretty random tea selection has been written out in swirly white chalk letters. “Cactus tea,” he says, making his mind up on the spot, “Whatever the he –” he catches himself just in time, glancing quickly at Fake Dad and his unreadable blank face, “Heck that is.”
From over at the guys’ table, Tweek makes a sound like he’s choking on something.
“Cactus tea and cinnamon roll to have in,” Mr Tweak sounds like he finds this funny, “And two lattes to go, was it? Kenny, make Craig’s tea, will you,” Mr Tweak goes on, grinning widely at the fakes, “And I’ll get you two your coffees.”
That’s when Craig realizes that Kenny McCormick’s been there the whole time – he’s just been standing really damn still, right up against the far wall. “Yes, sir,” he mutters, and Craig can see how the swelling on his nose has gone down. It’s turned a seriously bright shade of purple though.
Fake Mom pays for it all, pulling a battered red wallet out of her ugly bag. Craig’s almost proud of himself for picking up on that detail, like how that gross old wallet doesn’t look like it belongs in a bag that pristine. He’ll have to point that out to Tweek later.
Thinking of Tweek actually makes him feel a little bit better about having his damn ex sitting right across the room from him. He turns to look at Tweek, because anything beats looking at the fakes. It turns out Tweek must’ve been looking at him too, because they accidentally make eye contact for a second. Then Tweek sort of shakes himself like a dog and breaks it off, laughing a little like he’s embarrassed.
“Dude, come here already,” he says, holding up an open book, “And check out these geoglyphs!”
“We’ll see you at the Tweaks’ place for dinner, mi vida,” Fake Mom says, kissing his cheek and leaving a smear of lipstick behind. And Craig is suddenly seized by the awful, paranoid thought that if Thomas is really feeling vindictive, he could’ve trekked all the way to South Park just to lie and tell Tweek these people are Craig’s real parents!
“Yeah, sure,” he replies, relieved that the fakes will finally give him some time to himself. For whatever reason, they’ve got stuff to do – sure, Fake Mom said it was to go shopping for a new sofa, but why should Craig believe a word she says? He’s just happy they’re going, never mind where. The bell chimes, the door clicks shut behind them, and maybe it’s just Craig’s imagination. But it kind of feels like the whole coffee shop heaves a sigh of relief.
“I’ll bring your things over,” Kenny mutters, appearing at Craig’s elbow. He’s holding a tray with a tiny white teapot, a mug and a cinnamon roll on a plate.
“Uh, thanks.” Craig pulls himself together somehow. He leads the way over there, rubbing the lipstick off his cheek, while Kenny falls in behind him. Tweek’s even gone and put a fifth chair at the head of that table; Craig will look like he’s chairing the meeting of some ridiculous nerd society. But whatever.
“So these things were made by the Nazca people, right,” Tweek starts off, practically holding the book under Craig’s nose, “And aren’t they amazing? There’s a huge spider, a monkey, and a tree of life…”
“And Tweek’s f-favorite author in the w-world thinks they were made by aliens,” Jimmy drawls, with a sly little grin on his face.
“Favorite,” Tweek says, nostrils flaring with indignation, while Clyde starts to laugh.
“Oh God,” Token mutters, “Here we go.”
“The guy’s a total fraud!”
“Eric von D-D-Däneken,” Jimmy supplies helpfully, tapping one of the books on the table. Craig can just make out the words Chariots of the Gods on the cover, along with two pictures. The top one is of some kind of Mayan god lying back on what looks like a snake, while the bottom one is an astronaut lying on his back working some controls. The message is pretty unsubtle.
“Like, he made the whole thing up,” Tweek is ranting, “About their wall carvings showing aliens and spaceships and whatever, okay? And then once you start thinking one thing looks like it could be an astronaut, you just buy into his whole stupid snake-oil pitch, because that’s called, ARGH!” Tweek claws at the air, clearly stuck for whatever word he was going to use.
“Confirmation bias,” Token says, in this very measured tone that makes Craig think he’s also very close to losing his shit.
“Yes! That stuff!” Tweek points dramatically at Token. “The guy even wrote his second book while he was in jail for swindling money, but does that ever make it to the author bio on these…” He picks that book up between two fingers. “These literary turds,” Tweek concludes, dropping the book on the table again.
While Craig’s still trying to figure out why Tweek would get so worked up over some stupid book, Clyde says, “Still sore about spending that fourteen bucks ninety nine on it. Huh, Tweek?”
Tweek just growls in response.
“Why don’t you rip it in half, then,” Craig suggests, because if he doesn’t say anything, he’ll start to laugh. “You know, when we do the presentation? It’s only a trade paperback, and you seem to hate it enough to summon up some, ah…” he grins over at the other boy, “Untapped strength?”
“Gah! I’ll have you know cheerleading’s giving me lots of muscles,” Tweek retorts, “Like, even in places I didn’t know I had, okay!?” He doesn’t sound pissed though, and he’s grinning right back at Craig – like he actually enjoys this back-and-forth thing they’ve got going on now.
“I like it,” Jimmy says, “We need m-more than a shrunken head to get an edge over T-T-Testaburger!”
“We could dress up, you know,” Clyde pipes up, “In like, outfits from the different eras? And make some of those big flat nose rings in shop class, I’m sure Mr Adler would let us if we tell him it’s for school…”
At the other end of the seating area, a chair scrapes against the floor. Craig knows, somehow, that Thomas just stood up to leave. But he can’t turn around; it’s like that bit in the Bible where people were hightailing it out of Sodom and Gomorrah. If he turns around now that’s it.
“I just, ngh, need to go get something,” Tweek blurts out, leaping out of his seat and dashing for the door to the staff room. Craig can’t not smile as he watches him go.
Why do you have to be so damn weird, Craig thinks, and then his smile widens just a fraction. And why do I actually like that about you?

Chapter Text

“Dude, wait up!” Tweek slams the back door of Tweak Bros against the wall, flies down the stairs and runs around the building, legs pounding into the pavement. As he turns the corner, he can see that Thomas really has stopped, and is frowning at him. Probably wondering what the hell he just spent the past couple hours pretending not to know Tweek for – which, okay, he’d have a point if he did. But the Fakes are long gone, and the street outside the store front is pretty quiet too, so Tweek hurries over to him and grabs Thomas by the wrist.
“C’mon,” Tweek says, while Thomas just stares at him for a second. Then he squeezes his eyes shut, twitches so hard, it almost qualifies as a dance move, and says, “Cocksucker shit! Sorry,” he adds, looking kind of relieved to have got that out of his system.
“No problem,” Tweek replies, before he pulls Thomas back around Tweak Bros and nods his head at the concrete stairs. “It’s the, ah, outdoor patio area,” he says, feeling his mouth start to run away with him, “Exclusive seating, normally staff only, but for you, sir, I can make an exception.” No, goddamn it, this isn’t going to work if he can’t calm himself down enough to make sense. “Sorry,” he says, echoing Thomas just now, and plops his butt down on the middle step. “I promise I’m not always this nuts.”
That makes Thomas let out a quiet huff of laughter. “You’re all right,” he says, before he sits down on the bottom step, swinging his backpack into his lap. It may be plain, but there are patches sewn on it – the Batman logo, Superman’s “S” and Wonder Woman’s “W”.
“So, you’re a DC-guy,” Tweek blurts out, before he can stop himself and focus on the important stuff. “I’m more or a Marvel man myself, but I love Wonder Woman! One of my uncles is like, the biggest Wonder Woman fan, I swear he could wallpaper like his whole house with Wonder Woman pages! I mean, my aunt would probably murder him and paint over it anyway, but you know what I mean!” He suddenly can’t not think of his uncle Martin, and how he let Tweek sit on his lap to read those precious early comics, turning the pages for him. They’re probably worth a fortune now, but Uncle Martin would sooner part with both his kidneys. “Wonder Woman’s awesome, if I was a superhero, I’d be Wonder Tweek!”
Thomas tips his head back and laughs, and it happens so suddenly that Tweek almost jumps out of his own skin. “Craig’s in good hands,” he says when he’s done, shaking his head a little. “I mean, cock! You guys seem really good for each other.”
“Uh?” Tweek is perplexed, to put it mildly. “I mean, sure?”
Thomas’ eyes widen. “Oh,” he says, “So Craig hasn’t told you. And you’re not…”
“Not what?”
“Uh, never mind.” Thomas gives him a reassuring smile, but to Tweek, it still feels like he’s kind of… disappointed, somehow? “Not my secret to tell. Shit!”
Secret? Tweek’s never been able to resist the urge to prod at a secret in his life, and now Thomas is telling him Craig’s got another secret?! One that, from the look Thomas just gave him, could be even bigger that the one about his parents being fake? One that… that he’s even keeping from Tweek?
“Anyway,” Thomas busies himself unzipping his backpack and digging around in there, “I’m kind of glad you stopped me, actually. Stupid shit! Because I wanted Craig to have this, and I wasn’t sure how to get it to him.” Thomas pulls out a cardboard Sephora bag, of all things, all creased from being folded around some bulky object. “When my dad took off a few years ago, he left this thing behind…” He opens the bag to reveal a camera, and not just the little boxy kind that Tweek’s parents have. This is one of those serious cameras that photo-journalists carry into warzones, with a great big zoom lens and like a million complicated-looking buttons. “Craig used to borrow it, and like…” Thomas looks into space for a second, drifting away on that thought. “His pictures were so good. Like, he’d peckerwood! Sorry, photograph the most random thing, like a telephone pole or some old car, and I’d be like, why’d you even bother with that? Cock! Sorry, sorry, but then he’d go develop them himself at the school lab? And they’d be amazing.”
“Craig knows how to develop photos?” There’s a whole new clue in the Craig Tucker mystery. “Whoa, that’s supposed to be like, crazy hard!”
Thomas laughs again. “I know, right? Craig always said he only did it cause it was cheaper, but I know he loved the whole…” he waves his hands, looking for the right word, “Process.”
Tweek finds himself smiling. “I totally get that, though! It’s like when people say, ‘I can just make my own coffee at home, save some money, blah blah,’ but it’s a craft, making the coffee right. Some lady said that to my dad once,” he goes on, “And Dad went, ‘Oh, you should – people like you don’t deserve to taste real coffee,’ and my mom couldn’t even make herself yell at him. Because it’s true!”
“Well, good for your dad. He seems pretty cool,” Thomas says, and Tweek chokes on his own saliva.
“Jesus Christ,” he hacks, covering his mouth with his arm, rather than his hand, the way he’s been taught to. Food safety and all that. “That’s like saying Steve Urkel is cool!”
Thomas makes a weird sound and turns his head away. “You’ve never met my dad,” he says, and there’s a weight to those words. “Cocksucker! Sorry. I mean, neither have I,” Thomas goes on, still staring at the staircase. There’s no trace left of his smile now. “Not since I was like, nine.”
“Oh,” Tweek says, feeling like a moron and an asshole. No need to ask why Thomas’ dad would have walked out of his life.
“But Craig’s dad was always super nice to me,” Thomas says, clearly eager to change the subject. “I really hope he and Craig’s mom are okay.”
It takes Tweek a few seconds to realize why what Thomas just said is so hugely significant. “What! So they really aren’t his parents, then?!”
“Uh, no?” Thomas says, frowning. “I wrote that on my napkin already – like we agreed. Remember? Shit!”
“Ah. Right.” Tweek lets his head drop into his hands before he just gives up and laughs. “I’ll go grab that in a second. Goddamn it, I’m such a lousy spy.”
Thomas laughs too, and when Tweek looks up, he can see that the other boy is smiling. “The charger’s at the bottom of the bag,” he says, “Along with the leftover film and stuff. Could you give him this? And tell him I’m sorry,” he adds, abruptly dropping his gaze again. “I was a real asshole to Craig when he had to move, cock! Not like he even had a choice in the matter, but I still blamed him.” Thomas looks up, his pale brown eyes drilling into Tweek’s. “Like, you’re clearly pretty popular so this might be hard to understand, but… But I had nobody else in school, for obvious reasons, and… I guess it kind of seemed like the end of the world.”
“Dude,” Tweek shakes his head, “I’ve got ADHD up the wazoo. It’s not like I don’t know how lucky I am, to have friends that don’t find me irritating. Or, not too irritating,” he adds, for the sake of honesty.
That makes Thomas laugh again. “Craig’s a lucky guy,” he says, whatever that means, before he stands up and dusts his pants off. “To, shit, to have a friend like you, I mean,” he hastily adds, when he can see how confused Tweek is. “Anyway,” he swings his backpack over one shoulder, “I want to catch that bus at quarter to two, so…”
“Oh! I almost forgot,” Tweek pulls his wallet out, praying he brought enough money with him, “How much were the tickets? And I need to pay you back for all that tea you had to drink!” In fact, Thomas had almost worked himself through the whole tea menu – the only one that had been left, was the lime and mint.
But Thomas waves his offer away. “I wanted to come,” he insists, stuffing his hands in his coat pockets so Tweek can’t give him anything. “It was kind of neat, anyway, trying out new kids of tea. And it’s not like I didn’t notice the free pastries.”
Before he even knows he’s doing it, Tweek’s thrown his arms around Thomas and started hugging the stuffing out of him. “I hope school doesn’t suck forever,” he says, patting Thomas twice on the back before he lets go.
Thomas, who was clearly thrown by that hug for a second, suddenly gives Tweek a huge, genuine smile. “I switched to home schooling,” he says, “Best decision of my life! Tell Craig that for me, all right? And tell him I’m sorry that…” Thomas pauses for a second, like he’s pre-phrasing the rest of the sentence in his head, “That things ended the way they did. Cock! Okay?”
“Sure,” Tweek promises, grinning back up at the taller boy. He really, really wants to ask what actually went down between him and Craig. But all he says, in the end, is “Thanks again, dude!”

The first thing Kenny did after Tweek dashed out, was go check that Thomas kid’s table over. He’d found the napkin almost right away, carefully folded over and placed under the teacup. Kenny had unfolded it while he pretended to load everything on the tray he’d brought over, and read the message – YOU WERE RIGHT – written in neat, blocky capitals. Then he’d folded it back up and dropped it on the tray, before he’d carried everything out into the back room. He’d heard voices through the door, and one of them had definitely been Tweek’s. But it’s a fire door; too thick to listen through, even with a glass. Not that Kenny really needs to know anything else.
Because the question, now that he knows for sure that Craig Tucker’s parents aren’t really his parents, is: Why would anyone want to pose as Craig Tucker’s parents?
When Tweek comes back inside a few minutes later, he’s carrying a striped paper bag. Not by the handles but in his arms; kind of like he’s afraid that what’s inside it might break. Could whatever that is be another clue? Kenny decides it would be too obvious if he follows Tweek out there to try and get a look at the contents. But, there are always more ways than one to skin a cat…
Tweek’s grinning to himself, completely lost in his own world, so Kenny figures it’ll be impossible not to startle him. “Hey, Tweek,” he says, and when Tweek’s done jumping and screaming, he goes on, “Can you give something to Craig for me?”
“Uh, sure!” Tweek follows him over to the coat hooks, where Kenny’s gym bag sits underneath the row of jackets… just waiting for him to change into Mysterion once his shift is over. Honestly, he can hardly wait to put on his tights and mask and strap that gun to his back. Sure, he likes working at Tweak Bros, it’s just being Kenny that kind of gets to be a drag. Especially when he gets to watch a friend group he can never be a part of have so much damn fun.
Kenny digs out the packet of pills Clyde’s dad gave him last night. He took two then, while Clyde and Mr Donovan were watching him; they even gave him a glass of orange juice to swallow them down with. And this morning, he took one, so… Half the packet should be enough, really. He pulls out two of the four trays of pills, and pockets the remainder of the pack. Then holds them out to Tweek with both hands – and Tweek instinctively puts the bag on the floor, so he can take them. Perfect.
“His arm probably hurts,” Kenny mutters, ducking his head, “And I don’t need all of these.”
“Dude, are you sure?” Tweek makes it sound like Kenny’s offered up his own kidney, for God’s sake.
Kenny just nods in response, and angles his head juuust enough to see the top of a camera lens leaning against the corner of that bag. A tiny step forward, and now he can see it clearly; the bag’s full of expensive looking photography stuff. Interesting.
“Aw, thanks Kenny.” He looks up, just in time to see Tweek smile before he snatches the bag up and hurries over to the door.
Without thinking, he follows the other boy – that’s how he ends up almost taking the staff room door to the face when Clyde suddenly barrels through it. Luckily, Mysterion’s reflexes are as solid as ever, and Kenny jumps out of harm’s way just in time.
“Oh,” Clyde says, as they stand there awkwardly, nose to broken nose. “Sorry about that. How’s the…?”
Kenny doesn’t answer at once. He’s thinking that Clyde’s got enough shit on his pile, what with Stan and the guys always picking on him, and walking around thinking he killed his own mom. He’s thinking of that very nice, but very empty house, and he’s feeling like the world’s biggest douchebag for pretending his broken nose is Clyde’s fault.
The silence hangs between them for a long, agonizing minute. Then Kenny forces himself to speak. “Its fine now,” he says, addressing his words to Clyde’s shoes. They’re the ones he noticed last night, the Nike’s with the blue swoosh. “Doesn’t hurt at all.” Okay, so that’s a white lie, but it really is feeling a lot better, now that Kenny’s got some of those painkillers in his belly. He forces himself to look up, and right at the other boy. “The pills really helped.”
“Really?” Clyde’s whole face lights up, and Kenny quickly drops his gaze again. “Oh dude, I’m so glad to hear that! Listen, Mr Tweak said I could use the phone, so…”
“Uh, sure.”
Clyde bounds over to the wall-mounted dial-phone and yanks the receiver off. He starts dialling a number by heart – Kenny would bet money he’s calling Bebe’s house. If he had any money to bet, that is.
Ah, he needs to go back out there, wipe down another table maybe, make himself useful – the last thing Kenny wants to do is listen to Clyde trying to act cute. But when – if! – his brother shows up for the late shift, Kenny can go check out that building again – and see if Kevin Stoley’s crew has had any better luck. Even if he has to go as just Kenny. He’ll have to wait at least until the sun’s started to go down before he can put the costume on. Nobody would take Mysterion seriously in broad daylight – not even the Nerd Squad. At least that won’t be a problem if Kevin blows this shift off and he ends up working a double.

The guys all started packing their books up as soon as Tweek came back from wherever the hell he ran off to – no, who’s he kidding? Craig knows Tweek must’ve talked to Thomas. For one thing, he’s carrying that lumpy Sephora bag in his arms like it’s a baby, and Thomas’ mom’s a regional manager at Sephora… Just the thought of what those two could’ve talked about is enough to turn Craig’s entire body sweaty in five seconds flat.
“Mr Tweak, can I use the phone,” Clyde’s saying, already halfway through the staff room door. Like there’s no doubt in his mind the answer will be yes.
“Sure,” Mr Tweak doesn’t even look up from the coffee he’s making, pouring foamy milk into the cup from a little metal jug with a look of deep concentration on his face.
“Thanks!” Clyde almost knocks Tweek over in his eagerness to get in there and call Bebe.
Craig’s already not feeling great for other reasons; his broken arm’s bothering him more than it did yesterday. The pain was making him nauseous enough that he skipped breakfast this morning, even though they’ve got cereal by now, and milk in the fridge. Even chewing his way through that cinnamon roll has turned into a challenge. Each piece seems to expand inside his mouth, like that rubber foam you use to seal up cracks in a house. At least the tea seems to help settle his roiling stomach.
Tweek looks so damn happy though, trotting over to their table like a dog bringing his master a stick.
“There was no stopping him,” Token is saying to Tweek, with an apologetic shrug. Oh, right – he’s talking about Clyde.
“Nah, we’ve done what we came here for,” Tweek tells him, before switching over to this ridiculous British accent mid-sentence, “I say we unleash Hurricane Clyde and let him eat the evidence! Tally ho!” It’s so random and unexpected that it makes Craig snort, even though he’s still a bundle of clammy nerves.
“W-what evidence,” Jimmy asks, but he doesn’t sound like he’s even expecting an answer.
At the same time, Tweek whips his head around, and he gives Craig the most startled look. “Dude,” he says, shoving that Sephora bag at Craig, “This is for you!”
“We w-were talking about hitting up Sloppy S-S-Seconds,” Jimmy’s saying, but his words fade out as Craig clumsily puts that bag on the table and slowly pries it open.
It’s the camera. The camera Thomas’ dad didn’t bother taking with him when he walked out on his family. The kind of camera Craig could never afford in a million years, no matter how much birthday money he saved and how many chores he did. There’s a fist-sized lump forming in his throat. Here he’s been burning and throwing out everything that’s even been associated with Thomas, and then Thomas just goes and gives him this.
“Craig,” Token’s saying, putting a hand on his shoulder, “Craig, are you okay?”
“M-maybe it’s his arm,” Jimmy suggests. “Who’s got any p-p-painkillers?”
“I do!” Tweek drops two whole trays of pills on Craig’s plate, next to the half-eaten cinnamon roll. “Courtesy of someone we know,” he adds, winking like Craig’s supposed to know what he’s talking about. “Clyde’s dad got them for Kenny,” Tweek says, when he finally seems to realize that Craig doesn’t get it.
“Oh,” Craig manages, clumsily popping one pill out, “Cool. Thanks.” He swallows it with a mouthful of tea, then thinks about it for a second and takes another pill.
Meanwhile, Tweek’s sat down on Clyde’s chair and picked up the cinnamon roll. “Are you gonna eat this?” Craig barely has time to shake his head before Tweek takes a bite, and then it’s all he can do not to let his own mouth drop open.
Would Tweek be so quick to eat my food, Craig thinks, if he knew that I’m…
“He said to say he was sorry,” Tweek tells him, talking with his mouth full, “Thomas, I mean, not Kenny. For being an asshole to you when you had to move.” He suddenly frowns. “No, that’s not right, he said…”
Oh.
Craig knows that if he so much as opens his mouth now, he won’t be doing much talking. Bawling, yes, but talking will be pretty much off the table. So he stares stiffly at Clyde’s homemade Peruvian head, and hopes the guys won’t notice that something’s up with him.
“This would be the b-best v-v-ventriloquist act,” Jimmy suddenly declares. He’s still sitting down, so he just grabs the head and shoves his hand up inside it. “W-wouldn’t you agree,” and now he’s also doing a terrible British accent, “Reggie old boy!”
“Raoul,” Clyde yells, from over by the counter. “I told you guys, the head’s name is Raoul, okay?! And anyway,” he bounds over to their table with puppy-like joy, and starts shoving books helter-skelter into his reddish-brown backpack, “Bebe and the girls are meeting us at the thrift store in half an hour!” He yanks the head – okay, Raoul – off Jimmy’s hand and shoves it into his backpack last, before he zips the thing shut. Only then does he seem to notice that Craig’s not said anything, or moved at all, and leans across the table to peer inside the bag. “What’s that?”
“SLR,” Craig replies, his voice all scratchy. There’s even five rolls of film – no, six! – at the bottom of the bag, so he takes one out and busies himself slotting it inside the camera. His hands know what to do, even if his mind is out to lunch. Even if it hurts so bad to move the fingers of his left hand. He attaches the zoom lens, holds the camera up, peers through the viewfinder…
Damn, I really shouldn’t, Craig thinks, as he flicks the flash on, grinning a little in spite of how awful he suddenly feels. Well, half awful and half wonderful, it’s not every day a free camera falls into your lap. Before he can change his mind, he snaps a photo of Clyde’s startled face.
“Whu…?!” Blinded by the flash, Clyde jerks backwards, and the other guys all laugh.
“Maybe modeling’s not for you, Clyde,” Token teases, while Jimmy digs his elbow into Clyde’s side.
“Yeah, don’t quite your d-day job at the sh-sh-shoe store, dude!”
Tweek just laughs and pats Craig on his good arm, and he seriously has the most adorable laugh, but then he suddenly gives a big twitch. “Ah, crappity crap,” he whispers, abruptly letting go of Craig’s arm, “I forgot again!” Then he hurries over to the now empty table where Thomas was sitting, with the last piece of that cinnamon bun dangling from the side of his mouth like a cigar.
Out of the corner of his eye, Craig sees Tweek’s dad deposit that cup of coffee on a table by the big front window, where an older lady is sitting with a book. They’re probably being a huge nuisance, the way Tweek and Clyde, hell, even Jimmy are carrying on. So maybe going to that thrift store to look for props or whatever is a good thing.
“Boys,” Mr Tweak says, as he walks over to their table on his way back to the counter, “I’m impressed your study session lasted this long. So you can each have one pastry, in a bag so you don’t trail crumbs all over the floor. And you can leave your bags in the staff room for later.”
If that wasn’t a hint to get the hell out of the coffee shop, Craig doesn’t know what is.
“Yay,” Clyde yells, then clamps both hands over his own mouth when he realizes how loud that was.
Craig shakes his head. It’s hard not to smile; Clyde is literally like a dog wearing a human suit sometimes.
“Actually,” Mr Tweak says, just as Kenny slips out of the staff room and ducks behind the counter, “Just drop your bags behind the counter. I’ll take ‘em in there in a minute.” He’s probably thinking that letting Clyde into the back room twice in one day must be asking for disaster – that’s definitely what Craig would think.
While the guys all hurry over to pick out a pastry, Craig hangs back. He switches the camera off and busies himself unpacking every last thing from that Sephora bag to his empty backpack. Craig Tucker doesn’t do charity – and besides, he hasn’t done any studying at all. There aren’t even any books in his backpack, so he doesn’t need to leave it here. He doesn’t like the idea of letting the camera out of his sight, anyway, and not just because it’s expensive. Thomas wanted him to have it. That means more than any price tag, that’s… That’s practically forgiveness, isn’t it?
Suddenly Tweek’s there, filling up his entire field of vision because he’s leaning in that close. “Craaaaaig,” he says, and it sounds like he’s been trying to get Craig’s attention for a while. “Gah, finally!”
Craig blinks. Did he zone out just then? Could this be those pills kicking in? “What do you want,” he asks, and it comes out sounding pretty mean. Goddamn it, that’s the last thing he wants!
“Nonono, what do you want,” Tweek corrects him, like it didn’t even register with him how rude Craig was being. “I personally recommend the lemon muffin,” he goes on, switching over to that abominable British accent, "Or, like,” back to his own normal voice, “The brownies are pretty good, too. Token’s addicted –”
“Am not,” Token shoots in, and he’d have more of a leg to stand on if he also wasn’t holding a brownie in a paper bag that’s got a bite taken out of it already.
“Um, I didn’t actually do anything, though,” Craig protests weakly, as Tweek pulls him to his feet and drags him over to the counter. Holding his wrist this time, instead of his hand. Figures it was just a fluke, that one time they held hands. “And it’s not like I’m even hun–”
“Are you kidding?” Tweek spins around so abruptly that Craig almost barrels right into him. “You did the most important thing!”
Is it weird that Craig suddenly can’t think of a thing to say? His face literally feels like it’s glowing with heat. And Tweek’s eyes are enormous, and how come he’s never noticed before how Tweek can actually scrunch his nose up like a guinea pig? It’s the cutest thing. Maybe he can sneak a picture or two of Tweek after they leave, when the other boy’s not looking. Craig’s pretty damn certain that Tweek would photograph well – amazingly well.
“Have a brownie,” Mr Tweak says, yanking Craig right out of this thoughts – and not a moment too soon. “You can always save if for later.” Reaching between them with one long arm, Tweek’s dad dangles a paper bag in front of Craig’s nose. In spite of everything, it smells amazing. “And we’ll see you and your parents at six thirty – right, Craig?”
“Um, sure,” Craig mutters, taking the bag. Maybe he kind of secretly wanted a brownie. “Thanks.”

Kevin arrives just as Tweek’s gang is leaving, and he’s even nice enough to stand there and hold the door open so Jimmy can get out. His brother is in a fantastic mood, and he isn’t high, so that sets off Kenny’s inner alarm right on the get-go.
“You’re happy,” he mutters, just as Kevin sidles past him towards the counter. His brother didn’t bring any bags, just himself and an ugly-ass bomber jacket Kenny has never seen before. It’s a bright, silky-looking forest green, with white bits running down the sleeves and a white crane embroidered on either side of the central zipper. This thing is so suspiciously shiny and stain free that Kevin must have bought it brand new. The sheer selfishness of that fills Kenny’s mouth right up with sour bile, because every cent he ears here goes to their family in some way. Whether it’s paying for groceries or covering the bills, or even repairs for their shitty car.
“It’s a beautiful day out there,” Kevin replies, with a huge, insincere grin. “Baby brother,” he adds, as he grabs an apron from the shelf below the till, and starts to shake that jacket off. There’s a white crane embroidered on the back, too; bigger than the two front ones.
“Nice jacket, Kevin,” Mr Tweak says, crouching to pick up the bags that Tweek and his friends left behind the counter. “In the Tweak Bros colours and everything!” Then he laughs, because of course Mr Tweak was kidding, and Kevin joins in – but not like he actually thinks that was funny.
“I’ll get that,” Kenny mumbles, hurriedly making a grab for Tweek’s backpack. He spent enough time looking over at their table today to see that Tweek had crammed it so full of books, he’s lucky it hasn’t ripped it apart yet. It’s like lifting a bag of rocks.
“Thanks, Kenny.” Mr Tweak elbows the handle on the door down and shoulders it open. Kenny’s never figured out if Tweek’s dad trusts Kevin to be alone out there with the till – he wouldn’t! – or if he’s just planning to deduct it from his brother’s wages, if he does steal anything.
“Sure.” Kenny swings Tweek’s backpack over one shoulder – damn, that’s heavy – and follows Mr Tweak into the back room.
“Mind if I move your bag, Kenny,” he’s saying, but he’s already lifting Kenny’s gym bag to make more space underneath the coat rack.
Kenny opens his mouth to say no, just as the Beretta tears its way through the false bottom and clatters noisily to the floor.
There’s a long, horrible moment when there’s no sound at all, and Kenny is acutely aware of everything in his surroundings. The plop-plop those big drops of water make, when they come out of the closed-up tap. His brother’s too-cheery voice outside, saying, “Welcome to Tweak Bros!” His own breathing, ragged and frantic.
Kenny opens his mouth, licks his dry lips. “I…” His voice falters and disappears. This is where he gets fired, isn’t it. His stomach is churning, like he’s about to be sick.
Mr Tweak makes no move to pick up the gun. He’s got all three of those backpacks dangling from his left hand, and Kenny’s gym bag from his right. Judging by the look on his face, he doesn’t even want to touch the Beretta. “Kenny,” he says, and he just sounds really sad, “Why would you have something like this?” It’s like he can’t even make himself use the word “gun”.
“I’m not in a gang!” Kenny blurts that out way louder than he’d intended. He instantly regrets it, because now Mr Tweak is going to think he’s most definitely in a gang, and fire him on the spot.
“Well…” Mr Tweak finally puts Kenny’s gym bag down to one side, and drops the backpacks underneath the coat rack like he’d been planning to. “I’m glad to hear that, at least.”
“It’s just, it’s just for protection,” Kenny babbles, as the panic surges inside him. “I, I’ve never used it on anyone, okay?” This much, at least, is true. Oh, he’s clobbered a few guys up the side of their head with the Beretta, but Kenny’s never had to pull the trigger on anyone.
Mr Tweak draws a deep breath. “Okay,” he says, “I believe you. But Kenny, you can’t bring something like that in here.”
His eyes are starting to burn, because if he loses this job… “I’m sorry,” Kenny says, squeezing his eyes shut so he won’t start to cry like some stupid kid. “I’ll never do it again, I swear!”
Mr Tweak stays quiet long enough that Kenny starts to get really scared. “The thing is,” he says at last, “That my wife’s here with me every day. My son’s always in and out of the place. And this is where you chose to bring a gun.”
There’s a sinking feeling in Kenny’s stomach. He scrubs his arm across his eyes, before he risks opening them. Would it even make a difference, if he broke his code and told his boss why he carries that Beretta? That it’s because he’s Mysterion? He’s not sure, so he stays quiet. Not that he thinks his voice would work very well right now. And besides…
“Listen,” Mr Tweak is saying, “Your shift’s practically over. And I need to talk this over with Helen before we make any decisions, so why don’t you just go on home for now?”
Besides, the whole point of a secret identity is the secret bit. And the whole point of being a hero is that he should rise to these challenges and solve them, not cower and cry like a loser.
The Beretta is still lying there, gleaming on the floor. Glowing with deadly potential.
“Yes sir,” Kenny mutters, before he stoops to pick it up. Checks the safety out of habit, while he feels Mr Tweak’s eyes boring into him. He hurries over to his bag and shoves it in there, then slides his hand under the bottom to feel for the hole. It’s close to one corner, so if he carries it at an angle, the rest of his costume should be safe. Pausing only to slip his Tweak Bros apron off and drop it in the towel bin, Kenny swings his gym bag over one shoulder and pulls his parka down from the coatrack – he doesn’t even feel like he can put that on in here. He just needs to get out, away from that accusing stare. Get some fresh air, so he can think. He pulls the back door open.
“I’ll see you next week, all right,” Mr Tweak says, like he’s not considering taking his job away at all, just as the back door slips closed behind Kenny.
Kenny leans against that door, closing his eyes again, clutching his bag like a kid would clutch a stuffed toy. It’s all he has, being Mysterion. The only thing that gives his crappy life any meaning. So if there’s a choice between giving up his job, or giving up that, well… That’s no choice at all.
It’s so damn hard, being a hero sometimes.

Chapter Text

While they walk the short distance to the thrift store, Tweek ends up walking next to him, on his right side. His little hand bumping against Craig’s leg. Craig just wants to reach out and snatch that hand, wrap his own hand around it – but Jesus Christ, that would be a terrible idea. He bets Tweek’s hand would be warm, though.
“So that confirms your theory,” Token says, awkwardly craning his neck to look at Craig. He’s holding up Thomas’ note over his shoulder, twisting himself up like a pretzel in the process. Token’s been walking ahead of them with Jimmy, because only two people will fit on South Park’s narrow sidewalks.
“Theory,” Craig says, raising one eyebrow. He’s not exactly offended, but come on.
“Okay, poor choice of words,” Token concedes, “But anyway. This may not be proof that’ll hold up in court,” he gives a little wave with the napkin, “But it’s proof, none the less.”
“That’s why you need to hold onto it,” Tweek tells him, dead serious. “I don’t trust myself with important shit like that!”
“Fair enough,” Token says, pulling his wallet out of his back pocket and sliding the napkin inside the big pocket, next to all the bills. There are a lot of bills in there, and Craig just knows they’re not all one dollar bills. He has to force himself to look away, before Token thinks he’s looking to mug him or something.
“W-well, there it is,” Jimmy says, pulling Craig out of his thoughts. “The th-th-thrift store. In all it’s n-n-non glory.”
That was… definitely the right way to put it, yes. “I mean,” Craig says, raising one eyebrow at the store sign, “Sloppy Seconds? Doesn’t sound like they even want you to shop here.”
“It’s honestly not too bad,” Tweek assures him, pushing the door open and making the bell go CLANG. “They don’t sell anything that’s got major food stains or holes, and you can find some serious gems in this place!”
“In fact,” Token says, “Tweek’s found several of his beloved band shirts here, and that includes the Metallica one he lent to you.”
“Oh,” Craig replies. He still hasn’t returned the thing to Tweek. He kind of doesn’t want to, even though that would be stealing. Not that Tweek’s asked for it back or anything. “And what are we looking for again?”
“C-c-costumes,” Jimmy declares, with a big-ass wicked grin, “For when we p-present our, uh, presentation!”
“Presentation is everything,” Token agrees, making a beeline for the clothes section. The store seems to be organized in four of these sections, though there are no signs. Men’s, women’s, kids’ and general bric-a-brac. Dress shirts are hanging shoulder to shoulder with Halloween costumes; there’s an honest-to-god Fred Flintstone sack, and a Scooby Doo suit! Craig has to stop himself from pulling it out and checking the price tag. He’s got more important shit to worry about than Halloween, and all his cash needs to be saved – for stuff like a bus ticket the hell out of South Park.
“And props,” Clyde joins in, holding up a very busted-looking cuckoo clock.
“Well, okay,” Craig says, “But why?”
“Because,” Token starts rifling through one of the racks of men’s clothes, “We need an edge over Testaburger.”
Craig looks over at Tweek for help – not that he really cares who this Testaburger person is.
“Wendy Testaburger,” Tweek reminds him. “You know, from our class? She sat next to Bebe in Geography?”
“She’s super pretty,” Clyde chimes in, like he doesn’t even remember he’s got a date with Bebe today.
“Token d-d-dated Wendy once,” Jimmy adds, wagging his eyebrows at Token, “For all of five m-minutes.”
“That’s got nothing to do with this,” Token says, enunciating each word so carefully that it probably has everything to do with it, “And it was for a week, if you must know. But anyway, last semester? Wendy and a bunch of other girls did this presentation about the French Revolution. For history,” he adds, like that shouldn’t be blindingly obvious.
“It was really cool, actually!” Clyde has discarded the cuckoo clock, and now he’s holding up some kind of flute – long and black, but with a white mouthpiece and end piece, and long cracks running up the body. “Wendy had this group that was all girls, except for Butters – you know, they guy who drew on your cast?”
The corner of Craig’s mouth quirks upwards. “The paladin, yeah.”
“Yeah, so all four of the girls were knitting, and they’d even taught Butters how to knit –”
“Wait,” Craig cuts him off, frowning, “They were all knitting while they talked?”
“Nah,” Jimmy says, taking over the story, “They’d t-take t-t-turns t-t-t… Presenting,” he says, with a frown like he’s pissed at himself for not getting the right word out. “While everyone else in their g-group would knit. Just s-standing in a row, s-s-staring at the rest of us, and knitting.”
“Even Butters took his turn knitting,” Clyde holds the busted flute out to Craig, who automatically takes it. “Though Nicole had to unravel everything he did when they were done!”
“And they didn’t even comment on it until right at the end,” Tweek goes on, eyes wide with admiration, “When Wendy was like, ‘This is what you saw right before they chopped your head off, by the way. Just lots of women knitting and watching you, like they were watching TV.’ Jesus.” He gives a little shudder at the memory. Craig has to admit that does sound pretty creepy.
“So their entire group got A’s,” Token says, pulling a shirt off the men’s rack and holding it up for inspection. It’s white and has a round collar, like something Craig supposes an Amish dude might wear. “And there’s no telling what she’ll pull off for geography, so…”
“N-nobody wants to be upstaged by their ex,” Jimmy drawls, giving Craig a cautious nudge in the ribs.
Craig has to force himself to grin back at Jimmy, though the word “ex” immediately made him think of Thomas again. And what Thomas might have gone and told Tweek. Not that this is the time and place to ask. “What am I supposed to do with this,” he asks Clyde instead, holding up the flute.
“Oh, I was thinking we could spray paint that,” Clyde immediately replies. “You know, with gold spray? There was that picture of the green tapestry, with all the little dudes holding severed heads and stuff…”
“The Nazca tapestry,” Tweek says, nodding like this makes perfect sense to him, “From my book! They all had one shrunken head and one…” he throws his hands up, “Thingamabob, right? And the flute could be your thingamabob!”
Craig watches Token and Jimmy exchange an unreadable glance. “You’re really prepared to go the whole loincloth look,” Token says, after a few seconds. “In front of everyone in class?”
“Hey, I’ve been working out,” Clyde mutters, a little defensively, as he drops his gaze to the floor. “Back in the third grade,” he looks up at Craig, clearly dying inside of embarrassment, “Stan said I was the second fattest kid in class. I mean, I guess I was kind of chubbo, but…” his voice trails off, and he looks down again.
The hell with this, Craig thinks. “I know the tapestry you mean,” he says out loud. “If you spray paint this thing gold, and then paint black lines around it,” he twirls his finger around the base of the flute, “I think it’d look pretty close. Just don’t expect me to wear a huge nose ring, or any of that crap.”
Clyde is looking at him like Craig just said something amazing, instead of something that’s entirely practical and true.
“Well, if we’re going by that tapestry,” Token shoves the collarless shirt back on the rack, and pulls out a tired-looking Sherpa-lined leather jacket, “We’re better off with something like this. To make the loincloth from,” he adds, when Clyde looks utterly confused. “They were all fuzzy, remember? Like they were made out of goatskin or something gross like that.”
Clyde blinks. “Oh. Right.”
“And we can make your poncho from a tablecloth,” Tweek exclaims, giving Clyde a shove towards the cash desk. “Dude! Go ask them if they’ve got any tablecloths in the back, okay?”
As soon as Clyde’s gone off to do just that, with puppy-like obedience, Tweek gives Craig a very serious look. “Thanks for that,” he says. “You’ve got no idea, all the bullcrap Stan’s said over the years…” He shrugs, and looks over at Clyde, who’s now talking to the bored-looking shop girl, waving his arms like he’s trying to explain what a tablecloth is.
“Sounds like I should’ve broken both his legs,” Craig says, even though he had no hope in hell of doing any such thing, “And not just his nose.”
Tweek looks up at him like he honestly believes Craig could’ve kicked the shit out of Stan Marsh. Which is pretty neat, not that Craig allows what he’s thinking to show up on his face. Tweek’s eyes, though. They’re kind of huge, and the color reminds him of the sky, right on the cusp of summer tipping into autumn. That desperate, pure shade of blue.
“The nose was more than enough,” Token says, cutting in on their whispered conversation and forcing Craig to break eye contact.
“Above and b-beyond,” Jimmy agrees, before he throws a ladies’ black feather boa over his shoulder. “You think we can m-make his h-h-head-dress from this thing?”
“Ooh, that’s perfect,” Tweek exclaims, pulling the boa off Jimmy and holding it high above his own head. Several of the feathers immediately fall out, and Token squats down on his haunches to pick them up.
That’s when the door goes CLANG again, and a small horde of girls pours into the shop. There’s the blonde chick, Bebe, and Nicole, Token’s girlfriend. Esther’s there too, arm in arm with a red-haired girl Craig vaguely recognizes – probably another half-forgotten classmate. Like they’re still in the middle of a conversation, the red-haired girl leans over to kiss Esther on the cheek. “Proud of you, babe,” she says, and Esther smiles – she actually smiles! And even if she doesn’t quite look happy, she looks a hell of a lot less miserable. It’s none of Craig’s business, but he’s still kind of glad.
“We need to find this girl some clothes that aren’t black,” Bebe says, beaming at all the guys, before she goes over and winds her arm through Esther’s other arm. Then she tips her head into the groove of the other girl’s shoulder – Bebe’s shorter by like half a head – and Esther briefly leans her head against those blonde curls. Did she wind up telling the other girl how she feels about her last night? And was Bebe totally cool with it? It’s not like Craig even wants to know the answer to that; he just can’t help but wonder.
CLANG!
All eight of them turn around, and in walks a lady, with what looks like a boy their age. Craig’s not a hundred percent sure they are a boy – wide hips, curvy butt, a white T-shirt worn deliberately loose, so you can’t see if that’s breasts or just folds in the fabric. They’re wearing glasses, big roundish ones that somehow don’t look dorky at all, and a letterman jacket like the one Clyde lives in – just green instead of red. But then, the weirdest thing happens – from over by the cash desk, Clyde points at this new person and yells, “HAH!”
Even for Clyde, this seems kind of random – not to mention rude. Token seems to think so to, because he’s already spreading his hands and starting to apologize – “You’ll have to forgive my friend, ladies,” he begins, obviously deciding the second person is a girl. But Clyde just barrels right past him shouting, “That’s my ex!” Then he scoops the girl – and Craig can see for sure that she’s a girl now – up in a hug and sort of swings her in a half circle, even though she’s kind of big.
“Lisa,” Nicole is saying, like she just put two and two together and got a number that resembles four. “Lisa Berger?”
“Gah, this asshole,” the girl – Lisa? – says fondly, as Clyde puts her back down. She even throws an arm around his shoulders and sort of sideways-hugs him back. They actually look kind of similar, standing like this – like siblings, almost. “Yeah, so – I’m back! Just like, minus all that godawful hair!”
“I’ll be over by the china, Lisa,” her mom says, shuffling over to the knick-knacks section. “Just don’t be too long, all right?”
“Sure thing, Mom,” Lisa says, before Bebe, Nicole and the red-haired girl all descend on her at once, pushing Clyde aside and demanding hugs. Esther hangs back over by the bookshelves though, arms wrapped around herself. “My parents are getting divorced,” Lisa’s saying, and she’s probably trying to be quiet. But her voice has this booming quality to it that she can’t seem to suppress. “So that’s why my mom decided we’d move back here!”
Tweek and the other guys are also clustering around this Lisa girl, firing questions at her about where she’s staying and have they got a house yet. Craig doesn’t even realize that he’s walked over to Esther until he’s standing next to her and pretending to browse, with a reasonable gap of personal space left between them. Makes sense that even his subconscious mind doesn’t want him getting too close to this girl, after the way she yelled at him last night. Not that Craig thinks Esther would put her foot in his balls – not anywhere this public, but still…
“I came out to the girls last night,” Esther tells him, looking off over one shoulder like she isn’t talking to Craig at all, “If you must know. But Bebe doesn’t know shit about the other stuff,” and now she finally turns the full force of her glare at Craig, “And that’s how I’d like to keep it. Okay?”
“Okay,” Craig says, and then he surprises himself by smiling. “And, you know – good for you.”
Esther opens her mouth like she’s about to answer, and Craig can already see the corners of it starting to turn up, but then Lisa’s suddenly there, saying, “Esther, is it true? You quit cheerleading too?”
“Well, it seemed kind of pointless,” Esther replies, a little sharply, “In the grand scheme of things.”
“But you were awesome at it,” Lisa’s saying, and she sounds almost horrified. Like she’s just met Picasso, and he told her he’d quit painting. “And you looked so damn fine in that uniform. Not like me!”
Craig can feel his eyes start to widen, his mouth start to slip open. Shit, this is what he thinks it is, he realizes, because there’s something about the way Lisa looks at Esther that… Well, it’s kind of like looking at himself, and the way he’s always shuffling around Tweek like an absolute moron.
“Oh, come on,” Esther counters, dropping her rigid posture and spreading her hands. “You looked totally cute.”
Craig has the definite feeling that he shouldn’t be here, occupying the spot between the two girls, but where the hell is he supposed to go without making it too obvious? So he intensifies his pretend browsing, and yanks a couple of books out at random – a seriously revolting hardback copy of Catcher in the Rye that’s got half the pages stuck together, and a trade paperback with a yellow spine called A Portrait of Jane Austen. Since it’s actually possible to flick the pages of the second book, that’s what Craig does – very wholeheartedly.
“If a hippo in a tutu counts as cute, sure,” Lisa now drawls, and when Craig stupidly looks up from the book, he sees her locking eyes with the other girl. “We should do a deal – will you join the cheerleaders again, if I can get on the football team?”
“You wanna join the football team,” Clyde yells, instantly ecstatic. “That’s so awesome!”
“If Tweek can join the cheerleaders,” Token says, in his measured voice, “I don’t see why Lisa can’t join the football team!”
“E-e-equal opportunity,” Jimmy agrees, leaning one crutch against the nearest clothes rack so he can slap Lisa on the back, as if she were another dude. “I’ll m-make a big stink about it in the school p-paper if the coach says no!”
“Me and my ex,” Clyde’s saying, now with his arm around Lisa’s shoulder again, “Fighting side by side!”
Jesus Christ, Craig thinks, flipping the cover open. Huh, this thing only costs a dollar, and maybe it’ll actually come in handy in Mrs Garrison’s class?
“I’ll totally step on Stan’s nads for you,” Lisa promises, “And make it look like an accident! You guys are still in a feud, right?”
“Oh my God, they so are,” Bebe says, stepping closer to Clyde – like she’d very much like him to put his other arm around her. But she doesn’t sound jealous at all – it’s like she’s subconsciously treating Lisa like just another boy. “And Clyde’s been putting up with way too much of Stan’s crap!”
“Stan’s nads on my shoe, then,” Lisa promises, nodding like it’s already been taken care of. Not that Clyde’s even the one she’s trying to impress. “So Esther – what do you say? Wanna come cheer for me?”
And it’s like Craig can see it, the moment Esther realizes how hard Lisa is trying to impress her. The moment she starts to fall for the other girl.
“I,” Esther says, before a rosy blush seems to light her up from the inside, “I guess.”
“I’m gonna go buy this,” Craig says pushing past the girls and bumping Clyde’s arm with his own busted arm – oww! – in his haste to get out of this… loved-up danger zone. It’s stupid to feel as annoyed as he does, like it’s any skin off his back if the two girls hook up, it’s just that…
It’s just that Craig wishes he had the guts to do what Lisa just did.

Kenny’s feet take him to SODOSOPA, while his mind is still busy going over his monumental screw-up at work. He doesn’t really see the busted cars and run-down buildings at all, oh no. What Kenny keeps seeing is that look on Mr Tweak’s face – disappointment. His own parents have never looked at him like that. Is that why can’t he push it aside, file it away, like he does with all his other Kenny-thoughts when he’s going into Mysterion mode? It’s not all to do with how he can’t wear the costume yet, though that definitely doesn’t help.
He realizes that, underneath his sweatshirt, the pager is slapping against his chest. His hand closes around it, and Kenny pulls the pager out so he can stare at it. Nobody ever gave him anything this fancy before. He should probably return it when Mr Tweak fires him.
But for now…
Kenny’s fist closes around the pager. He hasn’t been fired yet. So for now, the pager can be a good-luck charm. A reminder that not everything in Kenny’s life is stupid and awful.
He never did end up putting his parka back on – it’s too warm out now – just balled it up and stuffed it into his bag. It was pretty much freezing when he got out this morning, so he’d needed it then. Not to mention Kenny likes the protection of the hood. His grey sweatshirt’s got a hood too, and big a coffee stain shaped sort of like Mexico that he’s never been able to get out – that’s why it only set him back five bucks at Sloppy Seconds. He leaves the hood down for now, though. For some reason, he just wants to feel the wind on his face while he walks.
“Kenny?” At the sound if his name, Kenny’s head jerks up. “Is that you?” That voice belongs to Bradley Biggle, who’s sitting in an honest-to-God deck chair with his left leg stretched across his right knee, and a very big sketchpad balanced against it. Bradley’s wearing sunglasses and a baseball cap, like he’s chilling out on the beach or something. There’s even a cooler bag sitting on the ground next to him, with the Walmart logo printed on it. It’s so surreal to see Bradley here, in this disgusting neighbourhood, with his clean, tidy clothes and art supplies that it takes Kenny longer than usual to find his voice.
“Almost didn’t recognize you without the parka,” Butters says, in his usual cheery tone, and Kenny automatically looks up to where the voice came from… and freezes right up. Because there’s his classmate all right, climbing halfway up the chain-link fence in front of the U-Stor-It, the tips of his sea-green Converse jammed through the openings. He’s mostly hanging on by fingertips and willpower though. He’s also got a floral summer dress on, over his T-shirt and jeans, which is obviously too big in the bosom area. Butters seems to have tried to fix that by stuffing what looks like rolled-up socks down his front, but that really doesn’t help at all. And he’s wearing the worst wig in the entire world; a wavy blonde one that’s gone all frizzy. So Butters kind of looks like he’s been electrocuted.
“Uh,” Kenny says, because words have just completely failed him.
“Scott’s posing as the villain,” Bradley adds, as his eyebrows disappear up under his blonde fringe, “When he isn’t busy taking a leak, I mean. He’s gonna ink my pencils for this issue, and Butters is doing the cover,” he goes on, like he just assumes Kenny has to be interested in the World’s Most Embarrassing Comic.
“We’re plottin’ this scene in real-time,” Butters says, like he isn’t bothered by Kenny seeing him in this getup at all. “Isn’t that excitin’?”
“More like plotting the entire issue,” Bradley drawls, holding up his pad and flipping a few pages, so Kenny can see storyboards mixed in with the sketches. Those are some very detailed storyboards – how long have these guys been here? “Since we basically live here now.”
“Oh,” Kenny replies, feeling more than a little guilty. After all, it was Mysterion who told Kevin Stoley to stake this place out for four hours.
“Here,” Bradley flips the sketchbook back a few pages, “What do you think?”
The nerds clearly started with the most fun part, i.e. the big fight scene. It must be Kevin standing in for Mysterion again, with that old bedsheet his mom let him have to use as a cape. Bradley’s good; you can follow his storyboards like you’d read a finished comic. There’s the villain shoving Mysterion against a chain link fence – the one Butters is climbing, probably – followed by Mysterion’s palm under the villain’s chin, before it pans out to a tall panel of Mysterion literally kicking the other guy over onto the next page. The guys are getting good at this, Kenny’s got to give them that – he just wishes to God they’d find something else to make comics about. Anything else!
“Kevin thinks Mysterion’s gonna show up,” Scott Malkinson suddenly says, walking up to the fence while he zips his jeans back up. It’s funny, sometimes Kenny still expects him to have a lisp, but Scott’s parents shelled out for speech therapy in what – the fifth grade? So now he’s almost buff and he talks like a normal person. Probably the only thing that stops him from getting a girlfriend is the rest of the nerd squad, or all the time he devotes to that damn comic they’re making. “Sorry, I had to go – but nobody’s gonna mind around here anyway, right?” Scott’s wearing regular street clothes with the exception of a dusty brown Trilby hat and an honest-to-God black burglar mask. Here in SODOSOPA, which is to South Park what Crime Alley is to Gotham City. It’s kind of amazing that he and his friends have been left alone.
Anyway, Scott is most definitely right – Kenny’s seen people do way worse than pee on the streets around here.
“Kevin went ‘round behind that other buildin’ do to his business,” Butters throws in helpfully, and lets go of the fence with one hand so he can point. Kenny feels himself twitch – that’s the building he saw Craig’s fake dad come out of. If he knows Kevin Stoley, the other boy must be doing more than just taking a leak over there. “Been gone absolutely ages,” he adds, strengthening Kenny’s suspicion that Stoley’s gone a-snooping.
“That’s why we figured we’d have a go at storyboarding this scene properly,” Bradley adds, closing the sketchbook as he jumps to his feet. “But…” his handsome features crinkle up in a frown, “I don’t like this.”
“I don’t think that place is safe,” Kenny hears himself say. In his head, two words echo back and forth, ricocheting like bullets: the gun, the gun. He knows exactly where it is in his bag, can feel the weight of it, the sharp curves prodding him in the ribs through the flimsy bottom. But if he pulls it out now and runs over there… Then what? As Kenny, he’s made it his lifetime achievement to fly under the radar; there’s no way the rumour won’t spread like wildfire that Kenny McCormick carries a gun around.
No. No, he needs to think, to think like Mysterion… Like Mysterion going undercover as that pathetic asshole Kenny McCormick! Yeah, that’s it! He almost snaps his fingers as the idea comes to him, but that’s not normal Kenny behaviour.
“I think my brother goes in there sometimes,” he mutters, loud enough for the other boys to hear, while staring firmly at the ground. “To smoke out, I guess. So I mean,” he shifts the bag over on his left shoulder, casually jiggling it so the gun can slide closer to the hole, “They might not kick the shit out of me.” Especially not when he’s set himself up to just jab his right hand through the hole and yank his weapon out. Element of surprize and all that jazz.
That’s the upside of looking like a pathetic asshole, Mysterion says inside Kenny’s head. People tend to underestimate you.
“Bullcrap,” Scott says, taking the Trilby hat off and dropping his mask into it. “I’m going with you. You guys look after the art supplies and costumes,” he goes on, turning to Bradley and Butters, “And maybe even get out of costume, in case we need to run for it?”
“Good thinking,” Bradley agrees, with a curt little nod. Kenny doesn’t know him all that well, but he suddenly gets the feeling that just being here is making the other boy intensely uncomfortable. “Butters, let’s pack up.”
“Oh thank heaven,” Butters exclaims as he jumps off the fence and pulls the dress right over his head, wadding it up into a ball. The guilt is making Kenny’s stomach twist up something fierce now, because these guys are all so damn nice, nice to a fault, and now Kevin Stoley’s gone missing, and it’s all because of…
Shut up, Mysterion’s voice tells him, and Kenny’s got to admit that’s pretty good advice.
At least Scott Malkinson’s the least wimpy looking one in the whole geek squad. Kenny once heard Scott say that he needs to stay in shape because of his diabetes; not that he knows if Scott meant that as in for health reasons or for, like, self-esteem. He sometimes subs in as a reserve in football games; there’s some genuine muscle underneath that Stark Industries sweatshirt. Someone like Butters, on the other hand? That kid is literally a toothpick. Kenny’s seen all of these guys in the showers after Phys Ed, so he knows that much.
He draws a deep breath. “C’mon,” he mutters, and straightens his shoulders a little. He doesn’t want to step too far out of character, but he can’t fight very well if he’s stuck in his usual Kenny-slouch either.
Still with the reassuring weight of his gym bag – not to mention the gun – pulling down on his left shoulder, Kenny crosses the empty road. Scott Malkinson walks right next to him, and the two of them are sitting ducks out here – if anybody starts firing from the upper storey windows, he’ll have to take care of Scott first. Knock the other boy down to make him less of a target, before he even thinks of drawing the Beretta.
One foot in front of the other, step by step. Neither of them talking at all, until they’re almost right in front of that big metal door. In addition to the ancient, rusty keyhole, there’s an electric lock, Kenny realizes, with a keypad. Looks brand new. How did he not notice that last night? It suddenly starts to buzz, like a million angry bees. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Scott jump like, half a foot. But as the thick door swings open, Kenny is still, unmoving… Mysterion.
“Oh, hey guys,” Kevin Stoley says, casually strolling out of there like it’s no big deal at all, “Did you guys wanna use the bathroom, too?” The hallway behind him is dark, but Kenny can just about make out a tall, looming presence behind Kevin.
Kenny looks over at Scott, whose mouth is hanging open. The two of them shake their heads, practically in sync. What the hell is going on here?
“Thanks again, sir!” Kevin turns his head, beaming at whoever the hell that is behind him. “I really appreciate it.”
“That’s okay, kid,” and now the shadow turns out to be a pudgy-looking, but still imposing Italian guy. “Can’t have youse shittin’ on the streets, eh?” The guy gives Kevin a gentle pretend-punch to one shoulder, and Kenny, who was half expecting it to be Craig’s so-called dad, almost feels disappointed.
“Indeed not, sir,” Kevin replies awkwardly, grinning and rubbing his arm. “Thanks again!”
As the door is pulled shut behind him with a slam, Kevin Stoley shudders – just once, but it sort of travels through his whole lanky body. And when Scott Malkinson throws an arm around his shoulder, saying “Dude,” in the most accusing and worried tone, it’s like all the air goes out of the Stoley balloon.
“Let’s go the hell home,” Kevin says, and he sounds exhausted but his eyes are shining madly with adrenaline. “I can’t wait to tell Mysterion what I saw in there! Oh, hey Kenny,” he adds, only realizing that Kenny’s even there as the three of them start walking back towards Butters and Bradley. “What’re you doing here?”
“I live here, remember,” Kenny mutters, careful not to look too hard at Kevin. What did he see in there, what did he see?! “I mean, not in this shithole, but like, five hovels down, you know?”
“Hah, five hovels down,” Bradley says, with a nervous little laugh, slapping Kenny’s across the shoulders, “You’re funny, dude.” He and Butters must’ve worked fast; they’re both wearing a backpack each, and Butters even has the cooler bag slung across his chest. Even the deck chairs have been collapsed, and Scott tucks those under one arm, while Kevin gets that cooler bag from Butters.
“C’mon,” Bradley’s saying, tugging on Kenny’s arm, “Let’s go get the bus from over by Tweak Bros. I’ll buy you a doughnut,” he adds, “For going after Kevin like that.”
“An’ a hot chocolate on me,” Butters shoots in, grinning up at him like he’s some kind of hero.
In that instant, he’s lost it – lost his grip on Mysterion. Kenny’s eyes are even filling up, like he’s some kind of stupid wimp, and it’s not because the other boys are offering to buy him stuff. It’s just that, like Tweek’s gang, the nerd squad is one of those groups Kenny’s always been a little bit jealous of. And now, they’re treating him like a friend. Like he’s always been their friend.
“Thanks,” Kenny mutters, shrugging Bradley’s hand off, “Really. But I live in the other direction.” And then he runs off home, because the nerd squad are safe now. Because he can’t trust himself and let his guard down, not around them, and definitely not at Tweak Bros. Not after how badly he screwed up in front of Mr Tweak. Kenny can’t deal with all that stuff, and honestly – neither can Mysterion.
Like he could ever be Mysterion in the daytime, anyway.

“I’m sorry that things ended the way they did,” Tweek says out loud, as the words suddenly come to him. That was what Thomas had told him to tell Craig, not… whatever Tweek had actually said to him, on the way to the thrift store. Gah, he’s always getting stuff like that wrong!
“Sorry about what, kiddo,” Mom asks him distractedly, while she’s laying out the knives and forks on the dining table. Just the fact that they’re eating in the little dining room, rather than in the kitchen, tells Tweek what a big deal she’s making this dinner into. She’s got out the good cutlery too, the silver set she and Dad got for their wedding. Like he needs to feel even more nervous about Craig coming here!
“Uh, nothing?” Tweek puts down the last plate and makes a weak attempt at a smile.
Mom reaches across the table to cup his face in her hand – like she doesn’t buy that for a second. “Listen, kiddo,” she tells him, very seriously, “You’ve got nothing to be nervous about, okay? Just be your normal self, and try to have a nice time.”
Tweek gives a huge twitch, before a crazy laugh bursts out of his mouth. “Normal,” he wheezes, "Really, Mom? Act normal? Like, how would I even do that, when…” he spreads his hands as words fail him. When Craig is going to sit right here, is what he wants to say. How’s Tweek supposed to do like, casual dinner conversation with Craig, when just looking at Craig makes all the hairs on his body stand up straight and vibrate?
“Normal is as normal does, son,” Dad says, shuffling into the dining room in just boxer shorts and a T-shirt. “Whatever that means.” He’s got mismatched oven mittens on – one floral, one plain blue – and is carrying the big casserole in, since Mom always says it’s too heavy. Dad’s also wearing his T-shirt backwards, and inside out. How can he not notice, when the label is practically tickling his chin?
Something is definitely up with Dad, Tweek decides. He’s barely said a word since he got home from Tweak Bros. Hell, he didn’t even sing in the shower!
“Listen, you two,” Dad puts the casserole down on the table, balanced across two cork trivets, “I think we need to have a family meeting.”
“What?” Mom just blinks for a second or two. “You mean, right now? I still need to –”
“Yeah,” Dad pulls out the chair Tweek usually sits on, when they eat in here, still wearing those oven mittens, and sits. “Right now. Sorry, honey. And maybe you can do a reading,” he adds, looking up at Tweek, “Because I think we’ve got a big decision to make, as a family.”
It’s Tweek’s turn to stand there and blink. “Uh, sure,” he says, running up to his bedroom for the Tarot cards. He left them at home today, figuring he needed all the space in his bag for the books he was bringing. Maybe the cards could’ve even got damaged, if he’d piled enough stuff on top of them. Besides, Token wouldn’t think doing a spread on what to include in their Peru presentation counts as project planning.
By the time he’s got back down, Mom’s pulled Dad into the living room – very clearly so Tweek can just do his reading on the coffee table, which she’s cleared all the books and newspapers off, instead of having to move stuff around on the dining table. Dad’s still hasn’t told her what’s up, though, that much is also obvious. He’s sitting on the couch, not even sitting properly but perched on the edge, elbows resting on his bare knees, chin resting on his folded hands. Dad’s one of those human beings that always seems to be in perpetual motion – if he’s not walking around, he’s at the very least talking your head off – so Tweek is starting to get a little concerned. He exchanges a look with Mom, who’s holding Tweek’s favorite mug – nice and tall, with a green tartan pattern on it – in one hand. She’s sipping from her own mug with the other, a mint-green polka-dot one that Dad once got for her birthday.
“Thanks,” Tweek mutters, taking his mug from Mom, who gives him a worried little smile. If Dad actually turned down the offer of a coffee, which this sure looks like, whatever’s happened has got to be serious. Could it be that creepy Starbucks rep came around again, talking about eating up Tweak Bros like a goldfish cracker? No, Tweek decides, Dad wouldn’t be like this if that had happened; he’d be all worked up and spitting mad instead.
“Here,” he says, holding the deck out to Dad, “You shuffle them, okay?” The idea is that the person asking the question should handle the cards before a reading, since that transfers their energy to the deck or whatever. Tweek’s not completely sure he believes in that stuff, but he always does it anyway – and now, it’ll give his dad something to do.
“Mm,” Dad says, taking the deck. “There’s no nice way to say this,” he begins, as he carefully divides the deck into three roughly equal-sized piles on the table, “So… I caught Kenny with a gun today.”
“What,” Tweek hears himself say, while Mom gasps and plops right down on the recliner. “Our Kenny?”
“Our Kenny,” Dad confirms, with a little nod of his head. “Right after Tweek and the gang had left. Said he was carrying it for protection, whatever the hell that was supposed to mean…”
“Richie, language,” Mom says, completely by rote, while she’s staring off into the distance.
“Tweek knows what swearing is, honey,” Dad drawls, raising an eyebrow, and at least he sounds a little bit more like himself now. “Anyway, the question is…” he hands the deck back to Tweek, “What’re we supposed to do about it?”
“I would’ve thought Kevin,” Mom says, and she seems completely dazed, “If anybody, you know? But not Kenny!” She closes her eyes and groans. “Gah, this is all my fault!”
“Mom, it’s okay,” Tweek mutters, bending over and hugging Mom from behind. He still can’t believe it – Kenny?
“He wasn’t waving the thing around,” Dad goes on, closing his eyes and rubbing his fingers over them, like he’s suddenly too tired for words. “Or anything like that. It just… fell out of his bag when I moved it.”
“It could have shot you in the leg,” Mom yelps, sitting bolt upright so fast that she almost head-butts Tweek in the chin.
“The safety was on,” Dad assures her, reaching across the coffee table to close his hands around hers. “And Kenny told me he’d never bring a gun to work again, but…” He lets that sentence hang there, unfinished and awful.
Tweek gives Mom’s shoulders one last squeeze, before he sits down on the rug, right by her feet. Almost immediately, her hand lands on his head. Not mussing his hair, but stroking it, the way you’d pet a dog. Almost like she needs to assure herself that he’s still safe.
All right, so a gun is serious business, and Tweek knows that. But he also feels like Kenny would need to have a really good reason to carry it. Not to mention the elephant in the room – if his parents sack Kenny, what are the McCormick family going to eat? Expired noodles from the trash cans behind Shitty Wok?
“Okay,” Tweek says, as he lays the first card down, face up. It’s the chariot, upside down, and Tweek frowns, trying to remember the meaning. “Okay, so when it’s upside-down like this, it means you’re in the middle of like, a petty dispute. Or an argument that’s not going anywhere.” He’s not trying to shape this reading at all, or steer their talk in the direction of hey, let’s give Kenny the benefit of the doubt. In fact, he’s supposed to interpret the cards with Kenny and his gun in mind; that’s what they’re doing the reading about, after all. So it’s not like Tweek’s even cheating, by… angling his interpretation like this. “And if you’re in a fight with someone, or like a court-case, then you’re not going to win.” That’s just what the card means.
Dad lets out a quiet huff of a laugh. “If you’d only put the same effort into memorizing multiplication tables,” he says, grinning to show Tweek he’s kidding.
Kidding or not, Tweek still doesn’t dignify that with an answer. He just puts down the second card, right across the first like a plus sign. It’s the Star, right side up, and shows a naked lady holding a clay jug in each hand. She’s pouring water out of them, and meanwhile there’s a big, jaggedy star hovering right above her head. Hence the name of the card – but Tweek has to agree with Clyde that the naked lady sort of steals the show. “The Star is like…” Tweek chews his bottom lip for a second, thinking of how to phrase this, “The hope and forgiveness card, you know? Let bygones be bygones,” he shrugs, “And that sort of thing.” Like he isn’t desperate for his parents to agree with him and let Kenny keep his job. At all.
He puts down the third card above the cross of the first two, and it’s the nine of wands. Followed by the nine of swords below it. “Nine of Wands… You’re worried there’s going to be more conflict in the future,” he recites from memory, “But you actually hold the advantage.”
“Because we can fire Kenny,” Mom suggests, “If he does something else?”
“Well, I guess. And the nine of swords is like,” Tweek glances over at Dad, “Like your worst nightmares.”
“A live weapon at Tweak Bros fits that description.” Dad sounds a little more like himself now – he even reaches over to grab Mom’s mug and steal a sip of her coffee.
“Two nines, huh,” Tweek mutters, as he puts down the fifth card, the one that represents the past. “I wonder if that means anyth…” It’s the Nine of cups, upside-down. A nervous laugh slips out through his teeth. “Okay, that’s weird. Anyway, when this one’s upside down…” Tweek looks over at the black TV-screen for a second, gathering his thoughts. “It means someone’s been careless and made a mistake.”
“That could be me,” Mom takes her mug back, and actually has to tug to make Dad let go of it. “Seriously Richie, this whole house is full of coffee! And I offered to make you one!”
“Sorry honey,” Dad says, with that sly grin Mom can never seem to resist. And sure enough, once she’s had a sip, Mom hands the mug right back to him! Tweek resists the urge to roll his eyes.
“What I mean is,” Mom says, “That I was the one insisting we should hire Kenny and Kevin. And Stuart,” she adds, when Dad raises an eyebrow.
“Great idea that turned out to be,” he mutters, in the general direction of the ceiling. “But Kenny having that gun is nowhere near your fault, Helen!”
“Yeah,” Tweek agrees, pulling the next card from the deck without looking at it, “That’s on Kenny.”
“Wouldn’t it be funny,” Mom says, as Dad passes her mug back again. “If the next one’s a nine?”
“I shuffled it properly,” Dad huffs, all indignant.
“That shouldn’t even be possible,” Tweek says, before he puts down the Nine of Pentacles.
For a few seconds, the three of them just sit there and stare at the cards spread out in front of them.
Tweek blinks. “That’s… literally never happened before.”
“Should I go buy a lottery ticket,” Dad jokes weakly.
“No time for that,” Mom counters, “The Tuckers’ll be here in the next half-hour.”
“Okay, so…” Tweek shuts his eyes for a second, trying to remember. “So nines are like, the last hurdle before you finish something big… I think? Like a change is about to happen. And the more nines, the bigger the change will be?”
“If it’s a big change, and it’s related to,” Dad clears his throat, “To what happened today, then…” Whatever else he was going to tell Mom is lost forever to the sands of time. Because that’s when the doorbell rings. And not with a polite little ding-dong, oh no. Like somebody’s leaning on it with all their weight.
Exactly like how Craig’s fake dad rang the doorbell at Jimmy’s house. As a matter of fact.
“Oh Jesus!”

Chapter Text

“Pants,” Mom says, pointing right at Dad’s crotch. He’s wearing boxer shorts with coffee cups printed on them, after all. Not exactly a dinner party-worthy outfit.
“Pants,” Dad agrees, bounding to his feet.
“Your T-shirt’s on backwards, Dad,” Tweek yells after him, as his father takes the stairs up to the second floor two at a time, “And inside out!”
“Cards,” Mom tells him, now pointing at the half-finished Tarot spread on the coffee table. “Let’s not make the Tuckers think we worship Satan, or anything silly like that.”
“Cards,” Tweek echoes, scooping the six cards up and stacking them at the bottom of the deck. That way, he can put out the last four cards from the top later, and finish his reading whenever. He knows it’ll just bug him to death if he doesn’t.
Tweek practically flies upstairs to hide his Tarot deck in his desk drawer, while Mom makes for the front door, unknotting her apron while she runs, yelling, “Coming!”
Reminding Dad to sort his T-shirt out has made him think that his own T-shirt isn’t cutting the mustard; Tweek’s still wearing his Revolver shirt because it didn’t get that sweaty, just doing research and bumming around the thrift store and stuff. So he’s just put it back on after he’d taken his shower. But maybe it’s the sudden panic of knowing Craig is inside his house now that soaks it through in seconds. Not to mention that he doesn’t even know if Craig likes the Beatles.
Pulling his suddenly gross shirt over his head and lobbing it into the laundry basket, Tweek runs over to his T-shirt drawer and pulls it open. What kind of music is Craig even into? He kind of seems like a Tom Waits guy, Tweek thinks, the way he’s all serious and gruff. Tweek’s already pulling his bootleg Tom Waits shirt out of the drawer when he suddenly changes his mind. Not only because that shirt really is an obnoxious shade of yellow, but because Tom Waits is one of those “love him or hate him” singers. Plus the shirt has the Rain Dogs cover printed on it, which is basically a close-up of two dudes embracing while they either shout or sing. That might look a bit… well. It’s not like Tweek would lie about it, if Craig asked him if he’s gay, but… Just in case, he grabs the shirt underneath it. His Cranberries shirt from their Free to Decide tour, when they went basically everywhere else on the globe except North America. It’s thanks to one of Clyde’s cousins, who’d gone to see them in Belgium rather than the Netherlands because her family lives closer to the border, that Tweek even owns this thing. Anyway, there’s like a fair chance Craig might like the Cranberries too, Tweek decides, as he quickly pulls the shirt over his head.
He’s got one foot out the door when he stops, chewing his bottom lip. How bad is his room, in the case that Craig might want to come up here and hang? In between cooking, Mom’s actually found the time to tidy up, which Tweek would normally be deeply offended by because he’s got a system, damn it, but today? Today it’s suddenly a relief that Mom piled his CD’s (and Tweek has a lot of CD’s) back into the CD-tower and put his comics into neat stacks on the bottom shelf of his closet. That’s where Tweek likes to keep them in theory, when he isn’t in the middle of re-reading a Marvel-wide crossover or something.
He takes the tissue box from the night stand and jams it into the top drawer instead, because nothing says I masturbate every night quite like a tissue box left out in the open. Right. He can go back downstairs, now that there’s nothing embarrassing…
Tweek’s jaw suddenly drops as he realizes that the drawing Butters did for him of Rictor and Shatterstar from X-Force making out is still handing right above his desk! JESUS! He peels the bluetack off the wall, as carefully as his shaking hands can manage, so he won’t rip the paper. The drawing goes into his desk drawer, right on top of the Tarot cards, and Tweek can finally allow himself to breathe.
Because what if Craig had seen… Wait, Craig! Craig is downstairs, and Tweek is up here, and GAH!
By the time he gets back down there, Dad’s already standing with his arm around Mom in the hallway, making some super awkward conversation with the Fakes. They look exactly the same as when they dropped Craig off at Tweak Bros this morning, down to Mad Stache’s nasty brown tweed jacket and the LV Lady’s ugly handbag.
And Craig just stands there with his arms crossed, looking cool and inscrutable as always.
“…hope you liked those lattes,” Dad is saying, with a grin that’s just a fraction too wide to be sincere.
Actually, Tweek realizes, Craig isn’t crossing his arms at all. He’s got his broken arm sort of stretched out across his chest, and is cupping his elbow in his good hand. Is he in pain? Or maybe that cast just feels awful heavy. Craig’s still got the sleeve of his blue hoodie covering it, like he thinks the Fakes might not approve of Butters’ drawing.
“Well, I mean,” Craig’s fake mom says, and maybe she’s even trying to be polite, “Coffee is coffee, isn’t it?”
“Hngh,” Dad exclaims, speechless with indignation, and straightens up to his full height. That makes Tweek let out a horrified grunt of his own. Because it turns out that T-shirt Dad had on backwards was his FREE TIBET shirt! With the text in alternating red and blue capitals underneath the Tibetan flag, with its red sunburst and green snow lions, and seriously?! Is Dad just like, waiting for an opportunity to drop the whole religion bombshell during dinner?
“Ah, Tweek,” Mom says, looking up at him and smiling. She’s wearing that perfectly sane and sensible pale blue blouse she owns, the one with the lacy collar, to Tweek’s immense relief. At least one of his parents isn’t dressing like a damn sideshow, when he’s got his crush of the century over for dinner! And anyway, Tweek tells himself, Craig’s fake parents are probably too busy infiltrating other peoples’ lives to have feelings about Tibet being oppressed by China. So he doesn’t need to feel too stressed out about…
His mouth drops open as he realizes what Mom was wearing underneath that apron. The damn Tibet skirt! The bottom of the skirt is like this green, hilly lawn, with yaks wearing embroidered saddles grazing on it. Then there’s a temple, which repeats itself just like the yaks do, with red roofs and a staircase leading up, in front of a row of snow-capped mountains, topped by blue skies with lines of prayer flags strung artfully across them. You obviously can’t buy insane clothes like that in a regular mall; Mom had to order that thing through a catalogue that Mrs Valmer had brought over.
Matching Tibet outfits… Jesus! Did they actually plan this? Do his parents want Tweek to die of embarrassment, foaming at the mouth, right here on the purple rug?
“Hey dude,” Craig drawls, like he’s used to people dressing like a damn Tibetan clowning troupe.
“Hey,” Tweek squawks, and he sounds like the creaky hinges of an old door. His whole face feels like it’s on fire. He glances up at Craig anyway; because Craig is just so damn fine, it would be a shame not to look…
“Well, come on in,” Mom’s saying, holding out her hands for the LV lady’s coat, and Tweek notices how Craig’s fake mom takes it off while swapping her fancy bag from hand to hand – the likes of Tweek’s mom clearly don’t get to touch it. She brings it inside with her too, dangling from her forearm, which is just plain weird. Like, Tweek knows his family may come across as flaky, but they all know to lock the damn door, right?! From the way Dad frowns – he’s the one staying behind to hang their coats and Craig’s jean jacket up in the hallway closet – he must be thinking something along those lines too.
Craig hangs back, and Tweek falls into step next to him.
“Cool shirt,” Craig says, though his expression doesn’t change at all – it’s like he could just as well have been talking about doing laundry, or buying toilet paper.
“Thanks,” Tweek blurts out, breathlessly, “You like The Cranberries, too?”
Craig stops walking for a second, frowning like he’s remembering something from a past life. “I… guess,” he says, and sort of shakes himself awake. “I mean, that goddamn Zombie song used to drive me nuts, but…” Craig shrugs. “Anyway, I mostly just listen to Nick Cave these days.”
He was probably going to say something else, only Tweek’s nerves and ADHD get the better of him and he starts singing the first few lines of People They Ain’t No Good, right there and then. And he makes it sound way too jolly, like that cover Weird Al did of Bohemian Rhapsody where he turned it into an accordion-fuelled polka worthy of Frank Zappa himself.
Tweek can see through the doorway to the dining room that the Fakes have turned around to stare at him. The way you’d stare at something weird you’ve stepped in, that’s now sticking to your shoe. They haven’t even sat down to eat yet, and he’s already making a huge –
“That’s my favorite song,” Craig says, and his calm, measured tone is what pulls Tweek back up and out of his panic spiral.
“Hah, it would be,” Tweek auto-quips, quickly giving Craig’s non-broken arm a gentle dig with his elbow. Grinning up at him and hoping the other boy can see it for the thanks that it is. “I, ah, I like Far From Me,” he adds, for the sake of embarrassing honesty. And now he’s starting to blush again, because he wouldn’t exactly mind being Craig’s mad little lover…
“Oh,” Craig says, and his stare is suddenly so direct that Tweek almost feels… naked, or something! No, he tells himself firmly. Don’t put words like “Craig” and “naked” into the same mental sentence!
“Do you like salad,” Tweek hears himself say, and immediately cringes, because seriously? What part of his brain did that even come from?
Craig frowns. “As a main or a side,” he asks, like Tweek didn’t just blurt out something insane.
Holy shit, this is turning into a conversation now! Think, think, uh… “Side?”
It looks like somehow, that actually made Craig relax. “As a side, it’s cool,” he drawls, and Craig sure sounds and looks completely like his usual self – but then he winces. Not like he’s in pain, but more like he can’t believe he just told Tweek salad is cool. Is Craig… Tweek almost shakes his head, but catches himself at the last second. Craig can’t be nervous about this whole dinner thing – can he?
Suddenly, there’s this sound coming from right behind them – like somebody blowing their nose in reverse. Tweek spins around, but it’s only Dad, pretending to cough. “I’m a huge fan of salad myself,” Dad says, and his eyes are shining. He coughs into his fist again. “Love it.”
Tweek shuts his eyes for a second and prays to the Maitreya Buddha for a tiny lightning bolt to zap his father in the balls, but no such luck. “We have other stuff too,” he tells Craig lamely, shoving his hands down his back pockets so he won’t try to take Craig’s hand again, “Not just –”
“Salad,” Craig finishes the sentence for him, and when Tweek opens his eyes again, there’s a lopsided grin on Craig’s face. “I figured.”

There is no way in hell, Craig tells himself as he follows Tweek through the living room. No way in hell Tweek was flirting with him just now. Nobody flirts about salad. Then again, Tweek is kind of an unusual guy, so…
The Tweaks’ living room is kind of on the small side, compared to the one in the house Craig’s real parents have mortgaged their lives away for. The one the fakes are now living in for free. And it’s filled with some of the most random shit – like, how small must their kitchen be, for them to keep their coffee maker in the living room? Anyway, a chubby little Buddha statue sits on top of the TV, grinning at you as you walk past, and there are all these little flags strung up across the ceiling, like you’d string up party decorations for someone’s birthday. They’re red, yellow, white, green and blue, with some stuff printed on them that’s too high up for Craig to read. Weird. They didn’t just put those up because Craig and the fakes are here for dinner, did they?
Craig follows Tweek past a wall framed holiday photos – the one that catches his eyes is from when Tweek was much younger, and riding some sort of hairy little pony, shaggy blonde hair poking out from under the black helmet he’s wearing – and into the dining room, which is downright tiny. It’s perfectly square, and there are no doors, just open, oval-shaped doorways. The table’s very clearly been extended as far as it’ll go, because one of the chairs is actually straddling the threshold of the kitchen. Tweek’s mom has claimed that one; you can see that from the mint green cardigan that’s been draped over the back of the chair.
Each wall in this little room has a little built-in alcove; and one of them houses a taller, skinnier Buddha statue than the one on the TV. Another one houses a second coffee maker, which makes Craig blink. Maybe the one in the living room’s busted, he decides, and they’ve just put it there temporarily, until they’ve got time to drive it out to the town dump or whatever.
The table’s been set with dinner plates that have leaves printed on them – green, brown and blue leaves, somehow all growing from the same branch that snakes around the rim. A smaller plate with a matching pattern printed in the middle is balanced on each plate. There are green wine glasses (why green?) set out next to four of the plates, while two of them have got regular tall glasses, presumably for water or soda. Those two seats are right next to each other, on the far side of the table. That gives Craig a secret little trill. There’s also a mug set out next to every plate, but maybe that’s for… Craig frowns, thinking about it. For dipping sauce?
In the middle of the table, there’s a big oven dish covered by a baby blue towel, flanked by a basket of what smells like garlic bread, and two bowls – one containing some pale brown goop, the other a darker green goop. Oh-kay. There are two big serving plates as well, one covered with a plate and the other with a pot lid, as well as a huge leaf-print bowl of salad. Craig peers in there, and sees boiled eggs, sliced in half, hiding amongst the leaves, along with tiny tomatoes, black olives, and what looks like… Walnuts? There are two gravy boats as well, one matches the leaf set and the other a plain white. And a couple of those metal table protector thingies, what does Mom always call them? Craig frowns for a second, but then the word comes to him – trivets. One trivet is shaped like some kind of cabbage, or maybe it’s supposed to be a flower, while the other is shaped like a Buddha-head.
“So first,” Mrs Tweak says, pulling the pan lid off, “We have this pasta bake, with cauliflower and broccoli, and lots of cheese of course, and here…” As if on cue, her husband puts down a second oven dish – on the Buddha head – with several shrivelled and vaguely lung-shaped things in it. Mrs Tweak gives him a quick, grateful smile, and Mr Tweak responds with a lop-sided grin and a raised eyebrow before he goes back into the kitchen. It reminds Craig of how his own parents will do that, have these quick little wordless exchanges because they’ve been together for so long that they don’t even need to talk. It sends a stab of worry through him, like a quick but awful stomach ache, because he suddenly misses them so much that he almost can’t bear it.
“Dude,” Tweek whispers, frowning up at him, “Are you okay?”
“Fine,” Craig mutters, giving Tweek a sideways look. “Just, you know… my arm.”
“Oh, right.” Tweek winces in sympathy.
“…Japanese recipe,” Mrs Tweak is saying, “Called Nasai Dengaku. Not Nazi,” she adds, with an awkward little laugh. “It’s basically eggplants that I’ve oven-baked in this sauce made from something called Mirin and…” There’s no response at all from the fakes, and Craig feels a sudden, malicious surge of joy. Didn’t expect the Tweaks to be vegetarians, did they? Craig definitely hasn’t felt like warning them about it. But their dead silence clearly makes Mrs Tweak super uncomfortable. “We, ah, we usually have rice with those,” she goes on, just as her husband reappears, carefully carrying what looks like a big, ceramic spinning top. It’s obviously made from clay; brown clay but with a blue and white geometric painted across the middle. Mrs Tweak tosses another trivet – this one shaped like a coffee cup – down at the other end of the table, and Mr Tweak carefully puts the thing down on that.
“And here’s the tagine,” Tweek’s dad says, pulling the lid off. “Also goes well with the rice.” Craig has no idea what tagine is either, but now he can see that clay pot is full of some kind of orangey… Stew? With multicolored lumps in it. But, weird as it may look, the smell is making his mouth water.
“Lamb tagine,” Fake Dad asks, hopefully.
“Oh heavens no,” Tweek’s dad replies, and it’s not Craig’s imagination, is it – he definitely seems to be enjoying this. “My wife always subs in potatoes for the meat.”
“There’s also carrots, onions and tomatoes in there,” Tweek’s mom cuts in, like she’s trying to put the fakes at ease or something. “And apricots of course, that’s what really makes a tagine, uh, a tagine…”
His fake parents look so horrified that Craig just can’t help himself – well, that and he feels a little bad for Tweek’s mom, who’s obviously been cooking her heart out. So he plasters a smile across his face and says, “I can’t wait. It all sounds amazing.” It’s not a complete lie either, it does smell good and Craig is starving.
Mrs Tweak clears her throat. “Thank you, Craig. Let me just, ah, get the salad now. Um, the rice, I mean. Tweek, give me a hand with the drinks?”
“Sure, Mom.” Tweek gives Craig a quick grin and a nudge. “Go sit down, okay? I’ll be right back.”

“My good sir,” Tweek says in his worst British accent; grinning down at Craig who has wedged himself awkwardly into one of the dining chairs. Tweek’s draped a kitchen towel over his arm like a waiter and he’s resting a huge bottle of soda against it like it’s a wine bottle. “What may I offer you, pray tell? Pop, water or coffee?”
Craig’s not quite sure he heard that right, but then again, this is Tweek. So he suppresses his first impulse, which is to repeat the word “coffee”, and asks, “What kind of pop?”
“It’s just fizzy lemonade,” Tweek says, instantly back to his normal voice. “It’s just,” he adds, shrugging. “The only flavour of pop I don’t hate?”
“What,” Craig asks, while Tweek leans over him to fill up his glass, “You don’t even drink Coke?” Tweek smells kind of… manly, he decides, already distracted. Sort of a woodsy smell – not bonfire-in-the-forest woodsy, more like… like non-gross incense.
“Coke smells vile.” Tweek exclaims, with such an almighty twitch that he spills a little soda on the tablecloth. “Oh Jesus!”
“Dude, it’s fine,” Craig tells him, quickly soaking up the spill with one corner of his green napkin. “So you haven’t even tasted Coke,” he goes on, and his distraction tactic works.
“I’ve tasted a cola-flavored wine-gummy,” Tweek fires back, like the very idea of cola anything offends him, “And that was also vile. No way could I bring myself to drink that sh– ”
“Tweek,” Mrs Tweak says sharply, and Tweek quickly amends it to “That schtuff.” He says it with this cheeky little grin, and Craig snorts. For some reason, he thinks Tweek sounds exactly like Mel Brooks, though he can’t place the character. Yoghurt in Spaceballs maybe? It’s been so long since he thought about fun stuff like that, like watching Men In Tights sprawled out on the rug in Thomas’ living room, with Thomas’ hand sliding up his T-shirt, warm fingers rubbing circles on his back. For some reason, Thomas was always helpless in the face of a Mel Brooks movie; trying to make out would be impossible because Craig could never predict when he'd start laughing his head off.
Craig suddenly realizes Tweek’s staring at him, like he just grew a second head. Out of his ass. “Uh,” he says, and thinks, Wow, how intelligent of me. Try again, Craig, try again. In pure desperation, he points at the two bowls of differently colored goop. “So, uh, what’s this stuff?”
“Huh? Oh, that’s hummus,” Tweek explains, grinning. “It’s like a starter; you can have it on the bread? The green one’s avocado hummus, that’s my favorite.”
“Right,” Craig says. It sure looks like radioactive snot, but if Tweek says it’s his favorite, then to hell with it – he’s going to try it.
“There’s wine for us grownups,” Mrs Tweak holds up a bottle in each hand, one white, one dark red. “But, who’s driving?”
“I am,” Fake Dad says, holding his glass out, “But a couple glasses will be fine. Red,” he adds, when Tweek’s mom doesn’t move. She’s giving Fake Dad this look, like he just said he tortures small animals for fun or something.
“Oh, that’s fine,” Tweek’s dad cuts in, slipping an arm around Mrs Tweak’s waist, “I’ll drive you all home in your own car. The buses aren’t that bad,” he adds, like the fakes would actually care how Mr Tweak gets back home. “I’ll just have some coffee instead!” And with that, he pulls the glass pot out of the coffee maker, and Craig realizes that thing is actually full!
Now Mr Tweak is filling up the coffee cup by his own plate, and his wife’s saying “Me too, please,” – what is wrong with these people? At least Tweek –
“Me three,” Tweek says, corking the lemonade without taking any for himself. Seriously? He’d rather drink coffee than pop? Who the hell has coffee with their dinner, anyway?

“So,” Mom says, wiping her mouth carefully, “How did you two meet?”
The LV-Lady chokes on her tiny mouthful of plain rice.
They’ve all more or less finished, and while Craig’s been happily stuffing his face next to Tweek, Mad Stache and the LV Lady have barely eaten anything. Dad served them both a small helping of everything at once, “meze-style” as he called it, but the fakes have just been picking at their food. Craig, on the other hand, has barely stopped eating to drink or breathe. That’s kind of nice.
But now the fakes are looking at each other, very intently. Tweek’s toes suddenly go all tingly; is this what having a Spidey-sense is like? Their answer, even though neither fake parent has opened their mouth yet, suddenly feels important.
“Work,” Mad Stache says at last.
“Oh.” Mom is obviously desperate to turn this into a pleasant conversation, because she claps her hands together and smiles. “So did we! Richard and I were working in the same coffee shop, down in San Francisco!”
“I see,” the LV Lady says, in a tone that clearly indicates she gives zero shits.
“Ah yes, that was at the end of the ‘70’s,” Dad says, leaning back in his seat and settling into Storyteller Mode. Which is something Tweek has learned to dread, though this particular story is probably harmless enough. “That was after I’d worked my way down there from Colorado, riding the rails like a Dharma bum, except of course I always used my earnings to pay for the next ticket! I was way too chickenshit to jump on the back of a freight train like Jack Kerouac, and ow, Helen, I’m sure Craig also knows what swearing is.”
Mom gives Dad the mildest of stink-eyes, and reaches out to pour herself another glass of the red wine rather than reply. And Craig suddenly looks over at Tweek, with food clearly crammed into both cheeks like a hamster, eyes huge and wild in his effort not to laugh his ass off and choke to death on veggie tagine.
“It still took me a few months, going from coffee shop to coffee shop…” Dad’s getting that dreamy look on his face that always means the story’s about to go way off track. “Coffee culture was really something else in those days! People would sit for hours, talking and writing, bouncing spontaneous poetry off each other…”
“Dad,” Tweek says, deliberately interrupting the flow. “You’re supposed to tell them how you met Mom, remember?” Spontaneous poetry, he thinks, and does his best not to shudder.
“Yes,” Mom says, jumping in to steer the verbal ship, “I’d been eyeing Richard all morning, the day he started. That’s probably how I gave myself a steam burn on one of the machines.” Mom puts her glass down, smiling as she taps the inside of her right wrist. “Right there. And Richard immediately grabbed me and shoved my arm under a running tap. First thing he ever said to me,” Mom makes the face that means she’s about to do one of her Dad impressions, which are weirdly good even though she can never get her voice to go deep enough, “Was, “That doesn’t look too bad.” ”
Tweek snickers into the back of his hand. He’s heard this story a million times, and he knows exactly what’s coming next. And Craig seems to sense that things are about to get wackier, because he’s chewing as fast as he can, already reaching for his glass.
“Then,” Dad pipes up, quickly swallowing his mouthful of aubergine, “She told me she’d just recite a sutra until it stopped hurting!” He looks around the table, spreading his hands in remembered disbelief. “How was I not supposed to fall in love with a girl like that?”
“So then he said, “The prettiest girl in San Fran is also a Buddhist? Marry me!” Just like that!” Mom shakes her head, laughing a little, while Craig chokes on his mouthful of soda.
“Dude, are you okay,” Tweek whispers, slapping Craig between the shoulder-blades as gently as possible while Craig hacks and coughs. Craig can only nod.
The Fakes exchange another one of those unreadable looks. “That sounds incredibly romantic,” the LV Lady says, and there’s a clear hint in her voice that this is a good point to end the story at.
Ignoring the hint, Dad says, “Well, she didn’t accept straightaway – she just ran into the staff room with this squeak…”
“Dad, no offense,” Tweek cuts in, “But I’d have run for my life too.”
That’s when Craig loses his shit so badly that Tweek ends up asking if they can be excused, and drags the other boy upstairs – by the sleeve, not by the hand. Even though he wants to, so damn bad.

Tweek’s room is kind of amazing. The first thing you notice when you walk in is that the walls are painted this warm, terracotta brown, and that there’s wall-to-wall green carpet – like walking on a lawn. Then you see the model airplanes hanging from the ceiling, and there are a lot of them, spinning lazily in the sudden draft from when Tweek pulled the door open. And then, when you follow him inside, and tilt your head to get a better look at that WWII Spitfire, you realize the ceiling’s been painted blue, with random clouds scattered across it, because of course it’s supposed to be like the sky. Fluffy white clouds tinged with pink. Craig imagines that lying on Tweek’s bed and just looking up must be like watching one of those air shows.
Not that he should be thinking about lying on Tweek’s bed at all!
“This is so cool,” Craig says instead, cradling his busted arm and tipping his head back. “Did you make all these?”
“With my dad, yeah,” Tweek replies, and when Craig looks at him, he can see that the other boy is smiling. “Since I was really little. It kind of… helps me calm down? Building stuff, I mean. And getting it right.”
Now Craig is smiling too. “So that’s why you’re so into making Peruvian nose rings in shop class.”
That makes Tweek laugh a little. “Well yeah, but that’s just for fun. And you’d look way snazzier as a shaman than Clyde, you know.” He shrugs, grinning to show Craig he’s kidding. “Just saying.”
Craig snorts. “Flatter me all you want, I’m not sticking anything up my nose. And that’s final.”
Tweek’s gone over to the low bookshelf, where a big, shiny CD player squats. Now he pops it open, and pulls out a CD from the tall, wobbly tower next to it. “No need to argue,” he says, which sounds like it’s part of their conversation or something, until Tweek adds, “From track five, so we can skip Zombie. Just for your sake.”
“Oh,” Craig says, just as Dolores O’Riordan’s weirdly beautiful voice rings out into the room.
“Something has left my life,” she keens, in her thick Irish accent, “And I don’t know where it went to. Somebody caused me strife…”
“Craig,” Tweek is saying, tilting his head and frowning, “Are you okay?”
“And it’s not what I was seeking.”
“Oh,” Craig says again, and clears his throat. It’s not like this song is driving a knife through his heart at all. “Sure.” Not like it’s reminding him how he’d just wanted to continue as before, only long distance, with postage stamps on every love-note. But then Thomas’ ultimatum, the strife he hadn’t been seeking – Come out to your parents, or we’re done – had struck him like a bolt out of the blue.
“C’mere,” Tweek says, gracefully sinking into the carpet, knees folded up tailor-style. “Sit. They won’t hear us downstairs with the music playing.”
“Makes sense,” Craig replies, crouching down next to him. Tuning out the lyrics, focusing on the boy in front of him. What he and Thomas had is over, ended today with that bulging Sephora bag Tweek had brought him. Craig realizes he doesn’t even feel like burning any more Thomas-related stuff now. That’s how done and dusted it all is. Like, it still hurts, but not so bad that he could go crazy from the pain. Not anymore.
“So have they done anything else that seemed off?” Tweek leans in close, and his breath smells like coffee. “The fakes, I mean?”
“Not… really?” With Tweek sitting this close, it’s getting hard to concentrate. “I’m trying to just, I don’t know, act like I’m taking the tranquilizers my fake mom got me, you know?” He swallows. “Docile. Not asking any questions.” That little dip between the tendons in Tweek’s neck. All he wants to do is trace it with his finger. “They seem to like that, anyway.” Suddenly, Craig recognizes the smell he’s been trying to place, that sort-of-manly smell that isn’t coffee smell but blends with it so well. Sandalwood.
“I wonder how they did meet,” Tweek says, just as the track changes on the CD. “The fakes, I mean.”
“Maybe they met impersonating somebody else’s family,” Craig replies, and it comes out kind of bitter. He lets out a huff of air, shakes his head. “Sorry,” he blurts out, when Tweek instinctively jerks away from him, “Didn’t need to bite your head off.”
“No, dude, that’s…” Tweek spreads his hands, and actually smiles, “Totally understandable. I mean, if somebody kidnapped my parents, I’d freak.”
Desperate to change the subject, latching on to the first thing he can think of, Craig asks, “So did your dad really propose like that? Like, the first time he met your mom?”
“Apparently so.” Tweek shrugs, smiling a little. “Like, he was probably trying to ask her out on a date? And then it came out all wrong. Happens to me all the time.”
“Yeah, sure,” Craig can feel himself start to relax again, “Like a, “pass the salt, oh let’s get married,” kind of thing?”
“Ha!” Tweek’s grinning from ear to ear now, and his eyes are squeezed shut. “Dad’s probably less weird now than he was back then?”
Because he’s now completely sure that Tweek will get that he’s teasing, Craig rolls his eyes and mutters, “Oh God.”
“Like, marginally less weird,” Tweek amends, snickering. “I mean, you remember my Dad talking about being a Dharma bum? That’s like, this Kerouac novel he was obsessed with… uh, you know Jack Kerouac?”
“I’ve heard of him,” Craig drawls, with a little smile tugging at his mouth. “My mom’s probably got all his books.” Ratty old editions from bargain bins and yard sales, sun-faded spines lined up like soldiers, Big Sur and Doctor Sax and On The Road… He makes the language sing, Mom said once, when Craig asked her what was so great about that Kerouac guy anyway. Damn, but he misses Mom.
“Okay, so it’s about these guys who live like Buddhist monks and sneak around on freight trains, when they’re not busy meditating or climbing the Matterhorn or whatever?” Tweek’s gesturing with both hands now, hell, both arms. “And my dad basically set out to do everything they did. Except like, while working a steady job. Because you can’t just shrug off my grandma’s upbringing like a coat, I guess. So he joined this whole mountaineering society in San Fran, and climbed the Matterhorn with them, and it was a couple of those guys who agreed to smuggle my mom up Desolation Peak.”
Craig blinks for a second. “You lost me there.”
“Oh right, so you haven’t read Dharma Bums? Because there’s this whole bit towards the end, where the guy becomes a summer fire warden on top of this mountain called Desolation, okay? Just basically living up there on his own and meditating, and looking out for forest fires for like two months. And Dad being Dad, he’d arranged to do the same job, and literally begged them to send him up the same mountain. He was gonna meditate and try to write haikus up there on his own, but then he met Mom in the meantime, right?”
“So they didn’t want to be split up for that long?” Craig kind of gets that. Two months would seem like an eternity when you’ve just met someone who likes you back.
“Pretty much. Obviously the list of stuff you could bring up there didn’t have the word “girlfriend” on it,” Tweek goes on, “So one day when a bunch of guys from the hiking group were hanging out at the coffee shop, the one where my parents were working? Then my mom asked them if they’d ever gone up Desolation before.” He shakes his head, silent laughter huffing through his nose. “It turned into this whole challenge, I guess? So they planned it out,” Tweek grins, “Like some kind of heist. Borrowed horses, because you had to ride up the mountain, it was that far, and packed ‘em full of canned food, powdered food, books and coffee.”
“Of course, coffee,” Craig drawls, raising one eyebrow.
“Yeah, because my dad could only bring enough stuff for one person, right? They already thought he was seriously weird because he didn’t want any of the canned beef crap everybody else was bringing. Apparently they asked him what he was gonna eat, and when Dad said he wanted to grow veggies up there, everybody laughed. But they did it, though,” and now, Tweek sounds almost proud. “My parents made this whole kitchen garden, right on top of that mountain. “Carrots, radishes, bush beans, lettuce and spinach. And tomatoes that they grew in empty tin cans inside the cabin.”
“Wow.” Craig’s never even managed to grow cress on tissue paper.
“I mean,” Tweek untangles his legs and pulls them up under his chin instead, “It sounds kind of perfect, actually. Just living on top of a mountain with the person you like? All they had to do was chop firewood and look after the plants, and my dad had to check in with the other fire wardens once a day on the radio. But other than that, they could read, and do yoga, and just…” he looks up, and his blue eyes suddenly seem so huge, “Anything they wanted, really.”
Craig clears his throat. “Anything, huh?”
That makes Tweek laugh. “Oh, most definitely! Because by the time the call came on the radio that they were done, and they’d radioed their mountaineering society friends to come smuggle Mom back down from there? Well, Dad told her that since they’d survived two months alone together, they could definitely get married. And then my mom was like, “Yeah, I think we’d better.”
“Wait.” Craig blinks. “You mean…? That was how…?”
Tweek’s grin in enormous. “Yup, that was me. Conceived on a mountaintop. Dad likes to say that he didn’t produce one decent haiku up there, but at least he produced…”
“Oh God,” Craig groans, shaking his head.
“A son. I know.” Tweek shakes his head too, and for a moment, their quiet laughter drowns out the lilting Irish voice on the CD that’s still spinning.
Then there’s this long, tingly moment when neither of them says anything, but they’re looking right at each other, and Craig is starting to wonder if maybe Esther Stoley wasn’t full of shit. And then, that raw, fragile-as-glass voice rings out, clear as a bell:
“There’s no need to argue anymore. I gave all I could, but it left me so sore. And the thing that makes me mad, is the one thing that I had…”
Craig’s breath hitches in his throat, because he’s heard this song before, a hundred years ago. He just never knew these lyrics were about him…
“I knew, I knew,” Dolores croons, while the model airplanes shift and bob overhead, “I’d lose you.”
“Craig?” Tweek is suddenly very close, peering into his face with suspicious worry, “Craig, are you okay?”
“You’ll always be,” Dolores is saying, “Special to me, special to me. To me.”
Shit. Aw, shit. Craig wipes at his eyes with his good hand, tries to snort the snot back in. But it just keeps coming, the song keeps drawing it all out of him.
“It’s gonna be okay, Craig,” Tweek is saying, frantically talking over the music.
“And I remember all the things we once shared.”
His hands are hovering over Craig’s shoulders like he wants to hold him, but is afraid to. “I promise you, we’re gonna find your parents, and –”
“Watching TV movies on the living room armchair…”
“Tweek,” Craig says, hating how rough his voice is. But he gets a bit of strength in there, and it cuts the other boy’s stream of talk right off. “It’s not, it’s not that, okay?”
“Okay?” Tweek’s got to his feet by now, and pulled open the drawer in his nightstand. He takes a box of tissues out, and when he sits back down, he puts the tissue-box on the floor between them. Like it’s some kind of offering. “If, if you want to tell me, then…” He shrugs, before he stops talking completely. Just waiting, patiently, for Craig to find the words he needs.
Craig takes his time. Blows his nose five times, wipes his eyes on his sleeve, gets his breathing back under control. The damn song even has time to end, before Craig figures he can talk. So he closes his eyes for a few long, agonizing seconds. This is it.
“Thomas wasn’t my ex-best friend,” he says, hating how his voice still wobbles. “He was just…” It would be so easy to chicken out now, but he can’t. Craig knows he can’t. “Just my ex,” he says, addressing those words to the green carpet. Then he looks up, almost defiantly, into Tweek’s huge and very wide blue eyes. “So, you still want to help me find my parents?”
For a second, Tweek holds completely still. And then he suddenly moves, pounces, and his hands are wrapped around Craig’s cheeks, his tongue is pressing against Craig’s teeth. And of course he tastes of coffee, too.

Chapter Text

Tonight, Mysterion decides he might as well knock. Three quick raps of his knuckles on Kevin Stoley’s window, and he almost doesn’t react fast enough when the other boy yanks it open. Mysterion has to swing sideways in a hurry, clinging to the drainpipe with his right arm, while Stoley pokes his whole head out and grins at him.
“I’ve got news,” he says, while Mysterion just hangs there, balanced by that arm and the big toe of his right foot, which has managed to find that one plank in the wall that juts out. “Come on in!” With that, at least, he finally moves out of the way, and gives Mysterion the chance to heave himself over the windowsill.
“Thanks,” he growls, squatting inelegantly on the floor for a moment, flexing his right shoulder cautiously. It should be fine, even it if is throbbing right now. That arm’s taken a lot worse. “So?”
“So there are definitely some mega shady people shacking up in that building,” Kevin begins, talking excitedly. At least he remembers to keep his voice down. “I saw three dudes in there – one was this big, kind of chunky Italian guy, who let me in when I knocked on the door, can you believe that?”
“That was some risk you took,” Mysterion growls – he’s been wanting to tell Kevin that since he first stumbled out of that damn building.
“Well, I guess, but,” Kevin waves his concerns away, “It was totally worth it in the long run. Told him all about us making a comic, and I even gave him issue one, as thanks for letting me use the can!”
You give Issue One to everyone you ever meet, Mysterion thinks but doesn’t say.
“So anyway, there was this other guy? And he was just super creepy and quiet. Really tall, but he had one of those forgettable faces, you know? But his accent might’ve been Texan.”
Mysterion feels his eyes start to widen behind his mask. Could that really be Craig Tucker’s fake-or-not father? Is he walking around with a false moustache, to stop people from taking too good a look at the rest of his face? “And the last one,” he asks, doing his best not to sound like Stoley just dumped a bombshell in his lap.
“Oh, the last one was Mr McCormick,” Kevin says, and for a second, Mysterion’s eyes sort of swim. “You know,” the other boy is saying, “The guy with the meth lab that you took down?”
“I know who he is,” Mysterion replies, and it’s a good thing his voice is always supposed to be a bit rough. He gets to his feet, and sweeps the cape up behind him. He needs to get out of here. Get some air. “Thanks, Kevin,” he adds, tossing the words over his shoulder as he leans on the windowsill. Just to catch his breath.
“No, wait,” Kevin says, his hand closing around the cape and tugging, “There’s more!”
Mysterion spins around, and if his eyes could’ve nailed poor Kevin Stoley to the wall… Well, shit. “Sorry,” Kevin mutters, and the cape slips from his fingers as he takes a step back, and then another. “But, uh, I think they’re keeping someone else in there.”
For a second, Mysterion has no idea what to do – apologize? It’s not Kevin Stoley’s fault, after all, that Dad is such a low-level criminal; he’ll throw his lot in with the first guy who waves some cash under his nose.
Wait. No. Not Dad. He’s Mysterion, and Kenny McCormick is nothing but an embarrassing afterthought.
“Kevin. I didn’t mean to…” he runs out of words, spreads his hands instead.
But he’s lucky, Kevin just gives him this huge, relieved smile. “Didn’t mean to glare holes through my head?” He lets out a nervous little laugh. “Dude, if you actually had laser-beams for eyes, I’d be dead now!”
It’s hard not to laugh – but just a little bit. “So,” Mysterion quickly changes the subject, “Tell me. What makes you think that?”
“Well,” Kevin chews his lip for a second, “There was a lot of takeout stuff around, you know? And the Italian guy was bagging all the boxes and stuff in this big, black trash bag when I came out of the can. Creepy guy wasn’t helping, except he picked up this one bag and looked inside it? And then he said something like, “So they think they’re too good for McDonald’s?” The Italian guy said something about how “They” tried doing a hunger strike, but couldn’t hack it for more than a day, and then Creepy Guy said, “You mean you haven’t cleaned this place up since they got here?” And the Italian was about to answer, but then he noticed I was there.”
Mysterion suddenly feels very, very cold. “Did they realize,” he begins, but the other boy cuts him off, “That I’d overheard all that stuff? I don’t think so.” He gives Mysterion another one of those big smiles, and it’s meant to be reassuring. But all Mysterion can think of is that he could’ve killed this kid. Oh, of course it wouldn’t have been him pulling the trigger, but it might as well have been, since he was the one who’d told Kevin to go investigate them.
“I appreciate it,” he growls, “Really. But your involvement ends here.”
“But,” Kevin protests, forgetting to keep his voice down in his eagerness, “I can still help you! I can –”
“I work alone,” Mysterion cuts him off. “And you wouldn’t want to make that pretty girlfriend of yours cry.” With that, he pushes the window back up, shimmies down the drainpipe, and runs out into the night.

The kiss lasts for ever, or at least until Craig has to pull back and gasp for air.
“Dude,” Tweek pants, “That was amazing!” He snatches a few more mouthfuls of air, then he adds, “But I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to – ”
“Didn’t mean to kiss me,” Craig asks, still reeling from the fact that it just happened.
“Didn’t mean to force you to kiss me,” Tweek corrects him, still panting. He always seems so confident, but right now, Tweek is addressing his words to the carpet. Fingers picking at the hem of his Cranberries shirt.
“You didn’t force me to do anything I didn’t want,” Craig replies, and he can feel himself starting to blush. “I mean, I’ve wanted to kiss you. Pretty much since you screamed “fate worse than death” in my ear.”
That makes Tweek giggle, and he really has the sweetest smile. “So,” he cautiously looks up at Craig, blue eyes glowing through his impossibly long eyelashes, “Does that mean you’d want to do it again? Like… right now?”
Craig just growls his agreement, before he slips his left hand, cast and all, around the back of Tweek’s neck and pulls him close. This kiss is even longer, and a lot less frantic. Tweek melts into him like butter, and does he realize he’s making that sound? That happy little whimper? It’s so cute, and so damn hot…
Craig lets his eyes slip open, just to check if Tweek’s eyes are still closed… That’s how he ends up looking right into the flash as the camera goes off.
“Guh!” He lets go of Tweek, pushing him aside so he can cover his eyes with his good hand until the after-images stop dancing across his retinas.
Meanwhile, he can hear Tweek yelling, “What the actual hell, Mom?!”
Mrs Tweak, who doesn’t sound very sorry at all, is saying, “Well, we got photos of your first steps and your first time riding a bike! Why wouldn’t I want photos of your first – ”
“Mom!”
Finally able to open his eyes, Craig scrambles to his feet. Panic is rising inside him, like bubbles in a pot, about to boil over. Something in his face must look a little feral, because Mrs Tweak actually takes a step back.
“It’s probably just because he’s an only child,” she says, and her voice trembles a little, “That we want to document everything, you know?”
“Mom,” Tweek groans, “You were an only child, too! That’s like, the worst excuse ever!”
“Well, yes, but…” That, of all things, seems to have thrown Mrs Tweak off, and she lowers the camera.
“You can’t tell them,” Craig half growls, half begs, as he reaches out for it – only for Tweek’s mom to promptly hide it behind her back.
She seems a little less afraid of him now. The look Mrs Tweak gives him isn’t frightened at all – just full of understanding, and what might be pity. “You haven’t told your parents yet,” she says, and it’s like her eyes are boring into Craig’s very soul. “Have you, Craig?”
He shakes his head in response. Maybe he ate too much downstairs, because he’s starting to feel sick to his stomach – or is that just the overwhelming fear? The fear that’s been pulled down over him like a hood?
“All right, well, don’t worry!” Mrs Tweak reaches over to pinch one of his cheeks, which startles Craig and his already highly strung nerves so badly that he almost falls over. “Your parents won’t find out a thing from me. Just be glad it wasn’t my husband who caught you two,” she adds, and right on cue, Tweek groans “Oh Jesus!” rather loudly.
“Anyway, I only came up here to see if you boys want some dessert?”

As they shuffle down the stairs, cheeks burning, he and Craig keep bumping into each other. And each time it happens, it’s like this secret thrill – they exchange a quick look, get back to putting one foot in front of the other, and then bam! Arm bumps against arm again.
Huh, Tweek thinks, Mom was right about one thing. Thank all the Buddhas that Dad didn’t walk in on him and Craig! At least Mom can keep a secret, but Dad just wouldn’t be able to shut up about it…
“So,” Craig mutters, as they both put one foot on the bottom step, “Are your parents cool with…?”
He can’t even seem to make himself say the word “gay”, which makes Tweek’s heart clench right up. “Oh yeah,” he assures Craig, doing his best to keep those feelings off his face, “I told ‘em like, years ago. I mean,” Tweek shrugs, “I pretty much knew since I was a kid.”
Craig’s mouth forms a silent “O”, but there isn’t any time for them to keep talking, not about that, because they’re back downstairs now and the Fakes are just a couple of thin walls away. At least Mom left the camera upstairs, Tweek made sure of that.
“So what was Craig like as a baby,” he can hear Dad asking them, his voice ringing through the house with fake cheer. “Tweek used to take these perfectly cubic little shits that smelled insane.”
“What?! Dad,” Tweek yells, running in there, and almost tripping over the purple rug in the living room. “Gah! You can’t tell people stuff like that!”
“Well,” Dad fires back, and his voice is strained as hell, “What else am I supposed to talk about, when your mother leaves me alone,” he shoots Mom the dirtiest look, “With Laura and Thomas here?”
Tweek feels his jaw drop, and for a second, all he can do is blink, before he erupts: “Anything other than that! Jesus, Dad!”
Still, there’s a part of him that sits up and says, Will you look at that. Even Dad, oblivious as he can be, is super uncomfortable around these people. Now he’s getting up and starting to clear the dinner dishes away, so Tweek hurries over to help him.
“You’re the guest,” he tells Craig, nudging him towards his empty seat when Craig clumsily starts to pile cutlery onto his own empty plate. “So sit your butt down! “Butt” isn’t swearing, Mom,” he adds; pointing at her before Mom’s even got a chance to open her mouth.
Craig looks so relieved when he sinks onto his chair. Like maybe he thought the fakes would smell it on them; that they’ve been making out upstairs? He starts to shove his arm back inside the sling, clearly just for something to do.
Then Mom says, “But go on, Laura,” as she picks up a pot of hummus in each hand, “What was little Craig like?”
The LV Lady literally goes on “pause”, and when Tweek glances over at Mom, he sees her eyes narrowing, her forehead wrinkling up under her bangs. Obviously – to him, anyway – it’s just that Craig’s fake mom has no idea what Craig was like. But to Mom, whose own parents did things like beat her and lock her in the garden shed overnight, it’s clearly starting to look like something else entirely.
“Quiet,” the LV lady says at last. “He was very quiet. Even as a baby.”
“What,” Dad says, and he sounds so incredulous that there’s no way he’s being sincere, “No purple period? You two have no idea how lucky you were! It’s called that,” he adds, turning to Craig, “Because the baby will scream until it’s purple in the face. I remember we’d just have to sit down for dinner with Tweek next to us in his little crib, screaming and screaming while we tried to eat…”
Tweek can feel his cheeks starting to heat up again. “Dad,” he begins, when Mom cuts him off, “Remember that stuffed toy your brother gave him?” Her expression has softened now, “The little frog? Tweek used to hold it by one leg and shake it around while he screamed!”
Wow. Just wow. “Yeah, Mom, well I’m sure that nobody’s really that interested in –”
“I used to lift stuff,” Craig says, so suddenly that everyone instantly goes quiet. “Like that time I stood under the dining table and held it up for like ten seconds?” He demonstrates with both hands, and the sling slips right down to his elbow. “Then I dropped it on my big toe,” he goes on, “And broke it. And it was your birthday, Mom,” he goes on, looking the LV lady right in the eyes. “You spent like half of it in the Emergency Room with me. Then after that,” his eyes flicker briefly over to Mad Stache, “Dad started calling me Super Craig, and I didn’t even realize he was being sarcastic.” Now he’s looking at the LV lady again, with all the confusion of an abandoned kitten. “Don’t you remember?”
It’s all Tweek can do not to start laughing, because that’s some grade A acting Craig just pulled off – not to mention the story itself is so insane it’s got to be true. So he takes a huge interest in stacking the plates just so, because he knows if he looks at Craig right now, it’ll be the end.
“Oh,” Craig’s fake mom says, clearly stalling for time, “Of course we remember, carino. I just… didn’t want to embarrass you in front of your new friend.”
“But that’s our reward,” Dad exclaims, “For raising the little monsters! The right to embarrass them anytime and anywhere!” He genuinely seems to believe this, too, which makes Tweek growl – though at least he keeps it down to a quiet growl.
“Well!” Mom claps her hands, smiling brightly and giving off the distinct vibe that everybody had better play nice and enjoy themselves now, or else. “I hope you’ve all got room for dessert!”
“Oh I’m sure they do,” Dad says as he’s about to walk past her with the now-cold tagine in his hands, “Since we’ll be living off these leftovers for the next five years, and ow, honey!”
Mom, smiling like she didn’t just kick Dad in the shin in plain sight, disappears into the kitchen – and so does Dad, limping. Leaving Tweek on his own with Craig (Yay!) and the fakes (Oh Jesus!).
“So, Craig,” he blurts out the first thing that comes to mind, “How do you feel about brownies?”
“As like, a main or a dessert,” Craig drawls, raising one eyebrow like he just knows why Tweek went and said that.
“As a dessert,” Tweek replies, looking away because he can feel himself starting to blush for real now, and he doesn’t want the Fakes to see it. “With like, ice cream and stuff.”
“As a dessert,” Craig says, and Tweek can hear it in his voice that Craig is smiling, “It’s cool.”

Chapter Text

Mysterion doesn’t actually run that far; he only has to go next door. Because now, it’s starting to look like the Tuckers’ house could do with a little careful breaking and entering. And he could do with losing himself in the investigation, if he’s being honest with himself. If these are the same people Dad and Kevin are working for…
No! Goddamn it, don’t think of them as that. As family. Mysterion doesn’t have a family, not even Karen; Mysterion just has a purpose. Bringing bad guys to justice. Even if those bad guys happen to include people from… Kenny’s family.
He shimmies up the drainpipe of the Donovans’ garage, peering at the grey slab of the Tuckers’ house next to it. Hm. If he can get to the roof, Mysterion reckons he can reach that bedroom window with his grapping hook.
The Tuckers are supposed to be having dinner at the Tweaks’ right now. Mr Tweak couldn’t stop going on about it during his – during Kenny’s shift today. So that should leave their house nice and… empty?
Crouched like a spider with one leg on either side of the pointy roof, Mysterion frowns. He could’ve sworn he just saw light in there… a flashlight beam? On the ground floor? There it is again, a there-and-you’ll-miss-it flare seen through a second-floor window.
Mysterion chews his lip for a second, considering. Should he really try to get inside when someone else has already beaten him to it? But there it is, the exact reason why he should, why he has to. If whoever this is ends up taking or messing up the one piece of evidence that could make all the pieces of this puzzle slot together in his head… No, he can’t risk that happening.
Choice made, he makes the throw, and hooks the window-frame on the first try. So far, so good. Doesn’t even make much of a noise. He tests the line, then fastens it to his belt, and swoosh! He’s across. Adrenaline surging through him from that little bit of almost-flying.
Right, be careful now, Mysterion reminds himself. No getting careless because the first part went well. He tests the window, and of course it slides upwards – it’s the same mass-produced suburban design as the Stoleys’ house – hell, as every house on this street. The room is dark too, and empty – almost completely empty, in fact. As he quietly looks over the things in here – the clothes folded in neat little piles along the far wall, sorted by type, the carefully made bedding on top of the mattress with no bedframe, he quickly figures out whose room this is. He remembers Craig saying something in school, about the moving company not bringing their furniture and stuff until next week.
His thoughts are cut short by that flashlight beam as it suddenly fills up the space between the bottom of the door and the carpet. Shit! Mysterion ducks to one side so he won’t cast a shadow, holds his breath so the other burglar won’t hear him breathe.
Slowly, the handle on the door moves downwards, and Mysterion tenses, ready to pounce.
“No, that’s Craig’s room,” he suddenly hears Clyde Donovan say, and his eyes go wide in the dark. “No point searching in there.” Clyde’s probably trying to whisper, but puberty left him with a voice that sounds like he’s swallowed a tuba. And that’s when he’s talking normally.
Mysterion shakes his head. He needs to figure out what’s going on, and fast. What the hell is Clyde Donovan, of all people, doing in here?
“Let’s t-try in here, then.” Jimmy Valmer says, much more quietly. Followed by a rattle, and then the soft creaking of a door being opened.
Shit, that’s half of Tweek’s gang at least? Is Token here, too? If he is, he doesn’t say anything. Mysterion frowns. If he has to, he can probably take Token without hurting him too badly. He’s the weaker fighter of the gang, simply because he hates fighting. Same goes for Jimmy, even though Jimmy loves to throw down and fights dirty as hell – Mysterion could probably subdue him without causing any injuries. Clyde’s his main worry, because Clyde is built like a tank, and he’s unpredictable. There’s nothing harder to fight than someone who’s punching like a demon and bawling their ass off at the same time. Mysterion would need to at least knock Clyde unconscious, and that’s likely to be noisy and time consuming. Not to mention, well, there was that trick he pulled on Clyde – that Kenny pulled on him – in Phys. Ed. Letting Clyde think he’d broken Kenny’s nose like that… It would just feel wrong, Mysterion decides.
He’s really better off trying to work with them. Even though Mysterion always works alone.
Gloved fingers push the door jamb down, and he hugs the wall as soon as he’s out in the hallway. Follows the voices – and they think they’re being quiet? Ha! – to the next door down, and slips it open.
Clyde’s got his back to him, crouching in front of the open closet. Ducking under the neatly pressed bank teller’s uniform hanging there to pull a shoebox out. And Token is nowhere to be seen. But Jimmy’s sat down on the floor, legs stretched out across the carpet, crutches balanced against the double bed – facing the door. So Jimmy sees him straightaway. He only lets out a small, strangled squeak though, before he stretches over and clamps a hand around Clyde’s big mouth.
“Mph,” Clyde exclaims, twisting his neck to stare at Jimmy, then letting out a much louder “Mphmph!” when he finally spots Mysterion.
Framed by the open door, arms folded and standing with his legs spread so that his whole body forms a big “A”, Mysterion would like to think he looks at least a little intimidating. “Hi boys,” he growls, raising one eyebrow underneath his mask, “Find anything interesting?”
Jimmy doesn’t answer at once, but he holds his left index finger up in front of Clyde’s nose, while still covering the other boy’s mouth with his right hand. Clyde’s eyes cross in the effort to focus on Jimmy’s finger; then he finally seems to grasp the meaning and nods. Jimmy slowly removes his hand, like he still doesn’t trust his friend to stay quiet.
It’s starting to remind Mysterion of someone doing obedience training with their dog, and he winds up coughing into his fist like he’s seen Mr Tweak do at work, just to hide his snort. No wait, like Kenny’s seen –
“N-not yet,” Jimmy finally replies, defiantly staring right back at Mysterion until his right eye – the lazy one – starts drifting. “But w-we’re just g-g-getting started.”
Mysterion lets his mouth curl up in a lazy smirk. “Good,” he drawls, “Because I was hoping we could work together. Since you’ve already broken in here anyway.”
“We’re not really breaking in,” Clyde blurts out, “Not like you do! Because our old neighbours left a spare key with my dad,” he goes on, blithely talking right over Jimmy’s frantic shushing, “And he forgot to give it to the fake Tuckers!”
Clyde beams at Mysterion, like he’s all pleased with himself, while Jimmy just pinches the bridge of his nose.
“Clyde,” he groans, “Just p-pass me a damn shoe box, w-will you?”
Behind the sliding door of the closet, there aren’t very many clothes hung up at all, which is consistent with their story of being stranded without their stuff until the moving van gets here. But the woman seems to store whatever else she brought along in shoe boxes – again consistent with them claiming to move house – because there’s a small tower of them in there.
When Clyde hands one of those to Jimmy, Mysterion suddenly notices that they’re both wearing vinyl gloves. He’s secretly a little impressed. Must’ve been Jimmy’s idea, he thinks. “I’ll take the other side,” he says out loud, strolling over to what is so clearly the side where the man sleeps.
The only things on the bedside table are an alarm clock and a spray bottle of Axe; but inside the drawer he finds a tiny tube. It has a long white nozzle and a blue label with “Mastix – Spirit Gum” printed across it. The liquid inside is yellowy, and when he gives it a little shake, the bottle appears to be half full. Interesting. He squeezes a tiny drop out on his fingertip, sniffs it – chemicals – then rubs it against the tip of his thumb. Almost instantly, it sticks. He has to pull to get his fingers apart again.
Shit, is this some kind of beard glue? Is he actually right about –
“Dude,” Clyde suddenly says, completely forgetting to whisper, “Get a load of these!”
Mysterion drops the bottle of glue back in the drawer, and hurries around the bed. “What?”
Jimmy’s frowning. “They’re shoes?”
“High-heeled shoes,” Mysterion adds. Black, with a pointy toe, and thin, ridiculously tall stilettos. How anyone could walk in those…
“Dude,” Clyde says again, lifting one shoe out of the box. He looks ridiculously pleased with himself. “These are shoes.” He flips the shoe over, and now Mysterion can see that the sole is bright red. “Christian Louboutin pumps,” he goes on, when it’s clear that neither Jimmy nor Mysterion gets what he’s talking about, “Oh come on; you’ve got to have seen Madonna wearing shoes just like these, right? Louboutins! They cost, like, eight hundred dollars. Plus tax,” he adds helpfully, while Mysterion is still picking his jaw up from the floor.
Eight hundred dollars! How could anybody blow eight hundred bucks on a pair of shoes? Suddenly, Kevin’s bomber jacket doesn’t seem like such a –
Goddamn it, no! Focus!
“Obviously, my dad doesn’t stock stuff like this,” Clyde goes on, “But we ordered a pair in special for a customer last year. I snuck Bebe in so she could see ‘em in person,” he goes on, as his eyes glaze over, “And we figured she’d be fine to try ‘em if she did it sitting down and didn’t walk around in them…”
“And Craig’s m-mom has shoes like that,” Jimmy says, sliding himself into Clyde’s monologue, “W-while Craig sleeps on the floor.”
“Exactamundo,” Clyde agrees, snapping his fingers – loudly – and pointing at Jimmy. Around them on the floor are the other shoe boxes, which have some pretty random stuff thrown in.
There’s only one other pair of shoes; a pair of much lower, chunkier black heels that are probably meant to go with that uniform. One box has, uh, female sanitation stuff in there, another’s got one of those packable hairdryers that fold up, A third box is full of toiletries – hair rollers, a bottle of perfume – and the fourth box has got makeup brushes, an unopened eyeshadow palette and a few bottles of nail polish in different shades of red and pink.
In a way, Mysterion supposes it’s a good system for storing your stuff. Aside from the “Loo-bottoms” or whatever Clyde called them, it’s all so damn mundane that he actually misses the brown envelope tucked underneath that hairdryer. Jimmy’s the one who suddenly spots it, and pulls it out.
“What’ve we got here,” he mutters, without stuttering at all, and his eyes widen as he pulls out a slim stack of bills. Hundred dollar bills.
Mysterion draws his breath sharply, and Clyde mutters a quiet “Whoa,” as Jimmy fans the money out on the carpet and leans down to inspect it.
“These are all fresh,” he says, sounding very surprised, “I mean,” he turns to Clyde, who’s looking confused again, “They’ve n-never been in c-c-c-circulation.” He gives a quick shake of his head, like he wants to shake away the word that got him stuck. “And look! The n-numbers on the bills are in p-p-perfect sequence!”
It’s true, Mysterion realizes, leaning over Jimmy’s shoulder to look. This money has never, ever been spent.
“That’s two grand,” Clyde chimes in, having obviously tallied it up – and without using his fingers, too, Mysterion thinks. Helping out at his dad’s store has obviously done wonders for Clyde’s math skills.
Suddenly, he gets that tingle in his belly, that danger sense that always tells him to get out, and get out now. Then the sound registers; the low rumble of a car on an otherwise empty road.
“You two need to leave,” Mysterion says, “Now. Use the back door, and go through the garden. I’ll put this shit back,” he adds, when the two boys immediately look at all the boxes they’ve unpacked. “You did lock the front door when you came in, right?”
Clyde nods, his eyes wide and terrified. He jumps to his feet, offers Jimmy a hand up. “Evacuation procedure,” he says, turning it into a question.
“Fine,” Jimmy says, and it takes them maybe ten seconds before he’s piggybacking on Clyde’s wide back. Years of practice, probably. His spindly legs are wrapped around the other boy’s waist, and he’s holding his crutches in front of Clyde’s chest.
“Go,” Mysterion growls, just as the yellowish glow of headlights hits the carpet by the windows.
Clyde doesn’t have to be told twice, and at least there’s no need for him to be quiet yet, because his footsteps going down those stairs sound like a small rockslide.
He’ll have to just trust the two of them to get out in time, Mysterion decides, as light now floods most of the bedroom. He quickly shoves the woman’s money back into its hiding place, and sees about stacking those boxes back up – no way will he get them in the correct order, but here’s hoping she won’t notice.
Once it’s all back the way it was, Mysterion slides the closet door shut, sticking to the shadows as he escapes into the hallway. Voices are already drifting upstairs, so the front door must at the very least be open, though he’s not sure anyone’s come inside yet. He dives into Craig’s room, fully intending to leave the way he came in, via Clyde’s garage roof.
Only then he sees it – the silver sparkle of his grappling hook way down there in the grass, and the line curled up behind it like a snake. Clumsy idiot, to drop his own line like that and not even notice! And he can’t climb that wall, not now, they’ll see him for sure!
There’s no furniture in this damn room at all, nowhere to hide when someone suddenly pushes the handle of the door down – except behind the damn door.

The dishwasher’s buzzing away and all the leftovers (Jesus! So many leftovers!) have been packed up in plastic tubs and put in the fridge. Mom’s even finished washing the handful of things she always wants to do by hand, and Tweek’s dried them for her. They’ve worked this whole time in complete silence, but when Tweek finally puts the little milk jug down on the countertop, Mom draws a breath.
“Listen, Tweek – I’m sorry about…”
If there’s one thing Tweek’s not prepared to talk about right now, it’s how Mom caught him making out with Craig. So he blurts out, “That’s cool, I’m fine, gonna be in my room now, bye!” and runs for the stairs.
He kissed Craig. Craig kissed him back. Embarrassing as that photo crap was, it doesn’t even matter because Craig kissed him. Taking the steps two at a time, Tweek wonders if Craig is his boyfriend now? Or is this going to be a secret thing, just them making out when they’re alone? Shit – he stops with his hand on the door – is he even allowed to tell his friends? Like, not phone Bebe and give her carte blanche to tell everybody, just his inner posse. Just the guys. Tweek is dying to phone them all in turn and scream “I was right!” down the receiver, but what if Craig doesn’t want him to…?
No. No, no, no, he’s not going to let himself overthink this, Tweek decides, as he pushes the door open. Overthinking things leads to screwing them up.
As he steps into his room, it strikes him how different it feels in here now. How the walls still seem to be charged with the, what’s that expression Token likes to use? With the kinetic energy of all those kisses. He can feel it buzzing through him – kiss, kiss, kiss – and suddenly, nothing will do but music. Because if Tweek doesn’t have something to dance to, right this instant, he’s going to explode from happiness and his whole bedroom will be sprayed with blood and guts.
Finger trailing down the CD-tower, he pulls out the neon lime green Chumbawamba album with the grinning CGI baby on it. Tweek shoves the CD in the player and clicks forward to track two, because he just can’t wait. Sets it to repeat, closes his eyes, and then just lets the opening chords wash over him like a wave.
“We’ll be singing, when we’re winning. We’ll be singing – ah!”
Okay, so the word “dancing” doesn’t really apply to how Tweek does things – maybe “bouncing” would work better? Because he’s so excited now that he can’t stop jumping on the spot, bouncing off the walls. As he settles into the groove of the song, and the lyrics seep into his very bones, Tweek even discovers that the best, the absolute best kick is to throw himself, back first on his bed on each “I get knocked down”, then jump straight back to his feet on every “And I get up again”. The head-rush is amazing, he does it again and again, flailing his arms and grooving with his hips in between.
“I get knocked down,” Fwump he goes on the bed, two seconds to watch the model airplanes swirl madly over his head, “And I get up again,” swoosh to his feet, mad surge of blood in his ears, shaking his head as he jumps to “You ain’t never gonna keep me down!” Then back down on the bed again, rinse and repeat, and it feels amazing.
Well, right until Mom opens the door and Tweek nearly smacks her in the face with his arm, anyway.
“Gah! Mom, Jesus,” he blurts out, suddenly mortally embarrassed.
Mom reaches over and hits the Stop button, but she’s smiling. “You seem happy,” she says, understatement of the century.
Blushing like a damn tomato, Tweek ducks his head and mutters, “Well. Y’know.”
Then Mom reaches up, because shortie or not, Tweek is a little taller than her now, and pulls his face closer to hers. “I want you to be happy,” she says, bumping her forehead gently against his, before she rubs their noses together like she always used to when Tweek was little.
That pulls a giggle out of him, in spite of how mortally embarrassed he feels, that Mom should walk in on him during this... whatever it was. This spazzing fit disguised as one-man clubbing.
“And I’m so sorry if I embarrassed you with the whole –”
“If you embarrassed me,” Tweek says incredulously, because how could that even be an “if”?
“ – photo thing,” Mom finishes, as she lets go of his cheeks and takes a step back.
“Sorry enough to let me burn that roll of film,” Tweek asks, raising an eyebrow because he already knows the answer.
“Not that sorry,” Mom amends quickly, and then they both just give up and laugh.

The drive back to the house was surprisingly fun, since Tweek’s dad kept up a steady monologue of childhood Tweek stories, interspersed with musings on life and coffee. Now Craig knows stuff like how as a kid, Tweek would never accept any animal-shaped candy or even animal crackers, because he thought they were alive and would get hurt if he ate them. Or how Mr Tweak used to despair of getting him to read anything, until he suddenly found himself peeling Tweek off the window of a comic shop one day. Craig senses that he might be in trouble with the fakes for showing them up during dinner, so it’s been almost relaxing to just let Mr Tweak’s chatter wash over him. Let that distract him from the icy silence emanating from the fakes.
“I’m going to swing by the Valmers,” Mr Tweak says, changing the topic so suddenly that it sort of jerks Craig awake, “After I drop you off. See about getting Helen’s key back from Sarah, and hear how the evening shift went. You guys already met Ryan and Sarah, right? Jimmy’s mother,” he adds, for Craig’s benefit. “She thinks it’s fun, you know,” he goes on, and now Craig can see the house from his spot next to Fake Mom in the back seat, “Running the coffee shop every now and then. I wonder if Ryan tagged along, and they pretended to be us again?”
There’s obviously a story in that, but the only response Mr Tweak gets out of Fake Dad is, “Who knows.”
As Tweek’s dad reverses the Ford up the driveway, reality starts to seep back into Craig’s happy bubble. Sure, Tweek may have kissed him tonight, until he felt like he might explode from happiness, but that still doesn’t change the fact that Mom and Dad are gone… And that their replacements are kind of scary.
Now Mr Tweak cuts the engine, and Fake Dad pops the door on the passenger seat. Craig, sitting directly behind him, awkwardly shoves his own door open. Climbs out into the cool night air, shivering a little in his hoodie.
“Well, here you go,” Mr Tweak says, tossing the keys to Fake dad across the hood of the Ford. “It’s been a pleasure getting to know you, Craig,” he adds, with a cheery smile in Craig’s direction. “Don’t be a stranger, kiddo!”
With that, he saunters off down the road, waving once without looking around.
“Dios mio,” Fake Mom mutters, rolling her eyes up at the sky, “I could kill for a burger right now.”
“There was that truck stop just out of town,” Fake Dad says, “I made a note. Since I know you’re too good for McDonalds.” He’s giving Fake Mom a look that confirms it in Craig’s mind once and for all – they may not be his parents, but they are definitely a couple. They’ve also definitely had too much to drink – hey, piling on the wine when you’re refusing to touch the food will have that effect, he supposes, though they did annihilate Mrs Tweak’s brownies. Is he crazy to hope that they might actually leave him alone for the night, to…
To do what, exactly? Craig’s checked the time table by now, and the last inter-state bus left the South Park terminal for Denver hours ago, back when it was still daylight. Still, just to be alone, and not have to deal with them – hell, maybe he can even borrow the phone at Clyde or Jimmy’s and try to reach Grandma again?
Craig tries for a small, strategic yawn. “I’m just really tired,” he says, calling on all his non-existent acting skills. And I don’t want to be in the car with someone who’s been drinking, he thinks but doesn’t say.
The Fakes exchange one of those looks again, then Fake Mom says, “What about that disgusting little man?” You’d almost think she was talking about Mr Tweak, since the Fakes clearly can’t stand him, except Mr Tweaks is pretty tall. Oh, not as tall as Craig’s dad, but still no slouch in the height department. Must be one of those freak accidents of genetics that Tweek’s so tiny and cute.
“Good idea,” Fake Dad says, yanking Craig out of his thoughts, “I’ll give him a call while you freshen up.”
Fake Mom doesn’t ask Craig if he thinks he’ll be okay on his own – no need pretending when it’s just the three of them, he supposes. She just unlocks the front door and flicks the light switch on, and heads upstairs to their bedroom to do God knows what. Craig up trudges after her, though he’s dying to know who Fake Dad is going to call – he won’t be doing it from here, that’s for sure. No phone lines in the whole house, after all. Looks like Fake Dad is going to wait out in the car, anyway.
Craig tries the bathroom door before he even realizes the shower’s running in there, thank God Fake Mom locked the door. “I’m just washing the incense stink out of my hair, baby,” she calls from in there, obviously thinking it’s Fake Dad. Craig doesn’t bother correcting that assumption. He just stumbles into his empty bedroom, suddenly exhausted, because Tweek kissed him, and Tweek likes him back, and how can everything be so wonderful and so awful all at once?!
Wait. Empty room, my ass, Craig thinks. Someone else is in here, he just knows it.
Moving his broken arm too fast, he flicks the lights on, hissing as the movement jars the still-healing bone. Nothing. Nothing but his clothes on the floor, and the air mattress Clyde lent him, and…
And that shadow, from behind the door.
With a sound between a hiss and a grunt, Craig jumps inside the room, as far away from the door as he can, while also slamming it shut behind him. The sound echoes through the empty house.
And there he is – Mysterion. Looking pretty much exactly like he does on the cover of that comic book Kevin Stoley forced on him, what feels like a hundred years ago now. Except a lot thinner and less muscly. Dirty blonde hair falling over the black mask he’s wrapped across his face, and Craig can see that his nose is swollen under there. His eyes are wide.
“Craig?” It’s Fake Mom, shouting from the bathroom. “Mi vida, what was that bang?”
“Just the draft catching the door, Mom,” Craig calls back, and he can feel his face twisting up from having to call her that. It always leaves a bad taste in his mouth, like old socks or Brussel sprouts.
He and Mysterion both seem to be holding their breath, but there’s nothing more – she’s obviously just gone back to having her shower. Huh, and Craig had thought the Tweaks’ house smelled nice.
“Craig Tucker,” Mysterion says, in a gravelly voice that does not suit his teenager’s body, and suddenly something just clicks in Craig’s head.
“You’re Kenny,” he says, cutting Mysterion off. And while Mysterion is still trying to collect himself from that, Craig reaches over, fingers closing around the material of the mask.
Next thing he knows, he’s getting the wind knocked out of him, as Mysterion – Kenny! – picks him up and slams Craig’s back against the opposite wall. “No,” he growls, then “You can’t…!”
All Craig can do at the moment is pant, anyway. Spots are dancing in front of his eyes, and his arm’s been shaken around so badly that it’s on fire with pain.
“You can’t tell anyone,” Kenny McCormick suddenly says, from behind Mysterion’s mask.
Craig doesn’t reply, but he grabs the mask again, pulling it up and over the other boy’s face. The thing’s a little bit elastic, so it pushes his hair up, makes it stand on end like a dirty blonde broom. And this time, Mysterion just lets him do it.
They stare at each other for the longest time. The two of them are standing so close that they’re literally breathing on each other. Kenny’s eyes are a much paler blue than Tweek’s, a faded cornflower blue. He smells of sweat and dollar-store soap, and Craig suddenly realises that Kenny’s not nearly as skinny as you’d think. That there are muscles bulging underneath those purple clothes, and that he really is standing awfully close.
“Who am I going to tell,” Craig finally says. His voice sounds strange in his own ears, and he can’t help feeling like he’s about to pass out or something.
For the longest few seconds ever, he and Kenny stare at each other. Then, Kenny pulls the mask back down, adjusts it behind his head. His hands, Craig notices, are shaking.
“Thank you,” the other boy says, dropping his voice like an octave and making it all raspy. It’s like a transformation is taking place, right before Craig’s eyes – like he’s watching Kenny morph into Mysterion. He pushes the window facing Clyde’s house all the way open, and sticks his head out for a second. Is he checking if Fake Dad’s looking in this direction? Then, he just swings himself over the window-ledge and out, fast enough to make Craig gasp and run over there.
When he looks out, he realizes at once that of course Mysterion didn’t jump – he’s hugging the drainpipe like some kind of lizard, inching his way down to street level.
“Hmph,” Craig mutters, a little annoyed with himself, “Flashy asshole.”
And then, something Fake Dad said, right before Craig went inside from the car, finally clicks. He’d said he’d call him, whoever this “disgusting little man” is. And he was going to wait in the car. Does that mean…
Craig runs over to the window facing the front yard, yanks it open and leans out as far as he dares, squinting into the night. He’s lucky there’s a streetlight nearby, because he can just make out Fake Dad sitting in the driver’s seat, holding something big and block up against his ear. A cellphone! If only Craig could get hold of that, he could call Grandma whenever he wants. And if Fake Dad actually keeps that thing in the car?
Craig shakes his head. No, why would he? Those things cost a bomb, he’d store it in the house for sure. But where in the house – their bedroom? And there’s something else – don’t cell phones track who you’ve called from them? Maybe if Craig can figure out how it works, he can copy the phone numbers that thing’s already called, and maybe… Maybe that would take him one step closer to finding Mom and Dad.
He yawns, and pulls the window back down so Fake Dad won’t catch him spying. Tomorrow, he decides, yawning again. Tomorrow, he’ll try to get a look at that cellphone!

Chapter Text

Running is good, right? Mysterion’s always thought so. Once he’s hit the ground and scooped his grappling hook up with one shaking hand, balling the line up inside his palm, he runs like he’s got the devil on his heels. Running helps him think. Or not think. Because does he really want to think about almost kissing Craig Tucker back there?
Mysterion dives into the back yard, then across the hedge in one leap, landing in a crouch on the Biggle family’s lawn. He likes girls, goddamn it. Bouncy tits and curvaceous ass. Always has! Grappling hook hits their gutter on the second try, then he’s up the wall and on their roof. Cross that, fast enough to make his head spin, before he flings out his hook and line again. Kenny’s never, ever felt this way about a guy before, but there was just something about Craig back there that… That made him…
No! Focus! He’s Mysterion, not that weakling Kenny, and he needs to keep his head on straight if he doesn’t want to end up as a stain on the ground!
His line hits the outcropping of a window, and Mysterion swings right across the yawning space between the two houses, heart in his throat. Nothing like a nice, death-defying stunt to take his mind off the curve of Craig’s throat, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed, the dusky golden glow of his skin. No, don’t think about that shit!
Mysterion slides down the Valmers’ drainpipe, limbs wrapped around it like a frog, then dashes right out through their front yard, between the red house and the yellow Mazda, and ducks around the side of their hedge. There’s a wide-open stretch of nothing but sidewalk and road until you get to the bus stop, but that’s usually empty this time of…
Mysterion straightens from his crouch; cranes his neck to see if that’s really who he thinks it is. There’s a streetlight more or less next to the bus stop, lighting up the reddish brown hair of the guy waiting there until it almost looks like his head is on fire. And he recognizes that posture, has seen that jacket a hundred times, hanging in the staff room at Tweak Bros.
What are the odds? For a second, he almost turns back, looks for another route. But it really is getting late, and who knows? The people occupying that empty house by the U-Stor-It might’ve displaced a few angry junkies and homeless, who could probably have made it all the way into suburbia by now, hoping to mug anyone who’s out alone this time of night. It’s his duty, really, Mysterion decides, to make sure Mr Tweak gets on his bus safely.
Mr Tweak’s blowing on his hands when Mysterion runs up behind him and climbs the bus sign, quick as a cat. He obviously senses that he’s not alone anymore, because he looks over his shoulder in one direction, then the other, before he finally thinks to look up. That little jump Mr Tweak does reminds Kenny so much of Tweek that he nearly laughs before he catches himself. Mysterion would never laugh.
“Well,” Mr Tweak says, very obviously trying to swallow a small heart attack, “Hey there, Mysterion.”
Kenny’s talked to Mr Tweak as Mysterion before, because he’s been chasing junkies and beggars away from Tweak Bros since right after they hired him. The coffee shop sits smack bang on the invisible fault line between the acceptable part of town (it could never be called nice) and what Kenny’s always thought of as the Badlands. So many customers to harass and threaten out of their pocket change, how could any self-respecting crackhead resist, right? So Mysterion’s kind of made it his special mission to keep the coffee shop safe. Probably improved their take, too, now that people aren’t scared to stop there for a drink after dark.
He realizes, belatedly, that he never responded to Mr Tweak. “Hello,” he growls, putting some extra gravel into his voice. His gun, strapped to his lower back, suddenly feels very cold. And very heavy. Kenny can still see, in slow-mo, the gun falling out of his bag. That look on Mr Tweak’s face. He’s suddenly very grateful for Mysterion’s cape, which should hide it completely from view.
“You know, Mysterion,” Mr Tweak says, clearly bored and happy to talk to just about anybody, “Don’t you think life just sometimes puts things into perspective for you?”
That’s vague enough that it could apply to pretty much anything, but Mysterion still nods. “I guess,” he replies, which is all the encouragement Mr Tweak needs.
“I mean,” Mr Tweak goes on, “Sometimes you’ll see something, and you think, well that’s pretty bad. Only for you to see something ten times worse afterwards,” he pauses for a second to blow on his hands, “And realize how pointless it was to even worry about the first thing?”
“I’m not sure I follow,” Mysterion says – before he pulls his gloves off and tosses them down to Mr Tweak. Oh, Kenny’s sure got his hopes up hearing that, but Mysterion knows to stay detached.
“Oh wow,” Mr Tweak says, his face lighting up as he catches the gloves, “I’m about to share hand-sweat with the famous Mysterion!”
As thanks go, that’s about a weird as they come, but it still makes Mysterion grin in the dark. “Don’t mention it.”
“Yeah, so this kid I employ,” Mr Tweak goes on, “I mean, it was mostly because my wife wanted to. Since his family doesn’t have a lot. But he’s such a hard worker, and we can’t help but like this kid either, you know?”
Mysterion grunts something that might be agreement, or maybe surprise. Of course they’d like an eager little bootlicker like Kenny. He’s pretty sure he knows what’s coming next, so keeping Kenny under wraps is suddenly more important than ever.
“Well,” Mr Tweek draws a deep breath, and lets it out with a sigh, “I caught him with a gun at work today. Oh, not waving it around or anything,” he quickly adds, while he’s pulling the gloves on. “Ah, that’s better!” He’s probably taking Mysterion’s silence as him being too shocked to speak – instead of what it actually is; Mysterion choking down Kenny’s voice, so he won’t start blubbering and apologizing in costume. “I believed him when he said he’d never used it on anyone,” Mr Tweak goes on, “I just…” he spreads his hands, now looking comically clunky in Mysterion’s gloves. Like Mickey Mouse hands, only purple. “Guns frighten me. Especially when they show up somewhere that’s always been…” Mr Tweak looks up, past the street-light where Mysterion is crouched like a skinny gargoyle, “Like a safe haven, I suppose, for my family and me.”
“I get that,” Mysterion says, fighting to keep his voice on, because that pretty much sums up how Kenny’s come to feel about Tweak Bros.
“I still don’t think he should’ve brought a gun into a coffee shop,” Mr Tweak goes on, “And I’ve been tying myself in knots all day, thinking about whether we should let him go or not. But then…”
Mr Tweak is looking up at the moon, Kenny realizes. He remembers how, when he’d first started working at Tweak Bros, Mr Tweak had pointed up at the moon one night as he was locking up. “See those rings around the moon, boys,” he’d said, and while Kevin had been busy playing with his lighter – probably dying for a smoke, but being smart enough not to light up in front of their boss – Kenny had tipped his head back and looked.
It had looked like a cross between a rainbow, he remembers, and the rings around Saturn – only not crossing the moon like a hula-hoop, but glowing all around it. So weirdly beautiful that it made him wonder, at the time, how he’d never noticed the moon having rings before. “That means it’s going to snow tomorrow,” Mr Tweak had said. “Or maybe even tonight.”
“Oh,” Kenny had replied. Kenny’s dad had never bothered teaching him about stuff like that.
“But then,” Mysterion says now, turning it into a question, because he’s just itching to know it he’s right. If Mr Tweak’s decided not to fire him – fire Kenny! – after all.
“Then I spent an evening with the most awful couple I’ve ever met,” Mr Tweak says, “And I realized what I should be doing is reporting them to social services, for how badly they’re neglecting their son.” Then he lets out a quiet huff of laughter. “My wife’s probably digging up their number right now, actually. You’d almost think…” Mr Tweak’s voice trails off, and he doesn’t say anything for what must be a full minute. “You’d almost think they’d kidnapped the boy,” he suddenly says, very softly.
Mysterion feels his eyebrows crawl all the way up to his hairline underneath his mask. “What makes you say that,” he growls, hoping he doesn’t sound too eager.
“They don’t seem to know the first thing about him,” Mr Tweak replies. “Oh, I know Tweek tries to keep secrets from us,” he quickly adds, and Kenny has to hide a smirk at that “tries”, “But Craig told a story about himself as a baby that just…” he spreads his purple-gloved hands, like he’s trying to pull the words out of the air, “Took them by surprise. And there were a lot of those…” he falters again, clearly trying to put his thoughts in order, “Those moments, that didn’t add up.”
Then he looks up at Mysterion, who suddenly realizes this adult is standing there waiting to hear his opinion. “You should do the right thing,” he replies, because that’s the credo he tries to live by, “Whatever you think that is.”
That’s when the local bus trundles into view, and Mr Tweaks starts pulling his borrowed gloves off. “Thanks,” he says, holding them up so Mysterion can take them, “For –“
But Mysterion’s off as soon as his hand’s closed around those gloves, not even pausing to put them back on before he slides down the pole of the bus sign, and disappears into the night.

Tweek was expecting to sleep in, and then have a mildly awkward Sunday breakfast with Kenny, who’s been issued an invitation by pager. He wasn’t expecting the doorbell to ring at the buttcrack of dawn, that’s for sure. Either way, he decides it’s not his problem, and just rolls over on his side. If it’s Mormons, they’ll probably take the hint and go away soon.
He rolls over on his side, and is almost asleep when somebody leans on the bell again. Grunting with irritation, Tweek raises his head just high enough to grab the pillow, so he can cover his whole head with it. Whoever this is, his parents can deal with them.
Just before he drifts off to sleep, he hears a thump and a groggy “Goddamn it, Helen.” Good, that means Dad’ll sort out this early AM asshole, Tweek thinks.
Next thing he knows, Dad’s shouting, and at the volume you’d use if the house was on fire, “Tweek! Jimmy’s here!”
Tweek sits bolt upright – so fast, he almost falls out of bed. “Gah,” he yelps, catching himself gracelessly with one foot on the floor, left hand clinging to the sheets, right arm flailing madly. “Jesus!”
“No, not Jesus,” comes another shout from downstairs, “Jimmy!”
Tweek just growls quietly to himself, rather than dignify that with an actual answer. He doesn’t waste time trying to dig his slippers out from under the bed, he just tells himself he can’t feel the cold – Hah! – and sprints downstairs in his bare feet and Wolverine pyjamas. The top and bottom aren’t part of a set; but they go together perfectly. The pants are blue, and covered in tiny pictures of the feisty little X-man along with the word “Wolverine” in bright yellow letters. Token got him those for Christmas last year, and they still fit like a charm because Tweek barely even grows, only now they’re extra soft from being washed like a million times. And he got the T-shirt at Old Navy. It’s got Wolverine’s costumed body in mid-run printed from the neckline down, meaning when you put your head through the neck hole you are Wolverine. Tweek wound up sneaking back there to buy a spare, just because he loves this ridiculous shirt so much.
Jimmy’s waiting downstairs, perched on the sofa and literally quivering with excitement. He’s wearing banana yellow track-pants and his knitted grey sweater with the elbow patches; the mornings are getting colder now.
“Heya, F-Furrball,” Jimmy says, when Tweek sticks his head round the living room door. That’s always been his special nickname for Tweek, since Tweek’s hair has its own personality and sometimes its own postcode.
“Coffee,” Tweek mutters, sniffing the air hopefully.
Jimmy just points over his shoulder with his thumb, and Tweek can see that Dad’s put the coffee maker on; that’s the great thing about having one in the living room. It’s already gurgling away, and spreading the beautiful smell of the Guatemala blend through the ground floor. Perfect. He pads over to join Jimmy on the sofa, and accidentally yawns right in his face instead of saying good morning.
“My p-parents gave me a lift on the w-way to church,” Jimmy says, and it’s like he’s suddenly realized how early he’s shown up unannounced. He’s actually blushing, which is kind of cute.
“I’m going to take one upstairs to your mother,” Dad says from the kitchen, and Tweek can hear the clattering of mugs. “You boys,” Dad interrupts himself to yawn, it’s contagious after all, “Help yourselves, all right?”
“Sure,” Tweek replies, trying to rub the gunk out of his eyes with the side of his hand. “Jimmy? Want me to froth up some milk for you?” Jimmy’s absolutely nuts about Cappuccinos, and will literally not order any other drink at Tweak Bros.
“If you d-don’t m-m-mind?” Jimmy’s stutter is always more pronounced in the mornings, like he’s not had the chance to warm up his voice properly. Once Jimmy’s been talking for a while, the stutter’s less… there. “There’s s-something I need to t-t-t…”
Tweek yawns enormously, like those snakes who can unhinge their jaws. He’ll think better with some coffee inside him. “Sorry, dude,” he mutters, clapping a hand on Jimmy’s shoulder. “But coffee first, okay?”
Jimmy nods, clearly annoyed with himself for getting stuck like that. Tweek slips the coffee pot out of the machine before he pads into the kitchen, carrying it as carefully as if it were a sacred relic or something. Jimmy follows him, crutches clack-clack-clack’ing against the floor.
Just as well Tweek’s used to getting up early; his body works on autopilot. Turning on the big coffee machine in the kitchen just to use the steamer, pouring milk in the dented metal jug. Spur of the moment, he decides he’s got enough milk in there to fluff up his own coffee a little. Might not be bad. He grabs his own favorite mug first, the cone-shaped green tartan one, before he roots around in the cupboards for the ugly mug Jimmy always picks. It’s one Dad got for free at some conference he went to, oh, two years ago now? Regular sized and plain white, with the words “New Millennium? New Coffee!” wrapped around it in hideous yellow bubble letters. The only reason it’s even in their house in the first place, is that Dad forgot to throw it out before he drove back home. Mom had just rinsed it and put it in the cupboard, and then Jimmy had spotted it and declared this was his new favorite mug in the world. Tweek had immediately tried to give it to him, then Jimmy had acted all hurt that he didn’t get to have his very own mug at Tweek’s house, so Tweek had thrown a sofa cushion at him and just given up.
Jimmy actually stays quiet, and waits until Tweek’s brought the hot milk out, finished making both their drinks and carried them over to the coffee table. Even then, it’s only after Tweek’s taken the first sip from his Tartan mug that Jimmy says, “We b-broke into Craig’s house last night.”
“You what?!” Tweek barely has time to taste that mouthful before he spits it right back into his mug. “You why?! And who’s “we”,” he adds, wiping his face in case there’s milk foam or drool. Then it dawns on him. “Oh God, of course. Clyde.” Token would never agree to do something so reckless, but Jimmy probably had Clyde convinced it’d be like some kind of James Bond adventure.
“W-well, yeah,” Jimmy says with a shrug, before he has a good, long slurp out of his Millennium mug. “And it w-wasn’t just us, M-M-Mysterion showed up and helped us s-s-s… Ransack the place!
Tweek’s eyes widen. “Mysterion?”
If Mysterion’s gone and taken an interest in the fake Mr and Mrs Tucker, how much danger does that mean Craig is in? Tweek can feel his palms going sweaty just from thinking about it.
“And there’s d-d-definitely some shady sh-sh-sh-sh…” Jimmy closes his eyes and draws a deep breath through his nose, like he’s pissing himself off with his stutter. Tweek knows better than to suggest the word that’s got stuck; Kyle does that stuff all the time and Jimmy hates him for it. “…stuff going on there” Jimmy finishes, glaring from under those bushy eyebrows. “Like, they had all this c-cash tucked away? Two thousand dollars, all in perf–”
“Two thousand dollars,” Tweek echoes, talking right over whatever Jimmy’s trying to say. “That’s like, drug lord levels of money!” He doesn’t really know why it’s drugs his brain leaps to first, except maybe, subconsciously, it’s prompted by Cartman trying to plant weed in his locker. “Dude, we’ve gotta get Craig out of there before he gets hurt! More hurt,” he quickly amends; Craig’s got a busted arm after all. “Maybe they’re smuggling drugs in from Peru, and they need Craig to be their mule because he’s Peruvian? I mean, originally?!”
Jimmy blinks at him. “Okay? That d-doesn’t really m-make sense at all.”
Tweek can feel the frustration coming to a boil in his belly; all those hours spent worrying about Craig, and wondering if Craig might like him back… And now, wondering if he’s even allowed to tell people that Craig likes him back. “Craig’s obviously the key to something huge,” he snaps, “Like, maybe his biological dad is like some South American crime lord, okay? And he only just found out where his son got adopted to, and so he paid this super creepy couple to kidnap him, and…” Tweek can feel himself starting to run out of steam, and that’s where Jimmy sees an opening.
“And do what, exactly,” Jimmy counters, spreading his hands. “M-move to the armpit of N-N-Nowheresville, Colorado with him? If your, uh, theory,” calling it a theory seems to cost Jimmy a lot of integrity points, “Holds any w-water w-w-whatsoever, w-wouldn’t they be on the first plane to Lima by now?”
“Well, obviously,” Tweek says, a little stung, “They’re just biding their time. Because of… Something,” he finishes lamely. “But anyway, that’s beside the point!” He can feel himself starting to get agitated now. “The point is that Craig’s in danger, dude!”
Jimmy does not treat this statement with the gravity it deserves. He just gives Tweek this weirdly direct stare and says, “Stop the b-bus. You are way too w-w-worried about Craig. Did something hap–”
Immediately, Tweek’s face explodes into blushing. “Uh, no,” he blurts out, “It most totally did not.”
Jimmy just sits back on the sofa, mouth sliding open. “Holy shit,” he says, reaching for his cappuccino, “You m-made out with Craig. Didn’t you?”
“Uh,” Tweek says, dropping his gaze to his tartan mug – he’s actually forgotten to drink his coffee, which has got to be a lifetime first. “Maybe?”
“Dude!” Jimmy slaps him on the back, hard enough to make Tweek’s cappuccino slosh around alarmingly, “I knew it! That guy who gave him the c-c-camera was his ex, right?”
It takes Tweek a few seconds to find his voice. “Are you literally a psychic?”
That makes Jimmy laugh. “No, dude – I run the school p-paper! I know an expensive c-camera when I see one. Nobody gives their friend something like that!”
“Oh.” That’s a rather boring explanation, Tweek thinks but doesn’t say. Of course Jimmy’s fact-finding journalist brain would pick up on that kind of detail. He has a sip of his coffee, and feels his shoulders unknot a little as that familiar warmth spreads through him. “That… makes sense, I guess.”
“So, are you guys dating now,” Jimmy asks, not stuttering at all, and leaning forwards like he’s expecting Tweek to say yes. But there are no easy answers to that.
“I, uh… I actually have no idea?” His throat suddenly feels all dry, so Tweek has some more coffee. Which has the added bonus of letting him look down into his mug instead of at Jimmy’s concerned face. ”Like, I want to, obviously, but we didn’t talk about it, and I… I don’t think he’d want the fakes to find out?”
“Or anyone,” Jimmy asks, with irritatingly sharp insight.
“Well, I mean,” Tweek can feel himself starting to get a little annoyed. “That’s up to him, isn’t it? Who he wants to tell.”
Jimmy suddenly reaches out to muss Tweek’s hair, startling the bejezus out of him. “W-wanna do a spread on it,” he asks, and Tweek twitches like he just got struck by lightning.
“Gah! Of course! Why didn’t I think of that, Jesus!”
“It’s just Jimmy,” Jimmy drawls, but Tweek’s already halfway up the stairs and doesn’t have time to stop and answer.
He digs out his cards from where he hid them last night, and runs back down, taking the stairs two steps at a time. Seriously, why didn’t he think of asking the tarot, as soon as Jimmy said “Two thousand dollars”?!
Once he’s downstairs, Tweek clears everything but their mugs off the coffee table, sits right down on the rug and starts shuffling. “Please,” he says out loud, feeling a little silly because Jimmy’s there, Mr Rational Thought himself. Then again, Jimmy was the one who suggested the cards, so he can’t think they’re total hokum. “I have no idea what’s going on, so… Can you show us what’s going to happen? I mean, with Craig and stuff?”
Tweek closes his eyes for just a second, and then he makes a point of watching his own hands while he’s doing the spread. He only glances at the cards, to make sure they’re not coming down wonky or whatever, until he’s put the tenth card down. Then he draws a deep breath, and looks, really looks at the Celtic Cross on the table.
“Holy shit,” he mutters, because there are a lot of Major Arcana down there, and a lot of swords. The only non-sword minor cards there are the Ten of Wands and Two of Cups. That one’s in the fifth position – the direct past. Tweek feels his cheek starting to heat up a little; no second-guessing what that’s referring to.
“The hanky-panky card,” Jimmy says solemnly, tapping the Two of Cups with his finger.
Tweek growls and slaps his hand away, but now his face is literally glowing hot. “So, the first card,” he says, wrenching this reading back on track, “Is the Ten of Wands, upside down. Which stands for, um…” he frowns, trying to remember, “Intrigues and deceit. Somebody conspiring against you.”
“Or p-p-pretending to be your p-parents,” Jimmy suggests, and Tweek grins at him.
“Exactly. So what’s working against that,” he taps the second card, which is lying straight across the Ten of Wands, “Is the Ace of Swords.” He swallows. “I’d normally say this card’s the sign of a new beginning, but… It can also mean that you’re forced to make a hard choice, while you’re stuck between a rock and a hard place.”
“Like a “Should I stay or should I go” kind of choice,” Jimmy asks, raising one bushy eyebrow. “I mean, Craig’s been s-s-s… hanging around in case he finds any c-clues about his real p-parents, right?”
“But he may need to get the hell out of Dodge,” Tweek agrees. “Or, well, South Park.” He doesn’t like the idea of Craig leaving at all, but if it’s the only way to keep him safe…? Then there’s no question. And it’s not like Craig would have to leave forever. Right?
“Okay, so,” Tweek looks at the third card, and swallows, “This isn’t as bad as it looks.” He always feels like he needs to say that, when the Death card shows up. Skull dude riding a horse and waving a scythe around tends to make people nervous.
“It just m-means a bit of a change, right?” Of course, Jimmy has sat through many a tarot reading. He’s not going to freak out at the sight of Death. “And not n-necessarily a change from alive to dead.” He grins at Tweek, like he wants to make sure Tweek knows he’s kidding.
“Well, yeah,” Tweek agrees, frowning. “But the change doesn’t always end up being good. And sometimes, the Death card is saying, you’ve got to break a few eggs to make an omelette, you know?”
“So that’s o-one card that means new b-b-beginnings,” Jimmy taps the Ace of Swords, “And another that means change.” A small shiver runs down Tweek’s spine, because he can see it too – this pattern that’s adding up, without them being quite able to see what the pattern is.
He nods, then has a fortifying sip of coffee. “The next one’s easy, though,” he says, pointing at the fourth card – the Four of Swords. “Craig was feeling isolated before, all alone. But that’s in the past,” he gives Jimmy a shaky smile, “Because now he’s got us, right?” It’s cheesy as hell, and he’s half expecting the other boy to start ribbing him for it. But Jimmy just nods and says, “Makes sense.”
“Which takes us s-s-straight to hanky-panky,” Jimmy tells him, loudly and cheerfully, just as Mom shuffles into the living room.
She’s wearing her mint-green bathrobe with the flower print over her nightie, shivering a little as she huddles over her favorite mug; which is also mint-green but covered in white polka dots. For a second, the awkwardness is downright lethal, but then Mom just laughs and says, “It’s always hanky-panky with you, Jimmy.”
That breaks the tension right up; Jimmy laughs and says, “You know me, M-Mrs Tweak!” Even Tweek manages a weak giggle. “Best dream ever,” he adds, very quietly, and Tweek’s giggle dries right up.
“Asshole,” he growls, giving Jimmy a death glare, because this is The Thing They Don’t Talk About, Ever.
“Tweek, language,” Mom snaps, turning around to point at him. Which doesn’t look very threatening at all, since she’s only wearing a bathrobe. “You’re staying for breakfast right, Jimmy,” Mom goes on, like it’s a done deal, before shuffling into the kitchen. Like Tweek, she always ends up going barefoot. “We have so many leftovers from last night!”
“Craig ate like a horse,” Tweek tells Jimmy loyally, before he does air-quotes with his fingers; “It was his “parents” who didn’t like anything.”
“Figures,” Jimmy says, all serious. “N-nothing gives you an appetite like hanky-p-panky.”
“Gah! Will you stop saying – ”
“But hanky-panky aside,” Jimmy drawls, as he flips the Two of Cups over, patter-side up, the way Clyde always does with the Queen of Swords. He looks please that he managed to say it without stuttering this time; his voice really is starting to “warm up”. “D-doesn’t the n-next card literally m-mean “Getting out of D-Dodge”?”
The sixth card is another future-card, and yes – it’s the six of swords, which has two people being taken across a river in a boat. The symbolism is pretty damn unsubtle, which Tweek used to like because it made this card easy to memorize. But now, he doesn’t like it one bit. “I mean,” he says, “Basically, yeah. The person you’re asking about is going to travel somewhere. Craig’s really gonna go, huh,” he adds, completely without meaning to, dropping his gaze to the mug in his hands. It’s supposed to be a Christmas mug, but since the Tweaks don’t believe in Christmas, and more importantly this mug has got great capacity, Tweek pretty much uses this thing every day of the year.
Now that they’ve both gone all quiet, he can just about make out the sound of the shower from upstairs, and Dad’s voice, singing “We Are the Champions”.
Jimmy’s hand lands on his head, mussing his hair roughly. “Doesn’t m-mean he’ll be gone f-f-forever,” Jimmy says, and leaves his hand right there while Tweek nods.
“I, I guess,” Tweek mutters, before he draws a deep breath and rubs his hand over his eyes. “Right, let me just finish this, before Kenny gets here.”
“Kenny?” Jimmy pulls his hand back, surprised. There are limits to friendship amnesty, after all. “Why’s Kenny…?”
“Oh, my mom and dad just invited him over to tell him he’s not fired,” Tweek explains, “Because he brought a gun to Tweak Bros.”
Jimmy blinks. “Kenny,” he says. “Our Kenny? W-with a g-g-gun?” Shocked enough that the stutter’s coming back.
“Yeah,” Tweek’s composed himself enough for eye contact by now, so he looks up and shrugs. “I guess, because of where he lives… That might seem normal to him?”
Jimmy lets out a nervous little laugh. “I c-can’t really see Kenny sh-shooting up T-Tweak Bros, you know?”
“Right,” Tweek agrees, before he gives himself a little shake. “Okay, so Craig’s point of view card is the Moon. That makes sense. It basically means he knows he’s in danger, and he’s trying to be careful. And what everyone around Craig thinks…” He taps the eighth card, the Ten of Swords, “Is that he’s caught up in a really dangerous, shitty situation that’s about to, like, explode,” Tweek spreads his hands wide, “Into a full-blown shitstorm.”
“The writing’s on the w-wall, isn’t it,” Jimmy agrees, nodding thoughtfully. “Whatever the Fakes are up to…”
“They can’t keep it up forever,” Tweek says, finishing the sentence for him. Unless they’ve killed Craig’s real parents, of course. Then they can probably keep on living their lives, pretty much forever. “Craig’s hopes and fears are the Star,” he goes on, ploughing through the reading now that there’s a deadline, “Which makes sense. He’s hoping all his problems’ll go away, and that there’s a better future waiting just around the corner. But then…” Tweek picks up the final card, “There’s this.”
On the tenth card, two people are flinging themselves out of a tower that’s been struck by lightning. It’s probably the absolute worst card in the entire deck, way worse than Death because change can have a positive outcome. Even upside down, there’s no bright side to the Tower – that just mean the coming disaster is slightly less devastating than when the card is the right way up. And it’s right way up now, as a matter of fact.
“The Tower,” Tweek gives Jimmy a very level look, “Is basically Shitmageddon.”
“Ah.” Jimmy clears his throat. “So the sh-shitstorm gets an upgrade.” He tips his mug back and finishes his cappuccino in big one gulp, like it’s hard liquor and he needs it to fortify himself. “Then I guess we’d b-better find a way to get Craig out of South Park before whatever happens… happens.”
Tweek hates it, but Jimmy is absolutely right. “Craig’s always trying to get hold of his grandma in Denver,” he says, “So it makes sense for him to just go there. Find the one grown-up who can confirm that the Fakes aren’t his parents, and bring her back here.”
“Can C-Craig afford the b-bus ticket, though,” Jimmy asks, like he already knows the answer is no. But before Tweek can confirm that, the doorbell rings, and he just about spits out his own heart and lungs.
“Jesus Christ,” he screams, before he’s got himself and his nerves under control. It’s just Kenny, after all. “I’d better go let him in,” Tweek says, hastily scooping the tarot cards back up and balling the silk scarf around them. The whole bundle just fits inside his back pocket, thanks be to Sidhartha and Gautama both. He turns around abruptly, to poke his finger into Jimmy’s chest. “But whatever you do,” he whispers fiercely, “Don’t talk about me kissing Craig! Okay?”
In spite of everything, Jimmy grins. “Then d-don’t talk about me b-b-breaking into Craig’s house!”
“Deal,” Tweek tells him solemnly.
Jimmy reaches out to muss Tweek’s hair some more. “D-Deal,” he says, with a firm nod.

It’s Sunday morning and Craig is up way too early, wearing a baggy blue suit he’s borrowed from Clyde and glaring up at the sun. At least he doesn’t have to do this bullshit alone; Clyde is right next to him, ridiculously excited to have a church buddy.
“Token goes too, of course,” he’s saying, literally hopping from foot to foot, “But his family goes with Nicole’s family now? So they always sit together. And Jimmy’s an atheist, so he doesn’t go at all.”
“Lucky Jimmy,” Craig mutters, tugging on his shirt collar. This is one of Clyde’s own shirts that he seems to have literally hulked out of, because there are a few buttons missing. He also gave Craig a very fitted white T-shirt to wear underneath it though – it’s got the Adidas leaf on it, so Craig’s wearing it inside out. This whole outfit would look even dorkier with that damn logo showing through his shirt. Also, the suit (another Clyde-me-down) is navy blue, so at least that’s something. It even sort of fits him, though the sleeves are a bit short and the pants end at Craig’s ankles, showing off his solar system socks – his last clean pair.
Earlier this morning, Fake Mom dragged Craig out of his cosy nest on top of the air mattress at exactly five minutes past seven. He’s been having a vague but very lovely dream about Tweek; one he’d instantly forgotten as soon as Fake Mom had started shaking his arm and Craig had opened his eyes. Goddamn it. At least she’d factored in time for a shower, and by now, Craig’s used to showering with a plastic Target bag over his cast, holding his arm out over the edge of the gross old bathtub.
Fake Dad isn’t coming; which on the one hand seems incredibly unfair. But on the other? Thank God. And Craig doesn’t even believe in any kind of God.
Right now, Fake Mom’s busy making small talk with Mr Donovan. She’s dressed kind of flashy, compared to the other parents. She’s wearing this long-sleeved, silky wrap dress, in a colour that’s either a greeny-beige or gold, depending on whether she’s standing in the light or shade. That thing covers more of her right leg than it does of her left, where she’s showing rather a lot of leg. Not to mention the neckline sort of… plunges? Craig’s never had any interest in boobs, but he keeps catching Clyde, and Clyde’s dad, peering at Fake Mom’s knockers when they think he’s not looking. She’s attached a bee-shaped pin, right above her heart, that’s got pearls set all over the wings. Fake pearls, probably. And she’s wearing high heels, navy blue to match the stripes on the bee pin, with sequins stitched into them. The ugly handbag is, of course, also draped over her arm. It’s still warm enough that they don’t really need coats, so Fake Mom’s wearing hers draped over her shoulders like a cape. The whole effect is more that of a movie star going to a premiere than of somebody’s mother going to church.
From across the throng of people huddled outside the Church – and why the hell would you even show up early for this? – Craig spots Token and Nicole, huddled next to a small group of grownups. Token’s pale grey suit looks like it was literally made for him, while Nicole’s wearing a long, yellow dress with white polka dots; and matching yellow scrunchies in her hair. Token sees him, raising one long arm in a wave. Craig returns that single, slow wave, while next to him, Clyde waves like a puppy wagging its tail.
“Oh, this is gonna be great,” he says, and Craig can’t not roll his eyes.
“Hey, Clyde.”
Both boys turn around, and there’s Bebe – Craig actually remembers her name by now – twirling a long, blonde curl between two fingers and standing in this weird, sideways pose that makes her butt stick out. There’s obviously some Grade A flirting about to go down, and Craig doesn’t want any part of it.
“Uh,” Clyde says, tugging at his burgundy necktie, “Hey, Bebe.”
At least Bebe, who Craig has to admit is objectively good-looking, is dressed kind of modestly. Sure, that bright red lace dress and short white jacket combo doesn’t exactly fade into the background. But there’s no cleavage on display at all, and the skirt covers her knees. Up this close, Craig can see that there are tiny bows on her flat shoes, also white. The thought sneaks into his head, entirely unasked-for, that if Tricia was forced to go to Church, she’d do it in combat boots.
“We went to the roller rink at the mall,” Bebe says, clearly trying to include Craig in their inane little chat. Is this girl actually making an effort? At being friends? “Clyde even got us in for free!” She makes this sound impressive, and not like Clyde was being a cheapskate.
“My dad’s friends with the owner.” Clyde shrugs, blushing a little. “I tried to pay, but he wouldn’t let me. But then there was this kids’ birthday party going on at the same time? I had no idea, but…”
“They were so cute, though!” Bebe’s smile gains a bit of warmth, like she actually likes little kids. Huh, Craig’s got a baby sister she can borrow. If he can ever get his real family back, that is. “It was just us, skating around in this sea of kids that only came up to here,” she holds a hand up to her waist, palm down. The looks over at Clyde, and now her smile is just for him. “I had fun, anyway.”
“Oh, I had too! Fun, I mean! Uh…” By now, Clyde is tomato red, and Craig is so done with this conversation.
And then, he feels it. Someone’s glare is making the back of his neck tingle. Craig turns around and yup, that’s Stan Marsh all right. Wearing a black suit and tie, his hair combed sideways, his eyes practically glowing with hatred. “You could argue,” Craig drawls, soft enough for only Clyde and Bebe to hear, “That a busted nose makes him look manlier.”
Bebe giggles into her hand, looking up at Craig like she can’t believe he just said that. But Clyde doesn’t seem to know the meaning of the word “quiet”, and his happy laugh is loud and booming. He’s staring right at Stan too, because of course he would be, and Stan’s glare intensifies.
“Where’re the lackeys,” Craig asks, more to make Clyde stop laughing than because he actually gives a damn.
“Huh? Oh, you mean Kyle and Kenny?” Clyde frowns, scratching his carefully wet-combed hair as he looks around the small crowd. “Kenny would normally be here, but Kyle’s Jewish, you know?”
“Oh,” Craig says, and thinks, Broflovski. “Right, of course he is.”
Either way, this means Stan Marsh is on his own – more or less. Some girl Craig vaguely remembers from class runs over to where he’s standing with his family, only to hurry away again, her long dark hair flapping out behind her, after a quick exchange with Stan. And not like she’s left something in her parents’ car, more like she needs to find somewhere to hide before she starts crying.
“I’m going to say hi to Wendy,” Bebe tells them, all casual, before she makes a very fast beeline for the other girl. Craig can see her catch up, and casually weave her arm through the other girl’s arm.
“Isn’t Bebe just the best,” Clyde gushes, but Craig is too busy giving Stan’s family the once-over to talk to Clyde right now. What kind of parents raised this asshole, who just made a girl cry in front of half the damn town?
There’s a mousy-haired mom, a dad with a guitar case resting against his leg (why?) and a stache to rival Fake Dad’s, and a sister who looks like a dude in a dress. But yeah, for all intents and purposes, that asshole is all by his lonesome, isn’t he. No Kyle, no Kenny. So Craig glares back, and makes sure he’s got eye contact before he gives Stan the finger.
“Dude,” Clyde whispers, breathless with admiration.
Stan’s glare intensifies, but he can’t exactly retaliate from within the warm bosom of his family, now can he? So Craig takes his time about lowering that finger, before he slips his arm back in the sling. He’s pretty much pain free today, since he took two of Kenny’s painkillers after he’d dived out the window, and another one this morning. Kenny throwing him against that wall had made Craig’s busted arm hurt so damn much; that he’d just plain had to.
Is that why Kenny’s staying away? Craig promised not to tell anyone about the whole secret identity bullshit, so it’s not like Kenny needs to worry.
Finally, the church doors swing open, and everybody troops inside. Two by two, like the animals trudging into Noah’s ark. Which is, Craig’s always thought, the most retarded concept in the whole Bible. Like, how can you stash two of every animal below-decks in one ship, however big, and expect them not to start eating one another? Not to mention the inbreeding you’d have, trying to restore the earth’s whole population of lions or impalas or whatever from the one pair.
The animals would all end up extinct anyway, he thinks, then suddenly jerks back as Clyde holds two fingers up in front of his eyes. “Dude, what the hell,” he snaps, jumping backwards and jostling Mr Donovan. Clyde’s dad is wearing this threadbare brown suit with flared legs, and there’s a small stain on his tie, which is a lighter shade of brown. Craig knows that if his Dad tried to leave home in a suit like this, Mom would not only stop him and force him to get changed. She’d bundle up the whole sorry outfit in a trash bag too, and tell Dad to drop it off at Goodwill on his way to wherever he’d be going. Damn, but he misses them.
Clyde laughs nervously. “Chill, Craig, I’m only offering you holy water! That’s what friends do,” he adds in what’s probably supposed to be a whisper, “So hold still; okay?”
There’s a line forming behind them now, so Craig just grunts “Fine” and lets Clyde draw a cross in the air over his face. Clyde doesn’t look like he expects Craig to return the favour, and that’s a good thing. Craig probably wouldn’t be able to stop himself from drawing an upside-down pentagram in the air instead.
The two of them scoot over all the way to the side of a bench, with Craig on the outside so he can at least avoid Fake Mom and the stink of her perfume for however long this nonsense is going to take. Token, sitting all the way up on the second row – either his or Nicole’s parents seem to be taking their Jesus time very seriously – turns around and gives them another, smaller wave. Again, Craig waves discreetly back. Token’s also scored a side seat, but he’s separated from his girlfriend by one set of parents. Sucks for him.
Suddenly the pipe organ on the wall cranks loudly into life, and Craig jumps in his seat. Now the priest’s walking up the aisle, swinging an incense burner belching smoke. Craig can feel his nose scrunching up; the incense at Tweek’s house smelled way better than this. He’s followed by a bunch of guys wearing the same black-and-white robes, and Craig recognizes Scott Malkinson from class. He’s walking right behind the guy carrying the tall cross, holding some kind of candlestick in both hands. All around Craig, people are starting to sing in time with the organ – some kind of hymn, he supposes, though it’s all in a language he doesn’t understand. Latin, probably. Back when life was normal, Craig’s dad used to love “translating” the most random stuff into pig Latin and sliding it into conversations, looking so ridiculously pleased with himself. Craig remembers almost dying of embarrassment when his dad had been talking to the guys who drove the garbage truck up their old street, and saying “Non est garbagio, nous ignoraris”, while they all looked at Dad like he’d grown a second head. Because the motto painted on the side of their truck had been “There is no garbage we’ll ignore.”
“As we prepare to celebrate the mystery of Christ’s love,” the priest’s voice rings out, “Let us reflect on our sins, and ask the Lord for his pardon!”
Everybody in there ducks their head, Craig a fraction of a second later than the rest of the congregation. The whole church goes deathly quiet. You’re probably supposed to reflect on your sins for real now; but Clyde turns his head so only Craig can see, pulling a face and crossing his eyes. Craig quickly chokes down a laugh – that asshole! – and stares very hard at his blue Converse.
He’s so damn lucky, Craig realizes, that he scored a side seat with Clyde next to him. Clyde sings with as much gusto as he applies to talking, so fingers crossed Fake Mom will think the other boy’s drowning him out. Craig just keeps a low profile during the whole, boring-ass service, opening his mouth and sort of miming along whenever you’re supposed to sing.
It seems to go on forever, and at least there are bits where the priest reads out stuff for the congregation to repeat; hard to mess that up. Eventually, they all troop up to the altar, bench by bench, to kneel there and accept their sip of sacramental wine, and that’s when Craig starts to have serious second thoughts.
Obviously, Craig knows what the Eucharist is. They forced everybody to go to Church for Christmas and Easter, back at his old school. But those services had always been shorter, in nothing but English. Because Craig had always been sitting next to Thomas – nobody else wanted to – they’d even been allowed to sit way at the back. Where you could get away with talking if you were quiet, and skip out on the Eucharist because it was a voluntary thing. But here, well… you’re not supposed to do that crap, are you, unless you’re a real Catholic. That nervous look Clyde is giving him only confirms his suspicions.
“I’ll sit this one out,” Craig whispers, and the other boy gives him a relieved grin. Clyde could obviously tell Craig didn’t know his asshole from his Ave Maria.
Craig sinks back into the pew behind him, crossing his ankles on the kneeling bench in front of him. Catching a few winks while everybody else goes up there to chow down on the body of Christ – it sounds like a plan.
After the Eucharist, the rest of the time is spent sitting on their asses, except when they’re getting up to kneel for some reason. It’s all so damn boring that Craig could almost fall asleep. But then, amazingly, there appears to be some kind of open mike thing going on. Because there’s Stan’s dad, sitting down on a stool right in front of the altar, guitar balanced on one knee. Scott Malkinson’s brought a microphone on a stand from somewhere, placing it right in front of Mr Marsh while he strums – first what sounds like some kind of warmup, and then one loud, dramatic chord that makes half the congregation jump.
“Oh God,” he half says, half sings, while Craig feels his eyes widen in disbelief, “Spoke to me the other day!” He’s talk-singing, just like William Shatner does on TV! “And what did the good Lord have to say?” It’s the most amazingly awful thing Craig’s ever heard. “He said, Randy! Hey!” The strumming intensifies, and Mr Marsh is squinting with what could be concentration, or maybe the start of some kind of seizure. “Sometimes life seems kinda grim, but that’s when you gotta believe in him!”
“Shouldn’t that be “me”, not “him,” ” Craig mutters, but there’s no reply. He risks a glance at Clyde, who looks like he’s one breath away from losing his shit. Craig knows the feeling, all right – it’s probably best if he doesn’t look at Clyde at all.
Mr Marsh – or Randy to the Good Lord – keeps right on singing, and you could seriously hear a pin drop in here, whenever he stops strumming for a second. The whole song, if you can even call it that, is a sort of conversation between him and God. Topics range between everything from Jesus to recycling, and Craig can feel the laughter bubbling inside him, like vomit fighting to come out.
“So then I said, Now listen up, God,” Mr Marsh talk-sings, and that’s when Craig sees Token get up from his side seat. “This whole thing’s starting to look kinda odd. A retard’s a retard, and bottles and condoms…” Token dives for the door next to the altar, the one with a red light above it. “…Are both made of plastic, I know ‘cause I’ve got some!” Craig can already feel Clyde pushing his good arm, desperate to escape. “What’s the point if you can’t recycle all plastics...” It’s not like he can take it anymore, either, so Craig jumps to his feet and runs for the same door Token disappeared through. “When Down’s Syndrome kids are just tards, like the spastics?” The soles of his Converse are clomping on the stone floor, echoing through the whole church, and Clyde is hot on his heels.
They burst into the little room back there to find Token bent double in his effort to stay quiet. He’s bracing one arm against metal box with a lock on it that sits right in the middle of the room, on a small pedestal, and doesn’t even seem to notice that he’s not alone anymore. Normally Craig would wonder what they keep in that box (choir boy porn?) but right now, all he cares about is keeping his mouth shut.
“At least Jimmy’s not here,” Clyde groans, leaning forward with his hands on his knees.
Token looks up, sees the two of them, and that’s it. Then they’re all hanging off one another and howling. Gasping for air, tears of laughter running down their faces. And it feels so good to laugh, really laugh, and not give a damn for once.

Chapter Text

After Kenny’s kicked off his sneakers and hung his orange parka up in the hallway, he shuffles into the Tweaks’ house on his stockinged feet. His right big toe has made a huge hole in one of them, and the left heel’s been worn so thin that Kenny can feel the draft across the back of his foot. He didn’t think too much about that when he put them on this morning, but now he discreetly slides his right foot along the carpet, trying to twist the sock so at least his big toe won’t be sticking out. After all, regular people throw out their socks when they get this gross. Also, there’s Jimmy Valmer, who’s not the last person Kenny would want to get fired in front of, but definitely ranks in the top ten. Oh, not that he’s quite so worried after Mysterion’s chat with Mr Tweak last night. But still, Kenny wasn’t expecting him; not to mention Jimmy’s friends with Stan and the guys. He even puts up with Kyle “helping” him – well, most of the time. So anything that happens here could get back to them. Stan and Kyle feeling sorry for him would be bad enough, but Kenny feels downright sick when he thinks about what Cartman might say. How smug he would be. Just having this meal with the Tweak family’s bad enough, a ten out of ten on the “terrifying” scale. Having Jimmy there is… Icing on the terror cake. Shit, he might even try to drag Kenny into a conversation.
“Hey,” Kenny mutters, looking up through his bangs at Jimmy, then Tweek. This morning, he dug out his nice hoodie that he keeps for special occasions; the bright white one with the black Nike logo that Clyde’s dad let him have for free, that one time Clyde asked Kenny and Cartman to come along for a stock-take at the shoe store. Token had been there too, along with Butters and Scott Malkinson, and there had been a sort of universal truce at that shoe store while they all counted shoe boxes and jotted down prices on their notepads. Hell, even Cartman, who’d been paired up with Kenny, had made an effort, and Mr Donovan had paid each of them forty dollars in cash when they were done. Plus he’d dug out this whole sack of freebies that he’d got from different sales reps; Kenny had also scored a free Adidas T-shirt, two pairs of socks and a pair of Kappa track pants that buttoned up the side, though Kevin had promptly take those off him as soon as he’d brought them home, calling it “big brother tax”. Anyway, Kenny’s pulled his hood down since he’s inside Tweek’s house and all, and he feels so damn naked.
“Hey Kenny!” Tweek’s smile is so bright and so wide that one of Mysterion’s thoughts creeps right into Kennys head: What’s he hiding? But no, Mysterion needs to shut the hell up if he’s going to get through this meal unscathed. Desperate for something else to focus on, he looks at what the other boy’s wearing. Suddenly Kenny, who just sleeps in his boxer shorts and whatever T-shirt happens to be clean, is more than a little jealous of Tweek’s Wolverine pyjamas.
“M-morning, dude,” Jimmy chimes in, leaning forward on his crutches and grinning up at him. The track pants he’s wearing are such an intense shade of yellow that Kenny, still bleary-eyed from being up half the night as Mysterion, can’t help but flinch. Why the hell is Jimmy even here again?
“…morning,” Kenny mutters, staring down at the carpet and digging his toes into it. So soft. Back home, they just wear their shoes inside – easier than risking splinters from the wooden floor.
“Glad you could…”
“Gah!” Tweek leaps like a frog.
“,,,make it, son,” Mr Tweak says, as he comes all the way down the stairs, carrying a pair of slippers in each hand. He’s actually wearing jeans, and that huge cardigan that sometimes floats around Tweak Bros. Their whole family takes turns wearing it, depending on who’s cold; even Kenny’s been allowed to borrow it a couple of times. The thing you really notice, though, are his Buddha slippers. They're made so you basically shove your feet into the back of the Buddha's head, and the Enlightened One himself doesn't look too pleased about it. With bulging eyes and thick, flappy lips, those are the creepiest novelty slippers Kenny's seen in his life. And Kenny's seen some shit. Now Tweek’s glaring up at his dad, still all shaky from getting startled, growling quietly. “Find your center, Tweek,” Mr Tweak adds, before he gives Tweek a loud, smacking kiss on the forehead that makes Tweek’s ongoing growl about ten times louder. “Here you go.” Mr Tweak drops one pair of slippers at his son’s feet. They’re shaped like little green alien heads. Then he strides past them all into the kitchen, slapping the second pair of slippers, mint green and fluffy, rhythmically against his leg. “Helen! Feet freezing cold yet?”
“I could help,” Kenny begins, but Tweek shakes his head and jerks his head at the table, hopping on one foot to put one of those ridiculous slippers on.
“Just go sit, Kenny. It’s fine,” he adds, when Kenny can’t seem to make his feet move, “You’re the guest.”
It’s been years since Kenny was even inside the Tweaks’ house; during one of Tweek’s birthday parties. He still remembers this place being full of colored balloons, floating in bunches under ceiling like flying bouquets of flowers. They’d taken turns standing on one of those chairs with a homemade fishing rod, just a stick with a piece of string tied to it. And Mrs Tweak’s hands had just been visible from under the tablecloth, as she tied a little goodie bag of candy with each kid’s name on it to the end of the string. Kenny snorts quietly when he remembers how Cartman had tried to go twice. Now he’s got a clear view of the prayer flags, which have been hung from the rafters. And he can play spot-the-Buddha, because there are Buddha statues tucked away all over the place. A chubby Buddha lying on top of the big, boxy TV and laughing his ass off; a skinny little Buddha sitting next to a pot plant and sort of ducking out from behind one of the leaves.
“Good morning, Kenny!” Mrs Tweak says, with her usual warm smile. She’s wearing that cardigan now, the one her husband had on a minute ago, over what looks like her bathrobe and nightie. And she’s holding out a mug to him – it’s got a grass green handle, and lots of tiny orange flowers spread out across a background of that same shade of green. “Here, I made you a honey latte – your favorite, right?”
Of course Mrs Tweak would remember the one drink Kenny always makes for himself, right before he goes on his break.
“Thanks, Mrs Tweak,” he mutters, wrapping his cold fingers around the mug. Mysterion is the only one of them who’s got gloves at the moment. He takes a sip, and it tastes so good.
“Ha! A whole sentence!” Mr Tweak sounds ridiculously pleased, and Kenny finds himself blushing bright red.
“Richie,” Mrs Tweak hisses, and even though he’s staring down at his drink, Kenny can still see her elbowing her husband from the corner of his eye. “Why don’t you go see if the burritos are done,” she adds, but it’s not a suggestion at all.
“Pft! So beautiful, but so bossy,” Mr Tweak pretend-grouses, as he heads back into the kitchen.
They certainly don’t act like they’re about to take his job away, but you can never be sure of anything where adults are concerned.
“Is that N-nasai d-d-dengaku,” Jimmy practically shouts, and when Kenny spots the Japanese sweet aubergine dish on the table, his mouth immediately starts to water. “For b-b-breakfast,” Jimmy goes on, flinging himself down on the closest chair. Mrs Tweak sometimes makes that for their hot meal at work, as a special treat. Usually if it’s a Saturday and Tweek’s helping out, since he’s nuts about it. Well – he clearly isn’t the only one; Jimmy barely pauses to stack his crutches against the side of the table, before he pulls the whole plate of aubergines over.
“We’ve got a lot of leftovers,” Tweek sighs, pulling out the chair next to Jimmy, “From when Craig and his… parents were here.” Kenny doesn’t miss that little hesitation – there’s no question at all, that Tweek believes Craig. It’s sweet, because of course Tweek fancies the pants off Craig and probably everyone in their whole class, except for Craig, can tell. But… for some reason, it’s starting to get on Kenny’s nerves a little bit.
“Oh wait - you want another cappuccino,” Tweek asks, leaning closer to Jimmy.
“I’m f-fine,” Jimmy replies, grinning back at him, “You T-Tweaks are in a whole other league!”
It suddenly strikes Kenny that Jimmy could be here because of their… investigation last night. Reporting to the boss, if you can call it that. Kenny’s never been sure if Tweek’s gang operates the same way Stan’s gang does, where Stan is so clearly in charge. With those guys, though, it’s always struck him that just because Tweek’s got the best and craziest ideas, that doesn’t mean he gets to tell the others what to do…
“Kenny,” Mrs Tweak says gently, “Why don’t you sit down?”
Oh crap! He’s got no business standing here and zoning out, with his job hanging in the balance!
“Sorry,” Kenny mutters, and pulls out the chair at the end of the table, which has been extended – they must’ve done it last night. There are clean dishes set out for five people, and Kenny helps himself to a bread roll and some of the avocado hummus.
“Ta-dah!” With a thump, Mr Tweak puts a plate down right in front of Kenny. “Tagine breakfast burritos! Not a bad idea, if I say so myself!”
“Especially when you don’t make them yourself,” Mrs Tweak says, pretending to be annoyed with him, though her eyes are shining. Then she scoops up one of those burritos with a spatula and deposits it on Kenny’s plate. “Eat as much as you like,” she tells him. “You’ll be doing us a favour.”
Does Tweek even know how lucky he is, Kenny wonders. Oh, it’s not just the food on the table, the not having to go hungry part. It feels so effortless, here in this house – the happiness.
“And we’re not going to fire you,” Mr Tweak says, reaching across the table to pour orange juice into the empty glass by Kenny’s plate. “We just want to make sure,” he pours some for Tweek too, then Jimmy, “You understand that some things don’t belong at Tweak Bros.”
Gratitude swells inside his chest, and it takes Kenny three tries to find his voice. “Thanks,” he says, as loudly as he can manage. “I’ll never do it again, I swear.” Then silence spreads out from him like rings in the water when you’ve thrown a rock into Stark’s Pond. Infinite and awful. He needs to say something else, and fast, before they all think Kenny McCormick is the world’s most ungrateful asshole. Something, anything… “It’s, it’s not even mine,” he goes on, “It’s my dad’s gun.” Which is technically true. “I just, uh, couldn’t leave it in the house,” he goes on, stretching the truth into a plausible half-lie, “Because of how he told my mom when they were fighting, that he was gonna shoot her in the mouth.”
That’s technically true, it’s just that it happened back when Kenny was ten. But the memory’s real enough, and it sure sounds like a good excuse, now that he’s said it out loud. The way everyone stares is a little awkward, though.
“Jesus Christ, Kenny,” Tweek says, shaky with outrage, “It’s not fair that you and Karen should have to live with those, those gaaah!” He throws his cutlery right down on the tablecloth and yanks on his hair with both hands – just once, but it’s an almighty yank. “Oh, and Kevin,” he adds, probably as an afterthought, looking a little embarrassed. Meanwhile Jimmy pulls Tweek’s right hand – the one he can reach – away from his head.
“Tweek, stop that,” Mrs Tweak says, like she’s said it a million times before, leaning across the table to tickle Tweek right under the armpit.
It works, Tweek immediately yanks his other hand off his own hair, clamping his arm down on his mother’s hand instead. “Mom,” he groans, rolling his eyes, “Come on.”
“Pulling your own hair out does not comply with food safety rules,” Mrs Tweak says, doing her best to sound strict and failing miserably. Kenny almost laughs, only then she suddenly grabs one of Kenny’s hands between both of hers. “Kenny, would you rather… not live with your parents,” Mrs Tweak asks.
Everyone in the room suddenly goes very quiet.
Kenny’s so startled, he really does laugh, but at least he manages to cut it short. “I, I guess,” he mutters, shrugging. It’s easier to look down at Mrs Tweak’s hands than try to meet her eyes. They’re small and soft, and she’s painted her nails this very pale, shimmery pink. Kenny’s mom only wears bright red nail polish, when she bothers with that sort of thing at all. And Karen owns just one bottle of purple varnish that Kevin shoplifted for her last birthday. “But I mean… It’s not like I’ve got a choice, right?” Kenny glances over at Tweek for help, how does he squirm out of his mother’s grip? Not that it would be hard; Kenny could easily pull his hand free right now. He just, well, can’t, since Mrs Tweak is being so nice.
Suddenly, Mrs Tweek draws a deep breath and lets go of him. “Eat up, Kenny,” she says, and there’s a look on her face like she just made up her mind about something, “Before your food gets cold.”

“You guys don’t mind, right,” Clyde says, as he pops open the boot of his dad’s red Volkswagen Rabbit. “I’m just going to put these down, and tidy up the grave a little.” He picks up an empty jam jar and a bouquet of grocery store flowers, with the ends wrapped in what looks like kitchen roll – wet kitchen roll. Clyde seems to have this whole grave thing down to a science.
“Of course not,” Token says, taking the jam jar from Clyde. “I’ll go fill this up.”
“Thanks, dude.”
There’s a water pump right by the churchyard’s gate, and Token holds the jar under there while he pumps, like he’s done this a hundred times. Craig follows Clyde past him, through the gate, which squeaks like a tortured soul, and down a soft dirt path between the rows of headstones. There are fir trees planted here and there, and their branches stretch over the graves. There are acorns dangling right above their heads while they walk, and grey squirrels darting from one tree to the next. After the rather stressful morning he’s had, pretending to know what he’s doing at a Catholic mass, Craig decides this is kind of relaxing.
“I like it here,” he tells Clyde, not even thinking before he opens his mouth.
Clyde looks around and smiles. “Me too, you know,” he says, a little wistfully.
Token falls into step behind them, carrying the sloshing jam jar between both hands. “I’m sure it’s something to do with the feng shui,” he says, deadly serious except for that little twitch at one corner of his mouth.
Craig snorts, and Clyde looks back at them, laughing happily. It’s crazy, really, how quickly Craig’s fit in with these guys. How he can even have a good time going to the graveyard with them. He got so used to being part of a two-man crew, just him and Thomas. All day, every day. He’d got to thinking squads or gangs or whatever were for douchebags. And now look at him.
“This is it.” Clyde stops walking and kneels by a modest grey headstone. Unlike most of the stones here, it isn’t polished at all, but has been left natural and craggy – Craig likes that. The name on the stone, picked out in golden letters, is Elisabeth Donovan – Elisabeth with an “S”. There’s a small bunch of heather planted on the grave, in a shade of purple that almost seems to be glowing. There’s also a white flower Craig doesn’t know the name of, growing out of a little flowerpot that’s shaped like a clog. And a wilting bouquet of yellow tulips in another jam jar.
“Yellow was my mom’s favorite color,” Clyde says, pulling a plastic bag out of his pocket and dumping the tulips in there, before he pours the last bits of stagnant water out on the ground. Then the jam jar goes into the bag as well.
“So was she best friends with Jimmy’s mom,” Craig asks, before he can stop himself.
Clyde snorts, so it seems like that wasn’t such a jerkass question after all. “Maybe,” he replies, pulling the plastic wrapper off the fresh flowers, which are a mix of colors – variety seems to be the spice of life and death. “My mom wasn’t that easy to get along with.”
“Jimmy’s mom likes everybody,” Token says, positioning the jam jar carefully so that it leans against the headstone. “Well,” he clears his throat, “Except maybe Mrs Garrison.”
Craig just has to laugh. “Dude, I’d managed to forget Mrs Garrison exists,” he groans, tipping his head back and covering his eyes with his good hand like a total drama queen.
“I am so sorry,” Token deadpans, but Craig can see that little tugging on his lips again, through his splayed-out fingers.
“Hey! Asshole!” That yell startles the squirrels out of the trees, and makes a lone crow screech as it flies straight up into the sky. Clyde drops his dollar store flowers in the dirt, too.
Craig had completely forgotten about Stan Marsh, too. But there he is, walking towards them from the opposite end of the graveyard like he planned this. Glaring like he wishes looks could kill, and flanked by – ugh, seriously? – Butters, who is still wearing his church robes, and Cartman. Craig, for his part, is now firmly sandwiched between Token, who’s stooping to pick the flowers back up, and Clyde, who suddenly looks very worried.
“Talking to yourself is the first sign of madness,” Craig drawls, looking Stan right in the eye. Sure, as comebacks go it’s hardly fantastic, but it does the job. Stan’s face, which was flushed red right up turns pale with rage. Butters is looking kind of uneasy, like he doesn’t even want to be here, and it’s weird seeing him without Malkinson and the rest of the nerd squad. And Cartman just looks bored, but Craig knows looks can be deceptive…
“You dickheads,” Stan grinds out between his teeth, “Ruining my dad’s song –”
“It’s not like he required much assistance in that department,” Token cuts Stan off, with deceptive politeness.
“And that barely even qualifies as a song,” Clyde adds, tilting his chin up defiantly. This is the first time, Craig realizes, that he’s seen Clyde stand up for himself against Stan.
“Shut up, Momkiller,” Stan snaps, and Clyde flinches – all that new-found confidence instantly drained away.
Craig can feel the irritation start to rise inside him; he’s so damn sick of not knowing what even happened to Clyde’s dead mother. So damn sick of Stan Marsh spreading what’s obviously got to be lies around. Like Clyde could even squash a spider.
Next to him, Clyde makes the most awful little sound.
“Hey!” Token’s voice has suddenly gone all sharp, “There’s no need for that!”
“But it’s true, you black asshole,” Cartman says, as casually as you’d tell someone good morning. “Clyde killed his mom!”
“Dude,” Stan groans, squeezing his eyes shut and almost pinching the bridge of his nose – just in time, he seems to remember that it’s broken, and lets his hand drop to his side instead. “Don’t say shit like that.”
“Stan means the racism,” Butters supplies helpfully, though Craig’s not clear if he’s explaining this to him or to Cartman, “Which is totally not okay. Clyde really did kill his mom, though,” he adds, with a little shrug.
“He. Did. Not.” Token grinds out each word, and he’s as angry as Craig’s ever seen or heard him. “You take that back! All of you!”
A lazy smile spreads across Stan’s face. “Make us. If Clyde can stop blubbering, that is,” he adds, and now Craig can’t help but turn around to check on Clyde. “Not that I’m holding my breath.”
Clyde’s whole body is heaving with sobs, twin trails of tears rolling down his chubby cheeks, snot dribbling right into his mouth. But suddenly, it’s like something shifts, and Craig wouldn’t even have noticed it if he wasn’t staring right at him. Right when Stan says “holding my breath”, Clyde sort of straightens up, his mouth opens wider, and with a roar, he leaps across the grave. It’s weirdly elegant, how Clyde just flattens Stan against the grass.
“You black asshooooole”, Cartman bellows, and lunges for Token. He may be huge, but he’s shockingly fast, and Token folds over his fist with a shocked “Whumph”. Token hits the ground, instinctively curling up on his side, and there’ll be grass stains on that grey suit for sure. Cartman looms over him, evil and enormous. There’s no question about which of his friends Craig should be helping, so he grabs a handful of Cartman’s black suit jacket in his good hand and pulls. But even with two good hands, Cartman would be too heavy for Craig to shift on his own. With one hand and a broken arm? Forget about it.
At least Butters seems to have the same idea, because he jumps on the fat boy’s back and wraps his arms around Cartman’s neck, yelling, “Take it easy, Eric!” Like Cartman just got a little too worked up during a class debate or something. “Token’s our friend, remember?” It’s like watching a flea trying to steer a dog.
Meanwhile Craig’s sliding his left arm out of the sling, and now he gives an extra hard tug on Cartman’s jacket. The cheap fabric comes apart between his fingers with a loud “rrriiippp”, and Cartman turns around, snarling – and gets a faceful of Craig’s cast. That ought to hurt, but right now, Craig’s too high on adrenaline to notice. Or maybe it’s Kenny’s painkillers, still doing their wonderful job.
The fat boy bellows with pain, and Craig wastes no time helping Token to his feet, slipping his good arm around the other boy’s ribcage and hoisting him up. Token’s panting, and his legs are shaking, but he can stand.
Craig’s got his back to them – reckless, but what can you do – but he can hear Butters saying, “Now, now Eric,” like he’s trying to stop a dog from humping a lamppost. “Let’s all just sit down and talk about this.”
Craig’s arm is still wrapped around Token’s waist when the two of them turn to look at each other.
“Run,” Token says, and even though Craig Tucker’s no coward, run is what he does. He and Token duck and weave between the headstones, keeping off the path, with Craig still holding onto the other boy like this is some kind of potato sack race. Behind them, they can hear Cartman panting and snarling – slower than them, yes, but not by that much.
“Split up,” Token suddenly yells. That seems like a fantastic idea.
“Got it!” Craig veers left, while Token goes right – and Token is the one Cartman was after all along. Now that he’s got a minute to duck behind a headstone and catch his breath, Craig can see that Cartman’s got blood running down his thick neck. Impossible to tell from this distance if he got the fat boy in the teeth or in the nose; either way Craig figures he had it coming.
Token can sprint for sure, like he must be on the track team if their school even has one. But Craig wants this to be more of a relay race, so once his breathing’s slowed down, he lopes around the side of the graveyard and into the forest proper. At least Cartman and Token are impossible to miss. Craig stops for a second, scans the ground until he finds a suitable rock, and then takes off after them. Kenny’s nose pills are still good; even though he smacked Cartman with his cast, there’s only an unpleasant tingle in his arm. So he figures he’s good for one decent throw. He pulls his arm out of the sling, leaves it dangling around his neck like a scarf. Or a noose, but let’s not get too pessimistic here. The trick is to get close enough, but not too close…
Right, this has got to be it. Craig swings his left arm back like he’s about to pitch a baseball – he’d never be able to do this throw right-handed – and lets the rock fly. It hits Cartman right in the back of the head.
“Taste my spic fury, lardass!” It’s the first thing Craig can think of shouting, and he waves his right arm for good measure – like the fat boy would fail to notice where that rock had come from.
Cartman’s only response is a wordless growl, but at least he stops chasing Token and makes a beeline for Craig instead. Craig is just about to start running; his arm is actually starting to ache a little now but not so bad he’s afraid of jostling it, when Cartman suddenly screams and goes down. Flat on his face, because hallelujah, he’s stepped in a hole! It’s a deep one too; his right leg’s down in the ground way past his knee!
“Goddamn it,” Cartman howls, crawling on his belly because it’s the only way to get his leg unstuck without help. “This is all your fault, Craig! You shitty turd brown spic!” He doesn’t even seem to notice Token jogging past him to join Craig, panting and leaning against a headstone.
“ “Taste my spic fury,” ” Token repeats, when he’s got his breath back, and treats Craig to a meaningfully raised eyebrow.
“Heat of the moment,” Craig drawls in response, easing his arm back into the sling.
Token grins at him. “Nice throw, though.”
“Thanks,” Craig says, just as Cartman’s leg comes unstuck. Craig can feel the other boy tense up next to him, but as soon as Cartman puts his weight on that leg, he screams and hits the ground.
“Let’s get out of here.”
“My thoughts exactly,” Token agrees.
“Hey, wait,” Cartman yells, like he can’t believe they’re about to abandon him, “You cocksuckers can’t just leave me here! Not when I’ve sprained my goddamn ankle!”
“Like I’d help the guy who planted drugs in Tweek’s locker,” Craig yells back. It’s pretty damn satisfying. Plus, now he can see that Cartman’s bleeding from the mouth – maybe Craig’s managed to mess his teeth up? That’s a worrying thought to save for later, if Cartman’s parents start bugging the Fakes to pay for his dentistry… No, screw that, Craig decides – that would actually be funny.
“I will cherish this memory,” Token says, very softly. Then the two of them turn their backs on Cartman and start to walk away.
“Oh, so you’re in love with Tweek,” Cartman yells after him, and Craig suddenly trips over his own feet. “Your shitty spic asshole is wide open for Tweek, is that it?”
Before Craig actually falls, Token’s there, with a hand on his elbow. “Ignore him,” he says firmly, and that’s what they do. Even though Craig suddenly feels like his soul is about to slip out of his body or something. Because Token can totally tell, can’t he?
“So,” Craig asks, desperate to change the subject, as the path they’re walking on turns a corner, “Did you… do anything to him?” They’ve effectively been cut them off from Cartman’s view, and even his screams are starting to fade out.
Token shrugs, before he draws a deep, exhausted sigh. “I exist?”
Craig’s not quite sure what to say to that, other than “Damn.”
They walk in silence for a little while, Token taking the lead since he clearly knows his way around here and can take them back to Clyde. “Listen,” he suddenly says, tossing the words carelessly over his shoulder. “Other peoples’ sexual orientation is none of my business. But Tweek’s been out for over a year, and if you do happen to like him…” Token suddenly stops walking, and Craig almost barrels into his back. “Well,” Token says, turning around to face him at last, “I know for a fact that Tweek likes you.”
“I, ah…” It’s impossible not to smile, when Token’s gone into full professor mode like that. Not when he talks about his friend being gay like it’s just… part of who Tweek is. Like blonde hair and freckles, and shoe-throwing and cheerleading. “I already made that out,” Craig says, and it doesn’t even matter that he’s blushing now. Then it hits him, what he just said. “I mean, Jesus!
Found that out!” Craig covers his eyes with his good hand. “Just don’t… tell anybody I said that.”
“I’m going to give you a hug now,” Token tells him, very seriously, and then he does just that. A very careful sideways hug that somehow avoids Craig’s whole left arm in a cast area completely. “Now come on,” he says, letting go of Craig like this conversation was no big deal at all, “Let’s go see if Clyde needs any help.”

“You know, K-Kenny,” Jimmy says, leaning back in his seat and sipping on his glass of OJ, “We had a p-p-president who w-was as quiet at you once. Calvin C-Coolidge. Silent Cal, they used to c-c-call him.”
Technically, Tweek’s supposed to know that, since it falls under American history. But if they ever learned about this guy in class, he’s obviously forgotten. Same thing seems to go for Kenny, who looks up from his second breakfast burrito and blinks, mouth too full to actually talk.
“That was back in the twenties,” Dad says, grinning and raising an eyebrow, “If I recall. Before our time, alas.” He’s probably given Mom’s foot a nudge under the table, judging by how she suddenly giggles into her latte.
“Yeah, so at this one d-dinner party,” Jimmy goes on, “He sat n-n-next to this lady who said, “I b-bet my f-f-friend I could g-get you to say three w-words to me.” And C-Coolidge told her,” A huge grin spreads over Jimmy’s face, and Tweek can feel himself start to grin in anticipation, “You lose.”
“Ha!” For a second, Kenny looks startled at the sound that just came out of his mouth. And then he’s laughing, and trying to chew at the same time.
It’s a good thing Jimmy did turn up here, Tweek decides, as he joins in. This would all have been a lot more awkward without him. He helps himself to a big sip of orange juice from his own glass – might as well not die of scurvy, right?
“Oh,” Mom says, when she’s stopped laughing, “Richie, I almost forgot. Could you drive by the Photo Dojo and drop off my film in their box? I just can’t wait to see how the pictures of Tweek’s first kiss turned out!”
Tweek and Kenny both spit out a stream of orange juice, forming two separate little yellow puddles on the tablecloth.
“Mom,” Tweek yells, “Could you please just… Gah!”
“Tweek, you s-s-stud,” Jimmy teases, mussing his hair.
“I’ll take ‘em for you, Mrs Tweak,” Kenny offers, thankfully not looking in Tweek’s direction at all. “I’m going that way, anyway.” Which is a little odd, since Kenny lives in the opposite direction; but maybe he’s going to visit Kyle or Stan after this. Or even Cartman, ugh. Tweek doesn’t get why a nice guy like Kenny could be friends with someone like him.
“Oh, Kenny, that’d be great,” Mom gushes, “I already put the film in the bag. I’ll give it to you on your way out, okay?”
Suddenly, Jimmy gives Tweek a little nudge in the ribs. “M-maybe I’ll have that second c-c-cappuccino after all,” he says, with a meaningful look in the direction of the kitchen.
“Okay, c’mon then.” Tweek gets up, cheeks still burning. “You want it in the same ugly-ass mug, right?” It’s a relief to get away from the table.
“You b-bet,” Jimmy says, his crutches clacking against each other as he pushes his chair back and stands up. “I p-put it in the sink already.”
As soon as the two of them are in the kitchen, safely out of earshot, Tweek sets the machine to grinding some fresh beans. Just for some extra noise to drown out what Jimmy has to say. Jimmy gives him a nod of appreciation, before he leans in close and says, “I just remembered s-something. M-my dad’s d-driving to D-Denver on Tuesday for a c-c-conference!”
Tweek almost drops the milk jug on the floor. “That’s awesome! You think he’d mind bringing Craig along?”
“I d-don’t see why not,” Jimmy says, “But he’ll p-probably insist I go, too. Going out of t-town w-with somebody else’s kid in his c-c-car, that’s not gonna fly with Dad unless I’m there. I’m due a s-s-sickie anyway,” he adds, giving Tweek a cheeky grin.
It’s something their teachers have just kind of quietly accepted, that there are some days Jimmy’s legs hurt so bad, he can barely get out of bed. He’s in the top five of their class, and always catches up on whatever he’s missed when he’s been forced to stay home, so not even Mrs Garrison bothers raising a stink about it.
“That sounds like an amazing plan,” Tweek says, before he puts the milk jug down and throws his arms around Jimmy. “Gah, you’re just the best!” If he can just keep Craig out of danger from now until Tuesday morning, then everything’s going to turn out fine!

Chapter Text

Craig and Token return to Mrs Donovan’s grave just in time to see the priest pull Clyde off Stan’s prone body. Like Butters, he’s still wearing his robes, and that purple scarf thing he wears on top has been twisted around his neck until it’s on backwards, flapping in the wind like a cape. There’s a whole bunch of adults huffing and puffing their way up the graveyard path in their Sunday best, with Mr Donovan and Mr Marsh in the lead, trying to push each other to get there first. But, Craig can also see Fake Mom, right behind Mrs Marsh, stomping towards them with a deadly glare on her face. Goddamn it.
“Calm down, my son,” the priest is saying to Clyde, while Stan sits up, hacking and gagging.
Butters, standing off to one side and wringing his hands, says, “I had to get Father Maxi, fellers, I just had to! He told us at youth camp how he used to box, so…”
Clyde’s eyes are wild and rolling in his head, but Father Maxi somehow gets him to sit down on the grass. Everybody else is giving him a wide berth, but Craig just can’t help himself.
“You okay, dude?” Craig reaches past the priest, putting a cautious hand on Clyde’s shoulder.
Clyde looks up at Craig. “I didn’t kill her,” he says, sounding almost… desperate.
“I know you didn’t,” Craig replies, and he can feel Clyde relax under his palm.
“I’m sorry,” Butters says, sitting down next to Clyde, though he leaves a sensible gap between them. “I only tagged along with Stan and Eric to try and calm things down, you know? Mr Marsh’s song really did suck goat balls.”
That gets a ragged laugh out of Clyde, and even the priest smiles. “I know better than to agree the next time he wants to offer up a song to the Lord,” Father Maxi says, while Token sits down in the gap between Clyde and Butters, and just puts his head on Clyde’s shoulder.
“That’s right,” Token says, almost too quietly for Craig to head, “You didn’t kill her.”
“If it makes y’all feel any better,” Butters chimes in, “My parents’re probably gonna ground me anyway.”
Stan Marsh is left to get himself on his feet, still coughing and clutching his throat.
The jam jar Token filled up has been knocked over, Craig realizes, and the flowers spread all over the grave. So he starts picking those up one-handed, because they’re bound to get crushed otherwise, and also because that might make him look less guilty of… Whatever this is. Headstone brawling, grave desecrating… Tucked inside the sling, is left arm is starting to wake up to the smallest murmur of what might be incoming pain.
And then the rest of the adults explode into their little clearing. Cries of “What happened,” and “Are you okay,” Stan’s mother examining his bruised throat while Mr Donovan pulls Clyde to his feet.
“Token, what happened here,” Mr Donovan says, which is kind of hilarious when you think about it. Because obviously, he’d ask Token. Anybody would. He’s Mr Responsible With The Long Words, after all.
Token opens his mouth to reply, but the slap that suddenly sets Craig’s face on fire also makes his right ear ring. So if he actually responds, Craig doesn’t hear it.
“What the –” Craig jumps to his feet, hand on his throbbing cheek, to find Fake Mom standing there with her hand still raised. Around his legs, the flowers he was picking up fall to the ground, like colourful snow.
“How dare you make such a scene in the church,” she snarls at him, all that syrupy mom crap long gone – it’s like Craig’s seeing the real person peeking through the Fake Mom façade for the first time. “And then,” she goes on, “I find you here, starting a fight?!” Every inch of her, from the top of her carefully combed hair to the LV bag that dangles from her arm, to toes of her bedazzled bee shoes, is trembling with anger.
Craig opens his mouth to defend himself, but his voice has just dried right up from the shock.
“He didn’t,” Token lies smoothly, hurrying over and dusting his perfect suit down, “Mrs Tucker, Craig didn’t fight anybody! What happened was that Eric Cartman, one of the boys who ambushed us, chased Craig and myself in that direction,” Token points towards where they did, in fact, run; “Shouting various racist obscenities. Only he never caught up, because he is rather enormously fat.”
Craig sees Mr Donovan stop checking Clyde over to “cough” into his hand; and in spite of everything he suddenly has to duck his head to hide a big grin.
“In fact,” Token holds up one finger, now in full Professor Mode, “He tripped in a hole and sprained his ankle. But, we found it most prudent to retreat, and inform Eric’s mother of his misfortune later.”
From the small crowd surrounding them, there is a gasp. “My Poopsiekins,” exclaims a mousey woman with her hair in a bun, before she hurries down the path where Token was just pointing.
“Ah,” Token says, eyes widening, “It appears I already have.”

Fake Mom marches Craig straight back to the parking lot with her index finger stabbing into the small of his back the whole way. Steering him down the path like a wind-up doll. It would almost be funny if her nail hadn’t been so sharp. At least they didn’t wait around for Cartman to show up with his side of the story; Craig is doing his best to look on the bright side. And Fake Mom hasn’t hit him again, either – Craig had a hard enough time not socking her right back! He’s never hit a girl or a lady in his life, but he came awfully close back there, when he’d first realized the reason his face hurt was that slap. Because where the hell does this lady get off… But hitting his fake mother wouldn’t bring him any closer to finding his real parents, now would it.
As they walk up to Mr Donovan’s car, Craig spots Mrs Garrison in the huddle outside the church. She’s wearing a raspberry pink frilly number, complete with marching bonnet, and Craig has to look away real fast. He’s not in any hurry for the Gutbusting Trio to ride again. Clyde’s somewhere in the back of the group trudging out from the cemetery, but he can see Token out of the corner of his left eye, walking with his eyes to the ground.
They are so damn lucky Cartman sprained his foot – they should all be well out of here before he can come limping out of the forest and put paid to Token’s white lie.
“Hey, you,” Nicole says, suddenly appearing on his left. But it’s not Craig she’s talking to of course; she’s come to collect her boyfriend. “We could all hear you guys in there, you know,” Nicole not-quite-whispers, winding her arm through Token’s and leading him away.
There comes Mr Stotch in his Sunday best, so flushed with anger that he’s practically glowing, his mousy wife trailing after him. “You, young man, are grounded,” Mr Stotch snaps, grabbing Butters by one ear and dragging him towards their long, turd brown Ford Station Wagon. Poor Butters.
Craig also spots Bebe, sandwiched between a bespectacled dad and a curly-haired blonde mom, craning her neck and trying to catch Clyde’s eye. And Bradley Biggle (ugh!), and the Valmers (minus Jimmy), and a whole lot of other people it’ll be fairly embarrassing to look in the eye this coming week. Stab, stab, goes Fake Mom’s finger as Craig walks past them all, gritting his teeth and doing his best not to turn around and grab her wrist before she can poke him again. He can do this; he can keep his head down and take all the shit in the world if it’ll get him any closer to finding Mom and Dad.
Mr Donovan pops the back doors open, and Fake Mom actually stands there and waits for Craig to climb in next to Clyde, like she thinks he’ll make a run for it or something. Then she gets inside the passenger seat and buckles herself in, with her ugly bag balanced neatly on her lap. Mr Donovan turns the key, the built-in cassette player clicks on, and the soft voice of Emmylou Harris starts to warm up the icy silence in the car.
“You left me for the bright lights of the town,” she sings, as Mr Donovan pulls out of the parking lot, “A country boy set out to see the world…”
“Can you turn that off,” Fake Mom asks, like she wouldn’t even deign to call it music.
“Nope,” Mr Donovan replies firmly, and he sounds as close to pissed off as Craig’s heard him since Fake Dad woke up Clyde with the car horn, that time he was sleepwalking on the lawn. Huh, maybe he didn’t like seeing her slap Craig, even though he’s not said anything about it.
Craig’s arm is throbbing, a steady beat that feels like it matches the beat of the song. Next to him, Clyde sits, silent and unmoving until they’ve been on the road for long enough for the song to end and the next one to start. “I didn’t mean to,” he suddenly says, and Craig, who’s been gritting his teeth and staring out the window, is so startled that he literally jumps in his seat. Ow.
“Didn’t mean to… what,” he asks, but Clyde’s gone quiet again. Worried now, Craig tilts his head, tries to look the other boy in the eye. But Clyde’s eyes are a million miles away.

Kenny’s starting to feel like it might be time to get out of here. Tweek has just wailed about spilling sauce on his Wolverine shirt and tossed it in the laundry hamper, before running upstairs shirtless. “Might as well have a shower when I’m already half naked,” he’d joked, while Jimmy had wolf-whistled. Jimmy’s by the sink, rinsing off dishes and being helpful.
“Uh, yeah,” Kenny mutters, piling his empty mug and dirty cutlery on top of his plate. He’s eaten more for this one meal than he’d normally eat in two days, and he’s had to discreetly pop his jeans button and unzip them, under the cover of his white hoodie.
“I’d better put some Stain Devils on this right away,” Mrs Tweak says, digging Tweek’s T-shirt back out with one hand and passing Kenny the sealed film bag with the other. “Here you go!”
He can see that she’s filled in the form that’s printed directly on the Photo Dojo’s film bags – the one with your name and phone number, and how many sets of prints you want. Like most people would, Mrs Tweak has only written a “1” in that little white square, in black pen. Mr Tweak is still in the dining room, and Mrs Tweak just turned her back on Kenny. Tweek’s upstairs, and Jimmy’s busy rinsing off Kenny’s things now. So like the ungrateful asshole he is, Kenny says, “I’ll just put this in my pocket” and carries the bag out into the hallway, to the little table where the grey hall phone sits – right next to a big jar of pens. Bright green, with a pink lotus blossom at the bottom. The petals sort of come out of the jar, and have been lined with gold paint – no wonder this tacky thing ended up in the hallway. Quick as blinking, Kenny’s whipped out a black Bic pen and changed that “1” to a “2”. Then he shoves the damn thing deep into the left-hand pocket of his parka. His hand is shaking, and Kenny can’t believe he’s about to do this to Tweek, not when he owes the kid, but…
Kenny closes his eyes for a second, balls his hand up against his side until the shaking stops. That hardly justifies anything, but what can he do? He’s already made his mind up.
That’s when the doorbell rings, and Kenny nearly jumps out of his own skin. He quickly jams the pen cap back on and shoves the Bic into the pen jar, and the bag of film goes into the left-hand pocket of his parka, while the bells rings a second time.
“I’ll get it,” Kenny says, as loudly as he can manage, before he hurries over to unlock the door.
Suddenly he’s face to face with Clyde, of all people – and behind him, Clyde’s balding, worn-out looking dad. Both of them are wearing their Sunday suits; Clyde’s is covered in grass stains.
“Uh,” Kenny says, taking a step back. Clyde says nothing, but when his dad carefully prods his shoulder, he walks inside. Stiffly, like a robot. Clyde’s not somebody Kenny pays a lot of attention to, but of course he remembers what the other boy was like when Mrs Donovan died. Like this, basically. For the first few days he’d been back in school after it happened, Clyde hadn’t even seemed to notice Stan and Cartman giving him shit.
Mrs Tweak’s drops her son’s dirty shirt and the bottle of Stain Slayer right into the laundry basket, saying, “Roger, what happened?” She sounds almost scared, which Kenny totally gets. Saying that Robo-Clyde creeps Kenny out, would be like saying that the Earth is kind of pear-shaped. In other words, DUH. He almost asks Jimmy if he’s coming, but the other boy has already hobbled into the dining room and pulled out a chair with one crutch. Now Mr Donovan’s making Clyde sit on it.
“T-turn that f-f-frown upside d-down,” Jimmy’s saying, half sitting on the dining table while he literally grabs both of Clyde’s cheeks between his fingers and tugs. Instead of swatting his hands away, Clyde’s just looking up at Jimmy, and for the second time in less than twenty-four hours, those two remind Kenny of a dog and his owner. No wait; that was Mysterion…
“Come back to us, kiddo,” Mrs Tweak is saying, sitting right down on the carpet in front of Clyde, cupping her little hands around his bigger ones, “What happened?”
“There was… some kind of altercation between the boys,” Mr Donovan replies, spreading his hands.
“You mean there was a fight?” Mr Tweak strides into the kitchen, “And Tweek missed out on it?” He’s holding their tissue box – which is shaped like the head of one of those Easter Island statues – in one hand, and a kitchen roll in the other. “He’ll be so upset.”
“Richard,” Mrs Tweak says reproachfully to her husband, as she pulls a tissue out of the Easter Island Statue’s mouth. “Jimmy, stop that.”
There’s a soft squelch as Jimmy lets go of Clyde’s face, and Clyde finally talks. “Jimmy,” he says, his voice all thick and horrible, “I don’t think you should go to DnD at Stan’s tonight.”
“Huh,” Jimmy says, just as Clyde begins to bawl.
Now Mrs Tweak is pressing that tissue into his hand, and Mr Tweak’s pushing the whole kitchen roll at Clyde, while Mr Donovan hovers behind them, feebly asking, “What’s wrong,” over and over while he carefully musses Clyde’s brown hair. They’ve all forgotten Kenny’s even here, which is fair enough. He slinks back into the hallway and unlatches the bolt, so it’ll snap shut and lock the door behind him when he lets himself out. He can feel the small bulk of that roll of film in his pocket, rubbing against his leg as he hurries down the Tweaks’ driveway.
He’s going to try for the bus after all, Kenny decides, because he can’t get away from this house, this street; this whole neighbourhood fast enough. Because last night…
Even after his talk with Mr Tweak last night, Mysterion hadn’t been able to relax. He’d needed to be around someone, because that would be better than sitting in Kenny’s room and thinking about how Craig’s eyes are brown, but also sort of golden when the light hits them. Wondering how it would feel to slide his fingers up Craig’s neck and into his black hair; if it would be coarse or soft. So he’d changed back to Kenny, slipped the pager over his head and tucked it under his hoodie to bump gently against his chest. He’d gone out through the front door, sneaking past his sleeping mother, splayed out on the sofa. Passed out from drinking, weed or pills, maybe even a combination of all three. The TV had still been on, a soft, grainy hum in the night. Kenny had turned it off, thinking of the electricity bill that’s probably coming out of his Tweak Bros wages again. He’d checked on Karen before he left, of course, and she’d been in her bed. Hollow little chest rising and falling, clutching the doll he’d got her from his first ever job, when he was ten years old and scrubbing tables at City Wok. There had been no sign of Kevin, or of Dad.
Cartman may live closer, but going to see him was definitely out. Kenny hadn’t talked to him at all since his stunt with Tweek’s locker. Stan and his anger were also not the kind of company Kenny had needed, but Kyle… For all his sanctimonious preaching, and all the unwanted help he piles on Jimmy, Kyle genuinely means well. Most of the time, anyway. And Kenny had kind of felt bad about skipping out on Shabbat to play DnD with Tweek’s gang since… Well, since Friday afternoon, really.
So yeah, there he was, throwing fistfuls of gravel at Kyle’s bedroom window – carefully, because breaking the window would make things even more awkward – until his friend had pushed it open and stuck his fuzzy ginger head out. Oh, Kyle may try to “style” his hair for school, and sort of manages to tame it with a comb and a healthy dollop of mousse. Not to mention he wears it a bit shorter now than when they were kids. But on the weekends he usually doesn’t bother, and that’s when Kyle’s hair takes on a life of his own. Backlit by his desk lamp this Saturday night, it had looked like a big, brassy halo around his head.
“Heya, Kenny! Something happen?”
“I guess,” Kenny had replied, scuffing his shoes against the gravel of the Broflovskis’ driveway. If you only knew, he’d thought, but there’s a lot of stuff he could never tell Kyle about. Bringing a gun to Tweak Bros – hell, even having a gun – none of that would probably not go down too well with Kyle. And as for almost kissing Craig…
“Okay,” Kyle had said, “I’ll be down in a minute.”
Kenny was let in through the front door, and Kyle’s mom handed him a mug of hot cocoa, and a whole pack of Maryland’s cookies for him and Kyle to share in Kyle’s room. Kyle had led the way, blowing on his own mug of cocoa. Ike had trailed after them hopefully.
After Kenny had followed him inside, Kyle reached past him to shut the door in Ike’s face. There was an indignant “Hey,” from the other side, and if it had just been up to Kenny, he’d have let Ike in. He doesn’t mind the kid at all. But he suddenly didn’t like the look on Kyle’s face one bit, so the door stayed shut.
“Kenny,” Kyle put his own mug down on his desk, “There’s something I need to show you.” Then he’d opened the top drawer of his desk and pulled out Stan’s old hat from elementary school. Or wait… This hat may look the same, but it hadn’t been as worn out as the one Stan literally lived in when they were kids. And what was that black stuff that’d been attached to the edges?
Kenny pulled the hat from Kyle’s hands and held it up to the light. “This is fake hair,” he’d said, thinking out loud. “Like what you’d get from cutting up a wig?” Stitched all around the lining, too. What in the hell…?
“Cartman found that in Tweek’s locker,” Kyle said, very seriously, “The same day Stan got detention because someone who looked like him chucked a brick through Mr. Mackie’s window.”
Kenny blinked, trying to get his head around this. “You mean, when Cartman tried to plant drugs in Tweek’s locker?”
Kyle sighed. “It was only weed, Kenny. He even bought it from your brother. But don’t you see! This is proof that Tweek framed Stan on purpose!”
There was suddenly a whooshing sound in Kenny’s ears. Stan is his friend, even though he’s done some pretty awful things. And Tweek’s his friend too, he supposed, Craig or no Craig, but… But, Stan was his friend first. What was Kenny even supposed to do in a situation like this?
“Why would Tweek…” he’d managed to say, shoving the words out between teeth that were suddenly clattering. Kyle was asking him to pick a side, and if there was one thing Kenny couldn’t do…
“Ugh, a million reasons, unfortunately.” Kyle tossed the hat back inside his desk drawer and shoved it closed, like even looking at the hat made him feel ill. “Most likely because of how Stan likes to go after Clyde. Which I’ve told him not to do,” Kyle had added, rolling his eyes at the ceiling, “Even if the guy did kill his own mom.”
Suddenly, Kenny had remembered that empty house. Sneakers lined up in the hallway, cupboards full of instant ramen. That photo of Clyde and his parents, taken the year his mother died, blown up big and hanging above the staircase. The hole she’d left behind when she died had almost felt like a living thing, on that hideously awkward visit. Kenny’s own life may be a steaming pile of shit, but he’d sensed then that maybe Clyde’s life isn’t exactly a picnic either.
So just for a second, Kenny had felt almost mad at Kyle for saying that, for repeating what Stan’s been saying since they were all nine. But Clyde is Tweek’s best friend, and now Tweek had crossed a line, forced him to pick a side, so…
“I should ask him to end my mom,” Kenny blurted out, and it was an awful thing to say. But man, did it make Kyle laugh.
“Give me a cookie,” Kyle said, and Kenny knew it was more to make him open the pack than because Kyle was even hungry. While Kenny peeled the wrapper open – and man, those cookies smelled amazing – Kyle went on: “I don’t agree with a lot of the stuff Cartman will say and do. But he said we need to teach Tweek a lesson, and that’s something I’m completely down with.”
Kenny crammed two of the cookies into his mouth at once, to buy himself some time while he chewed. Well, that and they tasted as good as they smelled. Thinking; he owes Tweek! That’s why he’s investigating Craig’s weird parents, after all! He can’t just go around screwing with the guy because he set Stan up for detention. But…
But Tweek has so much, he’d found himself thinking. That warm, happy house full of random Buddha crap and holiday photos. His parents, who obviously love the hell out of him. And now Craig, on top of all that. Craig, who is the only guy Kenny’s ever felt this weird about. Couldn’t Tweek just do without that one thing?
“I’m going there tomorrow,” Kenny had muttered, all the confidence suddenly draining out of him. Down his legs, through the soles of his feet. “For, um, breakfast with him and his folks.”
Will this disrupt Mysterion’s investigation into the fakes? Kenny has no idea. It’s not like he’s giving up on helping Craig though, just because he’s agreeing to feed Tweek to the wolves. Even though posing as Stan to get him in trouble doesn’t compare to Cartman planting drugs in Tweek’s locker, the way Kyle seems to think. But Tweek got to kiss Craig, when there’s suddenly nothing else in the world Kenny wants more.
Kyle’s face had lit up when he smiled. “But that’s perfect! Listen,” he went on, “I don’t want you to do anything that’ll risk your job.” God, if Kyle only knew! “But, maybe you can dig around a little? Find some juicy dirt on him?”
As heavy as a stone, Kenny’s head had dropped forward in a nod.
And now he’s done it, he’s found said dirt and it’s burning a hole in his pocket on this fine Sunday morning. He just got his job back, for God’s sake, what is he even thinking? But he still gets on the bus for downtown, staring stiffly out at the empty streets. For once, Mysterion’s voice stays quiet in his head. Not that Kenny needs Mysterion’s input to feel like absolute shit.

Tweek honestly thought it was just the pipes acting up. It’s only when he’s dried himself off and wrapped his green towel around his waist – Jimmy won’t care, but he’d rather not flash poor Kenny – that he recognizes the sound of his best friend sobbing his heart out. There’s no time for fripperies like clothes or slippers; Tweek just runs down the stairs as he is, bare feet slapping against the wood, his towel flapping in the wind he generates.
“Jesus Clyde,” he yells, as he leaps the final two steps and lands, with a semi-graceful arm-flap, “I mean, Christ,” he corrects himself, making a beeline for the dining room and skidding to a halt with one arm wrapped around the doorframe, “I mean, GAH!”
Tweek realizes a second too late that he stopped running so abruptly that it made his towel sort of flare out, and up, a bit like a tutu. Shit. Tweek can feel his cheeks starting to glow, as the towel flaps back down and covers him up again. He sees Clyde, frozen with tears and snot on his face, a big wad of kitchen towels held forgotten in one hand. Jimmy’s hovering next to him, with his butt propped up on the table so he’s got his hands free, rubbing Clyde’s back. Mr Donovan’s got a hand on Clyde’s head, and Mom’s kneeling in front of him, holding onto both of Clyde’s hands and probably making soothing noises until Tweek’s grand entrance just now. Dad’s off to one side, and has obviously designated himself as the Bringer of Tissues, which is an important role in any kind of Clyde meltdown. At least Kenny seems to have left, Tweek thinks, while Dad coughs into his fist and Mr Donovan pretends he was looking out the window all along. Otherwise this really would’ve been too embarrassing. “Ngh,” he says, giving a sudden twitch when he realizes how cold the floorboards are, “Uh, hi?”
There’s a weird, creaky sound cutting through the studded silence, and Tweek realizes that it’s Clyde. He’s actually laughing! It quickly stops sounding like a frog getting strangled, and morphs into Clyde’s regular booming laugh, which is such a relief that Tweek feels his knees starting to buckle.
“It’s your junk,” Clyde wheezes, completely forgetting the tissues and wiping his nose with the back of his hand, “It’s your junk, right there!”
“Where else would it be,” Tweek counters, and that makes Clyde laugh even harder.

“Momkiller, huh,” Tweek says, rolling the word around in his mouth. He can’t remember the last time he felt this angry. “Stan’s hankering for some kind of spankering.”
Kids and grownups have sort of naturally split up; his parents have moved to the living room with Mr Donovan, chatting quietly while Dad brews them some coffee on the machine they keep in there. Meanwhile, Clyde’s been given a microwaved breakfast burrito with a side of rice, so the three boys have stayed in the dining room. Tweek and Jimmy are having a cappuccino each to keep him company; they’re too full for anything else.
“Sounds like Clyde already g-gave him one,” Jimmy points out, rather annoyingly.
Tweek grunts. “I mean,” he says, raising his arms, hands clawed up in frustration, “I mean… I just want to ruin his life. That’s not so bad, is it?”
Jimmy snorts. “D-depends on who you ask!”
Clyde swallows his mouthful and washes it down with a big gulp of water. “It’s not that bad,” he says, and when the other two both turn to stare at him, he says, “I mean, not bad enough that Tweek needs to get the Stan hat out again. I got him, didn’t I?” Clyde sounds almost proud, and Jimmy reaches across the table to slap him gently on the back.
“That you d-did.” A grin suddenly tugs at the corners of Jimmy’s mouth. “But you’re p-p-probably right that I should give DnD a m-miss.”
“What about Timmy though,” Tweek asks, momentarily distracted.
“Oh, I wouldn’t worry,” Jimmy waves his concerns away, “Kyle’s pretty decent at ASL, so they’ll be fine.”
“It’s just,” Clyde says, before he takes another big mouthful of food. Tweek and Jimmy both wait for him to say something else, but that seems to be it.
“It’s just, what,” Tweek prompts him impatiently, while Clyde’s still chewing.
Clyde swallows, and you can practically see that whole mouthful expanding his throat for a second, like when a snake swallows a goat. “I didn’t get to explain to Craig about Mom. I mean, his mom – fake mom,” he quickly corrects himself, “Was right there with us in the car.”
Tweek nods. “I get that,” he says, before giving his bottom lip a thoughtful chew. “If I’m not gonna ruin Stan's life today,” he jokes after a minute, “I suppose I’ve got time for a secret mission to Craig’s house. So I can tell him for you,” he adds, when Clyde just gives him a blank look.
It’s kind of nice to watch that blank look turn into a grateful smile. “Oh my God, would you really?”
The four of theme – Tweek and Clyde, Jimmy and Token – have been tight-knit bros since way before Mrs Donovan passed away. There’s never been a need for Clyde to explain anything, because Tweek and the guys were already there. Taking turns staying over at Clyde’s until he could sleep through the night again. Until he didn’t wake up screaming anymore, and had the sleepwalking down to an acceptable level. And even though they hang out with other people from class all the time, everyone in class knows what happened to Clyde’s mom. Except, obviously, for Craig. And this is not, also rather obviously, the easiest thing for Clyde to talk about. It must matter a lot to him, Tweek realizes, what Craig will think. And while he could feel jealous about that, what would even be the point?
“He’s p-probably been grounded by now,” Jimmy says, raising an eyebrow.
“Pft,” Tweek waves his concerns away, “You doubt my infiltration skills?” He grins at Jimmy, because it’s been hours since he saw Craig, and Tweek already misses him like crazy. “I’ll ninja my way in there, and fill him in on our plan, too. Don’t you worry your Jim-Jam head.”
Not that Tweek’s got any idea how he’s going to pull that off, but… Ah, screw it. He’ll come up with something. He usually does.

Chapter Text

Fake Dad isn’t home when Mr Donovan drops off Craig and Fake Mom in their driveway. Craig can see that straightaway; the house is completely dark. Clyde only offers up a grunt when Craig tells him goodbye, and then Mr Donovan just drives off – even though they live next door. Craig barely has time to slam the passenger door shut.
“You will go to your room,” Fake Mom seethes, and Craig only shrugs in response. He wasn’t expecting anything less. He trudges up the stairs without bothering to take his shoes off – Craig needs both hands for that, and right now, that doesn’t bear thinking about. Smacking Cartman in the face with his cast probably wasn’t the best idea, in retrospect. All he wants to do is take a couple of Kenny’s pills, so he takes a quick detour into the bathroom to fill up his tooth glass with water.
He finds Fake Mom waiting outside the bathroom, arms crossed.
“What,” Craig says, unable to keep the irritation out of his voice.
“You will go to your room,” Fake Mom says again. Something about her suddenly makes Craig feel a little… well, not afraid, exactly. Just… wary.
He shrugs again. “Okay.”
He was not expecting to be locked inside there, but the first thing he hears when he’s shut the door behind him, is the key in the lock.
Craig closes his eyes for a second, and takes a deep breath. Then he turns around and flips the door off. He can hear her footsteps going back down the stairs, probably to fix herself something to eat. “Bitch,” he mutters. His own stomach is only just starting to growl.

There really isn’t much to do, aside from homework, once Craig’s put his hat on – he felt kind of naked without it – and changed back into his own clothes. Well, aside from Tweek’s Metallica shirt, but that one’s hardly even sweaty from being slept in, so he figures he might as well wear it again. With the familiar background drawl of Nick Cave in his ears, Craig gets his spiral notebook out, along with a pen that he must’ve accidentally stolen yesterday, when he and the guys were at Tweak Bros. Pretending to work on their group project about Peru while he forced himself to sit still, and tried not to think about what Thomas might be telling Tweek. He did take some clumsy notes, but all he can make out – this was written with his right hand, after all – are the words “trophy heads” and “mummy”. Oh yeah, he’s is off to a great start here.
Chewing on the pen cap, he sits tailor-fashion on the floor. The painkillers are kicking in kind of fast, probably since he’s got an empty stomach, and the room starts swirling if he looks at things too closely.
Because the house is completely silent (what’s Fake Mom even doing out there?) Craig can clearly hear the doorbell ring. Who the hell? It must be the supreme boredom – that or trying to cobble together a school report on stuff he doesn’t know dick about – that makes Craig practically run over to the window and shove his head out.
It’s impossible to see the front door from this angle, even if he felt up for straddling the window frame and leaning further out, which he definitely doesn’t. But that voice… It sure carries, and Craig would know that voice anywhere.
“Heya Mrs Tucker,” Tweek chirps, in a tone that immediately tells Craig that Tweek knows he must be in deep trouble. “I need to see Craig about our Peru project?”
Clever, Craig thinks, Very clever. No “Can I’s”, because Tweek knows damn well Fake Mom would refuse right off the bat then. The way he’s phrased it, it’s like Tweek already knows it’s going to happen.
Like he knows they’re going to see each other again. Right now.
When the reality of that hits Craig, he pulls his head back inside real fast.
Is Tweek here because he wants to talk about what happened? To ask Craig a question that he’s not even sure he can say yes to? His palms are suddenly sweaty, and Craig rubs the right one absently against his leg.
Stay cool, Tucker, he thinks – and then immediately groans out loud for thinking something so definitely uncool. Here he is, locked up like a monkey at the zoo, and this is how Tweek’s going to find him…
He can hear the key scraping in the door, and swallows the lump that’s forming in his throat. Don’t freak out now, he tells himself. It’s only Tweek. You can do this.
“Gosh,” Tweek exclaims, as he shoulders his way into the room, “Thanks a bunch, Mrs Tucker!”
Craig does a mild double take when he sees him, because Tweek’s combed his hair! It somehow looks even more insane than his usual Einstein poofball style. But that’s not even half as crazy as how Tweek’s suddenly wearing a pair of wire-rimmed glasses! Perched on the tip of his button nose, they make him look so damn cute; though Tweek seems to be peering over them rather than looking through them. And as for his band shirt du jour; it’s kind of an understated black one, with the Velvet Underground sitting crouched under their logo and smoking. Worn over black jeans with no holes in them at all; and partially hidden under an honest-to-God tweed jacket! No wonder Fake Mom let him in here; he looks like Professor Token’s intern!
“Hey dude,” Tweek says, grinning from ear to ear as he swings his backpack off his shoulder, and pulls out that big Peru book he brought to the coffee shop yesterday. “Are you ready to hit the books like there’s no tomorrow?”
“Uh,” Craig replies. He blinks, but no, that’s definitely Tweek, dressed like a nerd – and talking like one. “Sure?”
“Fantastic,” Tweek beams at him, then turns to grin at Fake Mom, who’s hovering behind him with one hand on the doorknob. “Do you mind leaving the door unlocked, Mrs Tucker, in case I have to use the restroom?”
Fake Mom actually seems to think about that for a second, before she probably decides Tweek’s backpack is too small to smuggle Craig outside in. “All right,” she says, “But remember, you are here only to study. Craig is grounded.”
“Oh that’s perfectly fine, M’am,” Tweek tells her, “We don’t plan on having any fun whatsoever. Right, Craig?”
Taking that as his cue, Craig drawls “Nope,” and allows himself to give Fake Mom a quick glare. She definitely sees it – she’s supposed to! – but since Tweek’s standing right next to her, she decides to leave it there.
“Good,” Fake Mom says, and pulls the door shut behind her when she leaves. But, she really does leave it unlocked! The two boys just look at each other while they listen to her footsteps receding down the uncarpeted stairs, and then Tweek lets the Peru book drop to the floor.
“Holy shit,” he whispers, flinging himself down on the carpet next to it, “I didn’t think she’d fall for it!”
“You wear glasses,” Craig asks, cautiously squatting down opposite him. Close, but not too close.
That makes Tweek snort. “Nah, these are gas station reading glasses my grandma bought, the last time she was staying with us!” He pulls them right off his face, with little regard for how he folds them up, and shoves them into a pocket. “And this,” he pulls on the lapels of the jacket, “Actually belongs to my mom.” Tweek frowns, as a thought suddenly seems to hit him. “And if you tell anyone I can fit into my mom’s clothes, I will end you, man! Kiss or no kiss,” he adds, with a cheeky little smile.
“Ah, um,” Craig replies, because now his cheeks are on fire.
“So anyway,” Tweek looks around the room now, and it’s like he’s taking in the vast emptiness of it for the first time, “Who’s your decorator, Spartacus?” Grinning to show that he’s kidding; obviously trying to make Craig less uncomfortable about having literally nothing in his bedroom, except for that borrowed air mattress.
“Wouldn’t I have like, a bunch of gladiator shit hung up on the walls then,” Craig drawls, a smile tugging at one corner of his mouth. “Like, some helmets and spears or whatever?”
“And a pair of short-swords right above the door,” Tweek agrees, holding his arms up in an X, “Hung up like this.”
“Would Sir like to shuffle his ass over to the, ah,” Craig looks up at the ceiling for a second, searching for the right word, and full-on smiles when it comes to him, “The chaise-longue?”
That does it. Tweek just splurts and starts to laugh, doing his best to muffle it with a hand over his mouth. And he does shuffle over, on his knees, and just buries his face in Craig’s borrowed sheets for a while. His shoulders are shaking, and Craig can just about make out some dorky, half-smothered giggles and snorts. Tweek’s kind of sniffing his bedding though, and the thought of that is pretty distracting.
“So hey,” Tweek says, sitting up and wiping his eyes, “I see you’re wearing my shirt again.”
Craig may have been blushing his ass off just a minute ago, but now he can practically feel all that colour draining off his face and all the way down thorough his body. Seeping out of his feet. What can he even say to that – no? That’d look pretty stupid, seeing as a how he’s got his hoodie unzipped and the Skeleton Dude is on full display. He finally settles on, “It’s a good shirt,” and serves that up with a shrug.
Tweek blinks, like he just got an idea. “You want it,” he asks, like that’s the most natural thing in the world, and Craig feels his own mouth slide open. “It’s not like I’m ever gonna run out of band shirts,” Tweek goes on, pulling his backpack over and starting to dig around in there, “And it’s too big for me, anyway. Are you hungry?”
“What?” The sudden change of topic kind of knocks Craig sideways.
“Because I thought you might like…” Tweek gently extracts a Tupperware box out of what looks like a graveyard for squashed notebooks and dried-out pens, “A breakfast burrito? Dad used up the leftover tagine,” he goes on, when Craig doesn’t answer, “So it’s kind of like a brand new recipe, but it’s really good?! And we’ve got like twenty of these just sitting in the fridge now, well maybe more like seven, and I microwaved it right before I left the house so it should still be warm? And I’ve got a knife and fork…” Tweek frowns, peering into the abyss of his school bag, “…somewhere in here?!”
It suddenly hits Craig that Tweek is nervous. That he’s worried Craig might not like being presented with homemade hot food that he can even smell through the container. It’s so damn cute that Craig just wants to grab him by the Velvet Underground shirt and smush faces right this second, but then he is pretty damn hungry.
“Well, you’ve got twenty seconds to find ‘em,” he drawls, raising one eyebrow, “Before I just stick my face in the box and eat it like a dog.”
That literally makes Tweek howl with relieved laughter, though he quickly shoves his own arm into his mouth to muffle it.
“Dude,” he says, when he’s got himself under control, “Jimmy and me are going to get you out of South Park. Ha!” Tweek holds up the cutlery in his fist, as proud as a guy posing for a photo with a fish he’s caught. “I’ll fill you in while you eat.”

Craig gets as excited as Tweek’s ever seen him over the promise of that ride to Denver. This warm, unguarded smile just seems to light him up from the inside, and that makes Tweek dizzy with happiness. That he could be the one to make Craig smile like that. Not to mention how Craig hoovers up that breakfast burrito in no time, sneakily wiping his mouth on the hem of Tweek’s Metallica shirt, when he thinks Tweek isn’t looking. It’s so cute that Tweek’s whole chest is about to burst open like a book. His heart would probably end up flying right out of him then, landing on the floor and flopping around like a fish. Tweek has to grin at the thought, a big goofy grin.
“What’s so funny?” Craig sounds almost suspicious.
There’s no way Tweek can explain his own, uh, complex? Batshit? Thought process to Craig right now. Or ever. “Can’t I just be happy to see you,” he counters instead, and Craig’s whole face instantly takes on this soft, red glow. It’s so damn cute!
“Um,” Craig says, staring firmly at the Tupperware box in his hands, “I guess.” It takes him two tries to get the lid back on. If Tweek’s not careful, he’s going to end up looking like the Joker, that’s how much he can feel his grin stretching his face.
“So,” Tweek rolls the word around in his mouth, wondering if this is even the right time to bring it up, “I was just wondering if…”
Craig looks up at him, and his stare is so direct, his eyes are such a gorgeous shade of brown. “If,” he prompts, and Tweek realizes that he’s just flat out staring at Craig instead of finishing his own sentence. Now it’s his turn to blush. Jesus!
“Gah,” he says, shaking his head, “I just meant, if you’d want to tell people about…” he leans in closer, because to hell with it, and his lips find Craig’s lips. They slot together like puzzle pieces, and Craig’s mouth tastes like leftover tagine, and the kisses are so slow and sweet. Like Craig’s having me for dessert, Tweek thinks, smiling at the idea as he pulls away. “About this,” he says, looking hopefully at Craig.
But Craig’s face just instantly freezes up, and Tweek knows the answer before the other boy’s even had a chance to open his mouth. “I,” Craig says, and the fear in his voice makes something in Tweek’s belly twist up, “I can’t…”
Tweek closes his eyes. He’d been fantasizing about holding Craig’s hand at school tomorrow, about making out during recess, and maybe flinging it in Stan and Kyle’s faces a little, how happy he is. But that’s not what’s important, is it. He’s not going to force Craig to come out to the whole school when he’s barely even been here for a week.
Smile, Tweek tells himself firmly. You can do it.
Then he opens his eyes and, smile firmly in place, tells Craig, “Dude, its fine. It can totally be a secret affair kind of thing.”
“Thanks,” Craig mutters, and his face is a curious mash-up of shame and relief.
Tweek’s thoughts are racing now – change the subject, change the subject – and then he remembers his promise to Clyde. “Thank God for Clyde’s dead mom,” he blurts out, and then cringes when he hears the words coming out of his own mouth.
Craig’s only response is to raise a single eyebrow.
“I mean, gnk, I promised him,” Tweek babbles, “Clyde I mean, when his dad brought him over? That I’d explain to you about the whole….” Tweek waves his hands in the air, like he’s doing anti-gravity baking, “Gah! The whole dead mom thing.”
“His dad took him over to your place,” Craig asks, his face instantly clouding over, “Was he okay? He seemed kind of out of it.”
“Oh, he’s fine now,” Tweek assures him, waving that away, because he’s sure Clyde wouldn’t want Craig to hear about him bawling his eyes out. “We just kind of had to, ah, reset him if that makes sense? I flashed him my junk, and then we made him eat a burrito.” Tweek grins cheekily at Craig, and Craig actually snorts.
“Is this a greeting in your culture,” he drawls, and his eyes are shining.
“Absolutely,” Tweek deadpans, though he can’t stop grinning. “So anyway, you know how some people keep shooting their mouth off about how Clyde’s mom died?”
“Yeah,” Craig says, very cautiously. “It is all bullshit, right?”
Tweek takes a second to close his eyes and pull his thoughts together. “Not exactly,” he says, and opens them in time to see Craig’s eyes widening in shock. “It was, ah, involuntary manslaughter? That’s what Token’s dad called it. There was this whole investigation into… No,” Tweek interrupts himself, “I’m telling this all backwards. You’ve… maybe noticed how Clyde is like, really strong?”
Slowly, Craig starts to nod. “At the graveyard this morning,” he says, “When he took Stan down. That was… almost scary. And I hate Stan,” he adds, frowning like he’s surprised at his own reaction.
“Wish I could’ve been there,” Tweek says, a little wistfully. “Anyway, Clyde’s been strong since we were kids. I remember he used to just like, enjoy dragging stuff around? Like we’d all be playing in the yard at their house, and Clyde would get the wheelbarrow out and be like, ‘get in,’ and then I’d sit in there with Jimmy and Token, and he’d push us all up and down the street. Running, you know?”
Now Craig’s the one looking a little wistful. “That sounds kind of fun,” he says, staring off into the distance. Like he’s trying to imagine what they all would’ve looked like.
“Yeah,” Tweek says, remembering the wind in his hair, Token’s knee digging into his side, the rhythmic bumping of the wheelbarrow. Blue skies, all the houses flashing past them as Clyde ran, Jimmy’s breathless laughter. “He couldn’t control his strength yet, though, so he’d sometimes break things by accident.”
Craig’s nodding, like this makes sense to him. He’s slipping his broken arm back inside the sling now, having used both hands to eat.
“And the other thing was,” Tweek chews his lip for a second, “His mom really wasn’t well, you know?”
“Mm,” Craig says, frowning. “Clyde told me she used hear voices and shit.”
Okay, so that’s a start. “Yeah, she used to think the house was talking to her,” Tweek tells him, with a nervous little laugh, because thinking about Clyde’s mom will have that effect on him. “She was always saying stuff like, “These walls have seen a thing or two”, back when I was still allowed to come in there. Oh, she wouldn’t let me in their house for a while,” he explains, when Craig looks confused, “Because she was convinced my mom was trying to like, seduce her husband? So she was convinced I would be like, spying on Mom’s behalf when I was there.”
Craig’s eyebrows have just about shot up to his hairline. “What the hell,” he says, and Tweek can only shrug. “Did she think that,” he stops, probably to gather his thoughts, “That their house had told her it saw your mom flirt with Clyde’s dad?”
“I guess?”
“But that’s insane,” Craig says, and he sounds so offended by the very idea that it’s almost funny.
“She even went to Tweak Bros to like, “confront” my mom about the whole…” Tweek spreads his hands, “Imaginary affair thing? I was in school, so I didn’t see it, but it was this huge drama. My dad made her leave in the end, and Mr Donovan was super embarrassed about it. I mean, they were still friends, but Dad wouldn’t let her inside the coffee shop after that.”
“Shit,” Craig shakes his head.
“I mean, she could be super nice as well,” Tweek hurriedly adds, “It sort of… fluctuated? So I guess maybe Mr Donovan didn’t get how bad it really was. But anyway, she was insanely tidy, right, and there were all these rules about what you could and couldn’t do at their house? Some of ‘em she’d literally embroider and frame, so there was a “Wash Your Hands Sign” with roses on it over the kitchen sink, for instance.”
Craig snorts. “Jesus,” he mutters, with a little eye-roll. “That’s some passive-aggressive shit.”
“Yeah, and another one that said, “Always put the seat down” next to the toilet in their bathroom,” Tweek adds, “Hanging right above the toilet roll holder. Clyde always used to forget, so I think that one was specifically for him.”
“Wow,” Craig says, shaking his head. “Just… wow.” He suddenly seems to remember that he’s still got the empty Tupperware box, and passes it to Tweek.
“So, this was two days before she died, right,” Tweek takes the box, shoving it inside his backpack. Craig’s actually put his dirty knife and fork inside it, he realises. How considerate! “We were all nine when this happened,” he goes on, “And Miss Garrison was still a man, because she was – he was – subbing in for Mrs Kelly that day, who was our homeroom teacher in elementary, for… some reason. I think Mrs Kelly was sick. So he was like, trying to teach us high school level maths, and we had no idea what was even going on. And then Clyde’s mom bursts in,” Tweek shakes his head at the memory, “Literally in her night gown with her coat on top, saying she’s there to take Clyde home. Because he forgot to put the toilet seat down, so he had to come back and do it properly.”
Craig’s mouth is hanging open. “So,” he says at last, “So if you want your kid to be bullied for the rest of his life…?”
Tweek winces. “I know. Mr Donovan was there as well, trying to get her to leave with him, but she was not going anywhere without Clyde.”
“So what’d Garrison do,” Craig asks, like he doesn’t really want to know but can’t help but ask.
“He just wanted her out of there, so he sent Clyde home with her. I know,” Tweek goes on when Craig stares at him, “But at least his dad was there, I guess? And she never actually hit Clyde, she’d just yell at him in Dutch, but it would go on forever. Anyway, two nights after that, Clyde was getting ready for bed. And he forgot to put the seat down again.”
“Oh God.” Craig’s already shaking his head.
“So his mom’s got Clyde sort of trapped in the bathroom, yelling in Dutch, and Clyde was obviously still sore about the whole school thing. And he says all he did was push her,” Tweek closes his eyes again, gives his bottom lip a quick chew while he tries to phrase this the right way, if there even is a right way, “But remember what I said? How he hadn’t figured out his own strength yet? So he pushed her kind of hard,” Tweek swallows, “And she fell, and her head hit the edge of the bathtub.”
“Shit,” Craig whispers, very quietly.
Tweek nods. “Skull fracture and brain haemorrhage. Mr Donovan called Mr Valmer when she didn’t wake up,” he goes on, “Because Jimmy’s dad used to be a fire fighter, so he knows first aid? And he said to call the paramedics, so that’s what they did, but...” Tweek shrugs. He remembers sitting in the Datsun, bundled up in his puffer jacket over his PJ’s, and seeing the ambulance on the lawn as Dad pulled up in the Stoleys’ front yard. Mom’s icy hand around his hand, where she sat next to him in the back seat. All the people out there, whispering and pointing. Jimmy in rubber boots and Batman pyjamas, arguing with his mom because she wouldn’t let him go in there. And the body, covered with a white sheet and strapped to a stretcher, as they wheeled it out of the house. It was the first time someone he’d known had died, so Tweek knows he’ll never forget it. How quiet everyone had gone then, out there on the lawn.
“That is just…” Craig shakes his head again, “The saddest damn thing…” Then something flashes in his eyes, and he says, “Wait. Has Stan Marsh been giving him shit for that? Since you guys were all nine?”
He sounds so outraged, and all Tweek can do is nod. “Not just Stan,” he says, for the sake of honesty. “Half the people in class were saying he killed her, because I guess they didn’t get how awful that was? Little kids can be the biggest assholes.”
Craig abruptly stands up. Clasping his right hand around his left elbow so that his arms are crossed, he strides over to the window and stays there, glaring out at the Donovans’ garage roof. “Am I,” he asks, and then he has to clear his throat, “Am I supposed to know about this? Or should I just pretend I don’t know, or…” He turns around, flinging his right arm out, fingers curled up like he’s imagining strangling a certain someone. “I don’t know what I’m supposed to do,” he says plaintively, looking at Tweek like he must have all the answers. It’s awful to see Craig so torn up, but Tweek fights down the impulse to just run over there and try to kiss this better.
“Listen,” he says instead, “I speak fluent Clyde, okay? Like a native of the basketball courts.”
That makes Craig’s lip twitch a little, which is a good sign.
“And I know how hard it is for him to talk about what happened to his mom. But I also know he felt really weird about you not knowing, and that he wanted me to come here and explain it all to you. So just…” Tweek smiles, “Act normal, okay? You don’t need to bring it up, not even to say how sorry you are. But if you want to, just say I told you all of it. Make sense?”
Craig nods. “He told me, back at Jimmy’s house,” he says, “How there’s a chance he might have what his Mom had.”
Tweek dismisses that with a snort and a wave of his hand. “A miniscule chance,” he says, because that’s what Token’s dad told him and Token, back when it first happened. “Besides, that illness is usually triggered by stress, and Stan’s put Clyde under enough stress to make it happen ten times over.” Neither of them wants to say the word “schizophrenia” out loud, Tweek realizes. Because there’s no way he can be a hundred percent sure, no matter how confident he’s acting now. “But the worst thing that’s happened” he goes on, still intent on reassuring Craig, “Is that he’ll start sleepwalking.”
“That’s how I first met him,” Craig says, and now he sounds a little relieved. “My fake dad almost ran him over.”
Ah yes, Craig’s fake parents. Tweek gets up now, and walks over to join Craig at the window. “Just think about it,” he says, slipping his fingers inside of Craig’s right hand. “You just have to get through one and a half days, and then on Tuesday morning?” He braids his fingers through Craig’s, and Craig lets him. “You’ll be out of here.”
Craig gives Tweek’s hand a quick, careful squeeze. “How am I going to manage that, though? Those assholes even paid Kenny’s dad to keep an eye on me! I’m serious,” Craig points through the window, “He was standing down there, on the other side of the road! All night!”
“Well, shit,” Tweek says, frowning. That does throw a spanner in the works. But then he can feel himself start to relax, because what’s this except another challenge, another plan waiting to be hatched? “Don’t worry,” he tells Craig, leaning into his side a little, and letting his head bump against Craig’s shoulder. “I’ll come up with something. I always do!”

When Kenny arrives at Stan’s house for DnD, the place is practically empty. Just Cartman, occupying the entire sofa, stretched out sideways with his foot propped up on a tower of cushions. And Kyle’s helping Stan, who’s sporting a fresh shiner, set up for the game.
“Are you hungry, Kenny,” Mrs Marsh asks, as she steps aside to let him walk inside the hallway.
Kenny shakes his head. “No thanks, m’am,” he mutters, before he bends over to pry his right sneaker off.
He’s been in here a thousand times, but all of a sudden, Kenny’s heart is pounding.
“Kenny,” Kyle exclaims, bounding over as soon as Kenny’s stuck his head inside the living room. “How was your, ah,” he glances over at Stan’s mom, who’s making Stan hold still so she can have a look at his swollen eye, and his voice drops to a whisper, “Recon mission?”
Kenny is starting to feel sick to his stomach. “I got something,” he whispers back, glancing furtively at Mrs Marsh. “Tell you about it later.”
“You just let me know if you need another ice pack,” Stan’s mom is saying, smoothing his hair into place, which is something Stan puts up with like a reluctant dog being petted. “That Donovan boy isn’t right in the head.”
“You got that right, Mrs M,” Cartman drawls in his most irritating, syrupy voice. “Just look at what his friends did to me!”
There’s been a fight, Mysterion tells him, as if Kenny can’t put two and two together and figure that out on his own. There’s a pair of brand new crutches propped up against the sofa, not to mention how Cartman’s got a bright purple air cast on his foot.
“You stepped in a hole, Cartman,” Kyle snaps, and Kenny almost laughs.
Of course he did, Mysterion says, from somewhere in the back of Kenny’s head.
“It’s still Token’s fault,” Cartman whines, “Because he ran like a pussy! And that brown asshole Craig, he was in on it too! Those dickheads ganged up on me!”
Who’s the real pussy here, Mysterion drawls. Kenny wishes he could tell him to shut up, because this is starting to get distracting. It’s the Princess I need now, Kenny thinks, as firmly as he can manage. Not you.
“And that asshole, Craig,” Cartman goes on, “He punched me with his cast! And then he threw a rock at me!”
“Oh,” Mrs Marsh says, completely tuning Cartman out as she seems to remember something, “That’s right, one of his caregivers called about Timmy! He’s got a bad cold, so he can’t make it.”
“Aw, bummer,” Kyle says, and he sounds sincere. That really is a shame, because it’s impossible to keep up a bad mood with Timmy around.
“At least he got to play on Friday,” Kenny blurts out, and then everything goes very quiet. Shit, how could he have been so stupid? Bringing up how he went to the other group for DnD on Friday, like a total traitor. Mrs Marsh starts walking towards the kitchen, and the plastic soles of her slippers echo loudly with each step.
“Jimmy’s not coming either,” Stan says at last, breaking the tension. “Big surprise there. And Butters is grounded.”
Oh damn, that is a shame. “What’d he do this time,” Kenny asks, before he can stop himself. Butters is such a good human buffer, having him here would’ve made things a lot less tense. Not to mention, Kenny just likes the kid. Same with Jimmy, who gets along with everybody. Well, when Stan and Cartman aren’t trying to beat up his friends, anyway – that must be the reason he’s staying away.
“Butters got involved,” Stan says darkly, whatever the hell that’s supposed to mean.
“Does it even matter,” Kyle ask rhetorically, because Butters gets grounded all the time by his asshole dad. “Bradley’s coming though,” he goes on, “He called my house to tell me that. Since Craig’s not welcome at this game,” he adds, with a meaningful little nod in Stan’s direction.
Kenny remembers Craig’s little stunt with the Superman T-shirt. Who could ever forget something like that? No wonder poor Bradley’s going out of his way to avoid the guy.
“But Kenny,” Kyle’s suddenly there, pulling on Kenny’s sleeve and dragging him towards the sofa group, and Cartman, “What did you find out at Tweek’s house?”
Cartman doesn’t make space for anybody, but there’s an armchair on either side of the coffee table, and Kyle pushes Kenny into the closest one before perching on one armrest himself. Stan takes the other armchair, perching at the very edge of the seat. “Tell me you got something good,” he says, hungrily.
Kenny closes his eyes. Here goes nothing. He opens them again, and says, “Tweek’s secretly dating Craig.”
“Pffwhaat,” Stan exclaims, completely shocked.
“I knew it,” Cartman hoots. “I knew old Spicola had the hots for him!”
“Wow,” Kyle says quietly, “This is huge! Do you have any proof?”
Kenny bites his lip. Should he even mention this? “Well, Tweek’s mom snuck in and took photos of them? Because she wanted Tweek’s first kiss on camera?”
That actually makes Stan laugh, before he says, “I need those pictures.”
“Kenny,” Kyle says, very seriously, “Did you see these photos? Do you know where she keeps ‘em?”
“They haven’t been developed yet,” Kenny mutters, “But I offered to hand them in at the Dojo, and I changed it on the bag, and ordered two sets of prints. I’m gonna pick them up tomorrow during recess.”
“Dude,” Stan says, holding out his hand for a high-five. “You are my personal hero today!”
“Isn’t that gonna make you late coming back, though,” Kyle asks, frowning, because of course he would worry about something like that.
“It’ll be fine,” Kenny tells him, with more confidence than he’s ever actually had.
“Well, if you’re sure…”
Kyle is still frowning, but Stan suddenly leans forward to smack both hands, palms first, down on the coffee table. “Dude,” he says, “If Kenny says he’s got it covered, he’s got it covered!” His huge grin makes Kenny hate himself even more.
That’s when the doorbell rings, and Stan jumps to his feet, galvanized. “Not a word of this to anybody,” he says, looking meaningfully at Cartman, before he runs to answer the door.

They wind up playing with kind of a skeleton crew. It’s a total sausage party too. No Nicole; she must be staying away out of loyalty to Token, and there goes her promise to bring Bebe along. Even Wendy calls to cancel last minute, and Stan looks like he drank a glass of piss when he gets off the phone with her. All he says is “Wendy’s not coming,” and not even Cartman has the stones to ask any questions. She must be mad at Stan for getting into yet another fight. Kenny senses that Stan and Cartman haven’t told him and Kyle the whole truth about what happened after Church. And he’s secretly thinking that if Craig really did smack Cartman in the face with his cast, then that was kind of badass.
The only two people who show are Bradley and Scott Malkinson. That’s fine; they still have a decent party. Bradley’s druid can heal them, while Kyle’s sorcerer and Cartman’s wizard can handle the magic side of things. Scott’s ranger uses two shortswords rather than primarily using ranged attacks, but tonight that’s helpful. He can stay in the lead while they bolster him from behind. The Princess will, as always, use her bow.
The party picks up where they were last time, fighting its way through the latest in a whole series of dungeons. This time they have come across an apparently empty room.
“I think Lynwen Icegem should just run through it without looking for traps first,” Kyle says. Lynwen Icegem is the rather hoity-toity name of Kyle’s half-Elven sorcerer. “I mean, if it’s booby-trapped, he’ll still survive it.”
Stan nods, but as soon as Kyle’s character has stepped inside the room, he says, “And bam! You step on a pressure plate, and secret doors open all around your party! Unleashing a horde of zombies led by a wight!”
Kyle groans.
From that point on, Bradley’s druid, Sir Mintberry, is pretty much on standby just for healing. Because they’re all taking a pounding. Malkinson’s ranger, Aejor Orcsbane, almost goes down in the first round of combat after being surrounded by the wight and two zombies, while Kyle is rolling terribly on his attack rolls and sending scorching blasts of fire into the walls. Cartman tries to use fireball, ignoring Malkinson’s protest that “if you centre it there you’ll hit me too!” Cartman manages to take out a few zombies, but Malkinson rolls a natural 1 on his saving throw and takes lots of extra damage. To make matters worse, the wight made its saving throw too and only took half damage.
“Princess Kenny.” Stan looks at Kenny almost pityingly. “What do you want to do?
Kenny decides he needs to take out that wight. Stan’s having Malkinson do constitution saving throws every time the wight hits him, and Kenny doesn’t want to know what’ll happen if he fails.
“I shoot an arrow at that big guy.” Kenny points.
“Roll for it.” Stan instructs him.
“Whatever you say, Mr handsome DM,” Kenny purrs, but immediately realizes something’s off. It’s the Voice, it’s just not… Forget about that, he tells himself, rolling his borrowed D20 – Stan, who owns a lot of dice, left a set in a pouch by each of their seats like he always does. The ones Kenny are using are a sort of marbled black and green. To his relief, it’s not a bad roll.
“15 to hit.” He tells Stan.
“You hit him.” Stan says, with obvious relief. “Roll for damage.”
Kenny rolls his d8. “6 damage.”
“He’s still standing.” Stan tells him.
“I’ll use my second attack to shoot another arrow.” Kenny answers. He takes the d20, makes a silent prayer, and throws it. Everybody peers over as it rolls across the table, stopping in front of Bradley.
“NATURAL 20!” Bradley whoops. They all cheer with excitement.
Kenny rolls the extra damage, taking a deep breath as he adds it all up. “14 more damage.”
Stan looks down at his notes. “You fire off your arrows. Scott, you’re fighting this thing, barely standing…and then there are two arrows in its head, one sticking out of each eye. It gives a low groan, and keels over. It lies still at your feet.”
“Yeah!” Kenny blurts out, reaching desperately for the Voice, “Eat my shaft, you ugly bastard!”
There is complete silence around the table, and Kenny realizes that what came out of his mouth just now sounded an awful lot like Mysterion, and not like the Princess at all.
“Uh, Kenny,” Kyle says, and he actually sounds worried, “Are you okay?”
Kenny pushes himself to his feet. His legs are shaking. “Bathroom,” he says, and he can already feel his mouth starting to fill up with saliva. He makes it in there just in time, flings himself on his knees in front of the toilet bowl and vomits up everything he ate at the Tweaks’. That whole, glorious breakfast. The last sour mouthfuls of puke just taste like orange juice, and there are beads of sweat forming over Kenny’s entire body, soaking into his good hoodie. And he knows, somehow, that he won’t be able to bring the Princess back.

Chapter Text

“Stuart McCormick is never going to finish our roof, is he,” Dad sighs while he looks over Tweek’s algebra homework, cradling his favorite coffee mug in his hands. It’s got World’s Best Dad printed on it in bubble letters, which would be fine if Tweek had bought it for him, but no. Dad had spotted that thing at a yard sale years ago, and snapped it up for a whole dollar. He’s had that mug for how many years? Tweek’s got no idea at this point, but he still feels the urge to roll his eyes every time he sees it.
“Not after today, he isn’t,” Mom says, all cryptic, from over by the toaster. “Might as well call Randy Marsh and get it over with.” The toaster dings, and the two halves of a poppy seed bagel pop out, just the right shade of brown. “Tweek, cream cheese or butter?”
“One of each, please?” Tweek could probably happily go through life with a few cups of coffee for breakfast, but… Not on Mom’s watch, he can’t. With terrifying efficiency, she stuffs a pre-cut bagel into the toaster, before slathering Tweek’s bagel halves in what, twenty seconds? The plate lands in front of him just as the toaster dings again.
“Richard, butter or cream cheese?”
“Butter, honey, if you don’t mind.”
Its ten to six in the morning, so in theory they’ve all still got plenty of time; Tweak Bros doesn’t open until seven. Mom seems kind of on edge today though; she doesn’t usually drink her first cup of coffee standing next to the toaster. Tweek doesn’t think she and Dad had a fight last night over Kenny’s dad, and how he’s not come back for almost a week now. That day when Craig stood up to him for Kenny, Mr McCormick had only been there to assess the roof, and Tweek knows for a fact that Dad hasn’t paid him for that.
He yawns, and tries to concentrate on spreading some of that avocado Mom sliced up on the cream cheese half – in Tweek’s mind, that’s one of those ultimate combos. He’s still not sure what he wants on the buttered half yet. Maybe that soft cheese with bits of walnut in it. “Algebra on a Monday morning is evil,” he mutters, which makes Dad laugh and muss his hair. Tweek can practically feel it gathering static electricity and start to expand, but he can’t quite bring himself to care yet. He can always try to sort it out in the car; he’s still got that comb in his backpack. Somewhere.
“No mistakes yet, though,” Dad tells him, sounding pleasantly surprised. “Ah, thanks, honey. And anyway,” he looks up at Mom as he takes his plate from her, “These things take time, you know.”
“Hopefully not that much time,” Mom says, and suddenly Tweek can’t stand it anymore.
“Gah! What things take time?!”
Mom, about to fish the last half of her bagel out, yips and drops it on the counter. “Ah, damn it,” she hisses, blowing on her fingers, before spearing it on her knife and depositing it on her plate. “After what Kenny told us yesterday,” she gives Tweek a look that’s almost angry, “About how Stuart pulled a gun on his wife, we can’t sit on our hands anymore.”
“Oh,” Tweek says, because it’s the last thing he’d have thought of. Everybody knows Kenny’s parents are awful, that’s just how it is.
“And there’s the other thing,” Dad says, and he looks like he’s about to say something else, only that’s when Mom says, “Richard.” And the look she gives him makes Dad throw his hands up.
“I was only going to say,” Dad sounds a little indignant, “How Kenny himself said he’d rather live with someone else.”
Tweek feels a sudden tsunami of panic take hold. “Oh Jesus,” he howls, “You’re not gonna adopt all three of them and have them live here, are you?!”
His parents stare at him, open-mouthed, and then at each other. Then they both burst into helpless laughter.
“This isn’t funny at all,” Tweek insists, pointing his butter knife first at Mom, then Dad. “If they’re moving in here, I’m moving out!” Because they’re his parents, goddamn it! Sure. they may be weird and do some crazy things, but the hell if Tweek wants to share them full time with Kenny and the others.
“Tweek, honey,” Mom comes over to kiss the top of his head, “We’d never do that. And certainly not without talking to you first!”
“You’re more of an armful enough for us,” Dad agrees, and his tone is so warm and loving that it takes Tweek a second to twig exactly what he just said.
“Hey!”
“I meant, more than enough for us to nurture and cherish,” Dad amends, with deceptive innocence. “Why, what’d I say?”
“You know what you said,” Tweek growls, but he’s more relieved than mad. He shoves the entire half of avocado and cream cheese bagel in his mouth and just chews away. Mom finally sits down opposite him, with her polka-dot coffee mug and two cream cheese-covered bagel halves.
“There’s no telling if CPS will even take me seriously,” Mom says, with a sigh. “But anyway,” she suddenly reaches across the table to tuck some of Tweek’s hair behind his ear, while he’s still chewing away. “You’re enough, kiddo. You're enough.”
Tweek swallows the whole mouthful. It’s impossible not to smile. “Okay, well, whew!”

When Esther Stoley shows up for Monday morning Algebra, she’s wearing a red dress, of all things. It’s covered in little white and yellow flowers, and has a long skirt that flares out behind her while she strides down the hallways holding Lisa Berger’s hand. It’s almost weird, not seeing that girl in her usual head-to-toe black. Esther’s even smiling – though not as wide as Lisa is. Whatever went on between those two over the weekend must have been pretty damn epic.
“Huh,” Token says, pausing next to Craig, who’s wrestling, wrong-handed, with the key to his locker. He’s wearing actual ripped black jeans today, with a slouchy purple Kicker’s sweatshirt – only in true Professor Token style, he’s wearing a white button-up shirt underneath it, with the collar sticking out and folded neatly. He must even have the shirt-tails tucked inside his jeans, because they’re not sticking out at all. It’s so damn cute that it put Craig in a good mood the second he saw Token today. “I did not see that one coming.”
Craig, who may have seen something like this coming, can still only nod. What must it feel like for Esther, he wonders, to walk down those hallways holding her girlfriend’s hands and giving zero shits what anyone has to say about it? “I’m, ah, glad she seems happier,” he manages at last. He turns to look at Token, and because it’s just the two of them, he adds, “I found her crying outside the house when we played DnD.”
“Well,” Token cups his own chin in his hand, running his index finger up and down the side of his jaw while he thinks, “That was the night Nicole asked her along to that sleepover. Esther must’ve talked to the rest of the girls about it then.”
Craig just blinks at Token for a second. “Don’t you ever use that brain of yours for crime,” he drawls at last, and it takes real effort to keep his face expressionless. “Promise me that, okay? For the good of mankind only.”
That surprises a laugh out of Token. “I wouldn’t have thought you’d be funny,” he says, then instantly looks embarrassed. “I mean. When we first met you. But obviously, you’d just been through a car crash and the whole…”
“Parents thing,” Craig suggests, when Token seems to run out of juice.
“Well yeah.” Token looks relieved. “That.”
“Nah,” Craig deadpans, “You were right. I’m a humourless asshole.”
And Token snorts! He actually snorts like a dork, shaking his head as he shuts his locker door.
Craig can’t help but grin. It’s the nicest, warmest feeling – kidding around with his new friend in this tiny, quiet corner of the school.
“Oh my God, you guys!” That quiet is short-lived, because here’s Clyde, running towards them from the boys’ toilets and wiping his hands on his jeans. His red and black Buffalo shirt’s flapping open, revealing a Bryan Adams T-shirt – Tweek’s going to love that. “Scott Malkinson’s in there crying,” he pants, grabbing onto Token’s purple sweater like he doesn’t have the strength to stand, “And ripping up pages and pages of Esther drawings from his sketchbook! Going, “She was always my warm-up doodle!” I mean…!” By now, Clyde’s run out of steam, and words, and all he can do is shake his head.
“And you left him there,” Craig states, giving Clyde a very level eyeballing, just to mess with him a little. After all, Clyde made it sound like Scott was minutes away from drowning himself in one of the toilet bowls. But, if Scott really is hiding in the toilets to cry, he probably wouldn’t want another guy to watch him, right?
“Not on his own!” Clyde sounds downright offended at the idea. “Butters was with him, and Bradley Biggle too! I figured Scott’s better off with just his friends in there, so I slashed and ran.”
“And washed your hands, we hope,” Token adds, looking pointedly down at Clyde’s hand where he still had a deathgrip on Token’s sweatshirt.
“Of course, dude,” Clyde protests indignantly. “Here, look! I even got your sweater wet!”
“Lucky me,” Token says, looking down at the dark purple water stains the way he might look at a centipede he’s spotted in his salad. But now, the guys’ voices are fading into the background. Now Craig is imagining having the balls to hold Tweek’s hands in front of everybody. How good that might actually feel.
It’s a stupid risk to take, though, and he knows it – especially since it could get back to the fakes. Craig can’t exactly imagine they’d be very tolerant, hell, they couldn’t even stand the Tweaks being vegetarians! He yanks the key out, glaring at it, and pulls his locker back open. Maybe there’s a trick to how he shuts the door that’ll make locking this thing easier?
And what about Clyde and Token? He eyeballs them warily. Sure, he knows what Token said at the graveyard. He remembers sitting next to Clyde on that bed in the Valmers' sunflower-themed guest room too, leaning into each other like it was the most natural thing in the world. But what if he tells them, and that wakes up some primal man instinct in his new friends, and their eyes just glaze over before they beat the shit out of him? Or if they’d just quietly start sidling away from him and keeping their distance – that would be almost worse. To get the leper treatment, after they’ve been through everything from a DnD campaign to a graveyard fight together.
“Craaaaig,” Tweek says, poking his head around Craig’s open locker door.
“Urgh!” Craig flinches as the most undignified noise ever comes out of his mouth, or maybe even his nose. But Tweek nearly gave him a heart attack there. “Ye-es,” he drawls, in what’s maybe not the friendliest tone ever, desperate to erase those last five seconds of supreme uncool.
“Did you see Esther and Lisa being fabulous lesbians?!” Tweek is grinning from ear to ear. His band shirt of the day, Craig notices, has the mushroom cloud album cover for Green Day’s Dookie on it. Craig used to listen to that album a lot, pre-breakup with Thomas, and for the first time, he finds himself missing it. Wanting to listen to something other that Nick Cave.
Tweek is staring at him expectantly.
“Uh, yeah.” Shit, Craig thinks, this must mean Tweek wants that too. To hold hands in the corridors and not give a damn. A single bead of sweat starts sliding from the back of his neck, between his shoulder blades and down along the curve of his spine.
“It w-warms the v-very c-c-c-cockles of your heart,” Jimmy agrees, popping up next to Tweek and leaning casually against the bank of lockers. His T-shirt’s got a picture of Weird Al on it, because of course Jimmy would be a Weird Al fan.
“Dude,” Clyde laughs, “You said cock.”
It’s not even funny, not really. But Craig’s nerves get the better of him, and he lets his head thud into Clyde’s shoulder before he starts laughing. They’re still linked, he realizes, the Graveyard Fight Gang – Clyde’s somehow still holding on to Token’s sweatshirt. Not to mention all five of them are laughing. And now Jimmy’s hobbled over to throw an arm around Craig’s neck, presumably balanced on his other crutch, and his laugh is warm and sly. While Tweek drops on all fours, crawls between their legs like the little weirdo he is, giving Craig a quick, breath-hitching glimpse of his black jeans hugging his ass. When Tweek comes out on the other side, he slides one arm around Token’s waist and the other around Craig’s, with a semi-feral growl of affection. Grinning up at Craig like he doesn’t mind one bit that they’re not going to tell anybody. Like Tweek’s so happy right now, there’s nothing that can ruin his good mood today.

As soon as the bell rings for recess, Kenny is out of his classroom and shoving his books, backpack, everything into his locker. Well, except his tattered wallet, which he shoves firmly down his back pocket before legging it out through the janitor’s entrance, while pulling his orange parka on. He runs out of the school grounds and around the block, up towards the bus stop outside the police station. And thank God, a bus shows up almost right away. Hanging out anywhere he’s likely to run into cops always makes Kenny nervous. Stand there for too long, a couple of ‘em are bound to come ask him why he’s not in school.
He sits pressed against the foggy glass of the window, on the same side that main street will come up on. It’s more or less a straight line there, but it’s far, so it’ll have to be the bus both ways if he wants to make it back to school in time. Bad enough he left the school grounds; you’re not supposed to until final bell. Watching City Hall slide past, and then the town square, willing the bus to go faster. Even though he’ll have to talk to a total stranger when he actually gets there, which is going to use up at least half of his damn life force. Putting this shit right is more important, though. At least there aren’t that many people waiting at the stops this time of day. And the few people riding with him aren’t pulling the cord to get off so they make good time.
Kenny made his mind up last night, curled up on the lumpy mattress in his bedroom. That this was going to be a rescue mission. He’s going to get both sets of prints, and he’s not going back to school today – instead, he’ll head straight to Tweak Bros. Hand over one set plus the film, and only let them pay him back if they insist. If Kevin can buy himself a flashy green jacket with birds on it, Kenny can spend some money on Mrs Tweak’s photos. After that, he’ll head home, and burn the second set, and to hell with school for the rest of the day. And to hell with Stan and Kyle, too.
A lump is starting to form in Kenny’s throat, because Stan and Kyle – hell, even Cartman – used to mean so damn much to him. Just remembering how happy it used to make him, that they’d choose to be friends with somebody like him, is enough to make his eyes sting. But they’ve all changed as they got older, or maybe they’ve all grown to be more like themselves? Kenny’s caught himself thinking more than once that Stan’s been wrong to do this, or Kyle’s been wrong to say that, and that Cartman doesn’t even know how to behave like a human being. Like, what’s Token ever done to Cartman? Or even Craig? Kenny was so damn embarrassed when Cartman called him a spic in class, but did he even react? Nope, he just left it to Tweek to hit Cartman in the face for that – Tweek! Who probably weighs roughly the same as one of Cartman’s legs! And all Kenny did was watch him…
It’s stupid, but Kenny’s just missed the way their old friendships were so effortless that he’s put in way too much effort to stay with them. To drown out the voice in his own head – his conscience, or Mysterion, whatever he’s supposed to call it – telling him it’s no good anymore. Maybe it’s because Kenny’s always had more riding on his shoulders, more of a real responsibility than those three have ever had – being Mysterion, or providing for his family, you name it. Maybe it’s because he’s been forced to put other people first – his sister, the people Mysterion helps out – and sees his friends’ petty feud with Tweek’s gang as the stupid bullshit that it is. Whatever the reason, Kenny just… doesn’t fit in anymore, and he knows it. What he’s about to do now will just be the very last nail in the coffin.
When the bus finally pulls up outside the bank, Kenny almost falls down the stairs in his hurry to get off. But he hits the ground running, fast enough to make both his hoods fly off and flap against his back. It doesn’t matter, he doesn’t care who can see him. He practically flies past Sloppy Seconds and Freeman’s Tacos, with his pager bumping against his chest under his hoodie with every step, and suddenly, there it is. The Photo Dojo, with its tacky camera-shaped window. Kenny skids to a halt outside, panting like a dog, before pushing the door open. A bell jangles, and he cautiously steps inside – Kenny can’t remember the last time he was in here.
“Hey kid, can I help you?” The bearded guy behind the counter seems friendly enough, he even smiles.
Kenny realizes he still hasn’t pulled his inner hood back up, and how weird would it be if he did it now? So he twists his face into something he hopes looks like a smile and says, “Uh, photos?” It’s easier to talk if he isn’t looking directly at the person, so he looks down at the glass counter instead. At all the stuff they’re selling – different types of film, camera lenses… and there, a literal rainbow of pagers inside their plastic packets. Every shade from purple to blue and red – and orange. So Mr Tweak even made sure to pick Kenny’s favorite color, huh? He can feel his own pager, cool plastic and metal against his burning hot skin. The band feels like a noose around his neck.
“Handed some film in yesterday,” he mutters, shifting his name to the film rolls instead. “Just… wondering if it’s ready? The name’s Tweak,” he adds, because that’s the name on the bag. But it still makes him blush, because how many times hasn’t he wished…?
“Oh yeah,” Beard Guy sounds kind of confused, “You’re here for the second set of prints, then?”
The whole world seems to tilt sideways for just a second. “Uh, what,” Kenny says, grabbing hold of the counter while he sways on his feet.
“Fat kid on crutches picked up the first set,” Beard Guy tells him, “Not five minutes ago.”
Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit! If Kenny knows Cartman, he’ll have made his mom drive him here, and then straight on to school. Even if he gets the bus back right now, Cartman and his mom’s silver van are still going to be faster.
“You want the second set,” Beard Guy is saying, and Kenny’s first thought is, What’s the point? He’s already royally screwed. But then it hits him – he can still fix this. Say Mr Tweak shows up here for the photos after dropping off the day’s cash at the bank, and this guy mentions the two sets of prints to him? No, it’s much better for Kenny to get this set, and then make Stan or Kyle give him the other set afterwards… somehow.
“Okay,” Kenny says, hating how his voice squeaks on just that one word. He is a million miles from being okay. But he can fix this. He can fix this, because he has to!

Chapter Text

Kenny doesn’t bother sneaking back into school, there’s no time. He takes the front gate, flings himself through the main doors. The soles of his shitty old trainers pounding on the floor as he runs. His hoodie and the T-shirt he’s wearing underneath it are both soaked with sweat – hell, so are his underpants. Run, run, is the only thought he allows himself, and his feet hit the floor in time with his inner voice, the voice that is only Kenny’s. Run, run, run…
Oh, he knows he’s got no hope in hell of beating Cartman to the punch; he’ll have passed the photos on to Stan and Kyle. Stan’s too blinded by his hatred of Craig; Kenny knows he can never convince Stan to drop this – not on his own. But there’s still a chance Kyle will hear Kenny out, and then help him talk Stan out of it. He just needs to find Kyle first. As a plan, it sucks goat balls, and Kenny would be the first to admit it. But right now, “find Kyle” is the only plan he’s got.
Somewhere in the background, the bell rings to tell them recess is over, and Kenny’s eyes frantically scan the rows of lockers while he runs, searching for his friends. He almost mows Kevin Stoley down, but flings himself to the right at the last second, avoiding the collision without losing any speed. Run, run, run…
He does bump into Wendy Testaburger’s elbow and sort of spins her around. “Sorry, sorry,” Kenny yells, running backwards for a few steps, but Wendy looks more surprised than annoyed. Of course she does, Kenny would normally never draw attention to himself like this. But this is an emergency, and there! Right there, he sees Kyle’s bright red Jew-fro! Kyle’s huddled in the corner where the door to the science room creates that little nook, a blind spot that Kenny’s seen Stan use to make out with Wendy in more than once. And yeah, Stan’s holding one of those plastic wallets with the Photo Dojo logo on it, flipping through the pictures and grinning like he just won the mother of all jackpots. Goddamn it!
Kenny screeches to a halt, hands flailing, grabbing onto Kyle – who’s been leaning in to get a look at those pictures - for support.
“Dude,” Kyle says, grinning up at Kenny, “You made it!”
“You,” Kenny wheezes, completely out of breath, “Could’ve told me…!”Even though, thanks to Mysterion, he’s not exactly in terrible shape, Mysterion never has to run this hard for so long. “That… That Cartman…!” He can’t say anything else, even breathing is making his throat burn right now. And when did he start shaking?
“Cartman thought he’d surprise us,” Kyle tells him, looking as surprised as Kenny feels, because when does Cartman do anybody a favour, ever? But of course, Cartman wouldn’t be able to pass up a chance like this, such a golden opportunity to screw Tweek over.
“Cartman thought you’d gone soft on us,” Stan mutters, almost too quietly for Kenny to catch. Like he’s thinking out loud, or doesn’t even realize he just spoke. His nose looks a little less purple today, since Craig broke it on Friday. A little less swollen. But it probably still hurts, adding napalm to the fire of Stan’s hatred.
“What,” Kenny says, and he doesn’t even care that he suddenly sounds exactly like Mysterion. His whole body suddenly feels like it’s vibrating, he’s shaking so hard. Did Stan and Cartman plan this, as some kind of test?
“I’m just saying,” Stan slips the photos back inside their plastic wallet, “That you sometimes make me wonder, Kenny. Whose side you’re really on.”
That’s it. Like a slap to the face, those words wake Kenny right the hell up. “Not yours,” he says, in his own squeaky, pathetic voice. “Not anymore!” Only when he’s said it, does he realize how true it is. Like a snake, Kenny’s hand shoots out, fingers closing around plastic. “Now give me that!” Tugging on that photo packet for all he’s worth, even as Kyle grabs his arm and tries to pry him loose.
“Dude, are you nuts,” Kyle snaps, but Kenny’s grip is stronger.
“Let the hell go,” Stan snarls, grabbing the packet too, and adding his strength to Kyle’s. But there is no way Kenny’s backing down now.
“No,” he snarls right back, and now the floodgates have finally opened, “Don’t you guys even realize the kind of assholes you’ve become? I’d rather be alone than be friends with you!”
Everything suddenly goes all quiet and slo-mo; as Stan is shocked enough by what Kenny just said to loosen his grip. And Kenny is shocked enough that he just went and said all that to overbalance, and fall on his ass. Slick plastic flies out of his fingers, and the photos go everywhere, raining down on everyone who’s crowded around them to watch Stan’s gang have a fight.
And “everyone” includes Craig, who crouches down to flip over the photo that just landed upside-down on his shoe.

In the photo, Craig sees himself turning away from Tweek and towards the camera, one hand raised, mouth open in a soundless yell. It would almost be funny, if you couldn’t also clearly see that Tweek’s running his fingers through the hair at the nape of Craig’s neck. It’s so painfully obvious that they’ve been caught in mid-make-out. And this is only one of the twenty-four pictures that Kenny just scattered like confetti over half the school.
Now everybody knows.
The whole world narrows down to this one photo in his hand. It’s like tunnel vision or something, Craig can’t even turn his head. Can’t even blink. Ten seconds ago, his only problems were algebra homework and his missing parents, but now?
Everybody knows I’m gay, he thinks, and almost vomits. His new friends, his new class, everybody. The photo slips from his fingers, swishing from side to side as it glides down towards the floor. Like a leaf, when a leaf falls from a tree. The only thing he can hear is this odd, piping noise and Craig suddenly realizes it’s the sound of his own breathing.
A hand is pulling on his arm, and Craig shakes it off. Suddenly, it’s like a switch got flipped, and all the sound in the world comes crashing back at once. So many voices, shouting, arguing – and he’s pretty sure there’s someone laughing, too.
Craig doesn’t even know he’s going to run away until he’s already running, backpack slamming rhythmically into his ribs. Though it’s hard to run with his breath stuck in his throat, hitching and squeaking. Hard to run with his heart beating so fast. He’s pretty sure somebody follows him for a while, but Craig’s legs are long, and the panic gives him wings. As soon as he’s reasonably sure whoever’s following him has given up – not that he can look over his shoulder to check, no way! – Craig ducks into the first men’s toilet he sees. That’s not really a conscious decision either, more like his body deciding it’s not got much run left in it. His legs are shaking, hell, he’s shaking all over, and it takes him a few seconds to even register that he’s not alone in there. And then…
“Uh, Craig?” It’s Bradley Biggle, because of course it had to be him. When the universe decides to shit on you, Craig realizes, it’s going to be a full-on rain of shit. “Dude, are you okay?”
There’s… literally nothing he can say to that. Craig finally takes a good look around him, and realizes he’s walked into some kind of nerd meeting. There’s Butters, sporting a black eye, perched on the built-in tiled shelf that runs along the wall between the sinks. And Scott Malkinson getting up from where he was sitting on his balled-up jacket, frowning like he’s worried about something. The only one missing from their little gang is Kevin Stoley, unless he’s inside one of the cubicles taking a dump.
“Butters, hold this,” Bradley is saying, passing a sandwich with lettuce sticking out of it to the littlest nerd, before shaking out the paper bag it came wrapped in. “Craig? Craig,” he says again, and puts just his fingertips on Craig’s chest. But Craig suddenly weighs nothing at all, and Bradley can easily push him into the nearest cubicle. “Sit down,” Bradley puts both hands on his shoulders now, and suddenly Craig finds himself sitting on the toilet lid. “Good. Now blow into this.”
The paper bag smells of canned tuna and mayonnaise. But it helps. It really does help. Craig can feel his breathing slow down, until the piping sound goes away and he can breathe deep into his stomach again. But that it had to be Bradley, of all people…!
“What happened to you,” Scott asks, reaching past Bradley’s shoulder with a Mars bar in his hand. “Here, eat this. It’ll help, trust me.”
Craig automatically opens his mouth to reply, and raises his good hand to take the candy bar… Only to find that Butters is holding his hand. This boy he barely even knows. The kid must have squeezed in past Bradley, Craig realizes. Now he’s sitting on the floor, leaning against Craig’s legs like a dog. Butters’ eyes are huge and frightened.
“Are you okay now, Craig,” he asks, and Craig just nods. Easier than to try and explain why he will never be okay again. And it’s not like he wants to scare Butters even more than he apparently already has.
“Butters, let go of him, already,” Scott says, in this warm, teasing tone that works like a charm. Butters drops Craig’s hand with a little laugh – “Sorry, Craig!” – like holding another dude’s hand is totally normal. And Scott literally wraps Craig’s fingers around that Mars bar, though all Craig can do right now is stare at them.
Why are you guys being so nice, he wants to ask, but even he can tell that would be kind of an asshole thing to say out loud.
“The sugar should help with the shock,” Scott says, giving Craig this very meaningful look until he takes a dutiful bite.
“Thanks,” Craig mutters, talking around the chocolate. And the chocolate does help, a little bit. A jolt of sweetness to counter the sour taste of fear.
“I gotchu, dawg,” Scott says, in this over-exaggerated hick accent, rolling his eyes to show he’s kidding. Butters laughs, and even Bradley cracks a smile. “Helps distract me from my broken heart,” he adds, and while he’s still kidding around, there’s suddenly this deep undercurrent of sadness in Scott Malkinson’s voice.
“Anyway,” Bradley clears his throat, “Let’s get back to this.” He holds up a small notepad, already covered in writing, and with a ball-pen doodle of – is that Kevin Stoley? With an axe through his head? – at the bottom of the page. “How do you guys feel about the phrase “wilfully deceived us”?”
“Works for me!” Butters gets to his feet and dusts his butt off for a second, like that’s how you’d even get rid of any bacteria that might be on a toilet floor. “You eat the whole thing, now,” he tells Craig, almost as an afterthought, before he squeezes past him and out of the cubicle, leaving the door open. “Bradley, want me to wrap that sandwich up for ya? I’ve got a watercolor pad! And you gotta add somethin’ about not considerin’ poor Esther’s feelin’s, too!”
“That’d be great, thanks,” Bradley replies, distracted. Craig suddenly spots the sandwich in question, balanced precariously on top of Bradley’s X-men logo backpack, up on the shelf that runs below the mirrors.
“That’s a good point, Butters.” Scott’s nodding. “I can’t imagine what she must’ve gone through. And us lovesick assholes hanging around her must’ve only made it a hundred times worse.”
“Yesss, exactly that,” Bradley says, now taking furious notes, “Hold that thought, I’m writing this down…”
“Aren’t you going to be late for class,” Craig asks, because he just can’t help himself. Ugh, when did his voice ever sound so squeaky? Not since he was eleven.
“Oh, English started, what…” Butters, who’s just ripped a page of extra thick paper out of his Daler-Rowney pad, stops checks his watch, “Fifteen minutes ago? But it’s only Mrs Garrison,” he concludes, in this weirdly serene tone, before he starts clumsily wrapping Bradley’s sandwich up in the stiff paper.
“Yeah, it’s not like we’re gonna learn anything in her class,” Scott shoots in, “So we’d much rather hide out here and work out our…” He turns to Bradley, frowning. “Uh, what’re we calling it, again?”
“Our Manifesto,” Bradley replies, and Craig can just hear him slotting that capital “M” in there. “Basically,” he goes on, clearly for Craig’s benefits, “We’re composing a list of our reasons for going on strike. From the comic,” he adds, when Craig just stares at him. “Kevin went too far, stringing us along like that. Making us thing Esther was seriously considering dating one of us, when he knew she was gay all along.”
“We’re not quittin’ forever,” Butters hastily adds, puffing himself up while he secures the paper with a rubber band from his pencil case. “We just wanna scare him a little. Show Kevin that bein’ a, a butthead has consequences.”
That makes Scott snort out loud. “Dude,” he says, “You’re so cute when you say butthead.”
“Bite me, Malkinson,” Butters fires back with a huge grin.
“Anyway,” Bradley clears his throat, “For now, we’ve agreed not to speak to Kevin until the Manifesto is complete. And until we’ve all been home to retrieve all our finished artwork, so we can hand that over to him en masse, and tell him to try finishing the comic by himself.” He sure sounds all calm and collected, but Bradley is practically glowing with suppressed anger. Radioactive with rage.
Craig just looks at them for a second. At Butters, scrawny as a wet pigeon in his too-big Magneto T-shirt, his left eye almost swollen shut. At Scott, with his hair escaping from its half-assed ponytail and curling Jesus-like around his face, leaning against the wall between the two hand-driers, arms folded across his chest. And finally at Bradley Biggle, gnawing on the end of his blue Bic pen. He’s opted for a plain white pocket T-shirt today. Craig feels a sudden stab of guilt.
“Hey,” he says, and at least he sounds a little bit closer to normal now, “Bradley. I'm sorry about the whole T-shirt thing. I was having a really fucking off day.” Craig clamps his teeth shut on the rest of his excuse – that the shirt was a gift from his ex; that he’d been meaning to get rid of it anyway. Those are unnecessary details. What matters here is the apology. “And, uh…” Bradley has turned to stare at him, and it’s pretty hard to maintain eye contact, because Bradley’s icy-blue eyes seem to be drilling into Craig’s very soul. But, this is too important to back down from. “Of course I know why you didn’t show on Friday night,” Craig goes on, as a single bead of cold sweat slides all the way down his spine. “And I don't want you to miss out on any more DnD because you're worried I'll be a dick to you again.”
There’s a very long moment where Bradley just stares at Craig, before he corks that pen and slips it behind his ear. “Apology accepted,” he says, holding his right hand out. He’s even smiling, just a little bit.
Craig has to scramble to return that offered handshake, dropping his half-eaten Mars Bar into his sling to free up his own right hand. That makes Butters laugh, and Scott says, “Jesus, Craig! Hygiene,” in this warm, exasperated tone. But Bradley’s cool fingers close around Craig’s sweaty ones, and even though Craig isn’t any less screwed, he suddenly feels a whole lot better.
“Thanks, man.”
“Don’t mention it.”

One minute, Tweek’s running faster than he’d even thought possible, shouting “Craig, wait!” The next, his foot lands on something slippery, and suddenly he’s flying. Not for long, of course, before his butt connects with the floor. Then he just sits there, blinking, while a single photo falls like a leaf above him, landing on his chest – that must’ve been what he stepped on. When Tweek’s got his bearings again, Craig is long gone. Shit, shit, shit!
He flips the photo over, and of course it’s one of them – right after they’d stopped kissing. When Craig realized Mom was there, snapping away like she was shooting a cover for Vogue or something. Now with Tweek’s shoe-print on top.
“Tweek!” Token stumbles to a halt next to him, probably trying not to trip over him. “Are you okay?”
“Did I fracture my ass, you mean,” Tweek jokes weakly, as he lets Token pull him to his feet. “Nah, all intact.” It does hurt though; he must’ve landed right on his tailbone.
“So you and Craig are together now,” Token is saying, “And while I’m slightly hurt that you chose not to inform me of this development…”
“Craig asked me not to,” Tweek sort-of cuts him off. “It’s not like I wanted to hide it from you guys, but he kind of freaked when I brought it up, so...” Tweek shrugs. He’d wanted to tell them all, so bad, but of course he’d understood why Craig had wanted to wait. You can’t just force somebody to come out before they’re ready. “Kind of ironic,” he adds, holding the photo up and doing his best to muster up a grin.
“You don’t think,” Token bites his lip, as his eyes scan the now empty corridors, “He might do something… drastic, do you?”
Tweek firmly shakes his head. Even if he is mega upset, Craig would never forget that his parents need him – wherever they are. “Not Craig, no way. I just wish…” He doesn’t even know what to wish for anymore – time travel powers? Or maybe some kind of time travel device?
Token slips his arm around Tweek’s shoulders, and the familiar smell of his laundry detergent is ten times more effective than patchouli oil or incense. Tweek can literally feel his tensed-up muscles start to unknot.
“If you can face Stan and Kyle,” Token is saying, “And let me do the talking, I can almost guarantee that Mrs Garrison will take you side. I am class rep, after all.”
Tweek nods. “And Kenny, too,” he mutters, thinking out loud. Damn, but the betrayal stings. “It’s got to be him. He offered to drop Mom’s photos off yesterday,” he adds, when Token looks confused. “When we had him over for breakfast?”
Token’s handsome face instantly clouds over. “Do you mean,” he says, in that very precise way Token starts to talk when he’s really angry, “That after everything your family’s done for him, Kenny would…”
Tweek shrugs. “Nobody else from school knew about those photos. And I was just starting to like Kenny…” Not that Kenny even matters right now – his mind keeps drifting back to Craig. That blank look of terror that had slipped over Craig’s face, the way he didn’t even seem to hear Tweek when he’d shouted Craig’s name. He’d literally made the hallways echo, but Craig hadn’t even turned his head.
The bell rings again, and Token uses his grip on Tweek to turn him around. “Come on – Craig needs us. To make sure he doesn’t Garrison doesn’t give him lines for being absent. Oh, and I wonder if Clyde has killed Stan yet,” he adds, almost idly.
That surprises a snort out of Tweek. “I guess we’d better go stop him, huh?” Not that he’d exactly mind if Clyde were to pound seven shades of shit out of Stan right now.

When they get back, they find the unlikely duo of Lisa Berger and Kevin Stoley holding Clyde back, though it looks like tall, skinny Kevin is struggling way harder than Lisa is. They’re flanked by Jimmy, who’s keeping up a stream what’s probably meant to be soothing talk: “… and I b-bet your dad w-won’t be nearly as n-nice about it, if you get into two f-fights in two days, right?”
Clyde’s only response is a strangled “Hnargh!”
Meanwhile Kyle’s got both hands on Stan’s chest, talking to him too fast for Tweek to make out the words. And the girls are gathering up the photos, Tweek realizes – Esther and Nicole are both sitting on the floor with one handful each. Wendy’s crouched right where the boys are inches from fighting, yelling at Stan in between scooping up photos. “… can’t believe you would – are you listening to me, Stanley?”
No sign of Kenny though, Tweek realizes. He must’ve run for it. Tweek’s actually… almost glad? Right now, Kenny’s pretty much the last person he wants to face, because that might just reduce him to a “Hnargh”-ing state. Tweek’s honestly not sure who would win a fight, out of him and Kenny, but that probably wouldn’t even matter to him if Kenny really were here.
“It can’t be healthy, going berserk two days in a row,” Token says, and for some reason Tweek finds that absurdly funny. Like there’s been reports in the papers linking berserker rage to high cholesterol or something. He chokes the laugh down though, because he probably won’t be able to stop laughing if he does start.
Jimmy’s clearly running out of material by the time Tweek and Token run over to him, but at least Clyde seems to be listening. “Remember, you g-g-got Stan good yesterday,” Jimmy’s saying, “So don’t m-make Tweek f-f-flash his junk again!”
“Excuse me, what,” Lisa says, momentarily distracted, which gives Clyde the opening to shake her off, swing his arm sideways, and get Kyle on the chin with a rather superb right hook.
“Guh,” Kyle exclaims, grabbing his face and swaying on his feet – from the shock or from the blow, maybe even both.
“Awesome,” Tweek exclaims, and quickly amends that to, “I mean, Clyde, no!”
Kevin Stoley is thrown so far off balance that he loses his grip and almost falls on his ass. He catches himself at the last second, by grabbing onto Wendy’s head, of all things. Yanking her hairdo all out of place. As if Wendy wasn’t pissed enough. “Jesus, sorry!”
“I’m fine,” Wendy tells Kevin, in the same tone she might use to say, “You die next.” She even manages a smile, but that somehow only makes her scarier.
Lisa, who’s also lost her hold on Clyde, sidles up to Kevin as he backs away from Wendy, asking “You okay?”
“What if you tackle him and sit on him,” Tweek can just hear Kevin say to her, but Lisa shakes her head. “Come on, he’s your fake twin!”
“He’d never forgive himself if he walloped me by accident,” Lisa replies firmly. “Hitting a girl and all that. So no.”
“Buh-but what’d I do,” Kyle suddenly yells, all indignant, flexing the side of his face like he’s checking if his jaw is broken. Pretending like he had no part in this whole thing, the little ginger turd, in true Kyle style.
“Think you can pull the strings and get away with anything,” Clyde growls, and Tweek can’t even tell if it’s an answer or a question. But Clyde does seem to be feeling better, now that he’s had the chance to hit someone.
“Is that how you got your mom,” Stan hisses, obviously pissed that Kyle got hurt. But it was one hundred percent the wrong thing to say, and even Stan himself seems to realize that when everybody just freezes up for a second.
“No,” Clyde tells him, eerily calm. “All I did was push her.” Then he puts his palm flat on Stan’s chest, and Stan’s eyes widen in genuine fear. He’s standing right in front of a whole row of lockers, all made of metal, most of them with padlocks dangling from the door. Clyde’s eyes have this glazed look to them that suddenly makes Tweek feel cold all over.
“Clyde, don’t,” he yells, just as Clyde pulls his hand away and takes a step back.
“Don’t what – kill Stan? Don’t worry, Tweekers,” Clyde suddenly sounds a lot more like himself, “He’s not worth it. Scared you though, didn’t I,” he adds, eyes still locked on Stan’s face.
Tweek’s knees go saggy with relief, because of course Clyde would never… He knew that all along, of course he did!
“Boys! What in tarnation… Is with all this…. Manly posturing?” It’s Mrs Garrison, huffing and puffing her way down the corridor from the direction of the teachers’ lounge. Bebe’s actually holding onto one of their teacher’s wrists, pulling her along, while Mrs Garrison is hitching up her skirts with the other, revealing a curtain of frilly white petty-coats. “Explain yourselves,” she pants, coming to a halt in front of the little group that’s been involved in the fight, “Or I’ll be handing out some lines!”
“Mrs Garrison?” Token raises his hand, and Tweek silently sends his thanks up to Gautama Buddha. Silently, because he did promise to keep his mouth shut. “I observed the whole incident,” Token goes on, “And this was basically a homophobic bullying plot perpetrated by Stan and his friends, using photos of Tweek and Craig that they’d stolen –”
“Hey,” Kyle snaps, still clutching his jaw, and obviously too angry to think straight, “We didn’t steal anything! Tweek’s mom gave that film to Kenny to –”
“Dude, shut up,” Stan hisses, but Mrs Garrison’s face is scrunching up in the mother of all frowns.
“Homophobic,” she says, and Tweek swears you could hear a pin drop. Hell, you could hear the grass grow! Mrs Garrison did spend the first fifty years of her life as a gay man, after all.
“Here are some of the pictures,” Wendy says, holding her small pile of photos out for their homeroom teacher to take. Stan looks like he’s about to have an aneurism.
While Mrs Garrison’s flicking through the photos, and Esther goes over to give her the pile she and Nicole have gathered up, Tweek starts working his way through the small crowd – the rest of their class, basically – to get to Clyde and Jimmy. Only Bebe beats him to it, and slips right under Clyde’s arm like a cat.
“Hey,” she says breathlessly, chest still heaving from running, as she looks up at Clyde through those long eyelashes. “I hope I did the right thing.”
Clyde just throws his arms around Bebe, hugging her like a kid hugging a teddy bear, and Tweek exchanges a quick, horrified look with Jimmy because this probably means the waterworks are about to start… Except that they don’t. All that happens is that Clyde rubs his chin along the top of Bebe’s head, messing up her perfectly styled curls, without shedding a single tear. “I’m sorry I made you worry,” he says, his voice as clear and steady as anything, “That was really douchey of me.”
“The boy b-b-becomes a man,” Jimmy whispers, sidling up to Tweek with a big, cheeky grin. Tweek still can’t believe that Clyde’s not bawling all over everyone. But at least something good seems to have come out of this… this… “Dude,” Jimmy whispers, when Tweek doesn’t reply immediately, “Are you okay?”
“Oh, sorry.” Tweek shakes his head a little, to clear the cobwebs. “Yeah, I’m just… Craig, you know?” Suddenly, the worry he’s been suppressing comes flooding back over him. “I hope Craig’s all right.”
“Stan, Kyle, Tweek and Clyde,” Mrs Garrison barks, “You four are coming with me to the principal’s office! We are going to get to the bottom of all this! And if somebody can hustle up that Craig kid, and Kenny McCormick,” she goes on, glaring around the rest of the group, “You send ‘em there too! This gets you all a free period, but if any of you misbehave…” Mrs Garrison’s glare intensifies, “Then the entire class will get to write “I will not be a homophobic asshole” five hundred times each! Do I make myself clear?!”
“E-even Tweek,” Jimmy mutters, but thankfully it’s too soft for Mrs Garrison to hear. Token still elbows him, though.
“Yes, Mrs Garrison,” pretty much everyone choruses, before most of them hurry off to enjoy this unexpected free period. Token and Jimmy hang back though – and so does Bebe, still wrapped up in Clyde’s arms.
“We’ll find Craig,” Token says, sounding like it’s already a done deal, even though Craig’s just pulled the Houdini of all disappearing acts. “You can count on us.” Jimmy just nods, but Bebe says, “I’ll help,” as she disentangles herself from Clyde.
Tweek’s not sure if they’re talking to him or Mrs Garrison, but he gives the three of them his best attempt at a reassuring grin. “Thanks,” he says, just before Mrs Garrison clears her throat meaningfully.
“Now, Tweek,” their homeroom teacher says, striding ahead of them down the corridor. There’s nothing for it but to follow, and Tweek falls into step next to Clyde. Stan and Kyle are already walking, eager to put some distance between them – Tweek’s not exactly mad about that. “And you’d better believe I will be contacting all of your parents,” Mrs Garrison goes on, throwing the words over her shoulder as she checks to make sure they’re all following and doing as they’re told.
Tweek suddenly feels all the colour start to drain from his face, and he even stumbles for a second, though Clyde immediately catches his elbow.
“Dude,” Clyde whispers, “Are you OK?”
“The fakes,” Tweek hisses back, desperate to keep Stan and Kyle from overhearing, “Craig was terrified that they’d find out! That’s why he wouldn’t let me tell you guys!”
Clyde’s eyes widen as the implications of all this sink in. “Oh,” he says. “Right. Damn.”
Twenty seconds ago, Tweek was convinced this was all going to be fine – he and Craig are the victims here, after all, and he was pretty confident he could talk Clyde out of trouble too, but now? Now he’s worried enough to feel sick to his stomach. Because what about the Fakes? What about Craig?!

Chapter Text

Bradley and the rest of the nerd squad still haven’t asked him what happened, when Token suddenly barges into the bathroom, slamming the door into the wall. “Craig,” he says, like he actually wasn’t expecting to find Craig in here at all. “I found you.” It’s almost funny, how Token stops and blinks. Like he’s got no idea what to say next. But he finally settles on, “You’re okay?”
“Yeah,” Craig says, swallowing the last piece of his Mars bar and looking down at the empty candy wrapper in his hand. What, has Token seriously been running down the corridors, checking every bathroom and storage closet? Does Craig even deserve a friend like him? “My bad, dude,” he mutters, forcing himself to look up and meet Token’s eyes.
“Shut up,” Token says, and throws his arms around Craig, who wasn’t expecting a hug. He returns it, though, one-handed and clumsy. “Oh, but,” Token suddenly exclaims as he lets go, so fast that for a second, Craig thinks he said “Robot”. That hug didn’t last for more than five seconds, tops. “I’ve got to get you to the principal’s office! Stat,” he goes on, when it’s Craig’s turn to blink. “And I’ve got to tell Jimmy and Bebe! Stay right there,” he adds, poking one long, slim finger into Craig’s chest.
Craig opens his mouth, not even sure what he’s about to say – thanks? Sorry? But Token’s already ducked outside; though they can all hear him through the thick door yelling “I found him!!” Token sounds more like Tweek than himself; all happiness and decibels.
Scott clears his throat. “Listen,” he says, “I’m almost afraid to ask now, but…”
“What the heck even happened,” Butters cuts him off.
And it suddenly hits Craig that these three are the last guys in his class who don’t know, and suddenly it’s like he sees this… this chance to turn this around, to tell someone himself and not be a total chickenshit. “Okay, so…” Craig closes his eyes for a second. Draws in a deep breath. He can do this. He lets that breath go, opens his eyes and says, “So I’m kind of dating Tweek.”
That’s as far as he gets before the nerd squad erupts into actual cheering – what the hell?
“Oh man, that’s fantastic,” Scott tells him, clapping Craig across the back hard enough to make him stagger.
“Tweek’s wanted a boyfriend for so gosh-darn long,” Butters chimes in, so pleased that he’s bunched his hands up into fists and is literally punching the air, bam-bam. “Woo-hoo!”
“I’m happy for you guys,” Bradley says, locking eyes with Craig. He can tell that the other boy actually means it, too. “But what actually happened?”
Craig groans. “The other night? My parents and I,” he almost chokes on the word, but damn if he isn’t getting better at pretending, “Went to Tweek’s house for dinner. And then we sort of made out in his room, but then his mom snuck in and took photos of us? Is that normal?”
Bradley snorts. “For Tweek’s mom? Absolutely.”
Craig has to grin back. “Right, well. Somehow, Stan or Kenny or whoever got hold of the film and had it developed. I’m guessing Kenny, since I saw him run off before I realised…” Craig shakes his head, “That there were photos of me kissing Tweek all over school.”
Bradley just looks at him for a second. Then he blinks. “That son of a gun,” he says, blonde brows furrowing, “That kind of thing’s just not done!” It’s almost cute, how worked up he’s getting. “Token’s right, you need to go to the principal with this!”
Craig stares at him. At this kid who, until ten minutes or whatever ago, most likely hated his guts. I did that, he thinks. I took the first step, I apologized, and now Bradley’s on my side. The kind of difference he can make in his own life suddenly hits Craig like a hammer blow to the skull.
He hasn’t actually said the words “I’m gay” out loud to anybody yet, but that doesn’t matter. Because he’s just come out to the nerd squad, of his own volition, and they’re not treating him any different. And Token, who must’ve had a good look at the photos, just gave him a hug. He’s out, and he’s okay, and it actually feels crazy good not to carry that secret around in school anymore.
Oh sure, some people might still try to give him shit over it, but the word there is try. Because Craig’s just realised that if he wants to truly get back at Stan and his gang for this, then he needs to act like they didn’t hurt him at all. And hey – Craig’s good at putting on a front. Maybe even good enough to convince himself that this really doesn’t matter?

“Mr Charles!” Miss Garrison’s high voice is in surreal contrast with her lace-gloved fist banging on the door, “Yoo hoo, Mr Charles!”
Mr Peter Charles, their short-back-and-sides, polo-shirt wearing principal, clearly knows better than to keep Miss Garrison waiting. Looking past him, Tweek can see the phone receiver resting on the table, and hear the faint, “Hello? Hello,” coming from it.
“What can I do for you, Miss Garrison,” Mr Charles says, with justifiable wariness.
“Well,” Miss Garrison replies, “Y’all can hang up that phone for a start, and I’ll fill you in on the homophobic bullying plot that’s been percolating in my classroom!”
Poor Mr Charles, what a sentence to get served with. He makes the best of it though and picks the receiver up and apologizes to whoever’s been left waiting, while the four boys shift from foot to foot in the now empty hallway.
Tweek doesn’t quite like that look on Kyle’s face. Like he’s secretly got an ace up his sleeve that he can’t wait to pull out and wave around under everyone’s noses.
“All right, you… four,” Mr Charles says, doing a quick head count before he drags an extra chair over to form a row in front of his desk, “Let’s hear what you’ve got to say for yourselves.”
Tweek’s not exactly a stranger to the principal’s office. A combination of ADHD and what his dad likes to call “an adventurous spirit” have seen to that. He’s also been in here with Clyde as his co-conspirator-slash-fellow prisoner enough times for them to have the routine down pat. Tweek will do the talking, because he’s great at improvising, while Clyde is a terrible liar. Oh, Clyde may start out all right, but he’ll crack and start crying under the smallest amount of pressure, and blurting out the truth between sobs. Sometimes this method’s been known to bite them in the ass, of course, what with Tweek not knowing the meaning of “verbal filter” and feeling like “think before you talk” is a surefire way to let your best ideas go to waste. Still – their chances are good today, he decides, as he files in behind Kyle. After all, Tweek’s the victim here, and Clyde was just… defending his honor, or something. Tweek’s pretty confident he can spin this to their advantage. He takes the seat next to Kyle, who’s the only one of them still wearing a jacket for some reason; dude must be boiling in there. That puts Clyde and Stan on opposite ends of their four-man row – probably a good move.
“These,” Miss Garrison says, as she walks behind the desk and takes the principal’s seat without so much as looking at him for permission, “Were brought in by Kenny McCormick today, I do believe?” With that, she slaps her handful of photos down on the desk, all of them face up. There aren’t just the pictures of him and Craig making out, Tweek realizes; but also pictures from their family trip to Sloan Lake at the tail end of summer, which must’ve been the last time Mom used the camera. It’s kind of jarring, being in here and seeing a photo of himself and Dad paddling kayaks together, or that one where he’s shirtless and holding up a handful of tiny red crabs for Mom to photograph. But oh, there’s one of him and Craig, and even though Tweek’s spent over a year telling himself that whatever shit Stan’s gang flings at him, he can take it…
“Mom said she wanted my first kiss on camera,” he says, forcing out a little laugh with it to hide how shaky his voice suddenly is. “You know, first swim, first time riding a bike, first kiss…” He laughs again, wondering if it sounds as fake to everybody else as it does to him. “Totally annoying, right?”
The students all have a nickname for Mr Charles, PC Principal. It’s kind of on the nose, since those are his initials and he’s obsessed with political correctness. He’s young enough that he tries to act like one of the guys, like he’s hip for a grownup and still “gets it”. But the guy has zero tolerance for racism or anti-gay stuff. Now he’s sitting on the corner of his own desk, creasing his sharply ironed Chinos, briskly sorting through the pile of photos while his face turns redder and redder. “And this is the new kid,” Mr Charles says, tapping that one photo of the kiss where Craig’s figured out they’re not alone, “The one who started last week?”
“Craig Tucker, sir,” Clyde says, suddenly breaking out of their “Tweek talks, Clyde shuts up” routine. Wait, what? No no no, Tweek thinks, trying to discreetly poke Clyde in the ribs. Once Clyde opens his mouth in the principal’s office, it always starts to go wrong! “I think Stan was trying to get Craig back for yesterday,” he goes on, pretending he can’t feel Tweek’s elbow digging into his side, “When we all got in a –”
“Sir!” Kyle actually jumps to his feet, shoves his hand inside one coat pocket, and pulls out…
Oh shit. Tweek’s just assumed the reason he couldn’t spot his Stan hat in his locker was that it got buried underneath some of the other crap. But of course, Cartman was rooting around in there on Friday, trying to make it look like Tweek had brought weed to school.
“I have poof right here,” Kyle is saying, “That Tweek started messing with Stan first! This disguise was hidden in his locker, and I’m positive Tweek wore it on Friday, when he got Stan detention by –”
“QUIET!!” Mr Charles has gone beyond red and into a sub-shade of purple; like burgundy or magenta or something. Even Tweek knows better than to try and talk now. “You’re using private photos of these boys enjoying some consensual intimacy to “get back” at them?!” He does that air quotes thing with his fingers, and Kyle is actually dumb enough to nod. “Well, I don’t CARE what those boys did or did not do to provoke this reaction,” the principal bellows into Kyle’s face; “This is the kind of bullying that costs LIVES!” He seems to need a second to recover from that, panting and glaring at Kyle until he plops his ass back on his chair. Kyle looks shaken, like he can’t believe his cunning plan just went down the tube. “Does one of you know where this kid,” PC Principal holds that photo up again, pointing right at Craig, “Is right now?”
Tweek swallows, suddenly overcome with guilt. “I tried to stop him, but he ran so fast,” he mutters, unable to look the principal in the face. The kind of bullying that costs lives, and how can he, who’s known Craig for barely a week, be so sure that Craig won’t do anything stupid and fatal?
“Token and Jimmy are looking for him, though,” Clyde pipes up helpfully, “And Bebe. My girlfriend,” he just has to add, angling his head so he can look past Tweek and lock eyes with Kyle.
Take that, Kyle, Tweek thinks, feeling a quick flare of satisfaction at the look on Kyle’s face. Serves you right!
Just then, there’s a knock on the door – a more careful knock this time than when Miss Garrison was doing it. Not so much like the person outside is trying to break the door down with one fist, and more like they’re figuring out how to knock.
PC Principal is off his desk so fast, still holding that photo, that Tweek can practically feel a breeze on his face. “Not now,” he snarls as he yanks the door open with his free hand, “Unless you’re…” His voice peters off, and the principal takes one look at the photo, then another at the person standing there, and Tweek’s heart does a relieved little backflip. “OK, you can come in.”
And there he is, Craig, alive and looking like nothing in the world could ever bother him. Like being outed with photo evidence was just a mild inconvenience. “Hey honey,” he says, walking right up to the back of Tweek’s seat and, unbelievably, slipping his arms around Tweek’s shoulders from behind! Tweek can’t help but go stiff as a board, because this is more than he’d ever dreamed of. But how?! How has Craig gone from refusing to let him tell anyone, to… Craig’s nuzzling his hair now, and the rest of that thought just evaporates. And oh Jesus, Tweek can feel himself turning so damn red, and he doesn’t even believe in Jesus!
“Uh,” he says, twisting his neck to look up at Craig when the other boy finally lets him go. It’s been ten seconds or a hundred years, Tweek has no idea. “Hi Craig? You, ah, you OK?”
“Fine,” Craig tells him, before he reaches out to muss Clyde’s hair. “Scoot over, will you?”
Clyde beams up at him, clearly relieved that Craig is all right, and shuffles his butt sideways. Rather than walk around the row of seats, Craig steps over the skinny metal chair legs like a stork and plops himself down between Tweek and Clyde – on ass cheek on either of their chairs. With a soft thump, his backpack lands between his feet in their navy blue Converse. “Sorry I’m late,” he says, sliding his right arm down and around Tweek’s waist.
Tweek opens his mouth, turns his head to look at Craig, and then firmly shuts it again. Don’t question this, he tells himself, and leans just a little bit into Craig’s side. He could get used to this sort of thing.

After PC Principal’s listened to Craig’s side of the story, and let Clyde and Tweek fill in as necessary, the three of them are dismissed. Stan and Kyle get to stick around though, and from the way Mr Charles is glowering at them, Tweek gleefully concludes that they must be in very deep shit indeed. Why, Mr Charles hasn’t even asked them about the Stan hat once!
“C’mon babe,” Craig says, casually slipping his fingers through Tweek’s like they hold hands all the time. “We should get back to class or something.”
“Mm,” Tweek replies, because words kind of fail him right now, and happily lets himself be towed out of the room. Clyde bounds out after them, and runs right over to Token, Jimmy and Bebe, who have been waiting over by the nearest staircase.
“IT’S ALL OKAY,” he booms at them, sweeping Bebe up and spinning her around, “WE’RE NOT IN ANY TROUBLE! Not killing Stan was totally the right call,” he adds, putting Bebe down so he can thump Jimmy across the back. Of course he almost knocks Jimmy off his feet, and Jimmy winds up flailing and throwing one arm around Clyde’s neck, crutch and all. Nearly smacking poor Token in the face, too. Meanwhile, poor Bebe has to steady herself on Token’s arm, but at least she seems to see the funny side.
“Now Craig,” Miss Garrison says, “I’ll be contacting all of your parents about this, God help me, and I don’t have a phone number for your family yet.”
Craig’s hand suddenly stiffens around Tweek’s fingers. “I’d…” he seems to be fighting to keep his cool, and winning for now – but just barely. “I’d really appreciate it if you didn’t, M’am,” he says, and Tweek can hear a note of real fear creeping into his voice.
For a second, Miss Garrison looks almost… sympathetic? It’s seriously terrifying.
“I do understand,” she says, “How hard it can be to come out to your family, but I don’t make up the rules around here. Tweek told me you don’t have a phone line installed yet, but I can always call them at the bank. That is where they’re both working, right?”
Craig’s face has gone completely blank, but suddenly his right arm gives a huge twitch. “Wait,” he says, abruptly getting go of Tweek’s hand. “What if I had…” he swings his backpack off his good shoulder, and digs around in there for a minute before pulling up that book Tweek saw him buying at Sloppy Seconds. A Portrait of Jane Austen, by Cecil Something-or-other. The cover features a black cut-out silhouette of Austen against the backdrop of some English town, and the book is such a weird, awkward size – bigger than a paperback, but smaller than a trade paperback.
Miss Garrison’s eyes widen hungrily. “I do not believe I have ever come across that volume before,” she says, staring at the book in Craig’s hand.
“What if I had something to read,” Craig says, clearly phrasing himself very carefully, “That was so interesting, you forgot to look my parents up?”
“Well, that would be terribly remiss of me,” Miss Garrison places one gloved hand across her lacy chest, “But I’m sure something of the sort can be arranged.”
Craig wordlessly hands her the book, and Tweek can barely wait until Miss Garrison’s out of earshot before he leans close enough to whisper, “Holy shit, dude! You just blackmailed a teacher.”
“Honey, please,” Craig drawls, raising an eyebrow, “That was bribery, not blackmail. Get it straight,” he adds, lips twitching.
“Straight?” Tweek can’t contain himself anymore, because Craig just called him “Honey” in public, and GAH! He just has to throw his arms around Craig’s waist and hug him until Craig starts to wheeze. “Not on your life!”

It’s not like school even matters anymore, with how badly Kenny’s screwed his whole life up. He’d even been planning to bunk off back when he’d still thought there were two sets of pictures waiting for him at the Photo Dojo. But now…
Now, nothing matters but taking this one set of pictures he did get to the Tweaks. And telling them the truth for once, and saying sorry. That matters more than anything, even though he knows it’s going to be awful. The gun had been an accident, one he’d even managed to lie away. But the photos – that was Kenny choosing to stab them all in the back. He’d almost started making friends with Tweek, he thinks, before he’d decided that Stan’s friendship mattered more. Mrs Tweak’s always so nice to him and Karen, and Mr Tweak…
Mr Tweak is everything your loser dad could never be, Mysterion tells him, startling Kenny so badly that he trips. Nearly falls too, but rights himself against a street light just in time.
He’s your dad, too, Kenny thinks defiantly, before he jogs to the bus stop and flings himself on the first bus that’s heading downtown. It’s making a serious dent in his money, all this riding the bus instead of walking everywhere, but his legs are hurting from that mad sprint he did before. Left leg cramping up so badly, he’d swear the muscles and bones are twining around each other like snakes in there. Right heel throbbing from the all the lack of cushioning his worn-out sneaker has to offer.
If Mrs Tweak yells at him, and chances are she will, Kenny’s pretty sure he can handle it. She’s always been protective of Tweek – hell, Kenny even saw her chase a junkie out of the coffee shop with nothing but a spatula once, because he’d followed Tweek inside and was harassing him. Mr Tweak hadn’t yelled when the gun fell out of Kenny’s bag, but for something like this? For abusing their hospitality so he could throw their son under the bus? Kenny just needs to keep his cool and not cry if Mr Tweak does yell, so he can apologise properly and explain why he did it.
Oh really, Mysterion taunts him, You’re going to tell them you did because you were jealous of Tweek’s thing with Craig?
“I am not,” Kenny mutters, only realizing after he hears his own voice that he’s gone and replied to Mysterion out loud. Shit!
He must seriously reek of sweat, because even though the bus starts to fill up, nobody takes at seat next to Kenny. Or maybe it was the whole talking loudly to himself thing. And sure, he’s pulled up both his hoods, so his face is safely hidden, but he can tell that he’s starting to shake a little bit. This sometimes happens after he’s had a night of serious Mysterion action; Kenny figures it’s the adrenaline leaving his body. Or hell, maybe it’s nerves? It’s literally too risky to try and count how much money he’s got left, that’s how badly his hands are twitching. Kenny can’t afford to start spilling coins; they’d roll under the bus seats and he’d never get them all back.
You’ve really screwed the pooch now, Mysterion drawls, and Kenny gives an even bigger shudder.
“Who asked you,” he mutters, and now he doesn’t even care anymore if anyone sitting close to him can hear. Damn it, Kenny can just feel himself unravelling like an old sweater.
With the steady movement of the bus, the orange pager Mr Tweak gave him is going thump, thump, thump against Kenny’s chest. Kind of like a heartbeat. The thing’s not exactly soft, but the mild pain serves to ground him in his body – his body, not Mysterion’s. And the steady rhythm of the bus is actually starting to calm him down.

He must have walked through those doors and jangled that bell a thousand times. But Kenny still spends a full minute working up the guts to walk inside Tweak Bros. And when he does, it’s like he sees it all with this weird, newfound clarity. The little round formica tables, the handwritten chalkboard menus above the till. The little community noticeboard Mr Tweak’s drilled into the actual counter he serves people from, so that you have to crouch to read anything. It’s been tacked full of handwritten babysitting ads and “missed connections” requests (“You looked so cute, sitting by the window table in your pink argyle sweater vest”), lawnmowers for sale and photos of missing cats. The art for sale up on the walls – Mr Tweak believes in supporting local artists, and Mrs Tweak says it brightens up the place. They’ve even hung up Scott Malkinson’s oil painting of Main Street, and that’s been there since right after summer break started, but the Tweaks are too nice to ask Scott to take it home.
Kenny’s hand slips up under his sweatshirt to clutch the pager. He doesn’t want to lose this place. And maybe… Maybe there’s a small chance the Tweaks will forgive him this time, too?
The only people in here are Mr Tweak, and an elderly couple who are sharing a piece of chocolate cake at one of the window tables.
“Kenny,” Mr Tweak says cheerfully, waving him over, “Aren’t you supposed to be in school?” He’s wearing his maroon sweater today, the one Mrs Tweek’s had to put leather elbow patches on.
“Free period,” Kenny mutters while he shuffles across the floor, because really, what’s one more lie? He knows exactly which pocket Mrs Tweak’s photos are in – the right hand outer pocket of his parka. Getting them out though, when his hands are shaking this badly and his suddenly numb fingers make everything slippery, is not exactly easy. “Wanted to give you these,” he mutters, fishing the packet out on the second try and placing it on the counter. “And…” He’s nervous enough that he almost drops it. The guilt is like a weasel gnawing away inside his belly.
Mr Tweak’s clearly eager to see the photos, because he doesn’t react to that “and” at first. He starts flicking through them, careful not to leave finger prints. “Hm,” he says at last, like it took him a minute to register that Kenny’s got something else on his mind. Looking up with a warm, friendly smile that almost makes Kenny burst into tears like a sissy. “Did you say something, Kenny? How much do we owe you for these?”
Kenny opens his mouth to reply, when the staff room door slams into the wall, hard enough to make that couple jump in their seats. And there’s Mrs Tweak, eyes wide and wild, not quite shouting when she says, “Richard! That was the school calling, they –”
Then she spots Kenny, and her eyes narrow. “You,” Mrs Tweak says, putting so much anger into that one word that Kenny takes a step back. “We never should have trusted you.”
That hits harder than any slap.
“Honey,” Mr Tweak puts the photo packet down, clearly confused as hell, “What happened?”
“He,” Mrs Tweak points a trembling finger at Kenny, “Is part of a huge bullying plot against Tweek!”
That sure gets her husband’s attention. And does Kenny even have a right to defend himself, to tell them it’s not true – that it wasn’t like that? He opens his mouth anyway, like he’d even be heard over Mrs Tweek’s ranting right now: “The school called, and Kenny’s been spreading my photos all over the place! Of Tweek and Craig,” she adds, when Mr Tweak just gapes at her. “I should never have taken…” Her face crumples for a second, and Kenny’s afraid she might start to cry, but then Mrs Tweak amends it to, “I should never haver trusted…!”
Mr Tweak almost never gets angry; even when homeless people get inside the coffee shop and start bothering the customers, he’s almost cheerful about kicking them out. But now, Kenny watches all the color drain from Mr Tweak’s face, and it’s a hundred times scarier than when he’s managed to piss Dad off. Dad shouts and throws things, but Mr Tweak is just… cold, and very calm.
“Kenny,” he says, “Are you familiar with the term gardening leave?”
Completely thrown, Kenny can’t even find his voice to defend himself. All he can manage is to shake his head, slowly and cautiously.
“It means,” Mr Tweak looks Kenny square in the eyeball, and Kenny doesn’t even last until the count of three, “That I’m going to keep paying your wages until the end of the month, but you are going to stay away. From my coffee shop, and from my family.”
It’s more than he deserves. Kenny knows that. But losing Tweaks Bros is… No. He cuts off that thought, and busies himself pulling the pager over his head. Holds it out in one trembling hand. “Here,” Kenny says, reaching across the counter. “I’m… ”
“That was a present, Kenny,” Mr Tweak says, and suddenly he sounds more sad than angry. “I was joking when I called it a business expense. Keep it.”
Kenny’s fingers, slick with sweat, close around the pager. His eyes are starting to burn, but he’s not going to cry, damn it! Not here, not in the coffee shop, in front of… He squeezes his eyes shut instead.
There are clacking noises coming from behind the counter; the hiss of milk being steamed. “Sir, Mam,” Mrs Tweak is saying, “I’m just going to remake your drinks in paper cups now – a cappuccino and a peppermint mocha, right? I’m afraid we’ve got a family emergency, so we’re going to have to close the shop.”
She sounds so calm, all of a sudden. Was her husband sacking Kenny all she needed to hear to feel better? Now the elderly couple are getting up, Kenny can hear the scraping of their chairs against the floor. Saying of course they don’t mind, and they hope it’s nothing too serious.
“I’ll give you a fresh piece of cake too,” Mr Tweak chimes in, “In a takeaway bag, and of course it’s free of charge.” He sounds like his normal self again too; Kenny is the only one here who will never be the same again. “As an apology for kicking you out, so to speak. And here’s another bag for your unfinished piece, there.”
The heels of Mrs Tweak’s ankle boots clack as she walks right past Kenny as if he doesn’t exist. Then the bell dings – she must be flipping the “Open” sign over to “Closed”. He’s brought all this on himself, but that doesn’t make it hurt any less.
“You need to leave now,” Mr Tweak says, and Kenny finally forces his eyes open.
“I’m,” he says, his voice breaking, “I’m so sorry.”
“Sorry is just a word, Kenny.” Mr Tweak doesn’t even sound angry anymore, just… tired. “You’ve wasted every chance I’ve given you. We invite you into our home, and you used that as a chance to target our son? I’m done.”
The finality of that. It’s what breaks his resolve not to cry at last, though at least that couple have left by now. Kenny spins on his heel and runs for the door. And it’s so damn normal outside – cars driving by, birds singing – and his own stinging hot tears speckling the pavement.

Chapter Text

Tweek should have known his parents would overreact. If only he’d also had some obscure academic work on Jane Austen to bribe Miss Garrison with! At least they arrive during Tweek’s surprise free period, when he and the guys – and Bebe – are just hanging out by the bike sheds. Taking five to just digest everything that’s happened. Jimmy’s sharing the only bench with Clyde and Bebe, who are snuggled up so tight, you could fit at least two more people up there. Token’s opted for sitting on the ground and just leaning his head against the bench. Craig sits with his back against the wall of the shed, long legs stretched out on the ground in front of him. And Tweek is leaning against Craig’s chest. Holy shit! It feels insane, to do this kind of thing in public. Using his boyfriend as warm human furniture, feeling Craig’s heartbeat through the back of his Green Day shirt. He can’t even process his madly swirling thoughts into words and talk, not when Craig is acting so casual about this. Like this is what they always do, during free periods and recess. Craig smells kind of spicy for some weird reason – totally not in a bad way – and he’s so warm. Tweek is just soaking up that warmth like a cat soaking up sunshine, eyes sliding shut, his breathing slow and calm while Craig talks to the others.
“It’s obviously not how I planned on people finding out,” Craig is saying, “But now I’m thinking it might not be so bad.”
When Craig talks, it makes his ribcage thrum against Tweek’s torso, and his breath is hot against the back of Tweek’s neck. Smiling to himself, Tweek thinks, I could get used to this.
Bebe lets out a drawn-out, wistful sigh. “God, you guys are so dreamy,” she blurts out, then immediately starts to giggle.
Clyde splutters something that doesn’t even sound like English, and Craig says “Excuse me?” But Jimmy’s laughing, and Token’s shaking his head and smiling.
“I’m just saying,” Bebe straightens up a little, and pulls Clyde’s arms back around her waist, “That the girls are gonna be all over you two. In a totally platonic way,” she turns her head to look at Clyde, who’s still all indignant, “And yes, I’m talking about the cave guy with the shadows. And no, I’m not crushing on either of them, Clyde-bear.”
“Clyde-bear,” Token says very quietly, pinching the bridge of his nose. Equal parts exasperated and amused.
“Let’s only ever c-call him that from now on,” Jimmy suggests, completely deadpan.
“Naww! Okay then, I guess,” Clyde grouses, still looking a little peeved. Then suddenly, his face is split by an enormous grin as he pulls a yelping Bebe all the way into his lap. Watching the two of them finally fooling around, Tweek decides, after all that time spent looking at each other longingly from behind textbooks, is also really nice.
“God,” Token suddenly exclaims, standing up, “Where did Nicole even go? I want a hug, too,” he complains, and it’s impossible not to laugh. Especially when Jimmy just throws his arms wide open and waggles his bushy eyebrows at Token. Tweek can feel the quiet “Hum-hum-hum” of Craig’s laughter through his back, and it only makes him burrow deeper into Craig’s embrace.
“Blow me,” Token tells Jimmy, whose only response is to open his arms even wider. That and making an “O” with his mouth, oh Jesus! By now, Clyde and Bebe are both laughing so hard that it’s a small miracle they haven’t fallen off the bench.
“Dude,” Craig drawls, “A hug’s a hug.”
Tweek giggles helplessly into Craig’s shoulder, but he has to look up when he hears Token say, “Ah, the hell with it.” And just in time, too, to see Token pull Jimmy to his feet and put his arms around him. There’s a lot of back-slapping going into that hug, not to mention that Jimmy’s using Token to prop himself up. But it’s still heartfelt and stupidly funny, and Tweek lets his eyes slip completely shut while he just gives up and laughs.
“So we’ll s-save the b-b-blowjob for later, then,” Jimmy suddenly says, ruining the “moment” completely.
Tweek’s laughing so hard, it’s a wonder he can still breathe, while Token makes a big deal of sitting Jimmy back down on the bench, at arm’s length. Bebe’s fanning her face with her hand, giggling helplessly, while Clyde’s booming laugh scares all the birds out of the trees. Even Token’s letting out a few carefully guarded snorts. “God, Jim,” he says, shaking his head, “You are such an asshole.”
“Hey, I don’t offer to b-blow just anybody!”
“Beep, beep, Jimmy,” Craig drawls, and Tweek’s eyes widen with delight as he catches the IT reference. Maybe Craig will watch the TV-show with him sometime? Tweek managed to tape the whole series last year, when they marathoned it on TV for Halloween.
And then a cry cuts through their happy laughter, like an albatross screeching as it flings itself off a cliff. “Tweek! Tweek, are you down here?!”
“Oh Jesus,” Tweek yowls, his shoulders suddenly all the way under his ears. “Mom?!”
Moments later, his parents descend on their little group, and Tweek gets to experience hitherto unknown levels of embarrassment. Mom just drops to her knees in front of him, grabbing his face between both hands and yelling “Are you okay?!” She puts enough force into that to practically make Tweek’s hair flap. “Both of you?! I am so, so sorry…”
From the corners of his vision, Tweek can see his friends all beating a hasty retreat. Clyde and Bebe fly off that bench, Jimmy scrambling to pick up his crutches, while Token’s pointing his thumb over his shoulder, saying, “We’re just going to, uh, go now. And be… away.”
With that, they’ve disappeared – Jimmy scurrying like a spider on his crutches, and the others clearly struggling to keep step with him and not just outright run.
Mom hugs Craig next, something Craig seems totally unprepared for. He just freezes right up, stiff as a shop dummy. Meanwhile, Dad’s jogging up from the direction of the main gates – must’ve been where he parked and hopefully locked the Datsun – with a wad of Tweak Bros napkins clutched in one hand. “Helen,” he shouts, and Dad somehow manages to sound like he’s both worried and extremely damn amused, all at the same time. “Tweek’s said he’ll put us in a home if we hug him in public, remember?”
Mom lets go of Craig, blinking furiously, and this is the point where Tweek realizes that his mother is like, seconds away from crying all over them both. Panicking like an animal, he starts yelling, “Mom! We’re fine,” at the top of his lungs. “Both of us!”

It takes a while to convince Tweek’s mom that she’s not the worst person in the world. At least she doesn’t start to cry, though Craig did spot that big wad of Tweak Bros napkins her husband brought, just as Mr Tweak shoved into his coat pocket. That almost makes him laugh; the guy came prepared. Those two have claimed the bench now, and in between Mrs Tweak apologizing and her husband talking about how Kenny showed up, out of the blue, to confess… Well, their free period’s going to be over soon, that’s how long it all takes.
At least Tweek didn’t scramble away from him when his parents showed up; and now he’s snuggled even deeper into Craig’s arms. Tweek’s hair is so soft, and he’s constantly shaking, very faintly, like it’s against his nature to hold still for this long. Now, Craig Tucker doesn’t possess much of an imagination, but it feels a bit like holding the biggest guinea pig that ever lived.
“I mean,” Tweek is saying, with a shrug, “If Kenny agrees to stand really still while I sock him in the jaw? That’d be enough for me. It’s not like I’d want to like, go all Quentin Tarantino on the guy. Not when it’s all worked out,” he adds, twisting his neck so he can smile up at Craig.
Damn, but that makes his chest hurt in the best way, Craig decides, as he smiles back. “I still want to know why,” he says. “Why he did it.” No point in adding that he wants to kick the shit out of Kenny as well… That can wait until his arm’s healed. His trademarked cast punch will have to be a one-off. Besides, it’s not like Kenny McCormick’s going anywhere in a hurry, and Craig wouldn’t want the Tweaks to get a bad impression.
“Well,” Mr Tweak says, pushing himself off the bench, “You boys won’t have to worry about Kenny outside of school, because I let him go to today. I fired him,” he translates, when Craig does nothing but stare.
“But,” Tweek shifts in Craig’s grip, sitting up straighter, “But you can’t do that! His dad’s never gonna fix our roof, is he, so they’re all relying on Kenny and Kevin to…” His rant trails off, but the fact that Tweek can even say that, Craig decides, after what Kenny’s done to them both, is pretty damn amazing. “I mean, it’s not like I’d want to hang out with him at the coffee shop anymore, I guess, but…”
“Tweek,” Mr Tweak suddenly sounds all stern, as he puts his hand on Tweek’s bushy head, “It’s not up for discussion. Besides, we’re paying him for an extra month, so you don’t need to worry.”
“I’m not worried,” Tweek grouses, leaving his dad’s hand there for a couple more seconds before sliding his head out from under it. Acting like that was such an annoyance. He’s trying to be cool for Craig, probably. Again, too damn cute for words.
“Anyway,” Mr Tweak bounces off the bench, and he’s got all his usual energy back – the guy kind of reminds Craig of Tony the Tiger, now that he thinks about it. From the Kellogg’s commercials. Like seeing that his kid is okay equates to eating a whole packet of Frosties in the one sitting, or something. “We should get back to the coffee shop. Tweek, if you want us to take you out of school for the rest of the day…?”
That offer makes Craig’s blood run cold. How’s he supposed to convince Stan & co that he doesn’t care, if he doesn’t have Tweek’s warm little hand to hold on to?
“We could drop you off at home,” Tweek’s mom throws in, “Let you get some more piano practice in before your lesson…?”
They want their kid to be safe. Craig gets that. But he’ll keep Tweek safe! The words stick in his throat though, even though he absolutely means them.
“Nah,” Tweek says, with a shrug, and Craig almost vomits all over his fuzzy blonde head in relief. “I think I’ll stick around.” Then he tilts his head up, blue eyes locking onto Craig’s brown ones, lips sliding apart in a naughty little smile. “This is like that time you guys made me go to Catholic summer camp,” he goes on, and for one crazy second, Craig actually thinks this latest bit of weirdness is addressed to him.
“You what now,” he blurts out, and Tweek growls quietly before he responds.
“When I was eight! Mom and Dad packed me up on a bus to nowhere with all these kids from school?! Like, at least Clyde had to go too? But so did Cartman, and Kenny, and guess who Clyde and me had to share a room with? Cartman farts in his sleep dude, like pure goddamn methane, and –”
“Don’t swear, Tweek,” Mr Tweak says, but he sounds like he’s trying not to laugh.
“And he capsized the canoe they put me in, because I had to share a canoe with Cartman! Because that one camp councillor knew all the verses to Kum Ba Ya, but didn’t know basic physics like, say, balancing the weight in a boat!?”
“Well, it was free,” Mrs Tweak says, though it’s a weak defence and she clearly knows it. The guilt is written all over her face. “And we couldn’t possibly have known you’d hate it that much…”
“You guys totally ganged up on me,” Tweek retorts, “When I said I didn’t want to go! You said that “couples have to present a united front”. So…” he shrugs, and grins up at Craig again. “That’s what I think we ought to do.”

The two of them walk hand in hand through the corridors, and there are little tremors travelling down from Tweek’s arm and up Craig’s, though they seem to be more from excitement than terror. Tweek’s grinning wide enough to split his own face in half, and he does most of the talking too, to Craig’s secret relief. Because people come up to them all the time, saying shit like, “Oh my God, I just heard,” and Tweek smiles and says “Thanks-for-your-concern.” And holy balls, Bebe was right – every girl Tweek talks to acts like this is the most romantic thing ever. For someone who’s worked hard at skills like fading into the scenery, all this attention is pretty exhausting.
They meet back up with Token and the guys – and Bebe, still tucked snugly under Clyde’s arm, and now wearing his football jacket over her shoulders, strutting like a film star wearing a mink coat. That does help, a little bit. Well, Bebe chiming in with shit like, “I know, aren’t they the cutest?! ” isn’t what Craig would call helpful, but this kind of thing is easier to deal with when he’s mushed up in the middle of their little group. This is how they arrive at Homeroom, with Clyde elbowing the door open – and then freezing up at the low, angry buzz of Bradley Biggle’s voice.
“You wilfully deceived us,” Bradley is saying, and somehow it sounds a hundred times worse now than when the nerd squad was brainstorming this speech. He’s holding that notebook in his hands, reading their Manifesto, their riot act, out loud – to Kevin, hell, to their whole class by now, because everybody’s crowding around the half-open door. “And for what? Didn’t you think we’d want to work with you, if you didn’t dangle the chance of dating your sister in front of our noses?”
“My n-next door n-n-neighbour’s possessed by Satan,” Jimmy quips, half-heartedly. It’s like he doesn’t even know if he’s more frightened or impressed.
“I,” Kevin Stoley is saying, like his brain has literally shut down from sheer surprise. “I didn’t think…”
“Without pausing to even consider her feelings,” Bradley goes on; a merciless verbal freight train mowing down Kevin’s feeble protests. “Your own twin!” Scott and Butters are standing behind him, forming a little geek Bermuda triangle. Butters is holding one big art folder and Scott’s holding two – the second one must be Bradley’s. “How much harder must it have been for her, going through what she did, with all of us lovesick assholes hanging around?”
Scott silently offers Butters a high-five – that was Butters’ phrase, after all – and the slap of their palms is the only sound in the suddenly very quiet hallway.
“I didn’t think you’d take it like that,” Kevin says, finding his voice at last. He sounds all croaky, and a little scared.
“From now on,” Bradley drops the hand holding the notepad to his side, speaking from memory, “We are on strike. All three of us.” He holds out his hand behind his back, not turning his head at all, and Scott places one of the folders in it. Then, Bradley drops it at Kevin’s feet. Next, Scott throws his own folder down, and then Butters. It lands on the other boy’s foot.
“This is all the Mysterion stuff we’ve got,” Bradley says, when Butters’ folder has slid off Kevin’s shoe. “Finished and unfinished. Let’s see what kind of comics you can make without us." And with that, he turns his back on Kevin, and strides back to his desk. Scott and Butters go sit down as well, and out in the hallway, it’s like everybody’s holding their breath.
Craig can see how hard Kevin’s hands are shaking, when he crouches down to gather the folders up. He pushes past Clyde, then Craig, then through the whole crowd, with those folders pressed against his chest in a death grip. And once there’s no-one in his way, Kevin breaks into a run, sneakers crashing against the floor.
Down the hall, there’s the sound of a toilet flushing, and a few moments later, Red and Esther step out of the ladies’ room, arm in arm. Giggling over some shared joke with their heads pressed together. That’s right, those two are friends…
Girls must have crazy good instincts, because Red and Esther seem to instantly realize that something’s off.
“What’s going on here,” Esther says, and Craig’s not the only one who has trouble meeting her eyes.

In the end, Kenny had to vacate the building in self-defence. Pass the reins over to Mysterion before he did something stupid, like pick up the biggest rock he could find and jump into Stark’s Pond. There are too many people who rely on Mysterion, and also Mysterion is the only one of them who’s even got a chance of setting this right. So he snuck back into the house wearing that loser asshole Kenny’s face, changed into his real clothes, and crept back out through the secret entrance as himself.
Sure, there are risks to walking around town wearing a mask and cape during the daytime. Much bigger chance of getting noticed, for one thing. Luckily – well, it’s a skill really, luck has nothing to do with it – Mysterion knows how to stay hidden. How to stick to the shadows and the rooftops. He circles back to the school that way, past the train tracks and through the tidy, suburban neighbourhood Kenny’s good-for-nothing friends live in. Through the town centre, sticking mostly to the roofs by now, and people are too busy looking into shop windows to look up and notice him leaping from one building to the next. It feels good to run up here, cape flapping out behind him, grappling hook ready in his right hand.
That idiot Kenny’s made a royal mess of things, and now it’s up to Mysterion to get shit back on track. But to do that, he needs Craig Tucker, alone. If going through the Tuckers’ house with Clyde and Jimmy taught Mysterion anything, it was that too many people equal instant liabilities. So no more dragging Craig’s friends into this – and he definitely doesn’t want to involve Tweek. It’s not just that the kid’s unpredictable; he’s spent enough time around stupid ol’ Kenny that there’s a genuine danger he might recognize…
So this is how Mysterion ends up squatting on the school roof, right above the main doors. Leaning against the big air vent, which he hopes will hide him from view. Oh, there’s a chance Craig might try leaving through the janitor’s door again, but the view from up here is excellent, so Mysterion should have no trouble spotting him if he does.
It’s a good time Kenny’s taking five, because when Craig walks out, it’s through the main doors and next to Tweek. The two of them pressed together like they got superglue on their clothes, whispering about something that makes Tweek laugh like a little kid. Just for a second, Kenny’s emotions well up inside him, jealously mixed with regret. Like vomit and bile. Mysterion chokes it all down like a pro, and firmly shuts Kenny out of his head. Not now, loser. He doesn’t have time for this shit, not when he’s out to fix things with Craig again. By giving Craig the one thing he wants more than Tweek – his real parents.

Tweek’s got his piano lesson right after school on Mondays, which of course Mysterion knows about through Kenny. That loser does have his uses. Mr Tweak’s white Datsun is waiting opposite the school gates as usual; he always drives Tweek to the piano teacher’s house, and picks him up again once Tweek’s hour of bashing the keys is up.
One lucky break: the rest of their friends must still be inside. Tweek and Craig have slipped out ahead of the crowds and are on their own. And they’re holding hands – what the hell? Maybe Kenny didn’t do as much damage as he thought he had, leaking those photos? Because there’s a hell of a lot of PDA going on down there – in broad daylight, with other students present. Mysterion watches the two boys say goodbye, not with a kiss, but with Craig leaning down to rest his forehead against Tweek, who then stands on tip-toe to rub his button nose against Craig’s Roman nose. Like they’re trying to breathe each other in or some shit.
Mr Tweak honks once from the Datsun, and Tweek yelps, slipping out of Craig’s arms to hurry over there. His beat-up green backpack bops up and down while he runs.
There are more students coming out now, milling around, and Craig seems to be hesitating. Like he wants to hide in the crowd, rather than go deal with the dented blue Ford Station Wagon that’s just slid up on the kerb like a slug. Not ideal circumstances to nab anyone, Mysterion decides, and quickly makes his way down the drainpipe. That man pretending to be Craig’s father has now climbed out, fake moustache firmly in place. Standing there next to the car, hands on hips, scanning the group of kids for his “son”.
Lucky for Mysterion, the Ford’s illegally parked on the sidewalk, hugging the side of a building, with the front of the car facing the school and the rear in shadow. The guy doesn’t even notice Mysterion picking the trunk lid open. But, just as he’s about to slip inside, he gets a pricking feeling between his shoulder blades.
Shit, what if someone’s spotted…
Mysterion spins around, his cape flaring around him, and comes face to face with a very shocked-looking Butters. Damn, the little nerd almost gave him a heart attack! He puts his finger over his lips – shhh! – and the kid nods gravely in response.
Satisfied that Butters won’t give him away, Mysterion quickly clambers inside and pulls the trunk lid shut behind him.
Seems Craig gave up on running, because it can’t even be a minute before Mysterion hears the front and the passenger doors slam shut, one after another. And then the Ford lurches to an asthmatic start, and they’re off.

It’s a bumpy ride, but Mysterion’s been on worse trips. It’s even kind of relaxing, in its own way, lying curled up in there. He can feel the thrumming of the engine all around him, like a heartbeat. After the car has stopped, Mysterion gives it a good count of a hundred, before he cautiously pops the hood and looks around. And he’s hit the jackpot; Craig’s fake dad drove all the way inside the garage – which, just like the garage of Clyde’s identical house next door, opens up into the house. The connecting door’s not even locked, and the handle’s still warm. Mysterion cracks it open – just a tiny crack – and listens for a minute before he dares to peer inside. The coast is clear, so he slips inside their hallway and pulls the door shut behind him with a soft click.
It strikes him again, just how… empty this house is. Sure, Clyde’s house was quiet and sad, but at least him and his dad had possessions, and way too many pairs of sneakers. Even back at Kenny’s, the family’s got their personal crap strewn around, a few pictures tacked up on the walls.
Now voices are coming from the kitchen – they’re all in there. Good. That room’s around the corner from where Mysterion’s crouched, so he quickly dashes from the garage entrance and up the stairs. Tries the door to Craig’s room, and slips inside there when it turns out to be open. Behind the door wasn’t a fantastic hiding place, but there’s not even a closet in here. There are curtains, though… Choice made, Mysterion slips behind the right-side curtain and peers outside. Huh, this room is directly opposite Clyde’s bedroom. He immediately recognizes the curtains for one thing; Kenny has faint memories of admiring them at a long-ago birthday party. They’re covered in old NFL mascot characters, throwing footballs around, and Clyde’s mother had said they’d been her husband’s bedroom curtains when he was a child.
The sound of footsteps makes Mysterion whip his head around. He’s taken a gamble, picking this hiding spot, but the fake Tuckers haven’t shown enough interest in Craig yet to make him think they’d actually come in here. Still… he pries the window latch off and pushes it open, then slides a grappling hook and line from their pouch. With quick, deft movements he’s secured that hook on the windowsill, in case he needs to beat a hasty retreat. And not a moment too soon, because now the door is flung open, thunk-ing against the wall-mounted doorstop, and a single pair of legs, in well-worn blue converse, can be seen from behind the curtains. By some weird miracle, Craig doesn’t even appear to have noticed him, so Mysterion waits until he’s dumped his backpack on the air mattress and the door has slammed shut behind Craig, before he flicks his curtain aside.
“Ta-dah,” he says drily.
Craig’s eyes go wide, and the kid actually lunges for him! Yanking his arm out of the sling it’s been resting in, to try and close his hands around Mysterion’s throat. Of course, he’s telegraphing his moves a mile away, so Mysterion easily subdues him, stepping to one side and pinning Craig against the wall. Carefully, too – wouldn’t hurt to mess with his busted arm, after that fight Craig had with Cartman yesterday.
“What is your problem,” Craig snarls, stretching his neck as far as Mysterion will let him – as if the kid’s trying to bite his nose off!
“I come in peace,” Mysterion drawls, and though it takes a little extra effort, he can hold Craig in place. “I’m here to talk,” he clarifies, when Craig doesn’t reply.
Craig, clearly resentful of being pinned like a butterfly, draws a deep breath. “At least take the damn mask off,” he hisses, “And apologize as yourself!”
Oh. Is that what this is about? “I’m afraid Kenny’s taking a personal day,” Mysterion tells him, with maybe just a dollop of sarcasm, because it’s better to be upfront about these things. He leans a little closer to Craig now; almost close enough for them to bump noses like he and Tweek did. “There’s only me in here right now.”
They lock eyes for a few seconds, and that seems to tell Craig what he needs to know. Mysterion doesn’t look away, for one thing, like that loser Kenny would.
“Oh,” Craig says, breaking eye contact at last. “Just my luck, huh?”
What, because the kid wanted to beat up Kenny, but got the sub instead? Ah, what the hell. “Tell you what,” Mysterion says, releasing him at last. “You can have one punch to the face. For free.”
Craig’s head whips back up, those brown eyes drilling into his own. “Are you trying to be funny?”
Mysterion shakes his head, and takes a step back. “It’s what Kenny would want, I’m sure. And it’s definitely what Kenny deserves. Don’t worry,” he adds, shrugging, when Craig still doesn’t move, “This body can handle it.”
After an endless few seconds, Craig looks away. “Guess I don’t want to anymore,” he says, now glaring at the floor instead of at Mysterion. “This stuff’s too messed up.”
Well, at least that’s over and done with. “In that case,” Mysterion begins – but that’s as far as he gets, before Craig Tucker socks him right in the mouth anyway. His head snaps to the left – even punching right-handed, that kid is strong! – and he actually loses his balance, because the whole thing was so unexpected. Staggering, pulling on the curtain because that’s the closest, Mysterion can hear the soft zip of curtain rings being yanked free. He goes with the momentum, lets himself fall and roll – carpets are soft, it doesn’t matter, as long as that roll takes him away from Craig. Wait, what? Just because the kid caught him out, doesn’t mean Mysterion’s actually afraid of him. That would be stupid. It’s probably just Kenny, rearing his cowardly head. To hell with Kenny.
Safely across the room from Craig, Mysterion bounds to his feet. Tasting blood, he slides his tongue around his mouth, testing the teeth, secretly relieved they’ve all held out. Must’ve just bitten his tongue then, when Craig’s fist connected. “Hell of a suckerpunch,” he says, taking back control. Of his body, of this whole situation. “Well done.”
“I know you felt that, asshole,” Craig counters, flipping Mysterion the bird with his right hand. It’s shaking, just a little bit.
“If you’re finished now,” Mysterion says, picking the thread back up, “Wait, are you finished?”
This time, Craig chooses to glare at the wall, just to the left of the window. “Eat shit,” he growls. Then, after a few seconds, “Fine, I’m done.”
“I know where your parents are.”

Chapter Text

“Explain,” Craig says, doing his best to control his voice. He’s still mad as hell at Mysterion. That showboating asshole can insist all he wants that he’s not Kenny. Craig still deeply resents him for all the climbing up walls, diving out of windows and amateur Kung-Fu bullshit. Hell, that remark about “giving” Craig one “free” punch alone is enough to make him hate Mysterion more than he hates Kenny.
“There’s a building,” Mysterion begins, folding his arms across his chest. Almost like he’s the one on the defensive here, but that must be just Craig’s wishful thinking – that he could ever come close to making that asshole nervous. “I’ve had the nerd squad keep an eye on it. The boys who make that silly comic book about me,” he adds, as if Craig wouldn’t know who the nerd squad are. Though when he calls them that, it’s like Craig can hear a little bit of Kenny seeping into Mysterion’s voice. “Stoley actually convinced them to let him inside, on the pretext of borrowing their toilet, and he confirmed my suspicions.”
Craig swallows. What suspicions? Does he mean Mom and Dad are…?
“There were takeout boxes,” Mysterion goes on, “Way too many for the three men he saw in there. And he overheard references to prisoners, who’d tried to go on hunger strike but were definitely still alive.”
“Still alive.” Craig’s legs give out, his back slams against the wall, and he slides down to sit there on the rug. Blinking furiously while he tries to process this, and to not cry like an idiot. Not in front of Mysterion!
“The way he described one of the three men…” Mysterion looks over at the door. “I already know, from the last time I came in here to gather intel, that he wears a fake moustache.”
Craig’s eyes widen. No need to ask who “he” is. “So it’s true,” he whispers. He almost adds, I’m not crazy, but bites down on those words at the last second. As if he wants to show Mysterion any kind of weakness.
“So what are we waiting for,” he says instead, climbing to his feet even though his legs are shaking. “We need to go get them out of there!”
“We, huh?” Mysterion sounds so damn smug that Craig just wants to punch him again. “I hate to tell you this, Craig, but…” He actually smirks under that mask, and Craig can feel his still-throbbing right hand balling itself into a fist, “We don’t stand much of a chance at all. Not on our own, and not without a little bit of prep. I was actually planning on rescuing them tomorrow afternoon.”
“Tomorrow? Why? I’m catching a lift with Jimmy and his dad to Denver tomorrow! To get my gandma, so she can come here and prove…” Craig stops himself, because if they do manage to get Mom and Dad out of there, there won’t be a need to prove anything. Only… if Mysterion’s big rescue plan fails, what then?
“Your fake parents seem to have something big planned for tomorrow.” Mysterion gives him a very level, very serious look. “There seem to be only three people in their permanent outfit. Nothing I can’t manage. So you should go to Denver –”
“Where I’ll be safely out of the way?” For some reason, this instantly pisses Craig off. It’s like Mysterion thinks he’s helpless or something, even after Craig managed to catch him unawares and sock him good. “And anyway, it’s not just those three,” he goes on, gritting his teeth, “I know for a fact they’ve hired –”

“Hired a couple of local small-timers too,” Mysterion interrupts him – again. Jesus, but Craig is starting to feel actual rage stirring in his belly. “I know all about that, it’s ah,” he falters for just a second, but quickly regains his verbal momentum, “A father and son outfit. But I can easily take ‘em out. And I know where they live.”
“Because it’s your dad?” Craig can’t help himself; he enjoys seeing Mysterion flinch. “And your brother? Oh, sorry,” he lets sarcasm seep into his voice, “My bad. I meant Kenny’s dad and brother. They’ve already paid Kenny’s dad to keep an eye on the house once, to make sure I didn’t sneak out.”
Mysterion closes his eyes, and just for a second, Craig thinks he’s about to revert to Kenny. But then he opens them, and they are still as cold and remote as before. “If I agree to bring you,” he says, holding up one finger, “If. Then I want you to promise me you’ll stay in the background. Let me do the fighting.”
“What, like you’re actually a superhero? And I’m one of those bystanders the nerds always draw in?” Craig hates how nasty he sounds, but split personalities or not, this is the guy who spread those pictures of him kissing Tweek!
Mysterion sighs. “You know I don’t encourage that stuff,” he says, sounding so weary, and so much older. “But, you may just have given me an idea.” The curtains are half hanging off the curtain rod, after Mysterion grabbed them just now. So when the other boy reaches behind them, Craig can clearly see the grappling hook on the window sill.
“Oh no, you don’t,” he snaps, taking a step forward and hoping Mysterion doesn’t realize Craig’s too chickenshit to actually grab him by the purple shirt. “You don’t get to make a dramatic exit and leave me to wonder what the hell you were talking about.” He gives Mysterion his most level stare. “Now explain this idea you just had.”
He seems to have caught Mysterion by surprise – again. Good. “I was just thinking,” Mysterion growls, “That Kevin Stoley is the same height and build as you. Even his skin colour…” His voice trails off; he’s clearly embarrassed. Score one for Craig! “I’ll have Stoley trade places with you, once those two think you’ve gone to bed.”
“How,” Craig snaps, “They barely let me have Tweek over, and that’s because Fake Mom thought it was for homework!”
“Stoley can climb a drainpipe,” Mysterion counters, “Almost as well as me. How else do you think he visits that girlfriend of his at night?”
Wait, Kevin Stoley and Red are actually…?! Craig can feel himself start to blush from the implication.
“It’s getting you out of here that’ll be the real challenge,” Mysterion goes on, almost like he’s thinking out loud. He stares out the window for a second, leaning his forehead on it. And then, in the reflection on the glass, Craig sees a cunning grin spreading across the other boy’s face. “Unless…”
“What,” he demands, but this time, Mysterion only shakes his head.
“You won’t like it,” he says, and then he’s suddenly crouched with one foot on the window sill. And before Craig can even think about stopping him, Mysterion’s halfway down the wall.
“Goddamn it,” Craig mutters, glaring out after him, as Mysterion disappears into the night.

He finds all the familiar handholds and footholds up to Kevin Stoley’s bedroom window without looking. The grooves in the siding, the top of an air vent, and of course the sturdy drainpipe. He navigates them all by touch and memory alone. It feels like he’s dreaming about climbing, rather than actually climbing. Mysterion can feel his grip on consciousness starting to slip, but he fights it – he’s used to that. The hell if Kenny gets to be back in control now, after Mysterion handled Craig for him. Kenny and his ridiculous, half-conscious crush on that boy – not something Mysterion has any time for. Not when there are lives on the line.
The curtains – dark blue and covered in constellations – are slightly parted; and through them, Mysterion can see Stoley hunched over his desk. Wearing the same dorky shit he wore to school – a baggy black Star Trek T-shirt with the crew of the Voyager screen printed (badly) on the front, and an unzipped hoodie that’s made to look like the top half of a blue Next Generation Starfleet uniform. He’s not actually doing anything, just sitting there, staring blankly into space. So lost in thought that he only realizes Mysterion’s there the third time he knocks on the glass.
Stoley scrambles to his feet, and almost knocks his desk chair over. Takes a moment to catch and steady that chair, before he hurries over to let Mysterion in. And while Mysterion isn’t so great with feelings – again, no time for that stuff – he can tell from the kid’s face that all is not well. Stoley looks lost, somehow, like there’s nothing left in his life that matters to him.
“Something’s happened,” Mysterion says, in a tone that’s slightly softer than his usual growl – which is as cuddly and caring as Mysterion gets. He quickly slips over the windowsill, which Kevin knows to keep clear of spaceship parts and other nerd paraphernalia.
“Oh.” Stoley – Kevin – seems surprised that Mysterion would notice. “It’s just… Everybody quit today. In front of everyone in class. Well,” one side of his lip curves upwards in a fraction of a smile, “Everyone except for my girlfriend and sister, thank God. Thank God girls take a hundred years to pee.”
Mysterion walks over to the desk. “When you say everybody quit,” he begins, looking down at the pages and pages of half-finished artwork spread across it. He can feel Kenny’s embarrassment, all of a sudden, at recognizing himself on those pages. In his cape and costume. Mysterion – their idea of Mysterion – is in almost every frame. Not that he wastes very much time worrying about this – he’s got bigger fish to fry than the nerd squad’s silly little fanzine.
“I mean there won’t be any more comics,” Kevin says, and his voice only shakes a little bit. But Mysterion’s got sharp ears. “Probably ever. The guys are all pretty pissed at me. I’m not even…” He pulls the desk chair out into the middle of the room and sinks down on it, like he just used up all his strength opening that window for Mysterion. Elbows resting on his knees, his arms hanging down – it’s almost like Mysterion can see the spark or whatever it is, draining out through the kid’s fingers. “I’m not even sure if we’re friends anymore,” Kevin mutters.
Oh. Mysterion surprises himself when he reaches out and puts one hand on Kevin’s shoulder. “Don’t fall apart on me now, Stoley,” he says, adding just a little more growl to his voice. “Not when I need you to help me crack this case I’m working.”
That sure galvanizes some life back into the kid. “What – really? But, but I thought you always work alone,” Kevin splutters, looking up at Mysterion with the kind of hopeful adoration that would normally make his guts churn.
But now? Well – damn it all. Mysterion gives Kevin’s shoulder a quick squeeze before he pulls his hand back. “This is one case I can’t crack on my own,” he admits, and it does feel a little nice to watch Kevin’s whole face light up. He must be excited to finally get in on some of the real action, Mysterion decides.
“What do you need me to do,” Kevin asks, eager as a puppy. It’s impossible not to smile back at him, but at least Mysterion can make it a discreet smile.
“There’s a window I need you to climb through…”

By the time Clyde Donovan’s let Kevin Stoley inside his house, Mysterion’s already slipped inside through the garage window and jimmied the lock to the hallway door. So he gets to surprise them both by waiting in the kitchen, leaning against the counter with a can of baked beans in his hand.
“No, it’s fine,” he can hear Clyde saying, is voice travelling in from the front of the house, “I’m just making dinner for my Dad an me. Beef and bean casserole,” he says, stepping into the kitchen. “With potataaaaahhh!” He sees Mysterion, and bellows like a startled farm animal. Even Kevin – who knew Mysterion would make his way in here – does a little jump.
“You,” Clyde exclaims, pointing at Mysterion. He sounds completely shocked to find him in here – like he’d just as soon expect to find Santa Claus and the Easter Bunny out in the living room, chilling on the sofa. Then one of the pots on the stove starts to hiss and boil over, and the kid quickly turns to that instead, moving it off the hotplate and turning one of the knobs on the cooker – taking the heat down, probably – before putting the pot back. “Uh, I mean…” Clyde looks from Kevin to Mysterion, before his eyes seem to fix on the can of beans he’s holding. “You want me to heat that up for you?”
Mysterion blinks. His turn to be surprised now. As if on cue, his stomach constricts painfully. How long has it been since Kenny had anything to eat? He has no idea. “Okay,” he growls, putting the can back down on the counter, before folding his arms across his belly. “Thanks.”
“Uh, don’t mention it, man.” Clyde quickly fishes out a frying pan from one of the kitchen cupboards and cuts a big, uneven chunk of butter off the block that was already sitting on the counter. Then he swaps the pot of whatever he was boiling over, to put the frying pan on the plate that’s already glowing red. This kid must be a better cook than Kenny’s mom, Mysterion thinks, then shakes his head to get rid of that pointless thought. The butter – so much butter – quickly melts, while Clyde gets a can opener from a drawer. Mysterion watches as he pours the gloopy orange contents of the tin into that pan, and tries not to salivate.
“Mysterion needs our help,” Kevin says, with this rather intense look in his eyes. It hits Mysterion that maybe, after his friends walked out on making that ridiculous comic, he might just be all the kid has left. That could be dangerous.
“What, seriously?” Clyde looks like Kevin just told him a UFO landed on his front lawn – that’s how shocked he is. “But I thought the other night was just an exception,” he babbles, absently stirring the beans with a spatula. “I thought you always work alone!”
Mysterion doesn’t reply. The smell of the beans is so intense. It’s like he can already taste them.
“That’s what I said,” Kevin shoots in, with the sort of grin you’d normally see on thoroughly brainwashed cult members on TV. Not good. “But this is like, the one case he can’t crack on his own!”
It doesn’t take long to heat up a can of baked beans. But Mysterion’s plan isn’t exactly complicated. He’s got it all explained and laid out for them by the time Clyde puts a steaming plate on the table and tells him to pull up a chair. At least he doesn’t have the kind of mask he needs to pull up so he can eat.
“I’m not sure we’ve got a plank long enough to reach my room,” Clyde’s saying, digging through a one of the cupboards for another can of beans. “But to my garage roof, sure?” Then he takes a packet of minced beef out of the fridge, and empties the whole thing into the same frying pan he used for the beans. “It’d be better if we had a skylight or something in there,” he shrugs, before he gives what he’s got on the stove a quick once-over, stirring the meat before balancing the spatula on the edge of the empty plastic tub it came in. “But with all the snow we get, Dad had the old one bricked over when we got the roof fixed. Said it wouldn’t be safe.”
“Might actually be safer, getting him to climb down from the garage roof,” Kevin suggests, while Mysterion is still busy chewing and thinking this over. “Instead of like, across the yard and to your bedroom,” he goes on, picking up Clyde’s abandoned spatula and twirling it between his fingers. “I mean, the garages aren’t that high.”
“I think we’d have to help him down,” Clyde says, pulling the spatula out of Kevin’s hands. “Just climbing to the garage with a broken arm’s a big ask.” Normally, Clyde won’t argue a point or insist on much of anything, Mysterion knows that via Kenny’s memories.
“I’ll pass Craig down to you,” Mysterion assures him. Because that’s another thing he knows from Kenny; that Clyde’s not great with heights. “I’ll be the one on the garage roof anyway,” he goes on, “Holding the other end of the plank down.”
“With your, uh, body mass?” Clyde gives him a dubious look on his way over to the fridge. Sure, Mysterion doesn’t have much going for him in the body mass department.
“I just need to act as a counterweight for Craig,” he replies quickly, eager to shut that argument down. “And I’m pretty confident that I outweigh him. You just need to be ready to help him down. He’ll be tired by then,” he goes on, deciding to stroke the kid’s ego a little. “So you might even have to lift him. You’re strong enough though.”
That works. Clyde’s face lights right up. “You’re right,” he says, pulling out a packet of minced beef and a hunk of chees, then slamming the fridge door shut with a bit more force than strictly necessary. “I am strong!”
“Great,” Kevin says, “We’ve got a plan. Now all we need, is the plank.”
“Planks,” Clyde shoots in, grabbing a cheese grater from one of the cupboards. “I think we’ll need at least two.”
Mysterion swallows. “I know where I can get you some long planks.” He hates this idea with all his heart, but it’s the most efficient way. “They’re redoing the roof at Tweak Bros. All the wood’s being kept behind the building, under a tarp.” No, wait, he decides. This isn’t even his problem. Let Kenny add that to his own list of shit to feel guilty about, he decides. Serves the little twerp right.
Clyde frowns, like he’s thinking extra hard. “I’ve got my learner’s permit,” he says. “Since my birthday’s in April and all. So when Dad comes home for dinner, I can try to convince him to let me take the car. I’ll say I need to drop of a book with Tweek,” he adds, talking faster as his idea takes shape, “For our school project about Peru! And I’ll only need half an hour to drive to the coffee shop. He should be back from his piano lesson by then, so he can help me sneak a couple planks from the pile. As long as we’re just borrowing the planks for one night,” he adds, giving Mysterion a surprisingly steady eyeballing. “No way am I stealing from my best friend’s parents, okay?”
“Okay,” Mysterion growls, “That’ll work. And what you do with the planks afterwards.” he adds, pointing his fork – still with a couple of beans speared on the tines – at Clyde. “Is up to you. Kevin,” he turns to the Stoley kid, who’s looking at him like this little mission is the only thing that’s keeping him going. Damn, that could really get dangerous. “You just get inside Craig Tucker’s window, and wait for me to pass the plank up to you. And once he’s out, we won’t need more than half an hour. Then, if the Fakes figure out you’re not him, you bail. Okay,” he adds, waiting for Kevin to nod.
“Okay,” Kevin concedes, after a worryingly long silence. “But I’m sure it’ll be – dude!” He points at the cooker, eyes wide with alarm.
“Oh shit, the potatoes!”
That pan is boiling over again, and Clyde and Kevin both hurry over to deal with it – Clyde moving the pan into the sink this time. Meanwhile Kevin’s gingerly wiping up the spill with the kitchen towel that was hanging on the front of the cooker. It’s the perfect opportunity for Mysterion to slip out through the back door and jump the fence into the Stoleys’ yard. He still has some things he needs to do before Kenny takes over, and he can sense the time slipping away from him.

Tweek’s had a pretty decent piano lesson, even though he’d been all edgy and fidgety from the adrenaline rush, which is only starting to wind down now… After how many hours? He’d managed to channel all that nervous energy into his Liszt etude, and that got him praise for not overthinking his playing – hah! That must’ve been what getting high feels like, just soaring on the cascades of the music and letting his fingers fly over the keys. So now he’s got a new etude to work on, not to mention all the Peru stuff, and maths and trig, and Miss Garrison had hinted during Homeroom that they’re going to be doing some kind of project on the Brontës, so help them all…
But for now, Tweek needs to get his head straight. So he’s doing a tarot spread in the back room of the coffee shop, shuffling the cards with hands that are still shaking. The shakes are slower now, though. And his heartbeat started slowing down in the car with Dad, driving back from his lesson. Tweek lets his eyes slip shut, just focuses of the feel of the cards sliding through his fingers. That super quiet shuf-shuf-shuf sound they make. It’s almost as soothing as having Craig wrapped around him like a coat.
Tweek smiles. Almost.
He opens his eyes. Takes a sip of coffee from his big green tartan mug. All right. Puts the first card down – the Fool, right side up – and then crosses it with the Hierophant. Also right side up.
There’s a soft knock on the door, and then Token pokes his head around it. “Hey,” he says quietly, slipping inside with his purple backpack dangling from one shoulder. “I told my parents we’re doing some work on the Peru thing,” he says, as the door clicks shut behind him. “Is that okay?”
Something’s bugging Token, that much is obvious. So Tweek puts the rest of his deck down, and pushes himself out of his seat. “Dude, of course! You want a mocha or something?”
Token chews his lip for a second, then nods. “If you’re not busy…” He waves a hand at Tweek’s abandoned Tarot spread, but he’s already taking the chair opposite where Tweek was sitting.
“Nah, I’ll finish that later,” Tweek assures him, before he pulls the door open just wide enough to duck out into the coffee shop proper. Without showing any nosy customers that Token’s sitting in there.
It takes him all of a minute to make Token a mocha just the way he likes it – one shot of coffee in their biggest mug, with chocolate and caramel syrups, and a dash of whipped cream on top. Dad, who’s on his own now, just raises an eyebrow at him and smiles.
“Did Mom go to the bank, then,” Tweek asks, with one hand on the doorjamb, carefully holding Token’s mocha in the other. He was a little more generous with the frothed milk than he’d realized while making this thing, so it’s like – one sneeze and it’ll all be over.
“Yes,” Dad says, pulling a plate from the stack and opening the pastry case. “Said she fancied the walk.” Using the tongs, he picks out one chocolate muffin, and one lemon, balancing them next to each other on the plate. “Here. Tell Token to eat that and stop moping.”
“Jesus, let me open – uh, I mean thanks, just… ” Tweek props the door open with his elbow, transfers Token’s drink to his left hand, then holds out his right hand for the saucer and grins. “Thanks, Dad!”
Dad grins back at him and reaches over to muss Tweek’s already disastrous hair. “Gah,” Tweek growls, giving an almighty twitch but somehow not spilling Token’s drink all over the floor. “Food safety, Dad! Food safety!”
“I’ll just wash my hands,” Dad sings out, in that super annoying jolly tone of his. Still rubbing Tweek’s head like he’s trying to start a fire or something.
“Yeah, you do that,” Tweek mutters, mindful that while they’ve only got three customers in here right now, they’re all watching him. But just for a second, he leans into Dad’s hand, and lets his eyes slip closed. He remembers how Dad showed up at school with this huge handful of napkins, “In case people were going to cry”. “You may be the weirdest dad ever,” Tweek tells blurts out, “But you’re not the worst dad!”
Literally as soon as those words have left his mouth, Tweek regrets it, but Dad just laughs until he’s got to prop himself up on the counter.

“I think,” Token says, carefully breaking his chocolate muffin into identically sized halves, “That the nerd squad must have really helped Craig out. In the bathroom, you know.” He takes one measured bite, which is Tweek’s cue to nod and go “Uh-huh.” He remembers how Craig’s eyes had gone all blank with fear, how he hadn’t even reacted when Tweek shouted his name. From that to waltzing into the principal’s office and practically pulling Tweek into his lap… that had been some transformation.
“And I mean,” Token says, after he’s swallowed his mouthful, “I really appreciate that. Craig had me pretty damn worried back there. But… I can’t say I agree with how they’re treating Kevin.”
“Yeah, that’s…” Now it’s Tweek’s turn to chew his lip. It’s not like he even knows Kevin that well. Or the rest of the nerd squad, come to think of it. “It’s not like them, is it.”
It’s been kind of a running joke that all the boys in their class will always hive off in groups of four. Stan’s gang, Tweek’s gang, Kevin’s gang… Kevin’s gang have been together since around the time Tweek’s gang formed, and that was in the fourth grade – third grade, even?
“All that time they’ve poured into that comic, too,” Token is saying, in between sips of his mocha. “This is so good, thank you. For all three of them to just quit like that.”
“They’re on strike, remember?” Tweek has a bite of lemon muffin, and it tastes exactly like it’s supposed to. Equal parts sweet and sour. “Bradley said. For dangling Esther like a carrot.”
“Did you see that coming,” Token asks, giving Tweek kind of an odd look.
“What, you mean did the gaydar start blaring?” Tweek shakes his head, and almost laughs. “Nah. I mean, Lisa – I could kind of tell. Like she was giving off this…” he frowns, thinking about it, “This vibe. But Esther’s always been really… closed off, you know?”
“Huh. So while it depends on the person,” Token says, “There really is a gaydar.” He’s so deadpan that Tweek doesn’t even realize he’s kidding, until Token nudges him with his elbow.
An engine suddenly revs up outside – an old engine from the sound of it, coughing and spluttering. People don’t usually park outside of Tweak Bros though – not even round the back, where Dad parks the Datsun. Too risky, with all the crackheads from SoDoSoPa so close, and willing to smash a car window for a pocketful of loose change.
“Somebody needs an oil change,” Token mutters, raising one eyebrow.
Then someone’s knocking on the back door, and while Tweek knows he’s supposed to be careful, because wouldn’t the SoDoSoPa crackheads just love to get inside of Tweak Bros and rummage around, it could be Craig. And if it is Craig, on the run from the Fakes…!
Tweek practically flies across the room, lemon muffin still in his hand, and wrenches the back door open, without even checking who it is first.
Clyde’s there, looking mightily stressed out. “Oh thank God,” he sighs, pulling a hand through his fringe, “Token’s here too. Then my idea might actually work.”
Token pushes his seat back a little, chair legs scraping against the floor, and protectively moves the plate with his muffin on it to his lap. “What might work,” he asks cautiously. You learn to use caution whenever Clyde starts having ideas.
Clyde doesn’t answer him at first. He’s spotted the muffin in Tweek’s hand. Before Tweek has a chance to react, Clyde stretches his neck out, quick as a snake, and takes a huge bite. Literally half the muffin gone, in a single chomp!
“Dude!” Tweek glares at him, but Clyde just stares right back at him while he chews, eyes wide and bugging out of his skull.
“Ah,” Clyde says, after he’s swallowed, “I feel better now.”
Tweek growls at him in response – he was enjoying that muffin, goddamn it!
“Hey, at least he didn’t talk while he was chewing,” Token says, but Tweek notices the death girl he’s got his own muffin. “So – what happened?”
“I just had fucking Rorschach in my kitchen,” Clyde blurts out, and Clyde never swears. “Though at least he let me heat up the can of beans…” He goes over and takes Tweek’s abandoned seat at the table. Props his elbows up and lets his head sink into his hands. “You know you’re in trouble when your life turns into a page out of Watchmen.”
Tweek frowns. What the hell is Clyde even talking about? They’ve all read the comic, of course, and loved it so much that Token ordered both the role playing books and they all took a break from DnD to play superheroes instead. In fact, Tweek had been the one who played as Rorschach – even constantly sipping his coffee, he’d been hoarse after every single session.
“Wait, are you talking about Mysterion?” Token leans forward, though he’s careful to keep his muffin well out of Clyde’s reach.
Clyde nods, and then the words rush out of him all at once. “I promised to help him and Kevin with this whole plan they had, to get Craig to safety, only Dad says I can’t have the car on my own!”
“Kevin? As in, Kevin Stoley? He’s working with Mysterion now?” Token seems to find that hard to believe. “I thought Mysterion told you he always works alone.”
Clyde groans. “Not this time. And I promised him! I promised I’d get the planks from Tweak Bros with my dad’s car, only Dad’s refusing to let me drive if he’s not in the car, because I’ve only got a learner’s license and blah blah! And now Mysterion’s gonna show up in my bedroom tonight and staple my balls to the floor!”
Tweek almost laughs. Because those two cards are still out on the table, and from what Clyde’s just said, the Hierophant – who always represents some kind of authority figure – would be Mr Donovan in this case. Literally blocking Clyde from going on his Fool’s errand.
“Here,” Tweek dumps the half-eaten muffin right down on the table top in front of Clyde, “You might as well have the whole thing.” He crosses his arms. “But what’s this about getting planks from Tweak Bros?”
“I was only gonna borrow ‘em!” Clyde’s voice takes on a wheedling tone. “See, Kevin Stoley’s going to swap places with Craig tonight, and sleep in his room? But then we have to get Craig out somehow, and he can’t climb drainpipes with that broken arm. So then Mysterion said we should borrow some of the planks you guys have out back!” Clyde shoves the whole rest of the muffin in his mouth.
“That still doesn’t explain why…” Token begins.
“For Craig to climb down,” Clyde cuts him off, while he’s still chewing.
“Oh. That does make sense, I guess.” Token raises one eyebrow. “But if your plan was for Tweek and me to help you carry planks all the way back to your house, you’ve got another thing coming.”
“Are you insane?!” Tweek howls, “Both of you? Craig’s got a broken arm, he can’t go around climbing out of windows! And if I think I’ll just let you steal –”
“Borrow!”
“Bullshit! If we don’t ask, it’s stealing!”
“Nah, dude,” Clyde stops talking to wipe the crumbs off his lip with the back of his hand, “You need to think of this as a heist. Like we’re in a heist movie.”
“Yeah, but we’d be heisting from my parents,” Tweek counters, hands on his hips.
“Then why don’t I just ask your dad right now,” Token says, getting up.
“What? No,” Clyde hisses, “What if he won’t let us? Then we can’t even heist the planks, because he’ll know –”
“Shh!” Tweek just puts his whole hand over Clyde’s mouth. He looks down at the two Tarot cards, there between the coffee cups and crumbs. If he’d had time to finish the reading, what would it say…?
“That was delicious, Mr Tweak,” he can hear Token say, “Thank you so much. I was just wondering…”
Tweek closes his eyes. Token has been known to pull off miracles with grownups before, but this? This will really be pushing it.
“It’s for our school project, you see. The one about Peru? We would bring them right back, first thing tomorrow.”
“Mm,” Dad replies, in a tone that tells Tweek he’s actually considering this?! “I don’t suppose that… Stuart McCormick,” Dad goes on, in a tone that tells Tweek he totally just stopped himself from saying “asshole”, “Will ever start work on the roof. So you might as well borrow a couple. I can’t drive you boys until Helen gets back from the bank, though.”
Tweek pries his eyes open, and shares a horrified look with Clyde. Holy shit, Token is terrifying.

Chapter Text

So the drive back to Clyde’s house with Dad and his friends is maybe a seven on the embarrassment scale – that is, if the top number is ten and not a hundred. Dad pops the Kula Shaker tape into the tape deck and tries to teach everybody the words to Govinda, and Clyde – who’s apparently a pro at booming out hymns in church, gets so ridiculously into it that Tweek and Token both end up rolling down the window on their side to save their eardrums. So then like, half the town gets an earful of badly pronounced Sanskrit, because of course Dad’s got to take his shortcut through downtown. Tweek sees at least sixteen people he knows, so that’s not excruciating at all. This has gone all the way up to a nine by now. Jesus.
“And Tweek says I never listen to modern music,” Dad says, loudly and smugly, while Tweek glares at him and growls. Dad’s already rewound this song once.
“At least Sanskrit is a dead language,” Token says, leaning forward to talk to Tweek, who’s riding shotgun. “So nobody really knows how you’re supposed to pronounce anything?”
This seating arrangement is because Tweek is in charge of holding on to the ends of the planks, which are sticking out through the passenger seat window. Those things are so damn long, they had to slide them in across the empty middle seat, then over the little rack that covers the boot; and then put one of Dad’s old emergency hats over the ends because they keep bumping gently against the rear window. Token, who’s got one arm wrapped around the planks, is obviously just trying to make Tweek feel better.
“NASHRINGA DEEEVA,” Clyde bellows from the seat right behind Tweek, who jumps. Damn it, that was somehow even louder that that whole last string of “govinda jaya’s”!
Tweek looks over his shoulder at Token, and just shakes his head rather than try to reply. It’s not like Token would hear him anyways, with Clyde going full blast in a small car.
At least this whole embarrassment parade is faster than Clyde’s idea of trying to smuggle the planks back here on foot, Tweek thinks. In less than twenty minutes, Dad is reversing the Datsun up Mr Donovan’s driveway, as close to the garage as he can get.
“Right,” Dad says, killing the engine in mid-govinda and jumping out, “I don’t like to leave Helen on her own in the shop for too long. So let’s hustle, boys!”
There’s no arguing with that – Tweek didn’t like it either, since they do have the odd weirdo come inside the shop sometimes. Even in broad daylight. Tweek’s got a sliding scale of coffee shop weirdoes; you get the people who just don’t think it’s that important to have a wash, but still clearly have a home to go to. And then you get the people who very clearly live on the streets – they sometimes come in asking for water, or to buy like, the cheapest thing in the pastry case and stay out of the cold for a while. Unless they’re being super creepy, like they’re leering at Mom or swearing into thin air or something, that person will get a small free drink as well; a plain latte or a mug of black tea. Sometimes they ask for money, too, but that’s where both his parents draw a line – give one person some money, and they’ll get harassed forever. Anyway, it’s never been a weirdo with a gun, not yet, but there’s a first time for everything.
So hustle is what they do. And obviously Token can complete any task successfully, in any tempo. But asking Clyde to hurry is never a good idea; it’s like asking an overexcited bull to mind your china shop for you. And Tweek is a klutz at the best of times.
They all form sort of a fireman’s bucket line, with Dad sliding the planks out one by one, and passing them to Token. He then carefully flips them over, so he can pass them flat to Tweek, who’s sort of the middle man between Token and Clyde, who’s standing in the main opening of the garage door. He may not be allowed to drive the car on his own, but he’s still got the key for it on his keychain. Mr Donovan’s had a nice automatic lock installed, so Clyde’s doesn’t even need to wrestle with the door and fold it up – it spools upwards on its own accord. Tweek, who still has to stand on his tip-toes when Dad asks him to open their garage door, is more than a little bit jealous and impressed. Anyway, Clyde’s laid out a tarp on the floor, and that’s where he’s stacking the planks, as carefully as Clyde is able to stack things.
Suddenly, Dad bumps his elbow against the steering wheel while he’s sliding the final plank out. Obviously by accident. The car horn only toots once; but Tweek would have to be an ascended boddhisattva not to get startled by that, right? He doesn’t even jump that high, but that jump still tips him off balance, and Clyde instinctively throws out his hand to catch him. Which he does, but his other shoulder hits that button on the side of the garage door. Instantly, the thing starts buzzing, and the door starts to slide back down! Clyde’s probably worried about snapping the plank or something. Because he sort of flings himself sideways to slap his hand on the panel, forgetting that he’s still holding onto the last plank. And of course this is when he has to lose his balance.
Clyde is two things: strong and heavy. So it looks a bit like a knight putting his lance through a dragon’s breast, when he lunges through the garage door and shoves that plank straight through the ceiling.
For a moment, Clyde and Tweek, who got dragged along for the ride because he was still clinging on to Clyde’s football jacket for balance, can only stare. Stare at the little patch of blue sky they can suddenly see, up there between the roof beams.
“Thank God,” Clyde says, turning his wide-eyed, horrified face at Tweek.
“What,” Tweek blurts out – he’s confused, to put it mildly. “You’re happy you put a hole through the roof?”
“I’m happy because this means Craig won’t have to fall through it,” Clyde hisses into Tweek’s ear, before giving a savage tug to the plank to dislodge it from the hole. Dad and Token are already hurrying over there, and Clyde obviously doesn’t want Dad to hear. “The whole roof must be rotten, dude!”
“Oh dear,” Dad’s saying, looking up – and out – through the hole. “Do you want me to, ah, break the news to Roger?” He puts comforting a hand on Clyde’s shoulder, since this is exactly the kind of thing that would reduce Clyde to tears under normal circumstances. “I can call him for you when we’re back at the coffee shop,” he offers. “Explain that it was an accident?”
“Oh God no,” Clyde blurts out, before he gets a hold of himself. “I mean, uh, thanks so much, Mr Tweak, but I’d rather tell Dad myself, you know? Be a man about it and all that.”
That makes Dad smile. “Proud of you, kid,” he says. From the constipated look that flashes across Clyde’s face; that probably just adds to the guilt he’s feeling.
But holy crap, does this mean the plan’s off for tonight? If they can’t have Craig climbing a plank from his window to the garage roof, then…
Tweek looks up, and sees that Clyde’s left his window open. His old NFL player curtains are flapping in the breeze. No, he thinks. No way. They wouldn’t…!
Tweek glances over at Token, and sees that he’s giving Clyde a sneaky thumbs-up. “I’ll stay behind,” Token offers, “And help Clyde patch it up. Let me just get my school bag from the car…”
“Thanks,” Clyde sighs. It’s not clear who he’s saying it to – hell, maybe he’s even aiming those words up into the sky. People who believe in God probably do that from time to time. He still looks pretty miserable, but at least he’ll have Token there – Tweek’s got to head back to the coffee shop. He’s not happy about that, not when there’s a plan to evacuate Craig from his house and that plan just hit a massive, garage-sized snag. Especially not when he suspects they’re going to make Craig climb from window to window instead! He really should be here to try and slam the breaks on that shit!
But, Tweek’s supposed to help out if the afternoon rush gets too crazy, which it often will do on a Monday. And also he left all his school crap behind, which means he’s got zero excuses to hang with the guys. But, he thinks, as Dad pulls out of the driveway; at least that means he can get back to his Tarot spread. After that super accurate first pair of cards, Tweek’s starting to get a feeling that this reading might end up being really important.

“Uh,” Craig says, hovering at the open living room door, “I was just wondering if I can go to Jimmy’s real quick?”
The Fakes, who have been leaning across that picnic table they found in the garage and whispering about something, both look up kind of abruptly. Probably wondering if he overheard anything. Craig can see that there is a piece of paper on the table top between them, but he can’t make out what’s on there – aside from that it seems to be some kind of drawing. A map maybe – or a blueprint?
Fake Dad looks pointedly at Fake Mom, who claps her hands together and says, “Of course! That’s a fantastic idea, cariño. I’ve been meaning to ask his mother about the recipe for that lovely casserole she gave us the other day!”
Craig chokes down his disappointment – he should have expected something like this; the Fakes hate letting him out of their sight. It doesn’t matter, he reminds himself. After tonight, it will completely stop mattering, because Craig will be out of here!
“Sure,” he says, shrugging. Keeping his voice as flat as possible. “She’d probably like that.” After all, Craig’s real mom will always be crazy flattered if somebody asks her for a recipe after she’s cooked for them.
“Let me just grab my purse,” Fake Mom says, pushing her deck chair back as she stands up. Fake Dad, meanwhile, casually folds that piece of paper over and shifts in his seat, tucking it into his back pocket. Then he leans back in his own deckchair, eyeballing Craig until he can feel sweat start to run down his back. It takes serious effort to break eye contact, but Craig finally does it.
“I won’t be too long,” he says, secretly proud of himself because his voice doesn’t shake at all.
“That’s a good boy,” Fake Dad replies, like Craig is some kind of dog. Not that Craig is offended, because if it means the guy underestimates him, that can only be a good thing. “I was thinking I’d tread us all to a takeout tonight,” Fake Dad goes on. “Might drive down to that Chinese place in town and pick up some stuff. What do you think?”
“Sounds good,” Craig replies, with a shrug and a half-assed smile. He’s more than half convinced the Fakes don’t know how to cook at all.
Fake Mom is ready in no time. She really does seem to bring that ugly-ass handbag everywhere she goes; Craig’s own mom would never bother with a bag if she’s just going down the road to the neighbours. It’s definitely getting chillier; Craig only bothered with his blue hoodie and zipped it up right on top of the sling. Last thing his left arm needs right now is to be yanked through a sleeve, it’s still throbbing a little from that tussle with Mysterion. And Craig didn’t even use it to punch the smug asshole! As they walk down the sidewalk towards the Valmers’ house, he finds himself pulling his hood up on top of his hat. Shivering a little, too. Fall is definitely on its way, as fast as the wind will carry it.
Just for a second, Craig smiles to himself inside the hood. He can put that in a poem, sometime. Fall flying in, on the freezing wind… For a crazy second, he even entertains the notion of reciting it to Tweek, while they’re both wound up snug in a shared blanket. Maybe even sipping from the same cup of hot chocolate. But nah, Craig knows for a fact he’d never have the balls to do that.
Mrs Valmer opens the door, and is immediately set upon by Fake Mom, who insist on hugging the poor woman and kissing her on both cheeks. “Sarah, darling,” Fake Mom purrs, while Mrs Valmer just gives her this kind of shell-shocked look, “I was wondering if you could give me the recipe for that incredible casserole…”
“And I’m just here to see Jimmy,” Craig shoots in, earning himself a raised eyebrow and a quick glare from Fake Mom.
“Oh! Um, well,” Mrs Valmer is doing her best to act like people she barely knows will go around kissing her all the time, “Come on in, both of you! Jimmy’s up in his room,” she tells Craig, “And Laura? I’m sure I’ve got that recipe here somewhere… I mean, I make that casserole so often, because it’s one of Ryan’s favorites, you know? So I just sort of do it by rote, but…”
The two women disappear into the kitchen, and Craig only stops to kick off his sneakers before he bounds up the stairs, taking them two at a time. He sort of remembers which room was Jimmy’s, even though Friday’s DnD session feels like a hundred years ago now. Two quick raps with his knuckles on what turns out to be the right door, and then Jimmy’s telling him to come in. He’s sitting on the floor, with his crutches stacked against the side of his bed, rooting through a black nylon backpack. Jimmy seems surprised to see him, but definitely in a good way, because the grin he flashes Craig is enormous.
“Look what I’ve got,” he says, pulling something out of that backpack, “Metro p-p-passes for Denver!”
“Shh,” Craig hisses, quickly shutting the door behind him. “My fake mom’s right there, downstairs.”
“Shit, s-sorry,” Jimmy says, but then he can’t keep his excitement in check. “These are from the last t-time I went, w-with my p-parents? Dad kept ¬all¬ of our passes in here, and I’m p-pretty sure a couple of these s-still have m-m-money on them…”
“Dude,” Craig drops to his knees in front of Jimmy. He hates to be the one who shits on his friend’s excitement like this, but he’s only got this one chance to tell him. “I can’t come tomorrow after all.”
“W-w-what?” Jimmy looks crestfallen.
“Mysterion came to my room,” Craig goes on, talking as fast as he can, “And he told me he’s found my parents! He’s bringing me along tomorrow to rescue them, and I have to go, but –”
“Of c-course you have to,” Jimmy says, reaching out to put his hand on Craig’s shoulder. He’s still holding those metro passes between his fingers, Craig can see them sticking out like some kind of flat, three-headed cigarette from out of the corner of his eye. “I’ll t-tell my dad –”
“But you still have to go,” Craig cuts him off. “Please. I need you to find Thomas, my…” he swallows, “My friend who came to Tweak Bros on Saturday? I’ll give you his phone number, and his address. And he’s bound to be home, since he’s home-schooled now. And then he needs to go with you, to see my Grandma and my little asshole of a sister, so Thomas can explain everything to them, and then you can bring both of them back with you…” He suddenly stops talking, because Jimmy’s looking at him kind of funny. “I mean, uh, would that be okay?”
“That,” Jimmy says, giving Craig a very level stare with his left eye while his right eye slides off on its own, “Is the f-f-fastest I’ve ever heard you talk. I mean, obviously, I’ll do it. B-because it’s important to you.”
Craig can feel his cheeks start to glow. “Thanks, man,” he says, and drops his own good hand on Jimmy’s shoulder. “Surly asshole like me doesn’t deserve friends like you and the guys,” he says, and he can feel his blush intensify while he talks, but to hell with it. This is something that needs to be said.
Jimmy grins in response. “Dude,” he says, “Don’t even m-mention it.”

Mysterion’s never liked using the secret entrance during daylight hours, but it’s not like he’s got a convenient stash of Kenny clothes this close to the house. Somebody would be bound to find it and just keep the stuff, because that’s the kind of neighbourhood this is. So Mysterion just makes extra sure there’s nobody watching before he slips through the washing machine door at the back of the yard. He crawls through the tube and into the closet, and Kenny’s yanking his mask off as soon as his head and torso have come through the hole in the wall.
He gets changed inside the closet, and folds the costume up neatly too, so it’ll fit in the bottom of his gym bag again. Force of habit. He lines the shoes up next to them, before he slips out of there in just his briefs. Shivering as his bare feet touch the concrete. The only thing of Mysterion’s that Kenny’s brought out with him is the gun.
First things first. The girly poster on the wall actually hides a little cubby hole, which he’s dug into the crumbling plaster. Kenny makes sure the safety’s on, before he lifts up one corner of the poster and slips the Beretta in there.
Now that that’s taken care of, Kenny quickly pads over to his battered chest of drawers. The top drawer’s missing, which means the middle drawer is where everything gets shoved into towering stacks. The bottom drawer is reserved for things like his regular shoes, snow boots and gym uniform – and that first aid kit he stole from school. He quickly fishes out a pair of socks – well, they’re mis-matched but they’re bundled up together, which means they won’t have holes. Kenny has a system for this; holey socks don’t go in bunches. They go on the side, until he’s got time to mend them. He’s actually not bad at sewing, thanks to how he’s been mending his own clothes for so long. It’s not like Mom can ever be bothered to do it for him. Unless they’re completely beyond saving; then he’ll use them to pad out the cracks in the walls. Nothing gets thrown out on Kenny’s watch, unless it’s beyond all use and repair?
After the socks come a pair of navy blue track pants, even though that color makes him think about Craig and cringe. An old Sex Pistol’s T-shirt with a hole under one armpit that he keeps forgetting to fix comes next – even though the fact that it’s a band shirt reminds him of Tweek. And finally, he reaches back inside the closet and grabs his orange hoodie off one of the wire hangers. The pager Mr Tweak got him is in the front pocket. He knows he’ll never get asked to cover another Tweak Bros shift again, but Kenny still slips it over his head. He can’t explain why – even holding the thing in his hand makes the guilt wash over him like a tidal wave. But Mr. Tweak said it was a present, the last time Kenny tried to return the pager. So he might as well keep this thing, as a lucky charm.
He’s got most of a mirror hanging on the back of his door, and now he suddenly catches a look at himself in the dirty glass. It feels less like watching himself, and more like Mysterion is glaring back at him. Kenny glares right back at his own reflection.
“Go away,” Kenny mutters, but he can’t seem to look away.
Because you’re doing such a fantastic job of running your own life, Mysterion whispers, from somewhere inside Kenny’s own skull.
“Shut up,” Kenny says, only a little bit louder. He doesn’t want anybody coming in here.
No really, Kenny, I’ve got to hand it to you. I couldn’t have screwed your life up any worse, and I hate your ass.
The mirror is already broken. It’s not hard to pry one piece of glass loose from the frame. Kenny carries it over to the dresser, holding it carefully between two fingers. He grabs one sock from the “to-mend pile” and transfers the shard over to that – that way, he can grip it without worrying he’ll slice his fingertips. He goes and sits on the bed, and pulls his left sleeved down.
What the fuck are you doing, Mysterion demands. As if it wasn’t obvious.
“Showing you who’s boss,” Kenny replies, and slowly lowers that piece of glass. Until it’s just millimetres above his skin.
You don’t really want to do that, Mysterion says – and to Kenny’s intense satisfaction, he actually sounds scared.
Mysterion’s wrong though, Kenny suddenly realizes. This is exactly what he wants. Glass touches skin, and then –
And then the door opens, because nobody in this damn family ever knocks. And it’s Karen standing there. And he can’t pull his hand away fast enough.
“Kenny, no,” his sister howls, running over to him and grabbing that piece of glass without thinking. Tears are starting to run down her face, because the pain seems to hit her almost immediately. She closed her fist around it, after all, and now there’s blood gushing from her palm, dripping down on the grey concrete.
“Shit,” Kenny swears, and it’s like the sight of her blood zaps him back into himself. He sits Karen down on the bed, then dives for the first aid kit. And the cut isn’t dangerously deep, so Kenny can deal with it himself. While he swabs it clean and bandages her hand up, Karen keeps up a stream of talk. In between hiccupping for breath, because she’s still crying. But she’s also telling him he’s the best brother in the world, and she knows he would never, not really. That it doesn’t matter to her if he lost his job at the coffee shop, they’ll find some other way to pay for stuff.
Did you even stop to think,” Mysterion snarls, What finding you dead in here would do to her?
Kenny chokes down on the guilt. Forget about Craig, forget about his stupid job. Karen’s always been the most important thing in the world to him. He wouldn’t just have let himself down; killing himself would’ve meant leaving Karen all on her own. How could he have been such an asshole?
“You’re what matters,” Karen tells him, eyes huge and brimming with tears and love. “Only you. So you’re not allowed to, to do that again. Okay?”
“Okay,” Kenny whispers, wrapping her up in his blanket before he goes and puts the first aid kit away. He doesn’t want Mom or Dad to walk find out he’s got something like this. He throws that damn piece of glass out the window, too. He makes sure to aim for the bucket that they use to catch the rainwater from the broken roof drain in. Just to make double sure Karen won’t step on it later, or an animal for that matter. Then they snuggle up on his mattress, Kenny holding her tight while Karen cries herself to sleep, even though it’s barely five in the afternoon.
It must have been Kevin, Kenny thinks, just as he starts to drift off as well. He just needs to close his eyes for a minute. Must have been Kevin who told her. That the Tweaks have fired him. Not that it even matters anymore.

Chapter Text

At roughly seven thirty, the sun starts to go down. By then, Craig’s had some godawful Chinese food with the Fakes, and taped down a plastic bag over his cast so he can have a shower. He grabs his last clean pair of boxers afterwards, and decides that yeah, Tweek’s Metallica shirt really does need to go in the laundry now. He’s only got his black T-shirt left, so that’s what he puts on – followed by his hat, obviously – before he pads downstairs barefoot to look for the Fakes.
Fake Dad must’ve gone out somewhere while Craig was in the bathroom, but Fake Mom is still there, sitting in one of the deck chairs with her ugly bag on the table before her. She’s turned on the ceiling light, and it catches on the rhinestones or whatever they are in her bee-shaped earrings, makes them sparkle inside her dark hair. Shit, thinking about it – could those actually be diamonds? If that nasty handbag set Fake Mom back a thousand bucks, they very well could be.
“Uh, Mom,” he says, doing his best to make it sound like he’s taking the tranquilizers she gave him, the ones she lied about being just pain meds. “I’m just like… Like really tired for some reason?”
She looks up sharply, and Craig catches that cold look on her face before she plasters her usual big smile across it. “Your body is probably still recovering from the accident, cariño,” Fake Mom says, in her fake, syrupy voice. “And you just had a nice, big dinner.” She gets up, leaving her bag with its mystery contents on the table, and comes over to pinch his cheek. Ugh. “Maybe you should get an early night.”
There. Bam! Craig’s feeling stupidly pleased, just because he got her to say it, instead of having to suggest it. Anything to make himself look less suspicious.
He forces out a yawn, and does his best to sound reluctant. “I, I guess.” He rubs his good hand over his eyes, tries to act like he’s having trouble keeping them open. “I was gonna ask if I could go to Clyde’s house to watch Xena,” he goes on, “But I just…” He yawns again. Craig honestly thinks Xena is pretty retarded, but he had two good reasons for picking that show. One, it airs on Mondays, and two? Xena is probably the sort of show a straight teenager would be all over. Well, Craig’s never been able to sit through a whole episode; he’s just going on his gut feeling. He secretly prefers Buffy anyway – because of Spike.
“Go to bed, Craig.” For that split second, she almost sounds like she could be someone’s real mom.
“Okay,” he sighs, like he’s begrudgingly giving up on his exciting night of watching TV next door. He even manages to produce another yawn – once you start, the yawns just come, don’t they? “God, I hope I don’t wake up at something stupid, like five am,” he mutters, as he starts walking back up the stairs. Just for that extra touch of realism. But wait, he’s forgetting something! “Uh,” he turns around, and manages a tired smile. “Night, Mom.” It’s getting easier, calling this stranger “Mom”, and Craig mildly hates himself for that.
“Good night, Craig.”

Of course, sleep is the last thing that’s on the menu. Craig is wired as hell. He turns his lights out, then pulls the air mattress over to the wall next to the window – and man, doesn’t that just hurt like a bastard. But this way, Craig can lean against the wall and read; the street lamp gives him just enough light to read by. He’s got no intention of touching any of those damn Victorian novels Mrs Garrison’s put on the syllabus, even though Jimmy went and loaned him three. But Tweek left behind that big picture book on Peru when he came over yesterday, disguised as a nerd.
It’s weird, Craig thinks, slowly turning the pages. Mainly looking at the photos, but reading the odd sentence here and there. He was born in this country, but he’s never really been that interested in it. Or maybe… Craig chews his lip, looking up at the darkened ceiling for a second. Maybe it was just that he’d worried he would fit in less, if he went around finding out stuff about the place he was adopted from.
He looks back down at the book, at an aerial photo of Machu Picchu. What would his life have been like, if he’d actually grown up over there? Are you even allowed to be gay in Peru, Craig wonders. Probably not, huh?
He spots a picture of a group of kids, posing with two llamas that the two oldest boys are holding on to, by ropes that have been tied around the llamas’ necks. They’re all wearing red and black outfits – red jackets and vests that have all been embroidered. Those boys are even wearing identical chullos; red with alternating black and white llamas knitted into them. One little girl, her black hair parted into two uneven braids, is waving at the photographer. Craig knows his own birth mom had barely been more than a girl – she’d been thirteen; maybe even twelve. Mom’s told him all about that.
Craig’s fingers go up to his own chullo, carefully rubbing the wool. Twelve or thirteen years old, and she’d still knitted this for him. Because she’d wanted him to have it.
Suddenly, he finds himself wanting to know more – if not about her, then about her country. Their country. He keeps on reading as it gets darker and darker outside; and by now he’s stopped wondering when Mysterion’s going to show up. Craig’s got his hoodie over his shoulders, and his wristwatch balanced on the windowsill, but he barely even stops reading to look at it.

When Kenny finally wakes up, it’s dark outside. Shit! He sits bolt upright. His whole back has frozen up all stiff, because he wrapped up Karen in the only blanket. She’s still there, asleep and sucking her thumb.
Kenny doesn’t own a wristwatch, and the only clock in the house is the one on the kitchen wall, cracked from when it fell down during one of Mom and Dad’s fights. He can’t risk sneaking out there to check the time. At least he didn’t agree a set time with Kevin Stoley, or with Clyde. Craig, of course, will be in his room because that’s where his fake parents always seem to lock him in. So at least Craig’s not going to be a problem.
There’s nothing for it but to get back on the streets, and try not to think too hard about what he almost did. At least that’s one perk that comes with the whole Mysterion thing; Kenny doesn’t really have to think about anything. Mysterion will do the thinking for him; and Mysterion’s more interested in things like running across the rooftops or taking on three muggers at a time.
Leaving his sister to sleep on his mattress, Kenny retrieves the Beretta from its hiding place. Then he changes over to his Mysterion outfit inside the closet, and honestly? It’s a relief.
Mask on, gun strapped to his back, his utility belt loaded with grappling hooks and wire, Mysterion is ready for whatever the night may throw at him. He slips out through the secret entrance and takes a second to adjust his cape, before he runs out of the yard and past the house. Ducking between hovels and burned-out cars. He doesn’t even pause when he gets to the train tracks, just leaps straight across – you’d hear a goods’ train a mile off, on a quiet night like this.
The run over to suburbia would normally just be a nice warmup for Mysterion, but Kenny pulled some leg muscles earlier today, before he fell asleep with no blanket on a concrete floor. So, embarrassing as it is, Mysterion is kind of limping. By the time he gets to Cartman’s house, which is right on the outskirts, he’s already decided to steal Cartman’s bike. The fatass sprained his ankle so bad, he won’t be needing it for a while, anyway. And not even Kenny would feel bad about this.
So Mysterion vaults over the garden fence, and while he’s at it, he sneaks a peek in through the kitchen window. Thanks to Kenny, he knows that Mrs Cartman’s got a clock mounted right above the door.
Eleven thirty-five, huh. Mysterion’s lip twists under the rim of his mask. It’s not fantastic, but it’s not a total disaster. Still – this means a bike really won’t hurt. Cartman’s in the living room, watching MTV. He’s got it on so loud, Mysterion can hear the music all the way out here. He makes sure to crawl underneath the windows until he gets to the garden shed, and his lockpicks make quick work of the YALE padlock.
Just for a second, he hesitates, because Cartman’s bicycle is a gaudy red thing with a million gears and one of those stupid tall flags mounted at the back. He quickly snaps that off, though, and decides that maybe having those extra gears might come in handy. No time to second-guess himself, not when he’s got a plan involving three other people to set in motion. Mysterion even makes sure to snap the padlock closed behind him.
The bike may give him some sorely needed speed, but it also forces him to stay on the roads. Never mind the risk of discovery; Mysterion feels like a prize asshole riding around with his cape flapping out behind him. Lucky for him, though, pretty much everybody in this suburb seems to be huddled in front of the TV; there’s that tell-tale blue light coming out of every last living room. He zips past the bus stop where Kenny usually waits for the school bus, and doesn’t meet a soul.
Once he’s made it to the part of suburbia that Stoley and the others live in, Mysterion ducks into the little clump of fir trees by the side of the road. Dragging the bike over roots and animal droppings before piling as many fallen branches as he can find on top of it. Hopefully, that means he can leave it here overnight, if he has to.
After that, it’s just a quick jog to Kevin Stoley’s house, and an even quicker climb up to his room.
Things seem to have improved for the kid, since Mysterion’s last visit. For one thing, he runs over to open his window on the first knock. For another, it looks like Stoley’s decided to work with what the other boys gave him, so to speak. He’s got artwork spread out all over his bed, his desk and most of the floor.
“I know what to do now,” Kevin says, as soon as Mysterion has climbed inside. He almost sounds like his old self. Almost, but not quite. “See, all three of the guys like to finish one sequence at a time. And we did this for long enough that they got pretty fast; especially if it was Butters inking for everybody. That guy can ink like the wind.” For a second, Kevin looks wistful, but then he makes a visible effort to change tacks. “So I’ve got all these, these blocks of story here, and it hit me that I don’t need to stick to the scripts we agreed on, not anymore. And if I can just put all these different sequences in the right order – I mean, the kind of order that’ll let me tell a complete Mysterion story? Then I win.”
Mysterion just looks at him for a moment. What is he even supposed to say to all that? In the end, he settles on saying, “Good for you,” and giving Stoley a quick pat on the shoulder. “But, you know why I’m here,” he goes on, and Kevin’s face instantly lights up.
“Of course,” he beams, “The plan! I’m ready whenever you are, Mysterion! Oh, and I was thinking,” Kevin pulls a hoodie off the desk chair – that one he has that’s made to look like the top half of a Star Trek uniform. “You know how Craig always wears that dark blue hoodie? If we trade hoodies as well, and somebody sees him on the street wearing this… Then they might just think he’s me, right?”
“Good thinking,” Mysterion growls, and Kevin’s grin gets even bigger. He doesn’t really dare hope for anything, but it looks like the plan might be off to a good start. “Right, Stoley – let’s go.”
“Oh!” Kevin suddenly seems to remember something, and holds up one finger like a schoolkid. “There’s just one thing. You see, Clyde called to tell me…”

Tweak Bros is never this busy on a Monday. Around dinnertime, there was an insane spurt of people, followed by two hours of business as usual, before a second wave of customers burst through the door. “Is there nothing good on TV,” Tweek hears Dad mutter, while he’s there stirring syrup into one drink and trying to switch off the milk foamer mounted on the side of the coffee machine with one elbow. Mom’s on the till, writing down each order on a sticker like this place is some kind of Starbucks, but that’s the only way to make sure nothing gets mixed up. Tweek’s been running in and out of the back room since they officially ran out of pastries, defrosting stuff in the microwave and then sliding it into the pastry case trying to pretend the cinnamon rolls or whatever don’t have smoke coming off them.
This leaves him no time whatsoever to go back to his Tarot cards, but at least he gets a clue what’s going on while he’s manning the till for Mom so she can run to the toilet – and poor Mom! Because man, does she run. Tweek just keeps ringing up orders and writing them down like a good little till robot, until he suddenly hears his own name and looks up.
“Uh,” he says, super intelligently.
“How’s it going, dude?” It’s Scott Malkinson, flanked by Butters and Bradley.
“At about a hundred miles an hour,” Tweek jokes weakly, putting the final sticker from his last order on a mug for Dad to make. “Why’s it even this busy on a Monday?” He sweeps a shaking arm out to take in the coffee shop, where strangers are actually sharing tables, and that never happens. But right now, there’s not a single chair out there without somebody’s ass on it. “I don’t get it!”
“Oh, the Bijou’s doing a Star Wars marathon,” Bradley says, “And right now we’ve got a twenty-minute break before they fire up “Empire.”, to eat and go for a slash.” He sounds like he’s in a wonderful mood. Like cutting Kevin Stoley loose hadn’t just made his day, but probably his whole month.
“It’s all because there’s gonna be a new one next year,” Scott says. “The first new Star Wars movie since ’eighty-three!”
Now that, Tweek has heard about. “I heard the manager over there telling my dad they’ve got to modify the screen they’re showing it on,” he tells Bradley, and he can feel his heartrate starting to slow down. “Like, swap out all the loudspeakers in the walls and stuff? Otherwise George Lucas won’t let them show it here, if the screen doesn’t meet his standards.”
“Gosh,” Butters says reverently. “To think he’d go that far, to make sure everybody gets to see the Phantom Menace the way it’s meant to be shown…”
Tweek blinks. “That’s the title? The Phantom Menace?” He can’t help but feel a little disappointed, like the first Star Wars movie in what, thirty years, should have a name that was a little bit cooler.
“Oh dude,” Scott says, like he’s misunderstood Tweek completely and thinks he’s just blown away by finally hearing the name, “That got leaked months ago! Anyway, can I please have a cactus tea and, uh…” He chews his bottom lip while he scans the pastry case, “You got anything I can eat?”
That’s actually a pretty valid question. Tweek’s been in a microwaving frenzy, just grabbing the frozen stuff, which all looks the same anyway, without looking too closely at the bags. So there’s like, the United Benetton colors of muffins, the cinnamon rolls and the brownies. Not to mention the pre-cut carrot cake decorated with white frosting and a tiny marzipan carrot for each slice.
“Uh,” he says again, because the answer to Scott’s question really should be a resounding “No”, “You want me to just make you something in the back, soon as my mom comes out of the can? Like a sandwich or something?”
“Oh God, a sandwich would be amazing,” Scott exclaims, and from the way Butters and Bradley perk up, Tweek gets the sense that they must all be starving.
“We all had to skip dinner to make it to A New Hope,” Bradley explains. “And we were talking about pooling our money to get Shitty Wok, but there just wasn’t any time…”
So Tweek ends up defrosting three whole baguettes and basically making foot-long Subs for all three of them. If that doesn’t show the guys how grateful he is that they looked after Craig, then nothing will. They end up being literally the most eccentric subs in the world, since Tweek just piles on whatever he can find. Shredded cheese (so much shredded cheese), hummus, tomatoes, cucumber and black olives; he even chucks in some leftover bowtie pasta after heating that up, too. The little bits of pasta are making the cheese melt, which actually looks pretty good, now that Tweek can stop to think about it. And by the time he’s wrapped all three baguettes in silver foil and hurried outside with them, the crowds are finally dispersing, the nerds have finished their drinks – standing up, because why wouldn’t you if you’re going to spend the next couple hours sat in a movie theatre.
“Fellers,” Butters exclaims, grinning while he digs his wallet out, “Let’s all stick ours down one pant leg to smuggle ‘em inside!”
That makes Tweek snort, as he waves their cash away. “Come on,” he says, “This one’s on the house. For taking care of my boyfriend,” he adds, and it’s not like the nerds have time to argue. Not if they want to have time for a quick piss before the next movie.
“Finally,” Mom sighs, slumping over the till and fanning her face with a handful of napkins. “I hope you’re not considering staying open late, to catch the second wave after Empire’s done?”
“Well, honey,” Dad begins, which tells Tweek he’s thinking exactly that.
Tweek takes that as his cue to sneak off to the staff room. He had to shove his cards, hastily wadded up inside their silk scarf, into his coat pocket when the hordes first started descending on the coffee shop. But he made sure not to mess the sequence up. And now he can finally start over again, once he’s dragged the plastic trash can over and swept all the empty bits of plastic off the table.
First the Fool, and then the Hierophant. Clyde and his dad, arguing about who got the car – and Mr Donovan winning, because parenthood. That’s simple enough; Tweek practically watched that part of his reading come true.
The third card is the five of swords, which can mean all sorts of things – but usually it means that someone’s getting their ass handed to them. There’s one guy in the foreground, smugly picking up a bunch of swords that the two guys walking away, all hunched up and miserable, must have lost to him. This card means that someone could be using sneaky tactics against you, lying about you behind your back, or just laying out an elaborate plan to mess with you. Huh, does this mean Cartman and the others are going to try something else?
Anyway, the fourth card’s the Ace of Swords, upside down. Tensions and delays, which all makes total sense. Especially, Tweek thinks, when it comes to Craig, who’s been forced to stick it out with his creepy fake parents for almost a whole week. Forced to not even try to find his own parents.
Fifth card’s another upside-down one – the Star. Hopes getting crushed to a fine powder, feeling like the future is going to be even more awful than whatever shit you’re in the middle of… Sounds like Craig this morning, all right. And himself, now that Tweek’s finally been able to slow down and think about it. Just because everybody in school already knew he’s gay, doesn’t mean he enjoyed watching those very private photos fly around the hallways. But things can only get better from here, right? That’s when Tweek draws the sixth card, the one for the immediate future, and gets the Devil – also upside down. Yikes. That card means someone who has like, a crazy unhealthy fixation on money and material things. Or power, whatever that might mean in this context. Power over other people, the way the fakes have power over Craig? Maybe they’re just getting creepy levels of enjoyment out of that, though Tweek kind of doubts that’s what this card means here. Someone who’s willing to do something really awful for money?
Gah! Tweek presses his palms over his eyes for a second, before pulling his hands through his hear. He seriously has no idea, but maybe the seventh card will help him figure this crap out? He draws it, and the seventh card is the Moon. Is that where I’m at right now, Tweek thinks, even though this reading was supposed to be about Craig, or maybe Clyde, or maybe all his friends at once. Because the Moon is the card for spooky stuff – psychic powers and premonitions, even “the world of illusions” as Tweek’s much-thumbed Tarot book puts it. But Tweek suddenly has the eeriest feeling, of watching himself from the outside. The Moon card is him, he decides, him right now, tuning into something big, something significant.
He almost doesn’t want to draw the next card, because it suddenly feels like whatever crazy disaster might be lurking around the corner, Tweek will be the one to summon it by completing this reading. But, well… He also can’t not know. There’s too much at stake, for too many people, for Tweek to chicken out now.
Tweek finally does draw the eighth card, the one about what people around him are thinking. And it’s the Six of Wands, a guy on a horse with a laurel wreath tied to his quarter staff. The victory card – the guys are thinking everything’s going to be fine! They’ve all got their parts to play in all their different little plans, and maybe they can’t see how that many plans might get tangled up into a big ball. How they might all even trip each other up, in their efforts to carry out their own perfect plan. Like, do Clyde and Token really think Craig’s going to be fine climing a plank from one wndow to another? He’s not some circus acrobat, is he, and the whole thing’s just a recipe for total disaster.
The ninth card – the hopes and fears card – is Death. Now, Tweek knows that card normally just means a bit of a change; that the “death” of one part of your life is basically the flipside of “starting over”. So who’s afraid of starting over then – Kenny? Huh, Kenny had better be afraid, Tweek thinks, and he can feel his face slipping into a scowl. That kid should’ve realised he’d get fired for pulling a stunt like the one he did – and Tweek’s decided he’s absolutely not going to feel bad for him. He’s not.
Or wait… Tweek suddenly feels a chill go down his back. Is there some other huge change coming their way that nobody can even predict yet, but it’s so big they can all somehow sense it? Like cattle getting agitated before a huge storm hits. Like a disaster so total, it throws shockwaves backwards in time?
No, Tweek tells himself, no more thinking like that. Not everything has to be some huge, apocalypse-level emergency. He needs to stop being stupid, and finish this reading already. So then he flips the tenth card, and it’s the fucking Tower. Again.
“Shitmageddon,” Tweek whispers.

Chapter Text

“The garage roof’s rotten,” Craig repeats, like this will help him understand what he’s agreed to.
“That’s right,” Mysterion growls – surprisingly quietly. He’s squatting over by the open window that he and Kevin Stoley just came in through; obviously sitting on the floor so his silhouette won’t show up to anyone who happens to walk by. “But lucky for you, the wooden planks will be long enough.”
“Long enough for what,” Craig asks, though he already knows this won’t be good.
“To reach Clyde’s window instead,” Kevin Stoley breezily informs him. This kid just climbed up the drainpipe on the wall like the itsy bitsy spider, with his shoes tied together and draped across his neck like a scarf. And now he’s standing here putting on Craig’s smelly hoodie like he does this kind of shit every night. “Don’t worry,” he goes on, when Craig can’t seem to shut his mouth, “We’re giving you two planks, for extra safety.”
“Oh really,” Craig says, able to shape his thoughts into proper words at last, “Two whole planks, huh? Well, I know I’ll be home free if I’ve got two planks.” Kevin and Mysterion are both looking at him kind of funny. Like they can’t even tell if he’s being serious or not. “That was sarcasm,” Craig tells them, secretly annoyed that neither of them would pick up on it – Jesus, he’s not that monotone, is he? “Because are you both insane? How am I supposed to climb across that?” He points out the window, at the endless chasm between his own window and the faint, faraway glow in Clyde’s window.
Mysterion shrugs. “You can always climb down the wall instead,” he suggests, in a tone that says he doesn’t even think for a second that Craig could actually do it.
Craig goes over there anyway. Makes a point of looking out, and down. The ground seems to pull at his stomach, until he almost throws up all that shitty Chinese food. A small part of his brain is wondering why – why is climbing down more frightening than climbing across? But the rest of Craig is too busy working on keeping his cool to try and come up with an answer.
“It won’t be so bad, Craig,” Kevin tells him, in what must be the world’s worst attempt at sounding reassuring. “I mean, there’s bushes and stuff down there, right? In Clyde’s garden, I mean. And I don’t think they’ve cut the grass in weeks.”
Craig can feel his own mouth sliding open. Oh, how he’d love to rip Kevin a new asshole right now, but he just cannot even find the words!
“Perhaps you should shut up now,” Mysterion tells Kevin, in this really casual tone. That asshole probably watched Craig’s pulse beating extra hard in his neck, or caught the knuckles of his good hand tightening when he gripped the windowsill just now. “And Craig? Put on your disguise.”
Craig looks down at Kevin’s ridiculous Star Trek hoodie, which the other boy had pulled over his head and tossed down on the air mattress pretty much as soon as he got in here. “Do I have to,” he says, before he can stop himself.
Mysterion makes a very quiet sound that might just be a snigger.
“I’m sorry it’s a pullover and not a zip-front,” Kevin Stoley says, misunderstanding completely. “Must be harder to put on over your cast, huh? Does it hurt to hold your arm over your head?”
“I’ll be fine,” Craig growls, snatching the sweatshirt off the mattress before Kevin offers to help him put the damn thing on. Raising his broken arm above his head isn’t awful, but it’s not exactly pleasant either, so Craig holds the hoodie out at chest level and awkwardly ducks his head to squirm into it instead. And man – this thing actually fits him pretty well. He and Stoley must be more or less the same size, even though Craig’s secretly pleased he’s a little taller.
“Dude,” Kevin exclaims, pulling Craig over to the window and standing next to them, jerking his chin at their reflection. “We really do look the same!”
He’s right, Craig realizes. They’ve got the same gangly body type, for one thing. Same hair color; hell, even their skin tones are eerily similar, he realises, when he looks down at Kevin’s hand on his good arm. Sure, Kevin’s eyes are more almond-shaped and his cheeks are rounder, but nobody’s going to notice that in the dark. If Craig can actually get out of here and not kill himself in the process, there’s a good chance the Fakes really will think Kevin’s him – at least while he’s pretending to be asleep.
“Shit,” Craig says out loud. “Okay, fine. I’ll try your stupid plank bullshit.”
“That’s the spirit, Craig,” Mysterion drawls. Craig and Kevin both take a step back when he stands up, pushing the window all the way open and swinging one leg over the windowsill. “Wait here, I’ll get the planks over.”
With that, he slips out and is gone. Craig could lean out the window again to watch him descend, but he doesn’t think a shower of puke is likely to make Mysterion any friendlier.
“You got this, Craig,” Kevin tells him, not quite loud enough that Craig feels he needs to shush the guy. But almost. “No wait – you got this, Feldspar!”
Craig blinks. “Excuse me?”
“This’ll be like real-live Feldspar, you know? I mean, your character from DnD…”
“I know what I named my character in DnD, dude,” Craig snaps.
“He’s a thief, right,” Kevin goes on, completely undeterred. “So this is like, you gaining real-life EXP in thief skills.” He beams at Craig, who groans quietly. All of a sudden, he can’t climb across those damn planks fast enough.

Once he’s actually on the planks, it’s a whole different matter. Of course it is. They’re about as wide across as Craig’s hand is long, from the tip of his middle finger to the base of his palm. His very, very sweaty palm.
“Try not to look down,” had been Mysterion’s super helpful advice before Craig set off.
At least it’s dark out, and the muted glow of the street lamp next to the house doesn’t light up much of the garden at all. So he can’t actually see what’s down there, which is good – grass and stuff? Screw you, Stoley! – but that also means Craig isn’t so much gazing into the abyss as crawling into it.
“Fuck,” Craig whispers, very softly.
He actually used to be really into climbing trees, when he was little. Trees tall enough that the grownups couldn’t yank him out, or even find him, and then he could sit snug among the branches and read his comics. But the way a tree branch, alive with sap, will sometimes sort of sway underneath you when you’re climbing is very different from just shuffling across a plank. Oh, right, two planks. Important detail there. Two planks that have been placed, one on top of the other, and then nailed together to satisfy some strange branching of Clyde logic. Craig can feel the heads of the nails under his fingertips, but at least there aren’t any pointy bits, or whatever you call the end of the nail that’s on the opposite side of the head. And sure, the planks also sway. But in a completely unpredictable and very terrifying way. They either swing from one side to the other, or sag down. Sometimes both.
The pain is actually refreshing – the burning sensation in all ten of his fingers, both of his screaming wrists, on top of the steady throb of broken bone pain in Craig’s left arm. The pain keeps him alert, stops him from doing anything stupid, like trying to speed up to get this whole ordeal over with. He just knows that if he goes any faster than the agonizing crawl he’s at, the careful balance between human being and processed wood is going to snap like a twig. Wood pun, har-de-har. Craig grits his teeth. If he survives this, he must remember his wood pun when he’s telling Jimmy the whole sorry story. That’ll be right up his alley.
In the room he’s left, Kevin and Mysterion are using their joint bodyweight to keep their side of the plank stable. On the other side, unseen and far away, there will just be Clyde. Holding down his end with his quarterback quartermass. No, wait, it’s Stan Marsh who’s the quarterback. Screw him. And didn’t Clyde say something about just being on the reserves? There’s no justice in the world, but Craig already knows that.
He had to leave his shoes behind – easier to climb in just his stockinged feet, though Craig is now super conscious of his right big toe having poked a hole in that sock. Slightly better grip though, and the shoes would have been extra weight he didn’t need. “Leave that to me,” Mysterion had told him, when Craig had wondered out loud how he was supposed to bring his sneakers across. “Shoes’ll weigh you down.” Mysterion had been right – shoes are heavy; even if they’re just rubber-soled Converse.
The thin planks suddenly sway and dip underneath him, and Craig stops trying to inch forward and just clings on as hard as he can. Shoulders throbbing, fingers on fire with pain. Even though he knows Mysterion and the others must be watching him, Craig has never been less concerned with how stupid he must look. Never in his whole life.
The planks stabilize, and Craig realises he’s got to keep going. Get across before his strength gives out. There’s a dark blob underneath him now – so far below – that must be the garage. That means he’s crossed the halfway point, right? Maybe that awful dip and sway happened because he was right in the middle then.
Clinging on like a stick insect, Craig pulls himself forward, gently kicking off with his feet because there can be no sudden movements. At some point, he must have cut his palm on the rough, untreated wood – Craig doesn’t remember it happening, but he can feel the sting of the cut, and the wetness of the blood. He presses forward, and notices that the planks are sloping slightly upwards now. Thank God. And there’s the soft glow of a desk lamp, and a broad-shouldered, bushy-haired shape up ahead.
Close enough that he can see the edge of the windowsill, Craig gets one last, crazy spurt of energy and grabs for it – but he’s too fast. The fingers of his left hand close over the edge, but the damn cast is too thick for him to get a proper grip. His feet, kicking out one last time, fail to find the plank again. To come so close, and then – !
But then he is grabbed by big, strong hands, and hauled inside like a sack. Clyde’s hands close around one arm each; thick fingers dig into the soft flesh of his skinny arms, hard enough to really hurt. He’s grabbed Craig’s left arm right above the cast, and holy balls, that kid is strong. It’s bad enough when Clyde first grabs him that Craig gasps out loud – but then fear and adrenaline block the pain out. The windowsill scraping over his poor, exposed stomach is almost a welcome distraction. But he’s suddenly seeing carpet, not darkness, and a desk lamp with a T-shirt thrown over it. One last, big yank brings a change of perspective; he’s suddenly looking up at a ceiling lamp, at curtains with little football dudes flapping.
Soft carpet against the sides of his face. A series of dull thuds from outside, as the planks hit the wall and slide down, the ends bumping gently against the side of the house on their way down.
As if from very far away, he can hear Clyde’s voice: “Dude, you made it! You actually made it!”
Craig sits up, and that was a mistake. He barely manages to grab the wastepaper basket in time, and there’s not even a plastic bag in there. Just a wicker basket crammed full of balled-up pages from exercise books. Vomit boils its way out of his mouth like lava, hot and sour, some of it dripping through the wicker and onto the carpet. Not that this seems to piss Clyde off at all.
Craig is only vaguely aware of Clyde’s hand, weirdly cool, against his forehead. The stray thought that Clyde really doesn’t care that he’s gay, flits through his mind. He really mustn’t care at all, if he’s willing to hold Craig like this. Like a mom holding a little kid.
“Oh well,” Clyde says, letting go at last, once Craig has finally stopped retching. He sounds equal parts resigned and amused. “There goes the recycling.”
Craig, wiping his mouth with the sleeve of Kevin Stoley’s hideous sweatshirt, looks up at him and blinks. The corners of Clyde’s mouth are twitching, and Craig can hear a snort coming out of his own mouth.
And then they just give up and flop back on the carpet, laughing and laughing, because they did it! They actually did it, and now Craig is a free man.

“You gave Craig my jacket,” Tweek howls down the receiver. He’s in the staff room at Tweak bros, where he’s just listened to Clyde recounting how Craig puked so drastically into his wastepaper basket that Clyde just bundled the whole thing into a garbage sack and chucked it in their outdoor wheelie bin. The blow-by-blow account of Craig climbing across the yawning abyss while Clyde watched from his window and held his half of the mega-plank steady got Tweek so worked up that he’s managed to tangle himself into the curly phone cord. There’s one portion of it that’s just plain stuck in his hair, and at one point, he thought he’d be home free if he held the cord down and just stepped out of this mess. So he’d stepped over with one leg, realised that would be a bad idea and tried to tug his other leg free anyway. He’d been lucky he didn’t actually yank the wall-mounted phone out of the wall – but now he’s stuck well and good.
Jesus, it’s been a long day.
“Dude,” Clyde sighs on the other end, “What happened to “Yay, Craig is okay,” huh?”
Tweek, whose whole body is thrumming with nerves, chooses to ignore this. “I’ll just have to steal it from him later,” he says, twirling the phone cord round his index finger. “Leave my own jacket at home, act like I’m freezing; pretend I’m just borrowing it. Easy peasy.”
Being best friends and knowing each other like the insides of your own pockets… Well, that’s a two-way street. So Clyde waits for a second, mulling everything over, before he asks, “What’s really bugging you, Tweek?”
Oh crap. “Craig didn’t fall,” Tweek says, talking as slowly as he can because he’s just as much explaining this to himself as to Clyde. Now that bit of the cord has somehow managed to wind itself into the big lump next to his head. “Which I am super happy about, okay?” Tweek gives an experimental tug, but no dice – all he can do in the end is slide his finger through the knots to free his hand. “The last thing I want is for Craig to get hurt. I love Craig.” Heat floods into his cheeks as he realises what he’s just said. It’s only the truth. But still. He actually said it. And out loud, too.
It’s been a really, really long day.
Deals were cut, after the last wave had receded back into the cinema. Mom had flat out refused to work any later than they’d planned. She told Dad – loudly – that she was starving, exhausted and – not that Tweek needed to know this at all – it was also that time of the month. So Tweek, smelling an opportunity, had offered to stick around in exchange for a bonus to his allowance. A generous bonus. He’d minded the store on his own while Dad drove Mom home, and this had been fine since it was still light out. Tweek had only had to serve like, three people, too, and one of them had been Mr Donovan on his way home from the shoe store. And the only thing even worth noting was that he’d seen Mr McCormick drive by, in a van with the U-Stor-It logo on the side. There were no cop cars in pursuit, either. Tweek just had to assume he’d actually rented it, for whatever weird reason. Though where’s he get the money for that from – from what the Fakes paid him to spy on Craig? At least this probably means Mr McCormick’s not going to spend tonight watching Craig’s window. Probably.
“That’s, uh…” Clyde seems a little lost for words. “That’s nice, I guess?”
“But the problem,” Tweek goes on, now also desperate to make the other boy forget how he just said he loves Craig out loud, instead of just thinking it, “Is that the cards told me something’s going to go wrong. Seriously wrong. And if Craig didn’t fall, that means it’s still waiting to happen. Does that make sense?”
Out of their whole friend group, Clyde has never called Tweek’s readings into question. Ever. And he’s clearly not about to start now. “Maybe… maybe it’s not supposed to happen to Craig then,” he hazards. “Maybe it’s going to hit somebody else? Or did you do the reading for Craig,” he suddenly adds, just as Tweek is about to reply.
“That’s another problem.” Tweek slumps against the wall, then tips his head up to stare at the ceiling, wincing as the phone cord tugs on his hair. You can see water stains up there, from all the rain. And also from years of pigeon shit, which is apparently so acidic that a big enough deposit of the stuff can make a hole in your roof. Doesn’t help that the genius who designed the Tweak Bros building gave it a flat roof – nothing slides off then, snow will just stay up there and melt, rain puddles will just get bigger and bigger. One of the things Mr McCormic was supposed to be doing, is building a sort of sloping pyramid up there – well, after fixing all the damage and reinforcing the original roof.
“Tweek,” Clyde is saying, as if from far away, “What’s the other problem?”
“Oh.” Tweek realises he went and drifted off. “Sorry. I didn’t do the reading for a specific person. Didn’t occur to me, for some reason. I just put the cards on the table…”
“Right.” Clyde suddenly laughs, just for a second. “So if Stan Marsh shows up here tonight with a chainsaw, to like, murder and dismember Dad and me? Then you’ll know that was it.”
Tweek sniggers. “Don’t even joke about shit like that,” he says, trying and failing to sound stern. “It could literally happen to anybody we care ab–”
“Tweek?” Dad’s pushing the door to the staff room open and peering inside. For once in his life, Tweek actually doesn’t get startled, since Dad’s coming from a direction he happened to be facing in. “People are starting to come out of the Bijou again, and…” Dad blinks. “And why have you merged with the phone?”
“Oh Jesus,” Tweek groans, pulling his free hand through his hair. He really hopes Dad won’t need to get the kitchen scissors and cut the chunks that are still stuck off his head. “Sorry dude, I’ve got to go!”

The once-abandoned building opposite the U-Stor-It has got orange lights glowing behind its windows. Are they actually burning stuff for light and warmth? Thanks to Kevin Stoley borrowing their toilet, Mysterion knows they’ve got running water in there; but he doubts they’ve got any kind of electricity.
Lying flat on his belly on the roof of the U-Stor-It, Mysterion lowers his binoculars – army issue, they once belonged to Kenny’s asshole dad – and wordlessly passes them to Craig. The kid’s copied him and lain down flat, too. It’s getting colder, and Clyde had succeeded in pressing an old black jean jacket of his on Craig. It’s covered in patches, which is probably why the kid hadn’t had the heart to toss it. The arm nearest Mysterion has a round X-men patch on the shoulder; a silver X with the words “XAVIER’S SCHOOL FOR GIFTED YOUNGSTERS” printed around the edges. There’s a Denver Nuggets patch right below it, and a Guns-n-Roses patch just above where the elbow would go. “Best” of all – if you share Clyde’s taste, that is – is the back-piece, which is the frontispiece of an old Wolverine T-shirt that’s been cut off and stitched into place. It’s a cover of some sort; that pathetic nerd Kenny recognizes it – all browns and yellows, with Wolverine holding up his claws sort of sideways and looking right at you. Craig had literally shuddered when Clyde had held this jacket out, proud as a puppy offering his owner a stick. But it had fit. Even if Craig did need to unbutton the left sleeve all the way up, to make space for his cast. Craig now is the size and width Clyde was what, two years ago? That’s when Kenny last saw him wearing that thing. Seeing them side by side, Mysterion actually hadn’t been sure which of them was taller, Craig or Clyde.
“Thanks.” Craig accepts the binoculars and holds them up, then frowns and starts adjusting the sight. That’s exactly what he’d said back at Clyde’s house, when Mysterion handed him his blue sneakers; and, in that same toneless voice, too. Mysterion had found himself copying Kevin Stoley’s method and tying the laces together before hanging them across the back of his neck so he could climb. The weight of the shoes had felt a little like a chokehold. “Thanks,” Craig had said, and sat right down on the floor with his back to the wall to put them on. Like even saying that much to Mysterion had made his mouth taste like crap.
Now a silhouette – burly and obviously male – walks past one of the windows, and Mysterion can hear the sharp intake of breath from the boy next to him. Just as well it’s him in charge and not Kenny, or that pathetic idiot would probably be losing his mind over how close they are right now. When he first lay down here, Craig made a point of careful not to let any part of his body come into contact with Mysterion’s – like he’s got leprosy or Ebola or something. But Mysterion can still feel him nearby, because it’s like that thin strip of air between his right leg and Craig’s left is humming with electricity.
“They’re still keeping watch,” Mysterion growl-whispers, leaning as close to Craig’s ear as he dares. “Don’t think there’s much we can do for tonight. If I take you back –”
That’s as far as he gets, before Craig angrily rounds on him, pushing himself up on his right elbow and forgetting all about stealth. “Are you nuts,” he snarls, “I am not climbing back in there!” At least the kid’s got brains enough to talk quietly.
Mysterion sighs. If more people could only learn to take control of their feelings. Then the world might be a much more acceptable place. “Of course you’re not,” he tells Craig, as patiently as he can manage. “I told Clyde to break the planks apart again before we left, remember? But if I pick the lock on your front door in a couple of hours –”
“Forget it,” Craig fires back, shoving the binoculars at him. “After the literal hell I went through to get out of that house, I’m not just going to walk back in! Plus, I’m supposed to be locked inside my room – remember?” That last word is thick with sarcasm, and what Craig’s really saying is, Go on. Punch me, fight me. Let’s see who wins.

But, much as he’d love a tussle with Craig – and on a flat roof too! Extra risk factor! – Mysterion isn’t that stupid. Just because a very small part of him is genuinely curious about which of them would win, and an even smaller part would even take the touch of a fist to the face; that doesn’t mean he’s about to give in to these thoughts. A weak asshole like Kenny just might, but that’s why Kenny’s been put on – what did Mr Tweak call it again? Gardening leave; that was it – that’s why he’s been put on gardening leave from his own head.
Mysterion sighs. “Okay. Fine.” He gives Craig a very stern eyeballing. “We’ll trust Stoley to improvise, and get his ass out of there without being found out. And I suppose you can crash at Kenny’s,” he adds, suddenly unable to meet Craig’s widening eyes.

There’s nothing for it but to take Craig through the secret entrance. “Mind your head,” Mysterion tells him, as he pulls the door of the washing machine open.
Craig just looks at him. “I’m not climbing inside that.”
“The washing machine,” Mysterion says, doing his best not to lose his patience, “Covers up the entrance of the tunnel. The tunnel that leads to Kenny’s room,” he adds, when Craig still makes no move to get inside.
Something shifts on Craig’s face then, and Mysterion can tell the kid’s intrigued. “Secret entrance, huh,” he says, but not in a scornful way. More like, against his will, Craig Tucker is impressed.
There’s no point in responding because well, that is what this is. “Mind your head,” he says instead, repeating himself, because it’s suddenly getting hard to think. This close to his home, Kenny is starting to stir in Mysterion’s subconscious.
Craig shrugs, before his torso disappears into the tunnel. No way is Mysterion giving him his back, not after that sucker punch. Karen might still be asleep in there, but he kind of doubts it – she usually wanders back to her own room, if she wakes up in Kenny’s room in the middle of the night. Neither of them have a habit of sleeping all the way through; even if their parents don’t wake them up by arguing and breaking stuff. Mysterion grabs both of the kid’s feet by the soles of his Converse, and gives Craig a good shove until he’s found his footing in the tunnel. Watches his skinny ass for a second, as the kid gets himself inside with this weird, bumpy crawling style. Almost like he’s swaying his butt on purpose.
Ugh. Mysterion shakes his head. Just because Kenny’s stupid enough to be attracted to Craig, doesn’t mean he needs to dive headfirst into idiocy with him. Craig must be favouring his broken arm, Mysterion tells himself firmly.
It feels weird, showing someone else this. Like stripping himself naked. But… weird doesn’t necessarily mean bad.
By the time they’re both inside Kenny’s room, though, this feeling has gone beyond weird and straight into awful. He finds Craig standing there, left arm resting against his chest as he seems to unconsciously balance it on his right hand – seems the kid forgot to grab his sling before he climbed over to Clyde’s house. The bed’s empty, and Karen’s even gone to the effort of making it up for him, but that somehow only makes this room look even more pathetic. And the way Craig is looking around, not speaking, very carefully not letting anything show on his face…
Mysterion shakes his head. He shouldn’t care what Craig thinks of Kenny’s crap that’s strewed around here. Kenny will get to wallow in all the embarrassment he can eat in less than a minute, anyway. So he just pulls out the Beretta from his waistband and lifts the girlie poster up. Who knows, Craig might actually need to go for the gun, if he ends up spending the night here. He stashes the Beretta in there, with Craig’s eyes boring into him. Then he draws a deep breath, and pulls off the mask.
And Kenny washes over him like a wave, all the shame and regret and frustrated desire. His shoulders slump, his back folds over. He can feel his eyes welling up, burning with the effort not to actually cry. Not in front of Craig.
Kenny busies himself taking his costume off, and stashing it all in the hidden bottom of his gym bag. Even the sneakers go in there, one at either end of the bag, to balance it out just so. There are so many reasons he’d rather look down the barrel of a gun than turn to look at Craig right now. But eventually, Kenny just has to.
“Nobody knows,” he mutters, directing the words at Craig’s reassuringly scruffy Converse. “In my family, I mean.” He risks a quick look up at the other boy, but Craig’s expression is completely blank. “You’re the first person I’ve ever told.”
“I figured it out on my own,” Craig snaps, “Don’t flatter yourself. But I’m not gonna tell them, if that’s what you’re afraid of.” He says all that with a perfectly blank face, and a voice that’s almost completely flat. But there’s a big vein in Craig’s neck that’s pounding like crazy. He must be exhausted, Kenny realises. He didn’t want to risk both of them going anywhere on Cartman’s bike; least of all back here, so Craig’s had to climb across Clyde’s yard, then walk to the U-Stor-It, and from there to SoDoSoPa.
“I’m sorry,” Kenny hears himself say. He wasn’t planning to.
There’s a long silence. Seconds tick by, while Kenny’s heart beats like crazy. Then Craig says, “Tell you what. If you help me save my parents, I’ll forgive you.”
The relief just about knocks the breath out of him. All he can manage, at first, is a quiet, very shaky “Okay”. Then he says, because it needs to be said, “My parents can’t find you in here, because my dad’s working for them. My brother is too, I think. He was suddenly throwing all this cash around, buying himself this flashy jacket…”
Craig’s eyes widen. “That green monstrosity with the Chinese birds on,” he says, and there’s suddenly this weird moment where he seems to have forgotten how much he hates Kenny, in favour of how much he hated that jacket. “It made this piece of shit look downright classy,” he drawls, throwing his right arm out to the side.
A squeaky snicker escapes from behind Kenny’s teeth, before he clamps them firmly shut. Truth be told, he secretly thinks Clyde’s old jacket is kind of cool, and he knows Tweek’s had his eye on that thing since Clyde first started complaining that it was getting tight. But those patches must’ve cost a lot of money, if you add them all up, so he completely gets why Clyde would hold on to it for so long. But… he also gets why he’d just go and give it to Craig. Craig just… seems to have that effect on people, doesn’t he? Where they just instantly like him and want to be his friend. Kenny’s not about to say any of that out loud, though.
“It’s okay if Karen does though,” he adds, addressing the floor. “You can trust her.”
“Figured as much,” Craig says, before he makes a surprised noise. Kenny looks up. Craig’s pulling something out of the right hand pocket of that jacket. It’s wrapped in clingfilm, and Kenny can even smell it from over here. “Here,” he tosses the packet to Kenny, who’s startled enough to almost drop it, “Unwrap this, will you? I think there’s something in the other pocket, too.”
Kenny’s hands start to shake, so it takes him a couple of tries, but the smell and the colour he can see through the transparent wrapping has already given him an idea of what this might be. “Lemon bars,” he says, holding the packet open for Craig to see. “His mom had this amazing recipe…”
He tries to give the bundle back to Craig, but the other boy waves him away. “I’m pretty sure he meant for me to share those,” he says, tugging at whatever it is that’s been crammed into the left pocket. “With Mysterion, you know?” One last, mighty tug dislodges what turns out to be a small packet of Doritos, which has been clingfilmed up with four – four! – sachets of instant cocoa.
“Just add boiling water,” Craig reads out loud, holding one of the packets up to the lightbulb Kenny’s got dangling from the ceiling. He shakes his head. “And where were we supposed to get boiling water from, while we were staking that building out?” Craig’s probably trying to sound like he’s fed up with Clyde’s nonsense. But really, he just sounds so damn fond. “Like, at least give us a thermos or something, you know?”
Again, Kenny comes dangerously close to laughing. But Craig’s probably not even trying to be funny.
“Dude,” Craig says, and Kenny looks up to find those four sachets dangling right in front of his nose, “Why don’t you go get your sister? And boil us some water while you’re at it. We might as well eat this stuff. Have ourselves a party.”
“Okay,” Kenny mutters, and his heart twists painfully inside his chest. Does Craig even know how amazing he is, when he can be this nice to the guy who nearly ruined his life? It shouldn’t even be humanly possible, to be this nice. “I can do that.”

Chapter Text

The banging on the front door wakes Craig up. He wasn’t even planning to sleep, but at some point he ended up sitting on the floor, and it feels like he only blinked. But now there’s golden daylight streaming in through the tattered curtains, and Craig Tucker is slumped against a wall. Neck stiff, mouth dry, broken arm throbbing from having pointed down at the floor while he slept. Come to think of it, his head is throbbing too, and it takes him a second to even work out where he is.
Across the room from him, Kenny McCormick sits bolt upright in bed, still wearing the orange hoodie and black track pants he’d changed into last night, after putting his Mysterion outfit in that ratty old gym bag. His sister must’ve gone back her own room after Craig nodded off, because Karen is nowhere to be seen.
Ah right, he came back here last night. To Mysterion’s lair. Tipping his head back, Craig realises the wall he’s been leaning into is the one where Kenny hides his gun under a poster.
More pounding, and a deep male voice saying “Child protection services! Open up!”
Craig and Kenny turn to lock eyes at exactly the same time. Kenny looks like he’s seconds away from animal panic, and Craig can’t let that happen. “We need to go,” he says, hauling himself to his feet. A hundred or so muscles scream in protest, all the muscles he pulled last night climbing a plank from his own bedroom to Clyde’s. Craig is never doing that again.
He has to pull Kenny to his feet, and when the kid’s not trying to fight him or push him around or anything… damn, he’s so light. Nothing but bones. “We need to go now, Kenny,” Craig growls, limping to the closet and pulling out the gym bag that holds all of his Mysterion crap – except the gun. And they’re very likely going to need the gun…
“But, but Karen,” Kenny says plaintively, like he already knows what he’s about to ask will be impossible, “I can’t just leave –”
“No time for that,” Craig snaps, tossing the bag Kenny keeps his Mysterion crap in through the hole of the secret exit. “Go!” Then he runs over to the poster, and slides his good hand underneath it and up.
“Hello in there!” The pounding on the door increases, and now there’s an answering volley of swearing coming from somewhere else in the house – “Hold your horses, asshole!” Seems like Kenny’s mom is up and about.
Fingers close on ice cold metal, and a quick shudder travels through Craig’s whole body, because he is literally touching death. But no, he needs to get a grip, and he needs to get Kenny out of here. He’s not prepared to let any well-intentioned grown-ups find him in this house, on their way to save the McCormick kids from their evil parents. No way will he let last night’s climb have been for nothing!
“Go on!” Craig shoves Kenny with his broken arm, wincing. He really did a number on it with last night’s climb, but there’s no time to worry about that. “And take this thing,” he adds, shoving the gun into one of Kenny’s open hands. “I don’t even know if the safety’s on or whatever!”
Kenny blinks, and his spine straightens out as his hands seemingly move on their own. Click, click, before he shoves the gun down the back of his own pants. “It was on,” he replies, and his voice is tinny and robotic. Then, having made his mind up, or so Craig has to assume, Kenny drops to his knees and scampers out through his homemade tunnel.
By now, Mrs McCormick seems to be having a conversation with the CPS people – Craig can make out one man’s voice and at least two different women, but he’s not able to pick up what they’re saying. Not that it matters, he decides, squatting down on his haunches and cradling his left arm against his chest. Crawling through Kenny’s Mysterion tunnel wasn’t pleasant the first time, and Craig doubts it will be now, but it’s still a thousand times better than crawling across Clyde’s back yard on a plank.
Craig’s face twists into half a grin as he sets off down the tunnel. My bad, he thinks as he remembers what Kevin Stoley had said, Two planks. Shit, he hopes Kevin makes it out of that house all right.

“Tweek! Token!”
“OHJESUSGAHHH!”
Tweek almost smacks Token in the stomach as he spins around, to find Kevin Stoley and Clyde standing shoulder to shoulder right behind him. Grinning like assholes. At least Token managed to jump nimbly out of the way – in his own defence, Tweek could say that he’s made sure his friends’ reflexes are always honed. The two of them caught a lift to school with Token’s mom this morning, since she had an early start at work.
“Relax Tweek,” Clyde says, “Or you’re gonna have a coronary by the time you’re like, twenty.” That makes Token laugh, but this early in the day, Tweek can only muster up a half-hearted growl. “Isn’t that right,” Clyde goes on, turning to Kevin, “Uh, Craig?”
“Uncanny, right,” Kevin says, spreading his arms as he walks towards them. And Tweek’s got to hand it to him – wearing Craig’s hoodie with the hood up, with black jeans and a pair over very similar sneakers to Craig’s navy blue Converse…
“Y-yeah,” he manages, peering behind them to see if the Fakes are anywhere near.
“So how did you get out of there,” Token asks eagerly, and Kevin preens like a bird.
“Pure ninja stealth,” he replies. “And, uh, Clyde.”
“Oh, all I did was, I went over there and rang the doorbell,” Clyde says, grinning proudly. “At like, ten past seven? Mrs Tucker, or whatever her real name is, she was super pissed. But then I told her my Dad had offered to give me and Craig a lift to school, only Craig would have to come pretty much right then? Which was technically telling the truth,” Clyde goes on, “Only of course I’d told my Dad it would be Kevin…”
“Of course,” Tweek echoes distractedly. He’s a little impressed that Clyde managed to carry out something like this; maybe that graveyard fight beefed up his confidence a little bit? Tweek would like nothing better, honestly…
“You two planned that out beforehand,” Token not-quite-asks, and Kevin nods eagerly.
“It was Mysterion’s idea, actually,” he says. “Anyway, the lady banged on my door before she unlocked it, and of course I was wide awake in there, and fully dressed. So I told her through the door that I just had to…” Kevin pinches his own nostrils shut with one hand, “Brush my teeth and pee,” he goes on, and he really does sound a lot like Craig. “And then,” he continues in his normal voice, “I ran down the stairs shouting “Bye-e,” and I made sure they saw me. Without actually seeing me, know what I mean?” Giddy with the success of their whole crazy plan, Kevin nudges Tweek with his elbow, and his whole body just seems to be vibrating.
“I guess.” Tweek ends up taking a couple steps to the sides, now that Kevin’s elbowed him five times. “I mean, uh, thanks.” Then he watches, confused as hell, as Kevin unzips Craig’s hoodie, sticks two fingers down the arm hole of his left sleeve, and pulls out a piece of charcoal grey fabric. He tugs on it, and more fabric comes out – until suddenly, Tweek recognizes his own Metallica T-shirt. “That’s my shirt,” he says, very intelligently.
“Oh really?” Kevin holds it out to him, at arm’s length – and Tweek instantly knows why; that shirt could really use a wash. “I just used it for extra bulk,” he explains, as Tweek gingerly takes his smelly T-shirt back. “You know, to make it look like I had a cast under here.”
“You’re worryingly good at this sort of thing,” Tweek tells him, smiling to show Kevin that it’s a compliment. Secret unease is gnawing at his guts though. Because Kevin getting out of that house without being discovered… That’s another thing that’s gone right. So what is going to go wrong?
And when?!
“Let me give you a plastic bag for that,” Token says, his nose crinkling with unvoiced disgust, as he digs very quickly through his school bag. “Here!” He pulls out an empty bag with the Sloppy Seconds logo on it; must be from when they all went there last Saturday. While Tweek’s starting to internally freak out about how little work he’s actually done on their upcoming Peru presentation, Token quickly and gently folds the bag over his Metallica shirt, without actually touching it, and then ties the bag in a knot.
“Thanks,” Kevin says, “I think?”
“There you go.” Token hands the bag back to Tweek. “Secret weapon against Stan. Just untie the bag and shove his head inside,” he adds, when Tweek just stares at him and blinks.
“Oh, huh, that’s funny,” Tweek replies, like an absolute moron. “Thanks, dude.”
“So, Tweek…” Clyde says, as the four of them start walking towards the main building – they’ve all got homeroom together first thing on a Tuesday – “Did he fool you? Did you think,” he goes on, when Tweek just gives him a blank look, “Even for just a second, that Kevin was actually Craig?”
He’s clearly so eager for Tweek to say yes, but the truth is that Tweek immediately knew… Craig stands differently for one thing, and his face is so much skinnier than Kevin’s. But wouldn’t it be rude to say that?! After Kevin went to all that trouble? So Tweek looks down at the ground – easier to hide that he’s lying if nobody can see his face – and mutters, “Well, sure. Right at the beginning.”
“At least you didn’t accidentally try to plant one on him,” Clyde jokes, mistaking Tweek’s shitty lying for embarrassment – and causing Tweek to choke on his own saliva.
“Urhurgh?!”
“You know, Tweek,” Kevin puts an arm around his shoulders, making Tweek jolt because it’s completely unexpected, “Red did once tell me you’re the only person she’d have a threesome with.”
“What in the ass,” Tweek exclaims, and even Clyde is too shocked to talk. But Kevin just laughs.
“I’m pretty sure she only said that ‘cause she already knew you wouldn’t go for it,” Kevin goes on, shrugging. “And it’s not like I was planning to involve another dude. Or actually have a threesome, it was all, what’s that word…”
“Hypothetical,” Tweek croaks. It’s fair enough Kevin and Red have been dating since forever, but talking about threesomes? At their age?!
“Exactly.” Kevin’s grinning, he’s clearly enjoying how he’s got Tweek and Clyde looking like their heads are about to explode.
“Bebe and I talk about Xenia versus Buffy,” Clyde croaks out, finding his voice at last. He looks pretty shell-shocked, which means that at least Tweek’s not the only virgin around here.
“Yeah, but you and Bebe haven’t slept together yet,” Kevin counters with a shrug. Like it’s only a matter of time. “Sooner or later, you’ll both want to try out different things, you know? Like, oh! I could teach you how to make her come with your fi– ”
Suddenly, Token’s hand is there, firmly clamping Kevin’s mouth shut. “Cover your virgin ears, boys,” Token drawls, still with his arm wrapped around Kevin’s shoulder. He does his little Class Rep eyeroll too, and Tweek’s so relieved, he starts laughing.
But Clyde’s obviously picked up on something in the other boy’s tone, because his eyes are suddenly wide open with understanding. “Tokes! Dude,” he exclaims, “Don’t tell me you and Nicole…?!”
“Me and Wendy, actually,” Token raises one eyebrow. “Back in the day. I’d appreciate it if you didn’t bring it up in homeroom?”
“Holy shit,” Tweek breathes, because this explains Token and Wendy’s spiky non-friendship perfectly.
“I don’t want Stan slipping laxatives in my OJ or whatever,” Token is saying.
“Or Nicole, huh,” Kevin shoots in, scarily perceptive – because why would Token tell Nicole something like that, if they haven’t actually…
“Gah,” Tweek and Clyde exclaim – loudly and in perfect synch. They look at one another, and then they just have to laugh. Kevin and Token join in pretty quickly, and Tweek gets this sudden thought in his head that maybe, if the nerd squad really don’t want to be friends with Kevin again, like, ever? Then he’d probably fit right into their own little gang.
As if on cue, he starts getting that sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach; the one that means he’s being stared at. And when Tweek turns around, bang, there’s the rest of the nerd squad. Lined up by the school gates, because they must’ve just got off the school bus. And it’s not him they’re staring at, is it, but Kevin.
Obviously, Kevin’s noticed them by now, because his smile falters and disappears. “I’ll see you dudes in homeroom,” he mutters, wrapping Craig’s hoodie around himself like he’s suddenly feeling cold. Then he breaks into a run, making a beeline for the main doors, and Tweek suddenly feels desperately bad for him.

“Thanks,” Kenny mutters, peering through the binoculars again so he won’t have to look at Craig. “For, you know. For getting me to leave.” They’re back at last night’s viewing spot in SODOSOPA, lying belly-down on the roof of the U-Stor-It
“Nothing to thank me for,” Craig fires back, and if he got even a little bit friendlier last night, there’s no trace of it in his voice now. “I need Mysterion to get my real parents back. Can’t do that if you’re busy being taken into care.”
Wait, is that… worry? Kenny feels himself freeze up. Is that what Craig’s trying so hard to hide – not that he’s pissed, but that he’s worried about him and Karen?
“I, uh,” he says, lowering the binoculars at last, because there’s nobody moving around in there anyway. He closes his eyes, wills his heartbeat to calm down. “I don’t even know what I was panicking for,” he says, marvelling at how steady those words suddenly come out. “I mean, CPS have been to Leo’s house at least three times, and he’s never been taken away.” Kenny opens his eyes. The sky’s still a little bit pink from the sunrise. “And Butters’ parents are completely nuts,” he adds, risking a glance over at Craig.
“Does his dad hit him,” Craig asks, and now he looks worried, too. “I noticed yesterday, how his eye was all messed up.”
“Not that often,” Kenny blurts out, and it sounds all stupid. Like he’s trying to defend Butters’ shitty dad or whatever. “And I mean, his mom’s worse. This one time, when we were all still little? She actually tried to drown him.”
Craig just stares at him, and in any other situation, the way he’s sitting there with his mouth open like a cartoon character would be funny. “… the fuck,” he says at last, shaking his head.
“But his mom’s on some pills now,” Kenny tells him, because the silence is so awful that it has to be filled. “Anti-psychotics. Butters told me. Says she doesn’t go outside much, but their house is like super nice and tidy…” He hears his own voice trail off, as he realizes that’s the key difference. Butters' house looks like one of those model homes you see on TV. Every time he goes there, Kenny’s terrified his shitty clothes are going to leave stains on the furniture. He even brings matches into the bathroom in case he needs to take a shit – that’s how clean the place is. But his own house, well…
Kenny doesn’t realise he’s crying until he sees the drops falling on the roof in front of him. Little dark spots forming on the cracked orange tiles.
“Dude,” Craig says, and he sounds super uneasy. Kenny can’t blame him, but he can’t stop crying, either.
“I’m, I’m gonna go back there,” he chokes out, "And she’ll be gone. Karen will be…”
He feels Craig’s hand close around his shoulder. “Kenny,” he says, and the pity in his voice is just too much. Because Craig is supposed to hate him, goddamn it! How the hell is Kenny supposed to choke down this huge crush if Craig doesn’t hate him?
“No,” he chokes out, shaking Craig’s hand off before bracing his palms on the flat roof, jerking his whole torso backwards, then slamming his own head forwards as fast and as hard as he can.
Mysterion shakes his head as he comes to. Touches the blood on his forehead with a “Tsk,” before he rubs it away – well, mostly away, it’s still leaking – with the back of his hand. “What a moron,” he growls, then glances over at Craig. “Kid, you’d better pass me my bag.”
It takes Craig a couple of seconds to react. Then he hooks his right foot into one of the straps on Mysterion’s kit bag, pulls it towards himself, and slides it across the roof towards Mysterion. He does it without raising his torso from the tiles at all, and Mysterion has got to admit he’s a little impressed. He digs through his limited first-aid supplies first; cleans up Kenny’s little present and puts a plaster on it. Only then does he put the mask on – because blood on the inside of the mask will make it stick to his face, and that can get really awkward. It’s not really a problem, being himself without the mask on, as long as there aren’t any mirrors around. But putting the mask on reminds him that his nose is still tender, from when Kenny allowed Clyde to break it. It hasn’t even been a week. So then he digs out the stash of pills Clyde’s dad got for him, pops one in his mouth and swallows it dry. Why not.
“You want one,” he offers, holding the tray out to Craig – who’s still staring at him.
“I… I’d need some water,” Craig says, and his voice is a little bit shaky.
Mysterion jerks his thumb at the storm drain, which they can just see sticking up from the wall next to where Craig is lying. “Rained a couple of nights ago,” he tells the kid. “So should be plenty in there.”
Craig visibly shudders at the thought, but he still reaches out with his good arm and scoops some water up in his palm. “The goddamn lengths I will go to,” he mutters, as Mysterion pops one pill from the tray and holds it out to him between two fingertips. Craig gingerly takes it, and makes a face as he washes it down with the rain water.
After that, they just watch the building in silence for a while. Mysterion even lets Craig have the binoculars, since nothing much seems to be going on in there right now.
“So,” Craig says at last, “What’s the plan? Is there a plan,” he adds, a little sharply – back to his old self, obviously. The painkiller must’ve kicked in then.
“I’m guessing it’ll be a few more hours of waiting,” Mysterion tells the kid, “But as soon as they move out, I go in.”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” Craig raises himself up on his right elbow and glares at Mysterion, “You are not leaving me behind here, dude! Not when it could be my parents in there!”
Mysterion’s first instinct is to shut him down with a sharp no, but then he starts to think. “You actually love your parents,” he says, honestly surprised.
“Why the hell else would I climb a fucking plank across Clyde’s back yard,” Craig snarls, but at least he’s got the sense to be quiet, and lie back down. “If my mom and dad are in there, I need to see if they’re all right,” he goes on, in a more reasonable tone. “You get that, right? I’d be like… Like Kenny checking on Karen.”
God damn it, why did that idiot have to mention… It’s like Mysterion can feel Kenny’s shitty thoughts, closing over his own like a damp fog, and it takes all his concentration to push them aside. “Fine,” he growls, clinging to the Voice, using that to fight for his sense of self. “You can come. But only after I unlock the front door for you from the inside. Unless,” he goes on, allowing himself a small smile because now Mysterion is completely back in control, “You fancy another climb…?”
“The hell I do,” Craig replies. If he’s surprised that Mysterion’s letting him have what he wants, the kid sure doesn’t let on. “You’ve got yourself a deal.”

It takes hours. Literal hours, with nothing to eat, and nothing but that disgusting rain water to drink. Though at least that means Craig only has to climb back down to piss once – he’s stayed away from the rain water after taking that pill. Craig tries not to check his watch too often, because the hands seem to crawl across the disc. He gets so used to hunger gnawing at his guts that it actually fades to the very back of his consciousness. But then – finally, there’s movement.
A van comes around the corner – maybe it’s been parked around the back of the building? It’s got the U-Stor-It logo printed on the side facing them, and it pulls up right outside the front doors. Craig can make out two people sitting in the front seats. As if whoever’s in there could sense the van approaching, the front door swings open, and a heavy-set man steps out. He’s wearing a non-descript black suit with a white shirt, and holding a briefcase in one hand. Rather weirdly, for someone dressed in a suit and tie, the guy slides the side doors of the van open and tosses the briefcase inside.
Craig’s eyes flicker to his watch again; the time is three oh five.
A second man comes out of the building – tall, broad-shouldered, also wearing a suit. He’s carrying some kind of equipment in a long, chunky plastic container. It seems to be heavy; the guy who came out first has to help him carry it across to the van.
When Craig looks over at Mysterion, he sees the other boy’s eyes narrowing behind his mask. What, does Mysterion think they’re transporting some kind of bomb…?! Or maybe…
Craig closes his eyes. He was a pall bearer at his grandfather’s funeral last year, and had been so upset, he’d walked over, blinded by tears, to the head end of the coffin. That had been a big mistake; as the youngest of the pall bearers, Craig had been supposed to carry at the foot end, because the head end is always the heaviest. The weight had nearly yanked his shoulder out of the socket. A dead body weighs a ton, Craig knows that from experience, so could that be what’s inside that box? One of his parents, chopped into bits?!
His eyes fly open at the sound of the engine revving up. No way would they have had the time to bring up a second box that big and heavy, in such a short time. So maybe that wasn’t Mom or Dad’s body after all, maybe it was just… some stuff that happens to be really heavy? That the fakes and their friends happen to need? Craig doesn’t even care, and he can barely keep still while they watch the van drive off. This is it, he keeps thinking, over and over. This is it, this is it!
Mysterion actually puts a hand on his arm, shaking his head. “Wait,” he growls, and so they hold still for another agonizing ten minutes. Until finally, at three fifteen, Mysterion rises to his knees. “Wait for my signal,” he tells Craig, before he whips out what looks like a grappling hook on nylon wire, nimbly swings himself over the edge of the roof, and then Batmans his way down the wall.
What signal, Craig thinks, more than a little annoyed. Wouldn’t it have made sense to agree on stuff like what the signal’s actually supposed to be before the bastard took off?
His eyes flicker between the building and his watch. Three sixteen, he sees Mysterion enter through one of the high windows; covering it with what looks like brown packing tape before kicking it in. The glass barely makes a sound as it breaks, and Craig is secretly a little impressed.
Three seventeen, three eighteen…
At three nineteen, the front door swings open, and Craig belatedly realizes that of course this is the signal. He climbs down the fire rusty ladder that’s been attached to the back wall as carefully as he can manage – it would be downright retarded to fall down and break something else, now that he’s this close…!
Once his feet are firmly on the ground, Craig hugs the side of the building, looks both ways – not a soul in sight – and runs across the road, up the front steps and headfirst through that open door.
It seems pitch black in there at first, but once his eyes adjust, Craig can make out stuff. Like the saggy old couch somebody’s dragged in here, and the empty packing crate used as a makeshift table, covered in discarded takeout bags with the Roadhouse Diner’s logo printed on them. There’s a half-eaten sandwich sticking out of one bag. Tuna melt, Craig thinks disjointedly, sniffing the air.
“Upstairs is clear,” Mysterion growls, right into his ear, “And so’s the ground floor. If your parents are anywhere, it’s got to be…” He jerks his head at something right behind Craig, and when he turns around, Craig realizes there’s a staircase there, leading down.
Instantly, his body is soaked in icy sweat.
“The basement,” he says, knowing that Mysterion’s got to be right. If his parents aren’t down there, they won’t be in this house.
“Follow me.” Mysterion shoulders past him, and for once, Craig doesn’t mind. He follows behind those narrow shoulders, that ridiculous swishing cape, and finds himself thinking; Please, please. Even though Craig Tucker doesn’t believe in God. Please let them be okay. He watches with a mix of awe and dread as Mysterion digs around in one belt pouch, then gets to work picking the lock of the cellar door. Watches the door swing inwards, before Mysterion pulls out a flashlight, aiming it inside.
The beam of the flashlight sweeps in a wide arc, and Craig recognises them immediately. Dad’s bushy red hair, the sleeve of Mom’s green cardigan. On the floor, leaning into each other.
He pushes past Mysterion and runs in there, into the dusty room that smells of damp and piss, dropping to his knees in front of them. They’ve been tied up and gagged, but they’re both alive, they’re alive! Dad seems kind of groggy, but Mom obviously knows it’s him, so Craig pulls out her gag first; a filthy white piece of what looks like bandage gauze.
“Mom, oh Mom,” he hears himself say, like a stupid little kid. Blinking furiously, because he can’t start crying now, not when he needs to get them out of here before the Fakes come back!
“Craig,” she gasps, while Craig starts working on the knots tying her hands together, “Oh Craig, you’re okay!” Next to him, Mysterion’s pulled out Dad’s gag, and Dad’s gasping for air, before his head snaps to one side and he suddenly starts to vomit.
“Dad?” Craig’s trying to keep the worry out of his voice, but Dad doesn’t even seem to hear him. He just keeps retching and retching.
“I think he needs the hospital,” Mysterion says, in a voice much softer than his usual growl.
“Craig!” Mom’s eyes have narrowed, like she’s suddenly remembered something important. “The bank,” she blurts out, as soon as he’s turned to look at her. “Craig, you’ve got to warn them! They’re posing as us so they can rob the bank!”

Chapter Text

“Maybe the presentation is the disaster,” Tweek mutters, as he leans heavily into the door of Tweak Bros. The bell jingles as he pushes it open, and steps into the almost empty coffee shop. It’s that sweet spot in the early afternoon, between the lunch time rush and the after-work crowd, when there’s space for Tweek to bring his friends back from school, occupy two whole tables and do homework.
From behind him, Token reaches up above Tweek’s head to help hold the door open for Clyde, who’s bringing up the rear. Clyde has his hands full after all, since he’s got his backpack on backwards and is eating a small bag of Doritos out of it. Well, that and Token wasn’t raised by wolves… They both obviously heard him just now, and Clyde looks like he’s say something if he wasn’t busy chewing. As for Token, he doesn’t produce more than a very neutral “Hm.”
What with Craig AWOL and Jimmy in Denver, it’s just the three of them for now. There’s only one customer in the shop; an old lady with a piece of red velvet cake and a book. Tweek tilts his head to get a look at the cover, and grins. Correction: a piece of cake and a bodice-ripper. That old lady knows how to live.
Mom’s reading too, perched on that barstool they sometimes keep behind the till. Tweek can see the white library sticker at the top of the spine, but when the door jingles, Mom puts the book facedown on the counter as she looks up, so Tweek can’t see the title or anything.
“Ah, good,” Dad says, poking his head out around the staff room door. “Sit by the window, why don’t you? Make this place look busy.”
With that, he disappears back into the staffroom, only to reappear ten seconds later with the nylon backpack slung over his shoulder that they always use to carry the day’s takings to the bank. It’s a dark maroon; Dad’s favorite color. He’s wearing his green cargo jacket open, and Tweek can see that Dad’s even got The Sweater on too; that ancient maroon one Mom’s always having to repair. And always swearing she’ll throw out someday. She’s put elbow patches on it, redone the entire bottom hem with a matching scarf she picked up at Target and cut up, then stitched onto the sweater with a sewing machine she borrowed from Mrs Valmer. Not to mention, there are always little holes popping up here and there. By now, this thing is like the Ship of Theseus; can Dad even claim he’s still wearing the original sweater? It’s really soft though; and has a permanent smell of roast coffee embedded into it. Put a gun to Tweek’s head, and he’d probably admit the sweater smells of his childhood.
“So you’re taking the car after all,” Mom asks, tilting her head up for her goodbye kiss. Tweek can hear the car keys rattle from inside Dad’s hand when he cups her chin. “I though you said you could use a walk?”
“I could,” Dad replies, “But with Kenny on gardening leave, Kevin off doing Sidhartha knows what and Tweek doing homework,” here he treats Tweek to a raised eyebrow, “I don’t want to leave you on your own for too long.”
“So thoughtful,” Mom says, and then Tweek quickly has to turn his head away while his parents mash lips. Ugh! Like, sure, good for them that they’ve got a healthy sex life going on, but does this really need to happen in front of him and his friends? And, well, okay, only one member of the public, but still? ! His mom and dad can be so embarrassing sometimes…
He busies himself pushing two of the window tables together – with three of them, they’ll still run out of space if they just use one, since Token brought one of those big picture books about South America to school. And Clyde’s got an old museum catalogue from an exhibition his parents must’ve gone to or something; he told Tweek and Token on the way back here that he thinks it’ll “help with making artefacts”. Which Clyde clearly prefers to reading about Peru.
“We don’t need more artefacts right now,” Token is saying, as he pulls up a chair and dumps his backpack on it with an almighty thud. “Raoul will do. And the presentation will be fine, Tweek…” He looks up from rummaging through his bag, and gives Tweek a very Token look, “As long as we can get the rest of the reading done by tomorrow.”
Tweek opens his mouth to tell Token he’s being optimistic, only then a hand lands on his head and so he screams instead. “Yaaah!”
“Relax, son,” Dad is saying, smirking his ass off, while Tweek’s getting his hair mussed all to hell. Of course Clyde and Token find this hilarious. Mom too; she’s giggling like a little kid. Even that old lady is having a good chuckle from behind her romance novel; Tweek can most definitely hear her raspy laugh.
“Ugh! Go die,” Tweek growls, twisting out of Dad’s grip. At least Craig isn’t here to witness his humiliation.
“Tweek!” Mom sounds annoyed now, but Dad just laughs it off. He’s still laughing as the door swings shut behind him.
“Tweek, that wasn’t very nice,” Mom tells him, when Tweek slips behind the counter to make drinks for him and the guys. A single-shot mocha for Token, of course, but first he fills a big mug with boiling water for Clyde.
“Sorry, Mom,” Tweek mutters, before he puts Clyde’s mug down on the counter. “Dude, what flavour of swill do you want today?”
“Tweek!” Mom laughs, and swats his butt with a Tweak Bros towel. “Just for that, you get to watch the till while I go to the bathroom. Oh, and you should try the cactus tea, Clyde,” she adds, “That one’s very nice with a little honey in it!”
“Okay, Mrs Tweak,” Clyde happily sings out; Tweek knows he secretly loves it when their moms fuss over him. He must miss that a hell of a lot – if Clyde’s mom even did that; Tweek mostly remembers her as being one scary lady.
So Tweek squirts some honey in Clyde’s mug and dumps a cactus teabag in there – the whole string goes in too, but whatever. Token gets his mocha, and Tweek digs his own current favorite mug out from the back of the cupboard. It’s big, which is the main reason he likes it – capacity –but also kind of cool, since it’s an astrology mug. So it's covered with random facts about Leos – Tweek’s birthday is the 17th of August, after all – and has the front half of a nifty-looking lion on it, too. Token gave it to him last year, with a big bag of marshmallows stuffed inside, and Tweek knows his friend is secretly pleased it’s become his default mug. He makes himself a big ol’ latte; with three shots of espresso in it since Token only wants the one. At the last minute, he decides to add a pump of vanilla syrup to his drink, and it turns out so darn perfect that Tweek almost purrs like a cat. You need caffeine and sugar for the kind of work he and the guys are about to dive into.
Token divvies the work up in sections; so they don’t double up. And he wisely chooses the most boring topics, current politics and economy, for himself. Clyde gets handed the Conquistador period, while Tweek gets started on the Paracas society; the ones from that tapestry with the dudes in loincloths waving shrunken heads around. The ones with the cloth mummies; though the museum guide Clyde brought calls them funerary bundles.
It’s honestly kind of interesting, actually – the whole cloth mummy process. They had a whole system for it, like the ancient Egyptians did; you couldn’t just stitch a dude up in his bedsheets and call it a day. Clyde’s old museum guide actually has pictures of every layer that went into a cloth mummy, and a very thorough description of the whole process.
“I wouldn’t mind that, you know,” Tweek says, as an idea suddenly hits him. “Being a cloth mummy, I mean!”
Token lowers his thick South America book and looks at Tweek over the rim. “Would you like to expound on that,” he says, like he’s already posed to slap down any nonsense Tweek might’ve come up with to start a stupid conversation and weasel his way out of studying. “I thought Buddhists preferred cremation, anyway.”
“No,” Tweek yelps, not so much annoyed about the misunderstanding as at himself, because he can never just express himself properly, can he? “I mean, Clyde’s already gonna wear a loincloth,” Tweek goes on, gaining verbal speed, “And it wouldn’t be fair if he was the only one who had to dress up, right? Or, uh, down,” he corrects himself, which earns him an appreciative snort from Clyde. Token remains completely impassive. “So, if I wear a loincloth too, and then you guys can wrap me up in all the different layers? We can make those, easily!” He holds the museum guide open on the relevant double page spread. “This thing even tells you what all the layers were for!”
“Wendy would never think of something like that,” Clyde chimes in, loyal as always.
“Wendy’s presentation is on Scandinavia,” Token counters, “So it’s not like she’d even need to.” Still, Tweek can already tell he’s considering it. It doesn’t take much, does it, to light up Token’s competitive streak against Wendy. At least now Tweek knows why he’s like that…
“Imagine this,” he says, spreading his hands out. “Wendy’s there with a bucket of water, and like a Barbie-sized little Viking ship that she sets on fire. Makes a big production out of opening all the windows and stuff. She’s done, everybody applauds… And then we bust out Raoul and the loin cloths!”
Clyde sniggers. “That’s what I’m gonna call my band,” he drawls, “Raoul and the Loin Cloths!” And for whatever reason, that’s what makes Token laugh and put his book down.
“Okay, so how many layers of fabric are we talking here,” Token asks, just as a familiar-looking Volkswagen Rabbit pulls up in front of Tweak Bros. What’s Mr Donovan doing here, Tweek wonders distractedly. He usually doesn’t come here until after he’s done for the day, and it’s not even gone four. Clyde and Token are both sitting with their back to the window, so they haven’t seen the Rabbit yet.
“Tweek,” Token says pointedly,
“We-ell,” Tweek checks the museum catalogue to make sure, “It says here they didn’t just use fabric; they put offerings inside?” Using his biro, he points at one of the pictures, where they’ve got a bunch of offerings laid out on a mat. “Headbands, belts, stuff like that.”
“Ooh, I can get us some Nike headbands for free,” Clyde blurts out, excited now. It’s kind of funny, his dad’s walking up to the glass doors right now, and Clyde’s got no idea! “We had a sales rep come in last month,” he goes on, “Gave my dad a whole bag of 'em that we still don’t know what to do with!”
“Nike headbands?” Token sounds mildly horrified. “I thought we were aiming for at least a little historical accuracy here.”
Then the bell dings, and Mom looks up from her book just as Clyde turns around. So they say “Dad!” and “Roger?” pretty much simultaneously. Mr Donovan doesn’t answer, he just crosses the room in five long strides and comes right up to the counter. Usually, Clyde’s dad is super friendly, but now he doesn’t even crack a smile.
Is he pissed about something? Tweek exchanges a quick look with Clyde, who shrugs and shakes his head discreetly. So neither of them can remember doing anything that would piss Mr Donovan off, that’s… good? Probably?
“Let me fix you up a caramel latte!” Mom’s already jumping off the bar stool, but Mr Donovan’s reaching across the counter and grabbing her hand.
“Helen,” he says, and Tweek suddenly realises that Mr Donovan isn’t angry at all – he’s scared. “Helen, you need to close the shop.”
“Roger,” Mom begins – nervously, because she can obviously see it too, “What’s going on?”
“The bank,” Mr Donovan says, “I went to deposit my takings, but the police…”
Tweek’s biro makes a loud “click” as it hits the surface of the table.
“They’d surrounded the building by then, nobody’s getting in or out, and then…” Mr Donovan swallows. “And I then I spotted Richard’s Datsun parked right out front.”

Run. As fast as he can, without taking stupid risks. Can’t afford to get hurt now, not with this going on. It all adds up now – the shoebox full of money, hell, even those shoes with the red soles that Clyde had said cost seven hundred bucks. The Fakes are about to rob the bank from the inside, and how many peoples’ savings are that? Not to mention all the local stores put their cash in there. Including Tweak Bros…
Mysterion had to make a snap decision as soon as he took off, because SODOSOPA is big and full of shady characters who might slow him down. Taking to the rooftops was an easy choice; the tough one was which way to go… He wound up running ahead of the Tuckers, in their desperate, shuffling little huddle. In spite of how Mysterion doesn’t give a damn about anyone who isn’t Karen, he ’s relieved that they don’t seem to pay attention to him or where he’s going. Then across the lot of the half-finished mall that has become a hobo hotel since it was abandoned – running along the ground here, then ducking behind the cement blocks and open piping for cover. Round the back of the old train station next, and up on the roof in under a minute. His kit bag slaps against the back of his thighs while he climbs, but he can’t afford to stash it now – Mysterion doesn’t know what he might need from there. Hell, maybe he’ll wind up needing everything.
If he can just get to the bank on time, Mysterion thinks. Before the Fakes start waving guns around.
Before Mr Tweak goes in there with today’s cash, Kenny says.
“Shut up,” Mysterion mutters. He doesn’t have time to deal with Kenny’s shit right now. Bad enough, what that little weed tried to do to them both after Mr Tweak fired him. Mysterion really can’t afford to let his guard down around Kenny now.
Once he’s crossed over into the suburb where Nicole from Kenny’s class lives – he’s honestly not sure where, since Kenny’s obviously never been invited to her house – he’s forced to be more careful. Higher chance of being spotted somewhere like this. That slows him down a little, since the houses are further apart here than in, say, Craig’s neighbourhood. It’s too risky to go across the rooftops here because he’d have to use his grappling hook and line pretty much every damn time he’d need to transfer from one building to the next. So Mysterion has to go through the gardens instead, annoying as that is. All those damn fences to climb, because of course they’re too tall to just leap over. At least most of the residents aren’t back home yet, from school or work or whatever it is that they do, and no dogs to bark at or bite him. Small blessings.
He groans out loud – but quietly! – with relief when he finally sees the community playground. The one where Kenny used to hang out with his asshole friends as a child, before they started drifting apart. Alas, poor Kenny, and so on. The playground's completely empty, so Mysterion runs right through it, then across the basketball courts. Nobody there either, but he still makes sure to hug the side of the green shed that the balls and playground equipment are stored in.
Now comes the worst bit. He keeps to the fir trees that line the road as much as possible, but there is a hair-raising minute when Mysterion’s forced to come out into the open and run right across the road. Over the zebra crossing and then straight up the side of the Photo Dojo, the site of Kenny’s downfall. Up there, he drops on his belly for a second. Just to catch his breath and think. The sound of sirens is starting to tug at his consciousness – seems he wasn’t fast enough.
It’s a straight line, in theory, from here to the bank. But since the front of the bank is now crawling with cop cars and police, it would be pretty stupid to use the rooftops now. Some trigger happy moron would just blow a hole right through him – likely more than one hole. Unless…
Mysterion’s eyes narrow. The underground parking garage!
Using his grappling hooks and wire, Mysterion swings off the Photo Dojo’s roof and hooks onto the side of the pink building next to it. People are always joking that the tall, skinny pink building is cursed, because businesses never seem to last in there. Most recently, somebody tried to run a pizza delivery out of that place, only for the Italian place on the other side of town to start their own takeaway service… drove the pink building out of business so fast, Mysterion can’t even remember what the pizza place was called.
Then on to the taco place, and this is where things get interesting. Because while the thrift store sandwiched between Freeman’s Tacos and the bank doesn’t have direct access to the underground parking garage, the taco place does. Sure, you can drive on in there if you’re only here for Sloppy Seconds, but the main money-makers for that parking garage are people who wanna eat tacos, and people going to the bank. The bank has its own separate entrance above ground – now crawling with cops, obviously – as well as an entryway from the parking garage that’s always guarded. Still, you can just walk over there from the Freeman’s Taco entrance! The bank’s entrance has a dude in a booth, but the taco shop one is unmanned and fully automated; a boom gate comes down and you pull out a ticket.
There’s an early dinner crowd in Freeman’s Tacos already, and by now most of them have picked up their food and carried it outside, so they can get a better look at what’s going on. Mysterion’s lip twists into a sour grin; that’s humanity for you, eh? Still works out in his favour though; since that means nobody notices him crouched low and running past the boom gate and into the dark.
His eyes take a second to adjust. That’s when he spots the U-Stor-It truck; because it’s the only car down here with the lights on and the engine running. The doors have been left open, too, he realises. Two guys are dragging one unconscious man between them - unconscious or dead, Mysterion really can't tell from this distance - and dumping his prone body by the side of the bank’s special entrance. One of them’s wearing a red baseball cap, and the other a shiny green jacket with cranes embroidered on the back.
Dad, Kenny says, rearing his head again. Kevin! Oh no.
And suddenly a lot of loose ends are slotting into place.

“You should get him to a hospital,” Mysterion had growled, while Craig and Mom dragged Dad up the stairs and out of the abandoned building. “You only need to go as far as U-Stor-It. Just try not to get mugged on the way, and the staff there’ll call you a cab.”
“But I’m not sure we can pay for –” Mom had begun, but she’s obviously not met Mysterion before. With a swirl of that stupid cape – a cape, in broad daylight, for Christ’s sake! – he’d run across the empty street. Then he’d climbed up the drainpipe of the building he and Craig just spent the last few hours on top of, and disappeared across the rooftops.
Mom tells him now, prodding Dad to walk as gently as she can. “Come on, Thomas, Craig’s here now. Craig’s safe.”
“Safe,” Dad says, and he sounds equal parts relieved and exhausted. His hand squeezes Craig’s right shoulder for a second, and his weight digs painfully into Craig’s busted arm. It seems to take every ounce of energy Dad’s got left just to put one foot in front of the other.
“That’s right,” Craig tells him, “I’m here.” He hates how thick his voice suddenly sounds. Dad’s not going to die… is he? His arm is starting to hurt again – Kenny’s pill must finally be wearing off – but it’s almost a welcome distraction.
“They took everything,” Mom is saying, “All our documents, all the passports, even Tricia’s. Both our wallets – that damn woman just upended my handbag, and started picking through everything...” She sounds, not angry exactly, but more like she’s clinging to the anger. Like Mom knows that, if she stops being angry, she won’t be able to stay upright either. “And you were their biggest bargaining chip.” She looks right into Craig’s eyes as she says it – Craig overtook her in height last year, but Mom is still pretty damn tall for a lady – leaning past Dad’s chest. She must’ve been allowed to wash her face at least, because there’s no trace of runny makeup on Mom’s face. No outward sign she’s been crying herself to sleep with worry. But then, Mom seems to think actually crying is like the biggest defeat in the world – not that Craig necessarily disagrees with that.
“They said they’d hurt you if we didn’t cooperate,” Mom goes on, grunting with the strain of Dad’s weight. “And that damn woman kept coming back to ask us more things about you, like what your favourite breakfast was? And how to make pancakes just the way you like ‘em…” She shakes her head, and only now, Craig notices how greasy Mom’s hair is, all shiny in the golden afternoon light. He can’t smell her from his side of Dad’s chest, and that’s probably down to how awful Dad smells; sweat and something else; illness? Like this sweet, kind of subtle smell Craig couldn’t pick out of the sweat stink at first, but now he can’t not hear it. Like not noticing the base line on a song at first, and then suddenly only hearing the base line.
Both of them are still wearing the same clothes they wore on the night of the accident. Mom in her bright green track pants – because she’d wanted to be comfy on the long drive – with a matching green and yellow flannel worn over a white T-shirt that now looks more grey than white. And Dad in his ancient jeans and his old college sweatshirt, the one that’s got a hole under one armpit that Mom always refuses to fix for him because a man can damn well pick up a needle and thread just as easily as a woman can.
“They were pretending to be you guys in front of me as well,” Craig says, which gets him a grunt of surprise from Dad and a startled string of chain-swearing from Mom. At least she’s acting normal, which is reassuring. “Yeah, they were like, trying to convince me I didn’t remember, that I’d hurt my head or I was confused or whatever? Because of the car crash.”
As soon as he says the words “car crash”, Mom makes a sound. A little squeak, like a mouse. Wait, is that why Dad’s like this? Craig broke his arm, but did Dad get hurt too – on the inside? He wants to ask Mom if that’s what’s wrong with Dad. Hell, Craig’s not even sure Dad would notice if he did. It’s just that he’s really, really scared to.
“It was the steering wheel,” Dad wheezes. “No airbags in the old Ford…”
And now Craig can picture it, like a scene in a movie. The other car ploughing into them, and his dad, flung forward from the impact. He even imagines the sound of the steering wheel turning Dad’s innards to mush, and almost throws up.
“Let’s just get to the hospital,” Mom is saying. “Then we’ll worry about how we’re supposed to pay for it all, with no credit cards and no insurance information. One thing at a time.”
“Uh,” Craig grunts, swallowing down the sour bile in his mouth. “Uh-huh.”
Dad’s gone quiet again.
Pretty soon, the whole world narrows down to this. To putting one foot in front of the other on the cracked pavement. One foot at the time, while broken bone pain flares up and down Craig’s arm like chain lightening. Maybe he really did make it worse during last night’s climb. And Dad is monstrously heavy, too. But he’s here, he’s alive, and at least partially conscious. That’s something, right?
“So…” Craig lets that one word dangle in the air for a while, “So did they just, just tell you guys what their whole evil plan was?” One more step, they round a corner, and now he can at least see the big “U-Stor-It” sign up ahead. “Like Lex Luthor or whatever?”
Mom actually snorts. “More like they let stuff slip,” she says. “Little bits here, little bits there. And I mean, they had so much damn money on them, you know? Like they were dropping the stuff, shoving it back inside their pockets all crumpled up. And once I got a good look, and I saw the matching serial numbers on four hundred-dollar notes one of the men had…”
“It’s what they do for a living,” Dad says, turning his head to look right at Craig. His eyes are shiny with what must be fever. “If you can call it that. Rob banks. By impersonating people who work there. They were burning ID’s one night,” he goes on, huffing for breath in between talking. “Fake ID’s. Whole…” For a second, Dad’s eyes slip closed, and Craig thinks he’s actually about to faint. But then it’s like Dad visibly wrenches himself awake, a big twitch goes through his whole body. “Whole stack of fake ID’s, with pictures of those two on ‘em.”
No need to as who “those two” might be.
“Thomas, it’s okay,” Mom says, and it’s terrifying how scared she suddenly sounds. Because Mom isn’t afraid of anything. Hell, Craig remembers that one time they got a mouse in one of the traps back home that was still alive. Dad couldn’t bring himself to kill it, but Mom had beaten the thing to death with the corner of a plank. “Don’t talk if it hurts,” she tells Dad, pressing her cheek against his arm for just a second.
Craig is so scared, it feels like any moment now, his heart might just stop. But he chokes the fear down, asks himself if this is really worse than those photos of him kissing Tweek flying all over school. He knows deep down the answer is yes – this is so much worse – but telling himself it’s not keeps him going.
One foot. In front of the other. Then the next foot. And again.
And then Dad’s knees finally buckle, Mom loses her grip completely, and Craig just can’t hold him upright on his own anymore. He drops to his knees, and just barely stops Dad’s head from smacking face-first into the pavement. But suddenly there are people running over, men in boiler suits. Turning Dad over on his side, propping Mom up. Pulling Craig back on his feet, and asking him stupid questions him doesn’t have a hope of answering, because suddenly he’s crying too hard.

Chapter Text

“Hey, Craig! What’re you screwing around with now?”
Craig, who has been busy balling up that old jacket Clyde gave him, and shoving it under Dad’s head, looks up. And there, of all people, is Mr Adler from school. The guy who supervised Craig and Stan Marsh in detention, what feels like a hundred years ago. The guy who still wears the vests his dead wife knitted for him, who is the only person here that Craig’s even told about why he always wears his chullo hat. Seeing Mr Adler here is so unlikely, it might as well have been Elvis leaning out of the window of that wood-panelled Chrysler.
“My dad,” Craig begins, his voice all croaky from shock and fear, “My dad needs help!”
“We was gonna call 9-11,” one of the boiler-suited U-Stor-It staff pipes up, in heavily accented English, “But if you don’ mind, Señor… ”
Mr Adler has already jumped out of the car, leaving his door wide open. “Good luck getting an ambulance to come pick him up out here,” he says, crouching down where Mom’s sitting and slipping Dad’s arm over his shoulder. “SODOSOPA’s a no-go zone for them; too dangerous. The junkies have been holding up ambulances for the meds.” Mom looks up, mouth slipping open in shock. “M’am,” Mr Adler goes on, “If you don’t mind going in the back? Then you can prop his head up.” Mr Adler stops to grunt as he heaves Dad up, supported by two of the other guys who work here. “Times like this,” the wood-shop teacher groans, “I’m glad I gave up smoking!” Then he turns his head and says, “Craig, you’re in the front with me.”
The relief is so intense, this must be what being drunk feels like. Craig has never been this happy to do as he’s told. Mom’s already climbed into the back seat on the opposite side of the driver’s seat, since that side’s the closest to where Mr Adler and the other guys – three of them now, the guy who talked about calling 9-11 has joined in on the heaving and ho-ing – are lifting his dad. Dad’s a big guy, tall and heavy-set, and it really does take all four of them to position him across the row of seats with his feet on the floor and his head in Mom’s lap. Craig just barely remembers to grab the jean jacket off the floor. It may be ridiculously dorky, but it was still a gift.
“I’ve got two free periods on Tuesdays,” Mr Adler says, as he floors the gas, “And I keep most of my dead wife’s stuff in a lock-up down there. Got too depressing, keeping her things at home,” Mr Adler goes on, while Craig tries to find a comfortable angle to rest his busted arm at. Now that he’s not dragging his half-conscious dad around anymore, the pain isn’t going to let him keep on ignoring it. “But didn’t feel right getting rid of ‘em, either. And it’s not like I go there every week,” Mr Addler adds hastily, like he’s suddenly realised he’s revealing some kind of secret here. “So really, this was a stroke of luck.”
Mom’s gone very quiet in the back seat. Once she’d finished thanking Mr Adler, it was like she just ran out of juice.
Craig looks over at Mr Adler – really looks at him. Dude’s wearing a different vest today, but it’s just as full of knitting mistakes as that vest he wore last week. Maybe that’s how you go on living, Craig thinks, completely out of the blue, when the one you loved more than anything is dead and gone.
“Sir,” he says, and at least he’s got a little more control of his voice now, “You were already my favorite teacher. And now? Now you’re my goddamn hero.”
That, finally, makes the lights flicker back on in Mom’s eyes. “Craig,” she snaps, sitting up straighter, “Language! I’m so sorry, sir…” she goes on, and Craig realises that of course Mom doesn’t know who Mr Adler even is.
“Why thank you, Craig.” Mr Adler actually sounds… flattered? “And please don’t worry about it, Mrs Tucker,” he drawls, pausing briefly to roll his window back down so he can spit out a huge, disgusting lump of what must be nicotine gum. “I haven’t believed in God since my wife burned to death in a Cessna one-seven-two.”
Mom makes a horrified little noise, and Craig, glancing in the rear-view mirror just then, can see the way her left hand tightens around Dad’s limp arm.
“Hell of a thing, to lose a spouse,” Mr Adler goes on, and now he risks a quick glance in the rear-view mirror, too, before wrestling the Chrysler onto what Craig suddenly realizes is the highway. “Don’t you worry, Mrs Tucker,” he says, now staring straight ahead at the road. “I’ll do my darndest to make sure that doesn’t happen to you.”

“I told him to go die,” Tweek says, and his own voice sounds so far away. “I told my dad to go die,” he goes on, while Mr Donovan’s little old car does its level best to break the speed limit. “And now…”
Mom’s in the passenger seat next to Mr Donovan, sitting still as a statue. She’s got her handbag balanced on her lap, her hands folded underneath her chin like she’s praying. She doesn’t respond.
In the back of Mr Donovan’s Volkswagen Rabbit, Tweek’s in the middle seat, sandwiched between Token on his right side and Clyde on his left. Both of them are holding onto one of his hands, and Tweek can’t actually remember when that happened.
“Dude,” Token is saying, “You didn’t mean that. Nobody here thinks you meant that. And your dad definitely didn’t.” His voice is quiet, and warm, and right now it’s the only thing stopping Tweek from going insane. That, and squeezing his friends’ hands so hard, he’s probably hurting them. Tweek can feel the tremors going up his arms, down his legs. Hear the soft, echoing sound of his own teeth clattering in his mouth.
Mr Donovan has a good selection of classical rock on cassette that lives in the Rabbit, and that Tweek absolutely approves of. He’s been in this car so many times singing along to Queen with Clyde and Mr D, belting out “We Are The Champions” with the windows safely shut, or just bopping his head to some Emmylou Harris. But now, except for Token talking, the car is eerily silent.
His eyes are burning, but he’s not going to cry. He’s not. Tweek knows he needs to keep it together for Mom’s sake, but it’s hard. Especially because of what he said. A thousand memories are jostling for space in his head, but the one that wins out is that time he was little, and Dad was teaching him how to ride a bike. Only Dad let go of the back too early, and Tweek had careened wildly from side to side down their quiet suburban street, pedalling like a tiny madman and crash-landing anyway. Dad had hoisted him up, while Tweek howled, and brushed the gravel from Tweek’s bloodied knees. And what he’d said, in that unbelievably annoying cheerful tone of his, was, “Well! At least that proves it’s a real bicycle!” Tweek remembers how he’d yelled that that didn’t make any sense at all, while Dad had carried him home with one arm and dragged the bike along with the other.
Real bicycles are the kind you fall off from, apparently. Tweek bites down on his bottom lip, hard. Dad had probably been doing his usual thing of just saying whatever popped into his head first. If his lip hurts this much, he won’t be able to cry. Not at the same time. Tweek can’t multitask like that. Not with the salty taste of his own blood on his tongue.

The Bank of South Park has probably never been robbed before, so it looks like the entire town’s showed up here. Mr Donovan can’t even find a parking spot anywhere closer than the side street next to Unlanned Parenthood, and Tweek’s crawled across Token’s lap and leapt out of the car before Clyde’s dad has even pulled the brakes. Normally, Mom would tell him off for doing something so dangerous, but she jumps out right next to him. She holds her hand out, Tweek takes it, and then they run.
Tweek spots Esther Stoley and Red while he and Mom are pushing their way towards the front of the crowd; mostly because the swirling police car lights make Red’s copper hair glow like her head is on fire. They’re holding hands, staring intently at the bank entrance. Lisa Berger is standing on Esther’s other side, with one arm wrapped around her girlfriend’s waist. And Esther’s not clinging to her girlfriend or sobbing, or anything like that. Not even holding her hand. But the way Esther leans into her side, it looks like like she’d fall over if Lisa wasn’t there.
“My dad’s inside the bank,” Tweek says, and he sounds like a damn robot. Mom is eerily silent next to him, but her hand is shaking, very fast. Like she’s vibrating so hard, she might break into pieces any second.
“Oh no,” Red breathes, covering her mouth with her free hand as she turns to face him. “I’m so sorry! Kevin is…” she blinks furiously, shaking her head from side to side like a cat trying not to sneeze. “Kevin is, too, you know? Their mom runs that nail parlour out of the pink building now, and Kevin was just running over with the takings when…”
Tweek suddenly spots the twins’ parents standing on Esther’s other side. They don’t even seem to have noticed that a bunch of other kids have joined them here. Intertwined like trees that have grown together, leaning against each other. Staring stiffly at the front entrance of the bank, where the police have turned their cars in a half circle and are crouching behind them.
This is all too real. Tweek feels like any second now, he’s just going to short-circuit and keel over. But Mom’s hand is shaking, shaking in his grip. Hold it together, he tells himself. Don’t freak out.
Tweek’s not even sure if he can, though. Not for much longer.
“Well, don’t we all feel like a buncha prize assholes now,” Butters says, squeezing his way through the crowd to join them. Scott and Bradley, Tweek can see, are right behind him. “After everything we said an’ all.”
Esther slowly turns to look at Butters. Then she shrugs, and turns back to stare at the entrance. “If something happens to him...” Esther is talking so quietly that Tweek can barely even catch it, “I’ll know. I’ll feel it.”
“Shh, babe,” Lisa whispers, leaning over to nuzzle Esther’s neck. “Nothing’s going to happen.”
“Yeah,” Red agrees, but her voice is trembling something fierce. “Kevin’s way too annoying to kill.”
It makes absolutely zero sense, and it makes Tweek want to throw his arms around Red and hug her, only he knows he’ll be the one crying if he starts hugging people now. It’s getting hard to even breathe like a normal person. A sudden memory of how Dad mussed his hair before he left, not even an hour ago, hits him like a punch. “Oh my dad,” he whispers, not caring that it comes out all weird.
“Mysterion will come,” Scott tells Tweek, grabbing him by the shoulders. He stares intently into Tweek’s eyes, like he’s talking about Jesus or something. “He’ll come, and he’ll save everybody. Like he always does.”
Clyde’s been barrelling his way through the crowd, and almost knocks Scott right over in his haste to get to Tweek. “Dude,” he pants, and it’s not clear if it’s Tweek or Scott he’s talking to.
It also saves him from having to answer, because what would he even say to that? Oh sure, one dude with tights and underpants is going to take down an entire team of actual bank robbers?
Mom’s hugging Mrs Stoley now, one-handed because she’s still holding onto Tweek. And Mr Donovan’s managed to join them, huffing and puffing, followed by Token. Token doesn’t say anything at first, just slips his hand through Tweek’s again. Then he leans in close and whispers, “Just squeeze my hand as hard as you like. I don’t care if I never play the piano again.”
Tweek laughs like a hyena. He’s always been a Marvel guy, through and through, but he’s still been exposed to enough Batman stuff to know he sounds exactly like the Joker right now. Like he’s going insane. Feels that way too, but even knowing that, he still can’t stop laughing.

McCormick and son don’t even notice that Mysterion’s there, ducking behind the parked cars, to get to that door at the far end marked Bank of South Park: Staff. There’s one of those electronic locks on it, the kind that’s supposed to be opened with a key card, only someone jammed it from the other side, because that door is wide open. With one last thought for that guard – he just can’t risk checking if the guy is alive or not – Mysterion slips through the door. He leaves it the way he found it too, that seems prudent. Once he’s inside, he can see that the inner mechanism has literally been shot off the wall – at close range, too. Something tells him one of the McCormicks did that; the main team of bank robbers would be too busy upstairs – but those two are the getaway team. They must’ve given McCormick senior a new gun, Mysterion thinks, grinning a little behind his mask. What with his Beretta being right here, strapped to Mysterion’s back. Ah, if only that hillbilly shitheel knew…
The elevator’s tempting but too risky, so Mysterion pulls the gun out and takes the staircase two steps at a time. He’ll be at a disadvantage, running up, especially encumbered as he is by his kit bag. But Mysterion’s got no intention of letting the bad guys surprise him.
The staircase is completely empty though, not a soul. Damn, does this mean it’s already started? He can feel the familiar surge of adrenaline through his body, and his lip twists. There’s no rushing into a situation like this. Sure, it’s exciting, but Mysterion’s no idiot – these odds are not in his favour.
Another pre-busted lock – this one has a flathead screwdriver jammed through it – tells him he’s on the right track. They’re making sure to leave their getaway trail nice and clear for themselves, like they’ve probably done dozens of times before.
Okay – here goes. Mysterion slips around the door and finds himself in a carpeted hallway. The carpet is patterned, intersecting beige and dark brown squares – just looking at that hurts his eyes, he decides. The walls here in the back area are covered in medium brown wood panelling, with the odd picture hung up at regular intervals– nature photos, mostly. Landscapes and animals, all in black and white. The combined effect is just deeply unpleasant, somehow. Without any color, all the animals look sick or starving to him. All the landscapes look like they’ve been polluted to hell. And it’s so empty, this ugly hallway – just like the stairwell had been. Everything seems empty back here.
He’ll need a vantage point, Mysterion decides. Somewhere high enough up that it’ll let him see what’s going on, without being spotted. Only problem with that idea is that this is a one-story building, but Mysterion’s long since learned that where there’s a ceiling, there’s sometimes a crawlspace.
Oh, but here’s another disadvantage: Kenny’s never been in here. Which means there are no memories for Mysterion to draw on, of what the part that customers go into might look like. The Tweaks would sometimes bring their son along to the bank, but never Kenny or his brother. And it’s not like the McCormick family are sitting on a big, fat savings account.
And now he can hear voices coming from the front of the building, where the tellers and the front offices are. Angry voices. Shit, no time to lose!
Mysterion picks a door at random and ducks inside. Huh, seems to be an office. There’s a computer on the desk, bunch of paperwork sitting in trays. One of those paper piles has a calculator balanced on it, like a cabin on a mountaintop. No people in sight though, so Mysterion ducks inside, and quickly gets up on the desk. That’s when he realises there are pens spread out all over it, because the pen jar – actually a mug with the Bank of South Park logo on it – has been knocked over. Hmm. Standing there on the desk, he slips out one of his grappling hooks and digs it into one of the roof tiles above him. What’s this thing made of, anyway – pulped paper and plaster? It’s got the consistency of expired cheese; he decides; hard and crumbly. Just like the cheese Kenny’s mom sometimes picks up from the foodbank. But it’s not impossible to work with.
He wiggles the hook from left to right, and it doesn’t take much work before a large chunk of that roof tile comes off. Mysterion had been planning to slip the whole tile out, but if these things are made of shit, what can he do? He crouches down to place the piece on the desk – no use in just dropping it and making a stupid noise – and that’s when he spots the woman crouched under the desk.
That’s startles the hell out of him – that she could’ve sat there this whole time, quiet as a mouse, just watching him. Mysterion’s pretty pissed with himself over that.
But at least this poor lady, curled up in her crumped blue skirt suit, is no threat to him. She must be one of the mortgage advisors or whatever it’s called, because why else would she have her own office. Also, her outfit is definitely fancier than the teller’s uniform Mysterion saw up close when he investigated the Tuckers’ house. Her face is streaked with runny makeup, and her eyes widen, but she still doesn’t scream. Her mouth just forms a silent “O”. It’s impossible, even for Mysterion, to not feel bad for her.
So he does his best to produce a reassuring smile underneath the mask, before he puts one finger over his lips. No screaming, he thinks, willing her to understand that he’s only here to help. And she gets it; she nods at once.
Mysterion feels secure enough that he can turn his back on her, and wrench the rest of that ceiling tile free. No sense in being careful anymore, when the thing’s already ruined. He just hopes the bad guys can’t see it from the hallway. Because that’s definitely the route they’ve planned to take, downstairs to that U-Stor-It van Kenny’s dad and idiot brother are watching for them.
One last time, he looks back, just to make sure the woman hasn’t moved. But no, she’s stayed put, and even raises her hand in a little wave as Mysterion first tosses his kitbag up there, before he pushes himself through the hole.
And bingo! He was right all along; a grid of metal rods spreads out before him, and even though it’s dark, he can follow the voices coming down this way from what must be the main room of the bank. The atrium or auditorium, or whatever it’s called. Barking, snarling voices.
The closer he gets, pushing his kit bag ahead of him, the more Mysterion is able to separate them out. The voices are mostly male, but there’s also a female voice with a Hispanic accent, and this one sounds pretty pissed.
“I told you,” he hears, and realises he must be right above her, “To sit down, and shut up!”
“But Laura,” he hears, and suddenly Kenny’s bobbing to the surface again, because this voice is male, and awfully familiar, “Well, I suppose your name isn’t really Laura, but it’s a nice name so I might as well go on calling you that…”
“I told you,” the female voice repeats, “You coffee shop asshole, to sit your ass down and shut – ”
“…must be some way we can talk this out peacefully,” Richard Tweek goes on, “Without all the guns and violence? A conversation is like a…” he falters for a second, but quickly picks his verbal speed back up, “Like a soothing river, carrying our conflicts away on currents of understanding, and mutual respect, and…”
Oh God, Mysterion thinks, He’s totally counting out those things on his fingers, isn’t he.
His hand unzips the kitbag, fumbles around in there until his gloved fingers close around a smooth, oval shape. Kenny finds peace in skimming rocks across Stark’s Pond, and that’s where he’s collected these fine specimens for Mysterion. Kenny even spends a few bucks from his hard-earned Tweak Bros wages on a small can of glow-in-the-dark paint at Jimbo’s Gun Store, which carries a lot of random crap besides firearms. And that is how Mysterion gets his projectile weapons – the M-stones. That name sounds like something out of a comic book, which it is, because it was Kevin Stoley who initially came up with it when Mysterion first started using these things.
Kenny’s panic is starting to affect him now – his breathing has increased, his hands are unsteady, even his vision is starting to blur. It takes effort to shut it down and seal it off.
By the time he’s got himself back under control, Mysterion realizes that Richard Tweak is still talking – either those are some very patient bank robbers, or his little brain problem didn’t take up nearly as much time as it felt like to him. Using his grappling hook again, Mysterion wraps both legs around the metal rods underneath him before he starts working another tile free. He knows what to expect now, and manages not to snap any pieces off this one.
“…probably more similar than you think,” Richard Tweak is saying, “Even if you can’t tell a hand-crafted latte brewed with fresh local ingredients from a mass-produced Starbucks cappuccino, but I’m willing to overlook…”
The weight of that stone in his hand is perfect. The only woman down there is holding what looks like a semi-automatic between both hands. Both the male bank robbers, Mysterion notices, are holding automatic rifles, but they probably just think she’s too small to handle the recoil. Sexism probably didn’t enter into this at all. She’s kicked off her heels and is standing there in her stockinged feet, legs spread out like she’s in a cowboy movie. Even from up here, Mysterion recognises her, thanks in no small part to Kenny’s memories.
“In fact,” Mr Tweak seems to be moving into the core of his sales-pitch, or whatever the hell he thinks this is, “If we could all just sit down together over a cup of coffee…”
The fake Laura Tucker lets out a wordless scream of rage.
Mysterion lets the stone fly, and it hits the side of her gun – and probably her right hand – just as she pulls the trigger. And a single gunshot rings through the bank

Chapter Text

Mr Tweak is blinking, eyes crossed like he’s trying to stare down his own nose at the bullet, which has just zoomed past the top of his head. It thuds into the brown plywood wall panel directly behind him, spraying him from behind with white dust. One single lock of curly red-brown hair lands on Mr Tweak’s shoulder – haircut by firearms – but he seems too stunned to notice.
The three male bank robbers are all looking around wildly, guns still trained on their hostages, trying to figure out where his M-stone came from. The woman has lowered her gun. She’s blowing on her hand and swearing loudly in Spanish.
Mysterion’s lip curls upwards. Seems he scored a pretty direct hit there.
Somewhere deep down inside him, he can feel Kenny’s relief. No time for that now, though. If he uses his grappling hook and wire now, while he’s still got the element of surprise, Mysterion might be able to swing down like Tarzan and grab Mr Tweak. The guy outweighs him, so it’s not like he could make it a long swing, but if he could just get Mr Tweak out of danger first…
Mr Tweak’s mouth is wide open, but for once in his life, the guy’s too shocked to talk. He’s also too shocked to sit down, like the rest of the people here, who all dropped down as soon as the gun went off. Now they’re huddled together in small groups on the floor. Mysterion spots Kevin Stoley there, in the group behind Mr Tweak. Kevin’s staring at the M-stone with this hopeful look on his face, too. Goddamn it.
No, Mysterion decides, none of that Tarzan bullshit. It would be stupid to even try saving one guy first; the bad guys would perforate them both in seconds. The only way this is going to work; Mysterion can’t focus on saving just one person. He needs to save everybody. Him with his old Beretta. Which can hold fifteen rounds but only has twelve bullets left. Against four people who are all armed, and carrying who knows how many spares. Mysterion’s only got the one extra magazine. The odds are worse than any scrape he’s ever been in, but when’s that every stopped him before?
In spite of everything, he feels himself start to smile. It’s not impossible, he decides – it’s a challenge.
One of the bank robbers – the one pretending to be Craig’s dad, though there’s no sign of that handlebar moustache now, just a clean-shaven face – raises his automatic rifle and starts sending an experimental spray; of bullets up into the ceiling panels. Almost looks like it’s raining in reverse. And it’s miles away from where Mysterion is hiding, but still; a sign that he needs to make a move.
Like a spider, he scurries along the metal grid. He’s forced to leave the kit bag behind, but that doesn’t matter anymore, not compared to staying ahead of that deadly rain. He only stops when he’s completely sure he must be behind the last man in the group. Only then does he pull his grappling hook out, already tied to a line, using the sharp end to yank another tile free. The corner crumples between his fingers, but it doesn’t matter. Up comes the tile, and Mysterion peers down cautiously. Either he overshot it a little, or the bank robbers all moved – he’s further away from them than he thought. Still, they’ve all got their backs to him, and his line should be juuust long enough…
He secures the grappling hook, gives the line a quick tug to make absolutely sure. And then he leaps, swinging through the air and landing right behind the most heavyset of the three men. The balls of his feet touch the floor, and Mysterion’s already flipping the Beretta over in his hand so he can club the guy in the temple with it. He’s done that hundreds of times, and scores a perfect hit. Mysterion even knows to jump backwards right afterwards, so the big man won’t drag him along for the ride when he goes down like a sack of potatoes.
But, there goes the element of surprise.
The three remaining bank robbers all yell out in surprise when their buddy hits the floor with a thump, followed by the metallic clack of his automatic as it slips from his limp fingers. He’s only got seconds to make himself scarce; but Mysterion still manages to grab the guy’s rifle with his left hand, before he drops and rolls. He’s never fired an automatic rifle before; and he knows the kick-back would be stronger than he’s used to – that might screw him over badly. So this is more about removing a weapon they can use against him.
Now the bullets start coming, too.
He huddles behind an overturned standing desk, where empty forms are spread out on the floor like snow around it. Bullets thud into the desk, making wood shavings fly. A quick peek around the side tells him Mr Tweak and the rest of the hostages are okay for now; Kevin Stoley has crept over to Mr Tweak and started tugging on his trouser leg. Takes him a few seconds to get the hint, then Mr Tweak finally sits down – good. He’ll be less of a target that way.
Mysterion makes sure to put the safety on, before he clumsily slips the strap over his shoulder left-handed. Turns the strap some more, so that the rifle now rests against his back – out of the way. If he absolutely has to, he’ll try firing this thing. But not before.

By the time they get to Hell’s Pass hospital – gotta love that name – Dad’s started stirring in the back seat. Mr Adler drives them around the building to the ER entrance, and picks the closest free public parking spot to the sliding doors. Just so Dad won’t have to walk that far. He even insists on propping Dad up on his other side, instead of Craig.
“You don’t want screw around too much with a broken arm,” he says, and gives Craig a meaningful look. Like maybe he saw how Craig was wincing and trying to pretend his arm wasn’t pulsating with broken bone pain the whole way here. “You run ahead and open up doors for us instead.”
There’s nothing for it but to do what he’s told, and if he’s being completely honest with himself, Craig is secretly a little relieved that he can give his left arm a break. The doors are automatic, and Mr Adler must know that, but running ahead means Craig can at least get hold of someone! So he runs, bad arm pressed to his chest; he doesn’t even know where the sling went now.
He bursts inside a waiting area, panting heavily. Looks around wildly for someone, anyone, who looks like they might work here. The sharp sound of knocking makes him jump half a foot.
It takes Craig a few seconds to spot it – a little cubicle built into the side of the wall. A large woman in a nurse’s uniform is glaring at him through the thick glass. She doesn’t look like she’s sitting in there, so much as like she’s been poured in there from the top of the cubicle. “Ticket,” she shouts, her voice strangely muted by the glass, which she also taps again. Aggressively, like she’s trying to peck her way out. Rolling her eyes when Craig can only stare at her in confusion, before she pulls her hand back and points: “Ticket!”
Oh, now he sees it; they’ve got some kind of ticketing machine set up by the door. The kind you’d find at a post office, or a bank. (Shit, try not to think about the bank!)
The lady bangs the window again, then points at the machine – again. It takes everything Craig’s got not to flip her off. He really can’t afford to piss off any grownups now, especially not ones that come pre-pissed. If that’s even a word. So he pushes the button, seething, and gets the number 13. Seriously? But when he looks around, Craig realises this must be a slow morning – there’s only one other person in here, and that’s a bearded guy in a flannel shirt cradling a crudely bandaged hand. So that must mean they’ll get seen to soon – right?
Just then, Mom and Mr Adler drag Dad inside, and the walk obviously hasn’t done him any good. Dad’s face is white as printer paper. He looks up from his painful slouch, and spots Craig. Gives him a pained little smile, like Dad’s trying to convince him he’s perfectly fine. The three of them make it just past the big lady in her plastic cage before Dad faints again.

People are talking, sirens are bleeping and police radios are crackling. The noise seems to be all around them. Still, when that first gunshot rings out, Tweek can hear it very well. Even though it clearly came from inside the bank, that bang echoes into the night. And he’s not the only one who’s heard it. All around him, people stop talking. Esther Stoley sways on her feet, and Mom’s hand tightens around Tweek’s fingers.
One sharp sound, followed by deadly silence. Tweek can see the chief of police, red hair backlit by car lamps so his whole head appears to glow in the night, turn to his second-in-command and open his mouth.
Before he can speak, a volley of gunfire bursts out from the bank. Tweek can feel his own throat start to close up, and tries to fight down the panic. Breathe, breathe. The lights of the cars all seem to swim in the night, merge into coloured patterns.
Token, still holding his other hand, briefly tightens his grip. Like he’s trying to tell Tweek, without telling him, that he’s still there.
The chief of police is shouting something now, but words have become meaningless. The man raises one arm, and then the officers in their riot gear all swarm towards the bank entrance. Two groups of three are carrying battering rams – modern ones, with handles and everything – and they go straight for the doors. The rest of them all fan out on either side, some holding up shields for themselves and one other officer, and some half-crouching behind those shields, cradling rifles.
This is all too much. Too real.
With a sound like the whole world being ripped in half, they break down the doors and burst through. At the same time, Tweek’s knees give way and he drops to the tarmac. It hurts, cuts his knees through his artfully shredded jeans, but he barely even feels it. The fear is stronger than the pain.

Chapter Text

Apparently collapsing in the middle of the floor lets you jump the queue. Especially since the guy with the beard and the bandaged hand turns out to be a genuine human being, and like, yells through the glass at the fat lady that he can wait. “Just get ol’ Gingernuts over there some help,” he goes on, and Mom’s head jerks up.
In spite of everything, or maybe because of everything, Craig starts to laugh. And not laughing is actually harder than you’d think, when you’ve just found your parents and your broken arm is throbbing so hard, he’s almost amazed there aren’t cracks forming in the cast.
Lots of people in white come running, and a couple of them sit Dad up, cut right though his sleeve with scissors and give him an injection right there on the floor. That’s pretty funny too, how Dad’s eyes just fly open and he lets out this huge gasp, like a vacuum cleaner in reverse.
A couple nurses make Craig sit down on one of the plastic chairs. Literally make him; dragging him over and pushing him until ass hits the seat. Until he finally stops laughing. One of them is male, tall, thin and pale. The other is female; short and square, with dark skin. There’s something vaguely familiar about her, but Craig’s got no chance in hell of remembering where he knows this lady from.
Everything is kind of a blur after that. He’s told, again and again, that his dad will be fine. Then Craig gets hustled into a smaller room, told to undress, and given a backless hospital gown to wear. He’s allowed to keep his shorts on though; that’s something at least. But he can’t trust these people – no way. They might be in league with the fakes; Craig can’t take any chances.
The male nurse – the tall guy – is the only one in here with him now. The woman left for Craig’s “privacy” as soon as he clumsily began to strip. Sitting on the edge of the narrow, paper-covered examining table, Craig slips his feet one by one into the thin, floppy flippers that came packaged with the gown.
This might be his chance.
The other nurse is probably waiting right outside the door, but it’s not like she’ll expect Craig to come out running. And he needs to find out if Dad really is okay. So Craig waits for the male nurse to wrench the door open – those things sure look heavy – and hold it open for Craig to duck under his arm as he walks out. Only, Craig’s not walking – he’s flying.
He quickly figures out the slippers, which start to curl up under his feet, are more of a hindrance than a help. Kicks them off while he runs, one sailing off to the right, one hitting the floor behind him. He can’t even remember which way he came here, which corridor they walked down, but away will be good enough for now. Get away, catch his breath, figure out where Dad’s been taken, and then…
Suddenly he gets tackled, grabbed from behind and wrenched to a painful stop. Angry voices telling him off, or maybe they sound more scared than angry? It doesn’t matter, nothing matters except that he’s been caught. And by the female nurse, no less – that lady is fast, even though she’s cube-shaped! She even holds him in place while her colleague puts the shitty floppies back on Craig’s feet.
While he’s frog-marched down the hall in his disposable slippers, Craig starts laughing again, even though he’s also freaking out pretty bad. He needs to find his parents, doesn’t know if he believes them when they say Dad’s going to be okay, for like the twelfth time.
The room they take him to is white, and contains a white machine with a long arm, positioned over an examining table that the lady waiting in there lowers at the touch of a button. She seems nice – her hair’s black, and piled up in a bun secured with a pink scrunchie that’s got Hello Kitty heads printed on it. That’s too goofy for anyone who’s in on his fake parents’ conspiracy, Craig decides. So he sits down on the bench like she asks him to, then lies down flat on it before it’s raised again, bringing him closer to that big camera-headed mechanical arm.
He was unconscious for his last X-rays so at least that part of it is vaguely interesting, though being told the two halves of that bone in his arm have been “displaced”… well, that sure puts a dent in an already pretty shitty day.
“We will have to cut the cast off, and give you an anaesthetic,” the X-ray lady begins, with what’s probably meant to be a reassuring smile, moving towards the white phone mounted on the wall. “Let me just call my colleague, and –”
“No way are you putting me under,” Craig yells, forgetting that he decided she could be trusted not two minutes ago.
“A local anaesthetic,” she continues, as calmly as if Craig hadn’t interrupted her at all. “You will still be conscious for it, you just won’t have to feel it. And the kidnappers won’t have a chance to get you back.” The X-ray lady looks right into Craig’s eyes when she says that last bit, and it just knocks the fight right out of him. “All right?”
“Kidnappers,” Craig says. Like it’s a foreign word. Like he’s some kind of idiot.
He realises that the female nurse, the one who tackled him like a pro wrestler just now, is stroking his hair. The way you might pet a skittish animal. “I believed them,” the nurse tells him, and Craig suddenly realises she’s choking back tears. “The kidnappers. When they told us you were their son, that you had amnesia.”
Incredulous, Craig turns his head, and now, now he finally recognises her. The nurse who woke him up after the car crash. “Wow,” he drawls, “Small hospital, huh?”
That surprises a laugh out of the nurse, before she can get any more mushy on him. Phew.
Getting his arm reset is no fun at all. Even with the anaesthetic, Craig can still feel some of it. At least they wash all the dead skin cells and gunk off his arm, before they put a whole new cast on there, but it all seems to take forever. By the time he’s allowed to leave and put his clothes back on, it’s starting to get dark outside.
After hopping on one foot to get his jeans on one-handed – his busted arm has been secured in a brand-new sling, and Craig is determined to be good this time, and not bang it around too much – he goes to look for Mom. Finds her in the waiting room, staring wide-eyed at the tiny TV that’s been hung up above the rows of chairs. It’s just her now, so at least that guy with the shirt must’ve finally got his hand looked at.
“Craig,” she says, standing up and holding her arms out. With nobody here except that troll in the glass cage, Craig doesn’t think twice about letting Mom hug him. “He’s still in surgery,” she says, and of course she’s talking about Dad. “But look.”
She points upwards, at the TV, and Craig suddenly realizes he’s looking at swirling red police lights, outside a veryy familiar building. “Looks like they did what they came here to do,” Mom says wearily, sinking back into her seat.
“Goddamn it,” Craig mutters, sinking into the seat next to her. He puts his good arm out, wraps it around Mom’s shoulders, and she leans into him with the weariest sigh in the world. But her head is still angled up, at that tiny TV. Like she’s compelled by guilt or something, and can’t look away. The words “BANK OF SOUTH PARK UNDER SIEGE BY ROBBERY GANG” scroll past along the bottom of the screen.
“None of this is your fault, Mom,” Craig mutters, and his mother stifles a sob.

“Shit! Cocksucking fuck!”
Tweek, who has been staring at the entrance of the bank ever since a small horde of police disappeared in there, swarming in like black ants, jumps and spins around. Lucky for him his throat is closed up too tightly to scream, but he does let go of Mom and Token to instinctively clap his hands over his own mouth anyway.
“Asshole, asshole, shit!” The swearing is coming from a tall, mousey-haired boy in black jeans and a jean jacket, which hangs open to reveal a grey T-shirt with the Bat-symbol on it. It’s the swearing, the DC comics shirt that sort of matches Craig’s Superman shirt – that and his face, which Tweek instantly recognizes. Thomas! Craig’s ex Thomas, who spent his entire Saturday sitting in Tweak Bros just to confirm that the Fakes really were fake, and who brought Craig that super fancy camera, too… And right behind Thomas, there’s a little old lady with greying red hair tied up in a bun, holding hands with a red-haired little girl. Didn’t Craig say something about his real dad having red hair? In their little group, Tweek spots a lady with the same mousy shade of brown hair as Thomas, and there’s Jimmy! Bringing up the read, and struggling against the throng of people on his crutches, while he scans the crowd for familiar faces.
“Jimmy,” Tweek hears himself shouting, “Jimmy, Thomas, over here!”
“Is Craig in there,” Thomas shouts, ducking under Lisa Berger’s arm to get to Tweek. “Fuckshit, fuckshit!”
“No, I… I don’t think so,” Tweek tells him. Because there’s no way, right? Craig is supposed to be miles away from here, looking for his real parents. Only they haven’t heard from him all day. And it’s not impossible, is it, not impossible if the Fakes managed to catch up with Craig that they dragged him along…
“Craig got out of the Fakes’ house last night,” Clyde cuts in, when he sees that Tweek’s frozen up. “Climbed over to my house on a plank, and then he left with Mysterion.”
“Mysterion,” the old lady demands, and Tweek instantly decides that this has got to be Craig’s grandma. “Who the hell is Mysterion?”
“He’s like this, uh, local superhero?” Clyde squirms under her very direct gaze.
“Oh, he’s very real,” Esther Stoley pipes up, snuggling deeper into Lisa’s embrace. “My stupid brother traded places with Craig, just because he worships that asshole. Mysterion, not Craig,” she clarifies, when Craig’s grandma raises her eyebrows.
“Right,” Token says, clapping his hands together and going into full Class Rep Mode, “If you would all allow me to explain…”
“So,” Thomas says, very quietly, as he sidles up next to Tweek, “Craig told you, right? His big secret. I mean,” he goes on, when Tweek can only stare at him, “Fuck! I can sort of tell. That you guys are together now.”
Tweek finds his voice at last. “Does it bother you,” he asks, carefully scanning the other boy’s face for any signs that yes, it most definitely does. But Thomas only shakes his head.
“It was unfair of me,” he says. “Cocksucker! Sorry. I mean, I gave Craig a really stupid ultimatum, when he told me they were moving. Told him we were over, unless he told his parents about… Well.”
Understanding starts to dawn, and Tweek starts to nod. “And he couldn’t. I get it now.” A sudden, crazy impulse makes him add, “You can’t have him back, though.” He smiles when he says it, to show Thomas that he’s kidding – except deep down, he really isn’t.
But all Thomas does is smile. “Don’t worry about me,” he says, for once completely without swearing, “All I want is for Craig to be okay.”

The bangs from the battering ram are louder than the gunfire. It makes the bank robbers stop firing at him – for now – and form a little huddle in front of their hostages.
Suddenly, armed cops explode into the banking room – that’swhat it’s called! – and to Mysterion, time seems to slow down. The riot police spread out, looking like oversized ants in their black armour, to form a half circle that blocks the front entrance off. Guns up and trained on the bank robbers, but not shooting. Not yet. Sounds and voices become a drawn-out buzz, making it harder to pick out single words. But, ducking out from behind his hiding place, he can see that the bank robbers – outnumbered! – are now forming a loose half circle of their own. Right in front of their hostages. All four of them are back in action now; the guy he knocked down is on his feet again. Swaying but steady, the man holds a handgun in each hand to replace the semiautomatic Mysterion took from him.
Now the man who was pretending to be Craig’s dad leans down towards the lone woman, talking rapidly while she nods. Impossible to hear what the guy’s saying, only the Texan twang to his speech that he’s stopped bothering to hide. And they’re too far away for Mysterion to try reading his lips.
The woman now breaks out of their row, stepping backwards into the kneeling group of hostages while the three men shield her from the cops.
The cops, Mysterion notices absently, are still not firing. That’s good. Meanwhile, the woman grabs Kevin Stoley by the collar of his T-shirt, forcing him to stand up straight so that for the first time, Mysterion can see that it has the cover of X-Men #1 printed on it. She yanks him to his feet; and even though Mysterion is a professional, his chest tightens, and he thinks, Not Kevin! But it’s actually a logical choice; she’s small and Kevin is skinny; probably the easiest hostage for her to drag along as a human shield. And yeah, that seems to be exactly what they’re doing, as the woman takes her place in the row again, only with Kevin now standing in front of her with the muzzle of semi-automatic between his shoulder blades.
“Fuck,” Mysterion whispers, very softly. It’s time to move out of his cosy hiding place and into a better position, he decides, while nobody’s paying attention to him. He’s not even sure if the cops have realized he’s here yet. That means Mysterion needs to be extra careful, so they don’t think he’s an accomplice and open fire on him. That’d be pretty stupid.
From behind his overturned desk, he weighs up his options – which are all pretty terrible. The hostages are all pressed up against the plywood wall with a poster stuck to it that’s got a picture of what looks like square hay bales on it, and the caption “WHERE YOUR DOLLARS MAKE CENTS”. Only way he can get any closer to the bank robbers is by crawling underneath the customer service hatches, hugging that wall in more or less plain sight, and jumping on the closest gun-toting asshole from the side. He’ll have to be fast, so Mysterion crouches, ready to make a dash for it.
Meanwhile it’s the Texan’s turn to choose a hostage next, and it’s like Mysterion already knows it’s going to be Mr Tweak. Of course it is. “Giddyup, coffee shop asshole,” he drawls, digging his free hand into Mr Tweak’s worn-out burgundy sweater and yanking, while he uses the tip of his automatic rifle to nudge the other man under his chin. Mysterion can see Mr Tweak’s Adam’s apple move as he swallows, before getting to his feet – completely without talking. Slowly, they make their way to the front of the hostage group, and Mysterion takes this as his cue to start crawling. He keeps his eyes on the two men though – he should be watching the other bank robbers, but Kenny will not let him look away – and that’s how he catches it. The quick flash of a satisfied grin on the Texan’s face, the way his fingers tighten around the wad of knitted fabric in his hand, before he shoves Mr Tweak right into the middle of the room and shouts, “Plan B!” Then he opens fire on the cops – using Mr Tweak to block their view of him.
Time seems to slow down for Mysterion. He sees the whole row of riot cops raise their rifles – uncoordinated in their sudden panic. He sees the look of real fear on Mr Tweak’s face as he stumbles right towards the tidal wave of gunfire that is only seconds away. And then, Kenny’s memories wash over him, take him over completely.
Mysterion sees Mr Tweak sneaking up behind his son, who’s just finished spinning Mrs Tweak around. Sees the look of boyish glee on the man’s face as he grabs his son and flips him upside down, shaking him so Tweek’s school supplies go spilling all over the floor. Catches the look on Mrs Tweak’s face – exasperated, but oh so fond – before she just gives up and laughs, while Tweek squirms in Mr Tweak’s grip like an angry cat. He also sees how, even though it only lasts for a fraction of a second, that when Mr Tweak finally flips his son the right way around and Tweek’s feet touch the ground, Tweek briefly leans into his father’s chest. And Mr Tweak rests his chin against the top of his son’s head, grinning. Tweek is rolling his eyes, but he’s smiling, too.
Mysterion suddenly knows that, if Mr Tweak dies, it would destroy his whole family. And he makes the choice without even thinking about it.
One leap takes him out from under the row of hatches; flings him right into Mr Tweak’s side, knocking the older man over. Mysterion registers the surprised “Oof!” even as the first bullet thuds into his side, shattering ribs. The next one hits his head, but it must’ve only been a glancing wound, because he can still think okay. He can still feel Mr Tweak breathing – panting like he’s run a mile – so that’s a good thing, Mysterion decides, as he takes a third bullet to the leg. The pain is there, it most definitely is – but it doesn’t seem real, not yet. And over their heads, bullets. Like fireworks on the Fourth of July.
Things are actually starting to hurt by the time it seems to be over. By then, the shooting has stopped, and black combat boots are all over the floor, which is where Mysterion’s vantage point is. Maybe he ought to try moving, only he’s not sure if he can, not right now. Not even sure he can hold on, keep control of Kenny’s body for much longer.
Someone flips him over on his back, cradling his head, and they’re being so careful that they can’t be part of the bank robbers’ crew. At least that’s reassuring.
“Mysterion?” Kevin Stoley’s voice, he realises. The kid is alive, and sounds like he’s about to cry. Forcing his eyes to focus, he can just make out two faces, hovering above him. One is Stoley, and his almond shaped eyes are all shiny, while his lips are bloody. He seems to realize this at the same time as Mysterion does, and clumsily wipes his mouth on the sleeve of Craig’s navy blue hoodie.
The other face belongs to Mr Tweak. “Mysterion, can you hear us,” he says, and he sounds so damn worried that Mysterion can feel his own eyes starting to well up.
Let me talk to him! Kenny’s thought, sudden and crystal clear, in the muddied confusion of Mysterion’s mind. Please! I have to apologize as myself, before it’s too late!
Too late for what? Mysterion’s not too sure of anything anymore, except that he’s losing his grip on this body now. On reality. And really, it’s fair enough. If they’re dying, which is starting to look more and more likely, it’s only fair that he lets Kenny have his day in the sun.
“My, my mask,” he mutters, pulling at the fabric. “Help me… take off…”
Kevin’s eyes widen. “Are, are you sure?” Like he wants to know whose face is under there, but is also afraid to find out.
“You’ve earned… the right to see my face,” Mysterion says, forcing the words out. “Kevin.” His hand finds the side of the other boy’s face, and weakly pats it. Thwap, thwap. “You did good, kid.” His hand suddenly feels so heavy, and Mysterion lets it drop. Barely feels it when it smacks into the floor.
“Relax, we’ve got this,” Mr Tweak is saying, carefully pulling the material over Mysterion’s eyes, then over the top of his head. The guy is trying to sound all cheerful, like he actually believes Mysterion’s going to be just fine after all this. “Nothing like a bit of fresh air on your face, eh?” And something slips, there’s no other word for it; he can feel the back of his own head coming loose. Only a hand moves in, too big to be Kevin’s hand, literally holding him in place. Things stop slipping. For now, anyway. But it’s suddenly so hard to keep his eyes open.
All yours, Kenny, Mysterion thinks, before he allows himself to fade away.
It’s Kenny who opens his eyes next, who feels the pain slam into him like the hardest punch in the world. Along with the knowledge that this is it. That time is running out. The unfairness of it all makes his eyes sting, but it’s the urgency of his guilt that forces his mouth open.
“Kenny,” Mr Tweak says, and he sounds so shocked. “Kenny, don’t… Don’t try to move, okay?”
“But I have to… Have to tell you…” Even moving his mouth is getting hard. Forcing the words out is almost impossible. But nothing else matters now, besides this. Besides saying… “I’m so sorry.”
Mr Tweak’s eyes widen. “Kenny, you saved my life, you don’t have to…”
“About Tweek,” Kenny insists, willing his tongue to shape the words right. “About the photos. I was just…” His eyes slip shut for a second, and one burning hot tear forces its way out, drawing its treacherous trail through the blood and dust on his face. “So damn jealous,” he whispers, because it has to be said. Now, at the end of everything. “And not…” he forces his eyes back open, it doesn’t even matter anymore that he’s crying, “Not just because I was in love with Craig, too. Because I always wished…” Eye contact has always been hard, and now his vision is going all blurry. But Kenny forces himself to look right into Mr Tweak’s eyes as he finally says it: “I always wished I’d had a dad like you.”
Mr Tweak is crying too, Kenny realizes. Crying over a useless piece of shit like him, as he pulls Kenny into his arms, tucking him against his chest. He can feel the point of Mr Tweak’s chin resting against the top of his head, the way he’s seen the man hug Tweek a hundred times. Grabbing his son from behind, because Tweek can never seem to stand still long enough for a hug, and sort of using the tip of his chin to pin Tweek into place. And now he gets that – him, Kenny, waste of space that he is. He is vaguely aware that someone – Kevin? Must be Kevin – is holding his hand, and saying his name. Not Mysterion, but Kenny. Kenny, Kenny, Kenny.
And he feels so safe, so snug, that it spite of everything, he has to smile.

Chapter Text

Craig and Mom get to sit with Dad, when the surgery is finally finished. They watch him slowly wake up from the anaesthetic, eyelids fluttering, hands twitching on top of the white sheets. Mom jumps to her feet, leaning over him. A chunk of her long, greasy hair is slipping out of the elastic tie one of the nurses gave her, and now it brushes against Dad’s cheek. Like a caress.
And it’s not like Craig’s afraid to move, or anything like that. It’s just… a lot, finally seeing his parents here, watching them act like themselves. Or maybe he just got so used to having his guard up with the fakes? Hell, even with his new friends, before they found out about him and Tweek.
“Laura,” Dad says, before he’s even opened his eyes properly. Like he’s used to being woken up by Mom’s hair tickling his face. He’s even smiling, sort of. “Laura, I had the most… fucked-up dream…”
“Shh,” Mom snaps, “Language, Thomas! Not in front of Craig.”
That sure gets Dad’s attention. “Craig’s here,” he says, suddenly wide awake and trying to sit up. It’s a bit scary, how little effort it takes Mom to push him back down into bed.
Craig realises he’s still sitting down, and clumsily gets up – he’s so damn tired, now that there’s nothing to run from anymore. “Hey Dad,” he says, almost shy. It’s weird, finally seeing his parents, he decides. After looking for so long, trying to prove that they were real. After almost starting to doubt that himself. Weird, but definitely in a good way. He puts his hand on top of Dad’s cold, sweaty hand, and has to smile. Yeah, definitely real. Dad flips his hand over, and Craig can’t remember the last time he held his father’s hand.
By now, Mom’s found that doohickey that raises the hospital bed, and without even thinking about it, Craig leans over and rests his own forehead against Dad’s clammy forehead. They’ve never been touchy-feely like this. Like, the craziest it will get has always been Tricia insisting to watch TV snuggled up under Dad’s arm. And then Craig usually drops some sarcastic remark about how Tricia’s gone to tuck herself into Dad’s armpit again, which of course gets his sister to flip him off. But now, he doesn’t feel the need to say anything at all. Dad smells awful, like stale sweat and illness and, weirdly, like onions. But underneath all that, he also smells like himself. Like safety.
Even though he normally only does this for Tricia, Dad reaches up – there’s a tube sticking out of his right hand – and weakly musses Craig’s hair. “Good to have you back,” Dad says, and the relief in his voice sounds so bone deep that Craig almost chokes. “Did they… do anything to you? Hurt you, or…?”
Craig’s got a pretty clear idea of what it is Dad can’t make himself ask. “God, no,” he exclaims, jerking back into an upright position. “Nothing like that! And I broke my arm when we crashed,” he adds just to be on the safe side.
Dad’s sigh of relief is so huge, it’s like watching the air fizzle out of a balloon. Meanwhile, Mom slips her arm around Craig’s waist, and for once, he doesn’t even think about pulling away. In fact, he leans into her a little, and it’s a little sad and embarrassing how surprised Mom looks. Craig’s aware that he wasn’t exactly great company before they left Denver, but…
“Wait a second,” he says, holding his mother out at arm’s length. “Did I fucking grow?!”
“Craig,” Mom exclaims, “Don’t say–”
“Am I fucking taller than Mom now?!”
“You were taller than her long before we left Denver,” Dad wheezes, coughing a bit before he can keep talking. “Took you this long to notice, huh? Oh, and don’t fucking swear,” he adds, with a little smirk.
“Thomas…!”
Three sharp raps on the door, and then Mr Adler pokes his head around it. “Hey there,” he says, and his smile may be sort of stiff, but his voice is warm. “Glad to see you’re feeling better, Mr Tucker. You two mind if I borrow Craig for just a minute?”
“I…” Mom is clearly not in love with the idea. “We only just got our son back…”
“C’mon, Mom,” Craig says, rolling his eyes. “I’ll stand right in front of the glass, okay?” He points the window mounted in the door. He does kind of get why Mom would feel like this, because if he’s being completely honest? Craig also feels wrong about not sticking to his parents like glue. Now that he’s finally found them and all. “Mr Adler saved all our asses, remember?”
“Of course I do,” Mom says, and now she has to smile. “Just… stand in front of the glass, okay? And don’t say ass,” she adds.
From the bed, Dad snorts.

When the heavy hospital door slips shut behind Craig, it’s almost a relief to be outside. To have this chance to get his emotions back under control. “Sir,” he says to Mr Adler, “Thank you so much.”
Mr Adler puts one hand on Craig’s shoulder, then pops two pieces of gum into his mouth with the other. “Nicotine gum,” he explains, with a dry little smile, “Or I’d offer you some. But Craig…” Out comes his wallet, and for one awful second, Craig thinks Mr Adler is going to offer him money. Like he could smell how broke Mom and Dad are, even underneath the stink of onion and man-sweat. But instead, Mr Adler pulls out a photo and wordlessly hands it to him.
“Oh,” Craig says, completely thrown for a second. He’d actually managed to forget that this happened to him, too. He can’t remember seeing this one either; and it’s weird to see himself like this – holding Tweek’s face between his hands, their lips still locked. His own eyes are closed, but Tweek’s are wide open, and that gentle look on his face – the look Tweek must have got just from looking at him! At boring old Craig! – is almost religious, or something.
“This came sailing in under the staff room door,” Mr Adler is saying, “Before all the hoo-hah started up yesterday. Figured I’d keep it safe for you.”
“Thanks,” Craig says again, like a total idiot. But it’s not like words can convey what this photo suddenly means to him, and maybe Mr Adler gets that.
“Your parents haven’t met the school staff yet,” Mr Adler goes on. “They’ve got the treat that is Miss Garrison saved up for later.”
That pulls a snort out of Craig, though he chokes on it when Mr Adler keeps talking, “But you probably know what the first thing she’ll bring up with your parents is? So right now…” Craig can’t actually look at Mr Adler’s face anymore, so he drops his gaze to the man’s knitted vest. He’s wearing a different one, Craig realizes. This one is all warm colours, reds, oranges and pinks. And of course it’s full of mistakes, even little lumps in the yarn. “Right now, Craig,” Mr Adler goes on, “You still have the chance to tell them yourself. To control how they find out. And that’s a good thing, you hear?”
At first, Craig can only nod. “That’s…” he swallows, and finds his voice on the second try, “That’s pretty good advice. I might just do that.”
“No time like the present, kid,” Mr Adler agrees, and now he pats Craig on the back. “Off you go, now.” The back pats turn into a gentle push.
Craig knows that, if he says thanks one more time, or even smiles too wide, he’s going to cry. So he settles for a nod and a stiff-lipped grimace, before he forces his own feet to take him back in there. No need to say goodbye to his teacher, no need to say anything else. Just get this done, before he loses his nerve.
“Mom, Dad,” he says, hating how squeaky he suddenly sounds. Behind him, the door heavy thumps gently shut. They’ve been talking, heads close together, and they both twist around to look at him.
“Craig, what’s wrong,” Mom says, immediately standing up.
Goddamn it.
Craig goes on autopilot, his voice rising defensively as he snaps, “There’s nothing’s wrong with me!”
Mom flinches, and Craig instantly hates himself. Shit, why does this have to be so hard?
“Sorry, Mom, I know you didn’t mean it like that.”
She comes over and hugs him, and Craig lets her. In a weird way, it even kind of helps?
“It’s just that, that I have to…” he bites his lip. Ah, to hell with it. “Remember that huge fight I had with Thomas?”
“Because he friend-dumped you,” Mom says, like she thinks she’s filling in the blanks.
Craig shakes his head. “No, ah, he…” He takes a deep breath. “He just straight up dumped me. Because Thomas was my boyfriend. Because I’m –”
That’s as a far as Craig gets, before Mom flings her arms around him again and hugs him even tighter. “Oh Craig, so that was why,” she says, before she kisses his cheek – and then, when Craig jerks back in shock, her next kiss hits his ear. “You know we love you regardless,” Mom tells him, very firmly. “You do know that, right?”
“Well, that explains a few things,” Dad drawls hoarsely, from over there on the bed. “And here I thought you were just too much of a nerd to get a girlfriend.” He’s smiling when he says it. Holding his arms open. Craig doesn’t even realise he’s running before he’s crossed the floor, and is sobbing into Dad’s smelly hospital robe. And Dad’s arms, wrapped securely around him, don’t really seem that weak at all.

Suddenly, it all seems to be over. After the volley of gunfire from inside the bank, after the silence that was even worse than the gunfire, people are starting to come out of there. Some running, almost tripping over each other. Some walking more slowly, like sleepwalkers.
“Do you think,” Mom says, without finishing the sentence. She gives Tweek this terrible, hopeful look that makes him want to scream. Because how’s he supposed to know what happened in there? How’s he supposed to know if Dad’s alive or not?!
Clyde, Token and Thomas are all standing there, scanning the crowd because they’re all so much taller; gah! Clyde craning his neck, while Token – who’s dug his reading glasses out for extra focus – is sort of shading his eyes with his hand. Maybe that helps with focus, too. Thomas is twitching and muttering a quiet stream of swearwords, “Shitfuck, fuckshit, cumfuck, shitcum…” Under any other circumstances, it might even be funny.
“Tweek,” Jimmy says, and he sounds so damn weary. He’s leaning against the side of a nearby car, balanced on his right leg while he pushes both crutches into the ground with the other. Tweek knows Jimmy’s right leg is the worst one; maybe it’s cramping up now. A wave of guilt suddenly washes over him – Jimmy’s been all the way to Denver, and done who knows how much walking to track down Thomas and Craig’s grandma and sister.
“Yeah?” Tweek does his best to smile, knowing full well that asking Jimmy if he needs to sit down – hell, lie down somewhere, is only going to piss Jimmy off.
“You c-c-can see b-better if you c-climb on a c-c-car,” Jimmy suggests, wagging one eyebrow.
That’s actually a fantastic idea. Tweek scrambles up on the hood of the same car Jimmy’s learning against. He barely even hears the alarm he sets off, or Thomas’ burst of startled swearing.
The seconds stretch out into agonising little forevers while he scans the crowd for curly red-brown hair, but then, then…!
“Mom, over there,” Tweek yells, bounding off the car and grabbing Mom’s wrist. He drags her through the crowd behind him, and his mother leaves a breathless trail of “sorries” and “excuse-me’s” in their wake. She always keeps her nails short, for food hygiene reasons, but they still dig into Tweek’s palm so hard that it almost hurts.
But then they’re finally at the front steps of the bank, and there’s Dad, gently leading Kevin Stoley out by the elbow – the way you’d guide a sleepwalker. Dad’s sweater, his favorite sweater, is covered in blood. Blood and other bits of human being, Tweek swears he can see white chips of bone wedged into the knit as well. But that can’t be…? Can it? Dad’s walking perfectly well, so all that gunk can’t be his, it can’t be!
Tweek is suddenly, weirdly, aware that his hands have gone all numb. Numb and icy.
“Richie,” Mom says, and she sounds so afraid.
“Oh,” Dad looks down his own front, and is clearly surprised. “Oh, I didn’t realise… This isn’t mine. Wait, I…” He lets go of Kevin so he can slip their banking backpack off his shoulders. Dad passes it to Mom, who’s so surprised she almost drops it. Seems all the cash from today must still be in there! Losing a whole day’s takings would not have been great, not that Tweek would have cared about that, if Dad…
Meanwhile Kevin just stands there, unmoving, like somebody just plopped a shop dummy down in the middle of the street. He’s also covered in gore, but that doesn’t stop Esther from literally slamming into him, bawling like a little kid while she clings to her twin. Their parents are right behind her, and Mrs Stoley immediately starts fussing over Kevin. Wiping the blood from his lips with a Kleenex, putting her hand on his forehead like she’s feeling for a temperature. All while keeping up a rapid-fire barrage of Cantonese, because of course at a time like this, Tweek would actually remember that their “secret language”, as Clyde has always called it, is called Cantonese and not just Chinese.
“What’s wrong with him?” Mr Stoley is standing at the edge of his little family group, like he’s afraid to get too close. Watching his wife and daughter hug his son, eyes locked on Kevin’s expressionless face.
“I think he’s in shock,” Dad says, reaching over to grab Mr Stoley’s arm for a second. “The two of us sat with Mysterion when he died,” he tells the other man, and Mr Stoley’s eyes widen.
Tweek can feel his own mouth slipping open. Mysterion’s dead? He always seemed, well… bulletproof. Not that Tweek ever met him – Dad’s the only one in their family lucky enough to have had a chat with Mysterion – but he’s seen Mysterion at a distance more than once. Since Tweak Bros is so close to SODOSOPA, it seemed to be on Mysterion’s patrol route, so Tweek’s seen him dashing across the parking lot, even squatting on the coffee shop’s roof a few times. He’s pretty sure Mysterion was the main reason all the crack-heads stopped harassing their customers for loose change, too.
“Oh God,” Mr Stoley whispers, clearly getting the significance of that. He’s one of those dads who are proud of everything their kids do, so Tweek figures Mr Stoley must’ve read every last issue of Kevin’s Mysterion comic.
Now Dad’s let go of Mr Stoley, and is starting the careful process of actually pulling the bloodied sweater over his head, without smearing his own face with, with...
“Let me help you, Dad,” Tweek says – and it’s so weird that it this, not “I’m sorry told you to go die”, should be the first thing he says to Dad. After everything that’s happened.
“Here.” A plastic bag suddenly appears at his elbow – a crinkled-up white bag with, of all things, a big yellow smiley face printed in the middle of it. The words “THANK YOU” are curved tastefully over the top of the yellow head, kind of like hair.
“Uh?” Tweek turns and sees Mrs Stoley holding the thing out to him.
“I always carry spare plastic bag,” the twins’ mom tells him matter-of-factly, in her clipped accent.
“Thank you,” Tweek says, before an insane giggle bursts out of his mouth as he realizes he’s saying the same thing that’s written on the bag. Meanwhile, Dad’s inching the back of the collar over his head, and Mom – now wearing the backpack – is pulling on his left sleeve, up by the elbow. So Tweek decides to pull on the right sleeve, and they end up turning Dad’s sweater inside out. Tweek’s grateful for that when he catches it with the bag; the plastic is thin and this way he doesn’t have to feel any of the… bits.
“Okay,” Dad says, though he almost has to shout to be heard over Esther’s relieved sobs, “Now?”
While his parents hug and share a desperate kiss, Tweek ties the handles into a very firm knot. We’ll probably need scissors to open this, he thinks, but then Dad pulls him into their hug too, and the bag drops to the ground.
Dad’s breathing like he’s run a mile, one arm around each of them, and somehow Tweek is the only one crying? He thought for sure it’d be Mom, but she’s still holding it together somehow! Tweek wants to tell Dad how sorry he is, about that stupid thing he said back at the coffee shop when everything was normal. It’s just impossible to form words with his tongue, and it’s so embarrassing all of a sudden, but he can’t stop. Mom’s hand is on his back, rubbing soothing circles, while Dad rubs his chin against the top of Tweek’s head and just holds on to him, almost like he’s using Tweek to prop himself up. Meanwhile, if Tweek wants to continue breathing, he’s got no choice but to rub his nose against Dad’s T-shirt, to get some of the snot off. It’s the Free Tibet shirt, he notices, like there’s another part of his brain analysing and cataloguing things like that. It’s ancient, just like that sweater he just helped Dad get off. Ancient and soft from being washed like, a thousand times.
Then suddenly, the bark of an ambulance siren cuts through the air, makes all three of them jerk their heads up from their little huddle. Watching the siren slowly spin, briefly colouring the faces and the clothes of whoever’s standing too close to it red. It backs up as close to the bank’s entrance as it can get… It’s like being nine years old again. Two orderlies hurry inside with a gurney, now that the hostages have all come out, and Tweek suddenly remembers how Dad’s sweater was covered in gore.
“Is that,” Mom begins, when they bring out the covered-up body a few minutes later. But she can’t seem to make herself finish that sentence.
“Mysterion?” Dad’s voice is thick with sadness. “It must be. Far as I could tell, he was the only one who…” Dad’s voice trails off, while Mom reaches up to run her fingers through his hair.
They’re bringing the gurney out now, with a body on it. Covered in a white sheet, only the sheet appears to be slowly getting soaked through with red, little patches slowly merging into bigger patches. Then the orderlies kick the wheels off the gurney and slide it the ambulance. Such a practiced motion, like bakers sliding a tray into an oven.
“Was it,” Tweek has to stop, and swallow, “Was it someone we know? Knew,” he corrects himself, feeling like an asshole. “Did you see his face, Dad?”
“I…” Dad’s eyes flicker across the people around them, and Tweek can see how the Nerd Squad are pushing through the crowd. They’re getting awfully close. “Don’t… say anything.” Dad’s voice is barely above a whisper, soft enough that only Tweek and Mom seem to hear. “But it was Kenny.”
For a second, Tweek almost loses his footing. “Kenny’s dead,” he says, at the same time Mom says, “Was that why he brought a gun to work?”
“It must have been,” Dad says, and he sounds so damn weary. “And yeah. I had to identify his body. That’s why it took so long. It’s not, ah…” Dad tips his head back staring up at the nearest streetlamp, and Tweek realises he’s trying not to cry. “It’s not every day I old a dying teenager in my arms.”

Dad’s in no shape to drive, and Mom’s ready to just leave the Datsun parked outside the bank overnight. “It’s the safest place right now,” she’s saying, absently adjusting the straps of the backpack to make it fit her. “Nobody’s going to try stealing it, or even break into it, with all the police still working here!”
Tweek’s got to admit Mom has a point. So does Dad, but… “I still don’t like it,” he says, shivering a little in his T-shirt. It’s already dark, and the night air must be cold on his bare arms. “We don’t even know if there’ll be any taxis left, once this lot clears off.” He makes a sweeping gesture over the crowd of hugging, shell-shocked people around them. Tweek suddenly spots Token, piggybacking Jimmy, and raises his arm in a wave. “That’s if we can even get to a payphone,” Dad goes on. “And how are we supposed to open on time tomorrow, if we’ve got to rely on the bus?”
Mom makes a sound that’s almost a growl. “If you think I’m letting you open tomorrow, after all of this…?” She waves her free hand – the one that’s not encased in Dad’s left hand – at the parking lot in general, but of course they both know what she means. “I’m not even sure if I’m up for that!”
“Excuse me?” Both his parents’ heads snap around in perfect synch, to stare at the little old lady who’s approached them. She’s got red hair streaked with grey, tied up in a bun, and there’s a little red-haired girl pressed against her side. Emotions have turned his brain to mush, but Tweek could swear he knows who this lady is. “I still have my license, and I’d be happy to drive you all home if you give me directions. Beatrice Tucker,” she adds, holding her hand out. “It seems you know my grandson, Craig?”
“Mrs Tucker,” Tweek yells, sliding out from under Dad’s arm so he can give the very startled old lady a hug. “Oh holy balls, am I glad to see you!” Then he realises he’s gone and hugged a total stranger, in public, and immediately lets her go. “Sorry, I, eh…”
Sharp little eyes drill into him from behind her round glasses. “Is Craig your boyfriend,” Mrs Tucker asks, and Tweek just about spits his soul out. But the way she talks – so direct, no thoughts spared for silly things like consequences, or other peoples’ feelings – reminds Tweek so much of Craig, and that’s weirdly comforting right now.
That question seems to take her granddaughter by surprise as well; the little girl’s mouth forms a big “O” but she doesn’t say a word.
“How,” Tweek croaks, “How did you…”
“I held him when he was born,” Mrs Tucker says, and now she’s smiling a little. “I watched him grow up. Of course I could tell. Even before his so-called best friend entered the picture.”
“Thomas!” Tweek can’t believe he’s forgotten all about Thomas! “Where is he, and was that his mom? Are they okay?”
“They’ve gone with that boy Clyde,” Craig’s grandma says, “And his father, who was making all sorts of noises about the trouble he was in.”
“Oh, that whole plank thing,” Tweek groans, smacking his palm into his forehead. Yeah, it makes sense for Clyde’s dad to get pissed about that. No wonder he didn’t spot Clyde earlier, with Token and Jimmy.
As if thinking about them has summoned his friends, Token suddenly staggers right in front of Tweek, panting. Jimmy’s clinging to him and looking embarrassed, one crutch held in each hand. Token’s strong, but Tweek’s guessing Jimmy outweighs him by now. Back in the day, even Tweek used to take his turn piggybacking Jimmy, but he’s grown taller and filled out now, so Clyde’s normally the one who ends up playing horse.
“Mr Tweak,” Token wheezes, “I’m so glad you’re okay!”
“W-w-we saw you c-come outside,” Jimmy chimes in, sliding down from Token’s back and quickly finding his balance. “And w-we d-d-didn’t w-w-want to in-in-in…” His brows are knotting together with effort, but that one word isn’t coming out now. “Disturb you g-guys,” he says at last, giving up.
Tweek throws his arms around Jimmy for a second; not to steady him but because Jimmy endured the humiliation of being carried for his sake. “Thanks, dude,” he says, trusting that Jimmy’ll know he’s say thanks for coming, thanks for sticking around… thanks for all of it.
“My parents are here now,” Token says, wincing as he rolls his right shoulder, “And they only took Mom’s car, so my dad says he can drive you all home if…”
“Oh, dude!” Tweek hugs Token so hard that he accidentally picks him up. He doesn’t even realise, until he hears Dad’s warm, familiar laugh. While he’s putting Token back down, and apologising for being such a dork, a piping voice suddenly says, “But why would you date Craig? He’s such a fuckboy!”
Tweek just about swallows his own tongue in shock.
“Tricia,” Mrs Tucker snaps, “Language!”
“Sorry, Grandma,” Tricia says, twirling one of her braids through her fingers. Tweek suddenly notices how they’ve both been secured with elastics that have a plastic My Little Pony character attached to them – one pink, one purple. How old did Craig even say his little sister was? “Sorry,” she says again, suddenly looking up, and straight into Tweek’s eyes. “But you seem really cool. And my brother is such a looser. And a total fuckboy,” she adds, with a quick, cheeky smile.
“Tricia!”

Chapter Text

Apparently South Park doesn’t really have hotels. Not downtown, anyway. Chalk it down to the place being a shithole, Craig supposes, but he and Mom will have to go all the way out to the airport to stay at the Hilton. After all, they can’t very well sleep on the floor of Dad’s hospital room. Dad’s being kept for observation, and Craig knows Mom is hoping it’ll only be for the one night.
“There’s this burning smell,” she jokes, as she’s about to put her credit card back inside her wallet. She makes a show of sniffing her card, then blowing on it, while the hotel receptionist looks to the side and rolls his eyes.
But Craig surprises himself by actually finding it funny.
“Here are your key cards, ma’am, sir,” the receptionist says, sliding a little cardboard folder with “543” scribbled on it across the front desk. “You’ll find your twin room on the fifth floor. Please use one of the key cards to activate the elevator.” He’s not a bad looking guy – Hispanic, maybe college age, probably doing the graveyard shift at this hotel so he can read. Craig spots a big, chunky book full of study tabs sticking out from underneath the reception desk’s built-in shelf, though he can’t see the title or anything like that. This guy clearly has no time for their shit. He doesn’t even comment on how they literally have no luggage, only the clothes they’re wearing – and with the exception of that jacket Craig inherited from Clyde, those aren’t exactly clean. Mom’s wearing it now, draped over her shoulders. Because of how much she’d shivered while they were waiting for a taxi, Craig had just draped the thing over her as best he could with one usable arm, and refused to take it back.
“Come on, Craig,” Mom says, sweeping up the key cards and heading for the row of elevators. Craig trots after her, and is suddenly, weirdly, reminded of when he was little and would stop to pet someone’s dog or examine a cool-looking snail while Mom was trying to get him to Kindergarten. Eventually Mom would get fed up, and pretend to walk away – “Okay, bye Craig,” she’d say, and Craig would always run after her with a yowl. He’s not even sure if he ever thought Mom really would leave him behind, or if he was annoyed that she was forcing him to stop whatever he was doing.
“I need to get hold of Tweek,” he tells her, easily catching up to Mom. There’s another couple of people waiting there, probably another mother-son combo. Both of them have the same mousy brown hair, and overnight bags slung over one shoulder.
When the other boy hears Tweek’s name, he abruptly turns around to stare at Craig… and it’s Thomas. Of all the insane things that have been happening here, Craig suddenly feels like this is the craziest. The worst. Or wait, maybe not the worst…
“Craig,” Thomas says, for once with no swearing or twitching. The two of them look at each other for what feels like forever.
“Hey,” Craig says, and tries to smile. All the times he used to imagine seeing Thomas again, he’d think about all the stuff he wanted to say. Shout, maybe. But here, face to face with the real deal, his internal organs have turned into spaghetti and a lame little “hey” is about all he can manage.
For a second, there’s a shaky little smile on Thomas’ face, and then he throws his arms around Craig. “You got away from them,” he sighs, with what sounds like bone-deep relief. No need to ask who Thomas means by that. “Cocksucker!” he suddenly screams, right next to Craig’s ear. He’s kind of squishing Craig’s broken arm too, but Craig can live with that. “I’m so sorry,” he finally says, and just for a second, he rests his head against Craig’s breastbone. The way he did so many times, before.
Meanwhile, they’re moms are exclaiming each-others’ names – “Laura?” “Susan!” – and Thomas’ mom even hugs Mom in spite of how she hasn’t had a bath in like a week. Turns out they are on the fifth floor too; just a short corridor away from Craig and Mom in room 527.
On the short ride up there, Thomas quickly fills them in. “We were actually outside the bank, shit! And it was intense, Tweek’s dad was one of the hostages, you know? Motherfucker!”
Craig feels his mouth sliding open. “Oh no,” he whispers, feeling suddenly dizzy. If Tweek’s dad got hurt because of him…
“But he’s fine, cum! Cumbucket! Sorry, Mrs Tucker!” Thomas turns to Mom, blushing like crazy, but Mom just waves it away. “Yeah, so they got all the hostages out, and they arrested the whole gang that was shit! Shit, shit, shit, doing the robbery, and fuckshit! Fuck, fuck, sorry! The only one who got killed was that vigilante guy,” Thomas frowns, “Uh, Hyperion?”
Craig has to close his eyes for a second. “Mysterion,” he says. He remembers pale blue eyes like faded blue jeans, a secret tunnel accessed through a washing machine. That superior voice telling him he could have one punch for free – hah! Like Mysterion had thought Craig wouldn’t be able to go through with it. And he remembers Kenny’s big hand holding Karen’s little hand. Kenny wrapping one of his blankets around her, when they’d hidden out in his room and shared all that stuff Clyde had put in Craig’s pockets. Doritos and lemon bars, and hot cocoa sipped from chapped mugs. God damn it, how is Craig supposed to feel now?!
“Well,” Thomas’ mom says, and her voice is so cheerful that it’s honestly jarring, “I’m just glad the two of you are okay. And that your husband is going to be okay,” she adds, reaching out to give Mom’s arm a little squeeze.
“Your grandma was driving Tweek’s family home, by the way,” Thomas suddenly says, tilting his head and peering up into Craig’s eyes. Like he’s worried or something. “So if you’ve got their number, cocksucker! Fuckbitch! Sorry, but maybe you guys can catch her and Tricia at their house? Shit!”
Craig eyes Thomas warily. That is a good idea, but Thomas must have worked it out by now, right? How he and Tweek are, well, what they are? And here he is, basically telling Craig to go call Tweek…
“That’s a great idea, Thomas,” Mom says, “Craig? Why don’t you hit the phone book while I hit the shower?”
Craig grunts his agreement. “Can’t be that many people here named Tweak,” he mutters. This whole thing is so weird and awful and good at the same time. He and Thomas are having a normal conversation, and just being done without having to hate one another. That sure beats burning stuff out of his window or chucking his Superman shirt in the trash.
“I’ll pop by when you’ve had a chance to clean up,” Thomas’ mom says as the doors ding open, “And see if I’ve got anything you can wear.” Mom’s a lot taller than her, so that’s kind of fair.
“God, even just clean underwear would be amazing,” Mom says longingly.
“Fuckshit cock,” Thomas suddenly blurts out, then adds, “I’ll… see you around, maybe?” He sounds almost shy, like he’d totally get it if Craig never wants to see him again.
“Yeah, I…” Craig swallows. What the hell, he might as well just say it. “When I’ve talked to my boyfriend, okay? We could see what’s on the news or something. About the bank robbery,” he finishes lamely.
“I, uh, I figured.” Thomas’ smile is a little wider this time, a little more confident. “Cockfucker, sorry! Tell him I said hi, okay? Mothershitter!”
While Thomas is busy apologising, Craig nods. He feels like a million pounds lighter, all of a sudden. “Sure,” he says, like this is no big deal at all, “I can do that.”

“There,” Mom says, leaning past Dad, who is riding shotgun, to point. “The, ah, sort of burgundy house with the little fir trees out front?”
Mrs Tucker snorts. “How stoned were you, to paint it that shade of purple?”
Next to Tweek, who’s got the middle seat because Tricia had said sitting in the middle makes her carsick, Mom squirms. “It was more, ah, the guy we hired to paint it who got stoned. We showed him the color chart and what we wanted, but I guess we shouldn’t have gone on holiday before he’d at least mixed the paint…” It was, of course, Stuart McCormick who had painted their house purple. Probably with Kenny and Kevin being forced to help out. After all, Tweek’s parents had just shut the coffee shop for the two weeks they’d be away.
Tweek will never forget the first time he saw it – well, when they all saw it. Dad had slammed on the breaks in the middle of the road and started swearing. At least they’d been driving home early in the morning so there were no other cars there to rear-end them or whatever. So they’d all gone outside to stare at the monstrosity their house had become, the bang of the car doors sounding impossibly loud in the morning silence. Mom had been shocked speechless, and Tweek had thought she was going to cry. Dad had seen it too, so he’d stopped swearing, put his arm around Mom’s shoulders, and said, “Well, at least it’s the same color as the crown chakra.” Then she’d laughed instead.
“Sahasrara purple,” Tweek says now, giving Mom a little nudge with his elbow. She rewards him with a tiny, distracted smile. Tweek knows exactly why she’s so worried; Dad seems to just have gone on “pause” up front in the passenger seat.
Tweek suddenly realises that Tricia is watching him again. Staring at him. They still haven’t figured out where Craig went, because the last time any of Tweek’s friends saw him was when Clyde watched Craig leave the Donovans’ house with Mysterion. Mysterion-who-was-Kenny, who is now dead. Tweek can’t even explain why he feels guilty about that. Because he didn’t realise his tarot reading was about Dad being taken hostage during a bank robbery? It’s not literal fortune telling, Tweek’s said that himself so many times, and how was he ever going to guess it meant that, right?
Almost as if he can read Tweek’s mind, Dad finally stirs. “He was still wearing the pager, you know,” he says. “Kenny. That orange pager I got him, underneath the… outfit.”
“I guess he didn’t get a lot of presents,” Tweek mutters, and instantly feels like that’s a lame response. But Dad actually reaches through the empty space between the front seats to give Tweek’s knee a quick squeeze. And he looks weirdly relieved, almost like Tweek’s just… absolved him of something. So maybe that was actually the right thing to say?
“Do you three mind,” Mrs Tucker asks, while she easily reverses the Datsun up their driveway, “If Tricia and I come inside for a second? I’d really like to borrow the phone, see if I can track down that grandson of mine.”
“Of course,” Mom is saying, “That’s the least we could do, after you drove us all this way! Are you two hungry? Tweek and I can fix you something,” she pops the side door open, and carefully steps outside. Wobbling on her low-heeled ankle boots, like she’s still not quite steady on her feet. Tweek sure knows the feeling. He almost can’t believe it, like it’s too good to be true, that Dad actually made it out of the bank in one piece.

Dad leaves his shoes in the hallway and takes the stairs two at a time in his haste to get in the shower. There’s no singing this time, just the hiss of the water from upstairs. Mom puts on the blue cleaning gloves to carry all his clothes downstairs to the laundry room. She throws everything except his shoes into the washing machine, while she’s still wearing her own shoes and jacket. The sweater goes in there too, upended from its smiley face bag after Mom just rips a hole in the plastic. Even from the top of the stairs Tweek thinks he can smell it – a sour and metallic sort of smell. The smell of Kenny’s insides.
“Uh,” he says, suddenly realising that it’s up to him to play host now, “Can I take your coats? Are you hungry?”
“Strangely, yes,” Craig’s grandma tells him, like she’s surprised to hear herself say it.
“Do you have like, fries or something,” Tricia asks hopefully.
Tweek smiles. “I’ll see what I can do,” he promises. He knows full well they’ve got a brand new bag of sweet potato fries in from Costco – big enough to take up almost a whole freezer drawer. “There’s another phone in the living room,” he adds, when he sees Mrs Tucker eyeing the old grey rotary phone on the table underneath the hallway mirror. There’s nowhere to sit out here, unless you count the shoe bench, which looks just as uncomfortable as it is. And Mrs Tucker must be so tired.
“That’d be great, thanks,” the little old lady tells him, disappearing into their living room with Tricia trailing after her.
Out of habit, Tweek goes and puts some coffee on. The smells, the movements, it’s all familiar and soothing. His stomach spasms, and Tweek realises he can’t even remember the last time he ate. So after he’s dug out those thick cut sweet potato fries, he takes out the brand new tub of vanilla Hagen-Daz, too. There are some ultimate combos in this world, and one of those is sweet potato fries and a vanilla milkshake. Mom can be talked into making that every now and then; she’s just as nuts about this combo as Tweek is, and she makes a crazy good milkshake with the food processor. And then there’s coffee with ice cream – that’s one of Dad’s not-so-secret ultimate combos. It’s warm enough out that those are still on the menu at Tweak Bros; where they make them with ready-made whipped cream from a can. Tweek’s never thought the whipped cream was necessary, they don’t have any at home, anyway. So now the idea’s hit him that maybe sweet potato fries and coffee with ice cream could be like, the natural evolution of both those combos. Like if a Spinosaurus had mated with a T-rex – not that those two even lived in the same eras; Tweek remembers that much from his dinosaur phase. OR he can make both, he decides – Tricia’s more likely to want a milkshake, after all.
He growls quietly while he tosses the fries, already sprinkled with paprika, into the oven. Grabs the full-fat milk from the fridge door and drags the food processor out from behind the Crockpot. You literally only need milk and ice cream to make milkshakes, and Tweek’s watched Mom do this a million times. He’s kind of getting into the zone, the cooking zone, and tuning out everything else – and that feels nice. To give his racing thoughts a break, and focus on the practical stuff, rather than going nuts wondering where Craig might be. Why he hasn’t seen Craig, or heard from him. Just mixing and pouring and stopping every now and then to check on the small mountain of fries he’s cooking. Checking the fridge to make double sure that yes, they do have a squeezy tube of mayonnaise in there; because nothing goes better with sweet potato fries than mayonnaise. Well, except for vanilla milkshakes, but duh.
That’s when the phone rings, and Tweek spills milk all over the kitchen counter. “Gah! Oh Jesus!”
Mrs Tucker must have answered it, because it never did have time to ring more than once. Tweek figures the old lady must have hung up and kept right on making her own calls, because nobody comes to get him or anything. So he wipes up the milk, and luckily he didn’t even spill that much, and gets back to work.
Mom comes up from the laundry room a few minutes later, and peers over his shoulder. “Want any help, kiddo?”
“Uh, yeah, actually – could you check on the fries again?”
Mom opens the oven door, and starts to laugh. “Your father said that bag would last us a month,” she giggles, spearing a single fry on the edge of a fork and blowing on it. Tweek can practically smell the relief on her, like she’s almost looking forward to Dad complaining about Tweek using the fries up.
“I’m making vanilla milkshakes too,” Tweek tells her, while Mom’s biting into the fry, “But I saved a little ice cream, to put in the coffee?”
Mom’s smiling while she chews, so that means she approves of his idea. She doesn’t actually get to tell Tweek whether it’s cooked through or not, because that’s when Tricia shows up in the doorway with a very solemn look on her face. “Tweek? The fuckboy wants to talk to you. Not to me,” she adds, sounding a little hurt, but Tweek barely even registers that. He barrels past her into the living room, and it takes real effort to not just yank the receiver out of Mrs Tucker’s hand.
“Craig,” he all but screams into it, “Are you okay?! And did you find them?!”
And then there’s Craig’s voice, soothing and warm, and maybe a little bit amused. “Yeah, honey,” he says, and Tweek thinks Craig sounds downright proud, “I found my real parents. And I’m okay. I mean, my arm had to be reset, but… It’s all good.”
“Your arm had to be reset,” Tweek howls, “Jesus, that’s some serious shit, Craig! Was it climbing on that plank?! Or punching Cartman with your cast?!”
Perched on the couch, Mrs Tucker does a startled little jump, while Tricia’s eyes widen until she looks like a little barn owl. Crap, Tweek really needs to get his reactions under control
“Bit of both, probably,” Craig admits, “But I’m gonna be careful from now on, okay?”
Tweek closes his eyes, and allows himself to just breathe. Way deep into his stomach. “Okay,” he says, when he’s done with that. “But what about your parents? Did the Fakes hurt your parents, or –”
Craig sighs. “Not exactly? It was more the car crash; turns out my dad broke most of his ribcage on the steering wheel. Because our car’s too old to have fancy shit like airbags. Mom,” he suddenly groans, “Saying shit’s not swearing, okay? It’s more like… punctuation.”
Tweek can’t help himself, he snorts and then starts to laugh. Hearing Craig like this – like a normal teenager trying to weasel out of trouble with his real mom – is like the best gift ever. “Craig, are you grounded now,” he manages to choke out, and is rewarded with a growl. That only makes it funnier.
“Anyway,” Craig grouses, “I just wanted to tell you that we’re staying at the Airport Hilton. My mom and me, Dad’s being kept for observation. But he should be safe at the hospital, they’ve got a guard from the police on his room now, and the whole gang was arrested anyway, so…”
This is news to Tweek, but of course they were. How else could Dad have walked out of the bank?
“Yeah, it’s all over the news babe,” Craig goes on, slotting that “babe” in there so effortlessly that Tweek almost doesn’t catch it. And then he realises Craig just said that in front of his mom, and that means…
“So when were you gonna tell me you came out to your parents,” he asks, teasing.
Craig makes a sound like he’s choking on his own saliva. “Today,” he says, after a few coughs. “Obviously, duh.”
“Yeah, duh,” Tweek tells him, still so close to laughing that Craig must be able to hear it in his voice.
“Oh, and I met Thomas,” Craig goes on, and while he sounds like his usual unflappable self now, there’s a certain… nervous tone to his voice that’s almost cute. “He’s staying here too, with his mom?”
“It’s pretty much the only hotel in town,” Tweek tells him, teasing again. “Aside from like, this one really gross BNB I heard about? So that doesn’t surprise me.”
“Well I just… Wanted to tell you, in case you heard about it and thought… anything.” Craig sounds almost desperate now, like he’d die or something if Tweek got the wrong idea. “He gave me a hug, but that’s all, okay?”
All right, this is just getting way too cute to deal with. “Of course it’s okay, Craig,” Tweek tells him, winding his finger through the phone cord. “I trust you, dude. And Thomas and I are okay,” he adds, smiling when he thinks of how he might just be stressing Craig out ten times more. “Like, if I was younger and Jewish, I’d totally invite him to my Bar Mitzvah!”
That surprises an honest-to-the-Buddha genuine guffaw out of Craig Tucker, and Tweek can’t help but preen a little. It’s a loud enough laugh that Tricia and her grandma both seem to hear it, because they look at each other, then turn to look at Tweek, with identical shocked expressions.
“Did you… say anything to him,” Craig wheezes, when he’s more or less got his breath back.
“I told him he can’t have you back,” Tweek tells him, allowing a smug note to creep into his voice, “And he was cool with that.”
Craig laughs again, and Tweek decides he wants to hear Craig laugh more often. He’s got the warmest laugh. “Okay, so… you wouldn’t mind if I hung out with him for a bit? I’ll totally not do it if you mind,” Craig adds hastily, and again – it’s too cute for words, Tweek’s heart is just about ready to explode from how Craig’s desperately trying to make sure he won’t get jealous. Or, well. That he seems to matter that much to Craig – that’s the real reason he’s smiling.
“I don’t mind,” he tells his boyfriend, and by now Tweek’s whole hand is wound inside the phone cord. Remembering the last time this happened, when Dad had to come disentangle him and cut off a few chunks of hair with the kitchen scissors, Tweek starts to spool his hand back out again.
“Anyway, uh…” On the other end, Craig clears his throat. “Thomas told me that your, that your dad was in there? Is he okay?”
That sure wipes the smirk off of Tweek’s face. “I… think so,” he says, unsure. Dad was awfully quiet in the car, and is he still showering up there? “I mean, he didn’t get shot or anything.”
Craig sighs. “That’s good,” he says. “If my fake parents had hurt your dad, I…”
“Then that would not have been your fault,” Tweek tells him. “Okay?”
“Okay,” Craig repeats, and it’s not just Tweek’s imagination, is it? How relieved he sounds? How animated Craig Tucker gets on the phone, when he’s so monotone in real life… “But are you okay,” Craig suddenly asks, cutting into his thoughts.
“Me?” Tweek tries to think about it. “I…” Shit, get it together, he tells himself. Craig doesn’t need to worry about him, on top of all the other shit he’s got going on. “I think so,” he repeats, remembering that hug outside the bank. Him and his parents in their little huddle. “Yeah, I think so.”

Standing outside the door marked 527, Craig draws a deep breath. Raises his good hand – here goes nothing! – and knocks twice. Oww! Man, those hotel door are so hard, it’s like punching a stone.
Almost immediately, Thomas pulls it open. He’s wearing the pants from the white hotel pyjamas, and his own Batman T-shirt. The two of them stare at each other, for what feels like a hundred years.
“Hey,” Thomas says, like he can’t quite believe Craig’s standing right there.
“Hey,” Craig echoes, feeling suddenly dizzy. Gah, maybe this was a terrible idea, maybe…
“Can we go for a walk,” Thomas asks. “It’s just, my mom’s in the shower now, she let me go first, so…”
“Sure.” Craig takes a step back, so Thomas can come outside, key card in hand since those pants don’t have pockets.
For a while, they just stroll down the dimly lit carpeted corridor, taking in the stale smell of cigarettes. It’s like walking through a haunted house or something, since they don’t see anybody else. Craig looks over at Thomas, and finds the other boy staring right at him. “Cocksucker,” Thomas blurts out, blushing, quickly turning his head away.
Craig draws a deep breath. “It is weird, though,” he says, and his voice sounds impossibly loud, here in the dead corridors. “Isn’t it? Seeing you, I mean. After everything.”
“Yeah,” Thomas says, and his voice is all breathy.
“Listen, I just…” This is going to sound so corny, but it needs to be said, “If anybody back in Denver gives you any shit…” Craig might even be blushing, he’s not sure.
“What,” Thomas interrupts him, grinning now, “You’re going to, shitballs, come beat ‘em up for me?”
“No,” Craig instantly changes tack, because that was pretty much exactly what he was about to say, but the hell if he’s going along with that now, “Actually, I’d sick Tweek on ‘em. He and his friend have this move they made up, called a fastball special…”
That’s as far as he gets before Thomas starts laughing. “No way,” he wheezes, “The other guy just straight up throws Tweek at someone?”
Craig frowns, “Well, I’ve never actually seen them do it, but…” His brain suddenly seems to catch up with him, “But how did you know that?”
Thomas treats him to a teasing smirk. “You’d know it too, if you ever bothered to read the shitfucking X-Men!” That smirk turns into a blush. “Sorry, uh, but there are these two characters in it, Colossus and Wolverine? They do exactly that.”
“Oh.” Craig’s always been a DC guy – Dad raised him to be a DC guy, digging all his ancient comics out and giving them to Craig. Stuff like Batman, and the original Teen Titans, along with 30-something issues of the Phantom Stranger and a complete run of Mr Miracle. “I didn’t know you read Marvel,” Craig says, and it comes out way more accusing than he’d intended.
Thomas snorts. “Look, I’m not saying it’s fuckballs! Sorry, not suspicious at all how the original X-Men hit the stands three months after the first issues of Doom Patrol, but –”
“It was “My Greatest Adventure” ”, Craig corrects him, a little snippily. “The comic that the Doom Patrol first showed up in. That’s what it was called.”
“You’re such a nerd,” Thomas tells him, grinning and shaking his head. “Fuck! Anyway, the like, modern X-Men…”
“Are a rip-off of the New Teen Titans,” Craig instantly counters, but that only seems to make Thomas find all this even funnier.
“Hahaha, who told you that? Cumsucking shit! Was it your dad? Ha!”
Now Craig is definitely blushing. “Well, I mean… Even the covers of their first issues look the same,” he mutters, trying to evade the question.
“But Giant-Sized X-Men came out in ’75,” Thomas counters, “And New Teen Titans only started in ’80! So now who’s the rip-off, huh?”
“Goddamn it,” Craig mutters, and Thomas starts to laugh. They’ve reached the end of the corridor now, a flat wall with a window mounted in it. You can see the freeway outside, with the occasional car hurrying down it like a sparkly insect in the dark.
By unspoken agreement, the two of them sit down, on either side of that widow, backs to the wall. Just enough space between them.
“I’ve missed this,” Thomas says. Then he blurts out, “Fuck, fuck, fuck,” and claps both hands over his mouth, muffling the tirade as best he can – and it goes on for a little while, this time.
Huh, Craig realises, Thomas might be even more nervous than he is.
After a few minutes, Thomas seems to have got himself back under control. “I was just going to say,” he starts up, seemingly out of nowhere, “How the X-Men are like, this huge metaphor for being gay. And how that, how that sort of helped, when I thought about killing myself. CUM!”
That last bit is so sudden, and so loud, that Craig isn’t the only one who jumps – Thomas seems to have startled himself.
They look at each other, and this time they both start to laugh, very quietly.
“You’re not thinking about that again though,” Craig asks, when they’re done laughing.
Thomas immediately shakes his head. “Nah, man. Homeschooling’s the best.”
“Oh right,” the memory suddenly hits Craig, “Tweek told me about that. Good for you, man.”
There, he went and said it. Tweek’s name, out loud. It hangs between them for a minute. Thomas shifts, pulls his knee up and rests his chin on it. “So,” he says, “Tweek, huh? Shit! Is he the Joe Wilson to your Dick Grayson?”
Craig snorts, secretly grateful that Thomas seems to be giving him such an easy out. “If Tweek were Joe Wilson, I think he’d grow himself a new larynx,” he jokes fondly. “Like, his body would just to it for him, out of necessity. That kid never shuts up,” he adds, shaking his head.
Thomas closes his eyes. “So how come you could come out for Tweek,” he asks, “And not, FUCK! Not for me?”
Oh damn it all. Craig pulls his good hand through his hair, takes a deep breath. What’s he even supposed to say to that?
“A lot of shit has happened,” he finally mutters, “In this past week, or whatever it was.”
Thomas just nods. Neither of them speaks for a while, but then he says, “I was kind of surprised, you know? By how much I actually like Tweek.”
That surprises a relieved laugh out of Craig. “Really? I’d say Tweek’s impossible to hate, but he’s like mortal enemies with this one evil fat kid in our class…” And while he’s talking, it hits him. That maybe it really was for the best, when Thomas broke up with him. Because what if they’d agreed to do the long-distance thing, and then he’d met Tweek? Him falling in love with Tweek… that would’ve happened regardless, wouldn’t it? And then what – Craig doesn’t even know the answer himself. He wants to think he’d have called Thomas to break up before he’d hooked up with Tweek, because Craig has always thought cheating on someone was like the lowest thing you could do, aside from maybe being an animal abuser. But regardless; him falling in love with Tweek would have been inevitable. Like some kind of natural disaster, it would’ve wiped out all his feelings for Thomas, the way a rockslide sweeps away buildings and cars.
“You were supposed to say yes, you know.”
Craig looks up, surprised and a little confused. Thomas is staring past him, at some point up on the wall where it meets the ceiling, and his eyes are suspiciously shiny. “Fartshitting, cumfucking,” he growls, through gritted teeth. “I mean, fuck! Fuck, fuck, when I asked you to, cocksucker, to tell your parents about…”
Biting his lip, Craig cautiously reaches across that darkened window with his good hand, trying to grab Thomas’ shoulder. But then, Thomas suddenly yells “FUCK,” loud enough to make them both jump, and he instinctively yanks his arm back again.
He has no idea what to say now. Even “sorry” seems too small, too stupid.
Blinking furiously, Thomas says, “But it doesn’t matter anymore. That whole thing was my stupid fault. We could still be friends, though?”
That just about floors Craig. That after he’s basically admitted to loving Tweek way more than he ever loved Thomas, Thomas would even want to…?
“The way I feel about you,” Craig begins, balling his left hand up in a fist inside the sling, “It’s still all a mess.” He remembers a handwritten poem, and the envelope it had been kept in. A match in the darkness. “I mean, I would definitely want that,” Craig goes on, when Thomas’ face falls, “But maybe not… right away? Like, if we give it a year or something…”
“A year and a day,” Thomas suggests, with a small, sad laugh, “Like in the fairytales? Cocksucker, fuckwhore!”
“It’s a deal,” Craig says, before he cautiously slips his right arm all the way around Thomas’ shoulders and pulls him close. For half a hug, since he’s only got the one good arm. The way his left arm is stretched across his chest prevents Thomas from resting his head there, but maybe that’s a good thing. He leans into the curve of Craig’s neck instead, twitching and swearing as quietly as he can manage, until he’s let all the tension and sadness out. And then they just sit there, quietly, for a little while. Friends, or almost friends. It’s a start.

Tweek shuffles downstairs at 4.30 in the morning, after a quick trip to the bathroom. His late dinner of sweet potato fries, milkshake and coffee needed to vacate the premises, as it were, and now he’s wide awake. When he fell asleep last night, it was like being hit in the head with a mallet – bam, and he was down for the count. But now, his thoughts are churning, and all he wants is a cup of coffee. So downstairs he goes, only to find the lights on in the living room, and the smell of freshly brewed coffee in the air.
Dad’s sitting on the couch for a change, instead of the recliner. One foot braced against the edge of the coffee table, staring up at the ceiling. A mug cradled between his hands that he isn’t drinking from at all. The living room coffee maker is on, Tweek notices, and the pot is practically full.
“Hey Dad,” he says quietly, but Dad still jumps. There’s like a split second before Dad gets his features under control, and Tweek sees real panic flash across his face. Then he’s back to his usual chill self – more or less. But Tweek knows what he saw.
“Tweek!” Dad actually sounds relieved that he’s up, happy to have the company. “You want some coffee?”
“Is the Earth vaguely pear-shaped,” Tweek jokes, running the rest of the way down the staircase and into the kitchen. He knows his Leo mug is in the dishwasher, but there’s a big souvenir mug from San Francisco in the cupboard that he quickly digs out. It’s got the Golden Gate Bridge printed on one side, bright red against the white pottery, and Alcatraz printed in yellow on the other. Almost as an afterthought, he grabs the milk carton from the fridge door and brings that into the living room with him. It’s late, after all, they shouldn’t be having their coffee black.
Tweek fills his mug with coffee, tops it up with milk. Then he tops up Dad’s mug, which has gone cold, before he curls up in the opposite corner of the sofa. Looks at his dad from over the edge of his mug while he sips. For once in his life, Tweek has no idea what to say.
“Did you sleep okay,” Dad asks him at last, after they’ve just sipped their drinks together for a while.
Tweek nots. “Yeah. You, not so much,” he adds turning it into a question.
Dad shakes his head. “One of the last things Kenny said, before he died, was how sorry he was for spreading those photos. Of you and Craig,” he adds, as if Tweek didn’t immediately know those were the photos in question. He also hasn’t thought about those photos since, since even before Mr Donovan showed up to take him and Mom to the bank last night – all that stuff had kind of faded to irrelevance, when he thought they might lose Dad forever. “He told me how jealous of you he was,” Dad says, and that is what throws Tweek for a loop. “Because...” Dad interrupts himself, pressing his fist against his mouth instead.
“Of me?” Tweek is so damn confused, “Why would… Wait, are you saying he liked Craig, too?” Oh shit, now it all makes sense. “I didn’t know Kenny was gay, or bi, I guess? I mean, what I heard was he was always kind of girl crazy…” His voice trails off. It’s impossible to even be angry anymore, about any of it. Because Kenny’s dead, Kenny’s dead…
“I keep seeing…” Dad holds one hand up, like he’s cupping something invisible. “I keep smelling it, isn’t that weird? When the police shot Kenny by mistake,” he goes on, “One of the places they hit him was the back of his head. And obviously I knew that was bad,” Dad goes on, “But I didn’t realise just how bad. When he wanted help taking his mask off, it…” A big shudder runs through Dad’s whole body, Tweek can see how even that foot he’s braced against the coffee table gives a little shake.
“What happened,” Tweek whispers, even though he knows it’s going to be awful.
Dad closes his eyes. “Part of his skull came loose,” he says, and Tweek has to put his mug down.
“What?” Tweek doesn’t really want to hear more, but he can’t not say that.
“For a second, I watched his brain slosh around,” Dad says, and something in his voice tells Tweek that he can still see it now, very clearly. “And then I sort of used that section of skull in my hand to, to shove his brains back in…”
“Holy shit,” Tweek breathes. No wonder Dad can’t sleep.
“And he knew he was going to die,” Dad goes on, shaking his head. “He only got shot because he jumped in front of me, and knocked me down. Did I tell you that?”
Tweek can feel his eyes widen, his jaw drop. “No,” he whispers, and suddenly staying on the opposite side of the couch is no longer an option. Tweek scoots as close to Dad as he can, shivering, pressing into his father’s side like a cat. Dad puts his arm around him, and it’s almost too much, but somehow Tweek manages not to cry. Not now, this is too important.
“The big Texan was going to use me as a kind of shield,” Dad goes on, “Once the police showed up.”
“Jesus, Dad!”
“Guess he must’ve really hated that dinner,” Dad jokes weakly, and Tweek growls out loud, because that’s seriously not funny. “Anyway,” Dad goes on, “He changed his mind, gave me this push instead. Right towards the armored cops, who…” Dad closes his eyes, breathes deep for a second. “Who opened fire,” he says, opening his eyes again and staring straight at Tweek. “Don’t tell your mother, okay?”
Tweek just blinks at him for a few moments, before a big, violent shudder travels through his whole body. Somehow, he doesn’t drench them both in coffee. “He tried to get you killed,” Tweek whispers, not agreeing to anything, and Dad peels his fingers off his mug and puts both their coffees on the table.
“Not everybody likes veggie tagine, I guess.”
“Goddamn it, Dad,” Tweek growls, scrubbing furiously at his eyes. No way is he going to cry right now!
“I’m sorry,” Dad says, putting one arm around him and pulling him into his side. Tweek rests his cheek against the softness of Dad’s endlessly washed burgundy plaid pyjama jacket. Breathes in the freshly laundered smell of it. “Kenny knocked me down to save me,” Dad goes on, “But the cops were already firing, so… You know what happened.”
Tweek wordlessly nods, head brushing up and down against Dad’s shoulder.
“And it was completely my fault,” Dad goes on, “Because I had to open my big mouth and try to talk them out of it.”
“What?” Tweek looks up. “You mean, talk them out of the bank robbery they were like, already in the middle of?”
Dad closes his eyes and laughs quietly. “Gosh, you make it sound so stupid.”
“Well – yeah?” In spite of everything, Tweek has to laugh too.
“That’s just what happens, though,” Dad tells him, “When I get too nervous or worked up, or… I just can’t shut up, you know? Even though I can hear myself thinking “shut up” at the same time, whatever I’m thinking just seems to, to bypass my brain and come right out of my mouth…”
Tweek can only stare at him, mouth slowly slipping open.
Dad laughs again, quietly and uneasily. “This is so strange,” he says, spreading his hands. “Like I’m trying to, I don’t know, explain some kind of private language or something…”
“It sounds a lot like how I feel,” Tweek says, “Pretty much all the time. Like how ADHD feels, basically.” He shrugs, looks away, and tries not to make it sound like he’s suggesting anything. But he’s also thinking, Holy shit, because this could explain a lot of things. Like maybe, that time Tweek was little and scraped his knee up so bad, falling off his bike? Maybe all that stuff Dad had said, about how that just proved it was a real bike, had been because he was worried Tweek had really hurt himself? Not to mention all the, the general randomness that Dad comes out with on a daily basis. Or the way he’d proposed to Mom the same day he met her.
He risks looking back Dad, who is just staring vacantly at the black TV screen. “Huh,” Dad says at last, “I’d never thought of that before.”
They have some more coffee then, and for a while they don’t talk at all. But that’s kind of nice, just sitting together. Tweek’s finally starting to get sleepy again, when Dad says, “Up you get son. Mouthwash, and then straight to bed.”
“Huh?” Tweek raises his head. Something feels wrong all of a sudden, and it’s not just that he can see the sky starting to turn a pale blue through a gap in the curtains. Not the cautious little snatches of birdsong. “Dad, you told me! You saw his face, right?”
Dad frowns sleepily, and lets out a huge yawn. “Whose face, Tweek?”
He can’t say it, Tweek realises. Dad doesn’t remember!
“Mysterion!” Tweek grabs Dad’s arm, “Didn’t you see his face? Didn’t you tell me you recognized him?”
Dad opens his mouth… and then he stays that way for a moment, before sadly shaking his head. “I did see his face, and… He was so young,” Dad says at last. “But I have no idea who Mysterion was. I’m not even sure what he looked like, anymore.”

In the darkness, pale blue eyes fly open. Arms move – and slam into walls. Tight walls, too close. Panic rises in his chest. Legs kick against something hard, kick and kick until something breaks, and his whole body shoots forwards and outside.
And suddenly there’s air, fresh air. Gasping for air, lungs burning, he takes in his surroundings. He’s on some kind of… platform? A platform sticking out of a wall. Climb down from there, is his first coherent thought. The floor tiles are freezing cold against his bare feet. He’s naked all over, except… Crouching down, he pulls off the piece of paper that’s tied to one of his toes.
“Kenny McCormick,” he reads out loud. And then, the memories come crashing back into his head.

Chapter Text

He can’t go back naked and barefoot, so Kenny pads down the halls, the crumpled toe-tag clutched in one hand, looking for something he can use. Not steal, he tells himself, he can return anything he finds here later. Borrow, that’s the word. His mind is still fuzzy for some reason. He can think of a word, for instance, and know exactly what it means, but not what the word actually is or sounds like. It’s weird, and a little scary, but it does get better the more he forces himself to think.
To remember.
“I got shot,” Kenny says out loud.
There, that’s something he knows for a fact. That happened. Bullets ripping him apart like a kid tearing up a sheet of paper. His voice is creaky and dry, and hurts his throat coming out. Thinking about it – about getting shot – hurts too. Because…
“I died.”
There, he’s said it. And Kenny knows it’s true. He remembers the sensation of his thoughts, his self, slowly dissolving. How there had been something important that he’d had to say – to who? – and how hard it had be to say it.
The floor is so cold. Hissing and hopping from foot to foot, Kenny tries not to think about it. There – a bank of lockers, with a row of pegs next to it. A single white thing hangs from the hook dead in the middle. He takes it down, and he knows what this is – he’s seen them on TV. Doctors wear these. Gratefully, he pulls it on – right arm through a sleeve, then the left. There are even buttons, but his fingers are so clumsy that it takes him a while. At least it’s long, thank God – Kenny’s tall, but this thing easily goes down past his knees.
As soon as he’s done, he starts going through every locker that doesn’t have a… thing… a padlock! That doesn’t have a padlock on it. Most of them are empty, but he finally pulls out a pair of plastic shoes with holes in them. Bright pink, and half a size too small, but he can still walk in them with the backs of his heels jutting out a little. And this is so much better than bare feet on that icy cold floor.
Crocks, he suddenly thinks, remembering the name.
Now all he needs, is to get out. At least he’s starting to think more clearly now; Kenny almost feels like his brain is starting to repair itself, or something. Because now, he can remember long words like parking-garage, and how Hell’s Pass Hospital has those in the sub-basement. Makes more sense to leave through the garage than trying to walk out the main entrance unseen. There are stairs, and elevators, too, leading up and out from the garage, which feeds into the hospital, sure – but there are other exits, too. Kenny’s been here a few times, and now that he can remember more and more, he’s feeling fairly sure he can get out unseen. He knows – Kenny’s pretty sure of this – of an exit that’s not going to be busy now, in the early morning. The last thing he needs is people stopping him and asking awkward questions.
Something is missing though – and it’s not whatever clothes he got here in.
He lucks out, finds a bank of elevators without a soul waiting in front of them. Keeps his head down as he walks up to them, to avoid his face being caught on camera. Rides an empty lift down to the parking garage, ducking between cars to avoid the few people he does see down here. Rather than risk another elevator ride, he finds the stairs. Climbs them slowly, like an old man, clinging a little too hard to the handrail. Staggers past the parking ticket machine, and sweeps his fingers through the coin hatch out of habit, but no – nobody’s left any change behind. Though what would he have done if there had been – tried to ride the bus wearing nothing but a lab coat and pink sandals? Never mind the embarrassment factor, the bus driver would probably refuse to let him on, or call the police.
It’s going to be a long walk home, though. The first part of it will even have to be along the freeway itself, where there are no sidewalks. But hey, at least the lab coat has pockets. Kenny’s hands are cold and numb, so he’s grateful for that small stroke of luck. There aren’t even that many cars around, so it must still be very early in the morning – probably just after sunrise, judging by how the sky seems all fresh and new. There’s just enough asphalt on the side of the road to walk on, too, one foot in front of the other. The few cars that do zoom past him all honk their horns, but what’s Kenny supposed to do – fly? So he keeps his head down, keeps on putting his feet on that little piece of road. One hand in his pocket, the other holding onto the low wooden fence lining the freeway for support.
“Mysterion,” he suddenly says out loud, stopping dead in his tracks. Mysterion. Of course, now he knows what’s missing – Mysterion’s voice in his head.
Maybe I didn’t die, Kenny thinks, with a weird sense of clarity, But Mysterion did?
And it’s both such a huge relief and such an overwhelming sense of grief, a literal avalanche of emotion, that he loses his footing for a second. Drops to one bare knee, yelping with surprise as bare skin meets bits of gravel, clinging to that low fence so he won’t roll onto the road and get flattened. Again, somebody honks him, but Kenny barely even registers the sound.
He’s suddenly adrift in the memory of the very first time Mysterion showed up. Because that was what he did one day, out of nowhere. Kenny had been what, nine? Ten? And it had been late at night, with Dad drunk and Mom high on crystal meth – or had it been the other way around? He’d been hiding behind the sofa, shoulder to shoulder with Kevin, with Karen crammed in between them, sucking her thumb even as tears rolled down her cheeks.
Dad, with the Beretta from his army days suddenly appearing in his hand, bellowing at Mom to shut up. Shoving the barrel of the gun into her mouth and forcing Mom to her knees. Saying he’d shoot her if she didn’t shut up, even as his thumb lovingly slid over the trigger.
And in spite of everything, Kenny still loved his Mom back then. He’d stood up, not even knowing what he could do, or say, to stop Dad before he killed her… And then, he suddenly hadn’t been Kenny at all. He’d vaulted over the sofa, grabbed Dad’s arm with enough strength to twist it away, and up, so that bullet had gone through the ceiling. Mortar dust rained down on them like snow, and Dad had just blinked at him, too surprised to retaliate. It had been Mysterion who twisted the Beretta out of Dad’s slack grip, put the safety back on, and slid it down the back of his own pants. With the casual elegance of somebody who does this sort of thing every day.
“Go to bed,” he’d said, with a voice that sounded nothing like Kenny’s voice – it had been much deeper for a start. Colder. “Both of you. You,” he’d turned to Mom, “In Karen’s room. Now,” he’d snapped, when she’d failed to move at first – and then, she’d run in there. He’d heard her dragging something – the bed maybe, because back then, Karen had a toddler bed with a bedframe, the same one that had once belonged to Kevin and then Kenny, only now spray-painted pink – in front of the door.
Dad had given him this long, weird look – like he’d wanted to say something, but was honest-to-God afraid to. Then he’d gone into the main bedroom, closing the door with a slam.
That was when Mysterion – though Kenny hadn’t known to call him that yet – had let go, and Kenny had sat right down on the floor. Immediately, Karen had run over, clinging to him and sobbing quietly. “You’re staying with me tonight,” Kenny had whispered, in control of his own voice again. Karen’s head had rubbed a path up and down his chest as she nodded. Kevin had come a few, long minutes later – like he’d been waiting to see if Kenny would do anything else insane first.
“You should give that to me,” Kevin had said, “I’m the oldest.”
“The hell I will,” Kenny had replied, and it had been so out of character that he’d even startled himself. But at least it had been forceful enough that Kevin hadn’t tried to argue.

By the time he’s walked all the way home, it’s at least a little bit warmer out. More grateful than he’s ever been for his secret entrance, Kenny climbs through the tunnel and into his bedroom. Looks just the way it did when he and Craig hurried out of here, and was that only yesterday? He quickly shucks off the lab coat and kicks the Crocks into his closet. Then he runs over to his dresser, pulling on the first things his fingers close around.
Green boxer shorts with coffee cups on – those had been a Christmas present, he suddenly remembers. Along with a green T-shirt that just had a single, big cup, across the chest. A Christmas present from the Tweaks.
The air goes out of the Kenny-balloon for a second. Because now he remembers. He remembers Mr Tweak propping him up, and what it was he’d so desperately tried to say.
Oh God. Kenny has to brace himself against the dresser for a moment. His eyes are burning. Slowly, he pulls the boxers on. Forces himself to find socks and jeans, and puts those on too. Takes a minute to search through his T-shirts until he finds that green one with the coffee cup, because who’s going to see it anyway, underneath his hoodie? But before he can pull his hoodie on, the door to his bedroom is slammed open.
And there’s Mom, wearing just her bathrobe and a pair of underpants. Bare breasts swinging with the momentum of yanking Kenny’s door open. Kenny quickly averts his eyes.
“You’re back,” Mom says, like she can’t quite believe it. “They arrested your dad, and your brother, and Karen…” She chokes back a sob.
“Karen got arrested,” Kenny blurts out, hating how squeaky his voice goes.
Mom wipes her tears with one sleeve of the bathrobe. “No, asshole,” she snaps at him – classic Mom, “Those child protection assholes took her! And I was all alone until…”
Without any warning, she lurches forward, throwing her arms around Kenny before she starts to cry. Mom smells of stale sweat and cigarettes, but not weed. Not alcohol. And when did she get so damn thin? Her bones seem to be jutting out all over the place.
Kenny doesn’t say anything, but it doesn’t seem like he needs to. Seems like letting Mom hold him like this is all he needs to do. Her ragged sobs sound exhausted, and who’s she even crying over? Karen, or Kevin? Definitely not Dad. Most likely just herself.
When the tears are finally starting to wind down, Kenny sits Mom down on his bed, as gently as he can manage. “Mom,” he says, “Why don’t you get dressed, and we’ll head down to the police station.” He reaches his arm out, fumbles inside his closet for a minute before his fingers close on the crocks that he now knows he’s never going to return. The hell with it, he thinks, they looked almost new when I found ‘em. “Here,” he says, pulling the crocks out and placing them gently on Mom’s lap, “I got you these.”

Tweek’s family always get up no later than six am to go open the coffee shop. So what Tweek did last night was, he set his own alarm clock for 5.15 before, since he suspected Mom might have set her alarm for 5.30. He even put his little green alarm clock on the bookshelf by the door, the one that’s directly across the room form his bed – and that was a good move. That forced Tweek to jump out of bed as soon as it went off, slapping the top of his alarm so hard, he actually hurt his hand.
Tweek hurries over to the dresser to get some socks. His bare feet are freezing. He ends up wearing a mis-matched pair; one sock with lots of little gnomes on it and one that’s just a plain, navy blue. It’s shorter than the gnome sock too, but it’s not like anybody’ll notice once he’s wearing pants and shoes.
Tweek gets dressed as fast as he can – clean underpants, his grey T-shirt that says “ROD STEWART FOR PRESIDENT”, green check flannel shirt (worn open, duh) and his non-shredded black jeans. It’s gonna be cold out this early, after all. Then he sneaks inside his parents’ bedroom and grabs Mom’s little mint green alarm clock off her dresser. He was right, the red alarm hand’s set to 5.30 and the time now is 5.29. Jesus! Tweek turns it off, then pulls out the battery for good measure, before he opens the top drawer of Mom’s bureau and drops it in there.
Then he gets Dad’s alarm clock – set to a slightly more sane 5.45 – and does the same thing to that one, down to dumping it next to Mom’s alarm. Makes sense to put them in the same place, Tweek decides, before he starts looking around for Dad’s backup alarm. Dad basically bought two of the same alarm clock, and they’re both black, so sometimes the back-up is harder to spot. Also because Dad likes to hide it from himself, as he calls it, so that he won’t just get up, turn it off and go back to bed. Tweek finally sees the thing sitting on the window-sill, partially hidden by the curtains. Whew!
By now, it’s five thirty-three, but his parents show no sign of stirring. They’re clinging to each other while they sleep, Mom curled up inside Dad’s arms with the top of her head pressing against his chin. And Dad’s even gone and flung one leg over her, pinning poor Mom into place. Seeing them like this fills Tweek up to the brim with this almost painful tenderness. He slips out of there and shuts the door behind him with a quiet snick. They need a good sleep more than he does.
A quick stop into the kitchen to put the coffee pot on, and look for his takeway mug, which he fails to find. So Tweek fills up the biggest mug he can find – the one that’s shaped like Garfield’s head, because that one also comes with a lid. A lid shaped like the top of Garfield’s head, duh. He’ll just have to drink fast.
Once he’s dug his winter jacket out of the hallway closet, rather than root around for a sweater he won’t need come noon, Tweek puts on his bottle green Docs, grabs his keys and some change for the bus from the jar next to the little laughing Buddha, and lets himself out of the house. He then spends a few minutes pacing next to the bus sign, in between sipping his coffee from that ridiculous mug, and chugs the final, luke-warm mouthful just as the bus pulls to a stop. Tweek spends the whole bus ride shivering and blowing on his hands, pulling the sleeves down over them because of course he didn’t think of grabbing his gloves. He easily makes it to Tweak Bros before seven – he’s there at six twenty-two, as a matter of fact – dumps Garfield and his lid in the industrial dishwasher and ties on an apron. Mission accomplished, more or less. He gets the first brew of the day going, yawning while he digs through the freezer for some pastries to put in the pastry case. Cinnamon rolls, cherry scones and plain croissants, all of which come in great big Costco sacks. While they’re thawing in the oven, because microwaving these things means he risks ruining them, Tweek digs some of their pre-sliced wholegrain bread out from the fridge, along with yesterday’s carrot cake – there was more than half left of it, he remembers, when he and Mom closed up in such a rush. Just a single slice of chocolate cake left though, sitting alone and sad in a Tupperware pot, so he’d better make another one later. Or maybe he should make brownies instead? They’ve got chocolate cake mix and brownie mix in the dry foods cupboard. Not before the morning rush though.
Tweek dumps that lone slice of chocolate cake on a small sandwich plate. That goes in the pastry case, next to the carrot cake, and by now the pastries are starting to smell like they’re done. Tweek snags a cherry scone for himself – they’re the thickest after all – and cuts it in half with the breadknife. And even the inside of that thing is steaming. So he puts that on a plate, hissing when he burns his fingertips, before he spreads jam on it and then squirts some instant cream on top. Excellent. It’s still only quarter to seven, so he’s got time to wolf down his cherry scone with another cup of coffee in the staff room. This time, he uses Dad’s thrifted World’s Best Dad mug. And it all tastes so damn good that Tweek’s in an excellent mood by the time he unlocks the front door and starts setting up his sandwich station behind the counter. Just one of the white chopping boards – those are for sandwiches and pastries – a stack of those wholegrain slices, and all the random sandwich toppings he could find in the fridge. Mom or Dad will always just make up one of each type, and stick them on the bottom shelf in the pastry case, the idea being that they’ll make one replacement at a time as people order them. There’s not a single customer in sight just yet though, so Tweek pulls the phone receiver all the way around the staff room door – just in case somebody does walk in – before he calls the school.
Tweek shuts his eyes. Deep breath. He can do this.
“Good morning, South Park High,” says a tired female voice that Tweek can’t quite place yet on the other end. “What can I do for you?”
Tweek opens his eyes again – it’s now or never. “Good morning,” he replies, doing his level best to sound like Dad, “This is Richard Tweak, from Tweak Bros Coffee! Are you having a good day?”
“Um,” comes the confused answer, which Tweek takes as a sign that he’s doing this right, “As good as it can be, this early, I suppose?” He’s talking to Mrs McGrath, Tweek realises; that one school receptionist with red hair that she sprays until it literally looks like a helmet.
“Ah, but a brand new day is like a freshly laundered pair of…” Tweek almost says underpants, but reins himself in at the last millisecond, “Socks! All fresh with promise, and not sweaty at all!” There, that should have convinced Mrs McGrath that she’s really talking to Richard Tweak. “Anyway,” he goes on, blithely talking over her hesitant “Um, um’s”, “I’m just calling to say that we’re keeping Tweek at home today. After I nearly got killed in that bank robbery last night, you know how it is,” Tweek goes on, when Mrs McGrath doesn’t actually say anything in response.
Oh Jesus, he thinks, You know how it is?! Tweek almost growls out loud, only then the bell on the door goes ding, and a sleepy-looking woman in a beige coat stumbles inside. Shit!
“I… See.” Mrs McGrath seems to finally have found her voice. “Well that’s… Under the circumstances, that’s perfectly–”
“Great,” Tweek cuts her off, still doing his Dad impression, “First customer of the day just walked in, so I’ve got to dash! Time waits for no man at Tweak Bros, bye now!”
Then he dives back inside the staff room to smack the phone receiver into the cradle, before he hurtles himself back into the coffee shop proper, hitting the counter with both hands.
“Time waits for no man, huh,” The lady in the beige coat says. The side of her mouth is twitching, like she’s trying not to laugh. “Can I have a cappuccino, single shot, and a plain croissant to go?”
“You most absolutely can,” Tweek tells her, and it sounds like his Dad voice decided to stick around for a bit, Jesus! He needs to shake that off, and fast. By the time he’s made her drink and put her croissant in a paper bag, there are more people coming in, and Tweek sends up a silent prayer to whoever’s listening – Siddharta? Ghanesh? He’ll even settle for the Great Pumpkin – that nobody wants a sandwich.

Last night, while Craig was having his chat with Thomas; their mutual exit interview or whatever he should call it, Grandma and Tricia were in Room 543 hugging the stuffing out of Mom. He’d come back to find Tricia wrapped around Mom like a snake, saying “I’m staying with Mom tonight” instead of like, hello or whatever normal people say. Craig had seen that flash of guilt in her eyes though, and figured that phone call where Tricia hung up on him must’ve been very much on her mind. When he’d told her Mom and Dad were missing and she’d refused to believe him, or let him talk to Grandma. How much shit couldn’t have been prevented… Hell, Kenny might even still be alive right now! But that’s a lot to lay on a little brat like Tricia. And besides, Craig had already spent hours with poor Mom – who was still wrapped in a towel while Tricia clung to her. What was he supposed to say? It’s not like he minded sharing a room with Grandma instead. In fact, it had been kind of nice, because Grandma is so damn chill about everything. Sure, she’d been worried as hell about Dad, but she was also very firm about not wanting to see him.
“It’s just not practical,” Grandma had told Craig, pressing a bag into his hands. “Now take this, then we’ll go back to our room so you can shower.” It had been one of those old-fashioned gym bags, smallish and green with yellow piping, and it had been crammed full of Tweek’s clothes. Craig had known that instantly – there were army green track pants with what had clearly been an intentional folded cuff at the bottom, which Tweek or maybe Tweek’s mom had popped to make them longer for Craig’s sake. With pockets on the sides of both legs, too, making them a lot less boring than regular track pants. Then there had been that one Cranberries T-shirt that Tweek had worn when they first kissed – just lifting that out of the bag had made Craig’s heart beat faster – along with long socks that had honest to god Wolverine heads on them, and a matching pair of Wolverine boxer shorts. At the very bottom, he’d found a sweater that’s probably adorably slouchy on Tweek; a navy cotton cable-knit that he’d put on right away because he was suddenly freezing.
It’s baggy around Craig’s waist but with sleeves that come up way past his wrists. They’re loose though, leaving plenty of space for his bulky cast. It’s morning by now, and he’s just finished putting on Tweek’s entire outfit, secretly relieved that the Cranberries T-shirt will stay hidden underneath the sweater. A secret that’s just between Tweek and him. Craig ducks his head and smiles.
“What’re you grinning about,” Grandma asks him, because of course she never misses anything. Her tone is fond, so she’s probably guessed. Already fully dressed because of course she wants to go see how her son’s doing, she’s sitting on the edge of the bed putting lipstick on.
“Tweek,” Craig replies, because he can be himself around Grandma.
“I like him.” Grandma gives Craig one of her trademarked Unflinching Stares. “Did I tell you he made dinner last night, for your sister and me?” A tiny snort escapes from behind Grandma’s pale pink lips. “Well, I say dinner. He made French fries and milkshakes. Nothing else.”
Craig raises an eyebrow. “What, he didn’t make coffee?” That doesn’t sound like Tweek at all.
That surprises Grandma into full-on laughing. “Oh, he did! I thought it was a bit late in the day, but he and his parents were all having coffee with, uh, the dinner.”
“Oh, that’s totally normal for them.” Craig grabs the new sling they gave him at the hospital off his bedside table. Then he cautiously sits down next to Grandma, careful not to bump into her in case she’s going to put more makeup on. “They’re the ones who run the coffee shop? The only coffee shop in town,” he clarifies, when Grandma gives him a look.
“Talk about your small town, huh.” Instead of applying any more lipstick, Grandma puts the cap on it and drops it into the open toiletries bag on her lap. She’s had this thing for as long as Craig can remember, white but covered in this pattern of big, pink cabbage roses. Then Grandma puts her arm around Craig’s shoulders and pulls him close, obviously mindful of his cast. “How ever is a big city boy like you supposed to survive, eh?”
Craig shrugs. “Well, there’s Tweek,” he says, completely unable to keep the smirk off his face. Out of the corner of his eye, he peers at Grandma. “Did you guess already? About me being, you know…”
Grandma pulls back out of the hug, studying Craig’s face at arm’s length. “I held you when you were a baby, Craig,” she says. “I watched you grow up. I suppose your parents were just too close to you to see it, but…” Grandma smiles. “But it was clear as day to me that you liked boys. The way you’d flinch every time Thomas asked if there was a girl you liked… And then, of course, there was your Thomas…”
Craig can’t quite suppress a wince. Not yet. “He’s not “my” Thomas anymore.” That comes out sounding a lot harsher than it did in his head. “It was for the best, anyway,” Craig quickly amends. “And now I’ve got Tweek…”
“And Tweek’s got you,” Grandma says, looking into Craig’s eyes like she’s picking his soul apart or something. It’s intense enough that he ends up breaking eye contact, even though it’s only Grandma.
“And Tweek’s got me.” Craig blushes even as he says it. Then a thought hits him, so sudden that it makes him jump off the bed. “Shit, shouldn’t I be in school right now? Tweek’s going to be there, and I need to make sure he’s okay!”
But if he’s being completely honest with himself? Craig knows it's more than how Tweek’s bound to worry when he doesn’t show. Craig just sort of… misses everyone. Well, obviously not everyone, he’d be as ecstatic as it’s possible for Craig Tucker to get if he never has to see Stan or Cartman again. But Jimmy, Token and Clyde… Even the nerd squad, hell, even the girls… Craig just kind of wants to see them all. To hang out and talk about stupid everyday shit, like whose house they’ll be doing the next DnD session at, or how Clyde’s Peruvian shaman outfit’s coming along…
“Oh God,” Craig groans, pulling his good hand through his hair, “The Peru project! I don’t even know when it’s due, but I’ve barely done any work on it,” he explains, when Grandma looks at him like he’s just grown a second head. “Token’s probably pulling out all his hair right now, not that he wouldn’t look good bald too, the bastard.” By now, Craig’s pacing on the grey hotel carpet. “I’m sure Jimmy’s finished his part already, but last thing I heard, Clyde was prioritizing turning his inside-out football into a shrunken head over doing any actual work, and it’s gonna look like I’m just dumping the whole thing on everybody else!”
“Craig,” Grandma snaps; making his pacing come to an abrupt halt. “School projects have had their deadlines extended for lesser excuses than kidnapping and bank robbery. Now, first,” Grandma holds up her index finger, “Hospital. Then,” up comes her middle finger, “Police, and I expect they’ll need to talk to you for quite a while. But after that, if it’s not too late in the day…” Grandma laughs quietly, “Then we’ll let you go to school. Gosh, I can’t believe I actually said that.”
Craig has to laugh too, because she’s right. It is funny, him begging to go to school.

Chapter Text

Kenny’s been to the police station more times than he can count. Every time they’ve arrested Mom or Dad, often both of them at once, he and his siblings get stuffed in a separate police car. They then get to spend a few hours in what’s called the Soft Room, which Karen always gets excited about because the toys there are awesome. They’ve got little kids’ books too, and even though Kenny’s read them all to her before, there’s a weird comfort in re-reading them all until she falls asleep on the pull-out sofa, wedged between him and Kevin. All three McCormick siblings can easily fit on that thing, and it’s so much comfier than what they’ve got at home that they always sleep really well there.
But this time is different. So different. Karen will be somewhere else now, looked after by strangers, and Kevin’s got to be in one of the cells. Kenny is grateful for the anonymity of his orange hoodie, the familiar feel of it. He feels so alone now, and not just because he’s here without his brother and sister. Normally, Mysterion would be chiming in about now, but he really must be dead, because the inside of Kenny’s head is almost scarily quiet.
Mom staggers up to the counter. Kenny made them both a pop tart each before they headed out, but it doesn’t seem to have helped much. He’d also talked her into wearing the least skimpy clothes he could find among all their clean things, but the whole effect is still not great. At least she’s got a T-shirt on, so her boobs aren’t on display, but it’s one of Kevin’s and has “SMACK MY BITCH UP” written on it in chunky yellow letters. She refused to wear anything other than her hot pink mini-skirt though, Kenny’s honestly not sure if that’s because Mom thinks it goes with the Crocks. He made her wear Dad’s old cargo jacket over the whole sorry ensemble, and that thing’s actually longer than the mini skirt on her, so he was half hoping Mom would leave it zipped up – but no. No such luck. The fact that she kind of smells doesn’t help matters either, he supposes, as Mom leans right up into the glass that separates the poor receptionist from members of the public.
“Can I help you… M’am,” the guy asks, and Kenny doesn’t miss that slight hesitation.
“I want my son back!” Mom’s voice is loud and shrill in the mostly empty waiting room. No mention of Dad, but that’s not really surprising.
“I’ll need a name,” the receptionist tells her, and this is Kenny’s cue to get involved.
“It’s Kevin McCormick,” he says, stepping forward. For some strange reason, this isn’t nearly as awful as, say, serving a chatty customer at Tweak Bros. “He’s seventeen, so he’s still a minor.”
The receptionist taps a few keys on his keyboard, and Kevin sees his eyes widen as he reads off the computer screen. “Bank robbery accomplice,” he says, like he can’t quite believe it. Sure, everybody in town will have heard about the bank robbery by now, but who’d expect a teenager to be involved with that stuff, right?
“Uh, yeah,” Kenny can feel his cheeks heating up, “That’s him.”
“How much is the bail money,” Mom demands, slamming her sequined purse on the narrow shelf that runs along the front of the glass. She led Kenny through a search of all of Dad’s hiding places, and it turns out he had over seven hundred dollars stashed around the house. Some of it’s got to be meth and weed money, and some of it’s got to be from the bank robbers, since he and Kevin were off running their dirty errands for them even before they all got caught. All that money, and he’d still been happy to let his family starve – Kenny hasn’t stopped feeling angry about that.
“Five thousand dollars,” the receptionist tells her, and Mom’s knees give out. Kenny only just manages to grab her under the armpits before her knees hit the floor.
“Excuse us for a minute,” he tells the guy. Kenny twists his neck, eyeing the row of uncomfortable visitors’ chairs that lines the far wall. He can drag Mom over there, and… then what? Seven hundred had seemed like such a fortune until like twenty seconds ago. But never in a million years will they be able to rustle up five thousand dollars!
“Five thousand,” says a familiar female voice. Kenny turns his head the other way, and sees Mrs Tweak, of all people, walking up towards them. She’s pretty much the last person Kenny would ever expect to see at the police station, but there she is, looking small but weirdly tough in her buttoned up maroon wool coat and black ankle boots. She’s even wearing a grey bobble hat, obviously homemade, that has a flower on one side – maroon, to go with her coat. Compared to Mom in her shabby outfit, Mrs Tweak looks like she’s from another planet or something. “And that’s for Kevin McCormick,” she goes on, walking all the way up to the glass window. Her ankle boots going click-click on the linoleum. “Right? And not his father?”
The receptionist blinks. “That’s right, uh, Mrs…?”
“Tweak. Helen Tweak. My husband and I have decided to bail Kevin McCormick out,” she goes on, pulling her grey suede purse off her shoulder, “And five thousand will be manageable for us. But I’m not sure about the procedure…?” Mrs Tweak gives the receptionist one of those warm smiles that always make customers at Tweak Bros relax, and this guy is no different. Doesn’t hurt either, Kenny supposes, that even for a mom Mrs Tweak is seriously pretty.
“Oh, uh,” the guy says, “Let me just give Sergeant Yates a quick call, m’am. He’ll set you up in one of the interview rooms while you wait, and when we’ve managed to find a lawyer –”
“Now wait just a minute!” Mom seems to have recovered from her shock, all right. She bats Kenny’s hands away and walks right up to Mrs Tweak, pointing right at her face so fast that her finger almost pokes Mrs Tweak in the nose. “You can’t just walk in here, dressed up like Mrs fucking Marple, and take my kid –”
“Carol,” Mrs Tweak says, in a tone that shuts Mom right up – and Kenny is insanely grateful for that, “Kevin is still employed at Tweak Bros, and we’re short-handed today. As for a lawyer,” she turns back to the receptionist like Mom just ceased to exist, or something, “I’ve talked to Steven Black, who’s on his way now. And he’s happy to take Kevin’s case pro bono.”
Kenny is so relieved that for a second, his head sort of swims. A small hand grabs his elbow, steadies him on his feet, and when Kenny can focus his eyes again he sees that of course it’s Mrs Tweak. She looks up at him with this sad little smile, and says, “I’d actually like to have a word to you, Kenny. Would that be all right?”
Kenny can only nod, mute with shock and relief. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Mom’s bag as she swings it, trailing loose sequins that fall off and drop like snow. Is this what sleepwalking feels like? His right arm shoots up, without any conscious thought, and the bag bounces harmlessly off it instead of hitting Mrs Tweak in the face.
That brings the receptionist out from behind his window, and another cop, this one in uniform, appears out of nowhere to frog-march Mom out the door. They’re talking – hell, Mom’s shouting – but to Kenny it all sounds garbled and far-away.
“I’m sorry,” he finally manages to say, as if that could possibly make up for Mom nearly clobbering Mrs Tweak with her handbag. But Mrs Tweak doesn’t look pissed at all – just sad.
“I’m the one who should be apologising, Kenny,” Mrs Tweak says, biting her lip just like Kenny’s seen Tweek do a hundred times.

They end up in the soft room after all, and the weird familiarity of it is making Kenny’s emotions all shaky. He’s never been in here alone before, either. Well, not alone exactly – but without and Karen and Kevin. He and Mrs Tweek end up sitting in opposite corners of the pull-out sofa; the same one he’s slept on so many times that he’s lost count.
“It was me,” Mrs Tweak tells him. “I was the one who called CPS.”
Kenny can only stare at her, while his mouth slowly slides open.
“The morning after we’d had you over for breakfast,” she goes on. “When you told us about how your father pulled a gun on your mother, well…” Mrs Tweak shivers for a moment, but quickly gets herself back under control. “You could say that was the final straw. Even though you’d taken the gun away, the three of you still wouldn’t be safe in that house. I honestly thought I was doing the right thing, but…” Kenny suddenly realises that Mrs Tweak’s eyes are all shiny, “Now I can see that we really involved ourselves in your lives much more than we should have. Hiring you and Kevin, trying to help our in our own stupidly naïve way…”
“It wasn’t stupid,” he blurts out, cutting her off. “We all got to eat thanks to you and Mr Tweak!”
“Kenny,” Mrs Tweak says, and reaches up to wrap his hands in her smaller ones. She sniffs once, and he gets the sense that she’s snorting back snot. “We really did elbow our way into your family’s affairs, and we put way too much pressure you. You’re still a teenager, and there you were, being torn two ways, between your own parents and us. And it was all just… stupidly murky waters for you, right? One minute we’re treating you like family, inviting you into our house, and the next we’re taking your job away…”
“But what I did,” Kenny cuts her off again, “What I did to Tweek, it was unf–”
Mrs Tweak holds up one finger, but it’s as effective as if she’d put her whole hand over Kenny’s mouth; he shuts right the hell up.
“You got so attached to Richard,” Mrs Tweak says, “And I completely understand that, my husband is a very charismatic guy. I’m just lucky he wanted to start a coffee shop and not run some kind of cult, you know?” She smiles, and Kenny cautiously smiles back. “Without a decent father figure of your own, it makes sense that he’d fill that void. And that you’d feel jealous of Tweek. It’s like, with the benefit of hindsight, I can see how the whole sorry – oh, but Kenny,” she interrupts herself, and it’s only then Kenny’s realised that he’s the one who’s started to cry.
Mrs Tweak digs around in her purse, comes up with a handful of tissues and shakes one of them out before pressing it into his hand. “It’s fine, Kenny, I’ve got five of these – no, six! So you can cry six Costco tissues worth of tears, all right?”
That surprises a laugh out of him, even while he’s blowing his nose.
“I’ve been where you are right now, Kenny,” Mrs Tweak says, looking down for a minute while she’s closing her bag back up. “My own parents were… not wonderful, and I was put into foster care when I was twelve,” Kenny looks up, and he can feel his mouth sliding open. Mrs Tweak looks up too, and her smile is tight, her eyes far away. “That was after a neighbour called CPS. And it was terrifying at the time, but I promise you…” she puts her hand on Kenny’s arm, and gives it a little squeeze, “It was the best thing that could have happened. And it will be for you, too. They’re not going to let you leave with your mother,” she clarifies, when Kenny can’t quite keep the confusion off his face. “Steven told me he’d make sure of that. But, after we get Kevin’s bail sorted out, he’s going to take you two to see Karen. You’d like that, right?”
Kenny, who feels like he’s about to choke on all the snot he’s just swallowed, can only nod.
“Can I give you a hug, Kenny,” Mrs Tweak asks, and she sounds so anxious all of a sudden that Kenny can’t nod fast enough. Tweek really is the luckiest kid in the world, he thinks, while Mrs Tweak holds him tight – the way a real mom would – and he gets snot all over her nice coat.

Dad shows up on his own, just after eleven. Tweek’s just finished making two drinks for Mrs Broflovski, a vanilla latte and a mocha with an extra shot of hazelnut, and put them in a carry-sleeve. She never said which drink is whose, but she did tell him she’s going to drive to her husband’s office and surprise him before he takes his lunch break. Tweek had just been thinking how that was kind of sweet, when he’d heard the bell on the shop door tinkle, looked up, and froze.
“Uh, Dad,” he says, while his father power-walks between the tables, his winter coat flapping open, “I can totally explain…”
But Dad doesn’t tell him off. He just scoops Tweek up in a big hug and kind of crushes him for a second. “Thank you,” Dad says, before he lets Tweek go. “But don’t do that again, okay?”
He reaches out to muss Tweek’s hair, which must be looking even crazier than usual after he’s manned the shop alone for four hours straight. And for once, Tweek doesn’t twist his head away. He just looks up at Dad, so relieved – that he’s not in trouble, that Dad’s still alive… And then it hits him.
“Where’s Mom?”
“Oh, she’s gone to get Kevin,” Dad says, and his tone is so off-handed that for a second, Tweek thinks he means Kevin Stoley. And then it hits him.
“What, from the police,” he screeches, and then his torso goes through a small avalanche of twitches. “But Kevin was in on it,” Tweek carries on, even though he can see more than one customer rubbernecking in his direction. “And you almost…!”
“Kevin’s just a kid,” Dad says, pulling his coat off, “A kid who made a stupid mistake. And I didn’t, you know, so…” Dad shrugs, and Tweek’s too exhausted to argue. “Now, just let me get on the horn with the school and explain why you’re not there.” Dad’s already got one leg inside the staff room, and he’s holding out his coat to Tweek. “And then you can have a nap in the back, okay? Use this,” he adds, and Tweek knows he means “as a blanket” – this is hardly his first time sleeping at the coffee shop.
“Oh, uh,” Tweek is acutely mindful that there are two people at the counter, waiting and watching him, with what seems to be deep fascination. “I already did that. While I, uh, pretended to be you,” he adds, feeling a single drop of cold sweat slide all the way down his back and past the elastic in his boxer shorts. “They totally bought it, too,” he adds, with desperate cheerfulness, like he honestly believes that’s what’ll make Dad think it’s all okay. Gah!
Dad just looks at Tweek for a second, face completely blank. Then he smiles. “All right, son. Then you can go have a nap in the back. And the next time I need to renew my car insurance,” Dad’s smile widens, “You’re then one who’ll be calling the DMV.”
“Wait, what,” Tweek splutters, “I can’t…”
“Their “hold” music alone’ll make you want to pull your own teeth out,” Dad tells him cheerfully, “And that’s before you even have to talk to any of ‘em! Now go get some sleep.” With that, he pulls out a rolled-up apron from under the counter and whacks Tweek’s butt with it.
“Oh Jesus,” Tweek grouses, rolling his eyes as he grabs Dad’s coat from him, “Way to make me glad you’re still alive, Dad!”

With a start, Tweek wakes up from his deep, dreamless sleep. He just lies there with his head and torso underneath the table, and his legs sticking out. If he turns his head, he can just see the clock above the door. It’s half past three already, Jesus! At least there’ll be no question of sending him to school.
Tweek pulls Dad’s coat a little closer to his face. Long enough to use as a blanket, with his own coat palled up into a pillow. Tweek flips over on his back, rolls his left shoulder and grimaces; this is what he gets for sleeping on the floor with no mattress. Sure, he needs to pee now, but it’s also kind of nice to stay here just for another minute, all warm and snug.
Did Craig go to school today, he wonders, smiling when he pictures Craig’s face. Did he get all annoyed that Tweek wasn’t there? Or maybe Craig’s been busy testifying against the fakes at the police station… A feeling that’s a little bit like pride swells in Tweek’s scrawny chest. That he was the first one to believe Craig, about his parents having been replaced.
Maybe he can call the Airport Hilton, Tweek thinks, as he finally flips over to his hands and knees. Grunts and rolls his left shoulder; it’s gone all kinds of stiff and sore. Right shoulder’s fine though, for whatever strange reason. Tweek shrugs, then winces, then climbs to his feet anyway. He’ll feel better once he’s moved around a little. Bathroom first, he decides. And then he’ll go see if Mom’s back yet – she’s got to be – and if his parents need any help.
The Tweaks have a tiny little staff toilet that shares one wall with the big customer toilet out front – the one that’s basically a disabled toilet with a folding baby change table, but has the male, female and wheelchair user signs drilled into the door. It’s times like this that Tweek is ridiculously happy they don’t have to share the customer toilet – he’s in and out of there in less than a minute, probably.
He’s just grabbing his apron off the hook on the back of the staff room door when he notices what’s been hung up next to it – a green silk bomber jacket with a pair of cranes embroidered on the back. Oh great, he thinks, so Kevin really is here.
That’s somebody starts to open the door from the other side. Tweek jumps back with a reasonably quiet yelp, and then he’s suddenly face to face with Kevin McCormick.
There’s always been something slightly menacing about Kenny’s older brother. While Tweek’s always been convinced Kenny himself was pretty harmless – except when it comes to spreading photos of people kissing, he supposes – Tweek’s always felt that there was this air of danger around Kevin. Not that Tweek is afraid of him, oh no. Not exactly. But he’s never been able to relax around Kevin. They’ve shared breaks more than a few times and even eaten together, sitting quietly at the counter, but Tweek never quite dared to strike up a conversation that was about anything other than work.
But now, Kevin just looks… deflated. Not so dangerous anymore, just a browbeaten kid with a bad haircut. Tweek is suddenly transported back to last night, standing between all those haphazardly parked cars. He remembers holding Mom’s small, trembling hand and Token’s warm, long-fingered hand. Wondering if the last words he’d ever say to Dad had already been spoken, and how awful it was that those words should be “Go die.” Remembers how much he’d been shaking, shaking and unable to stop. And suddenly, Tweek feels something dangerous start to well up inside himself.
“How’s it going, Kevin,” he says, looking Kevin right in the eyes.
“I, uh…” Kevin drops his gaze after just a few seconds, “Fine now, I guess? Jail wasn’t great though,” he adds, then looks surprised at what just came out of his own mouth.
“Didn’t get much sleep there, huh,” Tweek hears himself say, and his voice is completely drained of any sympathy. Shut up, he thinks, pulling the apron over his head. “Neither did I, as a matter of fact.”
“Yeah, uh, Mrs Tweak said. How you got up early to open alone,” Kevin goes on, when all Tweek does is tie his apron strings behind his back.
“So, did you get a gun,” Tweek asks brightly. Shut up, shut up, he thinks, but as usual his mouth seems to have a will of its own. “Were you there when they shot at my dad, and killed Mysterion?”
Kevin closes his eyes. “No, I was down in the parking garage. My dad had the engine running on the getaway van, and I was the lookout.” He looks up, and into Tweek’s eyes, like he wants Tweek to read his mind or something. “When all the cops started swarming out of the stairwell, I ran towards the van and shouted, “Dad, go!” And obviously I meant for him to wait for me, but…” Kevin looks to the side, lips twisting like he still can’t quite believe this betrayal; “He floored the pedal instead. Of course,” Kevin shakes his head, “They caught him anyway, just three blocks down.”
“So your dad just left you behind and tried to save his own hide, huh?” Tweek nods, like he hears this kind of insane shit on a daily basis. “Damn, dude. How sad for you.” He pushes his way past Kevin, one hand on the door, but Kevin grabs him by the elbow and yanks him back inside the staff room.
“Hey,” Tweek snaps, properly angry now, “Don’t you touch –”
“I’m sorry, okay,” Kevin cuts him off. “I never meant for Mr Tweak to get trapped in there! I never…” He seems to realise his hand is still on Tweek’s arm, and he finally lets go. Tweek doesn’t want to give him the satisfaction of rubbing his arm, even if Kevin’s got one hell of a grip, so he settles for folding his arms across his chest and waits for Kevin to finish talking. “I never saw it as… As being about people, okay? I just saw it as keeping my dad off my ass, and earning some quick cash.”
“Oh sure,” Tweek drawls, his voice thick with sarcasm, “Just a tiny little bank robbery, right? Who’s even going to notice?”
“God,” Kevin snaps, and it seems like Tweek has finally succeeded in pissing him off. He’s not even sorry about that; not even a little bit scared anymore. It may be the ADHD talking but Tweek is suddenly more than ready to throw down with him, right here in the staff room at Tweak Bros. But then, Kevin sort of visibly reins himself in, breathes deep while he presses the heels of his hands against his eyes. “You don’t know how lucky you are,” he says at last, pushing his hands up and through his hair. “Your parents care about you, they make sure there’s always a hot dinner. They get you stuff. And you don’t know what it’s like…”
“Maybe I don’t,” Tweek counters, “Maybe not even after yesterday. But I sure as hell don’t owe you an apology for that!”
Not bothering to wait for a reply, he shoulders his way past Kevin and out into the coffee shop. That argument, or whatever the hell it was, has left the worst taste in his mouth. But hey, Mom’s there at the counter ringing up a purchase for some blonde lady in a green dress. And there’s Token’s dad at one of the corner tables, with a large mug in his hand and paperwork spread out in front of him.
When Mom turns to him and smiles, Tweek just wants to run over there and hug her, maybe even pick her up and get himself yelled at a little. “Tweek,” she says, “Look who’s here!”
And that’s when Tweek spots him, sitting at one of the window tables with a red-haired little girl and a tall, red-haired man. Craig’s hatless, for once, which is probably why Tweek didn’t notice him as soon as he stepped out of the staff room.
“Craig,” Tweek screams, sprinting across the coffee shop floor.

Being hugged by Tweek is like being hugged by a hurricane, Craig thinks, which makes no sense at all. At least he had time to stand up and move away from the little table, before Tweek barrelled into him and proceeded to lift Craig off his feet. He gets the weirdest sense of déjà vu to the first time Tweek brought him here, only that time it was his own mom Tweek picked up and swung around like a rag doll. Craig’s not about to let Tweek to that, and definitely not in front of his whole damn family!
“Dude, I missed you,” Tweek grouses, like that’s somehow Craig’s fault, and it’s both completely adorable and hilariously unromantic. He grabs both sides of Craig’s face between his hands, but Craig isn’t quite in a place where he can face kissing his boyfriend in front of his dad. Not when he only came out to Dad yesterday!
“Take it easy, babe,” he mutters, quickly rubbing his nose against Tweek’s neck for a second. “I, ah…” he falters, because how the hell can he slip this into the conversation and not sound like a loser, “I want you to meet my real parents first; okay?”
Tweek jumps like an electrocuted frog. “Oh Jesus, they’re going to hate me,” he blurts out, and of course Dad starts to laugh! Tricia too, but Dad being here for this is like a hundred times more mortifying.
“I very much doubt that,” Dad says, in between sniggering like a big kid. He only got out of the hospital two hours ago, wearing some kind of weird man corset underneath his new Bruce Springsteen T-shirt, to keep all of his broken ribs in place. Craig and Grandma had made a quick trip to Target to get everyone a new set of clothes – well, everyone but Tricia, obviously. She didn’t spend like a week wearing the same sweaty tracksuit, like Mom and Dad did. And Craig, of course, is wearing the clothes Tweek lent him – it’s even hot enough in here that he’s starting to consider ditching the sweater, and bracing himself for Tweek’s parents pointing out whose shirt he’s wearing. Anyway, Craig knows what his parents like, so Dad got the Springsteen shirt with a new charcoal grey track suit that has a zip-up hoodie instead of a sweatshirt – less painful for him than pulling a sweatshirt over his head. Grandma was insisting it was all on her, so they picked up a green cotton dress for Mom too, with a white bauble necklace and matching bangle; they’d even managed to find her a white pair of flat shoes. Mom’s always the happiest when she feels put together, and Craig can see how much of a treat this is for her, wearing a nice outfit after all that time of not even getting to shower.
“The Boss,” Tweek screeches, right next to Craig’s ear, and it takes him a second to realize Tweek’s talking about Dad’s new T-shirt – which had cost Grandma all of six dollars, plus tax. But Tweek’s acting like this is the coolest thing ever. “Oh wow, sir, let me just run back and put some on Springsteen for you right away!” Wait, is this Tweek trying to… escape? Suddenly, this whole thing becomes funny.
“Oh no you don’t,” Craig tells him, scooping all of Tweek into the crook of his right arm and pinning him into place. Tweek is obviously letting him; Craig knows his boyfriend is stronger than he’s letting on right now. “Dad,” he says, shuffling their feet in a half circle and turning Tweek to face Dad and Tricia, “This is my real dad. And you’ve met the brat.”
His sister instantly flips him off, which surprises a little squeak out of Tweek that sounds remarkably like a happy guniea pig chirp. It’s so damn cute that Craig can feel his heart starting to swell in his chest, and he quickly suppresses the shit-eating grin that’s trying to take over his facial features. Then Dad flips Tricia off – “Your brother’s introducing his boyfriend! Don’t be rude!”
Tweek twists in Craig’s arms to turn around and look at him, with adorable confusion. He even whispers, “Don’t be rude?” Like that’s the weirdest thing he’s ever heard.
Just then, Mom comes back with a tray full of hot drinks and pastries, which she dumps on the table, before flipping Dad and Tricia off at the same time with one hand each. Tweek is watching all of this with eyes the size of saucers.
“Uh, Craig,” he begins, but then Mom says, “You must be Tweek! Craig’s told us so much about you,” which is absolutely a lie – out of loyalty, Craig’s kept it to the bare minimum! “Go on,” Mom holds her arms out wide, “Hand him over!”
There’s nothing for it but to gently push Tweek towards Mom, like they’re playing some kind of human pass-the-parcel. “Nice to, ah, meet you, Mrs Tucker,” Tweek is saying, or babbling, more like. He’s probably convinced Craig’s entire family is certifiable!
“Thank you, Tweek,” Mom tells him, holding Tweek out at arm’s length as if she wants to get a good look at him.
“Um, for what?” Tweek gives her an uncertain smile. “Not that you’re not welcome, m’am!”
“For taking such good care of Craig for us,” Mom says, right before she pulls Tweek into a hug.
Now it’s Craig’s turn to blush. “Mo-om!”

Chapter Text

Kenny gets a ride all the way to Castle Rock, where Karen is waiting for him in the halfway house, with a social worker called Cindy Lau. She’s this little Asian lady with bobbed hair, who sits on a cushion to drive. She has the seat pushed way forwards too, but being tiny doesn’t mean this lady isn’t tough. Like, she let him say goodbye to Mom before they went, because Kenny had asked very politely. But damn, Mrs Lau laid into Mom something fierce when she’d started crying again.
“Grown woman like you,” she’d said, shaking her head firmly, “Quit feeling sorry for yourself. Sort your life out, prove to us you deserve to have kids. Then we can talk.”
So not quite the goodbye Kenny had pictured, no. He’d never even had the chance to beg Mom not to go harass the Tweaks at the coffee shop. He did get to hug her, though – and he’d been surprised by how awful he’d felt, letting go.
Lucky for him, Mrs Lau isn’t one for small talk either; she turned the radio onto some station that’s mainly music with a bit of news thrown in every now and again. So Kenny’s free to lean against the passenger window and zone out a little bit. It was terrifying at the time, but… it was the best thing that could have happened. Mrs Tweak’s words keep coming back to him, because yes, Kenny’s pretty damn terrified right now. He’s literally leaving behind everything, leaving with just the clothes on his back.
Mr Tweak would probably find a way to make even that sound positive; Kenny can just hear it now. Nothing quite like a fresh start, Mr Tweak would say, or maybe it’d be something about how possessions just weigh you down on the road to enlightenment. Out of habit, his hand goes for the pager he used to wear around his neck, but that’s gone. In some police evidence locker, maybe, along with what was left of Mysterion’s costume? That is, if the medics didn’t just cut everything off his body and dump it in the trash.
Kenny shakes his head. Stupid to be worrying about that pager, anyhow. It’s not like there’ll be more shifts for him at Tweak Bros now.
Outside his window, the freeway turns into a blur. And as if on cue, the radio starts playing that Green Day song, the one that’s just vocals and guitar, and wishful violin: Another turning point, a fork stuck in the road. Time grabs you by the wrist, directs you where to go. Kenny’s eyes are starting to sting again, so he pulls his hood over the side of his face that Mrs Lau can see. The other side of his face rests against the gently vibrating glass, cool against his skin. So make the best of this test, and don't ask why.
It's not a question, but a lesson learned in time. He probably doesn’t need to bother, this lady’s probably had more than one teenager bawling in her car, but keeping his tears to himself right now, well… To Kenny, it feels like his last line of defence. The only thing in the world he can control. It's something unpredictable, the chorus kicks in, But in the end, it's right. I hope you had the time of your life.

“Are you sure this is all right, Mr Black,” Craig’s mom is saying, even though they’re almost at the house by now. She’s asked Token’s dad the same thing five damn times by now, and Tweek can tell that it’s starting to grate on Craig’s nerves a little. Tweek wishes they’d let him have the middle seat so he could’ve held Craig’s hand, but Mrs Tucker thought he was being selfless when he offered, and insisted Tricia sit there instead.
Now, Tweek sees how Tricia looks up at her brother and rolls her eyes. Craig raises an eyebrow and gives her the smallest of nods. For once, those two seem to be agreeing on something.
Their dad is following them in their Grandma’s car – with the elder Mrs Tucker behind the wheel, obviously. She’d said she wanted “a word with Thomas” when they were all getting ready to leave; so that’s how they divvied it up. After Tweek invited himself along, since he wasn’t sure how much more Kevin McCormick he could stand.
“Call me Steven, Laura,” Mr Black says, also for the fifth time. “Maybe even Steve, if you’re feeling crazy?” He sounds like he’s trying not to laugh.
Technically, Token’s dad isn’t supposed to leave Kevin unsupervised at Tweak Bros – he’s just that damn nice, that he insisted on driving them all anyway. Not that Mr Black thinks Kevin’s any kind of flight risk; he could tell them that much on the way here. “No, we’re just concerned the boy’s mother might show up. Technically, we can’t stop Kevin from going back to his parents’ house; we’d just be forced to have law-enforcement collect him again. And I think everybody would like to avoid that.”
The way Mr Black talks about that stuff, he makes it all sound so normal. He’s been involved in his share of what he calls “custody kerfuffles”, apparently, but still. “The McCormick kids will all be staying in a so-called halfway house,” Mr Black is saying, “Though unfortunately, I can’t tell you boys where it is. Aside from, well, that it’s not in South Park.”
“Wait, how many kids did they have,” Craig suddenly pipes up; like something about what Mr Black just said is bugging him. “Sir,” he adds, when his mom pointedly clears her throat. Craig’s been very quiet for the whole drive. The last time he spoke was outside Tweak Bros, when he asked Tweek if they could swap jackets. So now Craig’s wearing Tweek’s oversized parka – well, oversized on Tweek, it fits Craig’s lanky frame perfectly. And Tweek finally, finally has Clyde’s old jean jacket with all the kickass patches. Craig is never getting this thing back – hell, neither is Clyde! Tweek is gonna keep this thing until he damn well hulks out of it!
“Three,” Mr Black says, “There’s Kevin, back at the coffee shop, while Karen and Kenny are already at the halfway–”
“But Kenny’s dead,” Craig interrupts him, and he doesn’t sound like he’s kidding. No, Tweek realizes, Craig actually sounds scared.
“Craig,” he begins, but then he doesn’t know what else to say. Why would Kenny be dead, Tweek thinks, but he can’t bring himself to ask.
“Who told you that, son?” Mr Black looks up into the rear-view mirror for a second, and from his tone, Tweek knows that Token’s dad can also tell Craig isn’t kidding. “My good friend who runs that halfway house called me less than an hour ago,” he goes on, “To tell me Kenny’s arrived safely and been reunited with his sister.”
Tweek, who’s studying Craig’s face very closely, can see the tiny changes to his boyfriend’s face. The way he blinks twice, very quickly, and the way he literally forces himself to stop frowning.
“Oh,” Craig’s voice sounds as bored and toneless as he can make it, but Tweek can tell he’s just pretending. “I must’ve… misunderstood something.”
“Does that mean they won’t come back to school,” Tweek asks, just as much to draw away attention from Craig – so he can process whatever he’s thinking – as from actual curiosity. Still, Tweek can’t quite keep that hopeful note out of his voice.
“It isn’t usually advised,” Mr Black tells him, blinking onto Clyde and Jimmy’s road – Craig’s road too, Tweek reminds himself. In the rear-view mirror, he can see that Mrs Tucker’s little rental car is right behind them. “After all, the school is another place their mother might turn up. And there almost won’t be a point,” he goes on, driving right past the Tuckers’ house, and coming to a stop outside of Clyde’s. “They’ll be transferred to a new school soon, after all. The curriculum will be different.”
Tweek isn’t quite sure how he feels about that. On the one hand, he and Kenny have unfinished business. On the other, the prospect of never having to see Kenny again… it kind of feels like a “Get Out of Jail Free” card from the Buddha himself. Then he looks over Tricia’s head at Craig, whose face is still so deliberately blank. Tweek closes his eyes. Gooddamn it, the lengths he will go to for Craig…
“Then, uh, would it be okay for us to talk to Kenny on the phone,” he asks, almost hoping Mr Black will say no. “Like, if you called that place from your phone, we’d never even find out the number? I mean, it’s supposed to be secret, right?”
Mr Black laughs. “All right, Tweek,” he says, “If you’re that worried. Just let me park first, all right?”
Worried, huh? That’s not quite the right word, but Tweek still says thanks to Mr Black, just to remind everybody that he hasn’t been raised by wolves.
“So this is the house, huh,” Mom says, as Mr Black pulls up in the Donovans’ driveway. He sort of has to; the Tucker family’s house has got police tape strung all around it.
“Almost looks like the cops pranked you guys for Halloween,” Tweek says brightly, then wishes it was physically possible to kick himself in the head. But Mrs Tucker laughs; for now it looks like he’s got some spare points stacked up with Craig’s mom. Whew. Token’s dad also seems to find it funny, even Craig cracks a smile. Only Tricia is completely unamused.
“I hope Token went home with Jimmy or Clyde.” Tweek is keen to distract everybody from his lame-ass joke. “He’s gonna be so pi –” Tweek catches himself just in time, “Perturbed if he misses out on this!”
Mr Black laughs again. “They’ll be at the Valmers’,” he says, just as the front door of Jimmy’s house bursts open and Clyde spills out, waving like a maniac. “Linda’s running late at the lab, so we made arrangements. And Roger’s boy is always in and out of there,” he adds, sounding very fond. “Like one of those cats that eat at every house on the street, eh?”
Token’s on his way down the front steps of the Valmers’ house now, then he stops to wait for Jimmy, who’s stopped to put his jean jacket over his yellow sweater. His Sherpa-lined jean jacket, Tweek can see the white fluff poking out, but fair enough – it is starting to get colder.
“Oh my GOD,” Clyde bellows, barely waiting for Craig to climb out of the car before wrapping him in a bear hug. Tweek can see that it’s a careful bear hug though, that Clyde’s mindful of Craig’s shiny new cast. Whew.
“Dude,” Tweek tells him, just to be on the safe side, “Don’t break my boyfriend, okay?”
“Urgh,” Tricia says from the middle seat, where she’s still strapped in, “You guys are so in love, I could just puke.”
Craig, finally released from the Hug of Hugs, staggers a little before he grabs the top of the car door. He nonchalantly leans on it, poking his head back inside the car. “At least get out of the car first,” he drawls. Tweek just has to take a moment and remind himself that Craig’s only been out for like, two days. The way Craig ran away as the photos fell like snow around him… that seems like a hundred years ago now.
“I’m like, seven hundred different kinds of grounded,” Clyde is saying, while he casually picks Tweek up and squeezes him like a stress ball. “Since I had to come clean about the whole plank thing.”
“Hgnh,” Tweek replies, clutching his ribs when Clyde puts him back down.
“In all fairness, you deserve that,” Token says, smoothly inserting himself between Clyde and the Tuckers and offering his hand to Craig’s mom. “Mrs Tucker, how are you, my name’s Token…”
Meanwhile, Jimmy and Mrs Valmer have joined their little huddle, and Mrs Valmer is pressing what looks like a picnic hamper on Mr Black, saying, “If you could just drop this off with the McCormick children? And I’d love it if I could have the basket and towels back, but never mind about the Tupperware…”
Mr Black just shakes his head, but not like he’s saying no. More like he’s thinking, “I can’t believe this lady,” because he’s already taking the basket from Mrs Valmer and saying, “I will absolutely make sure of that, Sarah.”
Meanwhile, Tricia – left on her own – ends up standing opposite Jimmy, arms crossed. She’s clearly so done with this whole day, she’s not even bothering to say hi.
“Hey,” Jimmy says to Tricia, his lazy eye sliding crazily, “W-why’d the little kid fall of his b-b-bike?”
Tricia gives him a look filled with suspicious disdain. “I couldn’t possibly know,” she drawls, like she’s daring Jimmy to make the punchline at her expense.
“Because he had n-n-no arms,” Jimmy crows gleefully, and two seconds later, Tricia is howling with laughter.
Craig’s staring at her and blinking, before he sidles up to Tweek. “That wasn’t even funny,” he whispers in Tweek’s air, his hot breath tickling Tweek’s neck.
Tweek can’t quite suppress a snort. “It was a little funny,” he suggests, pulling Craig’s good arm around his own shoulders. Craig doesn’t answer, he just pulls Tweek a little bit tighter, before he rests just the tip of his chin on the top of Tweek’s head. And Tweek can feel himself just slotting into Craig’s embrace like they’re parts of the same train set or whatever, like they were built to fit together. Made for each other, even.
Then the loudest honk ever rips through the air, and Tweek jumps so high that he nuts Craig in the chin – and of course he screams, who wouldn’t scream right? And then they turn around, Craig still hissing and rubbing his chin, Tweek frantically apologizing, and see two massive moving trucks coming towards them. The one in the back just barely avoids taking the bus sign with it as it swings onto Clyde and Jimmy’s road.
“Oh great,” Craig drawls, “Now they show up.” And then he laughs so hard, he has to sit down on the kerb.

A week goes by, and Craig’s family are slowly settling into their new normal. Well, as normal as this shit can get, when three of you have been kidnapped and the police still need you to swing by the station to give new statements every other day. The case is all over the news; turns out Fake Mom and Dad were famous. She was known as Queen Bee, which explained all her bee themed stuff – those bee shaped diamond earrings, the shoes she wore to church with sparkly bees on them. And Fake Dad’s nickname had been the Texan Tank, apparently thanks to his ability to shrug off gunshot wounds like insect bites. The more Craig learns about them, the crazier the whole thing feels – that he lived with these whackjobs for a week… Now that he knows how many people those two’ve put in the ground between them, it’s hard not to think about what could’ve happened. If he’d pissed them off enough to make them forget they were supposed to be playing happy family with him.
But it helps to be sleeping in his own bed again. To have a bed again, and drag the air mattress back to Clyde’s house with him. Craig’s getting good at doing stuff like that one-handed. Even his right-handed chicken scrawl is starting to get more legible, or at least Tweek says so. Maybe he’s just getting better at deciphering it.
“Token wants to do a dress rehearsal tomorrow,” Tweek is saying, sprawled on his stomach across Craig’s bed. He’s going through Craig’s Peru notes now, using a neon green highlighter to underline the words he can’t quite make out.
“Dress rehearsal?” Craig raises one eyebrow. “Isn’t Token taking this a little too seriously?”
“Token slept with Wendy,” Tweek looks up from Craig’s hideous notes, “Before she dumped him and went back to Stan. I don’t think he’s able to take it any less seriously, dude. I mean…”
“Don’t call me dude,” Craig shoots in, smiling a little to show Tweek he’s teasing.
“I mean,” Tweek raises one eyebrow and points the highlighter at him, and he’s just adorable when he’s trying to be strict. “How would you have felt, if this was you and Thomas? Before you agreed on your weird fairytale truce?” Tweek’s full on grinning, teasing him right back.
“Well, fine, but I mean…” Craig can feel his cheeks starting to head up. “We never actually, Thomas and me, I mean, we never…”
The wattage of Tweek’s grin increases tenfold. “Good to know, dude. What’s Arglebargle? This isn’t a book report on the Tommyknockers, is it?”
Craig, who has read the Tommyknockers and knows exactly what Tweek’s referencing, stands up from his desk chair with a snort. Bending over Tweek, he has to read his shitty notes upside down. “That’s supposed to be “Argentinian”. And,” he leans in even closer, “I thought I told you not to call me dude.”
Tweek flops over on his back, like a puppy wanting to get his belly scratched. “Why,” he asks, obviously messing with Craig.
“Because it’s not romantic. Because I’m your boyfriend, not your bro. Because…” he stops talking when he realizes Tweek is laughing.
“Okay, okay, geez! If it bothers you that much.” Ever since Craig got all his stuff back, Tweek’s been liberally helping himself to Craig’s hoodies. Right now, he’s wearing the Red Racer one; the one that’s made to look exactly like the top half of the suits the Racers wear on the track. Official Japanese merchandise from the original series, so it wasn’t cheap, and Craig’s just about worn that thing to death. It’s the only red piece of clothing he owns. The sleeves are getting short on him, so it actually fits Tweek better, but the hell if Craig will ever part with this thing – or let it leave the confines of his bedroom. Tweek seems to kind of dig that, though. And he does look pretty cute in it.
And then there’s a bang, loud as hell, and Craig flies into action because that could be anything. Anything. He pulls Tweek right off the bed, down on the floor, and sends the notes flying.
“Craig,” Tweek says, eyes wide and fearful.
“Shh,” Craig hisses, right index finger pressed against his lips. He shuffles over to the window on his knees and one hand, making sure to keep his head down until he’s right at the window-sill. Risks a quick peek through the half-open curtains… And then feels like the world’s biggest idiot.
Because it’s only Clyde, and all he’s done is knock the trash cans over while he was trying to reverse his dad’s car. Mr Donovan’s out there now, leaning over the back bumper and checking for damage, while Clyde’s righting the trash cans and pulling them out of the way. He even spots Craig, because of course he does, and gives him a confused wave.
Oh right, because Craig’s peering over the windowsill like he’s looking to snipe somebody out there. Shit. Craig stands up stiffly and waves back, before he pulls the curtains all the way shut. “Well,” he says, doing his best to sound like this doesn’t bother him at all, “That was embarrassing, huh?” He even tries for a laugh, but it sounds hollow and awful.
Tweek, still sitting on the floor, surrounded by Craig’s notepad pages, doesn’t laugh at all. “Craig,” he says cautiously, “Maybe if you could see someone…”
“What, with all the money my family’s haemorrhaging right now? I wouldn’t count on it,” Craig tells him firmly. Not that he even needs a shrink.
“I just…” Tweek bites his lip. “I just worry about you sometimes. Okay?”
Craig does his best to wave that away. “You should be more worried about wearing a loincloth in class on Friday,” he drawls, and Tweek can obviously tell he’s lost this round.
“All right,” he says, starting to pick the pages back up. “Can you help me find the one with Arglebargle on it?”

Chapter Text

It’s Friday morning, and it is weird as hell to be driving back to South Park. With Token’s dad behind the wheel because he’s Kevin’s free lawyer. Kenny didn’t believe that at first, but it’s really true; every law firm has to do a few free cases every year. Like, they literally have to; Mr Black explained it to him and everything. But still. Nothing is free in this world, so Kenny treats this gift with suspicion.
Mrs Lau the social worker is riding shotgun, but in a surprise twist, Kevin didn’t claim the seat behind her. Even though there’s all this leg room because she’s so small, and likes to not just do her makeup in the car, but some kind of skincare routine too. She’s pushed the seat forwards and pulled the sunshade down so she can use the mirror, with her little jars and tubes spread out on the dashboard.
And Kenny is grateful to have all this space to stretch out in, because after last night – his first night back on the job, if you can even call it that – has left him all kinds of achey and sore. Bruised knuckles he has to hide by keeping his hands in his pockets, a swollen left knee that’ll probably sort itself out in a day or two. At least his face looks okay; any injuries to his face would make all sorts of people start asking questions.
They had to get up at the buttcrack of dawn to drive out here, so Karen, slumped into his side, is snoring quietly. Wedged into the middle seat between her brothers, because she’d insisted on coming along. Kevin actually tried to make her stay behind, which Kenny completely gets – who wants their baby sister to be there and watch if they end up getting dragged away in handcuffs? But he gets it from Karen’s side as well – she wants to be there just in case he ends up getting juvie. In case this is the last time they see Kevin, for God knows how long. She may be leaning against Kenny, but it’s Kevin’s sleeve she’s clutching in her little hand. Kevin’s wearing that flashy green and white silk jacket over his borrowed suit – the staff in the house they’re staying at have a few suits handy, just for this kind of thing. Kenny himself is wearing one too. Anyway, that stupid jacket is the only jacket Kevin owns now, but Kenny still doesn’t like the idea of his brother wearing it to court. After all, that thing was bought and paid for with bank robber money.
Kenny shifts his left leg, tilts his head towards the car widow so nobody’ll catch his wince. He’s had worse, and in a weird way, this is making him feel a lot better. Like he’s started taking back a piece of himself or something… only this time, it’s all him.
Kenny sits up straight as familiar buildings start to slide past the windows. There’s the church on Kevin’s side, and on his own side, Kenny can just about spot the old elementary school through the trees. All the shit he used to get up to down there, in that big old yellow building that suddenly doesn’t seem so big at all, with his three best friends. Former best friends. Not one of them has bothered calling him since Kenny and his siblings moved to Denver. The only one who has called him, is Craig. Craig, who has every reason to hate him, has called Kenny twice through Mr Black. To talk about the other Kevin, to invite him to DnD. To make all these plans.
Crazy, Kenny thinks, shaking his head. Crazy how things have turned out.

Right before homeroom, Craig finally gets the chance to talk to Esther Stoley. Her brother’s been out of school for over a week now, and all Miss Garrison has said about it is, “that little slant eyes is taking some personal time”. Luckily she’d only said that to Craig when he’d knocked on the door to the teachers’ lounge to ask. Esther probably would’ve broken a chair over Miss Garrison’s head if she’d said that in homeroom.
Craig’s been to their house, of course – it’s just down the street from his own house, after all. They’d formed sort of a small delegation in the end, the day the movers came. After Bebe and her parents had run over to help out, and everything had been carried inside the house, and Mr Black had ordered pizza for everyone. It had been him, Tweek and Jimmy, followed by Token, Clyde and Bebe. She’d been carrying a bag of these special rice crackers she’d claimed to know Kevin loves. The brand-name was WANT-WANT, of all things, and the mascot was a cave boy dressed in furs. “I like ‘em too,” she’d said, “That’s why I bought like five bags of ‘em the last time we went to Chinatown in Denver. This is my last bag,” she’d added, cradling that thing like it was a baby.
“You’re giving him your last bag,” Clyde had said, sounding so… reverential that Craig had almost burst out laughing.
“To Clyde, snacks are sacred,” Token had drawled, side-stepping nimbly as Clyde made a half-hearted grab for him.
Mrs Stoley had opened the door; an exhausted-looking little Asian lady with her hair in a lop-sided bun. She’d thanked them for the rice crackers, and explained that Kevin wasn’t really able to have visitors right now. And that had been that.
Since the night of the bank robbery, Kevin hasn’t been seen outside his house at all.
In the half-empty classroom, Esther’s sitting on her desk, sneakered feet braced against the backrest of her chair, eating Lucky Charms straight out of the box. She’s wearing a hot pink cardigan over a red Wonder Woman T-shirt, and this long, layered red skirt with pink flowers on it. Craig can’t quite decide what’s more obnoxious; that eye-searing color combination or the loud, crunching noise when Esther chews. Lisa Berger, who’s resting her butt on the desk next to Esther’s – the desk Lisa’s pretty much claimed as her own now – is shaking her head fondly.
“Babe,” she drawls, “Just say the word. I’ll run down to the cafeteria and get you some milk for that. And a bowl.”
Esther blows her girlfriend a kiss. “Tastes just as good without,” she replies, before eating another handful. “But thanks,” she adds, talking with her mouth full.
Rumor has it her brother screams himself awake every night, and will only calm down enough to sleep if his sister is there. Craig can just picture them, curled up together like a yin-yang symbol – they’re twins, after all.
Kyle Broflovski actually shudders as he and Stan Marsh walks past her desk. “Do you have to chew so loudly,” he mutters, just loud enough for everyone to hear.
“Yeah, eat your cereal with milk like civilized people,” Marsh grouses, “And maybe try eating it at home, too?”
“God,” Esther rolls her eyes, “You poor white people with your sensitive white people ears.”
Craig snorts, which earns him a murderous glare from Stan and a wince from Kyle. Oh well, here goes nothing. Craig clears his throat, “Can I talk to you outside for a second,” he asks Esther, looking directly at her so she’ll know he means her and her alone.
Esther raises an eyebrow. “I hope you’re not gonna ask me to go steady,” she says, but it’s written all over her face. That desperate bravado, the act she needs to keep up so she won’t burst into tears.
“Bit late in the game for that,” Craig drawls, maintaining eye contact with her while he jerks his head at the door. And Esther must be able to tell that this is important, because she slides off her desk without another word, hands her box of cereal to Lisa, and walks out the door. Craig hurries out after her, but not before he spots Tweek giving him a sneaky thumbs-up. Tweek only knows Craig’s got some vague idea of how to help Kevin¬ – Craig’s kept it vague on purpose. Nobody would believe him, after all, if he were to tell them that Mysterion’s still alive.
“Déjà vu, eh?” Esther turns to face him, arms folded under her breasts. She’s wearing makeup, but not quite enough to hide the dark circles under his eyes. And Craig suddenly remembers last Friday; how he’d snuck out of DnD at Jimmy’s house to find this girl sobbing in the driveway.
“Yeah,” he says, and he can’t help but smile a little. “Funny how things worked themselves out there, huh?”
For a fraction of a second, Esther smiles too. And then her whole face seems to crumple, and she’s looking up at the strip lights in the ceiling, blinking like crazy. “I’m fine,” she snaps, and Craig knows better than to ask if she’s okay.
“How’s your brother doing,” he asks instead.
Esther draws a long, ragged breath. “Not great,” she says, and there’s so much worry and misery in those two words that for a second, Craig almost can’t breathe. “You’re not asking on behalf of,” Esther swallows, and has to do some more blinking, “Those three morons, are you?”
“What, the artists collective that’s officially not on strike anymore,” Craig drawls. “Nah, Bradley and the others didn’t put me up to this.”
“Good.” Esther lets out a shaky little laugh. “Kevin’s cut a bunch of their pages up. I’m sure Bradley’d have a seizure if he saw it all.”
Craig is confused. “You mean, he’s destroyed all the comics pages they –”
“Not destroyed,” Esther interrupts him. “Cut up. Remember how they said, good luck making more Mysterion stories out of this mess?”
“Something like that, yeah,” Craig nods cautiously.
“Well, the reason Kevin’s not in school, aside from the whole mental breakdown thing, is that he’s turning it all into one Mysterion story. The last one ever. Cutting the pages up, moving the panels around. Making the captions out of, of newspaper clippings about how he died…”
Esther has to take another moment to glare up at the ceiling, and Craig knows better than to try and say anything. But shit, that sounds like Kevin’s mind is unravelling or something…
“He’s almost done,” Esther goes on, when she can finally talk again. “And he promised he’ll come back to school when it’s done. And see the psychiatrist. He just feels… like this is more important. Giving Mysterion the, the send-off he deserves. My stupid brother!”
Finally, something gives way, and now Esther Stoley is crying for real. Deep, hopeless sobs that echo down the mostly empty corridors. And it’s suddenly the most natural thing in the world for Craig to wrap his good arm around her, hold the girl by her shaking shoulders while she sobs into his black hoodie.
It probably doesn’t last for more than two minutes. The final bell sounds, and Esther pulls back. “This doesn’t mean we’re friends, or anything,” she says, refusing to meet Craig’s eyes while she dabs at her face with the sleeves of her cardigan.
“Never crossed my mind,” Craig assures her, rooting around in his pockets with his good hand. “Here,” he holds them out, “I’ve got two Tweak Bros napkins this time. It’s like I knew this was gonna happen.”
“Thanks,” Esther says, taking the napkins from Craig’s outstretched hand. Once again, she blows her nose like a foghorn, and now it’s Craig’s turn to say it: “Déjà vu.”
Esther actually laughs a little. “Red’s been to see him a few times,” she says, when those two napkins have been thoroughly destroyed. “That’s helped a little. And the, ah, “artists’ collective” show up every couple of days,” she goes on, doing air-quotes with her fingers – she must’ve liked Craig’s snarky terminology. “But Kevin obviously doesn’t need to see them.”
“Could be they’re just worried about him,” Craig begins, but just then, the final bell rings. Shit!
“Garrison’ll be here any minute,” Esther says, turning on her heel. Their little chat is clearly over, but Craig still hasn’t told her the most important thing!
“Wait,” Craig snaps, grabbing her arm with his good hand – hard enough to make both her eyebrows disappear under her bangs. “Shit, I’m sorry!” He immediately lets go of her arm. “But you’ve got to make Kevin watch the news tonight!”
Esther is rubbing her arm where he grabbed it, and Craig feels like absolute shit about that. “I’m really sorry, but six o’clock! On the local channel, whatever the hell it’s called! The one that does all the Denver and Boulder specific shit.”
“You mean KTVD.” Esther stops rubbing her arm. “It’s that important, huh?” She’s not asking him at all, Craig realizes. Esther gets it. And if Esther gets it, this crazy-ass plan might actually work.
“Yeah,” he says, almost weak at the knees with relief. “The six o’clock news on KTVD, make sure he watches that!”
“Okay then. Six o’clock. Not like we’re going to DnD, anyway.”
Craig is left alone in the hallway for a moment, but then he spots the bright purple bonnet covered in what’s got to be plastic flowers at the far end of the hallway. Worn over a matching purple gown trimmed with white lace. And is Miss Garrison actually carrying a lacy purple parasol? Indoors?
“Goddamn it,” Craig mutters, before he hurries back inside the classroom.

Mrs Kelly, bless her heart, has booked Tweek and the gang into an empty classroom on the second floor. This is so they can conduct their dress rehearsal during their free period after homeroom, in what Token calls “a realistic setting”. And Tweek’s got to admit this is a good idea, because it’s not just how they’re supposed to walk inside, single-file, from the hallway to the eerie notes of that folk music CD Token ordered… it’s also where they put the CD player. AND the overhead transparency machine.
“We’re going to have to take turns doing the technical stuff,” Token points out, rubbing his chin and clearly thinking out loud. “Since we’re taking turns speaking anyway.” He looks kind of funny, standing there with his perfectly ironed white shirt on and a home-made Moche warrior shield tucked under his arm.
“What if we put the CD player in the back,” Craig says, already picking it up by the handle from the teacher’s desk, where Token first put it down. “Next to the Overhead? That way, whoever’s sitting out can operate both?”
“Oh my God, you’re a genius,” Clyde exclaims, and Token puts down his shield so he can offer Craig a high-five.
“This is exactly the reason I wanted to do this,” he says, giving Craig a huge, grateful smile as he takes the CD player from him. “We’ve got to let the space inform how we… I mean, uh, we’ve got to adjust what we’re doing to the room we’re in.”
“Then it m-m-makes sense for me to s-s-s…” Jimmy stops, draws a deep breath, and starts over, “To b-begin at the b-b-back.” He looks annoyed with himself for getting stuck on the word “start”, and Tweek knows Jimmy’s mainly offering because they’ve all been thinking the same thing. That Jimmy’s never going to make a seamless entrance on his crutches, no matter how practical his costume is for him to move around in.
“Why don’t we ask Miss Kelly if we can just go first,” Tweek asks, as the idea hits him. “Then, if you’re happy to, Jimmy, you can start out in the classroom by yourself! Maybe even in the dark?! And then you can have the music playing while everyone else comes in to sit!”
Jimmy gives him this huge, relieved grin. “F-f-for sure!”
“Good thinking, Tweek,” Token says, instantly warming to the idea. “And then,” he turns to Jimmy, “Nobody’ll get a good look at your costume, either, until it’s your turn!”
Jimmy’s costume is a thing of beauty. They based it on two pictures from Clyde’s old museum guide, and Mrs Valmer stitched it up from a hideous old comforter coverlet Clyde had dug out of storage. That thing was ridiculously ugly; this densely-patterned brown Eighties thing covered in flower pots and red poinsettas. But from a distance, when it’s been made into a loose, knee-length poncho, it honestly doesn’t look that bad! Mrs Black let the borrow one of her Tribal patterned sofa cushions, which Token has very carefully attached to the back, after taking most of the stuffing out. The colour-way is the same, so it actually goes with the poncho. There’d been enough of the material left over for Jimmy himself to cut some into strips for the shaggy leg hangings, and for him and his mom to cover an old Deerstalker hat from Sloppy seconds in it, turning it into a Wari four-cornered hat. Nicole even let them borrow a pair of her earrings – big, plate-shaped things covered in little faux turquoise stones – and it was Tweek’s job to tape the hooks to the back and attach them to the hat with long strips of leather, so that they dangle next to Jimmy’s face. In theory, he should also be wearing one of the nose rings Clyde made in metal shop, but the Wari one was basically a tiny round plate, and Jimmy had found it too hard to talk from behind it when they were all trying them on. Jimmy’s promised to put it on when he’s just standing around in front, but he’s warned them all it’ll have to come off for his part of the presentation. Tweek’s just impressed Jimmy can stand to put that thing up his nose at all.
“I think Jimmy’s costume might be my favorite,” Tweek admits, “Uh, not that I’d want to trade or anything! The Nazca are mine, okay?! Them and all their geoglyphs!”
Tweek’s Nazca outfit is thankfully nose ring free. Just a coffee sack – the biggest kind they have at Tweak Bros – turned inside out, before he drew the pattern on with a Sharpie and then filled it in with some old acrylic paints. It’s doing double duty as part of his cloth mummy getup too; this coffee sack is the gift that keeps on giving. But Tweek’s Nazca mask, made from cardboard and spray painted gold? Now that’s the real star of the show. Tweek hid behind a door when it was done to test it on Mom, and she’s screamed her head off. So that was a good sign.
“Nobody’s gonna take the Nazca away from you, honey,” Craig drawls, grabbing that fake shrunken head Clyde made from where it’s been tossed on the teacher’s desk. Holding it high above his head with his right hand, he says, “Inca Empire forever, bitches.” Only he says it in the same tone you might use to say, “Toenail clippers”, or “Shut the door behind you.”
Tweek snorts.
The idea is that the five of them are dressed up in outfits from the five main eras of old Peruvian history - Clyde as a Paracas shaman, Tweek as a Nazca mask dude, Token as a Moche warrior, Jimmy as a Wari Empire bro and Craig as an Incan… something. Tweek helped him make a… well, calling it a hat seems like it’s selling the thing short. A headdress? They’ve used an old knitted beanie, craft store feathers and hot glue, and stitched two of Clyde’s discarded nose ring prototypes to the front, after Tweek had very carefully drilled holes through them. Hopefully this thing will be spectacular enough to distract from how Craig’s wearing a tunic that’s basically an old blanket with holes cut into it, over a pair of track pants. One hole for his head and one for his right arm; Craig had said he might as well keep his broken arm in the sling underneath it. Tweek had figured he’d already put Mom’s poor haberdashery scissors through enough, so he’d agreed.
“Okay guys,” Token is saying, crouched by the wall as he plugs the CD player in. “Jimmy’s in position, so let’s show Wendy who’s boss!”
That sentence hangs in the air awkwardly for a few seconds, and Token looks so embarrassed that Tweek blurts out, “Yeah! Let’s put the Testaburger in the fridge!”
Everybody just sort of blinks at him. “Honey,” Craig drawls, “You’re making it sound like you want us to murder–”
“That’s, that’s where you meat-eaters keep your burgers, right,” Tweek howls, cheeks burning. “In the fridge?! ”
“Testaburger in the fridge,” Clyde mutters, laughing. Jimmy, sitting behind the desk they’ve put the overhead projector on, is resting his head in his hands and laughing helplessly.
Token’s laughing too, as he wraps his left arm around Tweek’s shoulders and musses his hair with his right hand. “Don’t ever change, you little weirdo,” he tells Tweek, and then it’s impossible to stay upset. “Come on, gang, let’s take this from the top!”

Chapter Text

Being in court is pretty terrifying. The waiting doesn’t exactly help; Kenny and his sister have to sit in the corridor with Mrs Lau for what feels like hours, on the worst plastic folding chairs, before they’re allowed to go inside the courtroom. The dark oak panelling on the walls, the huge antique lamps in the ceiling, not to mention the sharp hospital smell of detergent. Kenny’s eyes are immediately drawn to the empty judge’s bench. It’s an oak desk on a raised platform – matches the panelling – that’s sandwiched between the Stars and Stripes and the Colorado state flag. That one’s got two blue stripes, one white stripe, and the red “C” sort of wrapped around a golden disc. A second, much bigger American flag has been jammed into the empty witness booth, probably as some kind of intimidation tactic. Well, it’s working, Kenny’s knees are wobbling with relief it’s not him going to court. Not testifying, and definitely not sitting at one of those tables opposite the judge – that’s where Kevin’s sitting now, next to Mr Black.
A thought suddenly pops into his head: Dad must’ve been in here lots of times. Not that Dad’s allowed to be here today; the adult accessories to the bank robbery are being left in their cells today. Kenny’s kind of grateful for that. It’s bad enough to see Mom sitting in the gallery already, in the middle of the front row, when they walk in. Karen’s hand tightens around Kenny’s, and she doesn’t even seem to realize she’s whimpering. Crap, what’s Kenny supposed to do? Karen was the one who insisted she wanted to be here today. Didn’t she realize Mom would be allowed to come too?
“That’s okay, honey,” Mrs Lau says, loud enough for Mom to look around. “You can sit with me.”
Karen nods, and loosens her death grip a little. Kenny feels his fingers start to tingle. Wow, she squished ‘em that hard huh?
Mr Black, over at one of the two desks that’s facing the judge, turns around at Mrs Lau’s voice. Smiling and raising one hand in a little wave. Of course, Mr Black literally does this sort of thing every day, so why would he be scared? Kenny chokes down his simmering panic and waves back. At the other table, there’s only one person, a woman with red hair scraped back into a braided bun, shuffling papers with intense concentration.
Mrs Lau leads the three of them all the way forwards to where Mom’s sitting, and shuffles sideways down the row of chairs Karen and Kenny trail after her like baby ducks following their mother. Mrs Lau very pointedly leaves an empty seat between herself and Mom – she puts her huge handbag on it, which has all of Kevin’s paperwork poking out of it in neatly organized, many-colored plastic folders.
And Mom gets the message. She doesn’t say anything. Jesus, Kenny thinks, was Mom always that thin? Or has she shrunk since the last time he saw her, without anybody else in the house reminding her to buy food, or eat?
Kenny’s gaze drops to the floor, to the borrowed pair of shoes he’s wearing. Brown leather, too tight. There’s a lump of sock digging into his right pinkie toe, and there’s already a blister forming where the top of the left shoe keeps rubbing against his hamstring. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees a flash of pink and thinks, no way. But then he kind of has to check again, and he was right the first time. Mom’s wearing those damn Crocks he gave her. To court. The ones he stole and walked home from the hospital in, staggering along the freeway while every passing car whipped his stolen lab coat backwards and showed his bare everythings to the world. Damn, Mom must really treasure that godawful pair of plastic sandals.
“Morning, Carol!”
Kenny jerks his head up so fast, he almost smacks it against the back of his seat. Because of course he recognizes that insanely cheerful tone. He’d recognize Mr Tweak’s voice anywhere. There he is, Kenny’s former boss, that lucky asshole Tweek’s dad. Grinning like a maniac and taking the seat on Mom’s other side, like that’s a perfectly normal thing to do. It hasn’t even been that long since Mom tried to brain his wife with her purse!
Mom gives Mr Tweak a look like he’s an alien that just crashed his flying saucer through the ceiling. “Hi,” she says, after a noticeably long hesitation. Kenny cringes with embarrassment. Would it kill Mom to say thanks for bailing Kevin out?
Kenny knows he should say something, but it’s like his tongue is swelling in his mouth. It’s even a struggle to breathe. All he can do is sneakily look past Mom, and watch Mr Tweak as he calmly folds his hands in his lap. Like he doesn’t even see Kenny sitting right there!
The sudden memory of Mr Tweak propping him up on the floor of the bank makes Kenny’s throat tighten up. He remembers Mr Tweak telling him to relax after he’d been shot. The softness of his old, washed-to-death sweater against Kenny’s cheek. How it had smelled of coffee, because of course it had.
“Kenny, don’t try to move,” Mr Tweak had said back then, one hand wrapped around the back of Kenny’s head. Obviously been trying to reassure him, to be the grownup, even though his own voice had been so thick with fear. All forgotten now, of course. Kenny took three bullets for Mr Tweak in the bank, but all he remembers is how Kenny spread those photos of Tweek around. Of Tweek kissing Craig.
Kenny turns his head away, tries to scrub at his eyes with the sleeve of his borrowed suit jacket – pale grey, too short – without anybody noticing. He still doesn’t understand how he survived having his skull literally split by a bullet, but what he has started to see is that there’s a price. That the world seems to… rewrite itself, around an aberration like him. That a normal mind, faced with something as horrifying as a dead person coming back to life, would have no choice but to erase, well… him. Him as Mysterion, anyway. It’s not like Mr Tweak’s forgotten the other thing Kenny did. Hell, that’s obviously why the cold shoulder treatment – Kenny can see the logic. Doesn’t make it sting any less, thought.
“All rise,” the bailiff suddenly calls out, and Kenny immediately scrambles to his feet. “Criminal Court 24 is now in session!” An elderly white lady in black robes shuffles into the room through a side door. “The Honorable Judge Ruth Sealy presiding!”
Kenny really, really misses his hoodie.

Jimmy must’ve hit the ON button as soon as he heard Mrs Kelly’s key scraping around in the lock, because it’s like the haunting flute music literally spills out of the door when she pulls it open. “Take your seats quietly, everyone,” Mrs Kelly says, and even shushes Cartman when he starts bitching about how he’s supposed to find his desk in the dark while he’s on crutches.
As if his foot isn’t already getting better, Craig thinks, glancing over at Token and exchanging eye rolls. For a second he thinks of how Jimmy, the only member of the gang who’s not here waiting in the empty science lab across the hall, and how he never seems to have any trouble getting where he needs to go. Then again, Jimmy’s had his whole life to get used to crutches. Not that Craig feels bad for Cartman at all.
Token, who seems to have read his mind, holds up his fist. They bump. Graveyard fight bros forever.
It feels like forever, waiting for their classmates to sit the hell down in there. Tweek and Clyde are taking turns peeking out through the open slit of the door, and Craig spends most of the wait sneakily checking out Tweek. He looks so damn adorable in his Nazca sack. The face Tweek drew on the front, using Token’s can of gold spray, actually looks a little bit like Kermit the Frog. Craig decides not to mention this – at least, not until after they’re done. Tweek’s also wearing that evil-looking mask he made on top of his head, like some kind of crazy sun-hat. Still doesn’t make him any less adorable, though.
“Anybody else about to shit themselves,” Clyde asks, with a huge, nervous grin stretched across his face. He honestly doesn’t look as awful as he seems to think in that loincloth – not that Clyde is his type. Craig made sure to tell him both those things earlier, when they were getting changed in here. And it seems to have helped? Clyde seems more worried about forgetting all the stuff he’s memorized than about walking around like that.
Clyde suddenly waves his fake severed head right under Craig’s nose. “Raoul tells me he totally would, if he still had an asshole!”
Craig lets out a surprised snigger, and Clyde beams. His whole strategy for their presentation is that he’ll pretend he’s getting his research information from Raoul the fake severed head. Craig practiced that bit with him last night up in Clyde’s bedroom, very quietly in case Clyde’s dad would think he’d gone insane. And Clyde had done a pretty convincing job of “listening” to Raoul and nodding along.
“Bwa-hah!” Tweek somehow manages to make that sound like a scream and a giggle at the same time, and Token snorts appreciatively. Of course he looks insanely good as a Moche warrior. His costume is based around a warrior shaped Moche pot from the British Museum. Yes, the one in England, because Token is one thorough bastard when it comes to research. A conical helmet with ear guards, a sleeveless tunic and what Jimmy likes to call polkadot hotpants. It’s all golden and covered in brown spirals – or dots, in the case of the shorts. Basically; Token’s “tunic” is an old leather jacket worn backwards and with the sleeves cut off, spray-painted gold with a spiral stencil held over it. Token had made that stencil himself, using an Exacto knife and a cardboard box, slicing away like he’d done this a million times before instead of never. Seems like there’s nothing Token isn’t good at, Craig thinks, except maybe letting old Testaburgers lie. In the fridge. He looks over at Tweek with a smirk.
“You ready for this, Nazca Man? Nascarine,” he amends, grinning cautiously at Tweek as he turns it into a question.
“That sounds like some kind of hallucinogen,” Token drawls.
“Yeah, or a Formula One race kind of thing,” Clyde chimes in.
“I like Nascarine,” comes Tweek’s quick-fire reply. “It’s like I’m Wolverine’s ancestor or something. Inca Man,” he adds, and Craig can see his lips quirking upwards in his signature naughty Tweek grin.
“Are we like an ancient super team or something,” Clyde asks, his voice shrill with nerves.
“Like a Peruvian Justice League!” Token lights up. “And actually, that would make Tweek Doctor Nazca! Because he’s got a mask, like Doctor Fate’s got his helmet, you know?”
“That’s even better,” Tweek agrees, reaching up to touch his mask. “I’m officially naming this thing Nabu!”
“Then I’m the Moche Manhunter!” Token’s grin is huge and happy. “And Clyde’s… Shamanzam?”
“With his trusty sidekick Raoul,” Craig agrees, while Clyde wheezes with suppressed laughter and doubles over.
“Dude,” Tweek suddenly blurts out, nudging Craig’s good arm and pointing across the hall. Craig looks over just in time to see it as the door to their classroom slips closed – that’s the signal they arranged with Mrs Kelly. Now they all just have to run across the hallway looking like total idiots to anybody who happens to still be out there – whee. But, after all that time he spent with his evil fake family, this doesn’t scare Craig nearly as much as it would’ve done, back when he still lived in Denver. Before he had the Peruvian League on his side.
“Here goes,” Token says, squaring his shoulders.
“C’mon, Inca Man,” Tweek says, slipping his left hand into Craig’s right. It’s small, and warm, and only shaking a little bit.
“Shamanzam,” Clyde chimes in, with a snicker, as he holds Raoul high above his head.
As they cross the hallway, they don’t run. In fact, their steps slow down as the four of them start walking in synch. In the lead, Clyde looks weirdly majestic in his homespun shaman outfit. The way he carries Raoul, it’s like the (fake) shrunken head is important to him. Like he’s forgotten what embarrassment even is. Token, of course, looks and acts as though he does this sort of thing every day. Walking directly in front of Craig, their fingers still braided into one big knot, Tweek is shaking in his coffee sack. Vibrating at the kind of frequency that could probably shatter glass. But he still turns around to look at Craig, and gives him a huge grin and a thumb’s up, before pulling his mask (Nabu! Ha!) down, one-handed. His other hand stays inside Craig’s hand right until Clyde opens the door. And now there’s music drifting out, brittle and haunting, from the darkened classroom. And Jimmy’s really on the ball, because that image of the Paracas tapestry with all the shamans and severed heads suddenly spreads across the black-board with a soft click from the projector.
Craig swallows. This is it.

Kevin cuts a pathetic figure in the witness box. The prosecutor lady – a thin white woman with red hair scraped back into the world’s most uncomfortable-looking bun – practically tears strips out of him. Why did he not think to question these new people in town when they paid him to perform small tasks. Why did he not question the nature of said small tasks. Has this lady ever wanted for money in her life, Kenny wonders, while Karen hides her face in his suit jacket because she just can’t bear to watch.
“And was it explained to you,” the prosecutor lady asks, her voice as sharp as a blade, “That you were tasked with keeping lookout while your new associates were robbing the bank above your head?”
Kenny wishes he had someone to hide behind, too. But he forces himself to watch Kevin, eyes as wide as he can make them, as his brother says, “Yes, M’am.” He sits there, meek as a sheepdog, and admits to everything.
Then there are witnesses to question. They bring in a guard from the bank, and Mr Mackie the counsellor, and the picture they’re painting of his brother is not exactly pretty. Kenny was expecting that, but he still wasn’t prepared for the fear that would come with it. For feeling like Kevin getting locket up for this is, pretty much inevitable. And it all takes so long. By the time it’s Mr Tweak’s turn on the witness stand, Kenny needs the bathroom – badly. Guts churning, bladder fit to burst. But you can’t exactly ask to be excused in court, can you? So he grits his teeth and watches as Mr Tweak gets into the witness booth, ducking to avoid that massive flag.
“Mr Black has informed me, Mr Tweak,” the judge says, sounding pretty damn annoyed, “That you are a practicing Buddhist. Is that correct?”
If she’s hoping for Mr Tweak to tell her that it’s okay, he can go back to being a Christian or whatever to help this trial run more smoothly, then she’s in for a disappointment.
“Yes, your Honour,” Mr Tweak says, so succinctly that Kenny just knows Mr Black must’ve coached him on what to say here, “That’s correct.” Kenny’s half afraid Mr Tweak’s going to bring up one of his theories now. Maybe that one about how Jesus Christ was actually inspired by Buddhist teachings; he’s got a book about it that Kenny had a standing offer to borrow, back while he was still working for the guy. But thank God, Mr Tweak actually stops himself there.
“In that case,” the judge pulls her thin lips back into a sour smile, “It would be inappropriate to have you sworn in on either the Bible or the Torah, never mind the Quran. Instead I would like you to hold your right hand up, place your left hand on your heart. Do you solemnly swear or affirm under penalty of law that the testimony you will give before this court shall be the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth?”
“Absolutely,” Mr Tweak agrees, “I solemnly affirm it.”
Kenny had no idea it was even possible, to give a statement in court without swearing on the Bible or one of the other big books! His former boss seems so weirdly happy to be here that Kenny’s fear only intensifies. Mr Tweak’s kept himself in check this far, but he’s probably got a whole bunch of coffee related anecdotes primed and ready, Kenny can just see it now…
“Mr… Tweak,” the prosecutor says, like this is the most ridiculous name she’s ever come across. “Can you please describe to me your relationship to the defendant?”
“Kevin McCormick was my employee,” Mr Tweak replies, smiling and unfazed, “At the coffee shop I own and run with my wife.”
That’s… Aside from when he got sworn in just now, that’s like the shortest sentence Kenny has ever heard the man utter. It’s so straight to the point that it’s almost a little scary.
“I see. And how did he come to work for you?”
“Well,” Mr Tweak shifts in his seat, like he’s making himself more comfortable, and Kenny thinks, Here we go… “It was actually my wife’s idea. She wanted to hire the McCormick children to make sure they had their own money for things like food and school supplies, since their parents were struggling to make ends meet. In fact, we also hired their father to paint our house last summer,” Mr Tweak’s lip twitches, like he’s trying not to laugh as he remembers coming home to a purple house, “And to fix the roof at the coffee shop. Though neither of those things turned out too well.”
Kenny winces. He remembers the disbelief on Kevin’s face when Dad had popped open that first can of paint, the way his own ear had smarted for days after he’d blurted out, “No way would they want a purple house, Dad!” Then all those hours spent in the baking sun, standing on ladders, rubbing paint rollers up the walls. The strong smells of paint, and turpentine, mingling with the sour stench of the weed Dad and Kevin would smoke.
“Our son’s in the same class as Kevin’s younger brother,” Mr Tweak is saying, “So we’d both seen our share of… things that troubled us.”
“Can you please elaborate on that,” the prosecutor asks, like she’s relishing giving him all this rope to hang himself with, “Mr… Tweak?”
“Well, all the bruises they had would be the obvious one,” Mr Tweak goes on, and now he’s not smiling anymore. “Worn-out clothes, shoes with holes in them, that sort of thing. And they were all so thin, you know? So we discussed – Helen and I, that is, my wife and I – if we should keep donating to Amnesty or if we should try to make a difference more locally, with this particular family. We obviously couldn’t offer a job to a nine-year-old girl, but we hired the two older kids. We told them they could just bring their sister along, so then we could cook for them all, too. Make sure they all got at least one hot meal in them most days.”
Okay, Kenny thinks, that wasn’t too bad. A bit long-winded, sure, but nowhere near how badly Mr Tweak can and will normally deviate from whatever the original question was. And no coffee-related nuggets of wisdom either – not yet, anyway.
“I see,” the prosecutor says again, like she’s mentally sharpening her knives. “And what sort of employee did you find Kevin McCormick to be?”
“Well,” Mr Tweak draws a deep breath, “I’m actually a little sorry to say this.” Oh no, Kenny thinks, closing his eyes. “But for the first couple of weeks,” Mr Tweak goes on, “I was just waiting for Kevin to stick his fingers in the till. He never did though.” Kenny opens his eyes in surprise, just in time to see Mr Tweak turning in his seat to look right at the judge. “Never,” he says, his voice very even. “I would cash up twice on the days Kevin came in, and there was never so much as a dollar missing. So then I felt like a prize…” Mr Tweak goes on pause for a second, and Kenny can just see the guy editing the word “asshole” from his own speech, “… victim of my own socio-economic prejudice,” he says at last. “Kevin would miss the occasional shift, but I put that down to being a teenager. Aside from that? He was pretty much a model employee.”
Kenny chokes a little on his own saliva at hearing his brother described as a model anything. But it’s true, he realizes belatedly. Kevin showed up at work and did the job, most days. Kevin even knew how to chat to customers and do all that small-talk stuff. Kevin never back-stabbed the Tweaks.
Then, once Mr Black is done questioning Mr Tweak for the defence, thank God, it’s time for this shit-show to end. The prosecutor sums up everything Kevin’s done in a waspish, kind of hungry way. Like she just can’t wait to chalk this case up as a win, a feather in her cap – or in her bun, Kenny supposes. Mr Black’s closing remarks are a lot nicer, of course. He tries to paint a better picture of the circumstances. Talks about all the meth and crack stuff going on at home, about Dad beating on Mom and everybody else. About how there was never any money for anything, about pop tarts for dinner and how “normal is not a word that can be applied” to their childhood. That makes Kenny’s cheeks burn something fierce.
“The sudden temptation of ready cash was simply too great,” Mr Black says, as he’s finishing up, “For my client to resist it at the early stage. And by the time the bank robbery was being planned and roles were being assigned, fear of reprisals – from the criminal gang calling the shots, yes, but also from his own father – that fear was what kept him there, in that parking garage. Your honor,” Mr Black looks up at the judge, “My client grew up with a complete lack of knowledge of what is normal. In a family, and in a more generalized sense, in society. This is the kind of knowledge that must be built up from scratch, which is a process I would argue my client was in the middle of doing – thanks to his part-time job at the coffee shop – when the Queen Bee and her gang appeared on the scene. My client,” he goes on, spreading his hands, palms up, “Is still legally a child. A child surrounded by adults that he was too frightened to defy. Navigating a situation he did not possess the tools to comprehend. And while the scale of his crime against society here is startling, given what we now know of his background? It also seems unavoidable.”
The judge just listens to all of this, looking more sour by the minute, until her eyes are evil little slits and her mouth is nothing but an awful, thin line. Is she a racist, Kenny wonders frantically. Has this judge already decided Mr Black is going to lose this case, no matter what?
The Judge bangs her gavel. “As Mr McCormick has chosen be sentenced today,” she says, “The court will take a break of one hour for deliberation.” She bangs the gavel again, the bailiff shouts “All rise,” – which they do – and then the judge walks off. As they all file out of the courtroom, Karen still holding hands with Mrs Lau, Kenny rubs his hands over his eyes. On the one hand, he wants this to be over. On the other, he just knows that Kevin is screwed, no matter how hard Mr Tweak sang his praises up there.
“Hey, Kenny!”
He jolts upright at that familiar voice, then immediately drops his gaze to the floor tiles, black and white, which have been worked into a kind of star pattern. “Hi,” he mutters, feeling his shoulders, his whole back, tighten. Kenny knows he should be thanking Mr Tweak for covering Kevin’s bail, but right now, his windpipe is threatening to close up completely.
Mr Tweak’s hand lands on his shoulder, and Kenny swears he can feel the warmth from it through his borrowed suit jacket and shirt. “It’s going to be okay, Kenny,” Mr Tweak says, making Kenny hate himself even more than he already does. This is when he ought to look up, but he can’t, he just can’t. Kenny feels like, if he looks up now, he’s going to die all over again. All he can do is shrug.
“Things have a way of working themselves out,” Mr Tweak tells him, voice brimming with that boundless optimism of his. One final clap on the shoulder, then he walks off. And Kenny slumps, pressing his hands over his eyes again, heart pounding like crazy.

There’s this total hush that descends on the class when the four of them come in. Tweek’s kind of glad he’s got Nabu (ha!) to hide behind, as they line up in chronological order in front of Mrs Kelly’s desk. That’s when the music reaches a crescendo, before it gradually starts to fade out, as Jimmy slowly turns the volume down. And even though he promised himself he wouldn’t look at anybody, Tweek finds himself staring right at Butters as soon as Mrs Kelly flicks the lights back on. Butters is sitting on the front row, directly opposite where Tweek is standing. But the look on Butters’ face, the wonder and surprise Tweek sees there, somehow have the most calming effect on his poor nerves. Maybe Tweek doesn’t look nearly as lame as he secretly suspects, maybe all together, they might even look… kind of cool?
“Raoul and I,” Clyde says, holding his shrunken head buddy up high, “Come all the way from the Paracas Empire. We were one of the first civilizations that would settle in the area that’d eventually become modern-day Peru.” Tweek can only marvel at how steady his voice is; how confident Clyde sounds.
“Nice diaper, Clyde,” Cartman sneers, and Tweek feels a familiar flare of rage in his belly – stupid, stupid Cartman! He can see Mrs Kelly opening her mouth to give Cartman an earful, but before she can speak, Clyde says, “Silence, fat one! Or Raoul here will suck your soul out through your anus!”
Giggles and snickers spread like wildfire through the classroom. Even Mrs Kelly is holding her hand over her mouth and trying not to laugh! And Cartman, unbelievably, actually does shut up! For now, anyway. There’s a gleam in the other boy’s eyes that tells Tweek Cartman hasn’t given up the fight yet! But for now, he looks too outraged to think of a clever comeback, and Clyde knows to take advantage of that and keep talking.
Clyde actually does pretty amazing after that confrontation; talking confidently about the Paracas culture, “chatting” to Raoul, and fielding off Cartman’s heckling when he starts up again. When they were first planning this thing, Tweek had secretly thought, no way could Clyde ever open the whole thing. But he does, with Raoul held high above his head, and with his that recorder they found in Sloppy Seconds and spray-painted gold clutched in his other hand. Rocking that loin-cloth like a total boss, football muscle and puppy fat on proud display. Way to go, Clyde! Watching his best friend like this is so damn gratifying, Tweek feels like his heart is just about ready to burst.
But then, oh Jesus, Clyde raises the gold-painted recorder to point directly at Tweek, who feels his knees turning to jelly that instant. “…Nazca civilization,” Clyde says, and Tweek knows from their rehearsals that those are the very last words in Clyde’s part of the presentation. Those are his cue. So why can’t he move? Why can’t he talk?!
“Oh wow, Tweek,” Cartman calls out with syrupy insincerity, “You look so cute in that dress!”
Tweek feels all the blood draining from his face in one great rush. Stupid Cartman, now everybody’s going to laugh, and, and…
But then, he feels it – the tips of Craig’s fingers. Setting his skin on fire through the coarse fabric of his costume. Token is standing between them, but Craig’s right arm is still long enough that he can reach past their friend and touch Tweek.
I’m not alone, Tweek thinks, which is ridiculous. Of course he’s not alone, all his best friends in the world are literally right here with him. But talking in front of people – there’s a different kind of alone-ness to that, and it’s terrifying. Well, it was terrifying – until Tweek remembered that Craig is here. That Craig’s got his back.
Behind his cardboard mask, Tweek smiles. “I look better than you would, that’s for sure,” he snaps right back, taking one step forward. Butters is giggling now, sneaking a glance over his shoulder at Cartman – who is fuming. In fact, the whole classroom is filling up with giggles and snorts. Yesss!
Resisting the urge to punch the air, Tweek spreads his arms dramatically and starts his Nazca spiel. “Nobody knows,” he says, taking one step forward, “Why we Nazca carved the huge pictures called geoglyphs into the land.”
Clyde’s discreetly slipping off to the side, to trade places with Jimmy, while Jimmy puts one last slide on to get Tweek started. Tweek knows that his favorite geoglyph; the monkey with its huge spiral tail, will be up on the blackboard right behind him now. Tweek doesn’t turn around to double-check, points his thumb over his shoulder to hammer home what he’s talking about. Suddenly, his hand isn’t shaking at all. “We Nazca were sort of the next step of the Paracas society,” he goes on, “We believed in a lot of the same nature gods, and we also practiced ancestor worship. As far as we Nazca were concerned, it was our ancestors who’d sweet-talk the gods on our behalf, and make sure we were getting the water we needed to drink and grow crops.” Jimmy quietly hobbles up to take Clyde’s place on Tweek’s right side, but Tweek can’t let himself get distracted by that. “A whole bunch of Paracas people migrated from the north and settled in the Nazca valley,” he carries on, and there’s that soft click again, as Clyde puts on the slide with the map that’s got a dotted line drawn from the Paracas peninsula to Cahuachi and the Nazca Valley, both of which have been marked. “…that’s when you can say our society got started. We built our great city, Cahuachi, right into the hills, and this would become the heart of our empire.” The foreign words roll off his tongue so effortlessly, the facts all line up so neatly in his mind. Breathe, Tweek reminds himself. He needs to talk slowly enough for the class to follow all this stuff. “Cahuachi is also right next to the pampas,” Tweek goes on, as he feels his heartbeat settling into a steady rhythm, “The plains where we carved our huge pictograms, the ones you call Nazca lines today.” It’s like Tweek can suddenly hear himself from the outside. Has he ever sounded this calm before, in his life? “Of course, nobody knows exactly why we created these beautiful, enormous works of art…” Another click of the projector, so Clyde will have put on the slide of the spider geoglyph – symmetrical where the monkey was anything but, “But there’s been lots of speculation. Like the idea that we were using them to communicate with aliens, or that they were even made by aliens…” Tweek decides he might as well deliver his next line to Butters, and gives the kid a serious eyeballing, “Which is just a pile of llama turds.”
Wait, Tweek tells himself. Give everybody a chance to laugh. If they’ll even…? Just as he’s starting to doubt that his line was even vaguely funny, Butters starts to giggle again, and that sets off almost the whole rest of the class in no time at all. Phew! It seems like time moves more slowly from up here, from this side of the classroom, Tweek decides, and rubs his suddenly sweaty palms on his Nazca sack. Hopefully nobody’ll notice.
Meanwhile, Token’s dug out Tweek’s old copy of Chariots of the Gods from behind Mrs Kelly’s desk, where it was perched on top of the pile of fabrics Tweek’s going to get wrapped up in real soon. He now holds it out to Tweek, sort of sideways so that everybody in class can get a good look at that hideous cover. Peruvian deity communicating leaning back on some kind of Peruvian divan at the top, just chilling with his snake buddies and what might be either a pillar holding his house up, or the world’s biggest bong. And right below that, a picture of an astronaut with his space helmet on, reclining in his seat and working some controls set right above his head, his arms and body mirroring the position of the Peruvian carving. As subtle as a gunshot to the head.
“I’ll have you all know,” Tweek says, unable to keep the utter disgust out of his voice, “That this “Erich von Däneken,” fellow has angered all of our nature gods.” Tweek opens the book right at the middle, and tries to discreetly find a good grip at the top of the spine. “The killer whale and the spotted cat are especially pissed,” he goes on, “And the hummingbird creatures just wanna fly over to his house in Switzerland right now and cover the whole place in guano. So you could say I’m doing the gods’ work here!” With that, he draws a deep breath through the nose-holes of his golden mask and rips. Tweek manages to tear almost all the way down the spine in just the one yank, and the whole class audibly gasps. A second yank, and now he’s standing there with the halves of the trade paperback he paid $14.99 for in either hand. “Hah!” Tweek decides he might as well improvise a little, and raises both hands above his head. “The gods are pleased!”
The class is so quiet now that Tweek can clearly hear Craig snickering next to him.
“Because there’s, uh, no actual proof,” he goes on, suddenly feeling very self-conscious, before he drops both halves of the book to the floor, and stomps on one of them for good measure, “That aliens ever landed in ancient Peru, created the geoglyphs OR got mummified there. In fact,” he reaches up, pulls Nabu off, and suddenly feels very naked, “I’m gonna get mummified right now, just to show you guys how that was done!”
Tweek puts Nabu down on the desk, right next to where Clyde put Raoul earlier, before he went to take over slideshow duties from Jimmy. His hands are still shaking from ripping that book up, but damn – that felt good! When he turns back, Token’s got all the different bits of fabric out – a tablecloth from Clyde’s house, a blanket with a yellow arrow pattern from Jimmy’s guest bedroom, and so on – and Craig is doing his one-armed best to help him shake out the top one; a pumpkin-embroidered bedsheet in a very 70’s shade of orange that Token’s mom gave them and said she doesn’t need to get back.
“Peruvian mummies have survived until now,” Token is saying, speaking up for literally the first time, “Because the climate there is so dry, but also because of the way they were wrapped in all these different layers of cotton, coated in resin, and then finally covered with mud bricks. And the mummies were still thought of as part of society back then,” he goes on, as Tweek steps forward and lets them wrap that first embroidered sheet around him. “Since they practiced ancestor worship, they thought of their mummies as ancestors too, and carried them out of their tombs to take part in festivals.” Tweek obligingly walks in a small circle, just like they’ve practiced, and smiles when he feels Craig’s hot breath on his cheek for just a second. “They’d sit in a place of honor,” Token is saying, “Some servants would even have the job of feeding them, or at least offering them food and drink.” The world is, thankfully, receding behind an orange veil. Now that he knows he doesn’t have more talking to do, Tweek can let himself relax a little. Jimmy’s up next, explaining how the Nazca would put special treasures in between the layers they wrapped mummies in – and how, “for the purposes of demonstration, and not harming Tweek”, they’re using ankle socks instead of arrowheads. “But they’re N-N-Nike ankle socks,” Jimmy specifies, like this makes them ever so much more special – and not just random freebies Clyde’s dad got from a sales rep. From inside his funerary bundle, Tweek does his best to at least laugh quietly.

Mrs Lau called ahead yesterday to arrange for a rental car, so there’s a silver Honda ready and waiting at the AVIS outside the airport. Mr Black drives them all out there. That judge wasn’t as evil as she looked; Kevin was given community service instead of Juvie, so Karen’s smiling from ear to ear. Kevin’s safe and Mom’s shuffled back home in her crocks; why wouldn’t their sister be happy? Kevin’s walking around with a dazed look on his face, like he still can’t quite believe he won’t be locked up. He actually hugged Mom, and the relief that Kevin’s getting off this easy, for an actual bank robbery, had made her cry. Kenny hadn’t been able to watch that, much less try and console her. He still loves Mom; he knows that he does, but… At least he’d managed to give her a quick hug goodbye.
“I really appreciate this, Steven,” Mrs Lau is saying, “Driving us everywhere while my car’s in the shop.”
“I honestly could’ve take you all back, too,” Mr Black tells her, as he pulls into the AVIS parking lot. “I booked the whole day off from the office. Or you’d be welcome to stay at our place, Linda and I already discussed it.”
Mrs Lau waves this away. “How am I supposed to tigermom my kid from out here,” she says, and sure, she’s got a twinkle in her eye. But Kenny didn’t go to school with the Stoley twins for all those year without learning exactly what a tiger mom is. “Tsan Yu’s got a test coming up,” she goes on, climbing out of the passenger seat and swinging her enormous handbag onto her shoulder. “Day after tomorrow! So I better make sure he passes it, eh?”
Kenny feels like he already knows Mrs Lau’s son; that’s how much she talks about him. He knows how Tsan Yu, who prefers to be called Peter, also likes wearing nail polish and mascara, which Mrs Lau is totally cool with. Apparently they do skincare together, and do each other’s nails – literally the only thing that’ll get that kid in trouble seems to be getting a grade lower than an A-.
It strikes Kenny that maybe, if he can ever work up the guts to tell anybody about liking Craig that way, Mrs Lau could be that person. Maybe.
“Why don’t we all do sheet masks on the way,” she’s saying, looping her arm through Kevin’s. Kenny watches his brother jerk back and splutter something incoherent, and suddenly has to cough into his fist like Mr Tweak. Just to hide the enormous grin that’s threatening to split his face in half. “It’ll be fun,” Mrs Lau goes on, dragging Kevin towards the little office at the far end of the parking lot. “We’ll look like three ghosts in a car!”
Kevin waves them off – he’s sticking around just for tonight, officially because of DnD. Craig’s arranged a goodbye game for him, a send-off for the Princess, at Clyde’s house tonight. There’s a second reason; a top secret one, hidden at the bottom of Kenny’s overnight bag. This one’s brand new, and much sturdier than the one he left behind inside the bank’s hollow ceiling. It even came with this flat bottom piece that could be taken out. It had been perfect, exactly what he’d needed. Kenny had also been able to buy Velcro strips and a glue-gun at a craft store – sure, Mrs Lau had looked at him funny, but Kenny still had plenty of money left from working at Tweak Bros to cover all that stuff. Right now, that bag is still sitting in the trunk of Mr Black’s beautiful, sleek BMW. Kenny’s got a few hours to kill until everybody else finishes school. He’s kind of assuming Mr Black will give him a ride into town, and not leave him here at the airport to make his own way back.
“Kenny,” Mr Black says, jerking his head at the BMW, “Why don’t you get in the front. I’ll drive you to Tweak Bros,” he goes on, and Kenny freezes with his hand on the passenger door.
“Whu-what?” Panic starts welling up inside Kenny’s chest, because doesn’t Mr Black know what he did?! “I, uh, I don’t think,” he babbles frantically, completely unable to even look in Mr Black’s direction, “They wouldn’t want me to…”
“Richard called me last night, just to arrange it,” Mr Black tells him, and Kenny can hear the click of him opening the door on the drivers’ side, the soft whump of the seat as he gets inside. But Kenny’s too busy picking his jaw up off the floor to even try to answer that, because what in the actual hell? It must be some kind of punishment, he decides, as he finally pulls his own door open. The Tweaks probably want to sit him down and talk about what he’s done. And fair enough, he deserves that.
Kenny spends the whole ride to the coffee shop just keeping his mouth shut. He changes out of his horrible borrowed shoes and into the new pair of sneakers Mrs Lau got him. She let them all pick one pair each at the shoe store, since a bit of money gets allocated to every kid that’s take into foster care. Just to kit them out for their new lives, since they’ve most likely had to leave all of their stuff behind – Kenny and his siblings sure did. And because Mrs Lau assured him he was allowed to get proper shoes, and not just whatever happened to be sticking out of the sale bin, Kenny went and found himself exactly the same kind of sneakers he saw at Clyde’s house that time. Sky blue, with a burgundy Nike swoosh. And they’ve been comfortable to walk in right from the start, no break-in time necessary. So putting them on now, along with a clean pair of socks, was a huge improvement. Mr Black also switched on the inbuilt heating in the seats – Kenny’s never even heard of such luxury before – and that does a lot to soothe his aching muscles from last night.
The lunchtime rush is almost over by the time they get there. Mr Black drives right up to the kerb by the front door and waits there, like he wants to see Kenny off – but really, he’s just making sure Kenny doesn’t make a run for it. Shouldering his new bag, Kenny raises his hand in a little wave, then draws a deep breath. Like a man walking to his own execution, he puts his hand on the door and gives it a push, making the bell tinkle. Time to face the music.
“Kenny,” Mrs Tweak exclaims, as soon as he sets his first foot inside. She runs out from behind the counter, wiping her hands on a green Tweak Bros towel. “Richard told me the good news.”
Good news? For a second, Kenny has no idea what she’s even talking about, but then it hits him. Kevin, of course. “Um,” he says, “Right.”
Mrs Tweak hugs him, right there in front of the handful of customers in the shop, and of course Kenny lets her. “Come on now,” she says, “Richard’s just heating up some lunch, why don’t you go keep him company?”
Kenny gets this sinking feeling, all the way down to the bottom of his stomach. “But I…” he looks around him frantically, trying to stall for time, to come up with a reason why that’s impossible. “I can’t, I…!”
“There’s nothing naughty in that bag, is there,” she asks, and it just blows Kenny’s mind that Mrs Tweak would refer to carrying a gun as being naughty.
“Uh, no,” he hastily assures her, “Just, you know. Clothes and sneakers.” Which is more or less the truth. Even what’s hidden in that secret compartment is technically clothes.
“That’s all right then.” Mrs Tweak gives him a firm little smile, and a very firm push towards the staff room door. “In you go.”
Mr Tweak’s crouched in front of the cooker, pulling a tray of what definitely smells like lasagne out of the oven. “Hello Kenny,” he says, without turning around. “Mushroom lasagne sound okay?”
Before he has a chance to answer, Kenny’s stomach growls – loudly. God, how embarrassing can this even get?!
“I’ll take that as a yes.” Mr Tweak’s laughing and shaking his head. Using the biggest spatula, he divides the thing neatly in the middle and scoops half of it onto a plate that’s already got a small pile of salad on it. This thing’s made with tomato sauce, Kenny notices distantly, the way you’ll notice things in a dream. Just like a beef lasagne would be. “There’s mushrooms and bits of carrot in here,” Mr Tweak’s saying, holding the plate out, “And you may think carrots don’t belong in lasagne, but let me tell you, they work out perfectly.”
Kenny can’t bring himself to take it. “But why don’t you hate me,” he asks instead. Cringing to hear himself, because he suddenly sounds like a little kid.
“I don’t hate you, Kenny,” Mr Tweak sighs. He puts the plate down on the kitchen counter, and dumps the rest of the lasagne on his own plate. “I was very angry with you, but that’s a… different thing. Do you know how many gay teenagers commit suicide?”
The change of subject is so sudden, but for once, Kenny can see the connection. “I don’t,” he mutters, looking down at his new sneakers.
“A lot,” Mr Tweak sounds… unusually serious. Like this is something he regularly thinks about. “When we first got the idea that Tweek might be gay, Helen and I started reading up on things. And there were a lot of stories where teenagers were being bullied, or didn’t feel like they’d be safe to tell their parents they were gay, all these…” he spreads his hand, one still holding the spatula, and a single lump of mushroom and cheese lands on the counter with a soft squelch. “All these sad, preventable deaths. Twenty-second rule,” he adds, dumping the spatula in the sink before scooping that lump right onto his own plate. “Food safety be damned, he goes on, with a quick wink at Kenny. “Just don’t tell Helen!”
It feels so much like working here again that Kenny can’t help but laugh a little bit. He takes the second plate of lasagne too, because it would be kind of stupid just to leave it there to go cold. Sits down at the rickety little table, and starts to eat – he won’t be expected to talk then, or explain himself. Not with his mouth full. It never even occurred to him, when he was planning the whole photo thing, that either Tweek or Craig could get upset enough about what he did to actually…
“You want coffee, right?” Mr Tweak pulls two mugs out of the cupboard without even waiting for a reply. They’re not Tweak Bros mugs either; there’s Mr Tweak’s World’s Greatest Dad mug and… one that Kenny’s never seen before. It’s got a sort of orange grid pattern on it – a bit like floor tiles – and with the word “Bears” printed across it in loopy writing. Only when Mr Tweak puts it down in front of his plate, so full of coffee with milk that it almost spills, does Kenny see the navy blue helmet on the other side. It’s an old Chicago Bears mug. “Oh, Tweek spotted that at a yard sale, a while back,” Mr Tweak tells him. “Told me to get it for you, since that’s your favorite color.”
The guilt is like a snake in his belly. Writhing and biting. Guilt and regret, because that was supposed to be Kenny’s work mug, wasn’t it. The lasagne suddenly loses all flavour and Kenny finds it hard to keep chewing without wincing, because suddenly this is like trying to eat cardboard.
“You know,” Mr Tweak pulls his chair out and finally sits down, “Ever since Tweek was born, I’ve spent so much time worrying about what could happen to him. It’s what parents do, I guess.”
Not all parents. But Kenny’s not about to say that out loud.
“I hope now you can understand how dangerous it was, what you did.”
Kenny can only nod, over and over. It’s like his throat is swelling up. Sure, he’d known what he was doing was wrong at the time, but the, the hugeness of it hasn’t hit him until now. Maybe Tweek was never in as much danger as his dad seems to think. Just look at Tweek, how comfortable that guy is in his own skin. Tweek’s obviously never had to wonder if his parents loved him. Kenny still remembers when he gave Cartman Tweek’s locker combination so he could stuff all that gay porn they’d found in a Dumpster in there. How Tweek had turned it all into a big joke, and pretended to be grateful. How so much confidence can live in that pint-sized body…? Again, Kenny would never say any of that out loud. But Craig? All alone in a new school, with his real parents missing? The understanding hits hard enough to make Kenny’s vision blur. Thank God, thank God Craig didn’t…
“Well,” Mr Tweak says, holding a big lump of pasta on his fork, one big gob of cheese dangling from it, “As long as you understand. And you look like you do.” He shoves that lump into his mouth just before that bit of cheese can break off, and starts chewing it with gusto.
But what if he had? What if Craig really had killed himself, all because of Kenny and his stupid jealous crush? Kenny tries squeezing his eyes shut, but the tears start spilling out anyway. “If there’s,” he blurts out, in between gasps for air, “If there’s anything I can do to, to make up for…”
“You can say sorry to Tweek in person,” Mr Tweak tells him, but his voice doesn’t sound strict at all; just warm. “And to Craig. That should settle it as far as I’m concerned. But how those two feel about it, that’s obviously up to them. Still, you’ve got to take that chance, Kenny.”
Kenny looks up, in utter disbelief, because how could he ever…? He’s so lucky that Craig’s even talking to him, let alone arranging a whole farewell DnD game, and that other thing… There seems to be a kind of fragile truce in place between Craig and him, the terms all decided by Craig and never shared with Kenny. Bringing up what he did will probably shatter that truce for good!
Mr Tweak reaches across the table and puts his hand on Kenny’s shoulder. “Don’t leave any bad karma festering between the three of you,” he says, and all of a sudden he sounds so kind, and so wise, that Kenny can only nod. “Bad karma is the shitstain of the soul,” Mr Tweak adds, with another wink, and suddenly Kenny’s wiping snot on his sleeve and laughing, at the same time.
“Oh-okay,” he manages, forcing the words out, “I’ll try.”
Mr Tweak gives Kenny’s shoulder one final little shake, before he pulls his hand back. “Attaboy, Kenny,” he says. “You do know I’m proud of you, right?”
The room spins. Kenny looks up, heart pounding, eyes going wide. Is Mr Tweak saying he remembers?! That he knows Kenny died saving his life?!
“Just look at your work ethic,” Mr Tweak goes on, intent on cutting up his food. “You showed up for every shift, you were always ready to take on extra work… and you make a mean asbestos chai!” He shoves another chunk of pasta in his mouth, chews it vigorously, then finally, seems to realize Kenny’s gone on “pause”. “Kenny?” Mr Tweak sounds puzzled. “Kenny, are you okay?”
It takes him forever to find his voice. “How,” Kenny croaks at last, because he’s got to say something, “How’d you know Scott calls it asbestos chai?”
“Because I have become one with this coffee shop.” Mr Tweak sounds deadly serious, but Kenny’s worked here long enough to know when the guy’s kidding around. “I have merged with Tweak Bros! I see all, I hear all!” Then he laughs. “No, I just overheard a couple weeks ago, and asked Scott about it. All joking aside though, Kenny, you’ve become very good at making coffee. And with your work ethic, I wouldn’t hesitate to ask my friend Joe in Boulder to give you a job!”
Kenny blinks. Any hope he’d had of keeping up with this conversation is long gone. But he does understand the offer that’s on the table. “A job? Oh my god, yes please, I mean only if you’re sure, but –” The words spill out of him until Kenny slaps a hand over his own mouth.
Mr Tweak laughs. “That’s settled then,” he says, “I’ll give Joe a call tonight. But I’ve got to warn you, Kenny – Joe and his wife? They’re a bit weird.”
Kenny, who just took another bite of his lunch, almost sprays the whole table with food. He manages to hold it in, but only just. Because talk about the pot calling the kettle… “Weird,” he hacks, forcing himself to swallow before reaching for the Chicago Bears mug. “Weird, how?” He takes a big swallow to soothe his burning throat, and his eyebrows shoot up when he recognizes the taste of honey. Mr Tweak actually went to the trouble of making him a honey latte, too?
“Well, Joe’s wife,” Mr Tweak begins, putting his knife and fork down like he’s settling in for the long haul here, “Legally changed her name to Anna Banana.” Some of that honey latte comes back out through Kenny’s nostrils as he starts to laugh helplessly. “Their shop does have a pretty famous banana loaf with a secret recipe and all that jazz,” Mr Tweak goes on, absently passing Kenny a Tweak Bros napkin, “But Joe says it’s almost impossible for them to travel outside of the States now, because every single border agency will think Anna’s passport is fake! And Joe believes in aliens,” Mr Tweak rolls his eyes, “So he’s got a Countdown Blend – for when they come get us all in the year two thousand – and a Betelgeuse Blend, and they do these little biscuits shaped like alien heads, with big eyes marked out in yellow frosting. And they called their shop Joe’s Joe.” Mr Tweak rolls his eyes again. “I mean, can you believe these people? But, if you can face working for a couple of lunatics like that…”
Kenny nods frantically, doing his level best not to start laughing again.
“Then I’ll call Joe later and tell him you want the job. Oh, I already talked to him about it last night,” Mr Tweak says, when Kenny can only gape, even though he’s got his mouth full. “And Joe told me he could use somebody reliable. So that’s settled then.”
This is too much. It just hits Kenny, and he almost starts to cry again.
“Oh, and you should take that mug with you. It can be your work-mug at Joe’s, right?”
Kenny knows he doesn’t deserve all this. But turning any of it down, after Mr Tweak has gone to so much trouble… After he has so obviously forgiven Kenny, is not an option.
“I’ll treasure this,” Kenny says, raising the mug, and Mr Tweak immediately clinks his own mug against it. World’s Best Dad. That sounds about right.