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She doesn’t know where she’s running, just that she needs to keep going.
Her heart is pounding in her chest, the cold evening air is nipping at her exposed skin, and the asphalt scratches at her bare feet as she runs down the road.
“BUTTERS!”
The yelling is faint, but just being able to hear it makes it too close for comfort. She doesn't look back; she just keeps running. She cuts through the park, hoping if they're following her to throw them off. Her breathing is becoming heavy, and her muscles begin to burn, but she can't stop. The cool, damp grass is relieving on her soles, although it's only temporary before she's back on the road.
What does stop her is getting caught in the headlights of an oncoming pickup that seems to materialize out of nowhere. The truck's tires screech to a halt. She freezes, shielding her face with her arms as she braces for an impact that never comes.
"Marjorine?" A familiar voice emerges. She opens her eyes, wincing as they adjust to the light before her vision clears. She recognizes the truck first by its bumper rusting at the edges before she can vaguely identify the driver as he exits the vehicle.
“S-Stan?” Marjorine chokes out.
But the yelling resurfaces, interrupting their encounter. Although it’s still far away, both their heads snap in its direction.
“Butters?! Butters, get back here this instant!”
She doesn’t know if she can keep running with how hard her heart beats against her aching ribs. Thankfully, she doesn’t have to because she hears a click signaling the truck’s doors are unlocking. Stan instructs, with a concerned yet firm tone, “C’mon!”
Marjorine fumbles briefly with the door handle before pulling herself into the passenger seat, shutting the door just before the vehicle speeds down the road. She’s so panicked that she doesn’t think to fasten her seatbelt immediately. All she can think about is how her chest feels like it’ll implode in on itself as her lungs and heart work overtime. They drive in silence—for how long, she isn’t sure—until she begins to recognize where they are.
Paved asphalt fades into a dirt road as they pass between two farms, Tegridy and Credigree. Marjorine begins to calm down as the truck pulls into a clearing behind one of Tegridy’s fields. She doesn’t realize she’s shaking until she feels worn leather drop into her lap. She stares at the brown and red bomber jacket before looking at its owner. Tired blue eyes gaze back at her, dark brows furrowed in concern and confusion. Her breathing begins to steady as the silence breaks.
"You okay?"
Marjorine grips the jacket tight and holds it against her chest as her shoulders shake. Hot tears spill down her cheeks, and her voice gets caught in her throat.
"Woah, woah-" Stan pushes the seat divider up to move closer. Calloused hands hold her arms before pulling her in and enveloping her warmly. "Breathe for me, okay?" He instructs, this time soft and worried.
Marjorine struggles to calm herself down until she finds something to focus on. The smell of weed and nicotine oddly ground her enough to steady her. She starts to relax, her grip on the jacket loosening enough for Stan to take it from her lap and drape it over her shoulders. She must look crazy, running around South Park in the dead of night in her pajamas. Her cheeks burn too much from crying for her to tell if she’s embarrassed.
“What were you doing out this late?” Marjorine finally speaks as she raises her head to look at Stan. The question seems to throw him off.
“You first.”
The teens stare at each other before sharing an awkward laugh.
Marjorine wipes her eyes with her palm, sniffling. “I got into a fight with my dad.”
“Me too.”
It was too common of an occurrence for them that had begun during early childhood and continued indefinitely. They had bonded over it during middle school leading into high school. They sit in silence again, neither needing more context to understand the other’s actions.
Though dark, Marjorine can make out Stan’s features through the moonlight. His messy black hair spills out of the red and blue hat that had seemed to grow with him into adolescence. Blue eyes are unfocused as they stare ahead at the dashboard, dark circles carrying an undisclosed amount of weight beneath them. Stan’s disheveled as ever, and Marjorine notices that he’s also in his pajamas, above his worn work boots.
"Wanna talk about it?" He offers weakly though he doesn't look away from the dashboard. She leans back against the seat, suddenly aware of his arm still around her. The intimacy that was once out of the question has become a comfort for the both of them on nights like these, and Marjorine drops her head to rest against his shoulder.
"Do you?" She responds despite knowing the answer.
Stan's hand rubs her arm softly as he rests his head atop hers. He lets out a slow, heavy breath.
“Not really.”
So they don’t. They simply sit in the truck, hidden away from their fathers in the countryside behind a field.
It’s about half an hour later when her eyelids become heavy. Marjorine tries to rub the exhaustion away before Stan notices it, but her body betrays her when she lets out a yawn she can’t repress. She feels him shift, but he doesn’t pull away; he must be tired, too. She dreads going home because she has the explicit understanding that she won’t be able to rest under that roof.
Stan leans over to open the glove box. Marjorine can make out his five o’clock shadow from the close proximity. He grabs a key decorated with a Hello Kitty charm she’d given him a while back and finally pulls his arm away before leaving the front seat.
He silently motions for her to follow him before shutting his door. Dirt and stone prick her feet as she hops out of the truck. She shivers as a cold breeze brushes past her, clutching the bomber jacket shut as she walks to the back of the vehicle.
The bed of his pickup has a hardcover, something she remembers him saving a whole summer for after a mishap while moving Jimmy’s drum set. Stan hooks his hand under the trunk’s door and pulls it down. The cover window rises, revealing a mattress with pillows and multiple blankets.
Marjorine raises a brow as he turns to her, nodding towards the inside of the truck bed. She opens her mouth to question the setup but decides against it. She’s tired and cold; questions can wait. Crawling inside, she’s surprised to find it quite comfortable. She lays on her back and finds that the windows are covered from the inside, no doubt to keep creeps from looking in.
Stan pulls himself in before shutting the door and pulling down the window. She watches in fascination as he wraps a bungee cord around the door handle and window hook as a makeshift lock.
Without the aid of the moon, it’s just dark until Stan turns on his phone flashlight. He pulls up a blanket at the foot of the mattress to reveal an electric heater, flicking it on before crawling onto the bed.
The two of them attempt to keep their distance as though they hadn’t been shoulder to shoulder for the last half an hour. Stan gives an awkward smile, and Marjorine takes a moment to appreciate they’ve grown enough to understand these nonverbal cues. She goes to shimmy the jacket off when Stan places a hand on her shoulder to stop her. Marjorine zips it up instead and pulls a blanket over her legs. When comfortable, she turns her back to the other and curls up, preparing to fall asleep.
“Stan?”
“Yeah?”
“I’m sorry your dad sucks.”
A short beat. Then, “I’m sorry yours does, too.”
Marjorine closes her eyes and finds it all too easy to fall asleep. She’s unsure if it’s due to her physical and emotional exhaustion or the comfort of knowing she isn’t alone. All the while, she’s unaware that Stan wonders the same thing before falling asleep.