Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Midtown Manhattan, NY
Wednesday September 24th, 8:30 AM EDT
The Past™

At Hollingsworth Prescott & Vale, the senior partner conference room doesn’t bother with hospitality by design. Just glass, steel, and the weight of a hundred years of precedent capped off with a lovely view of Midtown's finest landmarks. Gerald Broflovski (Senior Associate – Litigation Group) sits straight-backed in an Eames chair, charcoal blazer buttoned. If he feels some sweat pooling around his brow, he ignores it.

Across from him sits Elliot Rosen — senior partner, litigation chair, and… what some might generously call a mentor — reading from a thin paper file like he’s diagnosing a terminal condition.

"You’ve always had good instincts, Broflovski. That small-town exterior — reliable, unthreatening, polite to clients. People trust you. Then you open your mouth and dismantle someone’s entire case in five minutes."

He looks up.

"You don’t rattle in court. You don’t posture. You let them underestimate you, and then you bleed them dry. It’s impressive."

Gerald nods, tightly. If you're going to give me a eulogy, at least do me the dignity of slitting my throat first.

Rosen taps his fingers on the folder. Once. Twice, before placing it down and sliding it to the other man.

Gerald doesn't take it.

"So what the hell is this?"

He already knows exactly what the hell it is. Internal delays. Flat hours. A memo that got escalated after a senior partner had to “clean it up.” It wasn’t even bad — but it wasn’t perfect.

That's all it took for this mock Inquisition. A weaker man might have begged. One might have broken down in tears. Another might've even tried to make a break for the glass windows. But Gerald isn't going to give anyone that satisfaction. He's better than that, and he damn well knows it. He swallows, carefully smoothing out his tie.

"Two months ago, I flagged something with HR" he says, careful to betray nothing in his tone. 

Rosen gives him a look that Gerald thinks is supposed to be sympathetic, but somehow seems more condescending than anything else.

"Yes… Wife troubles. It happens."

Oh, go fuck yourself.

Of course Rosen knows somehow. Even if HR packaged it up as “personal strain.” He'd been so careful too.

Gerald had barely taken a goddamn day off since their honeymoon. Sheila hadn’t really complained — well, mostly hadn’t. And now he’s guilty of what? Slowing down slightly to support his wife like someone who isn’t a sociopath?

He shifts in his seat momentarily, and he's sure that Rosen noticed his expression falter. Again, the man seems to be trying for sympathy, though Gerald can’t help but wonder if the decades of calculated detachment have simply made him forget what it looks like.

"Look, I'm saying this not as your managing partner, but as someone who likes you," Rosen begins, knowing full well that what he's about to say is something HR would never approve of, "She's strong. Knows what she wants. Half the firm saw that when she dragged you into a coat closet a couple holiday parties ago. But here's the thing. Tough women are great at the start — keep you grounded, focused. Just make sure she’s still helping you rise, not keeping you tethered."

Gerald blinks. Slowly.

Trying to give me advice about how to handle my fucking wife, Rosen? You. Give ME advice? This fucker had disappeared for six weeks last year during his second divorce — his trophy wife throwing plates, locking him out of their penthouse, screaming in the firm's main hallway. Meanwhile, Rosen was sending increasingly cryptic emails while Gerald and the rest of the senior associates were buried in ten feet of discovery files.

Who kept his clients happy? Who smoothed over that circus?

Gerald. That’s who.

The man doesn't even fucking stop. He just keeps going, "I wouldn't be saying this if I didn't think you had it in you to make Partner. You were ahead. Everyone had you circled. Then this little dip — and suddenly they’re wondering if you’re one of the guys who flamed out on the track."

Gerald’s jaw tightens. He wants to scream, wants to get out, be anywhere but here. But he can't. When he finally speaks, his voice is weaker and more tired than he'd like.

"I haven't taken any take time off. I'm still billing. Still doing the work."

Rosen nods.

"I know. But you can't let someone else's… personal distractions throw you off when you're so close. Out of all of them, you were our pick."

A pause. Just long enough to say everything else he won’t.

Gerald swallows, for once in his life completely unsure what to say. All that comes out is a half hearted and unsure "…thank you?"

Rosen nods. "Don’t make me reassess."

And that’s it. His cue to go. No firing. No shouting. Just the slow tightening of a noose, professionally tailored.

As Gerald steps up to go, Rosen unexpectedly starts to speak again.

"One last thing Broflovski. Think about getting something your hair. The whole meeting it looked like you had a bit of thinning in the front. Could be the lighting. But trust me. Once it starts, you've lost it."

Gerald freezes, staring at Rosen — the man with not a single strand of hair left — before hurrying out of the conference room.

Gerald presses the elevator button and waits, jaw tight. His reflection stares back at him in the brushed steel doors — blurred, faint, not quite visible. That felt about right.

The elevator dings open. He enters just a a little too quickly.

Inside, the mirror is too clear.

He smooths his tie. Adjusts his collar. Straightens the suit jacket. His kippah — charcoal to match the suit — sits neatly in place. He checks it anyway, more out of habit than reverence.

Then — he pauses. Really looks.

Gerald’s not the worst looking guy. He cleans up well, at the very least. Decent jawline, okay teeth, the kind of hazel-green eyes that once got him a compliment from a girl sitting next to him at a bar.

"You’ve got kind eyes," she’d said, smiling into her drink. Then she really got to know me — and still stuck around anyway.

He leans in toward the mirror and squints, tilting his head just slightly. His fingers hover at his hairline — brown, and annoyingly curly in the tri-state's humidity. It's… Not gone. Not even really receding. But — thinner?

Is that skin?

Yeah, that's definitely skin.

No, but is it really skin?

Surely Sheila or someone, anyone would've said something?

But then again… she's had more important things to worry about.

He turns away. His fingers drift to his wedding ring — a simple gold band, warm from the heat of his palm. He spins it once. Stops.

"Wife troubles. Fucking asshole," he mumbles to himself. Like she was the one who was the problem.

He still remembers that holiday party fondly. It’d been right after a brutal 72-hour case sprint that left most of the litigation team running on caffeine, adrenaline, and a few controlled substances they didn't ask too many questions about.

It was the first time he and Sheila had been properly together in weeks. They were both a little drunk. He’d opened the coat closet door with a look she recognized, and she’d grinned and pulled him in without a word. They'd thought they were being subtle.

Funny how no one batted an eye when the M&A chair got caught with that second-year associate six months earlier. That was “networking.” But Gerald fucks his wife and suddenly it's a punchline.

The door opens onto the litigation floor.

By the time Gerald reaches the break room, the coffee machine is already hissing — overworked, underpaid, and five minutes from collapse. Fitting.

Inside are two voices, pitched low in the way people do when they’re gossiping or circling something juicy.

Trevor Li and Thurston Prescott IV. Fellow senior associates. Familiar faces from a hundred late nights, half-finished motions, and drink tabs no one ever actually paid. They weren’t exactly friends, not all the time — but they’d shared enough Red Bull benders, mild hallucinations, and "networking events" so unprofessioinal they required NDAs to count as something close. Trevor, he trusted. Prescott, he tolerated.

He’s known Trevor since they were summer associates — the only two guys from the Rockies at a firm where "regional diversity" meant someone from Connecticut who went to Columbia instead of Yale. Trevor never played the game too hard. Steady billing, good instincts, and just enough plausible deniability to keep his personal life out of firm gossip. Once, over drinks, he’d even admitted he and his partner Jonathan had an exit strategy. Seattle, he’d said. We're giving it three more years. Five, max.

Gerald believed him.

Prescott was another story. The man looked like he came out of the womb with a bar number and a silver enema up his ass. Monogrammed tie, cufflinks worth more than Gerald’s student loans, and the kind of smile that made judges lean in. He was manufactured for this place. Raised shoes to fake a couple inches, tailored suits that never wrinkled, and a gleam in his eye that said he already knew he’d win.

Prescott always looked like he was auditioning for something. Always had the right answer, the perfect closing line, the too-expensive watch that caught the light just so. A pathetic grasper, really. A little too desperate for someone else’s approval.

Gerald adjusts his tie.

If they haven’t heard about his chat with Rosen yet, they’re about to pretend they haven’t. Which is probably worse.

"Morning, Broflovski," Prescott says, his smile entirely too cheery.

Yeah. Pretending they haven't would be definitely worse.

"Heard about your little sunrise sermon with Rosen," he claps Gerald on the shoulder, "happens to the best of us. You know how it is — tribe loyalty only gets you so far."

Oh so we're really starting it off like this today, are we? Well… fine.

Trevor looks like he'd rather be anywhere else.

"Remind me, Prescott — did you ever fill out a résumé, or did Daddy Managing Partner forget to take you back to New Caanan after take-your-kid-to-work day?" Gerald says flippantly as he begins pouring his coffee.

Prescott's smile tightens, but he holds it. Trevor appears suddenly entranced with the ceiling tiles.

"Some of us are legacy, you know. Comes with certain expectations."

Gerald glances down at Prescott's shoes, then back to him, his mouth curling into a smirk.

"Yeah? From what I hear, your dad expected someone taller."

That one seems to actually shake him. Thought so, trust-fund prick. Gerald sips his coffee like it’s victory, but he notices Trevor's frown. Usually, they don't go after each other like this until a day or two of redlining. But Prescott started it, and Gerald isn't going to back down today. Not after —

"You seem rattled, Broflovski," Prescott says, regaining composure. "Couple days without getting manhandled in the coat closet and now you can’t prep a motion?"

If it hadn't been for Rosen, maybe he would've shrugged it off. Maybe. As of right now?

You want to drag my wife into this? Fine. I’ll drag your whole goddamn legacy down with you.

"Bold fucking words from someone who got benched after blowing that indemnity clause last quarter while crying like a —" Gerald starts, before Trevor cuts him off.

"— Gentlemen. There's plenty of time to measure dicks later. Gerald's already got a head start."

Gerald exhales through his nose. Classic Trevor — never pick a side, never raise your voice. But he knew the timing. Knew just when to step in before Gerald said something that’d follow him for the next six months… or worse.

One more second and Gerald would’ve gone there. Not just personal — reputational death. And they all know it.

He puts down his cup, finished. Prescott looks like he's recovered, smiling ear to ear again. Trevor’s watching him too closely. Tight-lipped. The kind of look you give someone about to make their own life harder.

"One day you’ll say the wrong thing to the wrong person, and they’ll kick your ass," his father used to say. Maybe, Gerald thinks, but not today.

As he leaves, he gives them both a mock salute. "Next round’s on me, boys. But Prescott — tell your tailor the desperation’s not reading as confidence."

The door swings shut with a soft click. Gerald exhales, fully alone for the first time since Rosen started in on him.

He peels off his suit jacket, drapes it over the chair, and rolls his shoulders once — just enough to feel how tight everything’s gotten.

Slowly but surely, his computer flickers to life. the Outlook inbox explodes like a war zone: doc reviews, client notes, subject lines in all-caps. He filters past them until one stops him cold with the audacity:

Subject: HP&V Cares: We’re Not Just a Firm, We’re Family!

Christ. He still can’t believe no one’s ever pointed out to HR that HP&V sounds like something you'd need antibiotics for. Then again, maybe that's the point. You barely notice it at first, then suddenly you're bleeding hours, missing weekends, and questioning every life choice that led you here.

He clicks anyway.

At Hollingsworth Prescott & Vale, we believe in more than just excellence — we believe in each other. That’s why this quarter’s Wellness Spotlight is all about mindfulness, support, and remembering what brought us here in the first place. Stop by the 18th-floor break room this Friday for catered smoothies and a “gratitude wall”!

Attached: a JPEG of four associates fake-laughing around the foosball table — which only sees action after 72 hours of sleep deprivation and one partner-induced breakdown.

Gerald deletes the email without reading further. His cursor hovers over a motion draft — untouched for two days — but he doesn’t open it. Instead, his eyes drift to the only personal item on his desk: a photo of him and Sheila at a firm event a couple years back. She’s wearing the pearl necklace he bought her when he made senior associate. He’s in a tuxedo that nearly drove him into a fifth round of student loan refinancing.

Sheila never quite fit the firm wife mold. Too bold. Too direct. Too likely to ask pointed questions during the toasts. Even in heels and a fitted dress, she looked like she could take down someone twice her size — verbally, or otherwise. Not tall, not thin, not blonde — but unmistakable. That red hair, that voice, that look she got when someone tried to condescend to her. The other wives sipped wine and complimented centrepieces. Sheila asked the junior partner’s date how her LSAT prep was going.

She’d never blended in. Thank fucking God.

The phone buzzes, and he immediately recognizes the number.

He hesitates for just a second — then picks up.

He softens his tone instinctively. "Hey, hun? Is everything —"

Her voice cuts in, clipped and tired.

"Mom and Dad called. My sister had her baby."

Well. Fan fucking tastic for Little Miss Shiksa Police and the guy who still lists ‘almost interviewed at Goldman’ on his resume.

"Oh," is what he settles on saying instead.

Sheila is silent for a moment, then another. Finally, she continues.

"She named him Kyle."

He blinks. That lands somewhere unexpected.

It had only ever been one of many names. Boys. Girls. All hypothetical, of course. But still. It was one Sheila had liked.

"— She what?!" Gerald asks, his tone sharper than he means. Would she actually have — No, not even she would —

"I… shouldn't have called. I'll see you when you get home."

The line goes dead before Gerald can respond. Something cold presses against his ribs. That sounded like a goodbye.

He stays frozen for a second, phone still pressed to his ear like maybe she’ll come back. Like maybe he could’ve said something that would’ve made this less final. But the dial tone is already humming.

He almost calls her back. Almost.

Instead, he sets the phone down and exhales slowly — jaw tight, chest too still. He should get back to the motion draft, back to the thousand urgent things crowding his inbox. He should pretend this didn’t land where it did. Should power through, like always.

But this time, he doesn't. Instead, he opens the desk drawer and pulls it out.

A Polaroid from the week they'd both gotten their "real" university acceptance letters, right before they started dating. He was eighteen, his NYU letter still half-folded in his hand, collar slightly askew. Sheila was wearing leopard print leggings and a low-cut shirt, her eyeliner and eyeshadow distractingly heavy. She held up her Seton Hall letter like a dare and looked halfway through mocking him — mouth open, hand in motion. It wasn’t romantic. It wasn’t flattering. But it was unmistakably her.

He turns the photo over. The writing is faded from years of drawer friction and sweat, but he doesn’t need to read it.

You’re going to kill it. But if you turn into a smug asshole, I’m revoking this. —S

Probably should have revoked it a long time ago, love. But she never did.

Gerald looks at it for a second longer before sliding it into the pocket of his briefcase. He pulls out his laptop, the charger, the case — quick, practiced motions. He stands up, briefcase in hand, and shrugs on his coat. Not a dramatic exit. Not storming out. Just moving with intent for the first time all day.

Fuck it.

There's no out-of-office reply. No email. He’ll frame it as a family thing later if anyone asks.

Nobody stops him.

And for the first time in — well ever, he doesn’t care.

He just leaves.

Chapter Text

West Orange (Newark), NJ
Wednesday September 24th, 10:47 AM EDT
The Past™

She. Should. Be. Handling this.

She handled it when the boy she lost her virginity to told her to lose weight— ‘because she’d be a real knockout then'. She handled it at work when her board chair asked if she really needed to be so political about the school lunch initiative — ‘can’t you just do something simple, like a food drive?’ And she handled it when someone at her cousin's Modern Orthodox shul had the gall to ask her husband what his mother’s maiden name was — ‘just out of curiosity.’

So… Why wasn't she handling it?

It'd be easy to blame her sister.

The call came just after sunrise, and Sheila had thought she was prepared. The basement was still quiet at this hour, still wrapped in the hushed blue of early morning. A sliver of light cut through the window well, catching the edge of a drying rack and the too-neat pile of folded hospital bills she still hadn't filed away.

She'd been curled up on the bed, knees drawn up under a hoodie that still faintly smelled like him. The cordless phone is cradled between her ear and shoulder. She braces for impact.

"— We’re all here!" Naomi’s voice echoed down the line, bright and insufferably cheerful. "Say hi, guys!"

"Sheila!" Dad boomed, "you awake, bubbeleh?"

"I am now," she said, a half smile on her lips. Her father had always been loud. So was she. It was one of the many things that they shared.

Naomi's husband, Josh jumped in next. "Yo, where’s G-Money? Still crushing depositions and firing interns? Tell him his boy says mazel."

"It’s a Wednesday," Sheila said, bluntly.

And it's for the best that he isn't here. He’d start kvetching the second Josh said "G-Money"— probably about how NYU shaped “serious” legal thinkers and Fordham handed out diplomas to guys who say “synergy” unironically. As if that makes up for the fact that his law school debt has its own zip code.

God, she loved him.

"Of course," Mom said gently — as warm and diplomatic as ever. "They’re busy this time of year, aren’t they?"

They're busy at every time of year.

"Trial season," Josh declared, like he had any idea what that meant.

"We’re all good here," Naomi continued. "I mean, obviously. He’s perfect. Seven pounds, eleven ounces. Didn’t cry right away, but then he let out this howl — He’s already got lungs like a quarterback."

"He’s already compounding," Josh said, likely grinning ear to ear.

"He’s already compounding," Gerald would repeat later, his voice dripping with contempt. "What the fuck does that even mean, Josh?" And then he’d launch into a full rant — probably starting with that family dinner where Josh claimed contracts were "basically just vibes."

"Anyway," Naomi added, all breezy confidence. "We’ve scheduled the bris for October first, obviously."

Sheila blinked. Of fucking course.

"That’s Rosh Hashanah," Dad pointed out.

"Yes," Naomi replied, her tone far too syrupy, "the eighth day. Very traditional. It’s halachically correct."

There was a time — not all that long ago — when Naomi’s proudest achievement was transferring to public school in ninth grade. "No more Torah class, no more uniforms, and no more rabbis trying to guilt-trip me about Shabbat," she’d declared, grinning like she’d just crossed the Red Sea. One Yom Kippur, she'd asked their mother if diet Snapple counted as breaking the fast — "because it’s basically water, and I have a headache."

But sure. Very traditional.

"Tradition’s important, yes. So is being together. A bris is a simcha for the whole mishpacha, Naomi, not just a check-box," Dad said, and Sheila can just imagine the look in his eye, the one that said "sure, let’s pretend you’re not steamrolling your own family on purpose."

"Half the cousins will be in shul all morning. Can the mohel even get away?" Mom added. "Not to mention, your sister—"

"We’ve already spoken to one," Naomi replied, her tone still light and airy. "It’s important to us to do it right. Josh’s family is driving in from the Hamptons, and they really value this. He has strong Jewish roots on both sides."

There it was.

If Naomi actually cared about halacha, she wouldn’t have married Josh Schwartz — the man who wore leather shoes on Tisha B’Av and claimed it was fine because ‘God appreciates quality.’

This wasn’t about tradition. It was about getting one over on Sheila, for God knows what reason.

And the best she can do is take a swipe at my husband — and his family.

"— Something we can say about both our sons-in-law." Mom’s words hung in the air for a moment. Not a reprimand. Just a quiet line drawn.

Naomi, of course, took it as her cue to press forward.

"Well," she said, chipper again. "We’ve decided on a name."

Sheila felt her stomach tighten — just a little.

"Oh? You’re telling people already? I thought you'd be saving that for the bris." Mom questioned.

Your dedication to tradition is unparalleled, Naomi.

“We are saving the Hebrew name, obviously,” Naomi replied. “But this is his English name. It’s not like we’re breaking any rules. And besides, Sheila's family.”

Naomi had to make it a whole moment — like she was announcing the winner of a raffle, not introducing a newborn to his mother’s side of the family.

A pause. Then: "His name is Kyle."

Sheila didn’t respond right away. For a second, she wasn’t sure she’d heard right. Or maybe she’d just heard it wrong on purpose.

There had been a list, once. Just names. Tentative, early, hopeful. Boy's names. Girl's names. But when Naomi had asked her if she'd given it any thought, if she had any early favourites…

"Great," was all she said before hanging up. Not sarcastic. Not angry. Just flat. Something inside her felt like it had shut off mid-sentence.

Her parents called back later, trying to check in. Her mother’s voice was all softness, offering to come by, suggesting she eat something. Even her father — who always had a plan, a fix, a joke — just asked if she was okay. But they didn’t know the full story. Not really. They couldn’t.

Not about the name. Not about what it had meant.

In a moment of weakness — before she could talk herself out of it, before she could remind herself that she’s a strong woman. That she has it together — she picked up the phone and called him.

He was probably in court, buried under a thousand-page brief about corporate fraud no one actually wants to stop, or babysitting a junior associate on the verge of a complete mental breakdown. She’d just hear the voicemail and hang up before the beep. She didn’t even know what she planned to say.

But then the line clicked, and he picked up.

And for the first time, she didn't know what to say. Her own voice had sounded foreign in her ears. Empty. She hung up before she could cry.

It was stupid. It wasn’t even about the name. Not really. But it was one more thing. One more tiny wound she hadn’t seen coming. One more reminder that the world just kept spinning forward like nothing had happened.

She'd made that call an hour ago, and she still regrets it.

She should be fucking handling this.

Taking the leave from work had seemed like the responsible thing — the smart thing. Allegedly. Time to rest, to heal, to breathe. But it had turned out to be a trap. Nothing to do, nowhere to go, just long, hollow days in the basement suite of her parents’ house. A space that wasn’t really hers, surrounded by people who were trying their best — and whose best only made her feel worse.

She saw friends. She tried. They met her for lunch, for walks, for errands she didn’t really need to run. They brought tea and casseroles and stories they thought would help — “It happened to me too,” “Here’s what worked,” "You’ll feel like yourself again soon." Some talked about their kids. Others tried not to. That was worse.

One friend who'd started going to a Modern Orthodox shul a few years back brought soup and a siddur. She didn’t say "everything happens for a reason" — just sat with her and read psalms in a voice so calm it made Sheila cry for the first time in days. It helped. Not enough, but still.

The rest of the world was moving on. And for the first time in her life, Sheila Broflovski was not handling this.

She sits on the cold floor near the laundry sink, knees pulled in, back against the dryer. At some point she meant to put in a load, or maybe fold what was there. She didn’t. She just stayed.

So when the front door creaks open upstairs, her heart jumps.

Her parents are in Stamford, with Naomi. No one is supposed to be home.

She doesn’t recognize him at first. Doesn’t believe it.

But then the basement door opens — and there he is, somehow. Gerald.

Coat still on. Tie rolled into his pocket like he lost the will to pretend halfway through the day. Briefcase still in hand, but slipping. He looks… exhausted would be the charitable term. Shirt wrinkled. Jaw tight like he's bracing for a verdict.

And yet — She still thinks he has kind eyes.

Even now. Especially now.

Not everyone would notice. They’re the kind of eyes that soften only when he’s not thinking about it. That dart away when he’s overwhelmed and trying not to show it. The kind that still belong to the nineteen-year-old who used to bring her extra napkins from the cafeteria — not because she needed them, but because he thought she might, and he didn’t want to interrupt her mid-rant to ask.

He blinks down at her like he doesn’t know what to say. Like he’s not sure he’s allowed to be here.

She slowly blinks back at him, still trying to process the fact that he's here at all.

“You’re supposed to be at work," she says, barely above a whisper.

"I'm… sorry?" he replies in that soft voice of his — the one he used the first time he told her he loved her, unsure if she'd say it back. As if he's done something wrong just being here.

With more purpose than she’s moved with all day, she springs to her feet and rushes toward him. He drops the briefcase without hesitation and pulls her into a tight embrace, arms wrapping around her like he's afraid she'll disappear if he lets go.

She clings to him just as tightly — face buried in his chest, her fingers gripping the back of his suit jacket like it's the only real thing left in the world.

He exhales into her hair, shaky and silent, before pressing a kiss to the top of her head.

They stay like that for a long time.

Long enough for the world to soften at the edges. Long enough that she almost forgets how heavy the day has been — almost.

His hand is still cradling the back of her head when the phone rings. They both flinch, but neither moves. It could be anyone. Her mother. A telemarketer. Gerald’s firm.

"Let the machine get it," she murmurs, not lifting her head.

He nods, just barely.

The second ring. The third. Then — click. A mechanical beep, and a voice fills the room.

"Hi Kiddo, it's me."

Gerald shifts — just slightly — but she feels it. A tension under her hands. A subtle bracing.

She knows Gerald's brother Murrey ("With an e, not an a,” Gerald had said. "Guess Mom and Dad really wanted to show they were experimental and eclectic in a town with one road")… sort of. He’s much older than Gerald — almost a decade and a half between them. Tenured professor, Management Information Systems, somewhere in Arizona. Gerald would know. Has a Canadian girlfriend who’s never met the family — which, as Gerald once put it is "probably for the best."

They’d only met in person a couple of times. He was at the wedding — made polite small talk with her cousins and bought them both bourbon at the bar, like he wasn’t quite sure what you were supposed to do when your kid brother got married. Somehow, he was always in the right place at the right time. The whole night went off without a hitch — and Sheila’s pretty sure that wasn’t a coincidence.

A few years later, they’d grabbed lunch while he was in New York for a tech conference. It was brief. Warm. Uncomplicated.

Gerald didn’t talk about him often, but when he did, it was always affectionate, but guarded. But she still remembered the way his voice had softened, almost in spite of himself, when he mentioned Murrey making tenure.

"He earned it. He was always the smart one."

He’d been proud. Probably more than he let on.

"I figured you'd be at work but I couldn’t not call. I… I’m not saying this all over a message. Just… get back to me as soon as you’re home. Please. It’s urgent.

And — tell Sheila I’m thinking of her."

The message ends.

Gerald shifts again. This time not just a flinch, but a slow, deliberate withdrawal. His arms loosen around her. One hand rises to his temple, thumb pressing just under his brow.

He doesn’t look at her when he speaks.

"Of course. Can’t miss a chance to fuck up a holiday."

Sheila doesn't need to ask who it's about. Gerald’s father had that effect — the kind of presence that left dents, not impressions. Even when he was proud, it came with a shrug and a caveat. Love was conditional. Approval had to be earned. Gerald never said as much outright, but she could see it in the way he tensed whenever his father’s name came up. The way he laughed off compliments like they were accidents.

She’d met Ira and Nancy Broflovski a handful of times. They weren’t exactly bad — at least not by the benchmarks Gerald insisted were normal for South Park, Colorado. Still, they had the tired detachment of people who’d already raised one kid and didn’t see much point in doing it all over again. Nancy had been a teacher once, and still carried that scattered, mid-lesson energy — half in the room, half chasing a thought she’d lost two steps ago. Ira, meanwhile, was a pharmacist who seemed drawn to the chemistry and perpetually annoyed that the job came with customers. Sharp. Opinionated. “Raised me like a controlled substance,” Gerald had once said. “Useful in small doses. Like Vicodin.”

It wasn’t hard to understand why both their sons had moved away and never looked back. The real surprise was that the house hadn’t already collapsed under the weight of all that unspoken tension.

"You don’t know that’s what this is about, Gerald," she says, pressing her hand against his chest.

"You don’t know Murrey," Gerald replies, his voice thinner now — stretched too tight around something brittle. "He doesn’t lose his cool. Not like this. If he says it’s urgent, it’s urgent."

He exhales sharply, but it’s not relief — more like trying to bleed the pressure off a valve that’s already cracked. His hand moves to the back of his neck. He doesn’t look at her.

"I’m telling you, Sheila. If someone’s dead, it’s him."

Then, after a beat, he smiles — faintly, in spite of himself.

"At least he probably left instructions to toss his body to the wolves and skip the shiva. Efficient to the end."

They sit at her parents’ kitchen table upstairs — the last neutral stretch of ground in a day full of landmines. Beside the phone sits a small velvet box: Gerald’s cufflinks. One is missing. The other still tucked inside, like he’d started getting ready, then thought better of it.

This is the second family speakerphone call Sheila’s endured today. It can’t be worse than the first one… right?

She doesn’t say it out loud. Better not to tempt fate. She just lays a hand on his knee and gives a light squeeze, enough to steady them both.

Gerald presses the speaker button.

The ring tone starts. One. Two.

He stares at the phone like it knows exactly what kind of day he’s had. And then — the sound of Murrey's voice comes over the line — sounding like a man who hasn't had a good night sleep in weeks.

"Is that you Jerry?"

"…Yeah." Gerald says hesitantly. Sheila’s hand stays where it is, fingers curling just slightly — a small, steady pressure. He doesn’t look at her, but she feels him breathe.

"Oh thank God."

Gerald looks her square in the eye, clearly bracing himself for what he thinks is the inevitable.

She gives him a dry look, something just shy of a smirk — the closest she’ll get to saying, "Don’t be dramatic. Not now. Not when you still don't have all the facts."

"Your message sounded…" he starts, then trails off, giving him space. "Is everything okay?"

Murrey picks up on the second ring. "No," he says flatly. "I’m currently hiding in the attic like Anne goddamn Frank while Dad accuses Mom of sabotaging his pharmacy records. Let’s say I’m enduring. I haven’t resorted to murder-suicide yet, so we’ll count that as a win."

Gerald half-glances at Sheila, some of the tension gone from his shoulders, if only barely. Told you not to jump to conclusions, genius. "Just so you know, Sheila's on speaker."

"Sorry about the mess you married into, you brave soul," Murrey sighs.

Sheila smirks. "Please. My sister’s husband calls him G-Money at family gatherings."

Murrey actually laughs — the first real one of the call. Gerald just grimaces.

Then he glances toward the phone, more cautious now. "So… why are you there?"

Murrey’s tone shifts."Because they’re moving. For real this time."

"They’re what?" Gerald’s voice rises — not loud, but unguarded in a way that seems to startle even him. He presses a hand to his temple, like trying to physically hold the thought in place. "You’re not joking."

"Didn’t tell you? Shocking." Murrey’s voice is dry, but there’s something real underneath it — like he’s still processing the fact himself. "I explicitly told them not to drag you into this until things settled down on your end. And they actually… listened to me. For once."

A pause.

"Look," Murrey sighs, quieter now. "This is about the house. Dad sold the pharmacy a week or two ago — to Jim. You remember Jim? The guy who apprenticed under him a couple years ago? He was looking to start something of his own, and that sealed it, apparently. Then they bought a place in Scottsdale. Retirement community. Big promises about lemon water and 360 days of sunlight, or so Mom says."

He exhales through his nose.

"But they haven’t packed a thing. Guess who got volunteered to fly out and start coordinating everything."

Gerald rubs the bridge of his nose. "I thought they were still deciding. Like they’ve been for the past decade."

"They were," Murrey says. "Then Dad called and said I had until the end of October to ‘handle things.’ I’m chairing two committees and have TAs at each other’s throats, but sure — I dropped everything and flew out."

A beat.

"Simone was visiting."

Gerald winces. "Christ."

"She was as gracious as she could be," Murrey says dryly, "at least she was until the fifteenth phone call updating her on Dad’s latest freak-out. Then she said: ‘You need help. Call your brother, friend.'"

A pause.

"You don’t argue with a Canadian when they say ‘friend’ and not ‘buddy.’"

Her husband doesn't answer right away. He’s staring straight ahead, jaw tense, like he’s trying to out-think something too large to name. His thumb hovers near the edge of the phone. Sheila watches him quietly, sees the way his shoulders shift.

She knows that look. Like he’s trying to solve a problem where every option loses.

"…What do you need me to do?" he finally asks, his voice low and even.

"Kiddo, I’ve got Arizona covered. I’ll help them settle in, make sure everything doesn’t fall apart the second they open a kitchen drawer. But someone’s gotta deal with the house. Go through the closets, the basement, the attic. You were the one stuck there after I escaped. You know where things are, what matters, what’s just clutter. They’ll trust you on that more than anyone else.” Murrey’s voice is warm — the kind of warmth that says I’ve got you, even if the rest of the world’s on fire.

"I never wanted to ask, especially not with the year you two have had. But this affects all of us. Career-wise. Family-wise. It’s happening, and you’re the only one who can do it right."

"I know," Gerald's voice carries the quiet weight of someone who’s already accepted the verdict.

“…Love you both, you know,” Murrey says. "I’m putting my faith in a higher power here."

Gerald raises an eyebrow. "God?"

"No. You, dumbass. Don’t make me regret it."

"Yeah. You won’t," Gerald says, quieter now. "Thanks."

A pause.

"Hope you get some rest," Sheila adds softly. "You sound like you need it."

Murrey exhales. "We’ll see. Depends if Dad finds me first."

Another beat.

"…And Jerry? Thanks. Really."

Click.

They’re quiet after the call. The kind of quiet that lets the day finally settle around them — heavy, uneven, raw at the edges. They're still at the kitchen table.

"I can go alone," he says, eventually. His voice is steady, but the protest is weak. "Small-town Colorado. My parents. Probably a couple childhood friends who either want to punch me or pitch me on their weed grow-op that’s definitely legal if you squint. All while missing the High Holidays with your family. It'll be a time."

By now, you’d think you’d know better, Counselor.

“I’ll be with my family,” she says simply.

That catches him off guard. He turns to her, eyes narrowing slightly — not in disbelief, but like he’s making sure he heard her right. His brow furrows, just a little, the way it does when she surprises him in the best way. One of his hands is still resting on the table, and she places hers on top of it, anchoring them both in the moment.

"If I stay, Naomi’s getting a very special New Year’s greeting. And if Josh compares the bris to a market correction, I’ll make the news."

Across from her, Gerald lets out a short breath of laughter, like he’s trying not to smile but can’t quite help it.

"Right. Josh. Living proof that some places hand out finance degrees like participation ribbons."

And here he goes. Right on cue.

"I’m just saying," he continues, the familiar indignation building, “he proves NYU was worth every penny. Picture a world where I went to Fordham. Instead of the guy opposing firms quietly warn each other about, you could’ve had —"

She kisses him mid-sentence, before he can finish whatever unhinged comparison he’s about to make. He makes a surprised noise against her mouth, then melts into it.

Her hand curls into his shirt, his finds her knee — then moves higher. The scrape of a chair leg against linoleum breaks the hush of the moment as he shifts closer, one hand braced against the table for balance.

She pulls back just enough to look at him. His eyes are darker now, fixed on hers — not hesitant, just searching.

"You sure?" he asks.

It’s been nearly a month. The last time had been a mess — both of them drunk, half-crying, half-laughing, and trying to forget what hurt. Neither of them said anything after.

But this isn’t like that.

She nods, rising from her chair, tugging him with her by the front of his shirt.

"After today?" she says, almost smiling, "Fuck it. We’ve earned this."

She should be handling this. This was as good a place to start as any.

Chapter Text

Denver, CO
Friday September 26th, 7:18 PM MDT
The Past™

Even before touchdown, the air feels different — drier, cleaner, sharp against the back of his throat. His skin already remembers it.

And then he sees them. That impossible line of mountains he used to stare at from his childhood bedroom — the backdrop to every shitty school year, every aimless drive, every time he swore he’d never come back.

Sure, maybe he spent half his life trying to get out — but it still beat the sticky, wheezing air back east.

And speaking of hot air…

Rosen hadn’t even looked up when he walked in Thursday morning. Just muttered,"This better not be a vacation request."

Gerald laid it all out: the pharmacy sale, the state of the house, other family considerations. Four weeks. Not optional. Not ideal. He’d stay available by phone, find the one corner of town where dial-up didn’t screech like a banshee every time someone used the fax machine.

And then, almost as an afterthought, he mentioned Sheila was coming too.

"So your wife’s dragging you back to Colorado for a month of ‘reconnecting with your roots’? Sounds like a shared delusion." Rosen said, like he was offering sympathy. As though this was the kind of wisdom you passed down to younger men before they ruined their own lives.

And it took everything in Gerald not to snap back, Funny — I thought your last shared delusion got the beach house and your balls.

Eventually, the man gave him the time. Not kindly, but he gave it. Said Gerald had stepped up when others were indisposed — didn’t complain, didn’t ask for credit. That kind of reliability sticks with people, apparently.

And infuriatingly, even as he signed off, Rosen still muttered that it was the most time Gerald had ever taken off.

Because that’s the whole fucking trick, isn’t it? You don’t get four weeks out of the office by asking — you get it by never asking at all.

Next to him, Sheila shifts, leaning toward the window. He feels her hand slip into his, and he squeezes it without thinking.

"There," he says, a smile creeping across his face in spite of himself. "Now do you see why I say the Catskills didn’t count?"

Murrey’s already waiting at the gate, arms crossed, expression unreadable. It’s been a couple of years, but he looks exactly like Gerald remembers — salt-and-pepper hair that’s given up the fight, a neatly trimmed mustache, and a pressed short-sleeve shirt tucked into cargo-heavy khakis. The kippah clipped to his head shifts slightly as he cranes his neck, scanning the crowd like he’s mentally cataloguing airport inefficiencies. He looks like someone who could lead a wilderness hike and file a departmental grievance in the same hour — which, knowing Murrey, he probably has.

When their eyes meet, Murrey’s expression softens — the ghost of a smile tugging at his mouth.

Gerald nods. He’s still holding Sheila’s hand — only realizes it when he lets go, stuffing both hands into his pockets by the time they reach him.

"You've got more grey hair," he says to his brother, like it's a neutral observation and not code for I missed you.

Murrey smiles, giving him a pat on the shoulder, "and you've got less."

Gerald’s eyes widen in horror. He looks to Sheila, who shakes her head slowly, lips twitching in amusement, then back to Murrey.

Murrey raises an eyebrow, clearly enjoying himself. "Relax, Jerry. You still pass for twenty-five if people squint. It’s the lighting in here. Very unflattering."

He grins and claps him on the back. "It's good to see you again, kiddo."

Then he turns to Sheila, arms already open — because if there’s one thing anyone who's met her is sure of, it’s this: Sheila Broflovski is a hugger. Always has been. And she means it.

She returns it full force, patting his back like she’s checking for injuries, murmuring something about how it’s good to see him. It’s quick, warm, sincere — and just long enough for Gerald to avoid eye contact.

Once Sheila lets go, Murrey’s smile fades back into his usual pragmatic frown.

"Word of warning. The car’s going to be tight. I had to take Dad’s Firebird. It was already a clown car situation — then Mom sent me on a four-hour scavenger hunt for enough kosher groceries to outlast a siege."

Gerald raises an eyebrow. "Why?"

He remembers Shabbat growing up. A homemade Challah if his mother had time. Maybe a candle, if she hadn’t misplaced the matches again. His father pouring a glass of Bordeaux and declaring, "There. Sanctified." Half the time, they ate takeout or leftovers. They went to shul maybe eight times a year — mostly on Nancy's insistence.

Murrey shrugs. "Because she wanted to do things right for once. Her words."

Gerald looks at his brother, then at Sheila. Neither says anything — but they don’t need to. They all know what this is about.

He could pretend his mother’s just overdoing it — trying to impress the daughter-in-law who’s never stayed with them. But it runs deeper than that— probably from long before he was born. Sheila doesn't care. Neither do her parents— or most people. But being out east has taught him there’s always some asshole who thinks they get to decide who counts.

"What’d Dad say?" Gerald asks.

Murrey smirks. "That no one who actually matters gives a shit what we do."

A beat.

"Then added it was probably smart not to serve the leftover bean and bacon soup to our kosher daughter-in-law — y’know, on Shabbat."

Park County, CO
Friday September 26th, 8:58 PM MDT
The Past™

By the time they hit the highway, Gerald’s knees were regretting the back seat.

It wasn’t a noble gesture, exactly — just the only option that didn’t involve Murrey hurling a jar of Vlasics over his shoulder and praying it didn’t crush the eggs. The Firebird had always been more of a statement than a vehicle. A cramped, wheezing monument to masculine insecurity — loud, impractical, and convinced everyone else was the problem.

Which made it perfect for Ira and barely tolerable for everyone else, except for his old friends in the auto club. "You have no idea what we did for these cars," he used to say, like it was classified. Probably something involving leaded gas, leather polish, and a child safety rating of ‘eh, he’ll bounce.’

They’d loaded the car in stages — groceries first, then luggage, then a final round of strategic cursing. Somewhere in the shuffle, a stranger had mistaken Murrey for Gerald’s father — which, as any proper younger brother would, he refused to let go of. Especially after that hair comment. He brought it up twice before they even merged onto the I-70, then filed it away for future emergencies.

Now, with Denver long behind them, the sky stretches out like it’s never seen a city. Purple-black, stars sharp enough to slice. Every few miles, a new roadside sign reminds them just how far they are from anything useful — or recently paved.

The conversation up front is mostly quiet. Sheila asks a few polite questions about Murrey’s department. Murrey answers like a man who lives alone and treats office politics like sport. Then asks if that neighborhood pilot she ran ever got picked up citywide, or quietly died in committee like everything else. Gerald half-listens, letting the words wash over him, his head tilted toward the glass.

In nearly twenty years, Gerald had only made it back to South Park once. It was during his last year of university — a quick visit for a childhood friend’s wedding, where he’d stood up as a groomsman. It had — on the groom's side at least — been "Age of Exploration"-themed. The man of the hour: Christopher Columbus. Gerald: Luis de Torres—the Token Jew. It was questionable then, mortifying now, and exactly the kind of thing that could have a partner quietly retired in another decade or two if anyone ever found those wedding photographs.

Sheila had been slammed with two group projects for school and couldn't get the time off work. Undoubtedly for the best.

Gerald stayed in town long enough to prove to one fellow groomsman that a 'city boy' could, in fact, handle a hunting rifle — and short enough to avoid the other, who’d likely passed out in a ditch somewhere and missed both the bachelor party and the wedding. Also undoubtedly for the best.

He’s jolted back to the present by a pothole just deep enough to spark one of Ira’s rants about how 'people today don’t know how to treat a machine.'

The road evens out just in time for the town sign: South Park, in stencilled black on brown planks of wood. No population. No elevation. Just the name, bare and defensive.

The proper sign — the state-issued one — had probably been stolen again.

He remembers doing it once, back in high school. It wasn’t his idea — he’s pretty sure — but he’d helped carry it. His co-conspirator was a friend with bolt cutters, a rusted-out pickup, and the kind of dumb pride that made you think vandalism counted as civic engagement. They’d stashed the thing behind the elementary school for a week before one of the teachers ratted them out.

Gerald got a slap on the wrist and a lecture from Ira. His friend got a three-day suspension and a note on his permanent record.

He inhales too sharply. Must be the altitude.

The road curves downward, narrow and dark at the edges, and Gerald can feel the shift in his ears. Past the ridgeline, the town unfolds below — a scatter of buildings, nearly just as he remembers.

They pass Stark’s Pond first, ringed by jagged pine silhouettes. Gerald swears he sees a flashlight bobbing in the distance — maybe a late-night hiker, maybe some transient who got turned around on his way to Aspen. Either way: likely armed and probably dangerous.

Next is good old South Park Elementary. Still squat and square, still that same unfortunate yellow. The sign out front now features a cartoon cow with a foam finger. GO COWS, it says. Someone’s added angry eyebrows in Sharpie.

Keep it up, kids, he thinks.

Finally they hit Main Street. There’s the old law office. The post office. The boarded-up storefront that’s declared: COMING SOON — KB Toys since Gerald was in the eighth grade.

Broflovski Pharmaceuticals — or what’s left of it — is halfway to becoming Jim’s Drugs RX. The old lettering still ghosts beneath a fresh coat of “regulation beige.”

A few blocks further, a squat greige building with purple accents gleams faintly in the headlights: Tom’s Rhinoplasty. A new addition. The name— and implications— are horrifying. The font somehow worse.

"This town," Gerald mutters, gesturing vaguely at the sign between Sheila and Murrey. 'This fucking town."

"I think it’s charming," Sheila says, clearly unaware this is just the opening act.

Murrey waves a hand. "Can’t be worse than that Christian weight-loss diner. What was it called? Less of Me, More of Him?"

Gerald shudders. They went once. Ira had a point to make — the meaning was unclear, the consequences lasting. The place closed within the year.

They take a left off Main Street, then another past the Community Centre and a few houses that haven’t changed much in twenty years — same sagging fences, same porch chimes tangled in spiderwebs. The roads narrow. The lots get bigger.

Then, just beyond the bend, it comes into view.

His parents’ house.

All two storeys of happy childhood memories. Some of them even good ones.

It could be worse. It’s still standing — which already puts it ahead of a few others on the block. The stucco’s cracked but holding. The porch light is on. Warm amber glows through warped old glass, the sort his mother always said gave the place “character,” which in Mrs. Nancy Broflovski terms meant we’re not fixing it.

Beyond the house, a gravel path cuts through the park, half-swallowed by tall grass. Off to the side, an open field slopes toward the hill where they used to pile snow in the winter — a halfhearted sledding slope at best, an ice hazard at worst. The train tracks aren’t visible from here, but Gerald swears he can still hear them — that low, phantom rattle that used to lull him to sleep as a kid and drive him insane as a teenager.

Murrey eases the Firebird to a stop at the curb next to the detached garage. It rattles once — offended, maybe — then goes still.

“Well,” Murrey says, drumming the steering wheel with one palm. “Here we are.”

He can tell Sheila’s smiling, maybe because she still doesn’t get it: there’s no escape.

“It’s nice. Bigger than my parents’. Gerald, the way you talked about it sometimes, I was expecting a two-room farmhouse with no insulation and a squirrel problem.”

“I wasn’t that dramatic, Sheila,” Gerald mutters.

She gives him a look over her shoulder — not accusing, just amused.

He exhales, slouching lower. “It felt smaller back then. That’s all.”

She doesn’t say anything. Just reaches back, finds his knee, and gives it a quick squeeze.

He’d appreciate it more if he weren’t too busy sulking — complete with a five o’clock shadow and misplaced gravitas — which she seems to find endearing anyway.

They sit like that for a moment — quiet, still, watching the porch light flicker slightly in the breeze.

Then Murrey exhales, glancing toward the house with theatrical dread.

"Sheila," he says. "Be honest. You know any prayers?"

She turns in her seat, eyebrows raised. "A few. Why?"

He points at the front door like it’s a crime scene. "Because it’s after nine, we’ve got groceries melting in the trunk, and I just remembered Mom said she was going to try making a pareve pumpkin loaf."

"So if you’ve got divine backup, now’s the time."

"Gerald, sweetie — you look exhausted. Are you okay?"

Yes, Mom, I’m doing great. So glad you and Dad decided to blow up your lives and drag Murrey and me halfway across the country because you “like to be spontaneous” and not plan things like normal fucking adults. Really thoughtful, especially since Sheila and I were already having such a fantastic year. This was the real cherry on top. So amazing.

"It’s fine, Mom! Just not on Mountain time yet."

His mother looks nearly the same — curls still tight, still dyed that stubborn auburn she’s kept since the Reagan administration, now streaked just enough at the temples to say “approachable grandmother” instead of “wildly in denial.” She’s wearing a soft, boxy cardigan with a scalloped hem and little embroidered pumpkins near the cuff — that extra seasonal flair that passes for spicy when you’re a retired elementary school teacher.

He realizes, with a flicker of guilt, that he doesn’t actually remember the last time he saw her in person. Her voice, sure. Her handwriting on birthday cards. The photos she and Ira send every year, standing stiffly in front of whatever bush is blooming in the yard.

But not like this.

"Two hours behind and you’re already wilting like a Victorian invalid. Should we fetch the fainting couch?"

Right on fucking cue —

Mr. Ira Broflovski, RPh — volunteer Zoning Board Chair and self-appointed devil’s advocate since approximately forever — leans against the doorframe like he’s here to inspect their luggage for contraband. Shirt tucked military-tight. Glasses glinting like they’re about to deliver a diagnosis. And that look — the one that says: Whatever you’re about to say, it’s wrong.

"Hi, Dad."

And kindly go fuck yourself.

Murrey’s been darting in and out of the house, trying to get anything that’s melting shoved into the freezer. Sheila’s just hoisted her carry-on from the backseat with one arm, rolling her eyes at the dramatic creak it makes.

"— Sheila, dear. You shouldn’t be carrying such a heavy suitcase. Not after —" Nancy’s voice falters, just for a second. "— Gerald, go help your wife," she finishes, firmer now.

Ira snorts. "Listen to your mother. You planning to let her throw out her back while you sulk on the curb, or is that just your New York work ethic kicking in?"

Gerald exhales through his nose. Then grabs the suitcase, even as Sheila huffs, "— I can carry it, you know —"

He gives her a look. The kind that says: Yes, I know you can. You are, in fact, a strong, independent woman. But if I don’t take it, this turns into a full-blown symposium on gender roles in marriage, starring my parents — and neither of us want that.

She glares. Then lets go, muttering something pointed as Gerald hoists it like he’s proving something — then nearly throws out his shoulder and mutters something right back.

Murrey barrels through the front door, arms full — frozen knishes, kosher wine, a dented tin of macaroons.

Ira eyes the bottle as he passes. "Should’ve gone with a Châteauneuf-du-Pape. The mevushal stuff always tastes like vinegar."

Murrey freezes mid-step and turns to Gerald, like please, for the love of God, say something.

Gerald just gives him a look — You’re the oldest. I’m just here for moral support and passive judgment. We’re in this shitshow together, buddy.

"Thank you again for picking everything up, sweetheart," Nancy says, patting Murrey’s shoulder as she breezes past. "Oh! And we found three boxes of Christmas ornaments in the attic — thought you might want them."

Of course they did. God forbid anything in this house make sense.

Sheila raises her eyebrows but wisely stays quiet.

"Why the hell do we even have Christmas ornaments?" Gerald blurts.

His mother waves her hand, unbothered. "They were your grandmother’s. I argued for them at the will reading because my brother’s ill-behaved children would’ve poked holes in them, and my sons knew better than that."

"So your logic was, ‘Give the Christmas ornaments to the Jews, and they’ll survive untouched for generations’?" Gerald shakes his head.

"Exactly," Nancy proclaims, with the solemn pride of a woman who once held onto a wedding snub for twenty years and an embroidered handkerchief for thirty.

"And she was right to," Ira interjects, "those bastards didn't deserve them."

Nancy nods primly, then brightens. “But I remembered Murrey said his Canadian friend is Ukrainian Orthodox — I thought she might appreciate them.”

"I could convince her to take one box, Mother," Murrey replies, with the weary resignation of a man who’s long since surrendered. "Maybe two. But it’s likely the dump or donations for the third."

"That’s generous," Sheila says, folding her arms. "I figured they’d just mysteriously follow us home. Like all good cursed objects."

"Don’t tempt her," Murrey murmurs.

"But if we’d wanted them going to the dump, we would’ve —" Nancy starts, then halts, tapping one finger lightly against her chin. "—Oh, perhaps. They are Catholic, after all…"

“What, Mom?” Gerald asks warily, already bracing for a fresh wave of cosmic stupidity.

"I was just thinking that Marvin's boy and his family might want them. I'll have to ask when they come over tomorrow."

"You invited the Marshes?” Gerald blinks. "As in… here?"

"Well, of course. Marvin and the kids. They bought the house next door a few years ago. You remember that, don’t you?"

He absolutely does not.

Nancy carries on, unbothered. "But his boy seemed rather put out when I mentioned you were flying in. Said something like — and I quote —"

We’re grown men. We're Professionals. Emergency visits happen. It’s perfectly normal not to immediately notify everyone in your hometown, even if it's —

"‘— his oldest friend,’" Nancy finishes, mimicking the tone with theatrical flair.

Well. Isn’t that just Randy fucking Marsh.

Chapter Text

South Park, CO
September 27th, 7:51 AM MDT
The Past™

She can’t remember the last time she was this sick, and she’d barely even touched the wine last night.

Which is a shame, because the Shabbat itself had been — if she’s honest — perfectly lovely, despite the absurdly late hour. They served three full courses. The pareve pumpkin loaf was more than just edible— it was downright delicious. The soup came from a deli in Denver, the Challah was homemade, and Nancy had set the table with cloth napkins and a centrepiece made of apples and pomegranates. Ira did the full Kiddush. They even sang.

Gerald and Murrey exchanged small, skeptical glances — genuinely surprised. They’d apparently expected a little theatre, not a full production.

Right before bed, Ira clapped Gerald on the shoulder and said, "Make sure you tell her folks we did the whole thing. You know how they get, out East."

She nearly corrected him — her parents had always been welcoming, especially to Nancy — but at that hour, silence felt like the kinder choice. Gerald didn’t need to be collateral damage in a midnight standoff.

Keeping the peace for her husband's sake seems more and more like a mistake.

"It’s the altitude, sweetie," Gerald says — smug, chipper, and entirely too pleased with himself — even as he holds hair back. "Textbook hypoxia. My dad used to see it all the time in lost tourists."

"Textbook Jersey response —" she heaves gripping the toilet bowl. "I swear to God —" another heave, "I will end you with a toothbrush, and no one will find your body."

"Classic altitude rage," he says, nodding sagely. "It’ll pass."

From the hallway, Nancy calls out, cheerful as ever: "Tea’s steeped and the window’s open, sweetheart. Hopefully that stomach of hers forgives you soon."

As it turned out, the mint tea did help — with both the sickness and the rage. Just as well — they only had a few hours before their visitors showed up. Sheila managed to shower, do something with her hair, and pull on a nice enough outfit that didn’t scream I spent the morning on the bathroom floor.

Gerald, meanwhile, appeared in his NYU Law hoodie and a pair of jeans from undergrad — clothes that technically fit, but made him look like someone had dared him to be casual.

Nu, of course this is all you packed. You haven’t owned real clothes since college.

Sheila shakes her head, lips twitching despite herself.

Gerald leans in with that grin — all confidence and zero shame. She doesn’t stop him. The kiss is soft, familiar, just the right amount of smug. She lets him have it.

But when he moves in for a second, she plants a hand on his chest and raises an eyebrow.

"One kiss is fine. Two? Not while you’re wearing Soviet-era denim."

He gives her that look — the one that says he’s about to press his luck, and knows she’ll probably let him.

"…And if I take them off right now?"

Marriage is a choice, she reminds herself.

"We have ten minutes. If we’re being generous."

"You really shouldn’t challenge me like that," he says, pushing up her skirt without hesitation.

She doesn’t flinch, but her grip tightens just slightly on the counter.

"You always say that," she murmurs. "One of these days you’ll mean it."

Fifteen minutes later, they make their way downstairs. Gerald is still wearing the hoodie, but mercifully found a pair of khakis that could pass for casual if you squinted. Sheila’s run a critical eye over her hair and makeup at least ten times, aiming for effortless poise — not the kind of glow that invited follow-up questions.

Murrey meets them at the door, arms crossed, expression flat. He gives them a look — half judgment, half pity — and leans in.

"Just a heads-up," he mutters. "Your friend’s wife brought her bootlicking brother. And the daughter? Looks like she's a biter."

Gerald frowns, already on edge. "Wait — daughter? What —?"

But whatever follow-up Gerald has is drowned out by the commotion outside as Murrey opens the door.

The porch is flooded with late-morning mountain light and a cacophony of voices. On the gravel path, Ira is deep in conversation with an older man hunched over a cane — balding, jowly, and so profoundly displeased with the world that, next to him, Gerald’s father almost seemed warm and inviting. Nancy stands between them, smiling too brightly and over-pronouncing every word like the man is hard of hearing, foreign, or both.

Nearby, another man leans against the banister — green hunting vest, orange cap, and a rifle slung casually across his back like it’s just another accessory. He cracks open a beer with one hand and raises it in something between a salute and a warning, locking eyes with Murrey.

They don’t blink. They don’t speak. They just stare — like two generals recognizing each other from opposite ends of an extremely stupid war.

Sheila squints. "Friend of yours?"

"Not even slightly," Murrey mutters.

Sheila’s about to press —

— but then, not five feet from the front steps, is a man with jet-black hair, a thick mustache, and the wild-eyed energy of someone who either just found God or lost a bet. He’s frantically waving both arms like a marooned sailor while grinning like he just invented enthusiasm.

"GERALD! Hey, GER!"

Sheila had known of Randy Marsh since even before she and Gerald had started dating. It was of few names her husband let slip from his South Park past, usually in the tone people use when describing a dog that once ate drywall. Which, naturally, meant he mattered.

They’d only met in-person twice. Once at the wedding — groomsman duties, a dance with Gerald’s mom, and a framed photo from their childhood tucked under the gift table. Randy beamed beside a paper-mâché volcano labelled "Cetaceans and Lava Tubes." Gerald stood next to him, holding a dolphin plush and a clipboard he absolutely didn’t need. Across the frame, in Sharpie was a message: "Here’s to your next great experiment. May it erupt less violently than the last one."

The second time was when Randy came to town for a geology conference and went out drinking with her husband and his coworkers. Gerald didn’t come home until the next night, swearing off tequila, bar floors, hotel minibars, and taking "just one hit" of anything. He had a mild limp, smelled like coconut rum and shame, and refused to explain why one of his shoes was in his briefcase.

Sheila didn’t ask. She just handed him a Gatorade.

Randy keeps waving — even more enthusiastically, as if Gerald’s arrival has retroactively justified his entire existence. Then he spins around, cups his hands like he’s announcing to a stadium, and yells over his shoulder:

"Sharon! SHARON! You're not gonna believe who it is!"

"I don’t know, Randy. The guy we literally came here to see?" comes the reply, a mix of amusement and resignation.

Sheila knew less about Sharon, Randy's wife. According to Gerald, the two of them had been together "basically forever" — except for the year Randy dropped out of school chasing "the worst mistake of his life" — or so her husband had said. During that time, Gerald and Sharon had gone to prom together — strictly platonically, he’d insisted.

"We weren’t each other’s first choice," he’d said once, half-smiling, "but it turned out better than you'd think."

She mostly remembered her from the wedding — slumped next to Sheila's brother-in-law, slowly drowning in wine spritzers, looking exactly how Sheila had felt in the weeks before: Done, but too polite to cause a scene. But when Randy finally pulled her onto the dance floor, she lit up like someone like someone who’d remembered that saying yes to him meant getting to leave the boring parts behind.

Right now, she looks… let’s just say "exhausted" is doing a lot of heavy lifting.

Her light brown hair is pinned back with no real plan, strands limp and stuck to her face with sweat. She’s pale, with the bleary-eyed expression of someone several months pregnant and several years overtired. The dress she’s wearing doesn’t quite fit — clinging too tight over her stomach and clearly not designed for this stage of anything.

On her hip is a little girl, maybe three — deadpan stare, pin-straight brown hair in lopsided pigtails, and a crooked pink sweater riding up one shoulder. She’s wearing a black skirt and one untied boot, and she clutches a juice box like she’s daring someone to take it from her.

Sheila reflexively inhales.

"I had no —" Gerald starts beside her, voice barely a breath.

His hand is at her elbow — steady, anchoring, just a little too tight.

"— It's fine," she finishes exhaling, "I'll be fine."

After all, I survived my sister's baby announcement — if only barely. How much worse could this be?

"Gerald, it’s so good to see you again, man!" Randy bounds toward them, all teeth and enthusiasm, and throws an arm around both their shoulders in a half-hug. "And Sheila! Nice seeing you when I’m actually so—" He catches himself, clears his throat, "—not superbly exhausted from responsibly lecturing New Yorkers about Colorado’s drainage basins."

"Nice to see you too, Randy," she says, giving him a quick pat on the back, before he releases them.

"Did Ger introduce everyone to you yet?" Randy asks, still practically vibrating with excitement.

"When would I have —" Gerald starts, but Randy steamrolls ahead.

"— Right, right okay. I'm happy to do the honours. Obviously, you remember my wife Sharon —"

Sharon lifts a hand in greeting, offering a polite smile — roughly translated as: I'm happy to be here, but also several months pregnant and running on fumes.

"— And you definitely know our beautiful daughter, Shelley," Randy beams, trying to wave her over, "Come say hi to Gerald and Sheila, Shelley!"

Sheila definitely didn’t know Randy’s beautiful daughter Shelley — and from the way Gerald was glaring, neither did he.

The girl, for her part, stares straight at her father, removes the juice box from her mouth, and utters a single word:

"TURD."

Randy turns back, still beaming. "Sorry, she's a little shy around new people."

Sheila had also been "shy around new people". When she was Shelley's age, she'd pointed at a politician's campaign sign in the middle of a grocery store and proclaimed — at full volume — "Daddy says that man hates people with no money."

Next, he gestures over at the man with the orange cap and the rifle. "That’s Jimbo, Sharon’s brother. He owns the local gun shop — and he definitely didn’t ask me to tell you that."

Coloradans and their guns. Sheila nods politely, trying not to think about the fact that in her upstairs luggage she has a tote bag that says Ban Semi-Automatics Now.

"My buddy and I can take you guys out hunting while you're here," Jimbo grins, shifting his beer to the other hand. "See what a city girl can do — and if Gerald's finally gone soft like his pinko brother."

Sheila’s about to politely decline when —

"Better a pinko than someone who asked ‘how high’ when the government said ‘jump’ — and never noticed they’d moved the goalposts halfway through." Murrey interrupts, making his way over to him.

Jimbo turns just enough to meet Murrey’s gaze, grinning like he’s just spotted new target practice. “The Professor himself, calling me a bootlicker. You hid behind a desk and lived off the tax dollars of hard-working Americans—”

"— It’s called education, Jimbo. But I get it — thinking's hard."

"He and Murrey go way back," Sharon whispers, moving in a little closer, as the two men continue — volume rising, substance questionable.

Sheila watches Gerald and Sharon exchange glances, the kind that say: this will never end, and we’re all victims here.

Randy’s smile falters as he notices the old man hobbling over from Ira and Nancy — cane tapping against the porch boards like an opening bell.

"And, uh… this is my father, Marvin."

He gestures quickly, like he’s hoping to skip past it. "…Dad, you remember Gerald, obviously, right? This is his wife, Sheila."

Marvin squints at them. Then he nods slowly, eyes narrowing on Sheila like he’s inspecting a slab of meat that talks.

"So this is your wife, eh? The one that Nancy won't shut up about?"

Gerald nods. He and Randy exchange a look — tight, resigned, the look of two men who’ve seen this exact car crash in slow motion before.

Sheila doesn’t know what’s coming. But she can tell it’s going to be bad.

"I always told Ira I was sure you were a queer. But nah. Guess you just got a thing for the the big ones. Takes guts to admit it."

It is. Oh, it FUCKING is.

She can already feel Gerald’s hand on her arm. His grip is tight. She knows it well. He's saying: Be reasonable, honey. It could be worse. You don’t have to call out every asshole.

And — most of all — Please don’t be the kind of woman people call a bitch.

If it hadn’t been for Ira last night, maybe she would’ve let it slide. (She wouldn’t have.) If it weren’t for the altitude sickness this morning, maybe she would’ve held her tongue. (She wouldn’t.)

Sorry Gerald. I don't give a fuck if your childhood friend's hick dad thinks I'm the biggest goddamn bitch in the whole wide world.

"WH —" Sheila starts, just as Randy steps in — a little too practiced for this to be a one-time thing.

"— Dad, for fuck's sake. Every single time, we've fucking talked about this. You can't just say shit like this to people —"

Your son just saved your fucking life, you meshuggeneh fossil.

"— What? It's the truth. I told Ira I thought his youngest son was a queer — he didn’t care. Clearly he doesn’t care if he’s into big girls either. Tell em' Ira."

From a distance, Ira Broflovski shakes his head — slow and deliberate, as though he’s seen this trainwreck a hundred times and still finds new ways to hate it.

Gerald hasn’t let go of Sheila’s arm. If anything, his grip is tightening — bracing for impact and praying she doesn’t go nuclear.

Randy pinches the bridge of his nose. "This kind of shit is exactly why Mom left."

"So Gerald… we have to address the elephant in the room," Randy says, as serious as one can be while half-sinking into a lawn chair and letting a three-year-old dangle from one arm.

They're gathered around a folding patio table, each doing their best impression of composure — some more convincingly than others.

By some miracle — or possibly just decades of survival instinct — Nancy had wrangled both Mr. Marsh and Ira into the house to "help with brunch", and then turned to Sheila with a tight smile whispering, "He doesn’t mean it. I worry his mind is going. You look lovely, dear."

His mind is perfectly fine. But whatever helps you sleep at night, Mrs. Broflovski.

Out on the porch, Jimbo and Murrey haven’t budged — their “conversation” now some unholy fusion of prepper paranoia and tenured-campus sarcasm. Something about armored vehicles, arrest warrants, and who really lit the match.

"It wasn’t a church,” Murrey says flatly. "It was a doomsday cult with automatic weapons."

Jimbo shrugs. "Still America. You wanna stockpile soup, scripture, and semiautomatics, that’s your God-given right."

"Sure. Right up until the child brides and the shootouts."

Sheila wisely turns her attention back to the current company.

"Yeah. The elephant," Gerald says with manufactured confidence, clearly unsure what Randy means but already preparing for the worst.

Randy blinks with intention. Once. Twice. Then:

"You didn’t say you were visiting."

Gerald's posture relaxes, gaze still firm.

"You didn’t say you had two kids."

A fair observation.

"Well — One and three-quarters. I definitely told you about the latest one."

"We talked in March for your birthday. You spent an hour asking for legal advice on the Nuggets’ playoff chances — then pitched a rock tumbler startup — before saying you and Sharon had big things going on."

"Yeah, Sharon and I had really big," he gestures vaguely at Sharon's belly, "THINGS going on. Seriously, man, you have to start listening."

Sheila pats her husband's leg.

I support you dear, even if you're probably thinking that your childhood friend is living proof natural selection has its flaws.

Gerald shakes his head. "Okay, Randy. Maybe I’ll let you have that one — maybe. But you definitely didn’t tell me about —" He nods at the girl currently using Randy’s arm like a jungle gym. "Her."

"Shelley?" Randy blinks at his daughter. "I totally told you about Shelley too. She's my whole world, man."

Gerald stares. "Would you like me to recite our last twenty phone calls? Because I can."

Randy looks to Sharon, clearly hoping for some sort of salvation. When he finds none, he looks back to Gerald, a smirk spreading across his face as he stands up. "Well Ger, no time like the present for you to really pay attention. Shelley? Hey Shelley? How'd you like to show Gerald how we play 'Rock Princess Fashion Show?"

Shelley stops swinging. Her grin soon grows to mach her father's, looking first at him, then at Gerald, before saying:

"If you don’t twirl, you get NO SNACKS FOREVER."

Now it’s Gerald’s turn to look at Sheila, silently begging for deliverance.

She just pats his leg. “Have fun.”

Randy beams and drags him off into the backyard, his utterly delightful daughter skipping after them.

Once it's just the two of them, Sharon relaxes, leaning back in the chair and resting a hand on her stomach.

"You know, this is the most peace and quiet I've gotten in four months?"

Sheila glances over. Out in the yard, Randy and Shelley appear to be circling Gerald like a predator and its cub. "With them? I… could buy it."

Sharon sits up, shaking her head. "I — I love them. I really do. But sometimes…"

Sheila nods.

"…Sometimes I'd just like to be able to sit down and actually get through a book or two without life exploding out at me. It's — shit." She looks at Sheila. "We've spoken before — what? Once? Twice? And here I am —"

"You're not the first person from South Park to unload on me" Sheila laughs. "— and trust me, you're not the worst."

"Speaking of worsts —" Sharon glances towards the house, where Nancy appears to be lecturing Marvin and Ira about proper egg poaching techniques,"—I wish Randy hadn't stepped in. I mean it — I would’ve backed you. You’d have done us all a favour."

Sheila sighs."Probably for the best. No sense being branded 'that fat bitch from Jersey' on day one."

Frankly, it was bad enough at her husband's job — not that she gave a damn about impressing a bunch of self-important nebbishes who’d probably pass out if asked to lift a folding chair. But Gerald cared. Not because she made him look bad — because they acted like she did.

Sharon huffs. "You know, I always forget you’re from Jersey, and not New York. Whenever Randy talks about Gerald, it’s all ‘big-shot New York lawyer’ this, ‘living the high life in Manhattan’ that. Like the two of you are out there sipping martinis with politicians and taking limos to the grocery store."

She looks over at her 'big-shot New York lawyer,' currently writhing on the grass while Shelley gleefully chucks a rock at his knee and Randy yells something about 'granite' and 'taking notes'.

He catches her eye.

She gives him a thumbs up.

You're doing great, motek.

"Trust me," she says. "It’s probably not so different from being married to a 'highly respected scientist' — Gerald swears he knows more about rivers than most people know about their own children."

"He has the student loans to prove it," Sharon laughs.

"So does Gerald," Sheila shakes her head. "The look he gave me when I finished paying mine off —"

"— It was the same with Randy," Sharon says. "Like it was my fault an LPN diploma doesn’t come with a lifetime of debt."

"You're a nurse?"

"Mostly I'm a receptionist these days," Sharon laughs, "I used to work up at the hospital, but as soon as the new clinic in town opened, I thought 'why bother with the commute'?"

"Oh the —" She can't help but think back to last night. Gerald's mad gesturing. She knows exactly where this is going.

"Tom's Rhinoplasty," Sharon says.

Of course.

"What about you? You strike me as someone who likes to keep busy."

"You could say that. I work in community engagement out in Newark," Sheila says. "Public admin degree. I mostly wrangle neighborhood boards, plan events, chase down city reps who don’t answer phone calls — you know, try to yell at people until something actually gets done." She hesitates. "I’m… taking some time off work right now, though."

"Yeah," Sharon says, nodding. "Both of you being out here, I guess you would have to be."

"We’ll see how long his ‘fancy Manhattan office’ lets him pretend he’s dealing with a family emergency." Sheila turns, just in time to see her husband covered in grass stains, triumphantly holding a giggling Shelley upside down while Randy cheers.

Before Sharon can say anything else, Nancy’s voice floats out from the porch:

"Food's ready! Murrey, Gerald — I put extra cinnamon on the french toast just for you boys."

Sheila gives the other woman a nod as she stands up from the folding chair, but Sharon places a hand on her arm.

"Hey… thanks for not asking about —" she gestures to her stomach. "I’m really excited to meet him," Sharon says quietly. "But it’s nice to be treated like me for once, and not just a walking incubator."

Sheila offers back a weak smile, but says nothing. At least she was right: this wasn't so bad after all.

In fact, it was downright pleasant.

As they step through the door, they catch sight of Jimbo and Murrey standing off to the side, both men grinning — Jimbo clapping a hand on Murrey’s shoulder like they’d just closed a deal.

"Ned and I still good to see you two in Tucson come November? Can’t wait to finally meet that gal you've been hidin’ from your folks — just like you hid from Uncle Sam."

Sheila raises an eyebrow.

Sharon just shakes her head.

"Like I said. They go way back."

Brunch had gone shockingly well. Randy’s father only said one thing that made the whole table drop their orange juice, Shelley shattered just three antique dishes, and Ira only offered two critiques on yolk consistency.

Yet, once they were alone, Gerald was acting like it had been an unmitigated disaster.

"I can't even begin to apologize for — fuck, everything," he says, pacing the guest bedroom. "I forgot how bad Mr. Marsh was. I mean — I shouldn’t have. This is the same guy who once pointed at Randy and told me and — well, a friend —‘That’s why you finish on her tits, boys.’ We were twelve."

He exhales, hard. "He’s — Sheila, I’m so —"

"— and then Randy. Fucking Randy. If I’d known about Sharon, I would’ve —"

"Gerald, it's fine. Really." She says it gently— and to her own surprise, it almost is. Sure, a heads-up about the very pregnant wife might’ve been nice. And yes, she still wanted to bury Mr. Marsh somewhere remote and frozen. But compared to that baby announcement? This barely registered.

He looks unconvinced.

"Is it? I feel like — fuck. Like I should’ve known. Should’ve been —"

"No one expects you to read minds," she says. "Least of all me."

He gives a strained laugh, still pacing.

"I know. I just —" He runs a hand through his hair, "Randy's a dad. Almost twice over. I shouldn’t be surprised — he’s never been great about telling me important life stuff — and they've been married longer than we have — but still. This was a guy who used to lick rocks. Swore he could tell exactly where they came from. And now —"

"— And now he had an excellent sidekick for whatever Shelley was staging today."

Gerald raises an eyebrow. "Excellent sidekick, huh. Was that before or after I got pelted with rocks?"

Sheila chokes back a laugh. "You know what my point is."

Gerald exhales and lets himself fall back beside her on the bed. "I do. I just — I guess I wish I was better at believing I'd be good at it."

Chapter Text

South Park, CO
Monday September 29th, 5:45 AM MDT
The Past™

Gerald wakes to a shrill, self-satisfied ring echoing through the same room where he once practiced his D’var Torah in a forced baritone — and still cracked on the last line.

Next to him, Sheila groans, throwing an arm across his chest in protest.

"— I told my parents to only call the main line, after nine. Our time."

Ring.

"We know it's not them. They respect human dignity," Gerald winces.

Ring.

"If it's Rosen, tell him to fax it to hell and back."

If fucking only.

" …I can’t. Satan’s on retainer."

Ring.

Reluctantly, Gerald rolls to one side, careful not to dislodge Sheila’s arm as he reaches for the phone. He clears his throat:

"Broflovski speaking."

Rosen's voice comes immediately through the phone. "You’re up, good."

In most countries, this is how you end up in The Hague, you absolute fuckface.

"What can I do for you, sir?"

Beside him, Sheila raises her middle finger in the phone’s direction.

"There’s a new motion on the Stanton file— the big one you’ve been working on. Opposing counsel dropped it late last night, East Coast time. Should be in your inbox."

Gerald blinks. The Stanton file — nothing but high-stakes corporate dick-measuring. Now someone was trying to fake an extra inch, and of course, it was his problem.

"So… You want me to look it over?"

Great. A time-zone-jumping emergency because no one else can open a fucking PDF.

"I want you to tear it apart," Rosen says. "You’re the only one I trust not to screw this up. "Prescott offered, but I’ve seen that man try to use a letter opener. I’d rather not hand him a live dissection."

Being useful is truly a curse.

"I need a draft by noon your time. Earlier if possible. I'll need to review before it goes back."

Gerald pinches the bridge of his nose. "You've got it. Anything else?"

"Shanah Tovah. Give my regards to your wife and family."

May my name be inscribed in the Book of Billable Hours.

"Right. Same to you."

The line goes dead.

"Satan better charge that asshole triple for overtime," Sheila mutters into her pillow.

"Didn’t realize we had a press conference scheduled this morning." Ira mutters, glasses slipping down his nose as he scans the headlines.

You always know how to start a day off right. Just what I fucking needed, Dad.

With Sheila vetoing the one surviving pair of jeans that he owns and his khakis a casualty of toddler warfare, he’s defaulted to the only thing he has in excess — court-ready suits. He left off the tie, hoping it said: Sure, right now I might look like your divorce attorney. But I’ve hotwired a cop car, smoked weed behind the community centre — I’m fun. I’m local. I swear.

Apparently, no such luck.

Across the table, Murrey is flipping through a stack of papers, marking each one with judgmental flick of a red pen. "Dad, it's not even six. Have you considered saving the roast for lunch?"

"It’s not mockery, it’s public service. He needs to know he looks ridiculous."

Gerald grits his teeth as he pours his coffee. "Sorry, would the grass-stained khakis have been better? Or maybe my high school jeans Sheila threatened to set on fire?"

Ira doesn't even look up from the newspaper. "I'd say it says something about your priorities when your entire casual wardrobe fits in a carry-on and dates back to the Soviet era."

Gerald sips his coffee and says nothing, because there’s no fucking winning with Ira Broflovski — not now, not ever. He shows up like this, and he "has no balance." If he'd brought a whole casual wardrobe, it'd be that he "wasn't taking work seriously." The man thrived on contrarianism like it was oxygen. It wasn't like he was going to change now.

Murrey taps his pen against the table, not looking up. "He's out here to help, isn't he, Dad? I’d say that says more about his priorities than what he’s wearing."

He glances over his papers, then adds, softer, "You work hard, kiddo. You always have. That’s not a crime."

Gerald winces. So I'm a tragic workaholic. Fan fucking tastic.

It’s always felt weird when Murrey defends him—like getting coddled by your homeroom teacher in front of the class. Even so… there’s something dumbly reassuring about having a big brother who still thinks you need protecting.

He clears his throat.

"Right. Speaking of work… are you going to need the dial-up today, Murrey?"

Murrey gives him a sympathetic look. "Unfortunately, yes — grading, admin, all the usual joys of academia. Hoping to upload midterms while the dial-up does its Gregorian chant." He pauses. "I’m eyeing a flight to Phoenix with Mom and Dad on the second — start the new year right, get out of your hair while you clean up here. We’ll tour the retirement place, and I'll keep Dad from calling the HOA president a fascist before lunch. Then we’ll be back at the end of the month to finalize everything here, let them say their last goodbyes."

'Last Goodbyes'. It's Scottsdale, not a shiva.

Ira scoffs. "If I’m calling the HOA president a fascist, it’s because his résumé includes some very exclusive clubs that neither side of your family would be welcome in."

"Hypothetical HOA Klansmen aside," Gerald frowns, "Is there a place in this town that offers internet access above dial-up and below witchcraft?"

"Well… there is the Coffeehouse." Murrey says it like someone recounting the site of a minor tragedy. "They have DSL but —"

"— But?" Gerald asks.

"You have to drink the coffee."

He blinks. "What's wrong with that?"

"That’s what I keep telling him," Ira mutters, shaking his head. "It's perfectly fine. I drank it every day. Back when I still owned the pharmacy, I supplied them with their… proprietary additive. No idea if they’re still using Jim, or if they've got a new guy now."

What the fuck was a pharmacist supplying a coffeehouse with?

Unfortunately, that question would have to go unanswered for now.

"I'll have to chance it. I've got a motion to dissect."

Ira's glasses glint as he shoots him a look — the smug, quiet type that says: My point about your work-life balance was made so successfully that it just earned an honorary doctorate. I am, in fact always right and have never made a single mistake in my life. Especially when it comes to parenting.

Murrey scratches something onto a scrap of paper, tears it off, and hands it over.

Gerald frowns. "What’s this?"

Murrey doesn’t look up. "My cell number, in case you forget. Jerry, if things get out of hand… I want you to know you can call me."

"Dude, are you heading to a funeral home or suing one? Because I cannot handle death before caffeine."

Randy's out in the yard next door, squinting in the early light while Shelley does high-speed laps around him, shrieking with joy. The second she spots Gerald, she skids to a stop—then bolts straight for him like she’s seen a celebrity.

Right then, Broflovski. Don't let yourself go 0 for 2 with a toddler.

Shelley barrels into him at full speed, nearly knocking his laptop bag off his shoulder and gripping onto his arm.

"Upside-down again!"

Gerald hesitates just long enough to clock Randy enthusiastically nodding, then sighs and hooks her under the arms.

"I bill extra for circus tricks, you know." he says — before flipping her upside down with a practiced motion.

She lets out a delighted yell.

"Neither — just my usual weekday wear. This is just what happens when your social life dies of neglect. Perks of working in NYC."

Randy jogs over. "Hey, it’s not that bad. Remember when I came out with all you lawyer-types? You guys know how to throw back —" He looks at Shelley — waving her arms around and having the time of her life — and catches himself. Sort of. "— Responsibly. While having a great time that definitely didn’t end with us tripping balls and someone crying on the floor."

Gerald rights Shelley and puts her back on the ground, ruffling her hair. "A+ recovery. Gold star for the scientist."

It's still a little surreal to think of Randy Marsh as a parent. Sharon? Not so much. Even when they were kids, that woman had been (mostly) sensible to a fault. But Randy? The guy who once tried to grill hot dogs with a blowtorch and set his eyebrows on fire?

He’s got a toddler and a second kid on the way, and here I am…

They hadn't used birth control in years. Not since he made senior associate. He'd agreed with Sheila to just let it happen. One year had turned into two. Then three.

Sheila had wanted to see someone. A doctor. Maybe run some tests.

He didn't. Why would he want to know if it was his —

But once her sister got pregnant, everything changed. He was on track to making Partner. They got serious about it. Charts, tracking. And sure enough —

When she told him, he hadn’t felt ready. Not even close. It was abstract. Distant. But by the third month, they were in the clear. That's what the doctors said. So they'd told his parents. Her parents. His brother. Her sister.

It should've been fine. They said it was fine.

And then —

"— You alright, man?"

Randy's voice cuts through like a poorly tuned radio. His hand is on Gerald's shoulder.

Gerald blinks, shaking it off. "Yeah, just early, that's all. Have this stupid a —" He glances at Shelley, "— nnoying work thing, so I need a DSL connection. You remember the best ways to the coffeehouse from down here?"

"Yeah. You can go down that way for a bit, then up Main Street, take a left, then a right — or," Randy shrugs, "you can take the path by the train tracks. That'll get you right there."

His stomach twists. Something in his chest tightens.

You'd think that after all —

"Main Street, then."

Some paths are better left untouched.

"You look like you could use a nice, relaxing cup of coffee." the barista says in a reverent tone, as if he’s offering a baptism instead of a beverage.

"Cleanse the soul awaken the — Wait, I know you."

He smiles, distant.

"You're Ira Broflovski's youngest boy."

'Boy?' That’s real rich coming from someone who looks like they still get carded at R-rated movies.

He’s trying to place the face. The light brown, curly hair. The round baby-face. Something. Anything that might help him remember. But it’s not coming. Just that creeping sensation you get when someone knows everything about who you were, and you can't even —

"— Actually, I —." Gerald tries to start, but the man is having none of it.

"Yes… you were the mouthy one. You and your two friends — you’re the ones who sneaked into the community centre with dry ice and tried to convince us kindergartners it was a portal to the Other Side."

For an instant, he smiles in spite of himself.

Honestly, one of our finer fourth grade moments. I wrote the script, Randy inexplicably knew a guy who could get us the ice, and —

"As much as I love reminiscing," he cuts in sharply, "I really need to use your DSL."

The barista shakes his head. "Not until you try our delicious Tweek Brothers Dark Roast. The coffee of choice for busy professionals and wannabe mothers alike."

He gestures toward a woman behind the counter, apron smudged with flour, calmly sipping from a mug.

"It’s great for fertility." She says.

Well, Murrey undersold it. Clearly, this place was blessed by a barista-shaman chasing enlightenment through single-origin beans. All hail the fucking coffee.

"Great. Whatever. I'll take one, then."

Soon enough, the coffee is in front of him — murky, steaming, and vaguely threatening — but he’s still lacking a cable.

The barista just looks at him, smiling, and waves the DSL cord in the air like an oracle with a sacred offering. You know what you need to do.

Without breaking eye contact, Gerald picks up the cup and drinks the entire thing in one go.

Gerald sets up at a corner table with his laptop, the DSL cord jacked in like a lifeline. He sips water. Opens the file. The room is quiet, save for the soft hum of the espresso machine and the woman behind the counter gently humming something that might be a lullaby or a cult hymn.

Right, you've got it. Tear it apart, make it clean. You're Gerald fucking Broflovski. You're fucking made for this.

He starts to type.

Then — out of the corner of his eye. Was that something?! Someone?

No. It couldn't be.

Within two minutes, he's gotten his first paragraph done. By five, he’s written three — and restructured the entire preamble twice. The words are flowing, but they’re too fast. Too sharp. He’s used "egregious" four times in six lines.

His palms feel wet. Why do they feel wet?

Across the room, the woman pours more coffee into her mug with the serenity of a monk.

By the time he finishes page four, his heart is racing like he's on trial for every last thing he's ever done wrong in his life, starting all the way back to right before kindergarten when he'd first gotten the bright idea to —

No. Focus. You have to focus.

The room is both too loud and too quiet. The DSL modem makes a soft whirring noise that sounds, somehow, accusatory. Like it knows everything. Knows every last secret, last thought, like exactly what he'd really wanted from —

He leans back. Breathes through his nose. The text on the screen looks like it’s vibrating, but maybe that’s just him.

He types:

This motion is in the most plain of all terms, deeply, egregiously without merit.

Not good enough.

He deletes the line, replacing it with:

Opposing Counsel should fucking kill themselves.

Then deletes that.

He wipes his hands on his pants. They're probably bleeding.

He wonders if it's also internal too. If it's terminal. This is how he's going to be remembered: Gerald Broflovski, Esquire. Killed by a cup of coffee. Disappointment to everyone he ever knew, but especially his fucking father. I should've listened to Murrey. Why didn't I listen to —

Wait — he said I should call him if things got out of hand. I'm pretty sure I'm lacking hands right now — Should I call — no. He can't know. Not yet.

What about Sheila? Should I phone her? No, I can't phone — Murrey's on the dial-up. Do you think she knows? She's gotta know. We're connected. Meant to be. Which means — She knows what I — Fuck me, is she gonna — No. No. Why would she leave over a cup of coffee? It's just coffee. It's just —

FINISH THE MOTION, DUMBASS.

He's typed another twenty pages. Maybe they're usable. They must be usable.

"Beautiful, isn’t it?" comes a voice, smooth and solemn.

Gerald jerks so hard he nearly elbows the modem off the table.

The barista stands behind him, arms folded, staring reverently at the coffee pot like it’s the Ark of the motherfucking Covenant.

"The way it clears your mind, strips away all earthly fear. Like truth distilled into liquid."

Gerald’s eye twitches. "My bones are vibrating. I didn’t know bones could vibrate like that."

The other man smiles serenely. "Yes. That’s how you know it’s working."

"Jerry, buddy. Deep breaths. It’s gonna be okay."

He's outside now. He doesn't remember how he got outside.

Why the fuck doesn't he remember?!

The motion went out at 11:53 AM in a document titled "FINAL_FINAL_REAL_FINAL_USE_THIS_ONE_2". By 12:03, Gerald emailed it three more times just in case. Once to Rosen, once to the paralegal, and once to the fax machine, which he now suspects might be sentient and vengeful.

Then he did what he should've done in the first place: called his brother.

"It's not gonna be okay, Murrey. It was my worst — maybe my best — maybe the worst because it was my best. I think I transcended logic and language. I wrote like I was possessed by — I don't know. I’m gonna be disbarred. Disemboweled. Maybe both. I can feel the shame of all our ancestors lining up to slap me, one by one, in alphabetical order —"

Murrey's voice is even. One of the only things in this whole world that apparently still makes sense.

"Okay, okay — breathe. Listen. I was where you are about this time last week. Twenty minutes in, I emailed my department head a manifesto about algorithmic bias in peer review. By the hour mark, I was crying behind the post office because a squirrel made eye contact with me for too long and I thought gnomes were coming to steal my underwear. It took me hours to come down."

"— Hours?! I don't have hours. I — I — need you to come get me. I —"

"You still outside the coffeehouse?"

Gerald nods — then remembers it’s a phone call. "Yeah," he whispers.

"I'll be right over. Don't move, no matter now much you want to, and trust me, don't call —"

There's a beeping noise. He doesn't even need to check to know who it is.

"— Murrey, I've gotta take this." Gerald continues before his brother can cut in. "I'll be back soon. Or not. Don’t worry, I’ll save you a seat in hell if this goes sideways."

Or maybe we're already there. That would explain a lot.

He presses the button.

"Broflovski," Rosen starts.

Fuck. That could mean anything. Rosen only uses last names when he’s furious — or impressed.

And Rosen is never impressed.

"…Y-yeah?" Gerald asks, immediately regretting the crack in his voice.

"Got the draft. That was some real creative labelling. But I have to admit — the work's solid. Excellent, even."

This is it. He’s cracked. Full delusion. This is what ego death feels like.

"I — sorry, what?"

"This is some of the the sharpest work I’ve seen from you in months. Whatever’s in the water out there, bottle it."

The line goes dead.

He lowers himself to the pavement, staring at the sky like it might offer answers.

I hate this motherfucking town so much.

Chapter Text

South Park, CO
Wednesday, October 1st 11:36 AM MDT
The Past™

"Shanah Tovah!"

A cacophony of greetings burst from the speakerphone — Dad's voice leading the charge, booming and bright, followed by Josh trying to match his enthusiasm and overshooting wildly. Mom came in on a half-laugh, already mid-sentence, and Naomi, ever the performer, hit her line with precise timing, like she thought someone might be recording it.

In the living room, Nancy claps her hands and repeats the greeting with a smile, while beside her, Murrey echoes it without looking up from his notepad. Across the room, Ira grunts from behind his newspaper, having fulfilled his social obligation, and returns to his coffee.

Gerald sits beside her on the couch, dressed in yet another one of his work suits — though with his birthday only three days away, she plans to fix that. One hand rests on her knee. He’s doing his best to seem upbeat — but he’s still clearly on edge after the other day's work emergency. For the past two breakfasts, he’s been just a little too snappy, and keeps glaring at the sugar bowl like it owes him money. He blames it on the worst cup of coffee of his life.

Sheila, personally, blames his prick of a boss.

"Everyone good? Sheila, any better with the altitude or still losing fights to the mountain air?" Dad asks.

Sheila shudders. It was better than that first day, sure, but she’d still spent the past few days feeling vaguely seasick. Today was the first morning she hadn’t woken up nauseous.

"I think so. How were services? Did Rabbi Adler give the old classics, or did he mix it up the one year that I’m gone?"

It felt a little strange not being at shul with her parents this year. Even at her most rebellious, she’d always shown up —sensible skirt, neckline negotiated mid-argument, eyeliner slightly too dramatic. There was something steadying about the liturgy, the familiar cadence of voices rising together. It wasn’t just obligation — it was connection. To her family, to her community, to something deeper.

"— Really spiritual. Like… merging with your better self," Josh says, with the confident tone of a man who once skimmed a self-help book on a plane.

Sheila doesn’t even need to look at Gerald to know what face he's making. Across the room, Murrey bites back a laugh. Nancy’s mouth twitches like she’s holding back a comment. Ira exhales slowly through his nose.

"— It was lovely, actually,” Naomi jumps in, cheerful as ever. “He tied in Unetaneh Tokef with parenting, which felt very appropriate this year, with Kyle’s bris and all."

And that right there was the reason she didn’t mind being two timezones away from New Jersey this Rosh Hashanah. Her parents had called a few times since they got to Colorado, but she and Naomi hadn’t spoken at all. Everything was still too raw — too sharp-edged and full of things they hadn’t said.

Gerald’s hand tightens on her knee. Murrey glances up from his notepad, brow arched.

It wasn’t just the name. Or Naomi’s late-breaking devotion. It was the way she seemed to turn everything — even this — into a subtle competition. Like she couldn’t help herself. Sheila had no idea why she did it.

"All of us wish that you were here, bubbele." Mom breaks in. "I was just telling your sister that it isn't the same without you. You always make the holidays feel special."

Next to her, Gerald smirks.

"Speaking of —" Dad asks. "Is the family blowing the shofar in Denver or letting the mountains do the celebrating?"

"We’re staying in," Nancy says. "It’s our last holiday in the house, and the first time we’ve had both boys home at once — with Sheila here, too, it really feels like a real family celebration." She looks between Murrey and Gerald like she’s checking who’s going to squirm first.

Naomi chimes in, syrupy-sweet: "There’s something to be said for keeping the spirit of the holiday, even when it’s… almost technically impossible to observe everything properly."

That little makhsheyfe. With his whole family sitting here? Are you kidding me?

Ira lowers the newspaper, glasses catching the light. Nancy’s smile goes brittle. Gerald rolls his eyes. Murrey looks up his notepad.

"No, I mean it!” Naomi says brightly, and Sheila can just picture the look their parents are giving her. “It’s honestly impressive, doing the holidays your own way — especially with most of having such a… diverse cultural background."

Diverse cultural — What the ever-loving FUCK is your problem.

Gerald and Murrey are looking at each other, dumbstruck. Nancy's shaking her head. And Ira —

Ira slowly lowers his paper and leans forward, speaking with the sort of clarity that made Sheila sit up straighter. His voice is calm, but the Yiddish cuts like a blade:

"A yid iz a yid, maydele."

A Jew is a Jew, little girl.

“Well said,” Dad mutters, not even bothering to hide the edge in his tone.

"Maybe next year she’ll actually hear the sermon," Mom adds, too sweetly.

"— That’s not what I —," Naomi says quickly, her voice tight. "You’re all twisting what—."

"— Babe," Josh cuts in , "We've been over this. No one thinks—"

"Well… We won't keep you any longer," Mom says. "I'm sure you've got lots to do for dinner tonight."

"We’ll talk again after the bris, bubbeleh," Dad says. "Nancy, Ira — always a pleasure. Gerald, enjoy the festivities with your family."

With that, the line goes dead.

Gerald glances at her, deadpan.

"And she wonders why you're the favourite."

They don't have a favourite.

Sheila spends the afternoon helping Nancy in the kitchen. It feels like the least she can do after… everything.

When Sheila apologizes — for her sister, her upbringing, the entire Eastern Seaboard — Nancy just claps her hands and smiles. "I’m sure she meant nothing by it, dear. Said so herself."

She taps her mouth, thoughtful. "Still — instead of starting fresh this New Year, I wasn’t expecting to be transported back over fifty years to Bubbe Broflovski’s living room. Although… perhaps not quite. At least she knew how to say shiksa to your face. No subterfuge. No shame."

Sheila weighs her options before speaking again.

"It’s not about that. Not really."

Nancy raises an eyebrow. She knows that look — it’s the same one Gerald gets right before insisting something is a matter of principle.

"It’s about me. If I married a Haredi guy, she’d probably say his parents think they’re better than everyone else while only living off gemachs. Everything’s a competition to her."

"Well, if you’d married a Haredi, she couldn’t have used the phone on Rosh Hashanah to insult your in-laws — Yontif and all," Nancy says with a smile.

She adds: "But yes, I do understand that as well. I haven’t spoken to my oldest brother directly since Murrey was born. The man couldn’t understand why we didn’t just do a bris and a baptism."

Sheila frowns. As… difficult as things are between them, she can’t imagine going nearly fifty years without talking to Naomi. She still remembers when Naomi was born — how excited she’d been. Naomi used to trail after her everywhere.

She wasn’t sure when that changed. Maybe it started back in day school? Sheila didn’t remember it that way—she’d always been surrounded by friends, constantly busy. If Naomi felt left out, she’d never said anything. But by the time they overlapped at public high school, the shift was impossible to ignore. Sheila had been pegged as the 'weird loud Jewish girl' from day one—and Naomi, bright-eyed and coolly confident even as a freshman, did nothing to change that. If anything, she made it worse.

It had eased, briefly, when Sheila started community college. The space helped. But then Gerald entered the picture. Things stayed light while they were still just friends. But once it turned into something more, the distance she’d thought they’d grown out of came back — heavier than before. Marriage only solidified it.

As infuriating as Naomi was, Sheila wished she knew how to fix it.

After that, the conversation turns lighter. Nancy asks if they’ve been eating enough — really eating, not just takeout — and whether Gerald’s looked into “options” for, you know, the hair situation. In return, Sheila asks about Nancy’s years teaching at South Park Elementary — though some of the stories sound… embellished. Especially the ones about the alien abductions.

Soon enough — and after a call from her parents, who’d also offered personal apologies to both Ira and Nancy — dinner is ready. Potato kugel, round challah, roast chicken with apricots, a citrusy beat salad, butternut squash soup, and honey-glazed caramel apple pie for dessert.

Gerald and Murrey had decorated the table — if not entirely traditionally, then with enthusiasm. Murrey insisted on symmetry and folded the napkins into something vaguely architectural, while Gerald rifled through the garage and emerged with a box of leftover autumn decorations, scattering mini pumpkins across the table like they were place cards. The challah sits on a cheese board because the serving platters were already packed. At some point, Murrey tried to thread freshly fallen leaves from outside around each plate 'for aesthetic cohesion'. The end result wasn’t what Sheila’s parents might have done—but it was nice, in its own Colorado way.

"Did we really need the pumpkins?" Ira asks.

"Yes." Gerald says flatly, refusing to elaborate.

Nancy lights the candles when they sit down, though unlike with last week's Shabbat, there's no Kiddush. The wine flows freely — from Ira’s prized Bordeaux stash — but Sheila passes on it. She’s not about to undo a week of progress on the altitude just to get lightheaded before dessert.

Murrey’s pouring his third glass when he says, "Wait. Didn’t we used to go around? Oldest to youngest? Say what we were hopeful for in the New Year?"

"Perhaps if you spent the holidays with us more often, Murrey, dear, you’d remember that," Nancy says with a smile.

Next to her, Gerald chokes back a laugh, nearly inhaling a cube of beet in the process — only to stop when Nancy shoots him a look. It’s the kind that clearly says: you’re no better, sweetie.

"But yes, we do." She looks over at Ira, expectantly.

Ira leans back in his chair, hand on his chin. "My hope is to make it through the move without my very educated sons putting the Firebird up for sale behind my back."

"It's a little hard to mount an anti-Firebird conspiracy when I'll be with you the whole time, Dad," Murrey says, deadpan with a smile. "Jerry's the one you have to watch out for."

Gerald leans back. "As a lawyer, I'm sworn to confidentiality."

There's a glint to Ira's glasses. "There's enough comedians in the world, boys." He looks over at Nancy.

"I think I've already made my hopes for the New Year clear today," she says. Across the table, both Murrey and Gerald exchange uncomfortable glances. "— But I also wouldn't mind improving my swimming skills once we settle into Arizona. And you, Murrey?"

Gerald's brother swirls his wine in his glass. "I'm hoping to get more hiking in this year. Assuming I survive the civil war my TA's started in my absence."

Sheila raises an eyebrow.

"You know how college kids are," Murrey sighs. "Give the wrong one a little power and suddenly they're the Soviet Politburo."

He swallows.

"But, unless I'm remembering Jerry wrong, I think it's your turn next, Sheila?"

She nods, thinking for a minute. There’s a lot she could say — about what she wants for Gerald’s job (she hopes — perhaps futilely — that this break will change something, and he’ll actually get a full weekend off now and then); her hopes for going back to work (sooner rather than later); or even when they might be ready to start trying for a child again (that one… still feels a ways off).

"I’m hoping we both get something good out of this trip. If the worst it has to offer is one loudmouth with opinions, I think we’ll manage."

"You’re only saying that because you’ve already planned a convenient accident for Mr. Marsh," Gerald says, smiling in spite of himself.

"I have to warn you, Marvin's surprisingly resilient," Nancy notes. "That’s why his ex-wife finally gave up and filed for divorce."

Why does this somehow explain so much about Gerald's friend, Randy?

"On that cheerful note, Counselor, what’s your big wish for 5758?" Sheila says, nudging her husband.

Gerald leans back, actually seeming to consider the question. Then, finally he speaks:

"I’d say… forward momentum. Keep the past in the past. Always a good policy."

"A whole career in words, and that’s all you’ve got?" Ira mutters, shaking his head.

Gerald’s jaw tenses, but before he can answer, Nancy claps her hands. "Caramel apple pie!" she announces, already standing. "Who’s helping me with the whipped cream? Sheila, dear — don't worry, I'll set some aside without dairy for you."

After dessert — and the cleanup, which involved packing up all the freshly washed dishes — it was time for the traditional Broflovski Rosh Hashanah Movie Night. Or rather, the traditional Broflovski Rosh Hashanah Argument Over Which Movie to Watch Until Someone Asserted Dominance, according to Murrey. As the guest, Sheila had first dibs. She picked a coming-of-age classic about grief, loyalty, and a decomposing body in the woods. There was the usual round of half-remembered director trivia, unsolicited rankings of short story adaptations, and one glowing endorsement from Murrey. Gerald ultimately gave the final go-ahead — anything to avoid another hour of his parents’ bickering.

By the time the credits roll, Nancy is dabbing at her eyes. Ira doesn’t say anything right away — just stares at the blank screen a moment too long before muttering something about needing to check the thermostat.

Murrey smiles to himself, voice soft with nostalgia, as he tells a story about the time he and Sharon’s brother stumbled on a dead coyote in the woods — and spent the rest of the summer sure it was following them. Remarkably, he doesn’t even insult Jimbo once.

It really tugged at the nostalgia heartstrings, she had to admit. Made her think back to her closest girlhood friends from day school. They’d always been a big group — six or seven — but two still stood out.

One of them stayed in day school right to the end. But unlike some of the other girls, she never judged — not even when Sheila swapped her Jewish Mother-approved midi skirts for fishnets and leopard-print leggings. Throughout high school, they’d still sit together at shul, even as Sheila kept testing just how far she could push the limits of what counted as a 'modest' skirt.

A year or two into college, Sheila had mostly stopped rolling her eyes at every other sermon — and her friend had started going to a Modern Orthodox shul. She’s married now. Four kids. God — or rather, G-d, because she’d appreciate that — fucking help her. But she swears she’s happy with that many and wouldn’t mind one or two more.

The other had moved to New York with her parents right before middle school started, but she and Sheila still kept in touch. By high school — with or without her parents’ permission — she’d take the train into the city to visit. Their outings mostly involved off-Broadway musicals, bar fights at places teenage girls definitely weren’t supposed to be, and at least a couple of very confusing makeout sessions. She lives with her girlfriend now in Greenwich Village.

Both of them were bridesmaids at her wedding.

Next to her, Gerald sits quietly, hand on his chin. Sheila recognizes the look — the one that means something hit, even if he won’t admit it out loud. She lets the silence sit. If she asked, he’d say it was nothing.

Still… she remembers something he told her once, years ago. That sometimes, the grief of losing someone you thought would always be there never really goes away — just lies dormant, waiting for the right moment to rise up again.

"You know, this is the first Rosh Hashanah we've fully spent together since you started law school," Sheila says, when they're in the room alone.

"And the first one where I think if I'd been in the same room with Naomi, I wouldn’t have been able to keep my mouth shut without biting through my own tongue," Gerald says flatly. "I know she’s your sister, but lately she’s been —" He swallows. "Apparently it’s not enough for her to steal one of our best baby names after  —" He stops himself, taking another deep breath. "— No, now she has to insult my family, too. I was the only Jewish kid around for most of my life, but of course Little Miss Shiksa Police thinks she gets to decide —"

I should probably tell him not to call her that, but today? No, I'll settle for —

"— Don't let her get to you." Sheila says. "It's exactly what she wants."

He sits next to her, unbuttoning his shirt.

"I know. But that doesn’t mean I didn’t mentally draft the speech that would've made her cry in under two minutes."

Sheila shakes her head, laughing.

"Didn't you just say at dinner that your hope for the New Year was to 'keep the past in the past'?"

Gerald slips his arm around her waist, pulling her a little closer.

"What can I say? I prefer to be the one to dash my own hopes. Keeps expectations for the year realistic."

She smiles. "Speak for yourself. I’m helping my hopes flourish. And I’d say we’ve already gotten a few good things out of this trip."

Her husband laughs.

"You should save yourself the disappointment and try being realistic, Sheila," he says, drawing out her name with that familiar mock-disdain — his go-to tone whenever he’s trying to sound smug and adorable at the same time. "I haven’t gotten anything good out of South Park yet, and I doubt I will anytime soon."

"Oh really?" she says, slyly. "This rare, glorious window where I’m not just a voice on the phone doesn’t count?"

"That’s emotional manipulation," Gerald says, even as he's nuzzling her hair.

It was — but it was also true. Even with the work emergency, this was the most uninterrupted time they’d had together in years. Not that she’s ever been one to complain — well, not much. She has a full life that keeps her busy back home, and they’ve always managed to make it work — creatively, when they had to. But still, despite the chaos stirred up by his parents’ move, it was nice having him actually here. Never entirely to herself, of course — but more than she ever got in New Jersey. And after the summer they'd had, after everything she’d dealt with —

She hadn’t realized how badly she needed this.

"And…" she says, pulling away from him just a bit so that she can face him, "It's working perfectly."

She kisses him — gently at first, then with more insistence. When she pulls back, he makes a low, half-dazed noise.

"If you can keep quiet," she murmurs, brushing her fingers against his collar, "You’ll see just how good this trip can get."

He doesn’t answer — just smiles, slow and sure, and leans back onto his elbows like a man who knows exactly what’s about to happen and plans to enjoy every second of it.

Might as well start the New Year off right.

L’chaim.

Chapter Text

Park County, CO
Thursday October 2nd, 10:43 AM MDT
The Past™

The drive back from Denver is quieter than it feels like it should be. No bickering in the front seat, no frantic last-minute itinerary updates from the back, no murmur of airline gate numbers or retirement home brochures. Just him, the Firebird, and the I-70 stretching out in front of him like the world finally remembered to shut up.

He hadn't even offered to drive to the Denver Airport. It was his father's car, and his father always drove. And there was no reality in which their mother would be the one stuck in the back seat — not unless someone died. So he and Murrey ended up there together, for maybe the second time in their lives. The first had been decades ago, when Murrey was leaving for college and Gerald was about to start kindergarten. He remembered the sweater Murrey wore — and that he wasn’t supposed to touch the duffel bag.

He did anyway. And Murrey let him.

Sheila hadn’t come. It was early, the Firebird had no room, and Gerald suspected she needed the morning to herself — to mark the second day of Rosh Hashanah in peace. She hadn’t said anything, but she didn’t have to.

Even though she’d insisted on coming, even if things felt like they were going better than they had since before — the summer, he knew it couldn't be easy — spending the High Holidays away from her real family.

Because Ira planned airport departures like military operations, they arrived nearly ninety minutes early. Security was a formality — a metal detector, a yawn, and a wave-through. Gerald walked with them all the way to the gate.

They sat for a while, scattered along a row of molded plastic chairs near a flickering news monitor. Nancy kept checking her purse, repacking things that didn’t need repacking. Murrey borrowed Gerald’s pen to check over a paper he’d been working on. Ira scowled at the departure board like it had personally offended him.

Finally, the boarding call hit.

"I hope you’ll miss us the second we’re gone — even if you don't admit it. Oh, and remind Sheila about the dishes, will you? And check the smoke alarm batteries. We’ll be back before you know it. Just… take care of each other, alright sweetie? It was good seeing you both."

"Yeah," Gerald said, "You too, Mom."

You know. Apart from the whole emergency trip across the country in the middle of the most stressful month of my life — personally and professionally. But sure. You had to do what you had to do. Only, you actually didn’t.

"You’ll get through it, kiddo," Murrey said. "You always do."

The hug was quick, but firm. "Just… Try to come up for air now and then, okay? I’ll keep you looped in from our end."

Nothing like being everyone’s favorite martyr. Especially when the casting director’s your own brother. But… Love you too, Murrey. Genuinely, I don't think I could do any of this without you.

His father was the last to say goodbye.

There was no hug — God, could you imagine that? No, just a firm hand on his shoulder.

"It was nice to spend some time with Sheila," Ira said. "You did good finding her, at least. She’s strong. Smarter than you, that’s for damn sure. Not the type to spend her life waiting around for a weak man to figure out his priorities."

He gave Gerald’s shoulder a single, pointed squeeze.

"You keep this up too long, and one day you’ll come home to an empty house. You won't have anyone left."

Something flickered — not in his father’s voice, but behind it. Another voice, younger. Sharper. Bitter.

"You’re gonna end up alone, Gerald — and you won’t even get why."

He blinked. The terminal lights were too bright all of a sudden. His chest was tight. Breath shallow.

Ira was already walking away.

He stayed where he was until they boarded.

Shanah fucking Tovah. You really know how to cap off a holiday, Dad.

Park County, CO
Thursday October 2nd, 10:43 AM MDT
The Past™

He’s nearly back in town when the phone rings — and of course, of fucking course, it’s him. Gerald jerks the wheel, swearing as the Firebird kisses the shoulder. He brings the car to a stop and opens the phone right as it's about to go to voicemail.

"Broflovski speaking."

"You’re a hard man to get ahold of. Everything alright?"

Of course Rosen calls when I'm on the fucking I-70. Can't have something go right today. That’d be too easy.

"Everything's great. Just briefly stepped out of service there for a bit. You needed something, sir?"

Other than the customary slice of my soul?

"Unfortunately," Rosen says — exactly like he doesn’t think it’s unfortunate at all. "Two things. First — opposing counsel on Stanton want our reply to their proposed witness list by end of day tomorrow. I’m not expecting a full rewrite. Just flag anything egregious and polish the intro if you can. It should be in your inbox when you’re back at a computer."

Of fucking course they do. And Gerald knows: if Rosen says end of day tomorrow, he really means end of day today. And if he says not expecting a full rewrite, what he means is if one line stays the same, I’ll offer you up to the rest of the partners on a silver platter.

Gerald pinches the bridge of his nose. "Understood. I'll take care of it, sir. What's the second?"

"Just a reminder — partner vote’s happening by the end of the month. Probably sometime in the next two weeks."

He swallows, remembering the last time he and the Litigation Chair spoke in person.

Out of all of them, you were our pick. Don’t make me reassess.

Rosen continues, unbothered. "I already spoke to Prescott— the managing partner, not his semi-adequate son. We’re fine doing your last interview over the phone while you’re out in Colorado. I’ll get back to you with the exact date and time. Frankly, even with that little performance dip we talked about, this race is still yours to lose. So — and pardon my language — don’t fuck anything up in the next two weeks. Just keep doing what you do best."

The line goes dead.

Gerald sits in the car, breathing in. Breathing out.

Right. Don’t fuck anything up in the next few weeks. Avoid destroying your marriage, pack up your parents' house and — most importantly right now — find a place with DSL that doesn’t serve coffee strong enough to shoot you to the moon.

He hopes that he can manage the first one, and he knows that the second one will come in time. And as for the third…

There’s only one guy in town who might know where to find that kind of miracle. God help him.

"I’m not gonna lie, man — this has kinda made my day. I mean, you called me. On my cell. During work hours." Randy’s voice is too cheerful for someone who's probably standing in a government parking lot. "What's up?"

"Right." Gerald starts. "I'm on the I-70 —"

"— Shit, don’t tell me you crashed Mr. B’s Firebird. I almost totalled my dad’s back in college, and — Jesus, you remember that toast at my wedding? I swear they love those cars more than us. Though hey — at least you’re already married. So — you know — your dad can’t go table to table telling everyone you’re the reason he drinks."

Good old Mr. Marsh. Always made me feel like maybe I didn't have it so bad. And even he's not the worst father South Park has to offer.

"Just avoided that, thank fuck." Gerald says, "I actually wanted to check with you about something else. See if you can help me out."

"Of course. Anything you need." He pauses. "As long as it's not hiding a body. I mean — I’d try, but I think I'd panic and call Sharon. You and I both know there's like a fifty-fifty chance she'd rat us out to the cops."

Gerald shakes his head, smiling in spite of himself. "No body this time. I just wanted to know — does the USGS office you work at have DSL?"

It’s not entirely ethical. But it’s not technically illegal, and he’s already said anything but accessory to murder. So, no — I don’t feel bad.

"Wait, weren't you using — Oh, let me guess: Bad reaction to the Tweek Brothers Coffee?" Randy asks.

"I don't want to talk about it." Gerald replies — far too quickly.

"Totally, get it man. Yeah, we got it put in a couple months ago but —" Randy starts, "— Wait. Ger, what are you wearing?"

Careful, Marsh. Say that to the wrong guy on the phone, and all you’re getting is heavy breathing. Be grateful I have boundaries. And taste.

"Clothes." Gerald deadpans.

"No, I mean like. Are you still doing that thing where you look like a high-powered divorce lawyer from a show that gets cancelled after one season, or has Sheila reminded you denim exists yet?"

You'd think people would get tired of this routine, but no. Every small-town jackass thinks they’re the first to notice I'm overdressed. I get it. I need casual clothes. Congratulations, you cracked the case.

"She's waiting for my birthday, Randy." Gerald groans. "Two more days, and then this nightmare's over."

"So you're in the suit." Randy says, "Perfect. Now technically, we aren't supposed to let civilians into government offices, but I'll cover for you. Say that you're a big shot Legal Auditor from… I don't know, the Office of Homeland Geospatial Coordination. If it sounds like it belongs on a badge, they’ll believe it. All you need to do is wait in the foyer with the temporary receptionist and hope that she buys it. Don't worry."

Of course it's a scheme. It always is. But I need that internet, and Randy's my only hope right now. I'm sure the Bar Association would understand.

"Makes sense."

"Gotta warn you, though — she might be a little tricky to win over. Because — uh — reasons. You’ll see when you get there." His friend sighs, some of the cheer draining out of his voice.

Sure. Because that doesn’t sound like a setup at all.

This day just keeps getting better and better.

Park County, CO
Thursday October 2nd, 11:43 AM MDT
The Past™

The next half hour is a masterclass in bullshit artistry as he and Randy workshop a government-sounding excuse just plausible enough to squeak by. Concessions are made: Randy has to stop saying 'spy satellite,' and Gerald agrees to pretend he’s there to 'audit mineral rights.' Technically, they only brush up against three separate federal crimes. Probably fine.

Now, pulling into the squat little USGS office and grabbing his laptop bag, Gerald smooths his jacket, trying to project the kind of confidence expected from a Legal Auditor with the Office of Homeland Geospatial Coordination. Randy had promised to meet him in the lobby by noon. That left Gerald just enough time to charm the temp at the front desk.

Who didn't look so bad but.

Wait.

She’s familiar. Long brown hair styled just so. Red lipstick that would never fly at a real corporate office. He’s definitely seen her before. And then she smiles — all singsong and sugar.

"Well if it isn’t Gerald Broflovski."

He freezes.

Of course. Just my fucking luck.

"Do you remember me?" she coos. "Oh, you must."

Unfortunately, he remembers Liane Cartman all too well. One year younger, a grade below — and according to the boys’ lunch table consensus, the cutest girl in the school. Whatever that meant in fourth grade.

Naturally, his best friend dared him to 'ask her out,' and not wanting to seem like a total pussy, he did it.

He didn’t think she’d actually say 'yes.' But she did — so he ran straight back to the rest of the fourth grade boys to brag.

Somehow, he had a girlfriend.

— Then the next day, she found him alone and gave him a look he recognized from every bad grade and playground scolding.

"My daddy says your mom used to be normal. She was his teacher, and everything. And then she married —" She gestured vaguely. "You know. The pharmacist."

"And… he says you’re like him too," she'd added, glancing at his kippah. "So I can’t be your girlfriend anymore. My daddy says… the same thing could happen to me."

He might’ve been a kid, but he wasn’t stupid — he knew when something was wrong. His mom kept teaching for years after marrying his dad. She'd only stopped when he was born. Murrey said everybody liked her.

Everybody, apparently, except for Mr. Cartman.

When Randy asked, he said he dumped her. Because, obviously, she was a dirty slut. His friend said that was the worst thing a girl could be. Neither of them really knew what it meant — just that Mr. Marsh had said it once about a woman on TV, and nobody argued.

It didn’t take long — Randy and his best friend made sure of that — for the whole school to start calling eight-year-old Liane Cartman a dirty slut. Gerald, in all his righteous nine-year-old fury, didn’t see the problem.

There was just one person he’d ever trusted enough to tell the truth to.

His best friend didn't say anything at first. Just stared at his shoes. "My dad says that kind of stuff too. About your family. Doesn’t make it true." Then he squared his shoulders. "If she’s dumb enough to believe it, screw her. She is a dirty slut!"

That settled it. If he still agreed with him even while knowing the full story, then Gerald didn’t need to think about it any more than that. Never mind the stories that came later — Randy always brought them up like fun facts. Liane’s older brother getting in trouble with the law. Her parents vanishing with the rest of the kids to Nebraska and leaving her behind. It all just seemed to confirm something. Maybe she’d been doomed from the start.

Doomed from the start — and now, apparently, a temporary receptionist for the USGS.

Maybe she’s forgotten about all that. It’s been, what — almost thirty years? We were kids. She called me a dirty Jew, and I called her a dirty slut. Tit for tat. Somehow, only one of those stuck. And then… well. According to Randy, she might’ve leaned into it. Not like that’s on me. Right? Bygones.

He clears his throat. "Ah — Ms. Cartman, right?" Hopefully that sounds normal. Neutral. Deeply professional.

She smiles with a flutter of lashes.

"Yes, but you can always call me Liane." she says sweetly. "Now, I hadn't heard you were back in town."

Gerald laughs nervously. "Well… You know how it is… I'm here to sort out some family stuff… And um… Conduct government inspections. As a Legal Advisor. I'm a lawyer, after all."

Why the fuck did you say you were a lawyer? That's not part of the script. No wait — we baked that into the script.

"Ooh, government inspections and helping out the family? So official." She stands up just slightly, smoothing her skirt, and takes a step closer to the counter. "You always were a little overachiever."

Okay. Maybe she doesn’t remember. Or maybe she’s just that friendly. Too friendly. Is she —

Yeah. Not happening.

He places his left hand on the receptionist's desk, wedding ring clearly in view.

She follows the gesture, gaze flicking to the ring. Then, with a smile like buttered sin, she places her hand lightly over his.

"And married too. How sweet. She must be very understanding, letting you leave the house looking like that. So buttoned up."

Gerald cannot remember the last time he’s felt this uncomfortable. Every instinct is screaming at him to yank his hand back like it’s touching a stove. But that would be obvious. Rude. Weird.

Leaving it there, though, makes him want to crawl out of his own skin. He opts for a subtle shift. A wriggle. Friendly, maybe. Professional? God, he hopes so.

"Yeah, well… We've got a good… system."

As he moves, Liane begins to grip his hand, wearing the same brittle, sugary smile that Mrs. Nancy Broflovski wore whenever she was very sweetly trying to make someone cry.

You think it can’t get worse — and then it does.

Because now, not only is he very married and having a woman he has no interest in flirt with him, he's also thinking about his fucking mother. He has never felt less attracted to anyone in his life, and the worst part is that she seems to be enjoying it. Getting off on it, even.

"Mmm. Bet you do. Always figured you'd be the type to keep things… tightly managed." She gives his hand a little squeeze.

Why would anyone find this even remotely — Fucking shit. She remembers. She definitely remembers. Or she doesn’t. Which might actually be worse. Because then this is just who she is now.

Fuck, is this really just who she —

"There’s my favorite legal auditor!" Randy’s voice booms from across the room like a fire alarm — merciful, disruptive, and just the perfect amount of loud.

I never thought I'd say this, but thank God for Randy fucking Marsh.

Randy makes his way over to them.

"Sorry, Ms. Cartman, but I’ve gotta steal him. Mineral audit won’t conduct itself." Then his eyes drop — to their hands. Hers still resting gently over his. Gerald’s fingers straight as pins.

"...Looks like you two were — uh — catching up, huh?"

"I was just saying how nice it is when old friends drop in unexpectedly." She says, finally releasing her grip.

He quickly pulls it away, fingers twitching once before he folds them neatly behind his back like that’ll help.

Her gaze flicks between them — Gerald, stiff and tight-lipped, and Randy, suddenly less cocksure than usual.

"And you two are such old friends as well, aren't you?"

Gerald swallows audibly.

"Yeah, uh — our dads were in auto club together. Also on the Zoning Board. We’ve known each other forever. Long time." Randy's smile doesn't quite reach his eyes.

Liane leans just a little forward over the counter, resting her chin on her hand like she’s settling in.

"And now look at the both of you. A lawyer and a geologist. So respectable." She presses a finger to her mouth. "There used to be a third, didn’t there? Always tagging along. A little rough around the edges, but hard to miss. What is his name again —?"

"— As much as both of us would love to keep chatting about the good old days," Randy interrupts, clapping Gerald on the shoulder a touch too hard. "Duty calls."

Gerald nods, a little too quickly. "Yeah. Duty."

"Of course. Oh, and Gerald? Don’t be a stranger." She winks, sweet as arsenic.

He doesn’t respond. Just lets Randy lead him out like it’s a fire drill.

Yeah, she fucking remembers.

"So… uh, not to be weird, but it looked like you and Liane were really… catching up. And, I mean — an ex? Really, Gerald? And her of all people?! Just saying." Randy says once they're behind closed doors. "I could be wrong, but… you didn't see what it looked like."

"First of all, calling her an ex is really stretching it. We 'dated' for a single recess in fourth grade. Second, we weren't 'catching up' by my choice," Gerald emphasizes. "I was trying to show her I’m fucking married and thus, logically, probably not interested." He lifts his left hand again like it’s Exhibit A.

Randy gives him a look of understanding, then pats him on the back.

"Dude, that ring? Might as well be bait. She came after me at the pumpkin patch last year — Sharon was holding Shelley, watching the whole thing. It turned into this giant fight and I didn’t even do anything! And to top it off, she still brings it up from time to time when we pass gourds at the grocery store."

Yeah, Randy. You didn't even do anything. This time at least. Maybe think back nearly three decades. She clearly has. God, if she was this way with the both of us, I wonder what she does when she sees —

"Hey," Randy says. "Speaking of your exes, I can't believe I forgot to tell you this. Remember Laura Delgado? You know — Debate. Blonde. Hottest girl in her grade? You dumped her because she wouldn’t put out?"

Real proud of that one. Fuck, senior year was a mess.

He does, in fact, remember Laura Delgado — his high school girlfriend. The story he told was simple. The truth — what he actually wanted, who he actually wanted — was never part of it.

"Yeah?" he says, casually.

"She lives here now. Wild, right? And she married Thomas Tucker — yeah, that guy. Five years older than us, used to bike around with those other losers? The three of us would scream 'FAGS' at them every time they rode by, remember?"

Gerald remembers. Too well. The laugh comes anyway — dry, involuntary. It shouldn’t be funny. But it still is. Look. After that shitshow with Liane, no one's going to begrudge him a laugh, right?

He clears his throat.

"Yeah, Randy. I remember him too. Good for them, honestly." He shrugs. "Your point?"

"Get this: They're pregnant. Due in February, or something. I just saw them a couple days ago."

Gerald resists the urge to roll his eyes.

"Wow. Sex within wedlock. How scandalous."

Randy grins, clearly thrilled to be the bearer of local drama.

"I’m serious, man — with your track record, it’s gonna be sooo awkward if you run into her."

Chapter Text

South Park, CO
Friday October 3rd, 4:43 PM MDT
The Past™

"Gerald, is that you? Oh my God!"

The voice calls out from the end of the aisle — bright and friendly.

They’re at the grocery store picking up ingredients for Gerald’s birthday dinner tomorrow night — a tradition that went all the way back to when they first met. They’d only known each other a few weeks when he accidentally let it slip that his birthday was October 4th. He was two timezones away from home, had just admitted to spending Rosh Hashanah solo, and she figured the decent thing to do was keep him company. Maybe cook him a meal. Cooking, after all, was just one of her many talents as a good Jewish girl by day, Jersey party animal by night.

"You… really don't have to." He said. "My parents haven't really done much for it in years, and it being so close to the High Holidays doesn't really help either."

"So you’ve just always spent it alone? In your room? Doing what? Brooding sadly?" she asked. "That's what you guys do for fun out in the Rockies?" Everything he said made him sound so sad — adorably tragic in that tortured, wannabe-philosopher kind of way.

He must've realized what he sounded like, because then —

"No! Fuck, I’m not — come on, I wasn’t sitting around waiting for someone to bake me a cake. I’m not twelve." He tried to smirk. It looked more like a wince.

"Me and —" He stopped, voice catching. "There was someone. We'd always do something together. Usually it was really stupid shit, but…"

She nodded. Ex Troubles. God, did Sheila Broflovski understand Ex Troubles all too well. She had one who kept showing up like a fungus she couldn’t scrub off — reopening wounds, poking at old bruises, reminding her just how embarrassingly hard she’d fallen. And the more time she spent with Gerald, the more she'd been sure — he’d had his heart broken hard, and he still hadn’t figured out where to put the pieces.

"Gerald, you're not helping your case. Just tell me what your favourite food is."

His gaze had shifted, the sadness replaced with a sudden resolve.

"You wouldn't want to make it."

That had sounded like a challenge.

"Try me."

"For starters, it's not Kosher." Gerald waved his hand. "And you said that sort of thing matters to your family."

She suspected he was trying to throw her off. Like maybe if he made it difficult enough, she’d stop trying altogether.

As if. This guy clearly didn't know who he was dealing with.

"Look, you know I'm bending plenty of other rules. I can make an exception for one meal. Just tell me what it is."

He looked her dead in the eye, as though he was daring her to be offended.

"Breaded lobster-bacon macaroni and cheese." This time, he manages to pull off a real smirk, like he thinks this was all a game that he's finally won.

"You’ve gotta use plenty of Gruyère."

And so, every October 4th, Sheila Broflovski commits a minor act of culinary blasphemy — not because she felt bad for some guy she barely knew— but because she wanted to prove that bastard wrong.

"Randy Marsh mentioned you were back in town, but I didn't think —"

The speaker is a woman about their age, already halfway to her husband. She has mid-length blonde hair, a hint of lip gloss, and wears an elegant green maternity dress with a white belt cinched just above her stomach. She’s still in the glowing stage of pregnancy — not the please let this nightmare end phase Sharon Marsh had already entered by the time they met.

And she is very pretty.

"Laura Delgado," Gerald says, tensing slightly just before she pulls him into a hug — then relaxing.

"Would you believe Randy also mentioned to me that you were living out here just yesterday?" He adds, "Though I guess now it’s—"

"— Laura Tucker, yeah. Obviously, I guess." She gestures toward her stomach with her left hand, wedding ring on full display, then turns and calls out:

"Hey, Thomas! Come the fuck over here and say hi!"

Behind her, a tall, broad-shouldered man with bright orange hair ambles over, wearing a slightly wrinkled blue sweater and the relaxed posture of someone who’s never rushed for anything in his life. He’s smiling — a slow, lopsided grin — and as he gets closer, he lifts his hand and flips his wife off with the kind of easy affection only true marital bliss could sustain.

If only Gerald could be so romantic.

Laura flips him off right back, then turns to introduce him.

"My, husband, Thomas. Thomas, this is Gerald Broflov —"

"— Oh, I remember him," Thomas says, smirking. "He and his little buddies used to scream at me and the guys when we'd bike to middle school. What was it you guys used to say? 'Hey, get a load of these FA —'"

"— Great to meet you again." Gerald cuts in, firm but polite, already extending his hand. Sheila lifts a brow in his direction. He turns to her briefly, shaking his head — a silent, mortified please don’t hold that against me.

"Hey, no hard feelings." Thomas shrugs. "You kids were pretty fast runners. A couple times we almost caught you, too."

"I bet they were," Laura smirks, before looking over to Sheila, "And this must be —"

"Right," Gerald says, looping an arm around her. "This is Sheila — my wife, my better half, and someone who hopefully doesn't judge dumbass children too harshly."

"Depends on the day," Sheila says, dry but amused.

"And Sheila, this is Laura Tucker — formerly Delgado." He says, gesturing toward the woman. "My junior year debate partner, among… other things. I think I've mentioned her before?"

Gerald had, in fact, mentioned Laura about four months into their friendship, over a late-night bite at a Chinese restaurant. Sheila had just run into an ex for the fifth time in as many months, and Gerald had come off a date that had gone disastrously. No better time to commiserate about how truly, spectacularly single they both were.

"I swear, I used to be better at this." A beat. "Actually, I wasn’t. The last girl — the only girl I dated seriously — Laura, back in high school — I was kind of a dick to her near the end. I blew the whole thing up for some gay-ass reason and told my friends she was the problem."

Sheila had leaned back in her seat. "What, did you take her virginity and then tell her she’d be hot if she just lost thirty pounds — but until then, it’s best if no one knows you’re dating? Was that your gay-ass reason?"

"…No?" Gerald blinked.

"Then congratulations. You’re not as shit as any guy I’ve ever dated in high school. Which really says something about men, doesn’t it?"

Back in the grocery store, Sheila gives Laura a warm — but measured — smile.

"You’ve come up once or twice," she says. "Good things about you. High School Boy things about him."

Laura laughs. "Oh, he wasn't so bad. Helped make me state champion in debate my freshman year."

"It was a team effort," Gerald says, genuinely smiling. "I don’t think anyone else could’ve shut down those rebuttals like you did."

"Well..." the other woman grins. "I also remember the voice you used when you argued for public executions. Ice cold."

How is the fact that Gerald won a State Championship in high school by channeling the Reign of Terror one of the least surprising things I could've possibly found out about him? The more you know someone…

"And at the time? I thought it was kinda hot." Laura smirks. "Not surprised to hear you're a lawyer out in New York now. You dress the part too."

Her husband lets out a full-body groan. "I know I’m overdressed. You’re probably the eleventh person who’s said something. It'll be fixed tomorrow. Assuming Sheila takes pity on me for my birthday."

This is what happens when you let your job pick out your entire wardrobe, Motek.

"That depends, now doesn't it?" Sheila grins, like she hasn't already decided exactly what she's buying when she goes into Denver in the morning. "Only if you don't yell any slurs at kids between now and then."

"I'll try my best, dear." He sighs.

"Well, I think it suits you." Laura says, unbothered. "Pun intended."

"A little too well, some might say." Sheila replies.

"I’m just saying, you should enjoy it." Laura waves a hand. "I’ve been trying to get Thomas to wear anything but that stupid —"

"Hey!" Thomas cuts in.

"Love ya, hun," Laura says, flashing him a grin — even as she earns another middle finger in return.

The four of them keep going — well past the awkward small talk limit for a grocery store run-in. Laura talks about the bank and some of the wildest small-town business pitches she’s ever heard. Gerald chimes in with a few legal stories that scream I swear I’m fun at parties. Sheila one-ups him with war stories from the nonprofit trenches, including the time she wrangled emergency housing funds in under 72 hours — with a fax machine that caught fire halfway through. Thomas mostly listens, jumping in occasionally with commentary that’s both effortless and impeccably timed.

By the end of it, they're chatting like old friends, so maybe it's no surprise when Laura reaches into her purse, and hurriedly jots down a number.

"I know you guys are probably going to be busy with the house clean-out, but I'd love to catch up more with you both over dinner. And Sheila, if you don't mind and have the time, I'd love to pick your brain about something."

You’re really pulling a stranger from out of town into that mess?” Thomas mutters, deadpan.

"No, I’m asking someone for a quick chat, Thomas." Laura waves him off. "We’ve been trying to push through upgrades to the community centre, but nothing ever gets done. 'Wasted expenditure,' all the old boys say. But now that the Zoning Board Chair — one Mr. Ira Broflovski — has absconded to Scottsdale for retirement…"

She shoots Gerald a wink.

"A few of us girls think we might finally be able to topple what’s left of the regime. With the right backing. And a little logistical know-how."

She turns to Sheila, all ease. "Only if you’ve got the time, of course."

A chance to put a bunch of old hicks in their place? Tempting.

"Technically, they’ll be back for a couple weeks at the end of the month," Gerald says. "It’ll really piss off my dad if anything changes too much before he’s officially gone." A beat.

"So do what you’ve gotta do, Sheila. I’ll try to handle the packing."

You might try, Gerald, but let’s see if your job agrees.

"I can’t make any promises," she says, "but we’ll see."

"That’s all I ask." Laura flashes a smile as she slips the note into Sheila’s hand. "Now, if you’ll excuse me — this spaghetti’s not going to cook itself, and I can already see the snack aisle calling to Thomas."

With a quick wave, they head off.

Once they’re out of earshot, Gerald lets out a low whistle. "Leave it to you to charm my high school girlfriend," he says. "Though I guess I should count this as a win. Randy was convinced it was going to be —" he affects a dramatic tone —"‘sooo awkward’ if we ran into each other."

He leans in, plants a kiss on her cheek. "Now I get to tell him we’ve got a dinner invitation and a potential revolution on our hands." A pause. "Have I mentioned that I love you?"

She smirks, tucking Laura's number into her bag. "You have. But let’s see if you still mean it when I make every holiday dinner a blood sport by going after your father’s Zoning Board cronies."

Gerald shrugs.

"If anything, it'll make him like you more. He's like an old cat. He’ll hiss at everyone, but if you hold your ground, he might stop clawing."

It happens on their way out of the store.

One moment, Gerald’s walking beside her. The next, he’s veered off — suddenly very interested in the store bulletin board, like it might contain the meaning of life.

Sheila pauses, shifting the grocery bags in her arms. "Please tell me you didn’t just spot a 'Have You Seen My Horse?' poster."

"No, just — uh — thought I saw something else," Gerald mutters, already halfway behind the corkboard like it might offer cover. He squints. "Something. Important."

The bulletin board is filled with the usual small-town postings, tacked up in various states of crookedness:

Come one, Come all to the
12th Annual Park County Drunken Barn Dance

Saturday, October 18th at 5PM
Denkins Barn
ABSOLUTELY NO CHILDREN.

Hay bales strictly reserved for adult frolicking. Enter at your own risk.

FREE BEER.

As well as some more… unexpected fare:

Are you feeling lost? Alone? Unmoored?
Searching for deeper meaning?

Join the Cult of Cthulhu today!

Gaze upon the u̴̢̽̈́n̵̥̝̱̻̽͂́̀͆k̵̪̙̖̝͔̄̅̚n̵̰̾̋͐o̷̠̟̦̹͆͘w̶̟̩͉̄̆͐͊̓͜a̵̩͙̳̰̅b̶͙̼̲̐͛̒͒̐l̶̰̎̔̽ḙ̷͙̱̈́̉̾ and feel truly seen for the first time.

Jim McElroy's House,
Fridays at 10 PM

FREE BEER.

Well, everyone's got to have a hobby, I guess.

"Is this the same Jim that your dad sold the pharmacy to, Gerald?" Sheila asks, gesturing at the ad.

Gerald’s already halfway toward the door. “No idea. Maybe. Maybe not. Let’s —"

"— I knew it. Gerald goddamn Broflovski, in the flesh."

The voice cuts across the parking lot like a chainsaw through drywall. The speaker is a redhead about their age — maybe a bit younger, with a shaggy mop of hair that looks like it’s been trimmed by a lawnmower and regretted ever since. She’s wiry, sun-freckled, and barely taller than Sheila. Her reflective vest hangs crooked over a faded pink tee and a pair of navy sweatshorts that have definitely seen better decades. In one hand: a squeegee gripped like a weapon.

Gerald stands frozen, looking like a deer in the headlights.

"What, you too fancy for hugs now?" she says, arms wide. "Get over here already!"

Like a man walking to his own execution, Gerald obeys — stiff-backed, slow-footed, and not nearly matching the enthusiasm with which the woman pulls him into a full-body squeeze. When they part, his smile is brittle, stretched too thin and trembling at the edges.

She turns to Sheila, motioning between them. "Well? Mr. Big-Shot Lawyer — you gonna introduce us, or what?"

Gerald swallows. As Sheila steps to his side, he latches onto her arm like it’s the only thing tethering him to this plane of existence.

What the ever-loving hell, Gerald?

"Right. Um… well…" He hesitates, visibly stalling. "Carol, this is my wife, Sheila. Sheila, this is Carol…"

He trails off, like he's unsure whether to tack on a last name, a title, or possibly a warning label.

"—It’s still fuckin' 'Hensley'." Carol sighs. "Someone says that it'll be 'McCormick' any day now, but he's been sayin' that for the last five years. Claims he’s savin' for a real ring, none of that gas station vending machine crap. I say he doesn't want me to be the one to pull the plug if somethin' happens."

Whoever someone is, this Carol doesn’t seem like she’s buying his excuses. And McCormick… that name sticks. Sheila can’t say why — but something about it pulls at her memory.

Gerald swallows, nodding. "Right… so… um… you guys are still —"

"— Together. Yeah. Unfortunately," Carol says bluntly. "I know I shouldn't say that — not to you, of all people — but when one of your babies already ended up a bastard thanks to him..."

Her husband holds onto her like a lifeline, breathing in tight, ragged bursts. She’s not sure he wouldn’t hit the floor if she stepped away.

"He's… you're… he's a —" Gerald shakes his head slightly, as if nothing was computing in his head. "How old is the —"

"Three," Carol says. "Same as Shelley Marsh. We don't do much else right, but at least we didn’t get knocked up in our twenties  — or God forbid, as teenagers. Me and Sharon try to get the kids together now and then — y’know, while their daddies are off tryin’ to out-drink whatever they’re runnin’ from. It’s usually Randy who hits the floor first."

That’s… well. Guess when there’s not much to do in small towns — Okay, no — don’t judge, Sheila. Gerald's come home from a few client events higher than a kite, smelling vaguely like cat pee, and mumbling something about designer drugs, shared hallucinations, and "rockin' tits".

She reaches into her vest pocket and pulls out a beat-up wallet. "You wanna see our little guy? His name’s Kevin. Kevin McCormick."

Gerald nods numbly.

Carol slides out a crumpled Polaroid and holds it up. The boy in the photo is beaming, cheeks smudged with dirt, a crusty Band-Aid half peeling from his chin. He’s got grass stains on his knees, a shock of light brown hair sticking out in all directions, and a red t-shirt two sizes too big.

"…He looks like —" Her husband swallows.

"Yeah," Carol says, not missing a beat. "No question whose kid he is. Which is fuckin' why —"

She pats her stomach like she’s daring someone to argue. "We've got another one comin'. Not for a while yet, end of March. And this time? I’m not lettin' the nurses ask twice what last name goes on the form. Not playin' that game again."

McCormick. It was driving her nuts. Where had she heard that name before? Where had —

"So what about you two?" Carol asks, eyeing them with interest. "Gonna start poppin' out little Broflovskis soon, or still too busy livin' the dream out in New York? Randy never shuts up about you guys."

Now it's Sheila's turn to sharply inhale. In. Out.

It’s fine. You were ready for someone to ask you this question sooner or later. Well… maybe not while your husband looks like he’s about to faint, but —

"We’re… keeping our options open," she says, her voice perfectly steady.

"Ain't that the dream," Carol smiles warmly. "Anyway, I gotta get back to it soon, but before I do, I did wanna say — it was real sweet of y'all to invite us to your wedding. I really did wanna come. Randy even said he'd help us get out there, pay for a place to stay and everything…"

"But," She looks at Gerald, "You know how he is. Probably even better than I do."

That’s where she remembered the name.

Outside of immediate family, only two invitations had gone out to South Park. The first was addressed to R. Marsh — no mystery there, and he'd already been tapped as a groomsman. The second was addressed to S. McCormick.

She’d asked about it at the time — casually, more curious than anything.

"He… used to hang around with Randy and me. We also worked together in high school. Haven’t talked in forever, but… I don’t know. Seemed wrong not to at least offer."

Gerald’s shaking now, knuckles white around her arm. Carol’s already turning back to whatever she was doing before — probably washing windows.

"…Sheila?" His voice breaks a little. "I… I can’t drive. Not now."

She almost doesn’t recognize him like this. Almost.

A memory rises, uninvited: a miserable autumn night, and a boy who looked like he believed, just for a moment, that saying it out loud might make it hurt less. Or maybe even change what happened.

"The only person I actually thought gave a shit — He said I make people feel like crap. Like I can’t help but look down on everyone else…Then he told me I’m gonna end up alone. That no one wants to be around someone like me. Like I’m too fucking stupid to notice everyone hates me.

…He’s probably right."

Chapter Text

South Park, CO
Saturday October 4th, 10:18 AM MDT
The Past™

"Happy Birthday!" call two voices with actual warmth — and one that sounds like he’s just finished reading the newspaper obits.

Gerald barely remembers what he and his family talked about. Something about the retirement place. Something about getting serious about the house on Monday. Maybe something about work. Or town gossip.

Like the fact that Jim— the guy Ira sold the pharmacy to — is apparently leading a cult now. Ira just says it's a free country and his belief in any deities — Lovecraftian or otherwise — are his business.

It’s all a blur. It has been since yesterday.

He does remember that after Ira and Nancy say their goodbyes, Murrey lingers on the line.

"Remember what I said at the airport. You coming up for air, kiddo?"

Gerald swallows.

"I'm… trying."

I’m a grown man. A lawyer. A functional adult. I have it together. Usually, don't I?

So why the fuck am I barely able to function after seeing Carol Hensley of all people? Wow, Gerald — what a totally normal reaction to someone you were barely even friends with in high school. Why would you even —

— You know exactly why, Broflovski. Exactly what this is about. Who this is about.

Murrey doesn’t push. Just wishes him well and hangs up, leaving Gerald alone on the bed in the silence of his childhood bedroom — or what’s left of it.

This is the first time since arriving that he’s really looked around.

The shelves that once held his books had been cleared off — or packed away into boxes stacked in the closet. The track medal that used to hang from the dresser mirror is gone, replaced by a lamp that doesn’t quite match anything else in the room. A dolphin poster still hangs above the desk, curling slightly at the corners. The mattress is the same one he slept on through high school, and his back hasn’t let him forget it.

He bets that if he looked under the bed, there’d still be a box of childhood mementos. Old photos. Maybe a few crafts. A ribbon or two. The kind of things he always meant to sort through but never did.

Maybe he should start.

Sheila had left earlier that morning to pick up his birthday presents in Denver. He remembers she’d asked if he was alright. If she should stay behind. He’d been mostly quiet all through Shabbat dinner last night. Hadn't driven home from the grocery store. She was there if he wanted to talk.

He told her to go. That it was fine. For a moment, she'd looked like she'd wanted to argue, but then she said nothing, like she knew it wouldn't do either of them any good.

It wasn't that he wanted to keep anything from her, but… What was he supposed to say? That he was losing his mind over someone he hadn’t seen in nearly twenty fucking years?

Gerald knows he still lives in South Park. Not like he'd ever fucking leave. He’s thought about him. Heard other people mention him.

So why the hell —

— None of it had felt real. Not like this. This was almost like seeing him again. The closest thing to it.

"You know how he is. Probably even better than I do."

God.

When she'd showed them the photo of Kevin —

No —

His son. He'd looked just like him.

Gerald Broflovski met Stuart McCormick when he was almost five. It was just a couple days after they’d dropped Murrey off at college. Randy was grounded for something dumb and couldn’t play, so Nancy let Gerald have the run of the street — as long as he stayed away from the train tracks.

So naturally, he ran straight toward them.

For a while, he was alone—kicking rocks, talking to himself, pretending he was on some kind of secret mission. He was halfway through inventing a villain when someone moved on the other side of the tracks.

There was another boy, probably about his age. It was kinda hard to tell, with all the dirt on his face and the blood dripping from his knees. His hair was longer — light brown and wild, sticking out in every direction like it didn’t know what to do with itself. He wore a white t-shirt that hung off his shoulders like it belonged to someone bigger. And he had no shoes.

Gerald froze.

The boy just stood there, arms slack at his sides, head tilted slightly — mouth twitching like he couldn’t decide whether to smile or spit.

Then he said: "Wanna play?"

Gerald had, in fact, wanted to play. A lot.

"Sure," he replied, then pointed to the train tracks. "But you gotta cross ."

The boy squinted at him. "Why don’t you?"

"I’m not supposed to cross them," Gerald said, puffing up like he was delivering the law of the land. "My mom said."

The boy kicked a rock. "So? You always do what people tell you to?"

Gerald bristled. "I don’t!"

"Then prove it," the boy said, arms crossed, smirking like he was daring him.

So he did.

He’d crossed the tracks, dust in his sneakers, heart hammering in his chest. It was the most thrilling moment of his four-year-old life.

They spent the rest of the afternoon tearing through backyards and climbing over fences, inventing games with rules that changed every two minutes. By the time the sun disappeared behind the trees, Gerald’s arms were scratched up and his sneakers were half-untied — but he couldn’t have been happier.

When he finally walked through his front door, Nancy burst into tears and Ira looked ready to ground him for life.

But none of that mattered, because Gerald had a new best friend.

Back in the bedroom, Gerald lowers himself off the bed and crouches down slowly, knees popping. The plastic container is still there, tucked against the wall under a film of dust — untouched, unopened, like it’s been waiting for him.

Gerald opens it and sifts through the remains — photographs curled at the edges, paper projects from another life, an ancient macaroni painting barely holding together. Then, near the bottom, he finds the photo. He’s four years old, caught mid-nervous smile, brown curls spiraling every which way. His first-day-of-kindergarten outfit is a masterpiece of maternal planning: a forest green corduroy vest and shorts, a purple turtleneck, gray knee socks that never stayed put. His kippah is clipped perfectly — maybe too perfectly — into place.

He remembers exactly what came next.

Gerald didn’t see the boy from the tracks again until the first day of kindergarten, four days later — not after his grand adventure got re-branded as "reckless endangerment" by Ira, and earned him a full-scale grounding until school started. Honestly, part of him hoped that the grounding meant that he could've missed the first day altogether. He’d been terrified to go. His birthday fell a month and three days past the cutoff, but Nancy had pushed for early entry — successfully, of course. Which meant he’d be the youngest. And the only Jewish kid. The kippah made that even more obvious. "So they don’t forget who we are," Ira always said, despite never wearing one himself. Murrey had. But Murrey was gone — off at college, off in another world.

Which meant Gerald was on his own.

It felt that way when they made everyone line up by last name. Gerald was stuck near the front — "B" for Broflovski — and for a moment, he thought he’d have no one. But further down the row, there was Sharon Kimble-Kern — or just Kern for short — the sister of that guy Murrey maybe hated, Randy Marsh — his longtime playmate — and right beside him, this time with shoes, stood his new best friend.

Gerald still didn’t know his name. But that wasn’t the point.

Maybe he wasn't so alone after all. Gingerly, he leaned out of his spot and down the line.

"Psst! Psst!"

"Shut. Up," said the boy next to him — C-something.

Gerald blinked. "I was just trying to —"

"I said shut. Up. Your hat is stupid." He said, moving into Gerald's space.

"Is not!" Gerald shot back, defensive. "And it's not a hat! It's a —"

"I. Don't. Care." He replied, pushing him. "It's stupid and you're —"

"Hey!" Randy’s voice cut through the noise — louder than the rest of the kids, like he was born to interrupt things.

"Back off!" said the boy from the tracks — his best friend.

They'd both stepped out of line. C-something turned toward them.

"No one asked a loudmouth and a McCormick. You're just as stupid as—"

While his back was turned, Gerald kicked him hard in the shin — "Go lower than they do, kiddo" being the one piece of advice Murrey had given him about standing up for himself.

The boy yelped and spun around. "You little —!"

He lunged.

Gerald flinched, ready to go down swinging — but before the kid could grab him, his best friend tackled him from the side. They hit the ground hard. Screaming ensued. Hair was pulled. Someone bit someone. It wasn’t clear who.

Randy, ever the team player, started kicking indiscriminately. Gerald, of course, thought it was only right to join him.

"What on Earth is going on!?" one of the teachers barked as she and a second adult waded into the chaos. The three boys were pulled away — Gerald by the elbow, Randy by the hood, and Stuart by the back of his shirt like a cat caught in the trash.

"Stuart McCormick, what did you do?"

"He — He started it!" his best friend — Stuart — said, pointing at C-something, who was still curled up on the ground clutching his shin and milking the drama for all it was worth.

The teacher narrowed her eyes. "I find that hard to believe."

She scanned the line and landed on Sharon.

"Sharon Kern, you were standing right next to them. Tell me what happened."

"I — I didn’t see anything," Sharon stammered.

She had. Gerald knew she had. She was practically vibrating with it — the weight of knowing something and not wanting to be the one who said it.

The teacher sighed and turned to Gerald.

"You’re Gerald, right? Mrs. Broflovski’s youngest son?" she asked, her tone softening. "She supervised me when I was a student teacher. Tell me exactly what happened. It’s okay."

And so, Gerald Broflovski wove a tale of woe.

He painted himself as a nervous new student, just trying to make friends. The boy next to him — he wasn’t sure of his name, but he’d been very mean. He’d said terrible things about Gerald’s kippah, and pushed him, and then said awful things about other kids too. Randy had tried to help. So had… um… Stuart. Stuart was just trying to keep things from getting worse.

There were a few well-placed tears. Not a full sob, but enough to make the teacher kneel beside him and pat his arm with sympathy.

By the end of it, C-something was getting walked to the office, still sniffling. Stuart and Randy were told firmly to "sit on the bench until you’re ready to behave," which wasn’t technically a punishment. Gerald got to stay in line.

He glanced over at Sharon. She gave him a look — half impressed, half horrified.

From the bench, Randy gave him a thumbs-up, grinning like a maniac. And Stuart?

Stuart was staring at him like he was magic. Gerald beamed back at him.

From that day on, they were a team: Randy making the noise, Stuart throwing the punches, and Gerald talking them into — or out of — trouble.

Gerald pulls out a stack of photos from the bottom of the container. A few stick together at the edges — residue from a spilled juice box, probably. He peels them apart gently.

The first is from Halloween — second or third grade, judging by the size of their teeth. Randy’s dressed as a motorcycle daredevil — cape askew and arm proudly bandaged from what he swore was a “practice stunt.” Gerald’s in a homemade "Endangered Species Advocate" costume: khakis, a vest covered in dolphin stickers, and a plastic clipboard he insisted was "for scientific accuracy." Stuart’s a werewolf, complete with a flannel shirt, jeans with holes at the knees, and what looks like dryer lint glued to his face. He’s flashing his teeth at the camera like he means it.

The next one is the four of them — Gerald, Stuart, Randy, and Sharon — huddled on the steps of the community center under a banner that reads Winter Wonders Showcase. Sharon looks unimpressed. Randy’s holding a tin-foil trophy with one arm around her. Gerald’s trying not to laugh. Stuart has both thumbs up, like he just got away with something.

Right, this is when Randy and Sharon took home the 'cutest couple' crown — after Sharon had broken up with him. Whatever 'breaking up' meant in elementary school. Stuart rigged the votes while I stood as lookout. They got back together a week later.

Then there’s one of just him and Randy, taken in front of their science fair display — Cetaceans and Lava Tubes — written in bubble letters across a sagging trifold board. Randy’s grinning proudly, face still dusted with baking soda. Gerald’s holding his dolphin plush up to the camera, beaming like it’s the real star of the project.

God, I loved dolphins. Still do, honestly. They have sex for fun, and kill for sport. What more can you want from life?

The last one is just him and Stuart at the bus stop in fourth grade, backpacks slouched against the post behind them. Gerald’s mid-story, hands moving as he talks, one foot tapping against the curb. Stuart’s watching him with a crooked grin, like he already knows how it ends but wants to hear it anyway. Gerald still remembers the moment they realized Randy had snapped the picture — and how the two of them spent the rest of the week trying to get the film roll off him.

Instead, Randy handed them each a copy.

I wonder if he threw his copy out when —

It’s easy to look back on those memories — the ones from elementary school. Back when things were… simple. They were dumb kids, playing around, getting into trouble.

Like the time they tried to build a raft to "sail across Stark’s Pond" and it sank after six feet. Or when they convinced a bunch of kindergartners the community centre was a gateway to the afterlife — charging a quarter for a tour. Then, there was the night they got lost in the woods and ended up at a stranger’s barn, convinced they were in Canada. Not to mention, that brief, ill-fated homemade firework experiment. And finally, who could forget the countless times they'd had to outrun the middle schoolers after yelling slurs at them?

Of course, not everything was perfect. Stuart and Randy got to do regular Boy Scouts together, while Gerald was stuck in stupid Jew Scouts — something he’d been told combined aspects from every Jewish movement, but later learned was apparently a Colorado-exclusive. Typical. Maybe the macaroni artwork offerings to Moses should've tipped him off on that one.

Still, they kept each other busy most of the time — which was definitely for the best.

It meant that he didn't didn’t have to think about how nothing he said at home ever seemed worth remembering to his father. Or why Randy flinched at the sound of slammed doors. Or why Stuart would sometimes show up to school with a black eye or split lip. He’d say he tripped. Fell straight down into the pavement on the way to school.

Even back then… Gerald hadn’t believed him.

He’d met Mr. McCormick a few times, back when they were building a fort in Stuart’s backyard. The man always had a beer in one hand and a sneer ready for whatever came out of Gerald’s mouth — sometimes muttering something about "you people" under his breath. He saved the worst of it for Stuart though, like he’d been waiting all day to remind his kid exactly what he thought of him. Gerald remembered hating him more than any other adult he'd ever met.

He didn’t remember Mrs. McCormick all that much. Only that she was always kind to him. Kind to Stuart. Something that felt rare in that house.

Gerald pulls out another batch of photos, these ones from middle school.

The first photo on top of the pile makes his stomach drop. He’s twelve, shoulder to shoulder with Ira and Nancy in front of the South Park Roman Catholic Church. All three of them in black — Ira in his good suit and smart glasses, Nancy in a dress that could have passed for cocktail attire anywhere else, Gerald in a black blazer with the world’s itchiest collar. Circumstances aside, they almost looked like a family you could put on a card. Nancy thought so too, until the film came back and she realized a Christian funeral didn't really say "Happy Holidays From the Broflovski Family". She’d handed it to Gerald instead, saying he might want to have a copy for when he was older. "You never know when you’ll want a picture of yourself looking halfway decent," she’d said.

Decent outfit or not, it wasn’t a day he'd wanted to remember. Yet here it is, just the same.

"Dude, one of us should — maybe, I don't know — check on him. See how he’s holding up? I mean — it was his mom." Randy paused, kicking at the grass.

"…And that person should definitely be you!" He smacked Gerald on the back, sending him forward a step.

They were standing in the graveyard behind the church, the ground soft and uneven underfoot, the damp air clinging to their clothes. Clusters of mourners lingered by the headstones, trading quiet words, their voices carrying just far enough to blur into one low hum.

The McCormicks stood off to the side — Stuart in an oversized dress shirt staring at the ground, his little sister pressed close in an ill-fitting black dress, and his father staring past everyone with a cigarette between his lips. His older siblings were nowhere to be seen. Gerald figured they hadn’t stayed a second longer than they had to.

Gerald swallowed. "Randy, I tried talking to him two days ago, and he yelled at me. He's… never done that before."

During the service, he’d kept sneaking glances, waiting for that half-smile, the quick eyebrow raise — any sign they were still in this together. Instead, Stuart sat stone-still, eyes locked somewhere far away, and didn’t look at him once.

"That's further than I got. He told me to shut the hell up before I even said anything."

A pause.

"…Maybe we should get Sharon to talk to him." Randy said, tilting his chin toward his girlfriend.

From across the grass where she was chatting with her with her family, Sharon caught Gerald’s eye and gave him a look — half warning, half promise — that she’d shut this plan down before it drew its next breath.

"If Sharon talks to him, then he's going to tell her to tell us that we're fucking dicks." Gerald sighed. "We both know she wouldn’t do it anyway."

Randy blinked. "…We do?"

And so they didn’t. They let Stuart stand there with his dad and his little sister, the three of them looking like they belonged on an island no one else could reach. The rest of the day passed in a blur of handshakes, murmured condolences, and rain that didn’t quite start but never seemed to stop threatening to.

It wasn’t until two nights later — at the edge of Stark’s Pond, with no one else around — that Gerald finally got his chance to talk.

The air had that damp, late-summer chill that made his shirt stick in all the wrong places. He’d been biking the path past the pond, slowing when he spotted a familiar figure hunched near the water. Stuart stood on the bank, cocking his arm back every few seconds to whip a rock into the dark surface. Each one landed with a hollow plunk before vanishing into the ripples. His face was red, eyes blotchy.

Gerald didn’t think he’d seen him — until Stuart spoke.

"They’re sending her away," he said. "My little sister. She 'needs a woman’s touch' or some crap like that. So it’s just gonna be me and —" Another throw, harder this time. Skip, skip, sink. "— and him."

He said it like it was a punchline to the world's worst joke.

Gerald moved a little closer. "That’s… not okay."

"Oh, really, Broflovski? You think? What part isn't okay?! Is it where my mom had a nap one day and never woke up, the part where everyone else left, or the part where you’re lookin’ at me like I’m some kind of charity case?" He tossed another rock into the pond. It hit the water had, sinking to the bottom.

Gerald swallowed, trying not to tear up. He was twelve. He shouldn't cry.

"That — That's not it," he finally said, keeping his tone careful. "I’m not… looking at you like that. I just… don’t think anyone should have to go through this alone."

Stuart didn’t answer, but his next throw landed softer.

Gerald picked up a flat stone and sent it skipping — three, four, five times before it vanished. "You're getting worse at this as you go," he said, smiling weakly.

"You’re such a dick," Stuart shot back, though he bumped against him lightly as he said it.

They stood there for a while, trading rocks and bad throws, until the pile at their feet was gone. The light was almost gone, too — the pond turning black, the air cooling.

Gerald brushed the dirt from his palms.

"You heading back?"

Stuart shrugged. "Guess so."

"You could… stay over, if you want. My parents won’t care." He kept his tone light, like it wasn’t a big deal.

He also wasn't sure if Ira or Nancy actually wouldn't care, but that's beside the point.

Stuart studied him for a moment. "Maybe," he said finally. Then, with the faintest smirk: "Leave your window open."

That night, Gerald had done just that. And for years after, he kept doing it, every night — just in case. Stuart never knocked, but he came often enough that Gerald started keeping the blankets ready in Murrey’s old room.

The carpet scratches at his palms as he sets the funeral photo aside, stretching his arms before returning to the rest of the pile.

Right on top is the one from his Bar Mitzvah party at Casa Bonita in Denver — Gerald in the middle, one arm slung around Randy, the other around Stuart. He’s in a too-crisp navy suit and tie, tallit back around his shoulders at his mother's insistence — "So years later you remember what day this was taken, sweetheart". Like he could’ve forgotten after months of tripping over Torah portions in his bedroom, pretending he didn’t hate everyone at Hebrew school, capped off by the longest morning of his life, sweat itching under his kippah while the Rabbi called him a man. Randy’s ditched his tie and untucked his shirt, his light blue dress pants wrinkled beyond saving. Stuart’s in a shiny secondhand jacket and jeans, tie hanging crooked on its elastic. Behind them is a cliff diver mid-plunge.

He’s pretty sure this is the only photo that caught that brief and glorious moment when he towered over them both. Four months later, Stuart hit his growth spurt and shot up past him, to his eternal frustration. Randy soon followed, though stopped just short of reaching him (despite his continued insistence otherwise to this very day).

Speaking of Randy — there's a photo from the middle school talent show — Randy mid-flourish with his stupid barely-there middle school mustache in a sequined vest, grinning like he’s about to pull off the trick of the century. Sharon had refused to take part in his big finale, so Gerald had been roped in at the last minute. He’s wearing bunny ears, standing beside the prop table with the fixed look of someone deeply regretting his life choices.

I remember I drew the line at the black leotard. Randy insisted that's why he didn't win first place. I say it was his sloppy wand work.

Next is a Polaroid from when Stark's Pond had iced over, one of those afternoons where half the town seemed to be there. Sharon’s in a bright windbreaker, holding Randy’s hand as they circle past the camera, both laughing at something out of frame. Gerald remembers taking the picture — mostly because Randy wouldn’t shut up afterward about how she’d let him "kiss her with tongue, Ger" behind one of the trees. They’d been 'going out' since a clubhouse game of truth or dare in the third grade, but somewhere by the eighth, it started actually looking more like the real thing.

Maybe I should see if they want this one. A reminder to keep the romance alive now that they're about to hit kid number two.

The last photo is another one of him and Stuart, sitting on the roof of Gerald’s garage with a bag of sunflower seeds between them. Stuart’s leaning back on his elbows, squinting toward the horizon; Gerald’s mid-laugh at something that probably wasn’t even funny. With Randy going on actual dates with Sharon, they’d started spending even more time like this — just the two of them, killing afternoons on rooftops, in empty lots, or along the edge of town.

Ira didn’t love it. He said Stuart’s father was a white trash alcoholic degenerate (true, in Gerald's opinion), and that the apple never fell far from the tree (false — also in Gerald's opinion). But he never outright forbade the friendship — probably because he knew Gerald would just spend even more time with him out of sheer spite. Nancy was… kinder, though she also worried about what kind of influence he was — especially when that influence meant scrambling onto rooftops like basic safety rules were optional.

As if Gerald needed help finding trouble.

Those years were also good — mostly. The three of them moved like they’d been running the same plays forever, trading off who was the loud one, who was the troublemaker, who was the voice of reason. Some days it felt like they could hold the whole world between them. Sure, cracks were starting to show — Randy carried home like a lit fuse, always one argument away from blowing, while Stuart moved like someone who’d been living at the bottom so long he’d stopped looking for the surface — but together, they could make anywhere feel better than where they’d all come from.

And then high school happened. Things didn’t exactly fall apart — at least, not yet — but they sure as hell stopped being simple.

Chapter Text

South Park, CO
Saturday October 4th, 11:50 AM MDT
The Past™

The room is bright with noon light; it flattens everything — the curling dolphin poster, the lamp that doesn’t match anything, the freshly-spread dust freckling the carpet. Gerald leans over the bin again; the lid ticks as the plastic gives, and he thumbs past a few report cards to a thicker, glossier stack of photographs, beginning in the ninth grade.

On top is a picture Nancy took on the first day of high school, his smile hovering somewhere between polite and hostage. He remembers the negotiations — his mother lobbying for "good first impressions for the teachers", him fighting to "not look like a total fa — dweeb." His father, of course, had taken his mother's side. The end result was a shirt that looked like it had been picked out by a guidance counsellor, tucked into straight-leg jeans under protest, and his dark green Chuck Taylors — insisted on by Gerald like they were a matter of civil rights. His curls had been hacked to just above his ears, tidy enough to pass inspection but still springing loose at the top, his kippah pinned to his mother's specifications.

Beneath it is a Polaroid from the bus ride —taken by none other than Sharon— of Gerald, Randy, and Stuart grinning like idiots as they flip her off. His tucked-in shirt hasn’t survived the first thirty minutes; the hem hangs loose over his jeans. Stuart’s in flannel, Randy’s in something loud enough to clear traffic. The rest of the bus is mostly South Park kids they’ve grown up with, but the ride ends at the county high school, where the faces will get less familiar and the rules, probably, less forgiving. Part of Gerald was terrified that somehow, it was going to change things between all of them.

It hadn’t—at least, not the way he’d feared. Randy made the football team but slapped a Science Club badge right onto his letterman, kept doing extra-credit geology projects whenever he got the chance to, and never missed men’s choir. Gerald juggled Debate, Model UN, and both baseball and track. Stuart tried wrestling for a bit, got roped into track, hung around auto shop, and obviously ended up on a first-name terms with everyone at the smokers’ corner. Still, whatever else they had going on, they still landed at the same table by lunch.

Glad I mostly sidestepped that stupid fucking "nerd" label. And no, it wasn’t just because of who I sat with—I pulled my own weight. But I’d be lying if I said it didn’t help.

The next Polaroid’s also from freshman year: Gerald in a grey windbreaker, plaid shirt peeking through; Randy in his letterman jacket, hair shellacked to perfection. They’ve got goggles on and are hunched over a Bunsen burner perched on a cinderblock outside the gym. Randy had roped him into"field-testing" some contraband from the Science Club’s supply closet. The flame’s caught mid-dance in the shot — Randy looks like he’s auditioning for a magazine spread, Gerald like he’s mentally mapping an escape route. His friend’s mustache hadn’t changed much since the eighth grade photos — just a few extra hairs clinging to life, bolstered entirely by the swagger he wore them with.

God, we were such idiots. This photo’s basically Exhibit A in the case of Who Blew a Hole in the Gym Wall? How we walked away clean is still a mystery.

He flips through a few more before another one stops him. Sunshine glare, windblown hair — the last freshman track meet of the season. He and Stuart are shoulder to shoulder, flushed and high on endorphins after the relay — sweat-darkened T-shirts clinging, hands still half-clenched around the baton they’d fumbled through every handoff but somehow never dropped. Off to the side, Sharon’s in a volunteer’s neon vest, clipboard under one arm, ponytail snapping in the breeze. He’s fairly sure the shutter clicked an instant before Sharon told them to clear out or drop where they stood.

Best bronze medal of my life. We’d been out until stupid o’clock the night before, just talking and killing time like the morning didn’t exist. Oh, to be fourteen and a dumbass again.

Next came a shot from sophomore year —both of them behind the counter at Pizza Shack in their hideous red polos and crooked visors, caught mid-shift and mid-eye-roll. The heat lamp glowed behind them like some cursed halo. Ira had insisted Gerald get a job to "learn responsibility." Stuart had signed on because he didn’t really have the luxury of not working. Taking it on together made it… honestly almost something he looked forward to: the sarcastic back-and-forth, the eternal breadstick-as-a-meal debate, and the unwritten law — one stolen mozzarella stick per shift. Two, if the manager wasn’t looking.

He flips through a few more — some Model UN group shots, a blurry hallway debate, a stray ticket stub stuck in between photos —before landing on one from the last football game of sophomore year. The four of them are bunched together near the bleachers: Randy in full post-game delusion, helmet under one arm, beaming like they’d won State instead of getting crushed 38–7. Sharon’s bundled in a team hoodie and jeans, clearly humoring him, though Gerald’s almost certain she’d predicted the loss with unsettling accuracy. Gerald and Stuart are just behind, side by side, clearly trying not to laugh. Stuart’s making a face. Gerald’s doing that thing where he tries to look serious but can’t. Randy’s mustache, finally starting to connect at the edges, was the true MVP of the night, however.

If he's really thinking about it, Freshman and sophomore years were… not as terrible as he remembered. Sure, Randy’s family drama hadn’t let up and his parents would regularly get in screaming matches with each other at every town event, and Stuart’s entire situation with his father was even worse — he'd still spend a night or two a week at Gerald's house — but between sports, work, and the same cafeteria table, they’d held their ground.

Except… there was this other unspoken scorecard none of them admitted to keeping. Not about track times or debate trophies — about who was getting somewhere with girls. And Gerald, despite what he liked to think, was trailing. That had been the main source of his teenage angst.

Not that he was unpopular. He knew he was decent-looking — fourth place in South Park Elementary's "cutest fourth graders" list, two spots ahead of Randy and one behind Stuart. He was just… picky. Discerning. A man of refined taste. Sure, he’d had his first kiss at his Bar Mitzvah in middle school, and then made out with a few girls at parties in high school, but nothing stuck.

Had one of those girls once told him he was hot until he opened his mouth, "so maybe put it to better use"? Yes. Did it sting? Maybe. Had he turned down at least five who’d asked him out because they didn’t quite meet whatever arbitrary standard he had that week? Also yes.

Randy made things easier. He'd been with Sharon since grade school and loved to update them on what she’d "let him do," which was almost always something underwhelming—like the time he proudly announced he’d touched her boob once, over the clothes, for a grand total of three seconds. Gerald had learned to nod gravely and offer the occasional "wow," because rolling his eyes every time got exhausting. It was comforting to know that someone else in an actual relationship was barely getting more action than he was.

Stuart, though — that was different. Two months into freshman year, he lost his virginity to a high school senior at a party they probably shouldn’t have been at in the first place. After that, it felt like there was always someone new — a girl from the next town over, someone’s older sister, someone who definitely shouldn’t have been hanging around high school parties at all. None of them lasted more than a week or two.

Looking back, fourteen was — way too young to be doing that kind of shit, especially with some of those girls — but at the time that wasn’t what stood out. What stuck was how he’d always know when it happened, and how much Stuart seemed to like reminding him in particular — never Randy, for some reason — that he was having better luck with girls. He’d lean one shoulder against Gerald’s locker, tipping just close enough that Gerald could smell the smoke on his jacket, voice pitched low like it was meant for him alone. Then he’d toss out a detail just lurid enough to sound impressive, watching for the reaction. Gerald would roll his eyes, mutter something about Stuart’s taste being questionable at best — but every once in a while, he’d feel this stupid jolt of heat in his face, and a twist in his chest he couldn’t quite explain.

He told himself it was envy. That he was just trailing Stuart where it counted. And yeah, that was true. But what really got to him wasn’t the stories at all — it was the way Stuart looked straight at him while telling them, wearing that insufferable, I-know-exactly-what-I’m-doing smile Gerald pretended to hate and never really could.

The light in the room shifts, a cloud passing over the sun. Gerald puts the freshman and sophomore photos aside, digging back into the container.

Christ, being a teenager was so fucking terrible. Hormones, stupid impulses, that weird half-second too long when someone— anyone— looked at you.

Except, of course, when it wasn’t just anyone. When it was only ever— He blinks.

Now, where are those junior year photos?

It doesn’t take long to find them — these ones were actually in an album. Sure enough, on the first page was a romantic token that he’d been given: a picture of the girl who, in junior year, managed to flip his luck with women around and put Stuart McCormick on the back foot for once. Blonde haired, brown eyed, slightly tanned skin, and just enough of a smirk to convince you that she knew exactly what she was doing.

Laura Delgado of North Park, Colorado was part of the incoming freshman class when Gerald started junior year. She always looked composed — pleated skirt, neatly pressed blouse with the collar turned just so, a ribbon in her hair that never seemed to slip. There was often something pale or sea-toned in the mix, like she had a knack for picking exactly what made her stand out without trying too hard.

By October, most guys had already made a move. Stuart had, and she’d been politely — but unmistakably — unmoved by his usual charm, which he brushed off with "she wasn’t even really my type" in a way that sounded more defensive than casual. Even Randy had tried, which earned him two weeks of frosty silence from Sharon.

Gerald could see she was attractive, absolutely. He just didn’t understand why half the boys in his year and younger seemed to orbit her.

At least, not until the first practice debate they had together. Midway through his opening argument, she leaned back, caught his eye, and flipped him off. The audacity alone made him stumble — his first outright loss — and the coach insisting it "counted" only rubbed it in. Probably payback for all the times Gerald had tried to argue a win on a technicality.

He couldn’t stop thinking about it.

Naturally, he had to have her as his debate partner, even if she was only a freshman.

But he didn’t ask right away — not after that humiliating loss. Instead, he kept his head down, racked up wins, and waited. Sure enough, after practice a few weeks later, she caught him by the water fountain.

"You’re not half-bad… when you don’t let a little middle finger get the better of you," she said, smirking. "Wanna make every debate nerd in Colorado cry together?"

"I thought you’d never ask." Gerald grinned back.

He was careful not to brag about it — not when nothing other than copious debate practicing was happening. Word would definitely get back to her, and he wanted to make it to State Championships this year. But there was one person he mentioned it to during their next Pizza Shack shift.

"So?" Stuart said, trying his best to look unbothered. "It's goddamn debate. Not like she's gonna fuck you tomorrow."

"It's called playing the long game, Stuart. Something that you clearly have no idea about." Gerald said, enjoying himself more than he had in weeks.

Stuart’s mouth twitched — not quite a smile, not quite a frown as he leaned closer, hooking his leg under Gerald's stool. "…I thought you didn’t care about her."

Gerald smirked. "I thought she wasn't your type."

Stuart’s jaw flexed, only a little— but Gerald caught it. Seeing him annoyed felt… weirdly good. And not just because he finally had someone (…sort of) that Stuart didn’t. There was something about the way he looked at him just then — sharp, steady, like he was deciding whether or not to push back — that Gerald felt all the way down his spine.

Gerald thumbs through the rest of the junior-year album slowly, the glossy pages catching in the light.

He can’t help laughing when he spots the one from the Harvest Hoedown’s "Couples’ Dance-Off." Sharon had been Randy's original partner, but this was right in the middle of her freeze-out over him asking Laura Delgado out — and she’d made it very clear she'd rather eat glass than be near him. Inexplicably, Randy’s second choice for a dance partner had been Gerald. Stuart was ruled out for being "too tall" and not owning a suit that passed inspection. No girls were considered — Randy only trusted one other person to execute Sharon’s choreography to his standards: himself.

They’re mid-spin in the shot, Gerald’s hand firm at Randy’s back, Randy covered in sequins and grinning like he's trying to win a bet. The paper-heart backdrop sags in the corner, and the MC off to the side is caught mid-laugh. Somehow, they took first place — and Randy, without missing a beat, dedicated the win to Sharon "in the name of true love."

It must've worked. Sharon took him back the next day. You're fucking welcome yet again, Marsh, Gerald thinks.

A few pages later is another one he remembers — a Polaroid from the school parking lot, courtesy of Randy. He said it looked like a still from a 50's movie — then took the shot before either of them realized he was serious.

It shows Gerald and Stuart leaning shoulder-to-shoulder against the hood of Stuart’s truck, both watching something out of sight. Gerald’s arms are crossed, the start of a smirk tugging at his mouth. Stuart’s cigarette hand rests on the hood, the smoke curling between them.

Shit, I remember the smell more than whatever we were watching. Always hated smoking. Thank fuck Sheila quit right before we got engaged.

Then one from the grand opening of Jimbo’s Gun Shop: Gerald, Randy, and Stuart lined up behind the counter, each holding a rifle like they’re trying not to look too excited about it. Jimbo’s mid-demonstration, acting like Christmas came early. Sharon’s off to the side, arms crossed.

Funny that the person least enthused to be here was his kid sister and not the brother of the guy he's engaged in a blood feud (?) with. I still don't know what the fuck Jimbo and Murrey actually think about each other. Shit, I don't think anyone does.

There are others scattered through the year — track meet snapshots, Model UN group shots, the occasional candid of him and Laura bent over debate notes in the library. That partnership had only gotten sharper as the season went on: her wit undercutting his precision, his preparation shoring up her improvisation. They were winning more than they were losing. And somewhere along the way, "debate partner" had shifted into "friend," though she never stopped flipping him off when she decided that he deserved it.

He stops on the last page, taking the picture in.

There were Gerald and Laura, front and centre, holding their trophy at State Championships. Their arms were looped around each other in a way no one could mistake for just teammates. She’s got that same shit-eating smirk that she always had when she got exactly what she wanted. Gerald matches her energy.

He still remembers what she said to him, right before they stepped out onto the stage for the final debate, with most of their friends and family in the audience.

"You nervous?'" she asked, checking her notes like she was just making conversation.

"Please," he scoffed. "I was born for this. You?"

"Same," she said. "I just like making sure my partner’s not gonna choke when it matters."

"Not a chance." he said. "We’re taking this."

She smiled, tilting her head like she’d just decided something. “Good. Because if we win State Championships, Gerald, I’ll let you see my breasts. No bra."

He blinked. "I — what?!"

"You heard me." Laura folded her arms, chin up like she’d just issued a royal decree. "Win this championship with me, Broflovski, and you get to see something no other man has seen."

His brain promptly shut down. He could barely remember what sport they were even talking about.

"By the way," she added, already turning toward the court, "this is me asking you out. But only if we win."

"R—Right." He said, regaining composure. He might’ve hoped, but never thought this would actually happen — one of the hottest girls in school asking him out, out of the blue just offering to show him her —

Even back then, in the timeless debate between tits or ass, Gerald had always firmly come down on the side of tits. Consistently.

But that all had to wait as he and Laura took to the stage to argue the affirmative side for "Should Public Executions Be Brought Back in America?"

They won, of course. Gerald didn’t remember much between the standing ovation and Laura dragging him off for the kind of "private congratulations" that definitely wasn’t in the official program.

After, he remembered Ira and Nancy coming to congratulate them — Ira with his usual "good job, kid" handshake, Nancy beaming like he’d just won a Nobel Prize. Laura charmed them effortlessly, shaking Ira’s hand like a seasoned diplomat and thanking Nancy for "raising such a great partner," all with the poise of someone who had not, in fact, flashed their son less than five minutes earlier.

He also remembers telling Randy and Stuart about it afterward, more pleased with himself than he'd ever been.

"Guess whose patience just paid dividends? Laura’s my girlfriend — and yeah, second base, first go. No bra."

What?!" Randy blurted. "Sharon’s only ever let me see them with a bra. You've gone farther than me?! With Laura Delgado? What the hell?!"

"They couldn’t have been that great," Stuart scoffed, flicking the strap of his backpack like he didn’t care.

He said it like it was nothing, but Gerald felt a strange sort of satisfaction anyway.

How's it feel now that the shoe's on the other foot, McCormick?

The rest of junior year passed by mostly in a self-satisfied blur. Laura made sure that everyone knew they were together — walking with him to class, dropping by his locker in between periods, stealing his fries at lunch. Gerald liked being with her, sure. But there was nothing quite like catching the envious eyes of his peers — especially those of one Stuart McCormick. Those were almost as good as the kisses he kept getting behind the gym.

Summer was more of the same. Double dates with Randy and Sharon, Pizza Shack shifts with Stuart, long, aimless drives with the windows down. Some nights he’d go from making out with Laura in her car to killing time with Stuart until the sun came up.

It felt amazing. He was on top of the whole goddamn world.

Then, at the end of the summer — right before senior year — Stuart started dating — actually for real dating and not just hooking up with — Carol Hensley, and Gerald lost his fucking mind.

Carol was one of Laura’s closest friends — same grade, same town. She'd been there to cheer her on at the State Championships, which how Stuart got to talking with her. Apparently she was the youngest of, like, eight or nine siblings; from one of those families with way more kids than anyone could actually afford. Had a mom from Texas or something, which gave her an annoyingly folksy and kinda charming Southern accent. She was… fine. Feisty. Fun at parties. Cute in a scrappy sort of way. Her red hair made her stand out. He could see why Laura liked her, he guessed.

What he couldn't see was why the fuck Stuart thought dating her, of all people was a good idea. Alright, yes, she was probably more age-appropriate than some of the older girls he usually spent time with. And sure, maybe they actually had a thing or two in common, like a love of really shitty sci-fi movies that Gerald refused to watch with him on principle, but still —

Fortunately, Laura also agreed with him, and they'd commiserate over how fucking stupid their friends were. The whole relationship was a disaster. Half the parties they went to ended in screaming matches between the two of them, sloppy public makeouts, one of them throwing something, or all three. Less than a month in — and two false alarm breakups later, and they were definitely sleeping together — which he knew because Stuart kept sharing every fucking detail with him. Like — fine. Go ahead, McCormick. Knock up some poor girl, be poor together, and waste your whole fucking life. Fucking brilliant. Just fucking great.

Worst of all, Stuart seemed perfectly aware that Gerald couldn’t stand it. Couldn’t stand her. Even if Gerald hadn’t said a word about it that summer — he didn’t have to. At that last party before school started, while Carol's tongue was halfway down his throat, Stuart had flicked open his eyes, just for a moment, and looked straight at him. Like he was waiting for a reaction. Like he wanted one. And what was Gerald supposed to do? Say he felt sick? That he couldn’t breathe right? That maybe he hated it because it wasn’t —

"Babe," Laura said, fingers curling around the hem of his shirt. "Did you want to… you know?"

Of course he did. She was gorgeous. Amazing tits. They were together on a couch by themselves. What the fuck else could he have wanted?

But even as he kissed Laura Delgado, hands sliding over her sides, all he could think about was Stuart McCormick — and whether he was still watching.

Gerald exhales slowly, closes the album, and tosses it aside with a loud thud. Outside, the cloud has finally passed, and the gold of his wedding ring catches the light, a warm glint against his skin. He turns it once on his finger and lays his palm flat against his thigh.

I’m glad Sheila isn’t here, Gerald thinks. I’ve been at this for hours, and I still couldn’t tell her exactly what I’m doing — because it sure as fuck isn’t cleaning.

He looks around him, at the photos scattered on the floor, almost the full sum of his childhood. Then, he looks back at the storage container, as if it's taunting him. Nearly empty of photos now. Just report cards, crafts, and an album or two from…

Senior year. The single most confusing and awful fucking time of his life.

And the worst part? He had no one to blame but himself for how it all turned out in the end.

Chapter Text

South Park, CO
Saturday October 4th, 1:05 PM MDT
The Past™

Gerald Broflovski takes three deep breaths. In. Out. In. Out. In. Out.

It doesn't help. The container’s still there, two albums left, looking as smug about it as an inanimate object could possibly look.

You know how this story ends, Broflovski. It's been almost twenty fucking years. You've already come this far. Finish what you fucking started.

His wedding ring feels warm against his skin. He rolls it once, twice, like a lifeline. A reminder that it hadn’t all ended back then. That he’d moved on. Built a life.

And yet here he was, still feeling gutted by old ghosts.

He bites the inside of his cheek. Maybe it wouldn't have felt so bad if you'd actually fucking dealt with things instead of burying them, you moron. But that would've been way too easy.

Finally, he reaches into the box and pulls out the last two albums. The plastic edges bite into his fingertips, heavier than they should be.

The first picture that greets him when he opens the album is a Polaroid of him and Stuart in Stuart’s beat-to-hell truck, the morning of senior year. It’s a little off-centre — Gerald had tried to take it himself, stretching his arm too far. Stuart’s in the driver’s seat, cigarette pinched between two fingers, the other arm slung across the back of Gerald’s seat like it belonged there. Both of them are pulling faces at the camera, grins threatening to break through. The cab looks as wrecked as ever — cassette tape case sliding on the dash, fast-food wrappers stuffed by the gearshift, smoke curling in the sunlight through the cracked window.

The next picture is another Polaroid self-portrait he took — this time everyone crammed in close, all six of them fighting for space in the frame. Laura’s kissing Gerald’s cheek, one arm hooked tight around his neck, smirk obvious even mid-kiss. Gerald’s grinning like he can’t believe his luck. Sharon’s half-rolling her eyes but leaning into Randy anyway, who’s got one arm thrown up in victory. Carol’s perched on Stuart’s lap, flashing a peace sign at the camera, while Stuart’s leaning into her with a crooked grin, cigarette tucked behind his ear.

He remembers that right after they snapped the picture, Carol and Stuart had launched into another screaming match over something stupid. As usual, it ended in them making out against the nearest wall, and Gerald and Laura both trying to contain their nausea.

I can’t believe Stuart and Carol are still together, Gerald thinks. Well — I can, because Stuart never shut up about how the sex was out of this world. Hopefully by now — one kid in, another on the way — they’ve finally learned that fighting isn’t foreplay.

Somehow, I fucking doubt it.

He flips through a few more pictures — Student Council elections, a big kickoff — before landing on the Homecoming photo. As Student Council President, it had been his job to crown the King and Queen, a duty he more than happily carried out.

There he is in the centre, wearing a deeply smug expression, hands on the shoulders of the "happy couple". To his left: Stuart McCormick, looking like he’d been dragged in against his will, in a thrift-store suit that was at least a decade out of date, crown crooked, sash slipping off his shoulder. To his right: Randy Marsh, grinning like he’d just won the lottery, glitter bowtie flashing under the gym lights, tiara perched proudly in his hair.

Homecoming was Gerald Broflovski’s crowning achievement in student government. Literally.

He hadn’t expected much when he first ran for Student Body President — Laura had pushed him into it, insisting it would look good on college applications, even if it meant he was stuck mentoring debate instead of competing. Shockingly, he’d actually won. Though if he was being honest, he suspected the votes had less to do with his "leadership qualities" and more to do with who he was dating. And maybe who he was friends with.

Still, a win was a win. And when it came time for Homecoming nominations, Gerald decided he might as well use his power for something worthwhile. Which is how a few extra votes may or may not have slipped in under his watch.

When Stuart McCormick’s name was read over the PA as a nominee for Homecoming King, Gerald had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing. Stuart’s glare cut across the room like a dart, all simmer and smoke — and Gerald felt it sink deeper than it should have, settling low in his gut. He grinned back, savoring it.

But when Randy Marsh’s name followed — not for King, but for Homecoming Queen — the whole class lost it. Randy threw his arms in the air like he’d just scored the winning touchdown, then leaned over to smack Gerald a high-five.

"Best senior year prank ever, dude."

Though they were never able to directly pin anything on him, Gerald was under suspicion the whole week. Voting was tightly scrutinized, teachers eyeing ballots like the fate of democracy hung in the balance. Mr. Marsh even tried to have Randy’s name struck from the ballot — muttering about how he wouldn’t have “people mistaking his boy for a queer” — but the faculty didn’t bite out of fear of a different kind of retaliation from students that had something called "a sense of fucking humour". In the end, the student body valued a good laugh too much, and sure enough, Stuart McCormick and Randy Marsh were crowned Homecoming King and Queen.

As far as Gerald knows, only one picture was ever taken. Something about "Politics" and "family values," and the "Moral Majority" getting themselves worked up. If you asked him, the “moral majority” sounded like the biggest bunch of humourless fa — flaming hypocrites out there.

From the audience, Laura and Carol smirked, giving the guys matching thumbs-ups like they’d somehow been in on the joke. Even Sharon was smiling just a bit in spite of herself.

By tradition, the crowned King and Queen had to share one slow dance. So there they were — Stuart McCormick and Randy Marsh, swaying stiffly under the disco lights to Time After Time, Randy leaning into it like he was at his wedding reception, Stuart looking like he’d rather be shot. The second the song ended, Stuart shoved the crown into Randy’s hands and bolted outside for a cigarette.

Gerald excused himself from Laura with a quick kiss on the cheek and followed. Laura just shook her head, already turning toward Carol, who was mid-fume about Stuart not saying a single word to her the entire night.

In hindsight, she was probably justified.

"Thought golden girl had you on a leash tonight." 

Well sorry my girlfriend's classier than yours, fuckface.

Gerald leaned against the wall beside him, close enough their shoulders brushed. "Maybe I just wanted to see if Your Majesty would sign my yearbook."

Stuart scoffed, exhaling smoke through his nose."Yeah. Broflovski, real fuckin' funny. Nothing like bein' the butt of a joke you weren't even in on."

Gerald hesitated, the humor draining out of him. "You… aren’t a joke. And besides, Randy’s been having the time of his —"

"Yeah, well. I’m not you or Randy, am I?" Stuart cut in, his voice low and rough. "You dipshits are going to fuckin' college next year and I—" He stopped, jaw tight, and swallowed.

Gerald waited, but Stuart didn’t meet his eyes.

"My old man wants me to drop out," he muttered finally, the words like gravel. "Says a diploma won’t do me any good. That school’s just another way they fuck you over in the end."

"Fuck him." Gerald said immediately.

Stuart let out a short, humorless laugh, smoke curling past his teeth. "Yeah, easy for you to say."

Gerald pushed on, jaw tight. "No. I mean it. He knows fuck all about you. If you don’t stay for anything or anyone else, stay because you’re gonna prove that drunk piece of shit wrong."

For the first time that night, Stuart glanced over — a quick flick of his eyes that caught and held, just a second too long. Gerald became sharply aware of how close they were standing: shoulders still brushing, the sleeve of Stuart’s thrift-store suit rough against his own. Smoke curled between them, bitter and warm, catching in his throat.

Stuart’s jaw shifted, like he was about to deflect with another laugh. But instead, he exhaled slowly, looking back toward the dark stretch of parking lot. "…Yeah," he said at last, quieter than Gerald expected. "You’re right."

Their shoulders had been pressed together all night, but when Stuart leaned just a little closer, Gerald felt the warmth seep through the fabric. His hand brushed Gerald’s and stayed there, long enough to make his chest tighten.

Gerald couldn’t say how long they stayed together out there in silence, standing like that, before one of them cracked a joke and the moment dissolved. They headed back inside like nothing had happened.

He tried not to think about it later, when Laura’s hands looped around his neck on the dance floor, pulling him into the sway of every slow song. Every so often, though, his eyes slid toward Stuart and Carol — circling unevenly, bickering more than they were dancing. Gerald told himself it was just the urge to watch a trainwreck in slow motion.

But when Laura kissed him later that night, her lipstick smudging warm against his mouth, the thought still lingered. Smoke in the cold air. Calloused fingers brushing his. The steady weight of a shoulder pressed against his own.

Gerald flips past the Homecoming spread, thumbing through the rest of the album. Early on, the pages are crowded — snapshots of him with Laura, him with Stuart, sometimes all four of them — Gerald, Laura, Stuart, and Carol — crammed together. Randy and Sharon show up often, too, grinning in the awkward earnestness of high school sweethearts, with the occasional photo of just the three boys wedged in between. As he continues, the photos get a little more spread out — some from debate — some from student government. More activities than friends, for a while. Still, there managed to be a couple of him and Laura and him and Stuart.

By then, it had gotten busy. Gerald and Randy were swallowed by college applications and Stuart was… making every effort to graduate. Gerald had offered to give him his homework to copy but he'd refused as a matter of pride. This was something he was going to do on his own.

He flips to the end of the first album which finishes with a seemingly innocuous photo of him, Stuart, and Randy that he remembers all too well. It was taken the same day he broke up with Laura. They’d only lasted another month past Homecoming. He’d told her it was because college applications were swallowing his time, that with everything about to change he just wasn’t in the headspace to give her what she… really deserved.

She’d taken it with a grace that almost unnerved him, like she’d already seen it coming. Wished him the best, kept things civil in debate. As far as he ever knew, she didn’t date anyone else for the rest of that year.

Of course, when Randy asked why the hell he’d dump Laura fucking Delgado, Gerald had given the kind of answer seventeen-year-old boys thought sounded cool: she wouldn’t "put out," so why bother?

"Are you serious, dude?!" Randy said, scandalized. "If you stick around for long enough, sooner or later they finally break down. Look at me, for instance. Sharon’s finally let me put the whole tip in!"

Stuart, meanwhile, only grinned and clapped him on the back. Said it was good to stick to his guns.

The truth was, Laura did deserve better. And she was definitely putting out. If they’d stayed together, he’s pretty sure it would’ve happened by January or February. And that was the problem — because something else was happening more and more often. When they kissed, or when her hands slipped under his shirt, or… elsewhere. Even when he was… occupied alone. Suddenly, completely unbidden, someone else would pop into his head. A laugh. A grin. The weight of a hand on his shoulder. He didn’t even want to imagine what might’ve happened if they’d gone further, if he’d been in her bed and thinking about —

Shit, hormones when you were a teenager really were something else. You never knew —

Who the fuck do you think you're fooling, Broflovski, because it isn't yourself. Sheila? Come on. She wouldn't care. Remember how she told you that her and one of her bridesmaids used to —

— It wasn't like that.

And it wasn't.

Gerald tries not to think about just how pleased Stuart had looked when he said he and Laura were through. Or how, later that week when Stuart and Carol inevitably imploded for the ninth time, he didn’t immediately run back to her like always. Instead, he hovered the way he always did, drifting to Gerald’s locker after class, lingering on the truck bed until the night got too cold, daring him to shoplift alcohol from the nearest convenience store.

It wasn't — We both —

— It's not like it matters now.

He tosses that album aside as he picks up the final one, thumb rubbing unconsciously against his wedding ring.

The first photograph is from winter — him, Randy, and Stuart at the sledding hill just outside of town, faces red from the cold, caught mid-laugh like they didn’t have a care in the world. If you looked close enough, you'd see a couple of bottles of whiskey under Randy and Stuart's arms. Another shows him and Stuart behind the counter at Pizza Shack, Gerald smirking in his new "shift lead" polo while Stuart glared at the camera, muttering about how unfair it was since Gerald was bailing for college in less than a year. It wasn't his fault that he had a better work ethic.

That winter, things had almost felt normal again. No Laura, no Carol — just Gerald and Stuart— and Randy of course. Sharon too, when she wasn't tired of Randy’s antics. They went to parties, played cards at work after close, took long drives out past Stark's Pond, and — on one deeply memorable occasion — hotwired a police cruiser just to see if they could. It felt reckless, stupid, and perfect.

By spring, Gerald and Randy both had their college plans locked: CU Boulder for Philosophy and Geology, respectively. They’d already agreed to room together in the dorms, and Stuart promised he’d drive Sharon up sometimes so the four of them could still hang out, since she was taking a gap year to figure out what she wanted to do. For a while, everything felt stable again.

And then, in March, right after his 18th birthday, Randy Marsh got his "big break."

On the next page, there it is: Randy, front and centre, taken right before the high school men’s choir went off to perform at the grand opening of a sporting goods store in Denver. Gerald had snapped it because Randy looked like, in his exact words, "the gayest fucker in the world" — all puffed chest and mustache, like he thought he was about to headline Madison Square Garden instead of a mall parking lot. It shouldn’t have been a big deal. The choir did stupid gigs like that all the time.

Except this time, inexplicably, a New York record executive was in the audience. Saw Randy, decided his patchy mustache and ridiculous confidence had a look, and told him he was destined for the "next big thing." Recruited him for a boy band. Like New Kids on the Fucking Block before New Kids on the Block. It was a story so stupid you’d assume it was bullshit.

But somehow, it wasn’t.

Not that Gerald got to hear it from Randy. Oh no. For two days, he thought his oldest friend was just out sick. But on the third, he and Stuart walked into first period to find Sharon Kern blotchy-eyed and furious, shoving two letters into their hands.

Letters, apparently, "Randy had always wanted to write them but never had the chance." Now that he was on his way to stardom, he could finally "say what was in his heart."

Randy’s letter to Gerald was brutal. He called him a "pretentious dickweasel," and said that getting a lobotomy would’ve been preferable to living with him in Boulder. He also said Gerald should "be grateful" he wasn’t going to be naming names in his first tell-all interview.

His only comfort was that Stuart's wasn’t much better. According to Randy, Stuart was "a drunk hick who blamed everyone else for his problems" and should "quit mooching off Gerald’s notes and buy a fucking toothbrush."

Gerald hadn’t asked Sharon if she’d gotten one. The way she kept crumpling something in her fists and looking like she was going to burst into tears every time someone looked at her — it seemed likely, and he wasn’t about to make her cry harder.

So they skipped most of the day with her. Neither of them really knew how to deal with a crying girl, but what else could you do when the person you’d known longer than anyone else had just told everyone in his life to go fuck themselves — on no uncertain terms?

Afterward, neither of them wanted to go home. So they drove until the highway gave way to dirt, finally pulling off into an empty field. They climbed into the bed of Stuart’s truck, backs against the cab, legs stretched out over the ridges of the metal. For a while, they didn’t talk. Just sat shoulder to shoulder, passing a cigarette back and forth, staring at the horizon like maybe it had an answer.

"Do you know how many times I had that little shit’s back?" Stuart started, voice tight. "That prick would come crawlin' every time he got in too deep and needed 'muscle' to scare someone off. Like the time he got mixed up with those drug dealers from the next county? He begged me to talk to ’em, and I did — when I should’ve just let them beat his stupid ass bloody —"

"— Oh, you mean the drugs he wanted for a fucking science experiment?" Gerald cut in. "That he roped me into helping with? How many times did I bail that idiot out because he’d bat his eyes at me and go, 'Come on, Ger, you’re my only hope'? I’ve known him longer than anyone else, and he just —"

His voice cracked. He stopped, staring down at the cigarette glowing faintly between his fingers. The fact that he was even smoking in the first place said everything about this, didn’t it? He never touched the things unless he was sharing one with Stuart. He passed it back, their fingers brushing — lingering just a beat too long.

Stuart let out a sharp laugh, humorless, as he finally takes the cigarette. "Guess it didn’t mean shit to him."

Gerald swallowed.

"You're worse off than I am with that shithead," Stuart said. "You two were supposed to live together out in Boulder."

"Yeah." Gerald’s voice came out tighter than he meant.

"…So what are you gonna do?" Stuart asked, softer than normal.

The question lodged like a stone in Gerald’s stomach. He wasn’t sure if he was more afraid of saying it out loud or of hearing Stuart mock him for it.

"I was thinking," he said, chewing the inside of his cheek, "CU Boulder was always what my dad wanted. Not me. I wanted to apply to some of the more prestigious schools out East." He heard Stuart snort and rushed to add, "Not Ivy League shit like Harvard or Columbia. The good ones. Definitely NYU, maybe a couple more. But he said it was a waste of money." Gerald hesitated, feeling the words push up against the knot in his chest. "Now with Randy gone… what if I just went out there? Head to Jersey or something. Take enough community college classes to count as one year, transfer in as a sophomore."

"…That's what you want? You'll leave Colorado, and head off to a fancy school out East?" Stuart asked, voice flat. "Guess you were always meant for more than… all of this shit."

Thanks for the vote of confidence, McCormick.

"It'd be community college to start. It's definitely worse than CU Boulder, but potentially better for the long term payoff."

"So it's fancy community college, then." Stuart said, nudging him with his shoulder.

Gerald smiled, nudging him right back. "You're such an idiot."

I wish you'd come with me.

The thought hit him like a stone to the chest. He'd swallowed it it down fast, because he knew exactly what would happen if he said it out loud. Stuart would look at him, say something like 'Seriously? With what money, dumbass?'— followed by a laugh and a hard pass. It would be humiliating to even ask.

"Yeah," he said, inhaling from his cigarette, "I guess I am. It's exactly why I'm thinkin' of getting back together with Carol. She's been sniffin' around again, and I figure, why not?"

Gerald felt his stomach drop, twisting into knots. "Are you serious!? You're telling me that you'd take her back after she keyed your truck and tried to light it on fire?"

Stuart laughed, leaning back a little. "Yeah. It was so goddamn hot. And besides, she didn't actually want to light it on fire. If she had, we wouldn't be sittin' here right now."

He felt like he wanted to throw up.

"Fucking — Seriously, Stuart. It's a problem. You have to stop sticking your dick in crazy, dude."

Stuart nudged him again.

"Big talk from someone who hasn't stuck their dick in anything yet."

"Fuck you."

"At least then you'd be fuckin' something, Broflovski."

Gerald still remembers when Randy called him, a year later, after the boy band had spectacularly fallen apart. He and Sheila had been holed up in his place, textbooks spread across the table. The phone rang, and the second he heard Randy’s voice, the anger he’d carried all that time just… dissolved replaced by an overwhelming sense of relief.

Just like that, they were back to what they’d always been. Gerald found himself half-listening to Randy’s rambling apology and half-watching Sheila, who was following along with the conversation as if it were theater. When Randy launched into a harebrained scheme to "win Sharon back," Gerald relayed the details out loud, gauging the odds by Sheila’s raised eyebrows and the occasional decisive thumbs-up or thumbs-down.

He never could explain why it was so easy to forgive Randy — why the hurt didn’t seem to matter anymore.

Sometimes, timing is everything, Gerald thinks. And Randy always had a knack for it.

He turns the pages, and is greeted by what's the rest of this album's contents: Prom.

The first one is of Gerald in a tuxedo, curls neatly styled, waving at the camera. Then there’s a picture with Ira, and one with Nancy. She’d been so proud, fussing over just how handsome he looked. Ira, on the other hand, only muttered he’d save the pride for when Gerald actually walked across a stage.

That last part was basically guaranteed. While he’d missed out on Valedictorian, he still managed to land in the top ten percent of his class.

The next photo is of him and Sharon. He’d asked her to prom a few weeks after Randy bailed and Stuart inevitably got back with Carol. Both of them had been clear it was strictly as friends — as much of a prick as Gerald could be, he wasn’t about to make a move on his oldest friend’s girlfriend (even if he'd have fucking deserved it), and Sharon’s feelings for Randy were written all over her face anyway. She’d happily agreed.

The following shots are Sharon and Gerald with her parents, then Sharon and Gerald with Jimbo. Jimbo had given him a grilling in the living room that night, all squinting eyes and loaded questions about his intentions. Gerald had kept his cool — mostly because he knew damn well nothing was going to happen, and Murrey would be terribly disappointed if his baby brother cracked under a bootlicker’s interrogation. Besides, Jimbo’s squint was nothing compared to Ira’s.

Then came the pictures of Stuart and Gerald, Carol and Sharon, Stuart and Sharon, and even one or two of Carol and Gerald. Yes, he hated her, but… she wasn't actually that bad. In fact, she was downright pleasant and had been genuinely happy to see him yesterday. Maybe it was always less that he hated her, and more that he hated her entire relationship with Stuart. 

You know exactly what you hated —

Coincidentally, Prom was… probably the only night he could remember when Stuart and Carol didn’t fight.

It was, against all odds, genuinely fun. They danced, laughed, and it was easy to forget about how graduation was looming right around the corner. Everything felt… right. Good.

They stayed out until late, dropping the girls off one by one. Carol’s house in North Park was first. Gerald kept his eyes fixed ahead, trying not to look too unimpressed as Stuart and Carol went at it for a solid five minutes on the porch before he finally returned to the car. At one point Gerald swore Stuart even flicked a glance at him mid-kiss — like, yes McCormick, thank you for rubbing in how much action you're getting while Sharon and I rot here in mutual singledom. Sharon raised an eyebrow, but mercifully, kept her thoughts to herself.

Next was Sharon.

"Thanks for the great night," she said softly as they pulled up. "It meant a lot, especially with —"

"You know he’s gonna come crawling back to you any day now, right?" Gerald cut in before she could finish. "He always does."

"I — I don’t know if he will this time, Gerald." Her voice wavered, eyes glassy. "But I appreciate it."

He hesitated, then leaned over. They hugged each other tightly, Sharon pressing her face against his shoulder like she was trying not to break down. Gerald patted her back, not sure what else to do except hold on until she let go.

"Have… Have a great night." She said quietly, before heading inside.

Finally, it was just Stuart and Gerald. His house wasn’t more than five minutes from Sharon’s, but Stuart made it fifteen, looping side streets, stretching out the ride as they kept talking. Even when they parked, neither of them reached for the door handle. They just stayed there, headlights dimmed, listening to the tick of the cooling engine and the rush of their own breaths, time dragging out until Gerald couldn’t tell if it had been minutes or hours.

The dash light threw everything into half-shadows — the curl of smoke caught in Stuart’s hair, the pale line of his jaw. Their knees brushed once, then again, and neither moved away. Gerald’s pulse kicked hard.

"Hell of a night," Stuart muttered finally, voice low.

"Yeah." Gerald said, smiling. "Best one in a while."

Stuart smirked, but didn’t look away. For a second, Gerald could’ve sworn that Stuart's gaze dipped — quick, almost imperceptible — down toward his mouth. And then, an insane thought crossed his mind. If he leaned in just a little, if he didn’t overthink it, maybe —

The porch light snapped on. Both of them jerked back like they’d been caught red-handed, even though they weren’t doing anything. Just two friends sitting in a car too late at night. Same as always.

"Guess that’s my cue," Gerald said quickly, fumbling for the handle. "I don't need another fucking lecture from Dad on responsibility."

"Yeah," Stuart replied, already turning the keys, the smirk gone.

Explain that one away with hormones, Broflovski. Gerald thinks to himself, and he can't. All he can say is that nothing actually happened. They were just sitting in the truck like they always had. Completely normal.

He turns to the final page.

The last picture in the album. The last picture in the whole fucking room, probably. It's a Polaroid of him and Stuart, arms slung around each other’s shoulders, both holding their diplomas high like they’d just won the lottery. Their caps are crooked, tassels tangled, grins stretched wide.

Honestly, Gerald couldn’t remember being prouder of anyone than he was of Stuart that day. Sure, half the teachers had probably bent the rules to get him across the finish line. Maybe he’d scraped by with D’s in classes Gerald had aced without breaking a sweat. But none of that had mattered in the moment. He’d done it. Proved his piece of shit father wrong. And Gerald had felt… lucky, almost, to be standing next to him.

Now, decades later, the warmth of that pride curdles into something sharper. Too bad he probably never did anything with it, Gerald thinks. What a fucking waste.

He slides the photo free of its protective sleeve. The edges curl faintly under his fingertips.

On the back, there's something written in bold sharpie.

When you're all fancy, don't forget who helped get your ass there. —S

Right after Sharon gave them the photo she took, Stuart had scribbled that down.

"So you don’t forget us when you’re out at fancy community college in Jersey," Stuart had said, flashing that grin of his — the one that always made his heart race.

I want you there. I want you. I want —

But of course he couldn’t say that. That would only earn him a laugh… or worse. He knew what his best friend was like when he felt condescended to. It wasn’t like Stuart would ever just follow him out East, anyway. Not with Carol hanging around again. Not with a half-decent job at Pizza Shack he might manage to hold onto if he didn’t blow it up. Gerald knew the answer before he could even ask.

So he hadn’t. He’d smirked instead, hiding everything under teenage arrogance.

"As if I could." He’d said. "Phones exist for a reason. We’ll still talk. And I’ll be home every holiday. It’s not going to be that different."

Nothing had to change. Please don't let anything change. I can't lose —

Stuart shrugged, smile not quite reaching his eyes. "Yeah… I guess you're right."

Looking back, he wonders if that was the beginning of the end.

Things had seemed normal for most of the summer. They still worked together, still went on drives, still talked, but there was an unspoken distance between them that was maybe only obvious in hindsight. All he knows is that it came to a head at their last shift together at work before Gerald left for the East Coast, right as they were locking up at Pizza Shack.

Even now, thinking about it after all this time still makes him tense up and feel sick to his stomach.

He doesn't remember exactly what they fought about. He’s sure Stuart said some horrible things. He knows he did too. The only words that stuck — that would rattle around in his head for decades to come — was the last thing Stuart said before he walked away:

"You think people wanna stay friends with someone who makes ’em feel like shit? It’s all you ever do. You’re gonna end up alone, Gerald — and you won’t even get why."

If Stuart had yelled, maybe things could’ve been different. If he’d swung at him, at least Gerald would’ve known he still cared. But he didn’t. He just said it — using his first name, flat, like he’d already decided a long time ago that there was nothing left to save. He was just done.

And just like that, Gerald lost the one person he’d loved more than anyone else in the world.

He barely remembers the weeks that followed. Leaving Colorado. Setting up the apartment in Jersey. Community college orientation. The first few classes. It all blurred together — hollow and meaningless.

Until one night, he walked into a bar.

He still had a fake ID — the one he had gotten him as a birthday present a year or two back — and figured he might as well drink until he forgot everything. Who he was. What he wanted. Who he wanted. Not that it mattered anymore.

The place was dim and sticky, and the air smelled like spilled beer and old carpet. A TV above the counter hummed with a baseball game no one was watching. He nursed his drink until the ice melted, tracing the rim of the glass with his thumb. Then he got a second one. Then a third. And a fourth.

It all felt hopeless. Like a piece of him had been ripped out, and he was nothing but a hollow shell.

And then she sat down next to him. Heavy eyeliner, low-cut shirt, scowl on her face, cigarette in hand, gorgeous red hair. She looked as done with the world as he was.

It definitely wasn’t love at first sight. But it was… something. The first thing he’d felt in weeks. Not since —

He tried to flirt with her, because what else was he supposed to do? It didn’t land. And then, something in him cracked. To a complete stranger, he spilled everything. About Randy and his stupid-ass boy band. About how stupid he was to even come to Jersey. About how the only person who he'd ever lo — …thought actually gave a shit told him no one wanted to be around him — and how he was right.

Really, he’d flashed every red flag in the book. Any sane person would’ve walked away.

But she didn’t.

She didn’t laugh. Didn’t flinch. Just shook her head, smiled, and asked if he needed a friend.

He'd nodded weakly.

Being friends with Sheila Broflovski was — It was infuriating. She was incessantly nosy. Wanted to know where he was from, what his family did, and oh, did he know she was also Jewish? Like he couldn't have figured that out given the fact they had the same fucking last name. She cooked him dinner for his birthday despite how clear he made it that he was completely fine. She signed them up for a ballroom dancing class on a whim. Who the fuck does that?

But it was also… invigorating. Sometimes she’d argue with the wrong asshole at a bar they definitely weren’t old enough to be in, punches would get thrown, and the two of them would have to outrun the cops. Other times, she’d get so fired up about a cause —"Did you know the last Presidential Administration did fuck-all for YEARS, Gerald while people were dying — even after doctors tried to warn them!? That's why I'm going to the fucking protest." — that he couldn’t help but admire her. That fire.

In a lot of ways, it felt familiar. In others, brand new.

He wasn’t sure if he actually liked her at first. Romantically, that is. He knew he couldn’t get enough of her as a friend, and yeah, he'd been kinda into her that first night at the bar, but... who knows? Given where he was at, maybe he would've been into anyone.

…But the same time, he’d get annoyed when she went out with other guys. He’d also think about her sometimes when he was out with other girls. It wasn’t like what he’d felt with Laura — not that burning, short-lived high that always fizzled when he got… distracted.

No. This was slower. Steadier. Like something that just kept building, but he couldn't quite grasp.

It felt more like how he always felt when felt when he was with —

In the bedroom, Gerald realizes his grip on the photo of him and Stuart has tightened, edges cutting into his palm. He doesn’t put it down. Instead, still clutching it, he crosses to where he'd thrown all of his work stuff.

He’d thought that was the last one. But tucked in the front pocket of his briefcase, waiting, is another Polaroid — the one he took out of his office drawer. Him and Sheila, both clutching their university acceptance letters, her mouth open mid-mock, eyeliner heavy, leopard-print leggings daring the world to comment. Only a year after graduation, and already the whole shape of his life had shifted.

So much had changed —

— And in the end, everything that happened led to this. To her. The one moment where, finally, things started making sense again.

You’re going to kill it. But if you turn into a smug asshole, I’m revoking this. —S

They'd got into two universities in different states. Okay fine — a couple hours from each other by train at most, but… It felt like a lot. They wouldn't be seeing each other every day. Not like they had been, at least.

And he fucking hated it.

He remembered the way that she'd handed him the Polaroid — laughing as she wrote the message on the back in giant loopy script. Their fingers brushed as she passed it to him, and he could’ve sworn they lingered just a second too long.

This was it. He knew it then. He liked her. More than liked her.

But everything in him said: Don’t. Don’t risk it. Don’t say anything. Don’t lose the one good thing in your life by being a fucking idiot again.

Except, he’d already done that once. Said nothing, and still —

Grow a pair for once in your fucking life.

"Don’t go to Seton Hall," he started — then immediately winced. "I mean — obviously go. You got in and everything. But —"

Shit.

She tilted her head. "Gerald, it’s fine. Phones exist for a reason. We’ll still talk. Hell, I can take a train into the city and see you every now and then. It’s not that big of a —"

Not again. Why does it feel so much like —

"— I think I’m a bit in love with you," he blurted, "And I kinda want to kiss you."

It wasn’t smooth. It wasn’t poetic. But it was apparently exactly what he was feeling.

And unlike with — there was no way he could pretend that it wasn’t.

Well, that's the end of that. Nice while it lasted, I guess.

"I — I get that’s probably a super weird thing to say, and I don’t expect you to —"

She kissed him.

And it felt like everything he’d been too scared to want out loud.

The door creaks open behind him.

"Gerald?" Sheila’s voice is softer than usual. "How are you doing? I’ve got your presents downstairs, if you’re up for it. We could make dinner together, too… if you want. I know you weren't feeling well."

"I'm… better, I think." He clears his throat. “Just… going through some old photos.”

A pause.

"Lot of junk in here. We might as well toss most of it. It’s not like we’ve got space back home."

Do not cry. Do not fucking cry. You are a grown man. Hold it the fuck together.

She leans against the doorframe, arms crossed. "If you’ve kept them this long, they must’ve meant something. It’s just one container. We’re not staying in my parents’ basement forever."

He looks down at the pictures in his hands. Two Polaroids — taken only a year apart. He'd thought they were different lives… but that wasn't quite right. In so many ways, he'd been the same person then. Hell, he's the same person now.

Sheila continues: "Not everything ends in a clean line. That's okay. But some memories are worth holding onto."

Sheila's probably right. Fuck, he hates it when she's right.

She smiles, just a little. "You’re allowed to have a past, Gerald. I married all of it — all of you. You know that, right? And you've seen how many boxes I’ve got in my parents’ attic. I’m not ashamed of any of it. Not even the messy parts. But it's your choice."

He nods.

"Just give me a minute. I'll put everything away in here and join you downstairs." He says, his voice sounding a little less hollow this time. "Looking forward to dinner."

"I'm… glad you are. We can talk more downstairs."

When Sheila closes the door, he exhales.

If you even knew just how messy it was — Fuck, I know you'd still love me.

Eventually, he sets the photo of him and Sheila on top of the one with Stuart at graduation, and slides them both into his briefcase pocket.

Don't forget who helped get your ass there.

He’d spent years burying old ghosts, hoping that would be enough to silence them.

Maybe it was time to admit they’d been haunting him anyway.

Chapter Text

South Park, CO
Monday October 6th, 10:20 AM MDT
The Past™

Sheila couldn’t, for the life of her, understand how two people could cram this much junk into an attic. She’d always thought her parents were bad — and honestly, she wasn’t much better, carting around far too many "sentimental" keepsakes herself — but she had assumed Gerald’s family would be different. He was tidy, borderline minimalist, and only held onto what was strictly necessary. Surely the people who raised him would be the same.

In hindsight, the three boxes of Christmas ornaments Nancy had unloaded on Murrey and the Marshes — kept for decades out of sheer spite — should’ve been the first warning.

There were at least five boxes of pharmaceutical records stretching back to the ’50s. Another stack of Zoning Board meeting minutes from just as far. Three boxes of half-finished crafts, six more of "presents from students." It was like Ira and Nancy had built their entire estate plan around one guiding principle: eh, they’ll sort it out when we’re dead.

Gerald had wanted to be here, but of course another work thing had come up. Not surprising in the least. So he was back at Randy’s office, leeching off their DSL — and thank God, finally wearing something that wasn’t a suit, courtesy of the birthday presents she'd picked up in Denver for him. He left in a green merino sweater, proper jeans, and a ridiculous hot-pink kippah she’d bought as a joke. Naturally, he adored it. He’d also given her strict instructions on which parts of the attic she could tackle alone and which ones had to wait for him tonight. "Under pain of death, Sheila," he’d said with a smirk, leaning in for one last kiss goodbye.

It was nice seeing him back to something like his old self, after the parking lot existential crisis and the way he’d torn through a whole storage container in the guest room on his birthday. She’d wanted to ask him more about the mysterious Mr. McCormick, but it was obvious that tangle of confusion and feelings wasn’t something Gerald could unravel in a single afternoon. Especially not when it was the kind of first love you carry for years without ever quite naming.

Besides, he deserved a nice birthday dinner after everything. And it was.

Yesterday, though — they’d finally had a day that was theirs alone. No boxes, no family obligations, no deadlines breathing down their necks — just the two of them, and the hush of a mountain town emptied out for Sunday Mass. They cooked breakfast late, lingered over coffee, then wandered down the path to Stark’s Pond, fingers linked like they hadn’t done in years.

Then they’d spent most of that afternoon in bed, carving out space for each other in a way they hadn’t done in… ages. Gerald had a few tricks he swore were "even better at high altitude," and though Sheila mocked him for the line, his grin afterward — boyish, smug, and stupidly proud — made her heart ache with love.

Out East, they’d managed to make it work. Despite everything, he always carved out Sunday mornings for her. Sometimes she’d meet him in the City for dinner and a quick stop at a hotel that charged by the hour, but more often than not, it came down to a late-night phone call — that usually started with her whispering, "What are you wearing?" and him sighing about how unprofessional this all was… even as he was already loosening his tie.

It really hadn’t been the worst thing, she always told herself. Even with the hours and the distance, they still had a better sex life than ninety percent of her friends. And who was she to tell Gerald what he could and couldn’t do for a job? He'd never tried to rein her in, not even when her activism threatened to brush up a little too close to some of his law firm's clients. He'd fill out the conflict checks (mostly) without complaint. They had a system, and everything was (mostly) going smoothly.

At least, until this summer, when —

— But being here, together had really been the reset they desperately needed. Even without yesterday, they'd had plenty of time together alone in the last couple weeks. Gerald could kvetch all he wanted, but Sheila didn’t see how South Park was any worse than Jersey. Sure, there were idiot old men who thought they knew everything — but she’d had plenty of those back home too. Usually with "State Senator" on their business cards.

And hopefully, the fossils here in Colorado can be more easily dealt with — if I get the time to help Laura out with her little problem…

Sheila blows a stray strand of red hair across her forehead, shoving another box across the attic floor. If she could get ahead on the packing just enough, it wouldn't matter if Gerald had another work emergency. She could still —

A muffled thud echoes from below. Not the tired groan of the house settling, but something more deliberate-sounding. She ignores it, shoving the box across the attic floor — until it comes again.

Yeah, that's someone knocking.

She climbs down the ladder slowly, dust sticking to her palms, the knocking growing louder with every step. By the time she hits the living room, there’s no mistaking it — the shrill screech of a young girl carrying straight through the door. Sheila doesn’t even need to look. She knows exactly who it is.

She doesn’t even get the knob turned before Shelley barrels past her legs like a bull in a china shop, shrieking something unintelligible at the top of her lungs. Sheila stumbles back, catching herself against the doorframe as Sharon appears in the doorway, a little out of breath, clutching a casserole dish in her hand, half-apologetic, half-resigned.

"— Shelley, we've talked about this!" Sharon calls, "You can't just —"

A crash interrupts her, and before either of them can investigate, Shelley comes tearing back to her mother’s side. She pauses just long enough to look up at Sheila and announce, with unshakable confidence:

"No more candles," she says helpfully.

That's not ominous at all.

"I'm so sorry —" Sharon starts.

"Oh, it’s fine," Sheila says. "The only candle boxes we had downstairs were those novelty scented ones Gerald hasn’t figured out how to tell his mother we’re tossing. If anything, Shelley’s a big help. ‘Lost to a toddler’ is a perfectly acceptable excuse with Mrs. Broflovski."

"One was rainbow!" Shelley proudly reports.

"Don't encourage her," Sharon sighs. "I was hoping she'd calm down before her brother's born, but with only a few weeks left —"

Once again, Sheila’s reminded of herself at that age. Denied the chance to take baby Naomi outside to play, she’d hauled a bucket of snow into the house and dumped it into the crib instead. "I brought the snow to her, Mommy!" she’d declared, beaming. Her father had thought it was clever; her mother had grounded her from buckets for two weeks. Three-year-old Sheila had always remembered it as proof she was a very thoughtful and caring big sister.

She chuckles, shaking her head. "I'm sure it'll be fine. My sister and I have the same age difference and we never had any problems as kids."

What happened later… well, that’s another story. Not I had anything to do with Naomi deciding to grow into such a kvetchy little mekhasheyfe. Besides, anything like that will be decades from now for Sharon's kids.

They hadn’t spoken since the disastrous Rosh Hashanah speakerphone call, and longer still one on one — not since before the Entity was born.

Kyle, Sheila. You can’t spend your whole life wincing at your nephew just because of a name she may or may not — but probably may — have stolen from you.

Since Rosh Hashanah, Sheila had been on the phone with her parents four times. Each call, they made it clear where their loyalties lay, calling Naomi 'difficult' and 'unreasonable.' Even so, she hated the gulf between her and her younger sister. But as the wronged party, it wasn’t on her to make amends.

You’d think with all her newfound devotion, she’d remember something as basic as teshuvah, Sheila thinks. Unless she thinks this is all fine, and she's just going to keep —

Sharon's laugh snaps her out of her thoughts. "That’s… actually kind of a relief to hear." She adjusts the casserole dish in her hands. "I, um—well, before they left, Gerald mentioned you were packing things up alone until he got back. I had the day off, so I thought you might like an extra pair of very pregnant hands." She gives a sheepish smile. "And I brought this too — my mom’s tuna casserole. Gerald used to eat half the pan when we were kids. I think it’s all kosher… I remembered from the wedding that you don’t exactly dive into bacon cheeseburgers the way your husband does."

It’s true. Gerald will treyf it up whenever he gets the chance. Case in point: every birthday dinner he's had since he was eighteen.

Sheila takes the casserole dish from her. “Thank you. That’s very thoughtful, Sharon.” And while it probably wouldn’t pass a rabbi’s sniff test back home, Sheila was of the firm belief that it’s the thought that counts.

Of course, that’s when Shelley takes off from her mother’s side again. Another crash follows from the next room, accompanied by her triumphant shout of, "I fixed it!"

Sharon winces.

Sheila just waves a hand. "Like I said, every little bit of destroyed clutter helps."

Once the casserole was tucked into the fridge — and they’d surveyed the damage Shelley had done to a box of Fort Collins souvenirs — they started hauling the attic boxes down. Or rather, Sheila passed them carefully down the ladder while Sharon stacked them in neat piles around the living room. Sheila felt a little guilty for giving such a demanding task to a very pregnant woman, but Sharon waved her off and insisted.

Shelley, meanwhile, was practically vibrating with excitement. The moment she heard there was a “finders keepers” rule for anything headed to the trash — provided she could carry it — she declared herself official foreman of the operation. Sharon just let her. At least it would keep the girl occupied for a full day.

"— And you’re sure you’re okay?" Sheila asks, leaning down with the next box. "What with —"

"— I'm pregnant, not dying." Sharon smiles as she takes the box, not even wincing as she puts it down. "Really, it’s fine. I did the same thing when my parents packed up to move to Colorado Springs for retirement. That was just before Shelley came along."

"But is it worse than fifty years of prescription receipts?"

"Much worse," Sharon says, groaning. "Much worse,” Sharon says with a groan. “Dad had the place stuffed like a hunting lodge. Elk heads, bear rugs, raccoons posed like they were playing poker. And then there was my brother. Every time we tried to toss something, he’d give it a eulogy — ‘That’s the Glenwood Springs buck! That’s the Yellowstone bear! You can’t just toss that!’ Randy and Ned — Jimbo’s old war buddy — finally had to drag him out before he started loading them into his truck."

Sheila laughs, passing another box labeled Murrey’s baby clothes down to Sharon.

"Not a big hunting fan, then?"

Not that I’d judge her if she was. Okay… maybe just a little.

"God no," Sharon shudders as she places the next box . "I think my mom was just relieved I was a girl, so Dad couldn’t shove a rifle into my hand the second I could sit up. Jimbo didn’t care, though. Before he shipped off to the army, he tried to teach me to shoot 'to fend off all the boys.' I was five."

Next to her, Shelley — now draped in a rosary from a box marked in Nancy’s handwriting as Mom’s – DO NOT GIVE TO OLDER BROTHER — had decided the best way into the baby clothes box was with her teeth.

Remind me never to get on Gerald’s mother’s bad side, Sheila thinks, eyeing the box that once held the rosary. But then again… it’s not like I know how bad it actually was for her with her family. And from what she said on Rosh Hashanah, Mr. Broflovski’s parents weren’t exactly rolling out the welcome mat either.

"—Shelley, not that box,” Sharon says, tugging her away, and producing a plastic key ring for her to chew on. "You don’t think Murrey’s going to miss his baby clothes for when—" she gestures to her stomach. "I tried to toss Jimbo’s when we cleaned out my parents’ place, but he refused to let them go, swearing 'you never know when you’ll need them.' Ever since we told him we're having a boy, he gives me this smug look, and I don't want to give him the satisfaction."

Sheila thinks back to the Marsh family visit a week and a half ago, Jimbo and Murrey at each other’s throats over everything and anything, and passes Sharon another box.

"I don’t know Murrey well, but from what I saw, I bet he’d be thrilled to one-up your brother. But then again —"

She remembers how Jimbo and Murrey had ended the night clapping each other on the back, making plans for some kind of trip that Murrey’s Canadian partner. He’d shielded her from Ira and Nancy, but Sharon’s brother apparently passed the test.

Sharon nods. "Yeah, I know. Once, in elementary when Murrey was visiting and Jimbo was back from service, Gerald and I tried asking them what their problem was. All we got was, 'What problem? You know how it is.' We both agreed that no, we absolutely had no idea 'how it is'. That was why we were asking. They fight like cats and dogs, but Jimbo still drops everything to see Murrey when he’s in town — and even goes out hiking with him in Arizona here and there. I asked Ned about it, since he knows Jimbo better than anyone, and he just said: 'Mmm… that's between them. Simone is nice though.'"

A thought suddenly occurs to Sheila. Unbidden, intrusive. Could it be —

— No, Sheila. You're not asking someone you've only had a handful of conversations with if her brother, his war buddy, your brother-in-law, and his Canadian girlfriend are —

"…I guess it's a mystery for the ages, then." Sheila offers instead of finishing that train of thought.

"That’s what I’ve had to tell myself." Sharon sighs, brushing damp hair off her forehead.

"Either way, I think you're safe to take this box of baby clothes." Sheila says, glancing over at Shelley, who has ditched her plastic key ring and is now gnawing on a crucifix from the box that belonged to Nancy’s mother. "But you… might want to pick something without wood varnish for Shelley."

"What —" Sharon spins around. "Shelley, you can't just eat Jesus like that!" She yelps, snatching it away with surgeon-like precision.

Funny. Isn’t that the entire premise of Catholicism?

"But Jesus is tasty!!!" Shelley wails, reaching up on her tiptoes. "He’s just like crayons!"

Sheila really shouldn’t be this entertained, but the grin is impossible to fight.

"…I think now's as good of a time as any for snacks." She finally offers.

As soon as Sharon finished checking Shelley for splinters and signs of varnish poisoning, they sat down at the kitchen table. Shelley, unfazed, was already halfway through a bagel with cream cheese.

"Thanks for being so understanding," Sharon said. "I know—'

Sheila waves her hand. "Sharon, it’s fine. I don’t have a toddler yet, but I used to be one. And believe me, I’ve heard the stories. My parents loved to brag about my ‘creative pursuits.’ Except the time I fingerpainted Moses bringing the Ten Commandments down from Sinai across the kitchen floor. That was officially classified as a 'slipping hazard'."

"I'm going to hate myself for asking, but… did you ever calm down?" Sharon glances at Shelley gnawing her bagel. "I’m wondering —"

"You probably don’t want the honest answer," Sheila says, tilting her head, "but I never really did. I just kept moving — swimming lessons, JCC preschool crafts, anything to keep my hands busy."

"A functioning community centre that provides preschool." Sharon exhales, rubbing at her temple. "Doesn't that sound nice?"

That sounds familiar…

"I… might've heard a thing or two about your community centre problems when Gerald and I ran into Laura and Thomas Tucker at the grocery store on Friday." Sheila says. "Is it really that bad?"

Sharon's face hardens. "Worse. The Zoning Board will trip over themselves to approve another bait shop, a gun range, or half a dozen bars, but community centre without a leaking roof? Maybe a preschool or daycare add-on? Forget it. I brought a petition to Mayor Donovan, and he just smirked, told us to haul our kids to Middle Park or North Park — as if forty-five minutes each way is realistic — especially for kids out in the country. And then he said we should calm down because we were probably on our periods."

Typical.

"The worst part? I made sure I wasn’t anywhere near mine so he wouldn't say anything about it." Sharon shakes her head. "And Randy's no help because his dad's on the Zoning Board, and he doesn't want to 'stir the pot'. When I told him that I still tried things when my dad was still on the Zoning Board, he insisted that I 'didn't understand'. I swear, the fact that he still can't stand up to his —"

Shelley peers up, bagel crumbs on her chin. " — Mommy, what’s a period?"

Sharon exhales. "Something that goes at the end of a sentence, honey." She pats her daughter’s hair. “I’ll explain the rest when you’re older. And maybe leave out a few things about Grandpa while I’m at it."

Sheila takes the moment to cut in.

"Laura mentioned that she thought there was a chance at 'toppling the old Zoning Board regime, with Gerald's father getting ready for retirement in Arizona. Something about the 'right backing' and 'logistical know-how'."

Sharon huffs a laugh. "She’s been saying that ever since we heard Mr. Broflovski sold the pharmacy. I’ve never seen anyone so determined. Being from North Park probably helps — fewer family strings. But like most of us, she has a husband with a father on the Board. It's probably helped because she's from North Park, even if her husband also has a father on the Board, she doesn't have any other family conflicts. A few of us are meeting Wednesday to talk strategy, figure out how to get more of the women in town on board. I know it’s a lot to ask, but —"

It's nice to be needed, especially when it's for a good cause.

"— I’d say ‘yes,’ but Laura’s already one step ahead," Sheila says. "We ran into her and her husband on Friday, the four of us got to talking, and I guess she liked the sound of my rabble-rousing credentials."

Sharon’s eyes go wide. "That’s… honestly amazing. So you’re in?"

"Depends on how much of a dent we can make in the attic. If enough gets done today and tomorrow — and Gerald can pull his weight while I’m gone — I’ll give Laura the call to tell her that I'm in."

Sharon smirks, a little conspiratorial. "Then we’d better get moving. Shelley, bagel time’s almost up."

Let's get to it.

Chapter Text

South Park, CO
Tuesday October 7th, 7:20 AM MDT
The Past™

"So… uh — bad news, Ger." Randy opens the door one-handed, balancing a half-burnt toaster waffle on a paper towel. "Our cover story about you being a Legal Advisor…" He pauses for effect. "…might be compromised."

Of course it fucking is. Why wouldn’t it be, he thinks, trying not to let his irritation show, instead only raising an eyebrow.

"My buddy Nelson called me about ten minutes ago. He’s always the first to arrive — beats the boss most mornings. Guy must’ve made a pact with some Elder God or something." Randy takes a bite of his waffle, then keeps talking through it. "Anyway, he said some guy in a suit was already there, asking questions. Anonymous tip, apparently. Something about 'protocols not being followed.'"

Gerald resists the urge to groan.

"Typical, huh?" Randy sighs. "There’s always one snitch who’s gotta ruin it for the rest of us."

It doesn't take a genius to guess who it is. There’s only one person in town who’d take that much pleasure in filing the report.

"I saw Stuart McCormick the other day while I was picking up groceries," Liane said in her sing-song voice when she saw Gerald come in with Randy yesterday morning. "I thought you’d like to know, since you two were always such good friends."

Gerald swallowed, keeping his tone flat, especially with Randy standing there. "Running into someone who’s lived here their whole life. Shocking."

Liane continued, undeterred. "Although, he didn’t seem all that thrilled when I mentioned little old you. Got all tense and bristly, like a cornered feral dog. I do hope nothing happened."

Gerald kept his expression calm, even as he felt a pit deep in his stomach.

"You know how it is. People… sometimes lose touch. It's a totally normal thing."

Go fuck yourself, you utter bitch.

"I suppose. Even if you’re still the best of pals with his number-one drinking buddy." She looked straight at Randy. He blinked, cleared his throat, and gave the nearest potted plant his undivided attention.

The awkward silence hung in the air a moment longer before she picked up again.

"I would’ve talked to him more, but as soon as Carol Hensley saw us, she started screaming — while her little boy clung to her leg. A little unstable, that one."

Well. That answers whether Liane Cartman's any different with Stuart than she is with Randy and me. Looks like her strategy's the same for everyone who supposedly 'wronged' her as a kid.

"But then again… maybe it’s all because of who she’s with. I couldn’t imagine how awful it’d be to have one child out of wedlock — let alone another — if the rumors are true, with someone like —"

"— Hey." Randy cut her off. "Stu’s just as good a dad as I am. Even if things… aren't all easy for him."

Liane acted as if she hadn’t heard him, and turned her gaze back to Gerald. He kept his jaw tight, nails biting into his palm out of sight. His stomach lurched at every casual mention of Stuart’s name, but the heat climbing up his throat was fury just as much as bile.

Even if everything you're saying is true Liane, you don't have the fucking right.

Maybe some old habits die harder than others.

"I also couldn’t help but notice you aren’t wearing a suit today," she said, pressing a finger to her lips in mock thought. "Surely a government Legal Advisor has a dress code. One that doesn’t include…" She gestured toward his kippah — the bright pink one Sheila had bought as a gag for his birthday, which Gerald couldn't help but love. Why not, when he was already juggling New York work, his parents’ house, and every other fucking thing under the sun? He deserved a bit of fun. "…such loud colors."

Don’t give her the satisfaction. She’s trying to rile you up. Push your buttons. Get you to react. And she probably enjoys it.

You know she enjoys it because you do the exact same fucking thing sometimes.

"What can I say?" Gerald smiled softly. "Guess I’m a real rebel."

A rebel? Really? What the fuck is that, you absolute moron.

Liane leaned over the desk.

"Well aren't you… naughty. And we all know that naughty boys need to be… punished."

Kill me fucking now.

"Yeah, okay, Ms. Cartman," Randy cut in, a little too loud. "That’s… enough for today. I’ve gotta get Gerald back to his very important, very serious… uh… legal inspections."

As they turned to leave, Liane winked at Gerald.

All this for defending myself as a kid. And all Randy and Stuart did was take my fucking side like any good friends would. Can't blame people for having friends. Has she ever thought that maybe… she might've deserved what happened? In hindsight? Because between this time and the last, she's sure as hell made me feel a lot less bad about the whole thing.

Gerald pinches the bridge of his nose. "So… what does that mean for us?"

Randy takes another bite out of his burnt waffle. "Well the good news is, that Nelson's sticking to the story that you were never there, and he said he's convinced the other guys to play along too. As far as anyone's concerned, nothing happened and we're both in the clear. But obviously… you can't use our DSL anymore."

Gerald’s stomach drops. Rosen had called yesterday with a few more documents to review by EOD Wednesday, and his final discussion with the senior partners was set for Friday morning. With the right internet connection, it was all perfectly doable. He could knock most of it out today and still have time to work on the house without Sheila’s help — especially after all the progress she and Sharon had made yesterday.

But on his parents’ dial-up? It'd take hours, maybe more. He’d need an extra set of hands, or the house would go completely untouched on his end.

Which, under normal circumstances, wouldn’t be so bad. That’s why he had an extra helper. Except this time there was something else — something that mattered more than the partner vote.

He’d made Sheila a promise. After a "fancy" night out at Bennigan’s (God, he wished he could write a fifty page review on how inadequate every single meal item there was and force their corporate overlords to read it) with Sharon, Randy, and Shelley — most of it spent listening to Randy ramble about the Barn Dance on the 18th (“Rumor has it the Denver Broncos are gonna be there, Ger. No bullshit. One of their tackles lives here in town! You guys’ll be done packing by then, right?”) — Sheila had told him she wanted to go to some meeting on Wednesday, tied to what they’d discussed with Laura at the grocery store. He’d promised her that for at least Wednesday and Thursday, she wouldn’t have to touch the house, and that once the partner meeting was over, he’d help her the rest of Friday, before Yom Kippur.

And it wasn’t like he could lean on Tweek Bros. for backup — one cup of that sludge would knock him out for one day, maybe more. If he didn’t find another DSL connection…

Right now — especially now — he couldn’t let her down. Not again.

Randy stuffs the rest of his waffle in his mouth, then plants a syrupy hand on Gerald’s brand-new gray windbreaker, apparently in some attempt to comfort him. "I’m really sorry, dude. Mr. and Mrs. B have dial-up though, right?"

Gerald sighs. "Yeah. But I need something fast. Sheila’s got a thing with Sharon tomorrow, and I told her I’d cover the house."

Randy lets go, licking his fingers, one eyebrow creeping up. "Don’t you know Laura Tucker’s the one organizing that? Y'know — Your ex?"

"Yes, I still remember that we dated. Shocking, I know." Gerald rolls his eyes.

"But dude. Isn’t that… awkward?"

Oh, for fuck’s sake, Marsh.

"Yes. Because she told us. Right after inviting us to dinner with her husband." Gerald exhales sharply through his nose. "How do you know about it?"

"Sharon told me. She wanted Dad to watch Shelley, but he’s got bridge with all his Zoning Board pals and said he's not missing the chance to clean up now that Mr. B isn’t around." Randy scratches his jaw. "And, uh… Stuart mentioned it too. Said Carol gave him shit because he can’t watch Kevin — you know, their kid? Which I don’t get. She’s always on him about working, and then when he actually has a gig —"

Here he is, talking like we're all still best friends, when —

"— I get it, Randy." Gerald sighs. "The point is, none of that is gonna help me find a DSL connection. Sheila's going to be —"

Something seems to click for his friend as his look of concern is slowly replaced by a grin — the same one he gets when he suddenly has a terrible idea and will stop at nothing until he gets Gerald to go along with it.

"— Wait, dude. You’re a lawyer."

Gerald blinks. "Thanks for stating the obvious, Marsh."

"No, what I mean is… have you tried the law offices?"

"Why would I try the law offices?" Gerald asks. "Could you at least try to make sense?"

"Ugh." Randy waves his hands, trying to drag the conversation — the one only he seems to be following — back on track. "What I mean is. We've got one lawyer in town, and her name is Ms. Jackson. She's for real, dude, so she's always up on the latest technology and shit. Not to mention, she's on good terms with your dad. I bet if you asked really nicely —"

Gerald lets him ramble — something about her refusing the city attorney job because she thought Mayor Donovan was too incompetent… so now they're stuck sharing one with Middle Park; something about how much she's pissed off Mr. Marsh — potentially also because of the city attorney thing. The rest blurs together — Randy’s greatest hits album of small-town grievances — while Gerald weighs his options.

Begging one of my dad’s friends to bail me out. Perfect. Nothing humiliating about that at all. I hope Sheila knows how much I love her.

"…I guess I could walk over myself, but if it's not too much trouble, could you drop me off on your way to work? I'd rather not —"

Randy grins. "Consider it done, man. What are friends for, right?"

Before Gerald can answer, there’s a crash from inside the house, followed by Sharon yelling, "Shelley, no!"

Randy winces, glancing back over his shoulder. "Actually um… If you can help me with… whatever the hell that is, then we’ll call it even."

...What are friends for, right? 

South Park, CO
Tuesday October 7th, 8:45 AM MDT
The Past™

After the two of them finally wrangle Shelley — who has somehow scaled the kitchen cabinets — with promises of more waffles and another upside-down dangle (not necessarily in that order), Randy drops Gerald off at the law office. He claps a syrup-sticky hand on Gerald’s shoulder and says, “Good luck, man.”

He’s going to fucking need it. Gerald knows what lawyers are like — he is one. Predators in pressed suits, even in a town this size. And if she's really on good terms with Mr. Ira Broflovski of all people, mercy probably isn’t going to be on the docket.

Gerald exhales, staring at the brass nameplate on the door. Ms. Vera Jackson, JD, LLM.

Here goes nothing.

He steps inside.

The first thing that hits him is the smell — not antiseptic like the polished floors at HP&V, but a mix of old paper, coffee that’s been sitting on a burner too long, and floor polish that can’t quite mask the years.

All in all, it’s not as bad as he thinks it’s going to be. Which almost makes him more nervous.

Along the far wall, a small law library lines the shelves: Colorado Revised Statutes in burgundy hardbacks, spines cracked, yellow sticky notes jutting out at odd angles. Case reporters are stacked sideways to fill the gaps. They’ve been used — not just there for show unlike some of the places he's seen.

The receptionist — a wiry man in a plaid shirt who looks more hardware store than law office — glances up from his crossword. Without much fuss, he leads Gerald down the hall toward a door marked with frosted glass. Behind it, the steady clack of keys and the muffled ring of a phone filter out.

So far, so good.

He knocks on the door. Once. Twice.

"If Stern — the receptionist — let you in, don’t waste your time knocking," comes a voice from the other side. It brokers no argument, reminding him uncomfortably of Fran Channing — the only senior woman partner at HP&V. "Get on with it."

Gerald does exactly as he's told.

She’s behind a desk piled with manila folders, a pair of reading glasses perched low on her nose as she flips through a motion. Older, but not elderly — at least a decade or two younger than Ira. Her natural hair is cut short, coils silvered with iron-grey, and her posture is so straight it makes Gerald stand just a little bit straighter.

Everything about her radiates competence, but also, there's a bit of edge to her — the kind of lawyer who doesn’t waste time on pleasantries.

"Right, my name is —"

"— I know who you are." She says, finally looking up from her notes, dark brown eyes locking on his hazel-green. "You're wearing a yarmulke. There's only one Jewish family in South Park, and you're too young to be the Professor, so you must be… the other one. The litigator."

Of course my reputation precedes me. Thanks, Dad.

Gerald offers a nervous smile. "That’s… good to know, I guess."

Jackson nods once, surveying him as if pinning him to a corkboard. "Nancy loves talking about her brilliant sons. Ira… says you’ve both done fine for yourselves. The question is — what exactly are you doing in my law office, Gerald Broflovski?"

It's an easy enough question. But it's still one he feels like there's a wrong answer for.

"I was hoping that you'd give me a hand. You see, I've got some things to do for my firm while I'm —"

She cuts him off. "Right. Your law firm. Hollingsworth, Prescott & Vale. Founded 1819, and widely considered one of the top firms in the country — if not the world. Fifty years ago, they probably wouldn't have even hired you for… completely innocent cultural reasons. The official law firm of Satan himself."

"…Something like that, yeah." Gerald swallows.

How dare you say something that's completely true.

"And let me guess — you needed some pro bono legal advice, and decided to come to little old me. A small-town lawyer so magnanimous, she may or may not count Jesus Christ among her clients. Here to fix all your problems."

Gerald opens his mouth, then realizes she’s still talking, and promptly shuts it again.

"So, what is it you want? Look over one of your cases? Maybe sing a soul song or two while I’m at it? Help you feel better about yourself?" She gives him another once-over, eyes sharp as glass. "If that’s the case, you’re better off trying the new guy who just moved into town. Came in here the other day asking how to set up his own restaurant. Between you and me? I don’t think he’ll last."

Oh my God, is she saying —

"That’s not — I'd never —" Gerald stutters, mortified.

She looks at him again, the faintest smile tugging at her lips. "— I didn't think so. At least I'd hope that Ira's son would be smarter than that. So I'll ask you again. What are you doing in my law office, Gerald Broflovski? I know it might shock someone from New York, but we still have work out here. Folks die. Estates erupt. You'd be surprised how many people will fight over over cows, fences, and grandma’s china — sometimes all in the same week. So try not to waste my time, dear."

He takes a deep breath, trying to figure out if she despises him or not. With lawyers — especially ones who've seen it all, it's never easy to tell. Still… he knows one thing: better to be straightforward than beat around the bush.

"…Would you believe that I just need to borrow your internet?"

She cocks her head to the side, almost like a cat playing with her meal. "My internet? You’re telling me Ira and Nancy Broflovski can’t even manage a dial-up connection?"

Gerald takes a deep breath. "Look. I’ve got deadlines I need to hit by tomorrow. I promised my wife I’d get it done so she could go to this meeting — help the other women in town. Trust me, I’ve checked. You’re the only place in South Park with DSL where I don’t have to trip on coffee or break half the Bar’s ethics rules. If it were just about work, I’d eat the extra time. But this —" he swallows. "— this is also for her. It means a lot."

After this summer, I owe her that much.

Ms. Jackson leans back, steepling her fingers, eyes never leaving him. She studies him in silence for a long moment. Then she speaks, each word slow and deliberate.

"You know, you remind me a little of my daughter’s husband. She met him at Stanford, during her Chemistry Masters. He’s in finance law — or finance, I forget which. Real Poindexter. Obsessed with some Oxford linguistics professor who writes about fairies and wizards. Honestly, I think he’s a little intimidated by me."

I can't imagine why he'd — wait — Is she calling me a nerd? I’ve never been more offended. I skipped classes in high school! Smoked weed! I only read Lord of the Rings once!

"But at the end of the day," Ms. Jackson finishes, "he cares about her. That’s what matters. My ex-husband could’ve used more of that consideration, instead of throwing every last thing he had into making partner at Patton & Benjamin in Denver. Do what you need to do."

Let’s be clear, between me, Stuart, and Randy, I was by far the —

"— Wait, what?" Gerald blurts.

"You can use my internet, Gerald — and my law library. I think it’s sweet, you going through all this trouble just so your wife can have a day to herself." She pauses. "On one condition."

Of course.

"I’d expect no less. We’re lawyers — there’s always a catch. Name your price," he says, finally relaxing a little.

"Nothing too crazy. Next week, when you’ve got a minute, I’d like your thoughts on a few of my civil cases. After I run it by my clients, of course. Litigation’s never been my favorite — I stick to business and wills, mostly — but I can’t always tell people to shove it off on Taylor up in North Park. So I wouldn’t mind another set of eyes. For once, maybe you could put your Top-14 legal education to use for good"

He should be offended, but mostly he's just relieved that his internet problem has mostly solved itself. Sheila could go to her meeting, and they were one step closer to finishing packing up the house.

"Sounds easy enough," he says. "I'll run things by Sheila — my wife, and let you know a time by the end of the week."

She smirks. "See, you say that, but you’d be surprised what turns up out here in quiet mountain towns. No multimillion-dollar companies, sure. But there’s always something strange that pops up."

Okay. Now he’s offended.

"You know I was born here, right? I lived here seventeen years. I think I know exactly what South Park can throw at me." Gerald crosses his arms.

"I know you were. But back then, you weren’t a lawyer, were you?" Her eyes glint, amused and sharp at once. "Trust me, Gerald Broflovski — you haven’t lived until you’ve seen what ends up in a real South Park file."

Chapter Text

South Park, CO
Wednesday, October 8th, 12:25 PM MDT
The Past™

"Are you… sure this is the meeting spot?" Sheila asks Sharon.

They're in front of a hulking warehouse in what seems to be the sketchy part of town — which, in South Park's case means two blocks from Main Street and three from the park. The sign still reads Carl’s Warehouse, but the paint is starting to peel, and it's clear the place hasn't seen business in at least a year. A broken window gapes near the roofline, pigeons shifting inside like the they're the only tenants left.

"…I don't see any other cars around." Sheila narrows her eyes. Next to her, Sharon adjusts her grip on Shelley, who had immediately lunged toward a rusty nail the moment she was unbuckled. Now the little girl squirms in protest, pinned tight against her mother’s side.

"One hundred percent," Sharon says. "Laura’s always had a bit of a flair for the dramatic. Even in high school — You should've seen what she and Gerald pulled at the State Championships." She tilts her chin toward the warehouse door. A neatly printed sign hangs there — one Sheila hadn’t noticed until now:

KNITTING CLUB INSIDE.

"Well, that, and she really didn’t want half the Zoning Board — otherwise known as… our husbands’ fathers — catching wind of anything we were trying to do. So she’s buried this under six layers of smoke and mirrors. Everyone else coming was supposed to have walked. Laura said I could drive because —" Sharon gestures to her very pregnant belly. "— but she also said she was giving you a password to get us in. Didn’t want to risk telling me in case Randy overheard and accidentally blabbed to his dad. Did she?"

Laura had, in fact, given her a password — during a late-night call on Monday, right after she’d confirmed with Gerald that he was fine with her disappearing for a few days. Even with the progress she and Sharon had made earlier, she’d half-expected him to say no outright, what with that big Friday call looming with the nebbishes who ran his firm.

But he hadn’t even paused. He’d just pulled her in, kissed her, and said, "Don’t worry about a thing, hun. I can handle it. I promise."

Still, all through yesterday, a part of her kept waiting for him to back out at the last minute. It wouldn’t have been the first time.She’d long lost count of the dinners with her parents he’d missed, the dates he’d cancelled when some partner decided to "loop him in" at ten o’clock on a Friday night. And she would’ve understood — mostly. That call could make or break his career, and this… was just a bit of small-town community centre drama.

And yet, he hadn’t. He’d come home looking far too pleased with himself, proud that he’d wrapped everything up early for work thanks to a tip from Randy. Then he’d sunk to his knees, murmuring, as his lips trailed up her thigh, that she could take the rest of tonight off too if she wanted.

Of course, she had. She wasn't one to look a gift horse in the mouth, especially not one who was so particularly good with his.

Maybe there really was something in the mountain air. Or maybe it had started a little earlier, when he’d unexpectedly come home after Naomi had her baby (Kyle. His name is Kyle.). She couldn’t help but wonder if all this was because —

"…She did give you the password, right?"

The question cuts through her thoughts before she can finish them. Sheila blinks, turning back toward Sharon, who’s watching her with a look halfway between amusement and concern. Shelley wriggles like a wild animal against Sharon's side, still determined to break free and resume her crusade to collect every dangerous piece of scrap metal in sight.

"Right," Sheila says quickly, smoothing her hair back like she’s shaking off a daydream. "She did. Don’t worry, Sharon — I’ve got it covered."

Sheila strides up to the door with purpose, and raps twice on the metal. The sound echoes, dull and hollow, through the empty lot.

A narrow eyehole slides open with a clack, making her jump despite herself. Two eyes peer out from the darkness.

"Password?" an unfamiliar — but definitely female — voice asks.

"La Résistance," Sheila says without hesitation, confident.

There’s a pause. Then the eyehole snaps shut, followed by the muffled click-clack-thunk of several locks being undone.

Sheila can’t help it — she smiles in spite of herself.

You have to respect it. I really can see why Gerald dated her.

The woman who opens the door greets Sharon with an easy familiarity before turning to Sheila. She looks like she's a younger than her and Sharon, early thirties at the most. Her black hair is neatly cut into a chin length bob. And while her blazer and slacks are professional, they don't quite disguise the baby bump beneath — she must be at least six or seven months along.

Nu, you'd swear that every woman in this town is pregnant. Or maybe I'm just more sensitive to noticing who is because —

"I’m Alexis," she says, offering her hand. "Alexis Testaburger. Laura mentioned you. It's Sheila, right?"

Sheila nods.

"She said you're some famous rabble-rouser out in New York that could be the solution to all of our problems?"

While I definitely like the sound of that…

"Laura's overselling me a bit. I'm definitely not famous. More 'professionally irritating to local governments and my husband when he has to fill out conflict of interest disclosures at work,'" Sheila laughs. "And it's mostly Newark, though I guess I've been at my fair share of protests in New York too."

Alexis smiles. "Still, that’s exactly what we need more of right now. Around here, the most ‘activism’ anyone does is passive-aggressive bake sale signage. I’m pretty sure I’m the only one of us who’s ever been to more than one protest—and that was back when I was doing my MCP out in Berkeley."

"A… Master’s of City Planning?” Sheila asks. “Do you… work for the town at all, then, or…"

Alexis lets out a humorless laugh and shakes her head. On Sheila’s other side, Sharon already looks like she knows the story by heart.

“In theory, there’s a City Planner position sitting wide open,” Alexis says. “In practice, Mayor Donovan just hands everything to the Zoning Board. I’ve sent three job applications. He hasn’t so much as pretended to read them.”

"We have this theory that he thinks 'planner' means someone who orders paper calendars for City Hall." Sharon mutters.

"…So that’s why I’m here. It feels like it's going to be the last chance for a while while to get anything done in this town. But honestly? If this whole plan doesn’t work…" She exhales, a tired laugh in her voice. "I’m one conversation away from telling my husband, 'forget it— let’s just move to —'"

"— SHELLEY!!!"

The shout ricochets off the warehouse walls.

Before Sheila can even register it, a little boy with wild light brown hair — no more than three, swimming in an oversized red T-shirt—comes tearing across the concrete like a missile.

"KEVIN! What the hell did I say about —" another voice barks, sharp and somewhat familiar.

"KEVY!" Shelley shrieks with delight.

It takes Sharon half a second too long to tighten her grip—and Shelley uses it like a jailbreak, wriggling free and sprinting straight toward the boy.

"Shelley —" Sharon starts.

"— It’s too late now, Sharon."

The voice cuts in before she can finish, and Sheila doesn’t even need to turn to recognize it. The wiry-thin redhead stepping into view is unmistakably Carol Hensley — the same woman she and Gerald had run into in the parking lot a few days ago. The one whose… partner, Mr. S. McCormick had triggered Gerald’s two-day long existential spiral.

Kevin and Shelley have already collided in the middle of the warehouse, squealing with delight. Shelley immediately grabs his hands and starts spinning him in fast, lopsided circles. Kevin crashes into a pole, pops back up unfazed, and shrieks louder.

"Let ’em burn off their energy," Carol says with a shrug, looking at the children with a resigned smile. "Maybe Kevin’ll actually go down for a nap when I get home for once in his goddamn life."

She whips her head back toward them.

"But where are my fuckin' manners? Laura said she had a fancy expert comin' to help us, but I didn't think it'd be you. Great to see ya again! It's… Sheila, right? " Carol beams.

"It is," Sheila says, returning the smile — a little cautious, but polite. "You’re big into… civic engagement, then?"

Oh, the questions I’d ask you if I didn’t respect my husband’s privacy.

"‘Course I am," Carol says, as if it’s obvious. "I’ll take any chance to stick it to those morons down at City Hall.” She plants a hand on her hip, completely at ease. "Well that, and I’ve gotta support my girl, Laura."

Sharon snorts. "You’d start a riot if Laura asked you to."

"I'd start a riot with nobody askin'," Carol says, proudly.

"— Which might be why I’ve bailed you out of jail five times," another voice cuts in.

Sheila turns just in time to see Laura Tucker approaching from deeper inside the warehouse, arms crossed, expression dry but amused. Her blonde hair is pulled back in a headband, and she's wearing maternity leggings, but she looks no less elegant than she had last week in the grocery store.

"Glad you made it, Sheila. Sharon." Laura gives a quick nod of greeting, then lowers her voice. "No one followed you, did they? Thomas’ dad got so suspicious I had to set up a decoy meeting at my friend Harriet’s house." She rolls her eyes. "Told most of the other women to go there instead too."

She exhales, all business again. "So for now, it’s just gonna be the five of us."

For half a second, there’s a sense of gravity in the air — like everyone understands this is the real starting line. Laura’s gaze moves over them one by one: Sharon, steady; Carol, practically vibrating with enthusiasm; Alexis, calm and determined; and Sheila, getting ready to put everything she knows about organizing and direct action into practice. If nothing else, all of this was as good as a distraction as anything from thinking about the things she couldn't control. Her sister. Her brand-new nephew. Everything else that happened this last summer.

She's fucking handling this.

"Let's get to work, then." Sheila says.

A crash echoes from the far side of the warehouse.

All five women turn just in time to see Shelley standing triumphantly on a dolly, pushing Kevin at alarming speed across the concrete floor—straight through a minefield of abandoned paint cans and suspicious-looking scrap metal.

"— Right after we make sure that our children don't suffer permanent brain damage." Sharon says, looking at Carol, "Shelley —"

Once the kids were wrangled back to their mothers’ sides (Shelley bribed with a fruit snack, Kevin uncerimoniously scooped up), the five of them gathered around a folding table near the center of the warehouse. Coffee, paper maps, and a stack of dog-eared zoning documents were spread out like they were planning a military coup — which was not that far from the truth.

Next Monday, the 13th, there was a routine meeting to vote on the next President of the Zoning Board. The outgoing President, Ira Broflovski, had put forward Marvin Marsh as his successor, who is enthusiastically supported by Mayor Donovan and most of the older men in town. Marvin's even older than Ira, should’ve retired at least fifteen years ago, and is allergic to spending money on anything that wasn’t the local auto club. Possibly racist. Definitely sexist. Though, as Sharon offered dryly, "a surprisingly good grandfather."

The plan? Stop Marvin from getting the seat by nominating someone of their own: Alexis Testaburger. Someone who actually understood zoning, planning, infrastructure — basically everything the Board had been neglecting for years. Most importantly, her first act would be approving rezoning for the much-needed community centre upgrades.

There was only one catch: because Alexis wasn’t already on the Board, they needed a supermajority of 60% of the town to approve the nomination.

Sheila was fairly certain that was not how municipalities were supposed to work, but when she brought it up, Laura just shrugged and said, "This is Colorado."

Westerners and their rugged individualism.

From there, they go over the votes they could — and couldn't — count on.

"The younger Donovans are a definite no for… obvious reasons," Sharon sighs. "Betsy says she’s sympathetic, but Roger’s not going to go against his dad while he’s still mayor. The most she can promise from the both of them is maybe an abstention. claiming a conflict of interest." She pauses, then adds, "But shockingly, Jimbo said he’d vote how I vote — and he claims Ned will do the same. 'Gotta protect my little sis' were his exact words."

"And speakin’ of some people's little sisters… the Tweaks are on our side for sure," Carol says. "Blood — or coffee — runs thicker than water. Plus, we’ve been gettin' them a little somethin' for their beans since their last supplier up and retired."

Huh. Maybe Gerald wasn't exaggerating about the coffee. Or maybe it's completely innocent. Let's — for my sanity's sake — say that it's completely innocent.

"Vera Jackson says we’ve got her full support," Alexis adds. "But Mary McDaniels said she’d only vote for me if it looks like Mayor Donovan is abjectly humiliated." Alexis raises an eyebrow. "Personally, I think she’s gunning for the mayor’s office, but doesn’t want to show her hand too soon. And Victoria — the Vice Principal at South Park Elementary — said she’ll only vote for me if McDaniels and Jackson do."

"Right," Laura says, taking over. "'We’ve got another thirty or so women over at the Biggles', and about thirty percent of their husbands or partners said they’d vote for Alexis." She grimaces. "The rest don’t want to risk going against their fathers. Or grandfathers. Or in-laws. Which also made Jack Tenorman a definite 'no'. A real pity, since having an actual Denver Broncos tackle vote for Alexis would shake off a lot of the squeamishness from some of the other men."

She taps the map spread across the table.

"Best case scenario, that puts us at roughly fifty-nine percent. And we need sixty.” She turns to Sheila, eyes sharp. “Which means, even with every favorable vote we can scrape together… we’re still short."

A beat.

"Any ideas, East Coast expert?"

Sheila exhales slowly, working things over in her head. Even the best case scenario leaves them short from what they know. Which means that they'll likely have to learn more and get creative.

After all, half of community organizing is math, while the other half comes down to knowing who to pressure. She’d spent most of her late teens and twenties learning that change didn’t happen just because you asked nicely in a meeting. You had to make it impossible to ignore you. Or impossible to refuse you.

Preferably both.

Across the table, Shelley has finished her fruit snack and is trying to bite Sharon's arm in order to get free, while Carol has Kevin wriggling around in her arms like a feral cat.

Which gives her one idea. Out East, she'd been to more than a few protests where making a huge disturbance was the point. Delivering coffins to selected government offices, unravelling banners on national television where everyone can see. You need to be strategic about it, but you also need to go big.

And while this wasn't quite as urgent as some of those life-or-death protests she'd participated in in her late teens… the lessons could work here just as well.

Sheila looks at Carol, then Sharon. "Ladies. Could you bring Shelley and Kevin to the vote?"

Both women nod.

"Perfect." She glances down at the kids. "How’d you two like to be professional activists for a day?"

"Yeah!!" Kevin claps his hands.

Shelley beams. "Yay! Profession!!!”

Sheila explains the strategy. With enough of a disturbance, that could swing the vote more in their favour, if enough of the older crowd gets annoyed and leaves. The key word there being "could". But they'd need something else to really ensure their victory. Something that wasn't exactly honourable, but sometimes the ends justify the means.

"Next," she says. "Hypothetically… does anyone in this town have dirt on any of the men who might block us?"

All four women exchange looks. It's clear that they're saying we absolutely know someone… but none of us wants to be the one to say it first.

Finally, it's Laura who breaks the deadlock.

"Well… there is Liane Cartman," she admits. "We all know what kinds of ‘businesses’ she runs. I’m pretty sure she’s slept with half the old guys in town — maybe some of the women too. But —"

"Liane Cartman is a dirty slut," Carol says flatly.

Sharon’s reflexes are immediate — she slaps her hands over Shelley’s ears.

"Carol!" Alexis says, scandalized.

"Ain’t sayin’ nothing that isn’t true." Carol doesn’t even blink as Kevin squirms in her arms like an eel. "Two days ago, she threw herself at my guy. Had an arm around him and everything — right while I’m tryin’ to get Kevin to put waffles back on the shelf at the store. Now, I’m not gonna pretend Stuart's some kinda saint, but he swears she did it outta nowhere — and from where I was standin', it damn near looked like it too. She cares about nothin’ but herself."

"While I wouldn’t have worded it quite like that…" Sharon says, eyes narrowing, "…I agree she’s probably the last person who’d help us.'

She crosses her arms, exhaling sharply.

"Last year, she kept flirting with Randy when the three of us were at the pumpkin patch — and even if I gave Randy an earful for the giant smile on his face, she was the one who started it. You can’t trust someone who goes after a man when she knows he’s fully committed."

Sharon glances around the table, firm.

"There’s a reason she doesn’t have a single friend in town." Alexis chimes in. "Not that she cares. From the way she acts, you'd think that she likes it."

Sheila taps her mouth as she considers things. On one hand, there’s a part of her that can’t help but sympathize with Liane Cartman, even if she's never met the woman. Back in high school, she’d trusted the wrong guy in senior year. He’d sworn he’d broken up with his girlfriend "that night." He hadn’t. She found out the next day that he definitely hadn't. So, of course, the words fat slut had followed Sheila down every hallway, on top of the other colourful nicknames she'd accumulated over her high school years. It got so bad that Naomi asked if she could stop walking to school with her — "Unlike some people, I've got a reputation that I care about. Maybe people will forget we're related."

She knows exactly what it’s like to be everyone’s cautionary tale.

On the other hand… Liane isn’t a teenager. From what Sharon and Carol have said, she's a woman who has gone after two separate men in front of their partners — apparently quite blatantly.

Yet… She's only heard one side of the story so far. And there's always at least three sides to any story: what one person says, what the other says, and the truth.

She needs to know what they're dealing with herself.

"But still…" she says aloud. "Think of the amount of dirt she must have on the men we need to stand down. The least I can do is talk to her. See if there’s anything I can offer that gets her on our side."

Carol snorts. "You’re only sayin' that ‘cause she hasn’t tried to screw your husband yet. She’ll side with the men over us any day of the week."

She's welcome to try it with Gerald. Sheila thinks. He'd clam up long before anything happens.

"It's worth a shot," Sheila insists.

"You can talk to her, but just be prepared for an arsenic-sweet rebuke, Sheila," Sharon sighs. "She's working at Randy's office as a temporary receptionist. I can write the directions down for you and you can borrow the car — if I take Shelley to her dad's office, we'll never get her back."

"I'll come with," Laura says. "I need to see if Sheila can actually pull this off."

"Right…" Sheila says, glancing around at the women gathered at the table. "Let’s hope Liane Cartman fails to live up to her reputation."

South Park, CO
Wednesday, October 8th, 2:47 PM MDT
The Past™

The drive over to the USGS office goes faster than Sheila expects. Laura spends most of it filling her in on what she knows about Liane Cartman. Apparently, they’d crossed paths once or twice in high school, but they were in different grades. Still, Liane apparently had a "reputation" even back then. One rumor claimed she slept with the entire football team.

"Do I want to know if Gerald ever repeated those rumours or not?" Sheila asks, thinking about her own turn as the girl who allegedly slept with the entire drama club.

"Don't worry," Laura says, "he didn't. I mentioned the football one to him once, since they went to the same elementary school, and he changed the subject pretty quickly."

Very noble of a younger Gerald. Suspiciously so, actually.

Laura keeps going, listing the more recent rumors—who Liane has allegedly slept with, whose husband, whose father. Every name sounds familiar by now. At one point, Laura admits she almost gave Liane a chance when she first moved back to town after marrying Thomas… until the infamous incident at the pumpkin patch.

"Right in front of Sharon and Shelley," Laura says, incredulous. "Who does that?"

By the time they reach the office, Sheila knows almost exactly what the entire town thinks of Liane Cartman, but not much about the actual woman herself.

And so, as they walk through the doors, Sheila takes a breath, bracing for anything.

"...Ms. Cartman?" Sheila says carefully, glancing at Laura.

Laura nods once.

Liane looks up — and her gaze goes straight from Sheila to Laura. Her smile is pleasant. A little too pleasant.

"Well, if it isn’t Laura Tucker," she says smoothly. "So nice of you not to invite me to any of your little events. Especially considering you invited every other woman in town."

"Every other woman in town hasn't tried to fuck my friends' husbands." Laura says, flipping her off without breaking eye contact.

Fantastic. Negotiations are off to a great start.

"That you know of, Laura dear," Liane says sweetly. "That you know of."

Then she turns her full attention to Sheila, her eyes immediately assessing. "And you… I’ve never seen you before. But if I had to guess…" She taps a finger thoughtfully against her lips. "I’d say you’re… Mrs. Broflovski? Gerald’s wife."

Sheila blinks. Once. Twice.

It’s not the question itself—it’s her voice. There’s something in the tone, in the practiced gentleness, that hits a nerve. It sounds exactly like the way Nancy Broflovski had ever-so-sweetly explained why she hasn’t spoken to her own brother in fifty years while preparing Rosh Hashanah dinner.

"Mostly, I just go by Sheila," she replies.

Liane tilts her head "And let me guess: You're here to ask me to leave your husband alone too, now aren't you?" Her eyes narrow slightly. "And you brought along brand new friend. How cute." A pause. "Did you know that she dated your husband back in high school?"

Okay, this is new. Not the fact that he and Laura dated — the other thing. But… If she did anything crazy, Gerald would've told me. But it won't hurt to mention it when I get home.

As a matter of fact, I did know,” Sheila says, waving a hand casually. “And I trust Gerald. You can talk to him all you want.”

Then she leans forward — calm, direct.

"But my husband isn’t why we’re here. You are."

That actually seems to shock her for a moment, before she regains her composure. "Oh? Now what could you possibly want with little old me?"

Sheila pauses, choosing her next words with care. Liane is already bristling at Laura’s presence, and she’s clearly not planning to make this easy for Sheila either. Which means wasting time with flattery or small talk is pointless.

Might as well get straight to the point.

"What are your thoughts on blackmail, Ms. Cartman?"

Then, slowly, a smile curls across Liane’s lips.

"My dear," she says, voice soft as silk, "if you’re looking to extort me, you’ll find there isn’t much I won’t admit to." Her eyes glint—sharp, dangerous. "I am a dirty slut, after all."

She spits the last words with venom, and Sheila can't help but empathize. Even with everything she knows… She's been there. And while plenty of things changed once she hit college, she's always had a bit of a soft spot for the outsiders.

"About that…" Sheila says, "That's actually why we're here. Word on the street is, you have dirt on a good chunk of men in town."

And some of the women too,” Liane adds with a light laugh. Her tone is teasing, but her eyes are watching closely. Calculating. "So… you want to use me for my blackmail."

She tilts her head, lips curving.

"Let me guess… this is about the Zoning Board vote on Monday?"

Laura and Sheila exchange glances.

Shit.

"We were… hoping you’d help us sway a few votes, yes," Sheila says.

Liane raises an eyebrow. "And why," she asks coolly, "would I help a group of women who have made it very clear I’m not welcome in any of their little clubs?"

Sheila can’t even argue with that.

Fair.

"…What if I put in a good word for you?" Sheila offers, grasping at straws. "I'm only here visiting, so maybe —"

Liane leans back in her chair and looks directly — pointedly — at Laura.

"I want more than just a good word. I want invitations to things that the other women do. I want in on your knitting circles, or whatever else you're calling things. Not all the time, of course — I'm not delusional, but surely you could toss me a customary invitation every once and a while?"

"Not a —" Laura starts, and Sheila shoots her a look that says Are you serious?!

"Look Liane. Even if I were going to say 'yes' to that… which I don't know if I will… There's a few people you'd need to apologize to first. At the very least."

Liane's eyes narrow. "If anyone needs to apologize, it's the men. They throw themselves at me, not the other way around."

"Oh yeah?" Laura fires back, "What about Sharon Marsh and Carol Hensley? I know what Stuart and Randy can be like, but people saw —"

"That's different," Liane looks down for just for a second.

"How exactly is it different?" Laura asks, incredulous.

That's something I'd like to know too.

Liane inhales slowly. "Look, I have nothing against Sharon and Carol. Really, I don't. I just wanted them to get angry at their —"

"— At who?" Sheila asks.

Now we're getting somewhere.

Liane hesitates, her face showing the first real emotion all night.

"— Ask your husband." She finally says. "Though I doubt that he remembers. I doubt any of them do."

She swallows. "Do you know what it's like? I was eight years old. I was just doing what my father told me to do. I had no idea that —" She blinks too quickly. Her voice catches. "— And then he and his little friends…"

She doesn't need to ask who the "he" she's referring to is.

Sheila’s known Gerald for nearly two decades now. He can be deeply loving, attentive, and a phenomenal husband — when work isn’t eating him alive. But she also knows the other side of him: how vicious he can get when he feels cornered, embarrassed, or personally wronged. And as a kid? With two of his best friends egging him on?

"I'm sorry," Sheila says, and she really means it.

Liane looks like she can't believe what she's hearing.

"What?"

"…Look, I don't know exactly what happened but… I know I'm not the person you really need an apology from."

If anyone needs to say he's sorry, it's —

It pops into her head. It feels easy. Too easy. An idea that someone in her life is not going to love — to put it mildly. But his younger self helped create this mess… so maybe his adult self can help fix it.

"…What if I get you an apology from Gerald,” she says carefully, "if you apologize to Sharon and Carol — and actually tell them why you did what you did?"

"You would get Gerald Broflovski to apologize to me? Out of the goodness of your heart?"

Her voice isn’t mocking. It’s… disbelieving. Cautious. Almost fragile.

Sheila nods. "I would. And I'll even make sure he actually looks sincere. Though it's not entirely out of the goodness of my heart — we really do need that blackmail."

Liane goes very still.

For a long moment, she just stares — like she’s trying to decide if this is a joke, or a trap, or something else entirely.

And then, slowly but surely, a wicked smile spreads across her mouth. "If you do that, I'll happily apologize myself, and tell Carol and Sharon everything."

…It's that easy?

"Wait," Laura asks, eyes lighting up, "If you're going to make Gerald grovel… Can I be there too? It's all water under the bridge for me with him — and he still seems great — but I'd have appreciated it that when he dumped me he hadn't lied and told everyone that I wouldn't put out, right when I was trying to lose my virginity."

Oh, Gerald.

Sheila and Laura both turn to Liane.

Liane only smiles wider. "The more, the merrier, they always say."

Gerald isn't going to be happy about this. In fact, he's going to be downright livid. He'll probably kvetch about it for weeks.

Tough shit.

Just this once, he can swallow his pride for a chance to improve his hometown. He can swallow his pride for her. And isn’t this exactly what the High Holidays are about? Making amends, repairing harm? Real teshuvah, not just lip service.

"Then…" Liane extends her hand across the desk. "You have yourself a deal."

Sheila takes it, firm.

Liane glances at Laura. "Both of you."

A spark of something like satisfaction flickers in her eyes.

"I’ll see you bright and early tomorrow morning."