Archive of Our Own

A house with a big yard, a doctorate, and Stan Marsh.

The city doesn’t call her the way her parents seem to think it does. She works hard, she’s had her sights set on a PhD since elementary school, it makes sense that they think she wants to make it big. 

Really, she doesn’t care where she goes as long as she gets out. It’s not the small town, it’s not that it’s fucking freezing nine months out of the year, it’s just that it’s South Park. Tiny, overwhelmingly Catholic, everyone knows everyone which means you only ever get to be what you’ve always been South Park. She’s happy to let them think she wants to be some big shot, though, if it hurts them less. 

She just knows she wants Stan with her wherever she ends up. 

They’ve been fighting— they break up all the time, they always have, but they don’t know anything else. 

Stan’s parents argue more often than they don’t and Wendy’s parents don’t fight ever— not because they’re just that happy, Wendy isn’t even convinced they particularly like each other. They’re more like colleagues than anything else, working towards the common goal of being successful adults. 

It’s fine, really, it’s certainly not any worse a marriage than anyone else in town’s, but there’s no need to fight when you don’t really feel anything for the person you married. She’s terrified of ending up like that, and if it’s between that and dealing with painful arguments and breakups in exchange for some really wonderful periods the choice is clear. 

She’s never questioned whether her parents love her— they’re serious enough about her safety that she’s pretty sure of that, but they show it in different ways. Her dad is usually in his office, but he drives her to practice and the mall and always makes sure she has enough money on her for gas and whatever else she wants.

He’s quiet where her mother is loud. 

Very loud. 

About her grades, her hair, her clothes, her food. Something is always wrong. Her mother wants what’s best for her, that’s what Wendy always tells herself, and she’s happy to act the part to avoid making waves— even if that means she’s never really honest with either of her parents. 

As far as they’re aware she’s a virgin who’s never tasted alcohol or cigarettes or god forbid anything else and starts every day off with five Hail Marys, and that’s the way it will stay if she has anything to do with it.

Telling Stan’s friends they would be taking a separate car to the drive in was kind of an ordeal, though, breaking off from the group together is always kind of an ordeal. There’s always some comment from one of the boys about how they’re off to go “stick their tongues down each others throats,” which Wendy always thought was a misleadingly unpleasant way to describe one of her favorite activities. 

Kissing Stan is fun. 

The first time they ever kissed hardly counted, they were nine, it was lightning quick, and Stan threw up immediately. They didn’t do it again until middle school, and it didn’t become regular until the summer before their freshman year. 

She likes the way he touches her when he’s really into it, which is most of the time. He’s hungry for touch, always has been, and when he has his hands on her waist it’s only a matter of time before they slip under the hem of her shirt to touch her skin, hold her by the ribs, sometimes trail up a little higher if they’re in one of their rooms or otherwise alone. 

If they’re left to their own devices for long enough like today, it turns into a game of who can pull the most noise out of the other. Stan thinks her spots are so easy, but that’s hardly fair— sitting comfortably at second base involves a lot more sensitive areas for girls than it does guys. Stan’s are easier than he’d like to think, anyway. Listening to him try to stay quiet when she sucks the pulse point under his jaw between her teeth is one of the greater joys of her life.

“Wen— Fuck, Wendy, slow down.”

She draws back to sit on her heels over his knees. His hands slip off of her hips with the motion of it and he’s already reaching for her again to play with the hem of her skirt. 

They’re in the backseat of his truck, parked in the back corner of the drive in. They barely made it past finding the right radio station for the audio (more of a kind gesture to the filmmakers than anything else) before making their way back into the cab. 

Stan loves this truck— it’s an old one of his uncle’s, a gift for his fifteenth birthday to practice driving in. Of course, once he got the hang of it it was a matter of weeks before he was taking it out on the road because no one’s checking licenses unless you go out of town, Wendy, it’s fine. Not that that’s an issue anymore with the shiny new driver’s license in Stan’s wallet. 

Wendy really loves the truck too. It’s a little shred of proper privacy— boys are expressly forbidden from Wendy’s room (not that that’s stopped her from sneaking Stan in) and while Wendy is allowed in Stan’s, Sharon and Randy try to act like parents every so often so his door has to be open. 

So she’ll take the little truck cab any day. It doesn’t have doors, which means the sides are a little more comfortable to lean against. Stan’s propped up against one of them so he can stretch his legs out across the seats and she’s been settled on top of his thighs ever since. He’s got a nice set of marks on his neck, cleverly placed so he can hide them with a hoodie— she thinks of everything.

“What’s wrong?” 

He’s got this look on his face, a little pinched. He’s pressing his fingers into her thighs like he needs her closer again but he keeps blinking like looking at her is hurting his eyes.

“Just— need a second.” 

Oh. 

Wendy very politely doesn’t look at his lap, just rubs circles into his hands and pretends to pay attention to the movie.

Apparently it’s about spies. 

A little ways into their junior year, Wendy and Stan come up with a scheme to have a sleepover. His parents are much less likely to kill them both if they get caught, so they decide he’ll sneak her into his room on a weekend and she’ll tell her parents she’s at Bebe’s and drop her smart watch off at her house on the way for her location. 

She parks down the street and tries to shake out her nerves on the way. She’s spending the night in her boyfriend’s bed after all, maybe he’s expecting something. Something she thinks she might be ready for, but she doesn’t have condoms or birth control or anything close to expertise, and what if she bleeds on his sheets or does something weird or— God, what if she’s bad at it? Can girls be bad at it? Bebe says they can’t, but as much as she loves Bebe (which is a lot, they still wear friendship bracelets they made when they were eleven) Wendy’s not sure she believes her about this.

She realizes she should’ve known better than to worry when she slips into his side yard and he smiles at her the same as he always does.  She kisses him and his face is soft, his hair’s still a little damp and his clothes smell nice. After a slightly harrowing minute and a half sneaking upstairs, they’re home free behind a locked door for the night. He shows her the extra blankets he swiped from the living room because she always complains about being cold and the water bottles on the floor by his bed because she always has one with her.

She’s overwhelmed, a bit, with how much she loves this boy. 

“You want a shirt to sleep in?” He’s already making for his dresser and she can’t help but smile. She brought pajamas— her nicest set, actually, but she loves Stan’s clothes, how can she say no?

“Depends.” When he looks up and tilts his head he reminds her of one of those black and white border collies. 

“On what?” 

“If you’re gonna want it back anytime soon.” She’s not sure how it’ll land, but that earns her one of her favorite expressions of Stan’s. He grins at her, lopsided and warm. Like indulging her really is his favorite thing to do.

“Keep it as long as you want, as long as I get to see you wearing it.” 

He does. On facetime and in goodnight selfies when she wears it to sleep, after games when she wants something to throw over her uniform. 

If it was up to her, she’d ask for his dark grey spiderman shirt— she loves it on him and it’s so soft, the only problem with that is that he’s already wearing it.

“You pick.” 

He lights up a little bit and starts rifling through his drawer— what he picks is predictable in a way that makes the whole room feel warm. Wendy’s found that Stan loves her in light cool colors. He thinks she’s pretty in everything, he’s made that much incredibly clear, but when she really wants to grab his attention picking from the white, blue, or purple parts of her closet is a sure bet. The one he picks is light blue, a little threadbare, and the most comfortable thing she’s ever worn. 

That night she sleeps facing Stan with her arms around his middle. One of his arms is under her head like a pillow, the other is slung over her ribs. Every so often he kisses her forehead. 

Wendy wants a harp at their wedding.

Wendy wakes up first. They’ve shifted a little in the night, and the first thing she sees is Stan’s face, more relaxed than she’s ever seen it. All she can think about for a moment is how beautiful he is. His curtains are thin, warm morning light streaming in across his face. She’s studied him at length, when he is and isn’t looking. She knows every line of his face, watched it change into what it is now in real-time slow motion. This is something new. 

His jaw’s been getting sharper and his hair’s getting longer. She’s sure he’s going to get wrinkles prematurely with all the scrunching he does with his face— lucky for him, she’s pictured it and wrinkles are going to look great on him. Bastard. 

She goes to mass because it makes her parents happy, but it’s never made her feel anything quite like this. She thinks, barely awake, that she’d rather get married outside but she wouldn’t mind a church either. 

She’s thankful it’s Saturday. Nowhere for either of them to be, so she’s free to look at him as long as she likes.

Eventually, Stan shifts and instinct hits her. She brushes his hair out of his face, feather light, and he stirs. He cracks his eyes open and squeezes her waist, smiling before he’s even awake enough to open his eyes all the way. 

There aren’t many ways she wouldn’t let him touch her. Being in the same relationship since elementary school has come with an easy intimacy; a space in his lap always open for her to take up, a space on her back always open for his hand. When it comes to touch from Stan, she’s more than comfortable.

So she isn’t sure what it is. Maybe it’s his hands, the fact that his shirt has ridden up her side so she can feel his calluses on her skin, maybe it’s the warm look in his eyes, maybe it’s the fact that she just slept in his bed, pressed against him for hours in just his shirt and her underwear without feeling anything but safe and comfortable, but the motion sends a zip through her. She feels exposed, suddenly nervous. She’d have sex with him right now if he wanted, she realizes. 

But she doesn’t know how to tell him that, and she’d rather not have her first time with morning breath, so maybe it can wait. He’s smiling at her a little wider now. 

“What?” It’s the first word between them in almost ten hours. She wanted it to come out accusatory, but too much affection bleeds through. 

“You’re cute.” He squeezes her waist again and she can’t help it this time, she moves forward and plants her face in his chest. She gets to feel him laugh there, he kisses the top of her head and holds her tighter. 

They stay like that for a long time. It’s still early, and before she knows it she’s falling asleep again thinking about how if everything goes right every morning of every weekend of her adult life could be just like this one. 

Wendy has never had a good relationship with Randy Marsh. She’s never liked the way he talked to Stan and she certainly doesn’t like the way he looks at her when he’s been drinking lately.

These days she hardly sees him, on the rare occasions he’s actually home when she comes over Stan hurries her past him in the living room on the way up to his bedroom. She wonders if he caught on, if he overheard one of several mumbled comments, but him not wanting to hang around with Randy doesn’t surprise her even if he didn’t. Things have never been good between them— Stan hasn’t referred to him as his dad since he was twelve, but there’s a level of tension now that there wasn’t before since the last time Randy left for all of three weeks before he came crawling back to Stan’s mom. Something that sits heavy in the air when he talks about him and heavier when they’re in the same room. 

It’s 2:37 Sunday morning when she wakes up to her phone ringing. 

“Stan?” 

“Hey.” 

“Are you okay? Where are you?”

He has the nerve to sound embarrassed. 

“Your roof.” 

Wendy’s at her window before she knows it and she swears she can feel her heart stop behind her ribs when she sees Stan crouched on the little ledge of roof by her window with his left cheek swollen and red. Her first instinct is to climb out the window herself to look him over, but he isn’t wearing a jacket. 

“Come here, come in.”

He doesn’t fight her on it, just nods and lets her brush his hair out of his face when he’s inside. One mark on his face but it’s only getting darker. He’s got a bruise on his upper arm and his knuckles are split in a few places, but he doesn’t need a hospital. She slips out to get him some painkillers and band aids before ushering him into her bed.  

When Stan’s having a hard time, the best thing Wendy can do is run her fingers through his hair while he lays on her chest. It took him a long time to be able to ask for it, but to be honest she never really needed him to. The world is not kind to Stan, she doesn’t understand how anyone else wouldn’t get it. Sometimes she feels like she can see little imaginary bandages loosely holding him together. He’s sturdy and strong but he’s fragile inside. She thinks she may have used at least half of the luck she’ll ever get in life getting to see that. 

Some night in the first few months where they started sneaking each other into their respective bedrooms he couldn’t sleep, changing their positions for almost an hour before she made her way underneath him and pulled his head down to her chest.

It was like an off switch. Dead asleep for nine hours, she swears.

If bandages can’t hold him together that’s okay, she’ll do it herself.

So it’s natural for her to lie down first, get situated and comfortable (because if all goes well she’ll be stuck in her spot for at least a few hours) and open up her arms when she’s ready. The sigh he lets out when he rests his right cheek on her sternum sends little hairline fractures across her heart— he’s exhausted, but he doesn’t settle right away. 

If he’d been fighting a friend he would’ve just said so, and headshots have been strictly forbidden among the group since Butters ended up with a concussion in middle school. This has Randy written all over it, so it’s delicate. She sits quietly, working a knot out of the muscle between his shoulder and neck with her fingers, and eventually he mumbles out what she was sure of before, that he’d gotten into a fight with his dad, that they’d both been drinking and the neighbors threatened to call the cops so he left.

She hesitates before asking him if he even wants to see his dad anymore. They’re seniors, they’re eighteen, her parents certainly wouldn’t approve but she’s the two-time MVP of the debate team, she could persuade them into letting him stay in the guest room for a while if they knew everything— they’d probably make her tape up her door or something, but if that’s what it took. 

But Stan loves his mom, it would kill him to leave her with Randy.

He confesses in the dark of her room that when he still believed in God he used to pray for his dad to leave. Drop off the face of the earth and never come back so he and his family could have some peace for once.

There isn’t anything she can say. She kisses the top of his head, tells him how much she loves him, that they’ll figure it all out in the morning, and pets his hair until she can feel his breath even out. 

If it’s too obvious that someone leaves an anonymous tip the next morning that Randy’s been driving drunk with his kids in the car, Stan doesn’t mention it. He asks her to come over the night Randy gets arrested, and if she thinks she hears him whisper a thank you but deny saying anything when she asks, she doesn’t mention it. He holds her a little tighter than usual that night. 

Randy will not be invited to their wedding. 

The world isn’t kind to Stan, but sometimes Wendy isn’t either. 

She has weird triggers— for her jealousy and insecurity and stupid pride, and sometimes it seems like Stan thinks pulling them is the funniest thing in the world. Then she flies off the handle into a fight that ends with her breaking up with him for all of a week and letting the guilt eat her alive until she can face him again. He always seems miserable. She hates it. 

She doesn’t think he realizes how much it actually bothers her. Actually, she knows he doesn’t because if he did he wouldn’t do it, but if she told him he’d feel like a shitty boyfriend and spiral for days, so she doesn’t know what to do with the feeling.

She has this fear that one day someone will notice how wonderful Stan is. Someone nicer and prettier and better for him than Wendy could ever be, and then she’ll lose him for good. Of course it’s the times this particular thought is repeating over and over in her head that he makes some joke about kissing a friend she knows he’s kissed before while they were broken up and suddenly she’s upset and he doesn’t know why. Rinse and repeat. 

But they haven’t fought— not really, not like that, in a long time. Things are good and little by little it doesn’t feel like waiting for the other shoe to drop.  

Apparently Wendy’s been playing dutiful daughter exactly right too, because her when her parents happened to each have a trip at the same time (golf for her dad, work for her mom) they leave the house to her, no supervision. 

She and Stan have a nice date— a little picnic at Stark’s pond. His eyes are the exact same color as the water, she’s always thought so, and he’s looking up at the sky with his brow a little pinched. 

“It’s gonna rain.” He sounds annoyed, which she shouldn’t think is as adorable as she does. 

“That’s okay.” 

She puts her hand on his leg but he just pouts. 

“But I don’t wanna go home yet.” 

She smiles to herself— this is always her favorite part about surprising him.

“Actually,” She starts, leaning into him so their shoulders touch. “My parents both left town for the week this morning.” 

He whips his head down to look at her. expectant and bright like an excited puppy. 

“I was thinking if you say you’re sleeping at Kyle’s and then Kenny’s we could have a couple nights to ourselves.” 

She barely gets the words out before he’s helping her up to her feet on the dock, then decides she isn’t walking fast enough and picks her up with her laughing his name. 

Stan was right, it’s fucking pouring. They have to run shouting from his car to the door and even then they both end up soaked. He hugs her from behind while she unlocks the door and blames it on being cold, but she doesn’t need an excuse.

The feeling is high and heavy in her chest. She wants her life to look like this. All of it.

She at least manages to get him to put on some dry clothes before he makes himself at home in her bed, and he’s asleep holding one of her many Hello Kitty plushes by the time she’s done drying her hair. 

She loves him so much it hurts. 

She slips into bed behind him slowly and loops her arms around his stomach— Wendy can see why he loves holding her like this so much. She can feel every breath under her hands and put her face in his warm back. She only feels a little bad about it waking him up.

“Hey, Wens.” His voice is so soft it makes her chest ache.

“Hi.” The word is muffled into his back and he fumbles around a little looking for her hand, then breathes deep when he finds it. She’s ready to sleep the rest of the day away when he speaks. 

“I’m really gonna miss this.”

She pulls her head back and he holds her hand tighter. 

“What?” 

He hums and she can hear the frown in it. 

“This. I’m gonna hate college if I can’t have this.” 

Wendy thinks about that a lot. They’re going to different schools and Stan’s is fHe has a baseball scholarship, he’s gonna need to give it everything he’s got, and with her degree plan she won’t have much free time either. It’s scary. 

She squeezes her arms around him. 

“I’m gonna facetime you so much you’ll get sick of me.”

“I could never get sick of you.” 

That’s probably true, he’s been putting up with her for almost 10 years.

“Watch.” 

He laughs and the tension breaks, then he gets quiet and it settles again. He shifts a little.

“You’ll really call?” 

She kisses his back, then again and again. It’s all she can reach. He doesn’t seem to mind though, the back of his neck is turning pink.

“Every day. We’ll have breaks and visits,” She kisses him again. “We’re gonna be okay.” 

He settles down in her arms and kisses her hand. She might explode.

“Okay.” 

Looking at her life, Wendy thinks she might just get everything she’s ever wanted. Really, though, she would sacrifice the big yard as long as her house has Stan in it. 

The harp, however, is non-negotiable.