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When Kenny McCormick drinks he is not a kind person. Not to say that he's terrible or bad or selfish. See, alcohol always unmasks a person, grating away the layers until the rawness of their personality is the only thing left. Vodka brings out the truth.
So no, Kenny is not inherently a horrible human being, it's more that deep down inside, he's testy. Better put, fed up.
It's two in the morning on a Friday night. The bar is pleasantly full, not too packed but not too empty either. People mingle around him, laughing raucously and dancing naughtily. The old jukebox in the corner is blasting old seventies rock songs, loud and full of twangy guitar. The music is backdropped by clinking glasses and the hiss of beer taps.
Kenny runs his pinky down the edge of his mug, tracing his name into the watery condensation. He takes a hearty swig and sways a bit. This is either his sixth or seventh drink, but he can't be too sure. Either way, the bartender seems to have decided that it's enough.
“C’mon, Lloyd, one more,” he slurs, pushing his empty glass forward. It teeters precariously. Lloyd jumps forward to catch it. He shakes his head at Kenny.
“I'm sorry man. I don't want you dead in the back of an alley.”
Kenny finds this extremely funny, because it's not like being dead in the back of an alley isn't something he hasn't experienced.
Leaning forward, he gives Llyod his classiest gesture, middle finger tall and proud.
“Fuck you, Llyod. I can handle my liquor.”
Lloyd rolls his eyes, but by then, Kenny isn't paying attention, because a woman near the door is shouting and pointing at something, and then, all at once, everyone in the bar surges forward with excitement.
“It's the mysterion signal!” someone shrieks, and the bar explodes with noise.
“Shit,” Kenny mutters. He digs into his coat pocket and slaps two twenties on the counter, more than enough to cover his bill.
He shoves his way through the crowd, earning angry glares, yelps, and a few sailor-like phrases.
The room is spinning and his head feels like it's stuffed with lead, its only mission to collide with the ground. He grits his teeth and keeps his eyes trained on the exit sign, using the people around him to steady himself.
It's an eternity before he practically falls out of the side door, breathing heavy.
Sure enough, the mysterion distress signal shines bright against the cloudy skyline, a glaring question mark framed by a black night.
Kenny flips up his parka hood and pulls the strings tight, cocooning himself away from the sleet that rains down in sheets. He begins power-walking towards his apartment.
The cold bites into his cheeks and fingers. Every part of him feels numb, save for the steady burn in his belly.
His haste sobers him a little, though he can't move as fast as he'd like, what with being drunk as a motherfucker and walking on an ice coated sidewalk.
And fuck, he's pissed. He's pissed as hell.
One night! One fucking night of peace and quiet!
But no. The people of Colorado continue to wreak havoc in an infuriatingly expected way.
After two blocks of muttering to himself and stumbling crookedly down alleyways, Kenny finally stands before his apartment door. He fumbles with the keys and curses as he drops them. It takes nearly fifteen minutes to unlock the door, whereupon he dumps his coat on the ground and rushes to his laptop.
The bright white of the screen makes his head ache searingly. With frost bitten hands he types in his passcode and pulls up a hidden file. The computer beeps profusely, and a red pinpoint stares up at him from a digital map.
He googles the coordinates, his fingers flying over the keys.
Kenny blinks at the screen, then rubs at his eyes.
No...that can't be right.
Either he's drunker that he thought, or those coordinates lead right to South Park, more specifically, the Stotch residence.
Memories dance behind his eyes and his throat tightens painfully.
He slams the laptop closed and runs to his closet. His tattered mysterion suit hangs there modestly.
Kenny tugs on the ensemble hastily, though the process is slower than he'd like, thanks to the seven beers.
Belatedly, he realizes that he's too drunk to take his own car, and that he’ll have to take a taxi for the hour drive up to Park County.
The damn fare will be sure to burn a hole straight through his wallet, but he knows he doesn't have a choice.
He dials the cab company and races downstairs, grabbing his wool gloves as an afterthought.
Of all nights, trouble had chosen this one.
This better be a good enough reason to drag him all the way out to South Park. Better be good as hell to make him work on a night off.
_______
The bright yellow taxi cab straddles the curb as it jerks to a stop. Kenny thanks the driver in his false Mysterion voice, and tips the guy well.
As soon as he steps out into the street, the cab pulls out and flies away. Mysterion watches it receded into a prick of yellow, until it disappears entirely.
He turns to the house before him.
Not much has changed about the Stotch household since his last visit, at least from the outside. There's a fresh coat of paint over the front door and awning, and it seems Stephen has treated himself to a new Buick. Other than that, everything is exactly as he remembers it.
All the little houses on the street are blanketed with white. The snow is so clean compared to the grey slush back in Denver. It's hard to see much else since flurries rain down, silent but determined. He knows the home he grew up in (if you could even call it a home), is a short walk from here, just beyond the out of commission train tracks.
His parents are still living there, and Karen, too. He knows he the visit he owes them is long overdue, but tonight, he's here for a different reason.
He turns back to the home of one of his closest childhood friends. Everything is so silent that he finds it hard to picture any dilemma at all, but he knows from experience that the quieter the outside, the more dysfunctional the inside.
Mysterion pulls a switchblade out from the hidden pocket in his cape. He begins to pick the lock on the front door, the sounds of small clicks and scrapes his only companion, what with such an empty night.
A small whimper stops him dead in his tracks.
At first he thinks he's hearing things, but there it is again – only this time it's more of a sob.
Tucking the switchblade back into its slip, he creeps to the edge of the house, until his back is pressed against the picket fence leading to the back yard.
Mysterion does not consider himself religious, but in that moment, he crosses himself, fearing the worst.
He's definitely sobered up now.
First, he tries things the old fashioned way, simple tugging at the fences handle. As expected, it appears that the buildup of snow and ice has frozen the hinges over.
Mysterion scrambles up the side and drops into the powdery white on the other side.
He stops, listening.
The crying is louder now, clearly coming from the shed in the corner of the yard.
He races towards it, though it's impossible to move quickly with snow this deep. When he finally reaches the shed, he curses. The handles are chained and sealed with heavy padlocks.
The crying stops abruptly and he wonders with horror of the individual on the other side of these doors has chosen this moment to keel over in death.
This thought spurs him into action, and he begins picking at the locks with fevered determination.
It feels like an eternity and a half has passed before the second padlock finally clicks open.
With shaking hands, he unwraps the chains from the door handles. And he realizes he hasn't ever been this afraid in his life. He's taken on armed burglars, bloods, crips, rapists, serial killers, murderers, and everything in between, but this – this is what reduces him to a shivering, terrified mess.
The door shudders on its hinges, stuck with frost.
And there's nothing there.
Mysterion stands there in bewilderment, staring at the floor of the shed. He's ready to turn back, to call this a drunken mistake, when he could swear that the tarp on the ground moves.
He crouches down and pulls the tarp away swiftly. Curled up on the ground underneath is a person, wearing nothing but a thin, filthy tshirt and boxer shorts.
Mysterion presses two fingers to the inside of the person's neck. There's a pulse, but it's scarily slow and faint. He rolls the body onto its back and has to bite back bile as he recognizes the face.
Butters Stotch is gaunt. His lips are blue and his skin is bloodless. There's a collar wrapped around his neck and his wrists are bound clumsily with zip-ties.
Mysterion – no – Kenny, scoops Butters into his arms, shedding his cape and wrapping it around Butter’s limp form.
It dawns on him with horror that he may have arrived too late.
________
Kenny puts his fingers under the running bath faucet, testing the temperature. It's pleasantly warm, not too hot but not too cold. He lets the water run and leaves the bathroom door ajar, heading to his bedroom.
Still unconscious, Butters lies in a heap of blankets in the center of his bed. Kenny takes his pulse again, just to reassure himself that there isn't a corpse lying on his mattress. He feels a steady thrum under his thumb and forefinger, and breathes a sigh of relief.
Emotions flood through him, most of them feelings of rage. He’s furious because he wouldn't put something like this above Linda and Stephen, furious that they'd freeze their only child to near death just to teach him some sort of twisted lesson.
Bitterly, he carries Butters to the bathroom, propping him up on the lid of the toilet seat.
The collar around his neck is like nothing Kenny has ever seen. It’s made of cloth and looks completely normal save for the two metal prongs that press against Butter’s neck. Angry red-purple splotches run up and down the entire length of skin.
Kenny runs back to his bedroom and rummages through the drawer of his nightstand until he finds his other switchblade. It's smaller than the one he keeps in his cape, which lies in a violet puddle at the foot of his bed. The only thing he’s decided to keep wearing from his Mysterion ensemble the mask over his eyes, just in case Butters decides to awaken anytime soon. He's not sure if he’s ready to reveal that Mysterion’s alter ego is small town Kenny McCormick, especially to someone he's grown up with.
Kenny flips the knife open and heads back to the bathroom. The mirror is cloudy with steam. Butters is still out cold, his head lolling against the tiled wall. Kenny swallows past the sick rising in his stomach and cradles Butters head in the palm of his left hand, using the right to saw through the zip ties, and then the collar. The material is tough and persistent, but he manages to get it off after a few minutes of struggle.
With the collar out of the way, Kenny can see the full extent of the odd marks on Butter’s neck. They look almost like burns, though this is far worse than any burn Kenny has ever seen. The skin is raised and bubbled, completely raw and bleeding in some places.
Taking a sharp breath, Kenny reaches forward and turns the tap, cutting the water off. It makes the room uncomfortably silent, the only sound a steady drip of the receding leftover water at the edge of the tap.
And poor Butters is a sight for sore eyes. Kenny pulls the filthy shirt off of him, leaving the boxers on. He slips a forearm under Butter’s knees and the other around his shoulders, setting him into the water as carefully as possible. Dirt lifts off his skin in ribbons, revealing the pale-as-milk complexion underneath.
Kenny is at least 85% sure that Butters is hypothermic, and he’s glad for that World War Two history semester in high school, because at least he knows that in order to treat hypothermia, you need to take a hot bath.
He holds Butters head above the water. As soon as he starts wondering if he should get him to a hospital, Butter’s eyes crack open. He stares up at Kenny with wide, confused baby blues.
“Mysterion…?”
“It's okay, citizen. You're safe here,” Kenny says in his gruff Mysterion falsity. He tries to give him a small smile but it’s more of a grimace.
Butters sinks down into the water, teeth chattering violently. His eyes are blank, and he has what Kenny’s friends in the police force call “the thousand yard stare”.
“Can you tell me what happened?” Kenny asks carefully. He isn't graced with an answer. Sighing, he sits on the ground, back pressed to the wall. “Do you want me to take you to the hospital?”
Butters shakes his head softly. He doesn't move to get out of the tub, or do anything, really. He just sits there.
Kenny leans forward, rocking onto his knees. He's dealt with people like this before. It's like the time his sister came home from a party at Ruby Tucker’s house, unseeing. She just holed up in her room until Kenny had forced her to eat something and had helped her take a shower. There were bruises on her thighs and hips. He didn't have to ask her what had happened. The violence on her skin spoke plenty.
He knows Butters is not going to ask for help, let alone help himself. So Kenny begins washing Butter’s silvery blonde hair. He lathers and rinses it, picking out the leaves and twigs with his fingers until it's soft again. He scrubs the dirt out of Butter’s marred chest and arms, and when he gets to the burns, he stops. Those require peroxide and gauze and special attention. He cuts the boxers away from Butter’s skin, knowing the poor guy is too out of it to care.
There's extra towels under his sink. Kenny grabs one of them and lifts Butters out of the tub, not caring that his clothes are soaking wet with bath water at this point.
He kicks his bedroom door open and sets Butters down in the middle of his bed.
Kenny heads to the kitchenette, bumping around until he finds his first aid kit. Luckily there's some gauze and tape left, and a bit of rubbing alcohol.
When he returns, Butters is sitting up against the headboard of his bed, knees pulled up to chest. He's still shaking, though Kenny doesn't know if it's from nerves or the temperature. He cranks the heat up anyways, and sits down beside Butters, tearing the pad of rubbing alcohol out of its paper sachet.
“This is going to sting a little,” he warns. Butters blinks.
Kenny gently dabs the raised skin, and Butters flinches at the touch.
“I'm sorry man,” Kenny says softly. He's dropped the Mysterion voice, in favor of something less rough. His regular voice is kinder.
He works silently, spreading sticky neosporin over a strip of cottony white gauze. He holds it to the side of Butters neck, smoothing the tape down with his thumb. He lets his hand linger there, watching Butter’s face.
There are dark circles under what used to be bright blue. The color in Butters eyes is dull, much duller than what Kenny remembers. There's no innocence left there, he realizes.
Something flickers across Butter’s face, and Kenny wonders for a brief second if Butters realizes who Mysterion really is.
He chuckles bitterly to himself. Not much use in hiding his identity at this point, is there? He's not Mysterion anymore, but a childhood friend lost somewhere between time and responsibility.
“I'll go get you something to wear,” he says, pushing himself up. He rummages through his dresser and pulls out a black, long sleeved thermal shirt and some sweatpants.
Butters lets Kenny dress him, even lets Kenny dry his hair until it sticks up in wild blond tufts.
“Thank you, mister… Uh, Mysterion.”
The words are so sudden that Kenny snaps up. He smiles, a real smile this time.
“No problem. Do you want to know who I am, though? Because we're not strangers, Butters Stotch.”
“We’re… we’re not…?”
“No, we’re not.”
Kenny slips the mask off his face and runs a hand through his hair, suddenly feeling shy in an uncanny, foreign way.
"Kenny? Kenny McCormick?,” Butters asks, eyes the size of the moon.
“Yep.”
“You're Mysterion?”
“Well… Gee whiz,” he breathes. Kenny laughs. Now that the expression is back in Butter’s face, Kenny notices all the ways he’s changed since they graduated high school together three years ago. His jawline is more defined, and his eyebrows are more drawn together. It doesn't look good on him, the worry.
“I can't believe it. I don't,” Butters grins. Five years drop right off of his face with that smile.
“Well, believe it,” Kenny says, standing up and spreading his arms wide. He clears his throat and says, “It is I, Mysterion,” in his fake, Batman-esque voice.
Butters smiles, but then his face falls, and he gets serious.
“Thanks for getting me out of there, Ken.”
“Hey, it's my job. The Denver police even pay me for it these days. But as a friend, you're welcome. The only thing you should be sorry for is failing to keep in touch for so long.”
“Aw, gee, I really meant to email you and the other guys, but I don't have any wifi or anything.”
Kenny sits beside him, shaking his head. “Don't take it so seriously, Butters. It's fine, I just think I oughta make the drive up to park county now and then. You're not the only I need to visit.”
“Yeah, people always ask your sister how you're doing and she gets annoyed because she doesn't know any more than they do.”
“Karen probably wants nothing to do with me at this point,” Kenny chuckles. He knows that's not true, though. He and Karen video chat all the time. He's so glad to have her. Growing up, it felt like it was just them two against the world.
God, Butters must be so damn alone. He doesn't even have any siblings to suffer alongside him.
“Why are you looking at me like that?” Butters asks.
“Like what?”
“Like I'm, I don't know, like I'm some sort of kicked puppy.”
“You're not a kicked puppy, Butters,” Kenny says quietly.
Uncomfortable silence hangs between them.
“Well, I'm going to go sleep on the couch,” Kenny announces, standing up. “Feel free to crash here as long as you need to, Butters,” he says, and turns to go.
“Wait,” Butters says sharply, grabbing his arm. “Stay here, Ken.” he says softly. It's more of a question than a command.
Kenny hesitates, then climbs into bed beside him.
Butters pulls the covers over the both of them.
Kenny realizes how exhausted he is. It must be five in the morning, and he's still slightly buzzed from the drinks he had earlier.
“I can't believe you're Mysterion,” Butters whispers, breaking off this train of thought. He's close enough that Kenny can feel the words against his ear. It stirs up some pretty inappropriate thoughts that he has to wrestle away.
“You're famous, you know that? Everyone in South Park is crazy for you,” Butters says. He yawns and shifts his weight so that his head is resting on Kenny’s shoulder.
All the drunken fog clears from Kenny’s mind in that moment. He's hyper-aware of the feeling of Butter’s hair on the skin of his collarbone, still slightly damp from being washed. He smells clean. Kenny watches those periwinkle blues fall closed.
Kenny wraps his arms around Butters, holds him. He's not sure which one of them needs it more, but it doesn't feel awkward the way it should after three years of being out of touch. If feels like nothing's changed at all.
God help Linda and Stephen Stotch, because he was going to beat the fucking shit out of the two of them first thing in the morning.
_________
Kenny wakes up with a bitch of a hangover. His head throbs and his mouth feels drier than the Arizona desert, but the worst part is that he's freezing cold.
The space next to him is empty. Butters in gone.
Kenny pushes himself out of bed, unsurprised by this turn of events. It's not the first time he's been abandoned come sunrise, though usually the circumstances are a little different. He brushes his teeth as he sizes himself up in the mirror. His eyes are bloodshot, and there are deep, dark crescents beneath them, plus he desperately needs a shave.
It's only as he bends to retrieve his razor from the cabinet that he notices all the bloody gauze and tape on the floor. He kicks it to the side and turns on the sink, lathering up his neck and face.
After shaving he feels more normal, and definitely less like death now that he's clean. All he needs now is a shitload of coffee and a handful of aspirin to chase the hangover away.
The oven clock tells him that it's three in the afternoon. Thank god he doesn't work on Saturdays.
Kenny sits himself down on his sofa, cradling a hot mug of joe in his hands. He takes a sip before setting it down on the coffee table and switching the TV on.
The local news anchors face stares back at him. He watches as someone off screen hands her a paper. She reads it over and her eyes widen.
“We interrupt this story to bring you breaking news. A couple has been brutally murdered in a small town known as South Park, Colorado. Police have no leads as of yet and we urge you to call your local police if you have any information.”
A photo of none other than Mr and Mrs Stotch flash onto the screen. Kenny's eyes bug out, and he has that thought that only deadbeat drunks and those afflicted with Alzheimer's can have – did I do that?
Randy Marsh comes onto the screen with a reporter holding a mic up for him. Sharon clutches onto his arm, frantically wiping tears off her cheeks.
“Stephen and I used to get drinks all the time. We were friends, we've been friends since birth. He and I grew up together, went to school together. He was always such a good guy. I don't know what kind of monster would do something like this.”
Kenny switches the TV off and digs the heels of his hands into his closed eyes.
There weren't any bloodstained clothes or weapons lying around this morning, so he couldn't have done this.
But if he hadn't done it…. Who had…?
Butter’s sweet face and not-so-innocent eyes flash into his mind.
But Butters Stotch is not capable of murder. He's one of the few good guys left that Kenny knows.
So who?
Kenny takes a sip of his coffee. It's bitter and burns his tongue.
Fuck, he could really use a damn beer.