A/N: I had this up in a different version for awhile. I've fixed it up a bit and I'm reposting it because I like it. Loosely inspired by another fic, an AU off that other AU, if you will.
A Step Toward Morning
Every light in the small house is on, squares of gold on the white-blanketed lawn distorted by a passing shadow. The blinds are up, curtains pulled back, but the encroaching dusk still presses against Kyle Broflovski. In the milky light of a winter day he had felt confident that he would be alright alone in the house and had reassured everyone who asked of it. But as the sky begins to darken an anxious restlessness comes over him.
He paces the rooms frantically, wide green eyes watching as the sky shifts from dull white to a deeper gray. He keeps reminding himself that Cartman is dead, that nobody is going to come through that locked door and there is nothing in this house to make him think of his former prison. The windows are as unobstructed as he can make them but he flinches at every small noise in the house and sound of a passing car. Rubbing his scarred wrists, he feels the weight of Cartman's ghost on his shoulders.
If Stan could be here, he knew the night wouldn't be so bad. But Stan is in prison and won't be back for a long time. Deserving though Cartman may have been, murder is still murder.
Pacing, Kyle tries to slow his breathing and stem the onrushing panic. This is the first night in a week he's been alone, the first night in ten long years. Kyle thought he might have welcomed it, but instead he wishes fervently that he was almost anywhere else, even back in the holding cell at the station.
His eyes fall to the cell phone sitting on the kitchen counter. It was Stan's. Kyle picks it up and calls the only name in the contacts list he knows.
Leaving is never as easy as just walking away. Kenny McCormick, no longer a detective as of six hours ago, sits on his couch and tries to think of all the loose ends he needs to tie up before exiting South Park. At present, he can't even think about where to go from here. He gives up trying to sort it all out for the time being and simply stares at the blank tv screen while night settles around him.
The phone in the kitchen rings, startling a profanity out of him. He stumbles toward it in the dark.
"McCormick residence," he sounds tired even to himself.
"Kenny?"
He blinks. "...Kyle?"
He's been expecting a lot of calls; this isn't one of them. He betrayed Kyle, treated him like a criminal, even thought of him as a murderer until the evidence finally threw the truth in his face. Kenny had been certain he would never speak to Kyle again after all he's done to the poor man in the name of justice.
"Yeah, it's me," the gruff voice on the other end sounds strained.
"Look, Kyle, about all this mess..."
"It's okay. You were just doing your job. I...I understand."
"I don't know if I can ever really make it up to you, but if there's anything I can do..."
"There is," Kyle's words are rushed, as if he's trying to get them out before he can stop himself.
The rest of the conversation is brief and more than a little awkward on both ends. Still, when the phone is back in its cradle, Kenny feels a very faint smile tugging at one corner of his mouth. He drags his coat on and picks up his car keys. With a sigh, he looks back at the dark apartment before shutting the door.
"Fuck," he mutters.
Leaving isn't so hard if you aren't going anywhere.
Kyle waits in the passenger seat with the heater on while Kenny turns all the lights off in his house and locks the door. They don't say anything on the drive back to his apartment. It's early according to the clock but a weariness born of exhaustion and the thickness of a Colorado winter night weighs them both down.
"It's not much," Kenny says as he opens the door, "but my place is your place as long as you need it. Help yourself to anything in the fridge."
"Thanks," Kyle says, setting his duffel bag by his shoes near the door.
"Do you want my bed or the couch?"
The other man flinches and Kenny mentally kicks himself.
"Uh, couch."
"Sure," he hurries into his room to dig out the spare blankets. "I think these were Stan's."
A faint smile crosses Kyle's face as he takes them.
"Well..." Kenny rubs the back of his neck awkwardly. "It's been a hell of a day. I'm turning in. If you want the tv on, the remote's on the coffee table. It's not going to bother me."
"You always did sleep like a rock."
A memory of Kyle stepping on a mostly comatose Kenny at a sleep over two lifetimes ago crosses both of their minds. Both men smile.
"Wake me up if you need anything."
"Sure. Goodnight, Kenny."
"Night, Kyle."
Sometime near midnight, Kenny quietly wanders into the kitchen. The tv is on, volume low, its blue-tinted glow on Kyle's pale face. He looks small and broken, back jammed firmly against the couch cushions and puffy circles under his eyes from tears. But he is sleeping soundly, something Kenny is sure Kyle hasn't done for years. It isn't much, but even a small step forward is still progress in the right direction.
Kenny makes a mental note to talk to Kyle in the morning and quietly sets a box of tissue on the coffee table before wandering back to bed.