I, obviously, claim no rights to any of the characters featured. I wish, tho.
See the end for notes.
Blood is still trickling out of your nose the first time you two actually talk to each other.
You're at the diner, and everything's fucking fine. Michael's pouting because Pete's off who knows where, gallivanting around with Makowski-probably fucking in his queen-sized, if you're being honest. And you were honest, about five minutes ago, when Michael asked where Pete was and you ran your stupid mouth about it. So, it was technically your fault Michael was now too sad to even bitch, and Firkle was staring uncomfortably into his shitty coffee.
Where were you? Oh, yeah. Everything's fine.
You're puffing on your cigarette, clouding up the stale diner air with smoke every exhale. It makes you feel better. That is, better until Joyce the Waitress clacks her heels over to your booth, obviously irritated. She stands there for a minute, glaring at you with her arms crossed and tapping her foot. You ignore her, and continue blowing smoke.
"Now, hun," she starts. She's always calling you hun, sweetie, dear. You really wish she wouldn't. "Now, hun, " she says, "You know as well as I do you ain't s'posed to be smoking in the restaurant."
You roll your eyes. Honestly, she should know by now you won't stop just because she asks. You've been doing this little back-and-forth with her since she started working here four years ago.
"Yeah, what-the-fuck-ever, Joyce," you drag her name out like a punchline, because you know that pisses her off and you really, really, really aren't in the mood to get scolded like a child by some old nagging bitch right now. "If you aren't here to give my friend here some better coffee you can go ahead and fuck right off." She just looks at you for a minute, and you only know this because your peripheral vision is great, because you refuse to look at her.
She just sighs and walks away. Weak. You always think that when you cuss her out she'll do something, because she gets this defiant, terribly fiery look in her eyes. But she never has.
You wonder what Joyce was like before she came to South Park. She just rolled into town one day, alone and broke, but supposedly had great experience with "diner service", whatever that meant. So she immediately got hired at your friends' favorite shithole. She's a huge fucking nag, but she never actually gets any of you into any trouble. She's... nice, in her own way, you suppose. Sometimes she sneaks you free shit. You tell yourself you don't care.
"I gotta go," Firkle says suddenly. You look at him and he's shoving his phone in his pocket and throwing a wad of crumpled ones on the sticky tabletop for his coffee. He slides out of the booth, giving you and Michael a two-fingered salute, and he starts for the door. "See you later, Michael," he nods to me, "Henrie-FUCK!" He hasn't even taken a full two steps when he slips on a stray puddle of water next to the table. He falls forward.
You panic. You drop your cigarette in the ashtray and dart your hands out to try and catch him, but instead get a face-full of his elbow, and your head snaps back with a sick crack!
"Oh, shit," says Michael, brought out of his pitiful stupor long enough to notice the shitshow unfolding in front of him. He ducks out of the booth to check on Firkle, where he's groaning on the floor with both hands pressed over his right eye. You sit there yourself, with both hands covering your nose. Fuck, it hurts. Pain is spiking through your entire face, radiating back into your skull and it's excruciating. You're pretty sure, however, that it's centralized from the bridge of your nose. Fuck.
You pull your hands back. They're covered with blood. "Wicked," you breathe.
"Henri?" asks Firkle, just as Joyce is running to you guys with a first aid kit and two ice packs. You look down at Michael where he's currently fussing over Firkle; hands fluttering around him everywhere, never touching, not actually doing anything but fretting and stressing everyone out. Then you look at Firkle.
God, he's dour-looking, staring up at you with watery eyes and a quivering chin. Shit. Could your day get any worse?
"I'm fine, Firkie," you lie through gritted teeth, because you know the kid's already blaming himself and feeling like an abomination, and the last thing you want is for him to have an episode.
Michael stops in his distress when he hears you, giving you an exasperatedly disbelieving look when he sees all the blood-the blood that you now feel running down your face, onto your chest, your dress. You, for a moment, get a gross twist of warped satisfaction from it, feel powerful with all this blood gushing down off your chin, but quickly lock that train of thought down. Now isn't the time; not with Firkle looking at you like you're some helpless puppy he's kicked. It's supposed to be the other way around.
"You sure?" Michael says, and you can't help but be angry at him for being such a nuisance right now.
"Yes, Mike," you seethe, glaring, and he bristles.
"Fuck you, Henrietta." He spits, propels himself up on his feet, and storms out of the diner, letting the glass door slam behind him with a bang! You know he'll get over it, and you two will be on good terms before the hour is up, but you still almost regret pulling that card. Almost.
"Fuckin' puss," you mutter, finally accepting the ice pack from Joyce. You're annoyed to find that she's looking at you again. Like you're her kid she saw falling on the playground or something, all concerned and... motherly. Gross.
You snatch the first aid kit from her when you see that she's about to open her mouth and say some bullshit that'll make you want to puke, and give her all the fury you can with your eyes until she finally sags and walks away to go refill someone's coffee, heels tapping all the same. Good, you think, that bitch should be doing her job, not pestering us.
"Okay, Firkie, lemme see," you murmured softly, motioning for Firkle to get up off the floor. He does, and he still hasn't taken his hands away from his eye, so you pry it away carefully, expecting the worst. There's a small gash on the arch of his swollen eyebrow, but it's certainly not as bad as you thought it would be. He must have hit the table when he went down, you think.
"Thanks," he rasps when you take an antiseptic wipe from the first aid kit and clean away the blood from his hands and face. "You still have, um," he gestures at his mouth, and you shake your head. "Thanks," he says again when you gently press a plain band-aid to his wound.
"Sure," you reply. Then you remember. "You said you had to go," you remind him.
"Oh, shit!" he yells. "Yeah, uh, Ike wanted me to meet him at the-at the pond, so I was just gonna-yeah," he finishes lamely. You roll your eyes.
"Get the fuck out, then," you sneer, but there's no venom in it. He pats your shoulder in camaraderie as he exits, and you yell out, "Use protection!" That gets you a middle finger over the shoulder, and then he's gone, and that's that. You resign yourself to spending the rest of the night sipping terrible coffee alone as you settle back down into the booth. That's when she walks in.
"Yeah, and then he was all, 'Well I'm the only one in this school who would,' and I-oh, fuck yeah!" You barely register the voice when it follows the chime of the bell above the door, but then suddenly Bebe Stevens' face is very very close to yours and she's grinning like a twisted maniac. You think you'd even like it if it was anyone else but her.
"What the fuck," you say, because at this point life just really isn't fair. This girl is a headache, and her presence is only serving to remind you of the fact that your face feels like someone took a meat cleaver to it. Several times.
"Can I take a picture of you for my blog?" screeches the harpy.
"Bebe, jesus," says another voice, and it's only then that you realize that Stevens didn't come alone, and Wendy Testaburger is standing behind her, blushing and pinching the bridge of her nose. Great.
"Look," you start, but it's too late. Stevens has already produced a fancy-looking camera from a designer bag and is busy snapping away at your face and the blood that's beginning to dry on it. You kind of forgot it was there, honestly, but now you've gone from vaguely horrified and very annoyed to numb.
"Wow," you say, because that's all you can say. She stops taking pictures long enough to cycle through the twenty she just took, and she looks all the part of the cat that got the cream.
"Thank you so so so, so much!" She squeals, "These are going straight to the top of the tags!" You have to draw a line in the fucking sand, dammit.
"Woah, hey, I definitely didn't agree to-" You're interrupted in your dissent by the most obnoxious ringtone you think you've ever heard; some bubble gum hip hop bullshit radiating from Stevens' tits. She pulls her phone out of her bra and instantly her face lights up.
"Shit, I gotta take this, sorry," she says, turning to Wendy and completely ignoring you. You think this must be how Pip used to feel in middle school all the time.
"Bebe, you can't just-" Wendy starts, but gives up when it becomes apparent that Stevens isn't actually listening to her either. How's that shit feel, bitch? You hiss inwardly.
"Hey, baby! ...chyeah, of course I can! I'll meet you-no, no, stay on the phone, I gotta-no, Clyde, babe, shut up a second," she's talking a mile a minute, but pauses to address Wendy again. "Hey, I gotta bounce, sorry!" Within 7 seconds she's out the door. You're actually mildly impressed at her speed in those stilettos she's sporting.
"Oh my god," mumbles Wendy, who currently has her head in her hands, peeking out between her fingers. You can't help but feel a little twinge of pity for her if that's what she puts up with on the regular, but you suppose her choice in friends is her own. So, you leer at her all the same.
"Keep your dog on a fucking leash," you snarl. To Wendy's credit, she doesn't even flinch.
"Yeah, I'm really sorry about her," she sighs. You don't really know if she's being genuine, and then she keeps talking, and you decide she most likely isn't. "Bebe just got one hundred followers on her aesthetic blog, and she's just been getting really..." She huffs like she hasn't slept in years, "...enthusiastic about it.
You don't say anything in response to that, choosing instead to revisit your cigarette from where it lay in its holder in the ashtray. You pluck it from the gray dust carefully, pleased to note you still have half of it left to go.
You pull out a match and relight the cancer stick, shaking the flame out afterward and flicking the warm match carelessly under the table. Your friends like to see how big they can make the piles between days when the diner actually gets swept. Pete still holds the record, even if he doesn't participate anymore since-well, since Makowski.
Pete doesn't smoke anymore, or get baked with you guys like he used to, and you're fairly certain it's because Vampir is as straight-edge as they come. It's whatever. It doesn't matter to you; you left all that pressurizing clique bullshit behind in elementary school. If Pete wants to get his shit together, you're actually proud of him. Firkle doesn't give a fuck either; he just misses spending time with Pete in general. The only one who's actually bothered by it is Michael.
You pause in your musings to notice that Wendy's still taking up space beside the table, just kind of staring at you. So you stare back. And casually blow smoke in her face. You hope it'll make her leave.
Because your life is at the same time totally insignificant, and also one of the shittiest cosmic jokes ever told, she doesn't.
"Are, uh. Are you, like, okay?" she stutters. Oh, right. Somehow you keep forgetting the fact that you're covered in blood. Probably because it isn't quite a novel feeling.
For a moment you don't answer, just to be a giant dick, but then heave a great sigh. And you relent. You blame it on the fact that you're tired, and her fake concern is actually a little flattering-if you don't think too much about the fact that it must be fake.
"Yeah, whatever," you deign to snap. Wendy's looking uncharacteristically sheepish; she's shifting from foot to foot, just eyeing the booth space across from you. You close your eyes. Fucking of course.
"Is it alright if I...?" She just gestures vaguely at the seat in question and you fucking lose it. On the inside. Quietly. Because it's just not worth the effort.
"It's a free country, isn't it?" You drag out every syllable, as if you were talking to a particularly idiotic toddler. "What, were you waiting for a fucking invitation?"
She shrugs and slides into the booth gracefully. "I just figured you might not want a conformist sitting with you," she shoots back. Damn, the balls on this one.
"What do you want from me, Testaburger?" you ask, because maybe you should have bared your teeth more. You hate artificial company.
Wendy just shrugs again. "Why do I have to want something from you?" She picks at a nail and pulls out a plain-looking, yellow, leather wallet. "I'm just here for coffee, and Bebe ditched." At this point you think your face might be frozen in a scowl.
"Then why sit here?" you question. Damn your curiosity; you wish you could just drop it, get up, and leave, but her audacity has you reeling. She doesn't even seem afraid of you. Her head is high, and her shoulders are squared. She looks ready to fight, sure, but not afraid, and you hate yourself for finding that nearly alluring.
"It's a free country, isn't it?" Wendy says, sounding more sure of herself than she had a minute ago, and it ruffles your feathers even more.
But you don't say anything. The blood caked on your face is beginning to dry enough to flake off every time your mouth moves, so it's just as well. You pointedly stare out the window-away from her-and after a minute Joyce comes over. Wendy tells her she wants decaf. What?
"What's the fucking point of ordering coffee at eight at night if you aren't even drinking it for the caffeine? Don't tell me you actually like the shit they serve here," you attack her. Because the only reason anyone should drink this shit is for the buzz of caffeine running through their veins, because your tired, because your face hurts, because your nose is likely broken, and because Wendy fucking Testaburger is trying to shoot the breeze with you-as if you two are fucking friendly.
She gives you a strange look, like all of this is totally normal and you're the one who's gone off the deep end. Instead of replying, she reaches over and takes the first aid kit. She pulls out a bunch of wipes and leans over the table, arm outstretched towards your face. The wipe is about to make contact with your upper lip when you fling your hand up to clamp down on her wrist. Now, she flinches.
"What the fuck do you think you're doing, Testaburger?" you growl. She doesn't back down.
"Helping," she says, calm for someone currently having the circulation to their hand cut off. You maintain eye contact for a few seconds. Then, you notice her hand is turning a bit purple, and the voices in your hand start protesting. You feel like a monster; vicious and lashing out at the hand that feeds her, even when that hand belongs to a fake bitch.
So you let her go. Wendy doesn't even pause, just presses the towelette to your lip and begins cleaning away the blood. You expect it to hurt, the attention payed to the source of your pain. You're displeased when you decide her gentle movements feel kind of nice.
She ends up wiping your lipstick off in her path down your face, and you expect her to stop when she's done with your chin, but she doesn't. She swipes the cool surface down your neck, and the sensation gives you chills. She reaches your collar bone and you have to stifle a noise; you kind of hope she didn't notice.
Not like it matters, though. You figure if she was going to be homophobic or call you out for being... receptive, she shouldn't have gone bothering the biggest dyke at school. You never get any action, not like the boys do, and the more you think about it the more you want to say fuck it and give in to the urge to just start ogling Wendy's tits. Ha, you think, maybe that would get her to fuck off.
You have to admit, at least to yourself; the bitch is really hot. She's got a figure like an hourglass, even if her ass is a little flatter than what's in style these days. That skirt she's sporting is hiding that little factor quite well, and your knee-jerk reaction is that you want to smack it. The biggest turn on for you, though, has gotta be a tie between that hair and those eyes. Hair like a pool at midnight, all sleek pitch black-cold grey eyes like a predator.
You can't remember a single time before this that you two have spoken, but you can't say you didn't know who she is. Whether or not she knew you, you don't know, but it would have been next to impossible to miss Wendy goddamn Testaburger.
Her and Bebe, the so-called co-queens of South Park High. Bebe with her looks, and Wendy with her brain-but you'd heard Stevens wasn't as idiotic as she let on, and Wendy wasn't exactly ugly herself. You'd need at least double the amount of hands you have now to count on each finger the number of time's Wendy's rallied the school up against some great injustice; she's a snake charmer.
You find yourself on a dangerous train of thought, and you almost put a forceful stop to it, but then you realize-when have you ever been one to shy away from danger?
Wendy finishes her self-appointed job of cleaning your face, and as she settles back down you decide to run a little experiment. It has by now occurred to you that the reason she's talking to the biggest dyke at school is because you're the biggest dyke at school. So you conclude that the most beneficial way to test that is to lay on your very unique brand of charm.
Your change in demeanor must be very noticeable, because as you prop your arm up on the table to rest your chin in the palm of your hand, through hooded eyelids you see her give you a once-over. And she blinks, like she can't figure out if you've been like this the whole time or what.
"Thanks," you purr out, not because you really mean it all that much, but because you know manners probably soften the defenses on this one. You let the toe of your boot lightly trail up the side of Wendy's calf, but she moves it away quickly.
Before you even have time to frown, her entire face is red and she's muttering out a choked, "Sorry, I didn't realize I was in your bubble." Oh. Gotcha.
"It's no problem," you smirk, trailing your boot up her leg yet again, this time with a bit more added pressure. "No problem at all." She gives a full-body shudder, and that's it, you've caught her, you knew she wouldn't have spared you the time of day unless she was-
"On your way out, turn the lights out, take your supermodels and your broken beer bottles," a smooth guitar riff interrupts your mantra. Wendy jumps, and quickly fishes her phone out of her bra, just like Bebe had just minutes before. She takes a look at the caller ID and grimaces.
"Shit," she curses, and accepts the call without much fanfare. "Hey, dad," she says. Immediately you can hear someone yelling on the other end, and Wendy's got her eyes shut real tight, and your maternal instincts are screaming. Fuck. This shit.
You sit there politely and let her finish the call, not that she's doing much talking. In this time you've given up with the flirtatious antics, too, because contrary to popular belief you do know when enough is enough. You of all people understand how serious parental relations can be. Someone as uptight as Wendy, her folks must be real expectant. Come to think of it, you wonder how they let her out of the house so late in the first place. It's a school night.
She puts the phone down without saying goodbye, a desolate look on her face. But it's only there for a moment, replaced by a practiced bitch face. You're familiar with the motion yourself.
"Sorry, I have to go home now," she says, sounding not at all like someone who was just chastised loudly over the phone by her father.
Out of nowhere it seems like, she produces a crisp ten and pins it under her coffee mug. Under the full mug that she didn't even get a chance to drink from. You frown. Wendy gets up from the booth and is about to stroll out of the diner altogether, but stops just as she's past you.
"Bebe left," she says, with quiet panic, staring straight ahead. "Shit," she adds, like an afterthought.
You don't even have to think hard about it. "You need a ride?" you ask softly.
She turns to look at you incredulously. "Serious?" she asks.
"Deadly," you say.
Minutes later you're both outside, trekking through the parking lot to the very back where your car is parked. When you get there, you walk around to the driver's side, leaving Wendy to fidget by the passenger door. You unlock your car door, climb in, and then have to reach over the console to unlock Wendy's door, because you couldn't afford a car with electric locks.
Your car is a shitty, run-down, black painted, peeling, rusted Chevy 2000 Cavalier. But it's your shitty Cavalier, so anyone with something to say's going to get their tires slashed.
Wendy climbs in with ease, and you admire the way her hair looks as it sways with the movement, like a dark night sky. You want to wrap it around your fist and pull, and you want to run your fingers through it under the stars. But, as Stevens would likely put it, you are "thirsty" and you convince yourself that these urges hold about as much weight as a grain of sand.
You sit there for a minute after you start your car, waiting for Wendy to buckle up-not that you ever wear yours-and give you some directions. When she does neither, though, you look over to see she's staring into nothing, lost in thought.
"Where to?" you ask her, and she blinks, as if just now realizing you don't know her address. As if just remembering that you're there. You don't know her, not really, but even an outcast goth can see that this isn't Wendy Testaburger.
"Oh, uh, 77 Lilac Avenue. Sort of by the Coffeehouse," she says, and you know where that is well enough, so you take off. Out of all your friends, you're actually the worst driver, but ironically the only one with a legitimate license. The sharp way you veer around corners or the way you speed don't seem to bother Wendy all that much, however. She must be used to Stevens or someone driving like a maniac already; Stevens seems like the type to have a real issue with road rage.
The drive is silent, save for the squeaking and groaning of your car. You think your brake pads might be grinding again, so to cover up the wince-inducing creaking you turn on the stereo. You don't bother to ask Wendy if that's what she would prefer. It is still your car, after all. You know what CD's in already, so you skip immediately to Track 03. It's Phobia, the only Breaking Benjamin album you could find at the Walmart a town and a half over.
Your car doesn't have an aux cord. So sue.
Wendy doesn't perk up much, but the glaze over her eyes disappears in the second you take your eyes off the road to glance over at her.
You're feeling really conflicted. On one hand, Wendy Testaburger is one of the conformist cornerstones of high school. On the other... you don't think she's fake. At least not anymore. Not totally. Not mostly, anyway. You can relate real strongly to her reaction to that phone call-you've been there, you know the signs. But, you don't really know her, either.
You finally pull up to her house. There's a few lights on inside, but the outside light is off. You put it in park and kill the music.
"We've arrived," you say, because you can't think of anything else. Wendy doesn't do anything for a second, but then she moves her whole body to look at you.
"Thanks," she simply says. And neither of you move. The loud hum of the run-down engine is being drowned out by your thoughts that roar without much context, without making sense or pausing long enough to let you grasp what exactly they're blaring. You each just sit there, staring at each other. You're about to call it quits and tell her to get the fuck out of your car when she leans in.
You let her kiss you. Bebe, you think, she's done this with Bebe before, and it makes sense. She takes your face in one hand and presses her lips to yours and you wish you could say that sparks fly but they don't, and all you feel is a cold wash of fear. Because Wendy Testaburger has no fucking clue what she's doing. You don't know her, not one bit, but at this point you take a leap of logical faith and decide she's genuine as fuck-and you will ruin her.
You put your hand on her shoulder, and push her away roughly. Her expression is totally unreadable.
"Don't play games you don't know the rules to," you tell her. She just leans in again-doesn't go for a kiss, but brings herself close to your ear.
"Then teach me the rules," she says.
"Wendy, shit. I'll break you," you croak, because suddenly your mouth is dry.
"What if that's exactly what I want?" she says, and she sounds so different from the Wendy Testaburger you see every day at school. She sounds as desperate as you do. Fuck.
"Fuck," you say. "Wendy, you don't get it. I won't date you. I'll be mean to you, and I won't apologize. I'll crush you and not even acknowledge it. I'll break your heart-I've done it before. I'm a fucking monster."
There was a girl before. She was from North Park. A pale, pretty, melancholy little thing; blond hair and blue eyes, but they held such a mournful darkness in them. She drew you like a moth to flame. You and the guys ran into her at the mall; you waited until they ran off to do some bullshit vandalism and you pinned her to the wall inside a Hot Topic dressing room and ate her out for forty-five minutes, until the cashier figured out what you were doing and threatened to call security. It was dirty, it was quick, it was utterly meaningless, because that's you. Then you stupidly gave her your number, told her to call anytime.
The look she gave you. The dead flowers she left on your car. You found petals in the glove box even months later. Her jewelry on the floor. Sometimes you look in the mirror, and the hickeys she left on your neck reappear. The scratches left on your back. The black eye she gave you, every other bruise from every other hit you wrung out of her. She was tiny, tinier than Wendy, and you destroyed her, she said. You were a monster. Are a monster.
You don't do relationships. You don't do them, period.
"I won't date you, Wendy. Don't expect shit from me, because I can't give it to you."
She levels you with a shy look, but she's determined.
"I never asked for anything, Henrietta," she says, and just like that, she's up and out of the car. Before she shuts the door, she ducks her head back in. "Don't be a stranger."
You swallow. "Noted." She waves, and walks away, hips swinging. You watch until she's disappeared inside her house, door shut silently behind her. You turn the radio back on and blast it, even though you aren't in the mood for this band anymore.
And you drive off.
...What the fuck just happened?
Hey, all! Gem here! Theres going to be at least... I'd say 10ish chapters to this bad boy, so stay tuned! I'd also like to write companion pieces detailing the romantic lives of Pete, Mike, and Michael, Firkle and Ike, Bebe, Clyde, and Token, Kyle and Stan, Cartman, Red, and Rebecca, Kenny and Butters, and,,,, ugh, lol theres a lot that I thought out for this universe. If I ever get around to it, you'll be the first to see it!
If you're reading my KH fic, don't expect that to be updated. I looked back on it and first person pov just isnt for me. plus, i prefer AUs anyway. so i dont think ill be revisiting that,,,, ugh,,, that thing. i wont delete it bc i know i hate that, but. ugh. yeah. i just hate it now bc the writing itself is shoddy because i was just getting back into it and e w.
please review so i know what you guys want to see more or less of! it may have a small impact on the fic! plus i love reading and replying to reviews! :)
approximate time until next chapter deployment: 3 weeks.
ALSO: POINTS TO ANYONE WHO CAN GUESS WHERE/WHAT JOYCE IS FROM WITHOUT GOOGLE! leave a review with your answer, because the answer will be revealed next chapter, along with another bonus question! whomever can get 2 bonus questions right first, without cheating(trusting yall!), will be eligible to receive a south park oneshot request from me, any pairing of your choice!*
so get to it if that interests you!
*i reserve the right to refuse pairings(though i likely wont) for any reason. same with plot. i also may ask for advice regarding your interpretation of the characters.