A/N (at the start this time oh yes) – This story, this might be weird, I think. I'm not sure. It's multichaptered, and from Craig's POV. It might be bad. I'm not used to Creek, but I give anything a go, so I'll give it a go. I just hope it'll not be a total wham-flop OOC failure. Also, I'm in Uni again, so updates might be a bit schizophrenic. Neyway, hullo again. I hope you enjoy.


"Just… Just make me a poached egg. Just make me a poached egg, and we'll say he did a study on the different cooking processes associated with eggs. He's already made an omelette, he's boiled one, he's scrambled one, so just poach one. Poach me an egg, and I'll pass you."

I crossed my arms, pressing my hands under my armpits, shifting my weight from foot to foot. "You want him to poach an egg?"

"With all due respect, Mr. Tucker, it's not a big ask. I'm not asking him to make macarons, I'm not asking him to make a soufflé, I'm not even asking him to make hollandaise. I just want him to poach an egg. Any idiot can poach an egg. It's really not that hard. Hot water, put in the egg. End of."

I intensified the pressure I was putting on my hands, squeezing my arms against my chest, desperately suppressing the urge I had to flip her off. She'd said it in such a probing way, forced accents hiding a vicious meaning: it's not that ha-ard. She was irritating, she was really fucking irritating, her stupid yellow hair, her stupid ugly roots, her stupid little bun, her irritating, dough-like face. I pretty much had a birds eye view of her, he was taking her in from a downwards angle. Shapeless and lumpy, dim with a mean streak. She was nothing but a glorified housewife who thought she was better then all the other housewives just because she had a shitty degree in teaching housewifery. I just wanted to kick her or something. "Tweek isn't just any old idiot, you know he isn't just any old idiot. Even you must have noticed he isn't just any old idiot. He's not an idiot. And he can't poach an egg."

Besides me Tweek began to shiver slightly, latching his arm across his chest, counting in his head. His eyes were fixed on the dirty, flour coated worktop next to him, the dirty, stained stove and the greasy white oven. He was trying, and failing, to comfort himself, to escape from himself, his corporal form, to leave this room, this conversation, this school, to leave it all behind. He was panicking, and we were talking about him like he wasn't even there. Like he was some dog overdue for the vet. He didn't even flinch. I guess he was used to it by now. Teachers, councillors, therapists, his parents. Everyone did it. It was like he was a child or something.

I frowned, glaring slightly. "Can't he just make scrambled eggs again? Add some chives or whatever? Make them in different flavours?"

"No, Mr. Tucker. He's already proven he can scramble them. He's good at scrambling them. I need him to poach me one."

"What about if he boils one again, makes a bowl of cereal, some toast, adds and apple, and then serves it with a cup of coffee? You could say he did a study on breakfasts? You could say he made a lovely balanced breakfast."

"Making a bowl of cereal doesn't count as cooking, Mr. Tucker. Making cereal is just making cereal. It's assembling. For me to pass him, he's actually got to do something that indicates a minor level of cookery skill, you see?"

I groaned, clamping my arms down on my hands so hard my fingers began to go numb. "Can't… Fuck, can't you just make an exception this time? Can't you just help us out or something?"

"I am helping you out. I'm telling you what he needs to do to pass, Mr. Tucker."

"That's not what I mean, Ms. Cregg."

She frowned, screwing up her ruddy face and crossing her arms. She was trying to mirror my stance, that much was clear. She couldn't quite manage it. Her limbs were too short, her arms to stumpy, she couldn't quite cross them across her chest, not properly, not in the easy way I could.

"Are you suggesting I lie, Craig?"

"Not lie, no. Embellish maybe, make an exception, help us out, you know? Maybe, maybe let me help him out or something, let me offer him a hand. Let me crack the eggs for him, guide him, you know?"

She pursed her lips, smudging her unflatteringly orange lipstick. "That's against the codes, Mr. Tucker, it's against all the rules."

I rolled my tongue, swallowing the urge I had to tell her where she could stick her fucking rules. "He needs these credits, Ms. Cregg. He needs these credits or they'll hold him back."

"That is not my problem, Mr. Tucker."

"Perhaps you could-"

"That is not my problem, Mr. Tucker."

I glared at her. My hand worming itself free, forcing its way out from under my arm. Grunting slightly, spitting out a vicious curse, I swiped my arm through the air, signalling we were done. She tried calling after us, she was indignant, enraged, face flushed as she threatening to send me to the principle, or to detention, or to somewhere I'd already been too many times before. I just ignored her, clutching Tweek's arm tighter, pulling him out the classroom, pulling him out the door.

Swearing bitterly to myself, I paced down the corridor, pulling Tweek behind me, pushing through fire doors, past our home room, round corners, down stairways. All the time pulling Tweek behind me.

The halls were pretty much empty. It was lunch, everyone was already in the cafeteria, or in the library, or off school site. Wherever. Next to me Tweek was panicking, he was speaking too fast, to pressured, shaking, starting, worry and disorder. Eyes bright and voice pitched, he was skirting dangerously close to something I didn't want to deal with. Not today, not now.

"Dude." I cut him off, speaking over my shoulder, continuing to pace. I wasn't sure what he was trying to say, I couldn't distinguish the exact syntax of his panic, but I understood the overall jist. "You're not going to get held back just because you failed Food Tech. They can't do that. That's just retarded. No-one cares about Food Tech. Fuck, you don't need to know how to fucking cook. I mean, you're hardly fucking Bebe; I'm pretty sure there's going to be more to your life then the thrilling job of stay at home mother."

"But they can, Craig. They can hold me back. They can and they will."

I scowled slightly, looking away. He wasn't stupid. He knew were he stood. Tweek was poised on a knife-edge when it came to his academic progression. He spent his whole life poised on a knife-edge, treading just north of the "acceptable" line. One wrong foot and he'd fall too far south. It was all just a pointless balancing act.

I sighed, absently clutching at the front of my jacket. It wasn't that he was stupid, far from it, he had his cunning moments sometimes, his moments of clarity. Granted, he wasn't Ivy-league smart, but then so few of us really are. But not being smart doesn't equal stupidity. And Tweek wasn't stupid. He just wasn't studious. He couldn't concentrate, he couldn't enunciate, he was jittery, unsteady, all over the place. ADD, ADHD, dyslexia, anxiety, OCD whatever, whatever name they wanted to give it, whatever disorder they could think up, he had it. He had it in bundles, bunches, all of them tied together, latched and depressing, like browning flowers.

He wasn't stupid, but he couldn't think straight. Fuck, when he panicked, he couldn't even walk straight. Sometimes I'm amazed if he can remain standing vertical. Expecting him to have a steady hand under pressure was like expecting Cartman to respect Israel and condemn Hitler. Filling out an answer bubble, buttoning up a shirt, poaching an egg, yeah, they were things any idiot could do. But any idiot wasn't Tweek. Only Tweek was Tweek. And that was pretty much the problem.

"Oh fuck!" He started slightly, pulling away from me, stopping dead in the middle of the corridor. Stopping me with him. He was clutching onto a strand of hair, knotting his fingers into it, looping it round his hand. I blinked, watching him. A freshman was walking up behind him, some random kid I didn't know. He was staring forcefully at the ground, trying to pass unnoticed. Trying to stay as far away from us as possible. "Jesus Christ. What am I going to do?"

"Don't do that." I caught his wrist before he could pull, tug at the strand, harm himself. "We'll do something. Don't worry."

"I am worried! Fuck Craig, what am I going to do? I can fail-I can't-I can't fail!"

"You're not going to fail. No one fails Food Tech. It's fucking Food Tech."

"What am I going to do?"

"Just-Just…" I trailed off, thinking. We couldn't go to the head, he'd do nothing. He was pointless, and bias, he held grudges for things that had happened and weren't my fault. Things that'd never been my fault. Chances are Al-Qaeda would show us more mercy then him. The teachers were stupid, the counsellor, the counsellor might listen, if we pleaded the case. But she was about as useless as our parents, and only a fraction as proactive.

"We'll do something. They're not going to hold you back. They're just not."

"Craig." He was trying to pull his hand away. I blinked glancing down. My fingers were white, my knuckles raised. I was gripping onto him too tightly, my spidery fingers were crushing his carpal bones.

I let go, dropping his wrist, pulling my hand back. He was watching me with slightly too wide eyes, still panicking, to shaking. Clearing my throat, I shook my head, pulling a face as I spun on my heels, storming silently off towards the cafeteria.