I'm not sure what the reaction to this will be. It could either be very good or very poorly written. Eh, I'll see.
Warnings: Stalking, masturbation references, references to sex, swearing, rape, and some relatively tame girl/girl.
The first time he sees her, she's walking along the snow-drenched sidewalk with headphones over her ears. She's a normal enough looking girl, and he doesn't know what about her makes him glance back after he jogs past her.
He stops and takes out his earbuds and stares as she walks in the opposite direction. His bare knees start to knock together from the chill but he can't make himself return to jogging his normal route.
She wears a knee-length yellow skirt, black, flat boots up to mid-calf, and a thick purple jacket. A beret of the same color rests on her straight black hair. He hears now, as she walks away from him, that she's humming along with the music in her ears. An old Beatles tune.
A stray cat pads across her path. She bends down and scrubs her fingers behind its ears for a few seconds. She plants a kiss on its forehead. Then she stands up and continues on her way.
He finds himself irrationally jealous of the animal.
Standing there, watching her hum obliviously to herself, he falls in love at first sight.
It was fate, he decides later. Fate made him head out an hour earlier for his morning jog. Fate drove him to find her. And so he lets fate guide him as he learns every single inch of her life.
Her name is Wendy Testaburger. He likes the flowing melody of her name, the way it strings together and sighs off the tip of his tongue. Wendy Testaburger. He repeats it to himself on his way to work, lets it burble through his head the entire day (distracting him from the furious typing of his keyboard) and keeps whispering it on the drive home that night. He lives in North Park, but his office is in Middle Park, so it's about twenty minutes and he manages to get her name in hundreds of times.
Wendy, like the girl from Peter Pan. The girl who could fly like an angel. And it fits her, because he already knows she's like an angel.
Angel. His Angel.
He keeps watching her.
She goes to South Park High. She's a Junior and sixteen and her birthday is April ninth. She has a three-nine grade point average. She wakes up at five-thirty every morning so she can make a smoothie with protein mix and oatmeal in it. She walks to school and arrives half an hour early so she can lift weights in the gym before heading to her first period class, which is Calculus, which she has a ninety-four percent in.
She has Calculus, then Spanish on Mondays, Wednesdays, and every other Fridays (her second period class is Choir on Tuesdays, Thursdays, and the other Fridays. She's in the highest-level choir, and she has a solo in the upcoming concert). Third period is her American Literature class, and then after lunch she has Debate then Physics.
She usually spends lunch in the Calculus classroom, struggling to hold onto her A. Sometimes her friends come and drag her from the classroom. He memorizes all of their names and their relationships to her. When he sees one of her best friends is a boy (name Stan Marsh, birthday October 19th, employed at Tom's Rhinoplasty, age sixteen, one older sister) he's wary, but then he sees how obviously Not Into Stan his Angel is, and he relaxes.
After school she heads down to the karate dojo and dons the white outfit and ties the black belt around her waist. The first time he watches her practice, a thrill runs up his spine. She moves with grace, with rhythm, with fluid confidence.
She greets her parents the same way every day when she arrives home a bit after six o clock. He hears her words through the microphones he implanted in her house, sees her genuine expression on the video cameras.
"Hey, mom, how was your day?"
"Fine, sweetie. Yours?"
"The usual." And then she'll head up to her room to do her homework, perfect as always. Her father gets home around seven, and they have dinner together, talking about perfect, ordinary things.
He runs out of sick days, so he can't watch her during the day, although he finds plenty of time to do so in the night. He discovers she's part of an organization donating canned food and other supplies to children in Pakistan, and the committee meets every Thursday night. That makes him smile. His Angel is so kind and caring, perfect as usual. She spends half her time organizing the donations.
One Wednesday night about a week after he's been watching His Angel, her other best friend ("Bebe Stevens") comes over with a stack of poster paper and thick sharpie markers. He's watching her on the video cameras, his knees curled up to his chest in front of his laptop.
"Can't believe we're making these freaking posters," Bebe grumbles as she flops on Wendy's floor, her voice scratchy through the mikes.
"You don't have to help me if you don't want," His Angel says, sitting down next to the other girl.
"I might as well. Keep you company before you go all psycho and start killing people from loneliness."
"Er, thanks."
He watches them draw and sees that the posters are for His Angel's starving children organization. Bebe starts humming to herself. Her voice isn't nearly as beautiful as His Angel's. At first they chatter about school work and friends and new movies and Bebe's boyfriend, Clyde. After a while, the conversation tapers off.
At almost ten at night, when Bebe's finishing up her last poster, the blonde girl pauses and puts her marker down.
"You done?" His Angel asks.
Bebe hesitates. Then she says, "Look. I really respect how much time and effort you put into this."
"But you're ditching me?"
"There's actually no buts to this statement." She grins wryly. "A lot of other people think you're stuck up and just doing this for your college resume. But I know you. And I know you really mean it. And I think that's really brave and strong."
His Angel looks surprised. "Uh, thanks. I think. No one's ever said that to me before."
He's glad His Angel has good friends she can count on, but he's jealous, because he was thinking the same thing and it's not fair this Bebe Stevens could say it to her and he can't.
He wants to talk to her. He has to. He thinks about her all the time. It's destroying him, to be this far away from her. He can't focus on his work, he barely eats or sleeps (he watches her through the cameras at night and shows up to the office blurry eyed each morning) and when his parents call him, as they do every Saturday, they notice how tired he sounds.
"Are you coming home for the holidays?" his mother asks, as Christmas is fast approaching.
"Yes," he intones, although he knows if he does he'll be even farther away from His Angel.
It drives him insane.
One weekend night, His Angel toils away on her Literature paper for three hours before shutting her laptop and collapsing into her bed. It's after two in the morning. Strands of dark hair flop over her face. She closes her eyes. He hugs his knees against his chest.
She's not sleeping. He can tell by the way her breathing stays uneven and her eyelids flutter. Finally, she sits up and opens up her laptop.
"This is stupid," she says to herself. He chews his lip in anticipation for whatever's "stupid."
A few seconds of clicking later, choppy moaning female sounds filter from the laptop and through his microphones. His eyes open wide as he recognizes the sounds. She bites on her nails and watches for half an hour. He can't tell what she's watching on her laptop, but he can guess. She shuts the laptop and sets it on her desk and climbs back into bed.
Then she turns off the lights.
He hears her moan and whimper as she touches herself. Something burns within his body. He jerks off to the recording three times that night and doesn't get a second of sleep. He feels special, oh-so-special that he got to see His Angel do something to private and secret. He knows now. He knows he has to talk to her.
He "just happens" to be walking by her school the next day right as she's let out, at three-thirty on the dot. He had to beg his boss to let him off work early, with promise to work overtime the next three nights.
He sees her there, among the mass of students, talking to her friends Bebe and Red.
She says goodbye to them and steps onto the sidewalk. He's walking past and his shoulder brushes against hers. He almost shudders.
"Oh, sorry," he says, smiling at her, exposing teeth.
"S'kay," she says, smiling back at him, acknowledging him. His heart pounds. Then she turns and slips her headphones over his ears and walks away, away from him.
A few days later, Stan knocks on her front door. He watches tersely through the video cameras as His Angel opens it and grins at him.
"Hey! S'up?"
"I was wondering if you wanted to come out and get a bite to eat or something. A break from all your political work," he jokes.
"Oh, yeah, sure. Let me grab my coat."
"And I was wondering if . . . " Stan hesitates. "If it would be, like, more than, like, as friends."
His Angel hesitates. "You mean like a date?"
"Yeah." Stan shrugs. "Like a date."
Something lights up inside of him, some kind of pure fury that makes his breath catch and his veins flood with adrenaline.
He starts to lace up his shoes, because he's going to run to His Angel's house and punch Stan in the face.
"You know . . . " His Angel hesitates. "You know I don't like you that way."
He pauses.
"But . . . " Stan says. "We . . . we used to. When we were kids. And you might want to try it out again, just to see if it would work . . . ?"
"There's someone else," Wendy says flatly.
"Oh," Stan says.
They both stand there, the awkwardness so severe he almost laughs.
Finally, Stan shrugs and says, "You want to get something to eat anyways?"
"Sure."
He watches them go, his shoulders shaking.
"Someone else."
Could she . . . possibly be talking about him?
She'd seen him that day and said hello to him.
It could have been love at first sight for her, just the same as it had been for him.
Fate. Fate driving him. His perfect Angel would soon be his.
He smiles.
The next night His Angel's in her bedroom, reading a book with "I Am the Walrus" playing from her stereo. He keeps the quiet domestic scene open on one monitor while he types up his article on Sunday's football game on another monitor.
The window creeps open. He watches it in surprise from another camera. His Angel doesn't appear to notice as her blond friend, Bebe, creeps in through the window. She doesn't even look up until Bebe tackles her off the bed and onto the floor.
"Boo!" Bebe says, pinning His Angel down. "I am the Dread Pirate Rogers, come to take young nubile girls captive and sell them in exotic lands. And last words before I cut out your tongue, girly?"
"No, not the Dread Pirate Rogers!" His Angel says, giggling as she pretends to try to fight Bebe off.
He smiles to himself, remember the way the two of them watched the movie together a week and a half ago, eating pizza and cookies until they sickened themselves.
"You are my captive!" Bebe proceeds to tickle her. His Angel shrieks and rolls around under Bebe for almost a minute before Bebe decides to be merciful.
"So, what'd you want to talk about? Your eMail was pretty vague."
"Er . . ." His Angel hesitates. "Can we talk about this on the bed?"
"Sure." Bebe rolls up off her and flops down on the mattress. Joan Jett's "Bad Reputation" starts to play. His Angel is a fan of older music.
His Angel sits down next to her friend, a few inches away, close enough for their shoulders to bump.
What could possibly be on His Angel's mind?
"You know I love you, right?"
"Course, Tinker, we've been best friends for eleven years," Bebe replies promptly.
He's heard her address His Angel by this nickname several times before. He thinks it's a Peter Pan reference, just like how he thinks of her. Except her nickname is stupid and childish. His is better.
"And I don't know what I'd do without you," she continues.
"Ohmigod, you broke the stilettos I lent to you, didn't you?" Bebe demands.
His Angel blinks. "Er. No. I still haven't worn them. The dance is this Friday, remember?"
"Oh." Bebe chews her lip. "You killed Cartman," she says, "and you need my help burying him, don't you?"
"What? No! I wouldn't do that this close to student body elections. People would know it was me."
"Okay. What is it then? Because I have a date with Clyde in like an hour, and he says he's going to take me somewhere really nice-"
"You're only with Clyde because he's rich," His Angel snaps.
Bebe blinks. "What."
"Sorry, I shouldn't have said that." She looks away.
"That's not true," Bebe says. "I'm not nearly that shallow."
"Oh, really? Name one reason why you're with him."
"He's got a nice ass," she says, "and he's the captain of the football team, and he gives me free shoes, and-"
"One thing about his fucking personality."
Bebe blinks.
He blinks, too. His Angel doesn't swear very often, unless she's serious.
"He's a pussy," His Angel says, "and a jackass and intolerant and he makes fun of the mentally handicapped and he's friends with Cartman."
Bebe blinks again.
He hugs his knees to his chest.
"Is this why you asked me over here? Because you don't like my boyfriend?" Bebe's voice goes low and cold. "Because it's really none of your fucking business."
"No, that's not why! Okay, it's part of it. Because I hate it when you talk about him because I know you only go out with him for appearances sake, and I'm fucking jealous."
"You like Clyde?" Bebe hisses, accusatory with a feral gleam to her green eyes.
"Fuck, no! How could you be so fucking clueless! Don't you see? You make my heart pound! You! You with your smile and your fucking sweet chest and the way you call me brave, and, look, I like you as more than a friend."
Bebe blinks.
Miles away, on his computer, he feels his whole world fall apart.
"I have to go," Bebe says. She stands up and walks out the door. His Angel stares after her for a few seconds and puts her head in her pillow.
He tells himself it's just a phase, that she just thinks she's one of those disgusting freaks and she'll grow out of it, that she just hasn't had a real guy yet. He repeats it to himself as he drives to her house in South Park.
She'll be lonely right now, lonely and sad, and he'll be there for her. It might not be him who was the 'someone else' but he can still make her fall for him.
He decides to climb up to her window the same way Bebe did. There's a tree outside her house, and he has to bite his lip to keep from grunting out as he hauls himself through the branches.
He pauses outside her window. It's half-open from Bebe's invasion, and she's talking on her phone, pacing around her room with watery eyes.
"-please," she's saying. "Please. Just. Give me a chance. Don't freak out on me. Please. Think about it. Think about all we could be. Please. Please."
She's full on crying now.
"Promise we can be friends, at least."
She pulls her phone away from her ear and looks down on it. Then she lies down on her bed and cries into her pillow.
He realizes he doesn't have to do anything to convince her that Liking Girls is not right for her; she's doing that all on her own.
He feeds his boss a lie about a sick grandmother and ditches work. He takes his pair of binoculars and hides in the bushes and watches as His Angel walks in between class. After the final bell rings, he watches as His Angel tries to catch up with Bebe. Watches as Bebe ignores her and climbs into Clyde's car and drives off.
He wants so badly to hug her.
No one would understand the love he feels for her. They would call it sick and wrong because he's twice as old as her. Love doesn't care about age. Sometimes fate just brings people together. The way he feels about her, it's not wrong, it's beautiful, and he knows he can get her to see that.
He's watching on the video cameras as Bebe knocks on His Angel's door that night. The rain pours down on her. He's glad. He wants her to be soaking wet and hideous when His Angel sees her, so His Angel will think harder about this stupid choice she's made.
His Angel pauses when she answers the door.
"Hi," Bebe says.
The sound of the raining beating down makes it hard for him to hear His Angel's response. He manages to make out her words.
"What are you doing here?"
"I'm sorry." Bendy shivers, hugging her arms against her body. Her wet sweater clings against her body and shows off her form. She's not nearly as beautiful as His Angel. "I want to talk with you. Can I come in?"
His Angel leads her up to her bedroom. Bebe sits on her bed, the same as last night, but His Angel stands and leans against the door.
"I was a bitch," Bebe says.
His Angel clenches her fists. "Yeah, you kind of were. It's not like I attacked you or anything."
"You did lie to me," she snaps back. "I can't believe you didn't tell me about this earlier! How long have you been holding it in?"
His Angel doesn't respond.
"Can I have a towel?" Bebe doesn't wait for confirmation, just stomps into His Angel's bathroom and emerges a few seconds later with a large fluffy one.
"I broke up with Clyde," Bebe says.
"Oh," says His Angel.
"You're right. He's an asshole."
"Yeah."
They stand awkwardly.
"I don't want to be one of those girls," Bebe says. "You know the type. And I don't want to just be 'trying this out.' Because it has to be real. Relationships have to be real. You know? There has to be real emotion and I don't want to rush into anything if I don't know what I'm doing because I've never been with a girl before."
His Angel wears a deer-in-the-headlights expression.
"I'm going to kiss you," Bebe says, matter-of-fact.
"Okay," His Angel whispers out.
He breaks his lamp by throwing it against the wall. His CD collection and vase go the same way.
How could she betray him like this? He's the only one who ever loved her! No one else loves him like he does! She's a bitch, a psycho murderous hippie bitch!
It's past three in the morning when he creeps into her bedroom. She's asleep, her lips curved in a smile. She hugs her teddy bear against her chest. Usually he finds her mouth-open expression adorable. Now he wants to punch her in the face.
He stands over her, his fingers curled into fists, trembling.
Betrayal. It hurts so much.
Betrayal.
He loves her so much. How could she not see that?
His hands hover over her neck. It would be so easy.
But no. He still has a chance. He won't resort to that just yet, not until he has to.
He presses a kiss to her forehead. His lips burn. She mutters in her sleep. He flees out the window.
They go to the school dance together, their fingers twined. His Angel wears a purple dress that flows around her ankles. Bebe looks like a slut in her form fitting red dress. He decides their colors clash, that they just don't mix, that they're just not meant to be. There's no fate binding them together.
He pretends to be a chaperone, having faked a good enough pass for the other adults to buy into it. He makes idle conversation with a few of them, keeping his gaze on His Angel the entire time.
She and Bebe accept dance offers from boys. They don't hold each other or do anything obvious. But they share smiles and 'we have a secret' looks. He clenches a glass so hard it shatters.
"I told my mom I'm bi," Bebe announces.
His Angel rolls over onto her back and looks up at her. "How'd she take it?"
He hopes poorly.
"She asked if I was seeing a girl. I said yeah. She asked who. I said I'd tell her later. She's all interested now."
"You can tell her if you really want to," His Angel says, in a voice that implies she doesn't want her to say anything.
"You should tell your parents you're lesbian."
Lesbian. He hates the word. Sick. Disturbed. It's a lie, a phase. She's just confused.
"No way."
"Dude, they're totally into gay rights and crap. They'd be all over it."
"I just don't want to change their perception of me. Of you. If they knew we were seeing each other, they wouldn't let us have sleepovers anymore."
Bebe's mouth twists. "You're ashamed of me, aren't you?"
"What? No!"
"Then why haven't you told any of our friends we're seeing each other?"
His Angel doesn't have anything to say to that. Bebe storms out of her room in a huff.
He smiles to himself.
The next night, His Angel calls all the people in their circle of friends – Red, Kenny, Kyle, Stan, Hiedi, Millie, Annie, and, of course, Bebe – over to her house. They all look confused, except for Bebe, who looks rather terrified.
"I have an announcement to make," His Angel says.
The teenagers are crowded into her room; sitting on her bed, leaning against the wall, plopped down at her desk.
"I like girls," she says.
"That's nice," Red says. "Care to elaborate?"
In response, His Angel drags Bebe to her feet and kisses her right on the lips. Bebe hesitates for a moment before melting into her arms. Kenny hoots. A few of the girls aw.
He clenches his fists as he watches. They can't have a happy ending. They can't. It's his fairy tale, his story, his romance this blond girl is snatching away.
He's there on their first date, watching them flirt and make doe eyes at each other.
He's there when they go out to the carnival, and he's one car behind them on the ferris wheel as they share a kiss at the top.
He's there as Bebe comforts His Angel after she looses funding for her starving children organization, and he's watching as the two of them manage to scrape together the funds to build it back up.
He watches as Bebe's abusive father kicks his daughter out of the house, and Bebe goes to live with His Angel. She sleeps on the couch because His Angel's parents have found out about their relationship.
He watches as they grow closer.
He hears every murmur between them.
"I love you," His Angel says.
"Mm?" Bebe mutters. They're curled up together on His Angel's bed.
"I love you. Not as a friend. As in, I want to spend the rest of my life with you."
Bebe's quiet.
Then:
"I love you two."
They kiss.
His heart breaks.
They start talking about sex. At first it's just a few hints, Bebe's teases and His Angel's giggles. Then they're half-undressed, making out and laying kisses on each other, every day after school. He watches as they go further and further each time. He watches as the blond demon steals His Angel away.
Finally, they say the word openly.
"Mom and dad are going to be out of town Friday night," His Angel says.
Bebe grins, slouching against her while His Angel does his homework. "Excellent," she purrs out. His stomach drops.
"We could. You know. Do it then. For the. First time." His Angel has to half-stammer out the words. He almost finds it endearing. Almost.
"I want it to be perfect, okay?" she says.
Bebe cups His Angel's face and tips her chin down. "It will be," she promises, and pulls her into a long kiss.
He knows he has to act now.
Friday night, the blonde demon named Bebe is jogging back to His Angel's house after dinner with her mother. He knows from his careful observations that she has to sneak around her father's back to make sure she doesn't anger him. It's after ten at night and darkness clings to the city. Her black tights cling to her legs and her red jacket falls along her hips. She looks like a succubus, a perfect temptress to tease His Angel from her rightful path.
How dare she.
How dare she make His Angel thing she was in love with her!
A crack rings through the sky when his baseball bat hits her skull. She crumples to the icy pavement, her eyelids fluttering shut. He stands over her, breathing deeply, cheeks flush.
He didn't know hitting something could feel so fucking good.
His Angel is wearing a purple nightie and sexy-but-tasteful lingerie.
"Bebe?" she calls when he taps on her window. A smile touches her lips. She can't see him because of the lights in her room, but he can see her. Ever last inch of her.
"I have to admit, the climbing-through-the-window thing is kind of hot," she says, coming over to the window and sliding it open the rest of the way. Her eyes open wide when she sees his hand on the sill.
He already has the chloroform ready.
"I don't know what the fuck you think you're doing," Bebe says, "but I have to tell you, you're not going to get away with it."
She glares at him warily with her back against the wall, curled up next to His Angel, who is still unconscious. Her hands are free. She's not a threat. She's the weak one. His Angel is the one who's strong.
He decides not to give her a response. Instead, he continues trailing his fingers over his gun. The blond demon scoots to sit half in front of His Angel. As if he would ever hurt his soul mate!
He shifts slightly in his plastic garden chair. It squeaks along the floor of his basement. He trusts the soundproofing job he did to be enough for the neighbors to ignore any screams.
His Angel starts to stir. He turns his attention to her. Bebe grabs her hand.
"Tinker? Tinker, you okay?"
"I . . . I think so." His Angel tries to move her arms. A look of surprise comes over her face when she realizes he's handcuffed her hands behind her back, then chained the cuffs to the wall with only two feet of slack.
"What the hell are we doing here?" she snaps out.
He doesn't like it when His Angel swears. It doesn't fit her. But her voice is so much more vivid in real life. He's been sick of watching all these months. To see her this close, to see the real anger twisting her lips and the real fear in her eyes, makes his heart sigh.
"I don't know why you would betray me like this," he says. The words rush out, slurring together. Best to get it all out so he doesn't start yelling at her for no particular reason. He doesn't want to frighten his sweetheart, his dearest.
She blinks. "What?"
"Why would you sleep with someone else? A woman? When you have me. Me!"
"We have no idea what the fuck you're talking about," Bebe snaps.
"Shut up!" He lurches from his chair and points the gun at her. She freezes.
"You were going to fuck tonight, weren't you? As if dykes even can fuck. Do it. Now. Fucking show me."
Bebe starts to tremble. "Dude. You are-"
"Do it." He clicks the safety off. "Get on her."
Bebe, shaking, moves to straddle His Angel. The sight of her tights-clad thighs pressing against His Angel's lace-coated stomach sickens him. He clenches his teeth.
"Take off the fucking tights."
Trembling, she rolls them down. His Angel is tight and taut with fear, her eyes wild. She presses her back up against the wall.
"Do it. Fuck her."
"You're insane-"
He fires the gun. They both scream as the bullet buries itself in the wall above her ear.
"I said do it."
Bebe starts to grind her hips against His Angel's. Her lips move down to hesitantly kiss her.
"Not like that. Harder. Like you fucking mean it."
His Angel lets out a little gasp as Bebe deepens the kiss.
"I want you to remember this," he says, "as the day you watched your lover die. I want you to remember this as the fucked up thing it is. I want you to remember this as something special."
He shoots the Blond Demon in the leg.
She rolls off His Angel, crying out. He grabs her by the wounded leg and drags her towards him, ignoring her cries. He yanks down his jeans with one hand, his other pressing the muzzle of his gun against her temple.
"Don't you even dare move if you want to live," he hisses. She nods, wide-eyed.
He starts to fuck her. He tells himself the pleasure endorphins that flood through him are just her treachery. He pounds her into the tiled floor below him, relishing in her screams. It's exactly like bashing her head with the baseball bat. She's screaming. This blond bitch is screaming, and crying out, and begging. His Angel is begging too, but he tunes it out.
"Tinker- " Bebe coughs out, her eyes squeezed shut. She reaches a hand back and His Angel stretches out to touch her with her feet.
"Please . . . know . . . I love you . . . I swear . . . I'll always love-"
The bullet through her skull is not as clean as he thought it would be. It smashes through her head and sends chunks of brain and droplets of blood flying through the basement. Crimson dots his chin. He licks his lips clean and continues to fuck her cooling body into the floor.
When he finally orgasms, he zips himself back into his pants and stands up. His Angel is watching him with hollowed eyes.
"You have to understand," he says. "She was sullying you. You were perfect and she was trying to change you."
He doesn't know if she's even breathing.
"I would never touch you the way she wanted to touch you. I would cherish you forever."
Somehow, His Angel speaks.
"You can't love a person because you think they're perfect. You have to love them for their flaws."
He reaches out to stroke her cheek with blood-coated fingers. She doesn't even flinch away. She's still staring at the blond demon's corpse.
"I understand," he says, and he sticks the gun into his mouth and pulls the trigger.
Remember the good old classic times of the yuri genre, when the lesbians died in the end?
. . . yeah, I'm not old enough for those times either. I do hope you review, though, and tell me what you thought of it. Thank you very much for reading this far.