Kyle rubbed the marks on his wrists that his own handcuffs had left, and not even in a kinky way. Kyle never really bothered himself with that sort of thing. Eric had never been one for it - he had too many experiences as a kid. Stan never asked Kyle, and Kyle never asked Stan. They had a simple relationship, a simple and happy relationship going on for nearly three years, now. Kyle rubbed his wrists. With his line of work, with his past, he could never see himself willingly putting on handcuffs. He especially couldn't see himself tying up a lover. God, just imagine, arresting someone and flashing back to cuffing a partner. Kyle shuddered. The station was always too cold for his taste.
The office area of the station was largely quiet. A newer cop, Reynolds, was all dressed in blues and half asleep with a cup of lukewarm coffee on his small desk, the sound of his tired breathing filling up the space. The air conditioning sounded so much louder when the place wasn't bustling with every officer in the Southeast and the coffee maker seemed strangely quiet in the empty space. Kyle took a sip of his freshly made black coffee. He had work to do. Come morning, the other officers were going to drill him about where he'd been, what had happened. Kyle would write his report first.
In detail. Everything could be important.
He wrote.
Reynolds slept.
Kyle finished and started brewing a second pot. Nearly 4 AM. He had time. Others would start rolling in around 7, the earlier ones closer to 6, the later ones closer to 8. Kyle had research to do.
He put his car and license plate through the system, knowing full well it wouldn't do much good. Canceled his credit and debit cards, put a search for them, a search for his ID, a description of his wallet. Everything could be useful.
Music. Kyle needed music. And more coffee. He grabbed another cup, nice and piping fucking hot, and put on a solid playlist. "Friction" blared in the quiet of the office. Reynolds startled.
"Imagine Dragons?" he asked.
"Yep." Kyle's answer was clipped. He was busy. Reynolds was unimportant, though the cop did seem to help himself to a fresh cup of Kyle's coffee. So be it. Kyle kept going.
Faces. Kyle knew brief things now. Some of the lower-ranking lackeys had let names slip, had taken off their masks for a few moments because "it's just too damn hot." Locations for meetings talked about in poorly constructed code. Kyle excelled at his job. He began to search buildings, parks, street names. There might be a million things named "Peachtree" in Atlanta, but Kyle could cross-reference those with famous buildings and unsafe neighborhoods and sketchy Denny's parking lots and -
Kyle took a long swallow from his coffee. It really was a fuck-ton of work. The Enforcers. Kyle would find them. All of them. He wanted his goddamned car back, and hell if these sons of fucks were going to elude him.
Kenny, that beautiful twat, had let Cartman and Kyle's names slip. Not in the same conversation. But to the same person. An Enforcer. Fucking Kenny McCormick.
Likely, Kenny was getting high as balls and rambling about growing up in South Park.
Wait.
Cartman had to get up. He needed to move. If Kenny was the snitch, then…
No. Cartman forced himself to take a break. He put the apartment's kettle under the faucet and watched it fill until the water reached the fill line. He set the kettle on the stove, which was dirty. It had been clean when Cartman arrived two weeks prior, but he hadn't cleaned, only made messes. His job was about cleaning up messes, but sometimes Cartman felt as though he only made larger messes. Or perhaps they were different messes. He turned on the stove.
He stared at the window. Not so much out the window, just at it. At the glass. He felt hollow. Kenny gave Kyle's name. Kenny gave his name. Eric. Eric Cartman. They were best friends growing up, but one day, Cartman hung up the phone and was never heard from again. Official sources would have said the Eric Theodore Cartman died in a tragic apartment fire. Nothing left.
Kenny would have laughed, maybe. Maybe he would have been somber. His best friend for his whole childhood.
Cartman wanted to see Kenny again. Cartman wanted to see Kenny and hang out with Kenny in all of Kenny's stupid habits and poor decisions and bad sex jokes. Cartman wanted to see Stan again. And Butters. He wanted Kyle again. He wanted their banter and their closeness, Cartman wanted their comfortable movie nights and… God. This was bad for him. Reflecting on South Park and his old relationships.
The kettle whistled for Cartman's attention. He turned off the stove and moved the kettle to a different burner. He found a nice mug - a plain, off-white color - and dropped a bag of green tea into the mug. Then he poured the water in, slowly, slowly, watching as the tea bag ballooned with steam. He let it steep for a few minutes, maybe a minute longer than he should have. Then he removed the tea bag. Into the trash. Cartman sat back at the dining area table.
The Enforcers wouldn't have had to dig much further from there, would they? No. The IMF erased everything of Eric Theodore Cartman: photos, yearbooks, newspapers. Anything they could. True, some copies of yearbooks and newspapers still survived, but The Enforcers would have to dig around. They might not even know the town to look into yet. Kenny gave two names, and that seemed to be all. Cartman. Kyle Broflovski.
This practically a songfic at this point. I listen to oddly specific music and then churn out a thousand or so words.
Anyways, as always, reviews, follows, faves, are all always appreciated. Especially reviews, tbh. Love you guys and thanks for the support.
(this fic is also on ao3 if anyone prefers to read it there. i just haven't moved all my fics over to ao3 yet, so I'll always post on both sites.)
