Chapter Seven
Happiness Doesn't Last
Sergeant Yate's P.O.V.
I really do dread coming into this damn office every day. All of our cops are incompetent. All of our detectives are incompetent. It's a wonder anyone here still has their job. Not to mention the fact that this morning, along with every other morning for the past month or so, there are six messages on my office phone, no doubt all from the Broflovski parents or the Marsh parents still hoping I may have somehow scraped the resources together to find their kids.
I skip over every single one of them.
I pull the small silver flask from my shirt pocket and take a healthy swig of the last of my stash of whiskey. It's the only thing that can really get me through this damn job. That and taking every chance I get to check out our new secretary. That's a fine piece of ass right there.
Almost as soon as the thought crosses my mind, the woman knocks on my doorframe and enters my office in a tight pencil skirt and a blouse that shows just the right amount of cleavage.
"Sir, we got a call this morning about the Marsh and Broflovski boys. A caller says they may have seen them in Denver," she says, tearing off a yellow piece of paper from her notepad, "Here's the number."
This perks my interest almost as much as her bending over to hand me the paper. I take the slip from her and flash her a smile along with a nod of thanks. She smiles back before leaving the room, and I'm left with half a hard on and a piece of paper with a possible lead on two missing teenage boys.
It's difficult for me to choose to call the number instead of jacking off. I suppose I made the right decision though, because the caller answers on the second ring.
"Hello?"
"This is Sergeant Yates, South Park Police Department. You called earlier about the missing boys, Stan Marsh and Kyle Broflovski?"
"Yes, I saw them walk into a hotel last night. I probably wouldn't have even noticed them if it weren't for the bright red mop of hair on one of the boys. I saw his hair and then I remembered that I saw a missing report on tv the other day, so I decided to call the next morning. I really hope it's the boys you're looking for because I'd hate to see two sweet kids continue to live on the streets and-"
"Yes, thank you for your call. Do you remember which hotel it was?" I had to cut her off before she talked me into a headache. And she hadn't really given me any real information yet, but that's what I really needed.
"I'm pretty sure it was just one of the Holiday Inns," she says, and I'm very glad she doesn't say more than that.
"Thank you, ma'am, I'll get one of our best officers down there shortly," I finish before slamming the phone back down on the receiver.
Unfortunately, we don't exactly have a 'best officer', or even any good officers, for that matter. If I had any mind to actually find those kids and get their parents off my ass, I would see that it was done myself, and that it was done today.
With the grace of what I'm sure is a hero's, I rise from my cushioned office chair and reluctantly leave my coffee behind as I leave through the glass-paned door. I let the secretary know where I'm off to and leave one of my more competent officers in charge before going out the front door and loading myself into one of the squad cars.
The drive to Denver is long and filled with not much more than shitty radio music, and by the time I pull up to the first Holiday Inn I come across, I'm starting to regret the entire trip. I'm glad the drive is over, though, and I determinedly keep my mind off the return trip as I get out and stretch. My eyes scan the building, and I sigh before making the trek through the parking lot and to the front doors.
The bellhop is a tired-looking woman in her thirties or so, and she barely glances up from her magazine when I approach the desk. Feeling slightly disrespected by this, I clear my throat and make sure my badge is displayed proudly on my chest. She looks up and raises an eyebrow upon seeing the badge.
"Can I help you?" she asks, still sounding a little too bored for my liking.
"Any chance two teenage boys are living here? One of them is tall, bright red hair, he'd be hard to miss. The other's a little shorter with black hair and blue eyes. Their names are Stan Marsh and Kyle Broflovski, and they've been missing for over a month now," I say, keeping my tone official and my eyes on her face, watching for a reaction. She pauses to think for a moment.
"I'm pretty sure they're on the second floor, room 11," she answers before directing her gaze back down to the trashy magazine on the desk.
At least I got my information. And I don't have to run around Denver checking every other Holiday Inn in sight.
I don't bother to thank her, but instead walk the rest of the lobby distance to the elevator and press the button to go up. Stepping into the elevator, I figure maybe I should've taken the stairs because this thing looks like a goddamn deathtrap. I'd look stupid coming out of the elevator without going anywhere though, so I just press the button for the second floor.
Thankfully, the elevator makes it all the way up and the doors open to a deserted hallway lined with carpet that looks like it hasn't been vacuumed in three years. I step out and scan my eyes along the numbers on the door, eventually finding the one marked with a brass '11' at the end of the hallway by the stairwell.
"Jackpot," I mutter under my breath as a grin spreads over my face.
Stan's P.O.V.
There are no regrets in my mind at all when I wake up with my head nuzzled under Kyle's chin and one of my hands tangled in his hair. I don't even mind the pounding headache in my head. I don't have any desire to move from my current position, but I actually really have to pee.
I try to maneuver out of Kyle's embrace by slowly moving his arm from around my shoulders, but Kyle is a fairly light sleeper, and he moves to release me on his own. I look up to see the giant smile dancing over his lips and the morning sunlight hitting his matted curls at just the right angle.
"Good morning," he says softly, stretching his arms above his head as he sits up in bed.
"I didn't mean to wake you. I was trying to pee," is what comes out of my mouth instead of a 'good morning'. Kyle's grin grows wider and he laughs. How he can laugh in the morning is beyond my comprehension. I am not a morning person at all.
"Then go pee. I'll see if we have any cereal left," he says, pulling the covers away from our bodies. A light blush tints my cheeks when I realise the mess from last night still taints the hotel bedsheets. Both of us get out of bed, and Kyle pulls on a pair of boxers and a t-shirt from his backpack next to the bed. After getting dressed, he heads for the tiny kitchenette and I head for the bathroom.
I catch a glimpse of myself in the small mirror hanging above the sink, and I decide that just-fucked hair suits me well. I also can't help but think Kyle looks even better than I do with just-fucked hair.
After relieving myself, I leave the bathroom to find Kyle sitting at the small wooden table that barely fits inside the little kitchen.
"Nothing?" I ask, referring to his quest to find cereal in our empty cabinets. I finally decide to pull on some of my own clothes as we talk.
"There's maybe half a bowl of Frosted Flakes left, but neither of us have done the dishes in the last week and a half, so we also don't have any bowls," he says with a slight shrug.
"Then we'll go get something from the lobby," I suggest. Though hotel breakfast is free, it's often not what could be described as a fantastic meal.
"Actually, I think I'm a little too sore to walk such a distance," Kyle says, his eyes glinting mischievously as he flashes me a smirk. I roll my eyes, but a smile finds its way to my lips nonetheless.
"Fine, I'll bring something back for you," I tell him before pulling on a pair of slippers and crossing the kitchen to the door. "Any requests?"
"I don't care as long as it doesn't taste like dog shit," he replies.
"Wow, I dunno if I'll be able to find something so specific, but I'll try," I say, flashing him a grin before pulling the door open.
Our lighthearted, playful manner dies down instantly when I see the cop standing outside our door.
Kyle's P.O.V.
This morning after was going particularly well, especially compared to the one from before. The amount of flirting and just the general air of bliss between us was enough to call that morning one of the happiest morning's I've ever experienced.
Except for the fact that everything was shattered when Stan opened the door to find a South Park police officer standing right outside it.
"Can I help you?" Stan growls, his mood going from intensely happy to likely furious and devastated in no time.
"I know who you are, kid," the cop retorts, his voice equally as full of venom as Stan's. He invites himself inside our humble little abode and closes the door behind himself.
"No one said you could come in," I say, standing up and coming to stand next to Stan.
"I'm a goddamn cop, and your parents are worried sick about you. Now grab your shit and let's go back home," he spits. I stop to think maybe his rudeness is due to our lack of hospitality, but I have to remind myself that he's here to take us back to the shithole we swore never to go back to. And I owe him no hospitality.
"No," Stan says simply. I wince at the confrontational tone in his voice. I don't think I'm ready to witness a fight between my best friend (lover?) and a cop that's beefed up to nearly twice his size.
"Stan, we don't really have a choice," I mumble, touching his arm gently.
"Yes we do. And I'm gonna fight tooth and nail to be kept from going back there," he replies, not taking his eyes off the cop. The cop sighs.
"Are you really gonna make me drag you down that flight of stairs and into the car?" he asks, taking a step closer to Stan. Stan in turn steps closer to the cop.
"Yes," he answers, his voice as cold as stone. I swallow the lump in my throat.
"Stan, please, that'll just make things worse. It's over now. We're going home whether we like it or not," I plead. I probably sound humiliatingly desperate.
Stan finally turns to look at me, and his eyes soften when they meet mine. He sighs and takes a step back from the cop.
"Fine."
The word that comes out of his mouth is barely audible, and he looks like he's about to start crying. He brushes past me to collect a few odds and ends on our floor and shove them into the backpacks. I decide to take this opportunity to get our stuff from the bathroom.
I come back with toothbrushes, razors, shampoo, and other assorted bathroom objects, and I make sure to glare at the cop as I pack it all up. Stan's gaze doesn't leave the floor the entire time.
"Ready?" asks the unwelcome visitor, standing with his hand on the doorknob.
"No," Stan mutters under his breath. I start to think maybe he will end up putting up a fight. I'm glad to be proven wrong when he drags his feet across the carpet to stand next to me as we get ready to leave.
Our escort opens the door and gestures for us to leave in front of him, which we do reluctantly. I make sure not to look at any of the other guests in the lobby as we leave; this is the most shameful feeling I've ever felt in my life.
Once we're outside, he takes our bags and throws them in the back of the car. We let him do this without a word.
"Now, I'm supposed to handcuff you, but considering it's a long ass ride back home and I'm a nice goddamn person, I'm not going to. But the doors won't open from the inside, so don't think about throwing yourselves out," the cop says as he opens the door and waves us inside. Neither of us reply, but we get in the car without a struggle.
The officer gets in the driver's side after closing our door, and it finally hits me that we're being taken back home. I can't help but think maybe we should've put up more of a fight, because tears are now streaking my face against my will. I keep my head down and try to keep my tears as silent as possible so the cop doesn't notice. Stan does though, and I'm suddenly very glad we weren't handcuffed because he reaches over and takes my hand in his in an effort to comfort me.
Stan holds my hand the entire ride home, and the comfort this provides is the only reason I don't collapse into full blown sobs in the back of the cop car.
It's as if he's trying to tell me that no matter what, we'll get through this together.
Well that took 12 years to update and it wasn't very long but whatever I guess. There's chapter 7 and I am a merciless person who won't even let our favourite cynical asshole and gorgeous haired jew be happy for two minutes hahahaha. Thanks for reviews, follows, and favs, I love you all!
