Authors Note: Thanks to Kenneth22, Hypothisos, The Brat Prince, Chels and Hayze-Chan (I've no idea why Kenny and Kyle get all the lovin', maybe just cuz they're smokin', lol). Three cheers for the most reviewed chapter to date! And much love to you all!
Le sigh – I think my Style fic is slowly dying. I like the plot, but the characters just don't seem right at all. Except Kenny, for some reason. I'm starting to get really worried about it – I'm losing my fic! Code red! Get me 10cc of inspiration, stat! And those thoughts lead to images of all the characters running around in nurses outfits trying to revive the damn thing. Or quoting The Dark Knight. Yeah, this is what happens when I go for 24 hours without coffee.
Oh! And I did this meme which was huge amounts of fun and I stuck the results on my profile if you're interested :)
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Tweek lay on his side, elbow resting on the floor and his head in his hand, watching the shadowy outline of his other hand trace lazy circles on Craig's chest. Craig, lay on his back, opened one eye and brought his hand up to stop him.
"Tickles," he murmured, voice deep and weary and satisfied. But his hand stayed on Tweek's, holding it to his chest.
The upstairs rooms were as empty as those downstairs, the windows boarded. A beam of light fell into this room from the haphazardly boarded window, allowing them to see a little in the dark, although the only thing worth looking at was each other.
Ten weeks, thought Tweek with mild wonder, three days. That long since he walked out of Harbucks and made his move on Craig. Time spent constantly arguing with his father, being harassed by his mother. Being sent to the school counsellor after he'd been alerted to 'issues at home' by his parents. The house where he lived had become a symbol of stress, a place of recriminations and reproachful silences, where he couldn't put the things he needed to say into words that could be understood. Not much of a change, to be honest. He'd had no money until finding a gig loading dishwashers and shelves at a local restaurant, poorly paid but something else to prove he was serious about quitting.
Ten weeks and three days that he'd been sneaking around with Craig. They kept their tryst a secret, because in high school breaking out of the mould made lives miserable and they were already considered strange enough. Tweek didn't care. It added to the excitement of the whole thing, behaving as if nothing had changed when he knew that everything had. There were days he couldn't stop grinning as people around him bitched about their crappy lives. He had it good and no one suspected a thing.
Things were great. Things were terrible. His life had been a see-saw, going from one extreme to the other and for the first time, it didn't bother him. He could live with coasting along and not upsetting the status quo by keeping their relationship a secret, but if Craig had announced right then that he was telling everyone he knew about them, Tweek would be right beside him shouting it out.
The abandoned house, they had made their own. Candles and batteries were stored in the kitchen, but the only other thing they had brought with them was a king-sized blanket to lie on, Craig's attempt to calm Tweek's concerns about the dirt. For his part, Tweek hadn't actually been too worried about the dirt; when they were together, those things seemed trivial.
Tweek leant forward, kissing Craig's lips lightly and pulling back a little. Craig opened his other eye and smiled lazily. "Damn, more? You're gonna do me to death Tweekers."
In spite of his protests, he put an arm on the other boys back and pulled him down, caressing his back while seeking out his lips. Tweek closed his eyes, naked limbs entwined with Craig's, inhaling Craig's aroma of Lynx, cigarettes, sex and smoke.
Smoke.
Not cigarette smoke and not something he'd noticed before.
He pulled his head away from Craig's quickly, looking around the room as if expecting to find the source of the smell. Craig looked mildly bemused. "What's wrong?"
"I smell – gnk – smoke."
"It's probably ciga..." Craig trailed off, frowning as he smelled it too. "Shit. Did we leave a candle burning?"
"GAH!" Tweek sat up hurriedly, staring wildly at the door. He really couldn't remember. They had lit a candle, he knew that much, when they were down the stairs and hadn't been planning anything other than conversation. But one thing had led to another and they started kissing and since they had decided they were less likely to be caught upstairs some time ago, they had made their way up there without giving it much thought. The theory was that they were less likely to be heard and if someone did enter the house, it gave them time to get dressed and act natural. The flaw in the theory was that once they got going, the Denver Broncos could walk in, start taking pictures and shouting encouragement and neither of them would notice.
"It'll be fine Tweek," said Craig, sitting up and reaching for his jeans. "It's probably someone down the street having a barbecue or something."
Tweek grabbed his combats and pulled them on, almost tripping himself up in his haste. Craig grinned at the sight, walking over to the door and pulling it open, clearly expecting nothing.
A cloud of black smoke rolled into the room, accompanied by an acrid heat. Craig slammed the door shut and leaned his back against it, as if that would somehow keep a fire from entering the room. "Uh... Tweek, I don't wanna panic you, but..."
"FIRE!" Tweek screamed, shaking madly. "We're gonna die, we're gonna burn to death and they'll have to scoop our ashes out of the ruins and oh shit oh shit..."
Craig ran to the boarded up window and tried to pull aside the boards. Nothing. They might have been attached skewed, but they were nailed on tight. There was nothing for it. They would have to leave the room and go into the house – where the fire was.
"...and keep me in a bag of Columbian Roast and then my dad'll forget and drink me and then I'll be trapped in his body and have to listen to the metaphors forever and..."
"TWEEK!"
Tweek cut himself off, turning to look at Craig through wide, fear crazed eyes.
"Tweek, we gotta find a way out of here. Come on."
"Through there?" Tweek's shaking intensified. "We can't go out there! It's on fire!"
"We can't stay in here either!" Craig grabbed Tweek's hand, lacing their fingers together. "Tweek, we have to get out of here! Let's go!"
Tweek nodded, letting himself be pulled toward the door before remembering something and stopping. "Wait!"
"What?"
"We can – ack – we can use our shirts to cover our mouths and then we won't choke to death, I don't wanna choke to death GAH!"
Craig gave him a impressed look that bolstered Tweek's courage no end. "That's good thinking Tweek," he said, hurrying back to their hastily discarded clothes and throwing the first item he came to – his own shirt – at Tweek, before grabbing Tweek's shirt and holding it over his face, tying it around the back as a makeshift mask to keep his hands free.
"Okay," he said, grabbing Tweek's hand again. "Let's get out of here."
He pulled the door open again and a rush of warm air hit them in the face, the temperature seeming to have risen in the short time they had been deciding what to do. Craig guided Tweek into the hall, looking over the stairs and trying to see something, anything. It was dark thanks to the lack of windows and the smoke was covering everything, so that he could barely see anything but impenetrable blackness. There was still no sign of the fire itself.
"Be careful," he said, using the wall to feel his way to the stairs. "Dark as hell here. Don't fall."
Tweek whimpered softly, feeling Craig's hand squeeze his. It was so dark he couldn't see Craig any more, couldn't see where their hands joined, couldn't see where he was going. His eyes stung from the smoke and tears rolled down his cheeks. Every breath was difficult, the heat searing his lungs and the smoke forcing him to take shallow, rapid breaths that only increased his rapid heart rate.
"Stairs are here," said Craig, taking a breath and coughing. He got it under control quickly, leading Tweek into the darkness and smoke. Tweek felt his way along the wall, caution with every step down, refusing to let go of Craig's hand. His mind was filled with images of their fiery demise, the stairs collapsing and dropping them into a pit of flames like a demon casting them into hell, the house crumbling and burying them alive, finding a wall of fire that they couldn't pass and being set alight, running and screaming as the flames ate their flesh...
"Last one," said Craig suddenly and Tweek found himself alive, at the foot of the stairs, Craig's hand still in his. "It's okay Tweek. We're gonna get out of here."
Tweek realised suddenly that he could see Craig, for several seconds too happy at the fact to realise the wider implications. Craig was dirty, his face and torso covered in soot and sweat. His hair stuck out at wild angles and the strain of the situation was clearly visible on his face.
He caught Tweek's eye and gave him an encouraging smile. Tweek could have kissed him.
Instead, he belatedly wondered about the light source and turned to the living room, where they had left their lights. The door was partially closed, but through it, he could see flames dancing up the walls of the room, devouring everything in their path. He clamped his fingers around Craig's, hard.
"Tweek, you're gonna have to let go for a moment," said Craig, in a calm voice that was a million years away from the look on his face. "I gotta force this door and I can't do it with one hand."
The door was right at the foot of the stairs, directly in their path. Tweek tried to take a deep breath, but it turned into a hacking cough. They were running out of time.
He let go.
Squaring his shoulders, Craig took a run at the door, slamming into it hard and rebounding, falling on his ass. With a moan of pain, he rubbed his injury. "They make it look so easy on TV."
"Craig!"
"Stay there, I think I got it this time." Craig got up and kicked at the door a few times, his bare feet making no difference at all. The door held. Tweek could see the outside view in his minds eye, the sturdy barricade blocking their exit, spray painted with graffiti.
Craig stopped, panting in pained gasps, resting his hands on his knees and letting his hair hang in his face. Tweek spasmed. "Shit! Shit, we're fucked!"
"Not yet," growled Craig, straightening up, his face a mask of determination. "We have to go out the way we got in."
Tweek let the implication sink in and began shaking his head violently. To get to their entrance they would have to go through the living room – and pass through the fire. "We can't!"
"We have to!" Craig grabbed Tweek by the upper arms and stilled him. "We have to, or we'll die in here."
Tweek stared into Craig's eyes and reminded himself that if he panicked now, if he refused to move, then he really would die. And so would Craig. Biting his lip, tears still pouring from his burning eyes, he nodded.
Craig kissed him lightly on the forehead. "Okay. Let's do this. Keep a hold on my hand. We're gonna be alright Tweek."
Tweek took Craig's hand, the other hand holding the shirt to his face. It was making breathing difficult, but at least the air reaching him was less smoky and painful. Craig shoved open the door leading to the living room and yanked Tweek forward.
Then they were in the living room and Tweek wondered if they'd taken a wrong turn and strayed into Hell instead.
Fire danced up the walls, sucking the air from the room. The heat was immense, forcing sweat from their bodies and trying to force them into retreat. The smoke was everywhere, in their lungs, their eyes, coating their bodies. And it was out of control.
Through his blurred eyes, Tweek could see the door to the kitchen, fire reaching one side of it but not yet blocking their escape. Craig saw it at the same moment, starting over toward the gap and taking Tweek with him. Tweek cringed away from the wall where most of the fire was centred, trying to keep hold of Craig in spite of their sweat-slicked hands. He could see the tantalising view of the kitchen, of the boarded up window, of freedom... and then they were through the door and away from the main body of the fire.
Craig yanked at the boards covering their escape, starting to cough and unable to stop, hacking as he shoved hard at the board, not worried this time about making a noise or attracting attention. Tweek stood in the centre of the kitchen, staring back at the living room as if he expected the fire to take human form and chase after them. The entire house was coated in soot, smoke swirling around the room. It was like some terrible nightmare and everyone knew that in nightmares, the escape routes were all cut off...
There was a crash as the board fell off the window, the rapidly fading mid-afternoon light not changing the quality of the red-tinted illumination in the room. Craig grabbed his wrist and pulled him forward.
"Go on, get out of here!"
"But..."
"I'm right behind you, GO!"
Tweek boosted himself through the window, almost falling out of the other side. He landed on his feet, twisting his ankle painfully and stumbling onto one knee, taking a deep breath of sweet fresh air and letting it out in a cough that shook his body. Anxiously, he tried to get to his feet, suddenly coldly certain that Craig had been trapped, that only one of them was getting out.
And then Craig dived through the window too, crashing into Tweek as he did so. They both fell, Tweek landing on his butt and Craig on his side, taking a few moments to lie and get their breath back.
The air was cold and the snow seeped straight through the few clothes Tweek wore, chilling him – but after the intense heat from within, it felt wonderful. He tried to take some deep breaths, most of the exhalations coming out in a series of racking coughs that hurt his chest. Fighting to get them under control, he ran a shaking hand through his hair and looked down at his grimy, semi-clad form. His parents were going to freak.
Wiping his mouth free of the spittle that had come with the force of the coughs, he looked over at Craig. Craig was pushing himself into a sitting position, still coughing. His face was red and Tweek's shirt hung around his neck, come loose from around his face. He was streaked in dirt and soot, face red, eyes bloodshot. He rubbed his face with the back of his hand, smearing the dirt around still more.
Tweek was pretty sure he'd never seen a more wonderful sight in his life. Craig was alive. He was alive.
Craig managed a shaky grin that was a strange mixture of cautious relief and belated terror. "Whoa, I never knew you were that hot."
It was a shitty pun, but Tweek didn't care. He started to snigger, then to laugh hysterically. It was either that or start crying for real. They were lying in the snow half-naked and filthy, the house was burning merrily away behind them – but they were both alive and Tweek wasn't sure if he was laughing because his terror needed some kind of outlet, or if it was pure joy that they had got through the whole thing and it was done with and over.
Except that it wasn't done with, it was a long way from done with, and by the time it was, only one thing would be over.
Craig sat up, reaching out and taking Tweek's hand. "Come on, stop laughing. We gotta-"
A shadow fell over him and suddenly, Craig's hand was ripped from his. Tweek's laughter dried up for good as a man in a police uniform grabbed Craig by the arm and lifted him almost to his feet before throwing him face-down onto the snow. There was a click that Tweek recognised, even though he had never heard the noise before; the sound of the safety switch of a gun being released.
A moment later, Tweek found himself being similarly manhandled, crashing onto his stomach and lying still. From the corner of his eye, he could see a cop yanking Craig's arms behind his back, cuffing them and dragging him to his feet.
"What the fuck's going on?" snapped the cop holding Craig.
Tweek felt someone kneel on the small of his back, grinding painfully. His own arms were pulled and for a moment, he thought they would just pop out of their sockets, feeling steel encircle his wrists with a snap that sounded horribly final.
"It's pretty obvious," growled a voice at Tweek's ear, seconds before he too was lifted to his feet. The cop didn't bother to be careful and he yelped in pain as fingers dug cruelly into his arms. "Pyros. Get their kicks setting fire to things. Got off on it, looking at the state of them."
Tweek started to shake uncontrollably, catching Craig's eye and silently begging for him to do something, to get them out of this somehow. But then the fire engines pulled up and people gathered around the blaze, the noise and confusion overwhelming. Tweek faintly heard someone reading him his rights, but he couldn't make sense of the words, lost in an ecstasy of sheer terror.
He was marched through the crowd, who turned and stared. Tweek thought he saw a glimpse of Eric Cartman in the watchers and his anxiety increased. That was just perfect, now the stories going around about the fire would be wildly exaggerated and his school life would be a living hell.
Actually, right now, his life already seemed like a living hell.
Ahead of him, he saw Craig being shoved into a cop car, obviously having decided to go the silent route since he wasn't shouting and cursing. Tweek decided this was a good plan. He wasn't going to say anything to anyone until he got to see Craig and find out what the hell had gone on...
~:~
Tweek came to consciousness slowly. With his eyes closed, he was aware of the pillow beneath his head and duvet pulled around his chest and was confused for a moment – he'd been dreaming about the day he and Craig had escaped the fire and half-expected to find himself on the narrow cot in the cell he'd spent twenty hellish hours in, only it was far too comfortable for that. No, a long time had gone past since then.
He also became aware that he was alone in the bed, which didn't seem right either. Elliot always woke him up before he got up himself, no matter what. He was never in bed alone. Frowning, not wanting to open his eyes, he cast his mind back to what he'd been doing before he went to bed.
The shop, the guns, Craig...
He opened his eyes wide, staring up at the ceiling. Definitely not his apartment. There was no sign of the tasteful eggshell blue paint, just functional white that had been slightly tinged with nicotine.
The bike, the motel, prophecies, killers...
He sat up, expecting to find himself handcuffed to the headboard and face to face with a kidnapper. But there was no one else around, the room was empty of anyone but himself. Fighting a strange lingering tiredness, he scrubbed at his eyes and tried to think; what was the last thing he remembered?
He could remember arriving at the motel with Craig, meeting with Kenny McCormick and those other two guys, Gregory and Christophe. He could remember being told some weird tale about Peruvian wall carvings, only it hadn't been right because it was Craig who had been on those, years ago, not him.
After that, there was nothing.
Someone got us, thought Tweek with rising panic. They were after me and they got all of us and now they're going to sacrifice me to some infernal God and the other guys could already be dead and Craig could be dead and oh shit I have to get out of here...
But the whole house could be filled with kidnappers, who were even now dusting off their ceremonial robes and sharpening their daggers. If he could sneak out, that was good, but just in case he ran into someone, he needed a weapon.
He got out of the bed and looked around, grateful to note that he was still dressed in his own clothes and appeared to be unmolested. That didn't entirely quash the theory that he had been slipped some roofies and the whole incident at the coffee shop and what happened afterwards was a drug induced dream, but it went a long way to disproving it.
There was nothing immediately obvious that he could use as a weapon. The bed he had got out of was a double, the sheets clean – maybe he could tear them into strips and use them to climb out of the window? But what if they broke and he fell out and broke his neck? There was a desk against one wall, a laptop and printer lying on it, switched off. Beside them were two expensive looking digital cameras and Tweek reached out and grabbed one, flicking on the power, wanting some clue as to who might have taken him, and presumably the four men whom he had been with.
Scanning the memory, he blinked in surprise. There was a few pictures of Kenny and Christophe, the blonde grinning, the Frenchman scowling. Another one of a girl with long, dark hair sitting on the edge of the bed he had just emerged from, a sulky come-hither look on her face. The last one he looked at showed Kenny and Christophe again, Craig beside them. All three seemed slightly drunk, Christophe's eyes half-lidded and Kenny making bunny ears behind his head, grinning wildly. But it was Craig with whom Tweek was concerned with. He seemed happy, the smile that he got when something really amused him plastered on his face. His arm was stretched to somewhere out of shot and Tweek recognised the pose; Craig was holding the camera taking the picture.
This is Craig's room, he thought, putting down the camera and forgetting that he had been hoping for a weapon. But if he was in Craig's room, then what had happened? Had he passed out?
And why was Craig living in the same town as him?
Dread settled in the pit of his stomach as he made his way toward the window. The curtains were drawn against the sunlight and in one quick, jerky movement, Tweek pulled them apart. He had never seen the view from this window, but he knew it as soon as he saw it. He had grown up in this town.
Somewhere between passing out and waking up, he had been brought back to South Park.
The roofies were suddenly seeming a lot more likely, only he hadn't drank anything in Craig's presence. And why the hell would Craig suddenly crash back into his life only to drug him?
Tweek sat on the end of the bed, burying his head in his hands. None of this made any sense. Craig being back – he'd been struggling to forget him, to persuade himself that he had to move on, yet here he was. And saving his life. Again. He had no reason to trust anything Craig said, he hadn't seen him in years and yet, he had immediately run off with him. Admittedly, there had been extenuating circumstances, but he really didn't need much persuading. He probably wouldn't have needed much persuading if they'd merely run into each other in the middle of the street. He'd taken one look at Craig and suddenly lost his will to think, to do anything but follow him.
And now, he was back in South Park and shit, he'd probably get fired for not showing up at work and there was no way Elliot would believe he had no real choice but to go with Craig; he'd be jobless and homeless. And that was if he even got back to his normal life. To get that far, he had to get out of this room and who knew what lay on the other side of the door?
It's a trick, he thought suddenly. Craig hates me, because I left town and I never phoned to find out how he was dealing with everything, he probably had to go back to school and have Cartman calling him a pyro fag and I never went back at all. He's getting some kind of revenge by fucking up my life, the same way I fucked up his...
That thought upset him more than anything else. Would Craig really go to all that trouble just to get back at him? It was bad enough that he probably thought him an asshole.
There was only one way to find out and sitting on the end of the bed and catastrophising wasn't it.
Trembling, wishing he had a coffee – hell, anything with caffeine in it would do – he took several deep breaths and opened the door.
~:~
Craig could have cursed his 'friends'.
Kenny had gone over to the Broflovski house, ostensibly to ask some questions about the whole prophecy thing, but had yet to return. Christophe was watching some dull crap on the TV and Craig didn't feel like company, so that escape wasn't an option. And he couldn't hide in his room because – well, because the reason he needed to take his mind off things was currently in his room, crashed out on the bed.
Life was never simple, but recently things had got too complicated for words.
Instead he sat at the kitchen table, an unread magazine spread out in front of him, his second bottle of beer close to hand and a cigarette burning between his fingers. He wondered if he should leave the house for a while, go for a walk, but it was too easy to imagine Tweek waking up and finding him gone – and Christophe's reaction to one of his panic attacks.
I'm hanging around in case my ex-boyfriend, the one I haven't seen since I was seventeen, needs me. Pathetic.
He let his mind wander to the scene upstairs, Tweek curled up on his fortunately almost-clean sheets, only his wild blonde hair sticking out from beneath the quilt. He'd imagined it a hundred times, barely a day went past when he didn't open the door to the room and envision the familiar form lying there, but the reality had left him disoriented and that pissed him off. It was too easy to imagine himself going up there, maybe under the pretence of bringing up a drink, sitting on the end of the bed and maybe asking a few questions. Like why the fuck he never bothered getting in touch, why in the three months Craig had been sitting in juvenile hall he'd never gotten the lousy letter he had been waiting for. Why he got out and found Tweek was long gone, blown town never to return. Until now.
But no, he refused to let himself be drawn into that conversation. For Tweek, it was all in the past, water under the bridge. He'd left town because his parents left town and he was part of the baggage they had taken – and Craig was under no illusions; he knew that he was the reason the family had left in such a hurry. Tweek had moved on, settling into a new home, finishing school, finding a job, an apartment... and a new boyfriend. One without a criminal record and an anti-authoritarian streak, one who would keep him safe instead of dragging him into trouble.
Someone who was better than Craig.
Scowling, he mashed out the cigarette, lit another and tried to turn his attention back to the magazine. It didn't work. His mind was turning over the other possibility of what might happen if he went up the stairs, the one where he didn't even bother to ask questions. The one where he grabbed the other man and kissed him, feeling thin arms snake around his neck in a way that no longer had to be just a memory...
That thought was even more dangerous than dragging up ancient history. More than likely, if he tried anything like that, Tweek would bolt and he didn't think he could deal with the rejection yet again. Better – safer – to take his mind far away from those kind of thoughts.
He was too busy listening for Tweek and as soon as he heard the creak of the floorboards above and the footsteps on the stairs, his entire body tensed and he strived to look casual.
He heard the living room door open, the muffled shriek and Christophe growling something incomprehensible. A moment later, the kitchen door opened and Tweek cautiously put his head into the room. His hair looked like he'd been yanking at it again and his left eye was twitching sporadically, a sure sign that he was feeling more stressed than usual but was trying not to show it.
Craig looked back at him, trying to force a smile or some casual greeting, but finding himself unable to. The part of him that wanted to yell at Tweek immediately went back to war with the part that wanted to molest him; neither seeming happy with the peace treaty the job entailed. It had been easier before, when the situation had been urgent. Now, he couldn't think of a single appropriate thing to say.
"Uh, I need c-coffee," said Tweek nervously, breaking the silence.
"Knock yourself out." Craig indicated to the kettle and returned to his magazine, turning a page and trying to look absorbed.
Tweek crossed the room, busying himself with the drink and Craig didn't have to be able to see him to know that Tweek was also determinedly not paying attention to the other man. Struggling with the urge to flip off his indifferent back, Craig reached out and drained the rest of his beer, putting it back on the table just a little too hard and dropping his cigarette butt into the empty bottle.
From the corner of his eye, he saw Tweek walk to the fridge and open it, although he had to imagine the expression when he realised it was filled with beer, soda, half-empty tins with the forks still in them and a pound of plastic explosive that had to be kept cool. Hopefully, he wouldn't realise what the last one was. There was a carton of milk, but when Tweek picked it up and shook it, the contents sounded suspiciously solid.
"Pass me another beer while you're there," he said gruffly, more for something to say than a desire for another drink. He couldn't afford to get wasted but damn, this was uncomfortable as hell.
Tweek silently passed him the bottle and went back over to the kettle, having evidently decided to have the coffee black. Craig let his eyes follow him, the familiar movements the other man made making him smile a little. The exact same rituals as always; it was almost as if Tweek had never left, had stayed in South Park and the pair of them had made some kind of life that included each other.
Tweek turned, the coffee steaming in one hand, his eyes meeting Craig's for the first time since he had entered the kitchen. "What happened?"
"Huh?"
"I – ack – I was at the motel and now I'm back in gnk South Park and I don't know how I got here!"
"Oh." Craig tried to think of a lie and couldn't. "Gregory shot you. With a tranquilliser dart. And then we brought you back with us."
"GAH!" Tweek jerked, coffee spilling over the top of the cup. "I knew it, you're all part of some crazed secret society and you're going to sacrifice me!"
"No one's going to sacrifice you!" Craig stood up and took Tweek by the upper arms, guiding him to a chair and making him sit down. "Gregory just has a, um, direct way of dealing with things. You were spazzing out."
"Do you blame me ack!"
Craig began to wish he hadn't chased Kenny out of the house; the blonde seemed to have a way with people and right now, Craig didn't think he was the best candidate for keeping Tweek calm. But he was the only person available, except for Christophe and there was no way that would end well. He'd probably terrify Tweek into a heart attack.
"Look Tweek, we've been hired to protect you..." He trailed off, since this wasn't strictly true, but somewhere along the line, the rules had changed. It was an unspoken agreement between all of them that no harm was going to come to Tweek as long as they could help it. "We had to bring you back here, there was nowhere else safe enough. And no one would think we'd bring you here now, they'll be looking miles away."
"Who hired you? Who'd want to keep me safe?"
Craig gave him a disbelieving look, letting a trace of bitterness enter his voice. "Well, your boyfriend would, hopefully."
Tweek shrugged, not meeting Craig's eyes. "No, he wouldn't believe in anything like this. He still thinks the ah, the guinea pigs were mass hysteria."
"I felt pretty fucking hysterical," muttered Craig, wondering how Elliot fucking Bolton coped with Tweek's more creative twitches. It took a special kind of pragmatism to disbelieve in the irrational even when it was knocking down the town and he didn't think there'd be any place in his philosophy for underpants gnomes.
"So, who hired you?" Tweek looked at him over the rim of his coffee cup.
"Kyle Broflovski."
"Kyle?" Tweek frowned. "Why?"
"He figured out it was you on the carvings," replied Craig, looking at his watch. Kenny had been gone a very long time and he really needed him back to explain things to Tweek. Dammit, the guy could cope with bombs, guns, angry natives and Christophe in one of his moods, but swing a shovel at him and he was running scared. Pussy.
"Shit Kenny, what's taking so long?" he muttered under his breath.
Tweek heard him and spasmed violently. "You and Kenny are GAH, uh..."
Craig looked at him and blinked uncomprehendingly. "What?"
"GAH! You're uh, ack, living together and..."
Realisation dawned. "Hell no!"
"No?"
"No! We're like, housemates. Shit, Christophe lives here too, that doesn't mean we're all part of some giant gay – sandwich!"
"Gnk, you're not?"
"Sadly, non," said Christophe from the door, wandering into the kitchen and liberating several cans of soda from the fridge, ignoring the scream from Tweek as he interrupted the conversation. "Otherwise, zese two beetches would be already in my room, wrestling in ice-cream for my amusement."
Craig crashed his head against the table. "Mole! Sick!"
Tweek stared at Christophe in horror. "Do you know gah what ice cream does to your dick?"
Christophe chuckled. "I like 'im. You can 'ave the TV."
Craig refused to take his head from the table until he was sure Christophe had gone. There was no two ways about it; at some point in the near future, he would have to get that therapy he'd been threatening.