Stan was haunting the door of his classroom again. Kyle didn't quite know how he did it, the second the bell went, he was there. It was like he'd just apparated there, made himself appear through sheer force or will or something. Frowning slightly, Kyle crossed his arms across the front of his coat. He must be leaving class early; not even the Godly fucking quarterback of the mediocre fucking football team could negotiate the depressing corridors of this godforsaken school that fucking fast.

But hey, somehow Stan did it, somehow he was there. Just standing there, smiling stupidly. Just waiting for Kyle. Just like he used to when they were kids.

Driving together was getting notably less awkward. Partly because Stan had given up his half-hearted protests and resigned himself to watching with slightly pained eyes whist Kyle systematically deleted and replaced his cars carefully set radio stations. Mostly because it just was. The Stockholm Syndrome effect was beginning to set in. Stan had forced himself on Kyle enough for it to be working, for the awkwardness to be eroding. For Kyle to think that maybe there were worse things in the world then just trusting him. Then just going with this.

He still didn't know what Stan was doing. He didn't know why Stan was crying in pizza restaurants, he didn't know why Stan had such a boner for this report, he didn't know why Stan was haunting him during homeroom then ignoring him during lunch. He didn't know if Kenny was right, if Stan was hiding something, or holding something back. He didn't know if this was all a lie, if Stan was just playing some very convoluted game. He didn't know if he was going to end up getting burned again, he didn't think he was, but he just didn't know.

And for the time being, he was sort of happy he didn't know. This whole thing was beginning to feel slightly nostalgic, having Stan there. It was enjoyable, not that Kyle would ever admit that to anyone. He was beginning to realise just why he'd been so damn upset when Stan had thrown his hissy fit and told him to go die in the first place. He was realising just how much he'd sort of missed his super best friend, how much he'd missed having Stan trot round after him, having someone who blindly went along with him, blindly trusted him. It was fun, enjoyable. In its own small, secret way, it was making Kyle happy.

And if not knowing meant he could enjoy it just that little bit longer, he was sort of glad he didn't know.

He was definitely glad his mother was out crusading, or starting another war, or taking Ike to one of his hockey games, or whatever she was out doing. She'd always had a fond spot for Stan (but then, most of the adults in this town had a fond spot for Stan), and had she been home, it was doubtless that there would have been much shrieking and fawning and food preparing at this sudden reappearance of South Park's prodigal son. Kyle very much did not like the shrieking and the fawning, so being able to click open his front door and slip Stan upstairs clandestinely was a welcome relief.

Exhaling slightly, Kyle threw his bag against the foot of his bed and clicked on his computer, sitting down heavily in his desk chair. Stan just blinked slightly, gave one of the many boxes of floppy disks a slightly concerned look, before sitting down gingerly on the edge of Kyle's bed.

"Hey da-urh." Stan stopped sharply, nervously clearing this throat. Kyle just blinked at him, looking up from his computer's loading screen.

"Hey Dara? Who the fuck's Dara?"

"Hey dude. I meant to say dude."

"Oh, alright. What?"

Stan swallowed slightly, nervously running his fingertips across Kyle's worn, plaid duvet cover. "Why is everyone calling you fluffy all of a sudden?"

Kyle groaned, squeezing his eyes shut, pressing his face into his hands. He was really getting sick of their bullshit now. "Everyone isn't calling me fluffy. It's just Cartman. Cartman and Kenny. They're just being dicks."

Blinking slightly, Stan bit the inside of his cheek. "They've called you worse."

"That doesn't make it any better."

"I guess." Kyle heard him move; he heard the creak of the bedframe and the rustle of cotton, but he didn't bother to open his eyes. He didn't need to. He knew Stan was there, behind him, glancing down at the screen, at the freshly loaded, blank document. He just smiled, placing a hand on the back of Kyle's head, knotting his fingers through the hair. Kyle blinked against his fingers. He had half a mind to brush him away, push him off. He would have done, if it had been anyone else. But not Stan. With Stan, it was familiar, a memory he'd not bothered to remember. Stan used to rest his hand there before, when they were kids. He used to stand behind him, looking over his shoulder. He used to watch Kyle work with his hand just resting there. Like Kyle was some particularly obedient lapdog or something.

It'd always driven Kyle nuts when they were younger, the constant weight on the back of his head. He wondered if Stan remembered.

Probably not. He didn't even really remember.

"Is your head alright now?"

Blinking slightly, Kyle dropped his hands to his keyboard. They were such old memories, long forgotten. Left to gather dust in a lonely corner, left alongside the cassette tapes and floppy disks. "My heads fine." He swallowed, slightly awkwardly. "Do you want to start focusing on the report?"

Stan unknotted his hand from Kyle's unapologetically tangled hair. "I guess."

Kyle just cleared his throat, and turned his face back to the screen. "So… So do you want to do the bit about the subprime mortgage crisis then?"

"Oh yeah, do the… The-the Margaritaville bit and all that shit. People buying things they can't afford, bank bailouts. Chicken slaughter and kazoos. A big game wheel. All that jazz."

"Margarita-what? Kazoos? What in God's name…"

Stan just waved his hand loosely through the air. "Mortgages and houses and the banking crisis. I got it."

Kyle gave him a sceptical sideways look. "Well if you say so."

"Well go on then, if you know so much. Why hasn't it ended?"

Kyle shrugged. "People aren't buying shit. For this to work, people can't be afraid of buying stuff. Money needs to move. It can't just stagnate." Exhaling, Kyle leant back in his chair. "We've already been through this once before. I've paid the debts. But it didn't work. Double dip and all that."

Stan raised an eyebrow. "Double dip?"

"Double dip."

"Sounds like something you get at KFC."

"It probably is. You'd have to ask Cartman about that though. Fried chicken is sort of his thing."

Stan smiled. He hand was gone, but he was still standing there. Close, slightly too close. "Well, I know why it happened, you know why it's happening. Together, I'm pretty sure we've got this covered."

"Yup. You say your half, I'll say mine, then we'll sew them together and hey presto, Frankenstein's dog."

"Frankenstein's dog?"

"Frankenstein's dog."

"Alright then. I guess we'd better start writing."

Kyle still wasn't entirely convinced Stan knew about the economy. From his jumbled ramblings, he either knew a whole lot, or absolutely nothing. Nevertheless, he spent the next couple of hours diligently jotting down Stan's eccentric proclamations diligently noting down his own opinions, all whilst trying to decide whether they were going to end up with an A or an F. It was either going to be one or the other. There would be no leeway with this.

"So I'll pick you up tomorrow morning, alright?"

Kyle hesitated, crossing his arms across his chest. The porch light was illuminating several wayward snowflakes, painting them a dusky orange as they drifted lazily to the ground. They were no doubt the first of many. The first of yet another bitter mountain snowstorm. A bitter morning snowstorm.

Kyle very much did not want to start his day standing ankle deep in a bitter morning snowstorm. Not again. Exhaling, Kyle cocked his hip. "Alright."

"Good." Stan reached out again, pulling Kyle into another smothering, jock-ritual bear hug. Kyle just stood there for a second, forcing himself to watch the snow falling behind Stan's shoulder. When it became apparent Stan was in no mood to detach early, Kyle sighed. After a moment of hesitation, he caged his arms around Stan's back, giving him the sort of stiff, awkward hug one usually reserves for that particularly creepy uncle. Not that Stan cared. Reciprocation was reciprocation, regardless of how tentative.


A/N – Ehehehurrgh, I know, I suck. But I still claim my course is trying to kill me. I really think it is.

Furthermore, I really think it might succeed.