Kyle sighed, pressing his forehead against the cold window frame, fogging the glass with his breath. He'd been right about the snowstorm, it was all but blowing a gale outside. Smiling, he shut his eyes. He was glad, glad he didn't have to stand knee deep in the snow this morning, glad he didn't have to freeze his backside off at some stupidly early hour waiting for the bus to arrive. He was glad about that, glad and worried. He probably shouldn't have accepted the offer of a lift from Stan, he probably shouldn't be hugging the window, waiting for him to drive up like some fourteen year old disaster waiting to go on her very first date. He should probably be running a mile, running to the bus stop, running away Stan, from whatever game he was trying to play. But he wasn't.

He was glad he didn't have to stand knee deep in a gale this morning.

He was glad that, if just for a little while longer, he could ignore the doubts that Kenny had solidified.

He could hear his mother screaming at Ike in the kitchen, yelling at him to eat his breakfast, drink his milk, telling him not to be late. He could hear Ike screaming right back at her, logically pointing out that he'd finish his breakfast and down his milk a damn site faster if she stopped screaming at him and just let him eat. His logic failed to impress his mother. She just starting screaming at him about manners, lecturing him about talking back to her. Biting his lip, Kyle screwed his eyes shut. Screaming at each other seemed to be the only way his family managed to communicate in the mornings. Screaming seemed to be the only way his mother could communicate full stop.

Well, screaming and riots. But riots were mostly screaming. They were just a lot of people screaming whilst clutching signs.

The screaming suddenly silenced. Kyle blinked. He heard the stomping footsteps slightly too late, too late to do a runner.

"Kyle! You should have left fifteen minutes ago! You're going to miss the bus!"

"I'm not catching the bus today. I'm getting a lift."

"It's not the McCormick boy again is it?! I told you Kyle, I told you what would happen if I caught you riding in that death-trap of his!"

"It's not Kenny, no."

"Well who is it?!"

Kyle hesitated, turning his face away, staring through the window at the snow. He knew how his mother would react if she knew. "It's no-one. Just the guy I'm doing my business report with. Don't worry, his car has seatbelts and everything. It's fine."

"Does he drive safe?!"

Kyle shrugged. "Safe enough to have a licence."

"Kyle, you know, I'm not comfortable with you driving about with strangers Kyle, especially not when it's icy! It's just not safe!"

Rolling his eyes, Kyle pulled his face away from the window, turning his head to glare at her. He wasn't quite sure why she though the school bus, with its awkward size, worn out tires, cranky old engine, questionably sober driver and complete lack of seatbelts was any safer than a car with seatbelts. Hell, it probably wasn't much safer then Kenny's truck. "He's not a stranger! And his driving's fine ma! Christ, we live in South Park; you're never not driving on ice!"

There was the hum of an engine, the crunch of tires on fresh snow. Kyle turned his face back to the window, watching as Stan killed the engine, watching as he pulled himself out the car. Cursing to himself, Kyle scrambled to his feet, gathering up his bag and his box. It was too late though, his mother had already seen. She made the sort of face she usually only makes when she's succeeded in getting one of Kyle's favourite TV shows pulled, before making a beeline to the door, wrenching it open eagerly, letting in a flurry of cold air and snow.

"Oh, Stanley!" She threw her arms apart, beaming as though she was receiving a standing ovation. Kyle glowered at her, awkwardly forcing on his coat. "It's been so long! How've you been?! How's your mother? And your sister?"

"Oh, I'm fine. She's fine too. They're both fine."

Kyle was stomping past his mother, stomping angry bootprints across the garden, grabbing the sleeve of Stan's coat as he passed. "Holy Christ, don't talk to her, just get back in the car and drive!"

Stan did as he was told, calling awkward pleasantries over his shoulder as Kyle dragged him across the lawn.

"God, why couldn't you sit in the car and honk like any normal person would?"

Stan quirked his eyebrow at him. "Because I'm not a cliché from the fifties perhaps?"

Kyle glared at him, wrenching open the car door, hurling his bag and his box onto the back seat, throwing himself down on the passenger side seat with such force, Stan was mildly amazed he didn't break it. Kyle could be a bit of a natural disaster when he got riled up. Blinking meekly, Stan clicked up the door handle, dropping himself onto the driver's seat.

"I don't see why you're so worried. I've met your mom before. Many times. I know what she's like."

"It's not that! Everyone knows what my mothers like!"

"Well then what is it?"

"It's…" Frowning darkly at the dashboard, Kyle bit the inside of his cheek. "It's just she's gonna be talking about you for weeks now! She won't give me a moment's peace now she knows you're back..." Kyle waved his hand slightly. It was a feeble attempt at a gesture. "Back around."

"Why?"

"Because she fucking adores you."

"Why?!"

"Because everyone in this shithole of a death sentence adores you. You're fucking Stanley Marsh, the perfect quarterback saint! King of the white-bread brain-dead!"

Stan was silent for a minute, clicking the car into drive, pulling off the Broflovski's front lawn. "That's not true. Everyone doesn't adore me. You don't adore me."

Kyle tilted his head away, staring out the window. He bit the inside of his cheek hard enough to taste metal. "I did once. You know damn well we all did once."

Stan cleared his throat awkwardly. He didn't quite know how to respond to that. Instead he just glanced in the rear view mirror, looking for a chance of subject. As he turned a corner, Kyle's box clattered against the door, rattling slightly. "What's in the box?"

Kyle kept his face glued to the window. "Floppy disks. Broken ones. Butters wants them for his art."

"What's he going to do with floppy disks?"

"I haven't the faintest. You'll have to ask Kenny about all that shit."

"Furthermore, why the fuck do you have a box full of broken floppy disks at hand?"

"Did you seriously just use furthermore in a sentence?"

"Don't be precious." Stan clicked up the indicator, taking the corner slightly too sharply. The car's back wheels skidded several inches across the snow. Stan cleared his throat, attempting to pretend he'd done that intentionally. Tokyo Drifted it, as it were. Kyle just glared at him. "Anyway, we're a bit early, let's go get a coffee before first bell."

A/N - Not dead, just busy. Essays and all that painful, painful jazz.

I hate it when people make me do productive things.