Disclaimer: I own Roxie, Leah, and La Vaca. The fucktard/fucker/asshole/whatever other words used in place of giving him a name belongs to himself, as if anyone else would want him. I don't own anything else.
Pairings: Kyle/fucktard, almost Kyle/Stan, Roxie/Leah
Ratinig: R
Explanation: Clearly, this is an altrenate universe. Basically, Kyle came to Decoy, a town in North Carolina that's too small to mark on most maps, a little more then ten years ago, after running away from the orphanage he'd been living in sence he was ten years old. Right now, he's twenty-eight. He fell in love with the fucktard, but got his heart broken. Six years ago, he met Roxie, and Leah, and moved in with them, earning his keep by working in the bar. Stan's just another sad singer, whose had one too many heartbreaks. Kenny, as he later states, is lost, and lost by choice.
Author Note: This is my first South Park fanfic, and, unless sometime inside me decides this wasn't degrading enough, my last. I haven't watched much of it- fifteen to twenty episodes, and the movie was forced down my throat by my aunt- so if I screw anything up, sorry.
Night In La Vaca
It's midnight. Okay, it's ten-fourteen. It's midnight, somewhere.
~Right, comfort yourself in that, Kyle.~ the bartender chastised himself. ~Maybe, for some bizarre reason, tonight will be different. He won't come in, won't quite deliberatly not look at me, then leave with the pretty, empty-headed someone of the evening.~
A soft laugh from the other end of the bar rang in the silent bar, and he scowled.
"You know it pisses me off when you do that, Roxie." he said.
"You love me, anyway." she replied. "Anyway, it's not my goddamned fault you're a fucking projectile."
He rolled his eyes. "Oh, go fuck yourself." he told her.
"I've got Leah for that." she shot back. "Unlike you."
"I don't want Leah."
"You know damned well what I meant, you fucktard."
Kyle was saved from having to reply by the first abrubt wave of about thirty people entering the bar, just as the clock struck ten-twenty.
He heard Roxie tut, but ignored her. She could just hack into his brain, and bug him until he said something, if she wanted to, but she knew better. The fact he was a celibate wasn't an issue she and Leah ever pressed, simply because they knew it wasn't a good idea. The fact the two girls were somwhat psychic wasn't an issue he ever pressed, because he didn't care. Fuck, if that blonde kid could get killed in the bar once a goddamned week, and come back to life in time for opening, why shouldn't they fuck around with peoples heads?
They served drinks in silence, dodging and darting around one-another for well over and hour, before the crowd screaming orders slowed to a trickle. Roxie signaled that Kyle should take over completely for a minute. He obliged, knowing she would cover for him, later. She ducked quickly behind the curtain that led to the stock room, and the staircase leading to the apartment on the second floor.
"Who'd you book, tonight, Leah?" he heard her called, up the stairs.
The crystal-clear soprano voice that answered her carried, but seemed to spread, so Kyle couldn't make out the words. Roxie hopped back out, smiling faintly.
As she turned to serve a blonde kid in an orange jacket Kyle had seen too many times to count (was he the once who died sometimes, or someone else?) he called, "Who is it?"
"Ecru." she replied, laughing lightly.
"Oh, for fucks sake!" he said, laughing a bit, as well.
Ecru was the best emo band in the area, which said something, considering there were so damned many, and more then was expected were pretty good. They had loads of original songs, most of which were quite good, but they preferred doing covers of Bright Eyes, Commander Venus, Dashboard Confessional, and the like. The lead singer, and song-writer (a guy with black hair whose name Kyle's mind would never give him, out of fear) absolutly adored Roxie, and sometimes proclaimed he could fall in love with Kyle, were it not for the circumstances of their meeting. Kyle was generally obliged to agree.
Quite suddenly, Roxie jabbed her elbow into his back, snapping him out of his thoughts.
"Fuck it, Kyle, you can take it from here." she said. "I'm going to lay low for about a half hour."
"What for?" he asked.
"Take a look at the fucking door, man." she replied.
As he began searching for cause her distress, Roxie slipped away, into the back room, and, probably up the stairs to ravish Leah. He quickly spotted an obese boy of about their age (he couldn't help thinking of everyone he knew, including himself, as kids, even though everyone here was at least twenty-one) whose face he knew quite well.
This guy, whose name he never cared to get, was constantly hitting on Roxie, and was a primary reason Leah had stopped covering for him later in the evening. Which really kind of sucked, and made him wish more then anything they weren't so damned poor they couldn't risk banning even one person.
Kyle took a deep breath, and closed his eyes, trying to center himself, before he turned to mix the kid in the orange jackets second drink.
There weren't any other customers for a while- well, none that asked for anything that required anything besides the basic motor skills needed to open a cooler, and hand over a beer- so Kyle could collect himself. He knew from the cloudly link that had been inadvertantly set up between his mind, and the minds of his roommates Roxie wouldn't be back for another hour of so. Unless something seriously fucked up had happened, he would be alone when It happened.
"Oh, fuck." he grumbled. "I'm thinking with caps, for fucks sake."
He could almost heard Roxie saying 'well, it does require caps' but he ignored her ghost.
A few minutes later, he heard rustling in the back room, that had to be Ecru- he could sence Roxie coming to an orgasm, above him.
Sure enough, the band filed quietly out, and headed to the stage. The lead singer paused to adress Kyle, and inquire as to Roxie's where-abouts.
"She's upstairs." he told him. "With Leah." The last bit was pitched a bit lower, and he was rewarded for the unessicary detail with a smile that could light up every hellish four AM Kyle ever had to live through, were it not for the fact both of them were celibates, and completely philophobic.
The singer reached out, and squeezed Kyles upper arm breifly, before hurrying after his band mates.
Kyle sighed, a bit, and, after a moment of thought, reached out for Roxie's mind. She was recovering, apparently, and senced his probing.
~Fuck off.~ she said. ~I'll be down in a minute. Is fatass still there?~
He glanced around, and saw the nearly spherical form of the boy in question, huddled in a corner with someone obscured why his voluminous body. Roxie, seeing through his eyes, smiled, and pulled away.
He glanced at the clock, and sighed. It was eleven-forty-three. There was no fucking way Roxie would get down here in time. He glanced over at the door, and flinched.
/Fuck./ The asshole was early. His hands instantly began trembling, at the sight of the man who had caused him so much pain.
The fucktard (to borrow Roxie's (stolen) term) looked at the bar, and smiled slightly, as he made his way over. On the rare occasion Roxie wasn't there to cover for Kyle, he would hang around the bar for as long as possible, ordering drinks, and flirting with as many people as possible before she got back, all to piss Kyle off. Yes, he was a fuck-hole, but he was also the only person Kyle had ever been in love with.
As he arrived at the bar, the band finished setting up, and quite suddenly, the singers voice came over the crappy PA system. They had just had some guy in to fix it- damn thing had been out more then in for at least a week- so he was loud, and clear, at least for tonight.
"Hi, I'm Stan Marsh." he said, a touch uncertainly. No matter how many times he played here, the guy always seemed worried about his reception. Kyle wondered, irrelevantly, how long it would take his brain to reject Stan's name, this time.
"I'm lead singer for Ecru, so that kind of makes me spokes-person, which I really don't get." Kyle smirked, though he knew Stan was serious. "First song is a cover of a tottaly brilliant Bright Eyes song I've been listening to obsessivly for that past week of so. It's called Lover I Don't Have To Love."
Kyle's eyes widened, at this, and, in spite of himself, he looked at the fucktard, who didn't seem to have heard. Or, if he had, his thoughts hadn't gone in the same direction as Kyle's.
The opening notes began, and Stans voice, soft as he sang, filled the air. It wasn't an awe-inspiring voice- Stan wasn't the greatest singer in the world- no Jack White, or Conor Oburst, certainly- but he wasn't awful, and something about /how/ he sang made it work. No one ever really listened to the words- they would get it, anyway.
"Hey," the asshole said, the voice Kyle had so longer for tearing him away from the sound of Stans song. "Can I get a Hurricane?"
His drink of choice, of course. Kyle tried not to flinch, and preformed admirably.
I want a lover I don't have to love
I want a girl whose just out to get a fuck
Kyle handed over the drink, and, though he tried not to look at the fucker, he saw his eyes narrow at the words as the chorus began. He raised one shoulder, and lowered it, then turned an intoxicating grin to a fair-haired girl who approached the bar, in search of what had to be her fourth Heineken.
"Hey," Kyle heard him say. "Dare I ask the name of this lovely lady?"
"I'm Courtney." she told him.
"That's a gorgeous name." the fuck-hole informed her.
Courtney giggled.
Hey where's the kid with the chemicals
I thought he said to meet him here
But I'm not sure
Kyle turned away, and willed Roxie to hurry down. This was killing him. He hated it when this happened. In his mind that fat asshole had already suffered all the torments of a particularly cruel hell.
I got the money if you got the time
You said it feels good
I said I'll give it a try
Roxie suddenly bounded out from behind the curtain, olive-green hair rumpled, silver eyes bright, skin flushed. Her lips were slightly swollen, from kissing, and she kept licking them. No dought what she'd been up to.
To Kyle's surprise, Leah came down after her. She was emaculate, her lavender hair braided neatly, and wound into buns on either side of her head, brown eyes sparkling, though gaurded. She look more self-satisfied then usual, though only the regulars from way back had any way of knowing.
Kyle looked at her questioningly.
She smiled serenly. "It's time you had a night off, Ky`." she told him. "Get some fucking sleep."
The kid in the orange jacket glanced up. He'd been around sence about a week after Kyle started working, and had never once heard Leah use any language stronger then 'darnit', in all likelihood.
Roxie waved a hand at him, and began mixing him a third drink, on the house. He usually only had two, but he wouldn't argue if she was feeling charitable.
Kyle smiled at Leah, entirely too grateful, and hurried off. Behind him, he heard Stan moan a few last lines, before the curtain blocked out the sound of the bar.
Love's an excuse to get hurt.. and to hurt
Do you like to hurt
I do I do
So hurt me
Oh, how true it was, he thought, as he climbed the stairs.
Sitting at the bar, having more or less inhaled his third drink, Kenny folded his arms on the counter, and lay his head on them staring at the stage. He didn't really take in anything the singer- Stan, or Steve, or something- said, sang, whatever
It didn't really matter. Nothing had mattered for a long time. Not sence he had found this bar, a pace where he could really fit it, and not have to try at all. A place where he could lose himself.
Everyone here was lost, or looking for the lost. He was lost, and lost by choice. He knew Kyle was lost, as well. He had a sixth sence about such things. Kyle was what had srawn him here, really. He had felt a kindered spirit, of sorts, and followed it. The presence had led him here, to La Vaca, six years ago.
Few enough, he mused, knew that the name of the bar meant 'The Cow' in Spanish, and he doughted anyone would have cared. He sure as hell didn't.
With a sigh, he closed his eyes, and let the sound of the singers tragic, not-really-great voice lull him to sleep.
His last thought was that the poor guys voice probably cracked so much was from all the shreiking he did, and decided to ask him about it.
Up in his room, Kyle poured himself a shot of whiskey. He left it on his bedside table, as he stowed the bottle in the bottom of the closet, then threw himself onto the bed.
He picked up the shot glass, and raised it to the weak yellow light bulb.
Irrelevantly, he wondered what would happen if he and the singer- already forgot his name, of course- actually /could/ fall in love.
As he downed the shot, he knew it was a stupid question.
Most questions were.
THE END
Pairings: Kyle/fucktard, almost Kyle/Stan, Roxie/Leah
Ratinig: R
Explanation: Clearly, this is an altrenate universe. Basically, Kyle came to Decoy, a town in North Carolina that's too small to mark on most maps, a little more then ten years ago, after running away from the orphanage he'd been living in sence he was ten years old. Right now, he's twenty-eight. He fell in love with the fucktard, but got his heart broken. Six years ago, he met Roxie, and Leah, and moved in with them, earning his keep by working in the bar. Stan's just another sad singer, whose had one too many heartbreaks. Kenny, as he later states, is lost, and lost by choice.
Author Note: This is my first South Park fanfic, and, unless sometime inside me decides this wasn't degrading enough, my last. I haven't watched much of it- fifteen to twenty episodes, and the movie was forced down my throat by my aunt- so if I screw anything up, sorry.
Night In La Vaca
It's midnight. Okay, it's ten-fourteen. It's midnight, somewhere.
~Right, comfort yourself in that, Kyle.~ the bartender chastised himself. ~Maybe, for some bizarre reason, tonight will be different. He won't come in, won't quite deliberatly not look at me, then leave with the pretty, empty-headed someone of the evening.~
A soft laugh from the other end of the bar rang in the silent bar, and he scowled.
"You know it pisses me off when you do that, Roxie." he said.
"You love me, anyway." she replied. "Anyway, it's not my goddamned fault you're a fucking projectile."
He rolled his eyes. "Oh, go fuck yourself." he told her.
"I've got Leah for that." she shot back. "Unlike you."
"I don't want Leah."
"You know damned well what I meant, you fucktard."
Kyle was saved from having to reply by the first abrubt wave of about thirty people entering the bar, just as the clock struck ten-twenty.
He heard Roxie tut, but ignored her. She could just hack into his brain, and bug him until he said something, if she wanted to, but she knew better. The fact he was a celibate wasn't an issue she and Leah ever pressed, simply because they knew it wasn't a good idea. The fact the two girls were somwhat psychic wasn't an issue he ever pressed, because he didn't care. Fuck, if that blonde kid could get killed in the bar once a goddamned week, and come back to life in time for opening, why shouldn't they fuck around with peoples heads?
They served drinks in silence, dodging and darting around one-another for well over and hour, before the crowd screaming orders slowed to a trickle. Roxie signaled that Kyle should take over completely for a minute. He obliged, knowing she would cover for him, later. She ducked quickly behind the curtain that led to the stock room, and the staircase leading to the apartment on the second floor.
"Who'd you book, tonight, Leah?" he heard her called, up the stairs.
The crystal-clear soprano voice that answered her carried, but seemed to spread, so Kyle couldn't make out the words. Roxie hopped back out, smiling faintly.
As she turned to serve a blonde kid in an orange jacket Kyle had seen too many times to count (was he the once who died sometimes, or someone else?) he called, "Who is it?"
"Ecru." she replied, laughing lightly.
"Oh, for fucks sake!" he said, laughing a bit, as well.
Ecru was the best emo band in the area, which said something, considering there were so damned many, and more then was expected were pretty good. They had loads of original songs, most of which were quite good, but they preferred doing covers of Bright Eyes, Commander Venus, Dashboard Confessional, and the like. The lead singer, and song-writer (a guy with black hair whose name Kyle's mind would never give him, out of fear) absolutly adored Roxie, and sometimes proclaimed he could fall in love with Kyle, were it not for the circumstances of their meeting. Kyle was generally obliged to agree.
Quite suddenly, Roxie jabbed her elbow into his back, snapping him out of his thoughts.
"Fuck it, Kyle, you can take it from here." she said. "I'm going to lay low for about a half hour."
"What for?" he asked.
"Take a look at the fucking door, man." she replied.
As he began searching for cause her distress, Roxie slipped away, into the back room, and, probably up the stairs to ravish Leah. He quickly spotted an obese boy of about their age (he couldn't help thinking of everyone he knew, including himself, as kids, even though everyone here was at least twenty-one) whose face he knew quite well.
This guy, whose name he never cared to get, was constantly hitting on Roxie, and was a primary reason Leah had stopped covering for him later in the evening. Which really kind of sucked, and made him wish more then anything they weren't so damned poor they couldn't risk banning even one person.
Kyle took a deep breath, and closed his eyes, trying to center himself, before he turned to mix the kid in the orange jackets second drink.
There weren't any other customers for a while- well, none that asked for anything that required anything besides the basic motor skills needed to open a cooler, and hand over a beer- so Kyle could collect himself. He knew from the cloudly link that had been inadvertantly set up between his mind, and the minds of his roommates Roxie wouldn't be back for another hour of so. Unless something seriously fucked up had happened, he would be alone when It happened.
"Oh, fuck." he grumbled. "I'm thinking with caps, for fucks sake."
He could almost heard Roxie saying 'well, it does require caps' but he ignored her ghost.
A few minutes later, he heard rustling in the back room, that had to be Ecru- he could sence Roxie coming to an orgasm, above him.
Sure enough, the band filed quietly out, and headed to the stage. The lead singer paused to adress Kyle, and inquire as to Roxie's where-abouts.
"She's upstairs." he told him. "With Leah." The last bit was pitched a bit lower, and he was rewarded for the unessicary detail with a smile that could light up every hellish four AM Kyle ever had to live through, were it not for the fact both of them were celibates, and completely philophobic.
The singer reached out, and squeezed Kyles upper arm breifly, before hurrying after his band mates.
Kyle sighed, a bit, and, after a moment of thought, reached out for Roxie's mind. She was recovering, apparently, and senced his probing.
~Fuck off.~ she said. ~I'll be down in a minute. Is fatass still there?~
He glanced around, and saw the nearly spherical form of the boy in question, huddled in a corner with someone obscured why his voluminous body. Roxie, seeing through his eyes, smiled, and pulled away.
He glanced at the clock, and sighed. It was eleven-forty-three. There was no fucking way Roxie would get down here in time. He glanced over at the door, and flinched.
/Fuck./ The asshole was early. His hands instantly began trembling, at the sight of the man who had caused him so much pain.
The fucktard (to borrow Roxie's (stolen) term) looked at the bar, and smiled slightly, as he made his way over. On the rare occasion Roxie wasn't there to cover for Kyle, he would hang around the bar for as long as possible, ordering drinks, and flirting with as many people as possible before she got back, all to piss Kyle off. Yes, he was a fuck-hole, but he was also the only person Kyle had ever been in love with.
As he arrived at the bar, the band finished setting up, and quite suddenly, the singers voice came over the crappy PA system. They had just had some guy in to fix it- damn thing had been out more then in for at least a week- so he was loud, and clear, at least for tonight.
"Hi, I'm Stan Marsh." he said, a touch uncertainly. No matter how many times he played here, the guy always seemed worried about his reception. Kyle wondered, irrelevantly, how long it would take his brain to reject Stan's name, this time.
"I'm lead singer for Ecru, so that kind of makes me spokes-person, which I really don't get." Kyle smirked, though he knew Stan was serious. "First song is a cover of a tottaly brilliant Bright Eyes song I've been listening to obsessivly for that past week of so. It's called Lover I Don't Have To Love."
Kyle's eyes widened, at this, and, in spite of himself, he looked at the fucktard, who didn't seem to have heard. Or, if he had, his thoughts hadn't gone in the same direction as Kyle's.
The opening notes began, and Stans voice, soft as he sang, filled the air. It wasn't an awe-inspiring voice- Stan wasn't the greatest singer in the world- no Jack White, or Conor Oburst, certainly- but he wasn't awful, and something about /how/ he sang made it work. No one ever really listened to the words- they would get it, anyway.
"Hey," the asshole said, the voice Kyle had so longer for tearing him away from the sound of Stans song. "Can I get a Hurricane?"
His drink of choice, of course. Kyle tried not to flinch, and preformed admirably.
I want a lover I don't have to love
I want a girl whose just out to get a fuck
Kyle handed over the drink, and, though he tried not to look at the fucker, he saw his eyes narrow at the words as the chorus began. He raised one shoulder, and lowered it, then turned an intoxicating grin to a fair-haired girl who approached the bar, in search of what had to be her fourth Heineken.
"Hey," Kyle heard him say. "Dare I ask the name of this lovely lady?"
"I'm Courtney." she told him.
"That's a gorgeous name." the fuck-hole informed her.
Courtney giggled.
Hey where's the kid with the chemicals
I thought he said to meet him here
But I'm not sure
Kyle turned away, and willed Roxie to hurry down. This was killing him. He hated it when this happened. In his mind that fat asshole had already suffered all the torments of a particularly cruel hell.
I got the money if you got the time
You said it feels good
I said I'll give it a try
Roxie suddenly bounded out from behind the curtain, olive-green hair rumpled, silver eyes bright, skin flushed. Her lips were slightly swollen, from kissing, and she kept licking them. No dought what she'd been up to.
To Kyle's surprise, Leah came down after her. She was emaculate, her lavender hair braided neatly, and wound into buns on either side of her head, brown eyes sparkling, though gaurded. She look more self-satisfied then usual, though only the regulars from way back had any way of knowing.
Kyle looked at her questioningly.
She smiled serenly. "It's time you had a night off, Ky`." she told him. "Get some fucking sleep."
The kid in the orange jacket glanced up. He'd been around sence about a week after Kyle started working, and had never once heard Leah use any language stronger then 'darnit', in all likelihood.
Roxie waved a hand at him, and began mixing him a third drink, on the house. He usually only had two, but he wouldn't argue if she was feeling charitable.
Kyle smiled at Leah, entirely too grateful, and hurried off. Behind him, he heard Stan moan a few last lines, before the curtain blocked out the sound of the bar.
Love's an excuse to get hurt.. and to hurt
Do you like to hurt
I do I do
So hurt me
Oh, how true it was, he thought, as he climbed the stairs.
Sitting at the bar, having more or less inhaled his third drink, Kenny folded his arms on the counter, and lay his head on them staring at the stage. He didn't really take in anything the singer- Stan, or Steve, or something- said, sang, whatever
It didn't really matter. Nothing had mattered for a long time. Not sence he had found this bar, a pace where he could really fit it, and not have to try at all. A place where he could lose himself.
Everyone here was lost, or looking for the lost. He was lost, and lost by choice. He knew Kyle was lost, as well. He had a sixth sence about such things. Kyle was what had srawn him here, really. He had felt a kindered spirit, of sorts, and followed it. The presence had led him here, to La Vaca, six years ago.
Few enough, he mused, knew that the name of the bar meant 'The Cow' in Spanish, and he doughted anyone would have cared. He sure as hell didn't.
With a sigh, he closed his eyes, and let the sound of the singers tragic, not-really-great voice lull him to sleep.
His last thought was that the poor guys voice probably cracked so much was from all the shreiking he did, and decided to ask him about it.
Up in his room, Kyle poured himself a shot of whiskey. He left it on his bedside table, as he stowed the bottle in the bottom of the closet, then threw himself onto the bed.
He picked up the shot glass, and raised it to the weak yellow light bulb.
Irrelevantly, he wondered what would happen if he and the singer- already forgot his name, of course- actually /could/ fall in love.
As he downed the shot, he knew it was a stupid question.
Most questions were.
THE END