"You know, usually when people say they're leaving, they actually, you know, leave."

Kenny exhaled, leaning his elbows on the kitchen counter, casually peering over Stan's forearm, casually peering into Stan's pan. Casually invading Stan's space. Stan glared at him, trying to elbow him out the way, but Kenny ignored him. Even to his unrefined, white-trash pallet, Stan's cooking was painfully uninspiring. A pretty tedious macaroni cheese-esque affair, depressing and glutinous, sad and yellow. He'd pointedly refused to take after his dad in the whole cookery, passion department. His notable lack of culinary skills seemed almost a pointed rebellion.

"Seriously, and I mean seriously, I'm not actually cooking you anything. If you intend on staying for dinner, fucking tell me now so I can put you some in."

"I'm not staying for dinner." Kenny thanked God for that small mercy.

Stan frowned into his pan, poking the sauce with a spatula. He hated cooking. "Then why are you still here?"

"I was just getting my coat."

"And…"

"And… And I don't what to…" Kenny sighed, lowering his head. "I don't really want to go home."

"Then why the fuck didn't you just stay for dinner? I would have willingly cooked you something!"

"I don't want you to cook me anything!"

"Why?"

"Because you can't cook!"

Stan recoiled slightly. He knew he couldn't cook. He'd never pretended he could. But knowing you can't do something and being told you can't do something are two entirely different games. "Well gee! I'm sorry I can't compete with your gourmet meals of Pop-Tarts and Hamburger Helper Gordon-fucking -Ramsey!"

"Oh, don't get butthurt. I'm not trying to insult you!"

"Then what are you trying to do?"

"I… I…" Kenny sighed. "Powder's pregnant, Stan!"

Stan chocked on his own spit, jerking his head round. Dropping the spatula on the tiles. "Holy Christ, that was a bit of a non sequtor!" Kenny just blinked, shaking his head slightly, lowering his gaze back to the pans. Pregnancy was supposed to be good news, at least, it had been with all the others. All the ones that had happened after graduation, that is. But there was something in his voice, something dark and unhappy. Stan gaped slightly. "Uh, congratulations, I guess?"

"I guess. It… It could have come at a better time, you know? Powder's not working. I'm barely working. The recession. The shack. The fact that life's one, long, assfucking bitch." Kenny sighed, kneading his eyes with the palms of his hands. He was getting too hot again, in his coat, in the kitchen. Standing over the stove, over Stan's lumpy attempt at a cheese sauce and gradually overcooking pasta. "Sorry to just drop it on you out of the blue, but I just needed to tell someone. I have no idea… I just… I just… I guess I just always hoped my kids… I hoped they'd grow up on the other side of the tracks, the nice side. Your side of the tracks. I guess I just hoped it'd be different. But no. Nothing ever is. Same stage, different actors."

Stan pursed his lips, bending down and picking up the spatula. For a moment he considered just using it again, but he wasn't quite sure when the floor had last been washed. Too long ago, probably. Too long ago, definitely. They weren't so great at doing all that necessary household stuff sometimes. Exhaling, he dumped it in the sink, pulling a wooden spoon out of a draw.

"Things can be different Kenny. They can be as different as you make them."

"Things are never different Stanley. Not ever."

"They can be."

"Whatever. You keep believing that if it makes you happy. Life is a self-fulfilling prophecy, a repetitive circle. Again and again and again. Drugs, alcohol. Fucked up shit. But hey," he clapped his hands together, pulling a face "when you have sex, these things can happen. You just gotta live with it, try make the best of it. You know how it is."

Stan raised an eyebrow, the corner of his lip quirking down slightly. Quirking down sadly. "Not really, no."

"Well, no, I guess you don't. You know how it is though."

"I guess." Stan frowned. The food was pretty much ready. It'd been pretty much ready for the last five minutes. Now it was becoming pretty damn overdone. "Have you told Kyle yet?"

"I was planning on it. But no, I'm not. I'll wait 'til he's in a better mood. This isn't the sort of thing I want to discuss with him when he's already pissy. He's hardly heading up the Powder fan club as it is."

"Well she did call him stocky that one time."

"Fuck you. You call him stocky once a week."

"Yeah, but he knows I don't mean it. Well, I do mean it, he is stocky, but I mean it in the nice way. The good way. The endearment way. The… The 'I love you' way."

Kenny paused for a second, before smirking. "That is so fucking gay."

"Oh, fuck you!

"It is!"

"You know, I never realised just how much Powder looks like your mother, not until the other week. Not until I saw them together. It's really fucked up."

"You're fucked up."

"Not as fucked up as you."

"You're fucking your childhood best friend. That's pretty fucked up."

"No it isn't."

"Yes, it is! Besides, Kyle looks like his mother. If I'm fucking my mother, you're pretty much just fucking Mrs. B!"

Stan pursed his lips. "I don't think Kyle looks like anyone, especially not his mother!"

"He looks like Ronald McDonald maybe. They have the same hair. The same skin tone. And the same fashion sense."

"He'll kill you if he hears you say that."

"Yeah, well at least I didn't call him stocky! Oh, Lord forbid!"

Stan snorted, rolling his eyes. "You can be such a dick, Oedipus."

"Well, I try." Kenny sighed, rubbing his face with his fingertips. He knew he needed to go home, he knew he needed to get ready for work, he just knew. But he didn't want to. He didn't want to face Powder right now, he didn't want to have any baby conversations. He didn't want to hear her squeak about it. He didn't want to have to hesitantly suggest alternatives. He didn't want to upset her.

Kenny smiled dryly. "You're fucking your childhood super best friend's mother, I've apparently knocked up my own mother. Kyle's fucking you. I think Craig had a point all those years ago. I don't actually think it was South Park, all that shit that happened. All that craziness. I think it actually really was us."

"Don't be stupid."

"Well, it's kinda true."

"No it isn't. Kyle does not look like his mother. And all that shit that happens in that town was not out fault."

"Happened. Since you two left, things have been pretty white bread. No Mecha-Streisand, no aliens, no Kyle doing something stupid. No Apple Inc. No mobs. Well, not many mobs. Hardly any deaths, too."

"Coincidence. Or, more probably, lack of Cartman. Don't forget that fatass left the same time we did."

"Cartman's not fat, he's a fucking earthquake on legs. Calling that gargantuan mass fat is offensive to the word fat." Both Stan and Kenny started slightly, twisting round. Kyle had padded in behind them whilst they had been leaning over the stove, mildly hypnotised watching the slimy, lumpy cheese sauce bubble. His hair was still damp, dripping indiscriminately onto the shoulders of his, surprisingly inoffensive, plaid loungewear. His nose wrinkled in distaste. "What are you talking about that centuple bypass for anyway?"

Stan reached out for him, almost automatically, a knee-jerk reaction, his palm open and fingers spread. Kenny cleared his throat, forcing a smile. "We were just talking about the good old days. Reminiscing. About South Park. All those fun times." Fluid lies, fluid omissions. So painfully white trash. So painfully necessary. He shot Stan a pointed look, and Stan just sighed, lowering his head.

Kyle rolled his eyes, warily stepping into Stan's grasp, warily letting Stan pull him closer. "Why on earth would you want to reminisce about that? Jesus Christ, there are so many nice things in the world you could talk about, why waste breath on history?"

Kenny shrugged. "You gotta talk about something. It was either this or yet another discussion about your hideous green sofa."

Kyle pursed his lips, refusing to rise to the bait. Exhaling, he absently allowing himself to be drawn closer to Stan, absently allowed himself to be positioned, hugged, as he absently rested his chin on Stan's shoulder. He frowned at the pans overboiling on the stove. "What are we having?"

"Macaroni cheese."

"Is it edible?"

Stan twisted his lips. "It's fine."

Kyle pulled an unimpressed face. The cheese sauce had started separating in front of his very eyes. It was kinda mesmerising, in a creepy, oily, lumpy way. "You and I clearly have different definitions on what 'fine' means."

"It's fine."

"Well," Kenny announced, clapping his hands together, backing out into the living room. He tended to make his exit before they started with their pointless, coy bickering. He'd rather face his pregnant wife then have to listen to yet another round of painfully kitsch squabbling. "I'm off."

"Alright." Stan loosened his grip, letting Kyle slip away from him, letting him slip towards the stove. Letting him attempt to salvage the meal. "See you. And…" Stan swallowed, somewhat hesitantly. "Give my best to Powder, I guess."

Kyle raised an eyebrow, shooting Stan a particular look. "And give her my worst."

"Will do Stan. And you're an ass, Broflovski!"

Stan smiled wryly. "He's a damn good ass though; I can assure you of that."

A/N - I just wanted to say thankyouthankyou for reading, I hope c'est bein, and super awesome lovelylovely thank you thank yous for reviewing. I honestly have no idea what I'm doing with with this one so it's nice to know someone's enjoying it! Makes it all lovely loves. Merci mille fois lovelies.