Perchance to Dream
Disclaimer: See Prologue
Summary: What effect does life not sucking quite so much have on Stan's work?
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At Work VI
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"What's got you so happy?" Greg asks as I walk into Jumpin' Java, apparently with a visible spring in my step. At least I'm not whistling a jaunty tune. He'd probably think I'm high.
"Oh, nothing," I reply, calming down as I walk over to the counter. "I just ruined my arch-nemesis' life." And his reputation, and probably a half-dozen other things. Like his chances of getting to go to Prom, much less winning Prom King for the second straight year, his chances of getting a collegiate sports scholarship, his chances of inheriting anything from his mother when she dies, all those things.
"Oh. Well good for you. Now get back here so I can study, lest my arch-nemesis ruin my life." His arch nemesis this month being, to hear him tell it, a sadistic Microeconomics professor spawned from Satan's bowels, who has now announced that he is adding an exam to their class, on the same topics that Greg has already written a paper he received a bad grade on, so naturally he's not thrilled he's now going to have an exam on it. In reality, the guy's probably just got a shitty home life and is in danger of losing tenure, so he's started teaching a couple extra night classes to try and save his job, and naturally he needs his students to perform better than the level Greg has been.
"Sure thing, boss," I say, hopping over the counter and getting ready to serve my classmates and random old people.
It doesn't take long for the first of them to arrive – Craig. He was one of the football team's wide receivers, so needless to say Kyle probably smacked his ass frequently for good plays made. Now that he knows The Truth, he's probably disgusted, and I bet he spent a long time in a very hot shower last night, along with Token, the quarterback, Kenny, the tight end (oxymoron, I know), and Clyde, the fullback. Hell, the whole team, probably. Ass-patting is common amongst athletes, so everybody on the football team AND the basketball team probably spent a long time with hot water and Lava soap trying to wash off germs that have been there for three years in most cases.
"Hi Craig, what can I getcha?" I ask, enthusiastically.
"Cappuccino. Decaf. No cream." He speaks in short, staccato phrases, indicating he's either still traumatized, or that there's a very good reason he wants it decaf.
"That'll be –" I start to say, but am interrupted by Craig placing a 10 bill on the counter. I make change and give him his coffee, letting him scamper off to decaffeinate before he turns into Tweek.
"Have a nice day!" I say as he retreats. He flips me off. Well, he IS Craig…pretty much par for the course for him to flip me off. I'm not going to take it to heart and hold a grudge about it.
"Next?"
Next is Bebe, who is either in on her way to a street corner or a boyfriend's house. Her skirt redefines the term micro-miniskirt, and if the top was any smaller she might as well not wear one at all. It's already very apparent she's not wearing a bra.
"Hey hot stuff, Whatcha selling?"
"Uhm, coffee?" I venture, confusedly wondering why someone would go into a coffee shop and ask what they sell.
"I know that, she says patronizingly, "What kind of coffee?"
"We've got Colombian, Kenyan, Roast Arabica, Hazelnut, even a blend made with chocolate covered beans."
"Oooh, I'll have that!" she says enthusiastically. "I mean, I totally know I shouldn't, cuz it'll make me fat, but I want chocolate coffee, damnit. I've never had it before." I smile politely on the outside, but my inner-self is rolling his eyes non-stop. He's going to get dizzy if he keeps this up, but the way he's going at it, he doesn't seem to care.
"Anything else, or just the one cup of coffee?" I ask.
"Uhm…ah, what the hell, I want a blueberry muffin too," she says, digging out her pocketbook from her purse/bag thing.
"OK. 7.50." She fishes around in the pocketbook while I go get her coffee and muffin. She gives me a ten dollar bill and a piece of paper, winks at me, and kisses me on the cheek before flouncing out. On the piece of paper is what I presume is her cell-phone number. I take the 2.50 in change she gave to me with the wink and drop it in my pocket, somewhat flattered that I'm getting attention from a hot chick, briefly wondering if Bebe is a fag hag before pushing all thoughts aside and focusing on serving Kenny.
"Hey Kenny," I say friendly-like. "Two coffees?"
"Well, one regular coffee for me, but Wendy needs something girly…can't quite remember what she told me."
"Too busy staring?" I ask with a raised eyebrow and a smirk.
"You caught me," is his response, delivered without a trace of shame.
"Well, she's getting a mocha frappuchino with skim milk, whipped cream, and cinnamon. Plain coffee for you, right, Ken?"
"Yeah, just the basic stuff," Kenny confirms as I turn to make Wendy's drink. It sounds like something she'd want. And if not, she can just kill Kenny and get her own coffee.
"Six thirty-eight," I tell him, bringing both cups back to the counter. Kenny too hands me a ten, but he doesn't kiss me or wink at me, and takes his change when I offer it.
"Later, Stan!" he says, cheerfully exiting the store.
Service is slow for the next few hours, and by 8, the store is pretty much empty. All the tables have been wiped down twice, coffee's been organized, cash has been counted twice, and Greg's been swearing since 6. I've been sniggering while I read some old guy's Reader's Digest he left behind, wishing Bebe had stayed to drink and forgotten her latest edition of Cosmo…at least, for the only good part of that magazine, the sex tips. Who knew popsicles and aloe vera could be used like that?
Of course, to spoil my fun thinking about kinky things I could maybe do if I were to hook up with Bebe, who else but Kyle could walk through the door and ring the bell? He still looks like shit, and now that I see him walking I can notice a slight limp. Now, whether it's from getting the shit kicked out of him by the team, or from getting thrown out of Mr. Snyder's class this morning, I can't tell, but he is definitely limping for some reason or another.
"What do you want?" I snap, and he flinches, approaching the counter with his head down and mumbles something.
"What?" I ask, puzzled, forcing him to look up at me with a scowl.
"I said I want a caramel latte."
"Oh. Four bucks." Kyle gives me a five. I give him a dollar and make him his latte, then go back to reading my magazine. After I finish the article about using zucchini as part of a weightlifting regimen, I look up to find him still standing there. I don't even think he's moved.
"What?"
"Can we talk?" he asks quietly.
"No, we cannot," I say, turning the page to something about brown sugar and apples.
"Oh, for fuck's sake, Stan, don't give me the 'I'm working' excuse," he says, clearly exasperated by keeping his voice level. "You're clearly not. Unless your job description says 'Serve coffee, make change, and read old people's Reader's Digest's'?"
"Weeeeeeeell…" I say, drawing out the 'e' and skipping over to a cover story about the weakening dollar.
"Oh stop it. Why do you never want to talk to me?" His voice is a mix of sarcasm, anger, and frustration.
"Well, for starters, you're a douche, a fag, an asshole…lessee…oh yeah, you want to ass-rape me, send me to Hell, and bribe me into doing both. I think that last one's a crime, actually. I should call the cops on you. They'd love you in prison." Kyle's scowling again. Well, actually, he's graduated from a scowl to a glower. Not that either fazes me anymore. He has about as much power as a dead cell battery.
"Fuck you. I don't know why I even bother."
"I don't either. So quit bothering."
"No."
"Well now look who's being uncooperative?" I simper, glaring back at him. "Quit bothering me. I'm never going to let you win me over. You betrayed me three years ago, and I'll never, EVER, forgive you for that, so you can just forget any thoughts of me consenting to being your bitch. My ass is off-limits, no-entry, exit-only. Now take your coffee and get out."
"But –" Kyle tries to interject as I force the latte cup into his hand and lean over the counter to turn him around.
"No buts. Have fun with your gayness, and life, and stuff. Forget to write, don't call, bye bye!" I say glibly, giving him a push towards the exit.
"I'm not done talking yet!" he protests, having to grab onto a table to keep from falling when his gimp leg threatens to give way.
"You may not be done talking, but I'm done listening to it. All it's going to be is a bunch of weepy 'woe is me, my homo crush won't let me rape him, sob sob tears tears. Go to hell and leave me alone!" I exclaim in frustration, turning around on my little stool and reading about why globalization is going to ruin my life. Well, if it wants to ruin my life, I wish it luck. This whole outing-Kyle business has been the only ray of sunshine in three years of overcast skies.
"Stan, Goddamnit," I hear from behind me as he strains to get up. "Why can you not just see that it's in your best fucking interest to just give in? Especially after that fucking stunt you pulled to out me. You just made your social life even WORSE for yourself!"
"Right," I reply. "So the fact that everyone's behaving like they were before this all happened is a COMPLETE coincidence."
"What are you talking about?" he asks, puzzled.
"They don't hate me," I say with a shrug. "Don't ask me why not, I dunno, but I guess me Frenching you is better than you molesting them. And they appreciate what I did."
"Those fuckers," Kyle spits, completely incensed that my beatings haven't worsened for what I did to him. "Welcoming you back…even though Cartman thinks you're a fag?"
"Oh, Cartman complimented me. Now go wallow in your own emo. We're through talking," I say. "I've got to finish up before I can go home, and I need to study for a Math quiz. You're wasting my time."
"This isn't over," Kyle promises, before stalking out. Again with the intimidation tactics. I guess it's going to take him a while to figure out that nobody's scared of a fairy. No matter how much they were before they found out he was a fairy. Soon we'll see photomanips of him in dresses and girl's clothes. That'll be fun.
As long as people don't start thinking we're all of a sudden boyfriends. That kiss, as far as I'm concerned, was a one-off. It'll never happen again, because I don't want to spend the money on the entire bottle of Listerine it took me to get all the Jew germs and fag germs and Jew-fag germs out of my mouth from the last time.
He'd fucking better leave me alone if he knows what's good for him.
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Author's Notes: What epic fail. This is DEFINITELY the worst chapter of anything I've ever written. But it does serve a few purposes, crappy as it is. Amazing that this story is still building just when you thought I'd built everything already, right? Well, the framework's up, but we've still got to do some work on the interior before the structure's complete. Still a few plot threads to introduce before we can begin to resolve them.
In other news, this fic is within 2 reviews of becoming my most reviewed fic. Which pleases me, since it's pretty much most-everything else already. We should now be getting into a semi-regular schedule of once-a-month updates from now until the semester break in December.
Cheers,
Phoenix II