Never Change

by hollycomb

Thirteen years after his high school girlfriend's pregnancy upended his life, Stan is still in South Park, working with his partner Bebe as a local cop. They're in the process of investigating a series of possibly connected murders when FBI agent Kyle Broflovski returns to town and informs his old friend Stan that this is his investigation now. (Stan/Kyle)

8. Chapter 8

A/N: Here's the second to last chapter! There will also be an epilogue. As usual with almost-final chapters it changed a bit from what I had planned and also ended up longer than the others. Let me know what you think, and thanks for reading!

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In the days following the incident at Brown Burro, Stan was on constant alert. For what, exactly, he wasn't sure, but he knew that a fallout was forthcoming. He was at least expecting Kevin Stoley-Donovan to show up and further berate him, but both Kevin and Clyde seemed to have gone underground following Clyde's attempted assault with a margarita. After two days with no apparent repercussions, Stan heard from Kenny that Clyde and Kevin had gone on vacation to Iceland.

"How the hell do you know that?" Stan asked. They were at the safehouse; Stan was on shift and Kenny was authorized to visit under Stan's supervision. Patrick had gone into his room to sleep without addressing Stan, which probably meant he'd heard about the margarita incident and either didn't want to deal with it or thought Stan was beneath reproach at this point. Kevin and Karen were watching The Lion King on DVD in the living room beside the small kitchen where Stan and Kenny were having coffee. Neither of them had made mention of the drama with Clyde, but he had no doubt that they both knew all about it. Stan was tense, keeping the corner of his eye on the McCormick siblings at all times, itchy with the fear that one of them would disappear into the shadows at the corners of the room and resurface days later, tongue-less. He didn't like the safehouse shifts.

"Or maybe it was Ireland," Kenny said.

"Who even told you there were going on vacation?" Stan asked.

"I don't remember. Maybe my mom?"

"When does your mother see Kevin or Clyde Donovan socially?"

Stan kept his voice low, not sure if Kevin McCormick would be offended by his interest in the other Kevin's whereabouts, by or the information that they had been sleeping together. Stan was confident that Kevin M. had never expected fidelity as part of their arrangement, but it was possible that he might find it obscurely offensive that Stan was also sleeping with the only other person in town who shared his first name.

"The point is," Kenny said, waving his hand over the table, "Those two are out of your hair for now. In some completely different country. I'm pretty sure it starts with an 'I.'"

"That's great, Kenny. Obviously that solves the problem of everyone else in town talking about what happened. Including your mother, apparently."

"It's kind of good, though," Kenny said. "It lets people know in a broad way that you're, you know. Seeing men. They hear about this, they see you with Kyle-"

"How is that good, Kenny? Why?"

"Because then you don't have to make some big announcement on the steps of city hall, or whatever the hell you were afraid of."

"What I was afraid of, and continue to be afraid of, is my children feeling betrayed by this information. Them hearing that my gay lover threw a drink on me while his husband sulked across the room. I'm not afraid of confronting Clyde or Kevin, or people talking about it behind my back. That already happened, that part's over."

"Stan," Kenny said, and he laid his hand on Stan's forearm. "You're getting worked up."

"Well, I'm panicking! I feel like my window for telling the kids myself is closing, and I'm not ready."

"What does Kyle think?" Kenny asked. Stan scowled, though he had gone over this with Kyle several times already, wanting advice. Kyle was steadfast in his refusal to give any, which Stan both respected and resented.

"Kyle doesn't know how to handle this any more than I do," Stan said. "Why would he?"

"He came out to Sheila and Gerald, and to Ike. And to, you know, all of us."

"That's not the same thing. These are my kids. I'm their dad. They don't want to hear about this shit at all, from me or anyone else."

"Maybe what they want," Kenny said, holding up his finger, "Is not as important as what they need."

"Oh, shut up."

The worst part of hearing that was knowing that Kenny was right. Stan stared down into his coffee cup, miserable. There had been no murders since the events of that evening at Brown Burro. This was obviously good, but also left Stan with nothing to think about except his own personal drama, and the town with nothing else to gossip about.

"It'll work itself out," Kenny said.

"Bebe thinks I should nip it in the bud and talk to them about it as soon as possible," Stan said. His face got hot when he considered how that would go: Wayne's forced stoicism, Evan's confused distress.

"I guess Bebe is big on definitive conclusions," Kenny said.

"What does that mean?"

"Nothing." Kenny sat back in his chair and shrugged, hugging his coffee cup to his chest in a very old man-ish way. "She thinks every interpersonal relationship has a universal solution."

"Interpersonal relationship?"

"I think that's the right terminology," Kenny said, frowning. "Anyway, she's still mad at me."

"Because of the murders?"

"What?" Kenny snorted. "No, Stan, she doesn't think I'm responsible for the murders."

"That's not what I meant! That fight you guys had on my birthday, because she thought you were being insensitive or whatever."

"Oh, we're past that. She's mad because I dared to imply that she wants to get married."

"To you?"

"No- yes? I don't know, it's complicated. Hey, how's Kyle?"

"You know, Bebe does the same thing," Stan said. "When I ask her about you."

"What now?"

"She turns it around on me and brings up Kyle."

"So? It's a brilliant strategy. Great minds think alike. How's Kyle doing, Stan?"

Stan drank from his coffee and turned to look at Kevin and Karen. They both seemed increasingly miserable as their stay in the safehouse continued, and Stan felt responsible. At first, only Patrick had given him passive aggressive attitude during his shifts. Now Karen was beginning to look at him without her customary friendliness, and Kevin had stopped winking at him in a suggestive way.

"Do you think your brother knows about me and Kyle?" Stan asked when he turned back to Kenny, whispering. Kenny raised his eyebrows.

"Um, yeah," he said.

"How? Did he see us around town?" Stan had attempted to be discreet, outside of the motel, for the kids' sake.

"I told him," Kenny said.

"Seriously?"

"What, you're mad? My brother already knew you were gay, Stan. You did gay stuff with him. The secret was out."

"I'm not- it's not entirely my secret to tell, okay? Kyle might not want people thinking we're. Whatever."

"What does Kyle think you two are?"

Stan opened his mouth to respond, and he felt like a fool when it hung open, Kenny's expression morphing from teasing delight to uncomfortable sympathy.

"We're having fun," Stan said. It came out flat and unconvincing, though it wasn't a lie. "We both really missed each other. And now we're both. Comfortable. With our attraction. To each other."

"Dude," Kenny said, patting Stan's arm again. "It's okay. You don't have to spell it out. Bebe is, of course, concerned."

"Yeah, well. Maybe I'm concerned about her, too."

"Because of me?" Kenny looked hurt. Stan shook his head.

"You're not the problem," Stan said. "But neither is she. You two are weird in that way."

"We could both do better?"

"No, that's not what I meant. It's like. There's something- maybe it's to do with having grown up together. Maybe that's why me and Kyle just flounced off each other for so long."

"I don't know," Kenny said. "There are plenty of South Park couples who make that work."

"Like who? Your parents? Clyde and Kevin? Me and Lola?"

"Alright, alright. So what, we're all doomed?"

"That's not what I said."

"It kinda is what you said." Kenny did the hand wave thing over the table again. "Anyway, Bebe's wrong about Kyle," he said.

"What did Bebe say about Kyle?"

Kenny made another vague hand gesture and gulped from his coffee in a conspicuous fashion. Stan turned to check on Kevin and Karen again. They were still sitting just where they'd been the last time he looked. He was tempted to get up on check on Patrick, too. Patrick was asleep in a windowless room and all the doors of the safehouse were bolted from the inside, but there was something almost supernatural about this killer's ability to slip into the lives of his victims and disappear once the blood had been drained.

"What did she say about Kyle?" Stan asked again, rising from the table. Kenny snorted.

"You gonna fight me if I don't disclose this?" he asked.

"No. I'm going to check on Kevin. But I want to know what Bebe thinks. The unfiltered version, I guess. She's being so weird about the whole thing. Like I'm
this tender teenager who doesn't know what it's like to have his heart broken."

"Well, do you?" Kenny asked. "Do you actually know what that's like, Stan?"

"Of course I do! I'm divorced! And Kyle- you know we hadn't spoken in eleven years." Stan lowered his voice to a whisper, though Kenny's siblings didn't seem to care about his love life as much as they did about the climactic action of The Lion King. "You know that broke my heart," Stan said. "When Kyle and I stopped being friends."

"That's different," Kenny said. "And so's your divorce. Your detachment from both of those relationships was mutual. You weren't fighting for Kyle when you guys drifted apart. You certainly weren't fighting for Lola."

"So Bebe thinks I'm going to fight to keep Kyle and lose? Is that it?"

"Go check on Patrick," Kenny said, shooing him away. "Who cares what Bebe thinks? She's the dysfunctional one, not me."

"Right. You're just the one who disappears."

"I don't want to disappear," Kenny said, and he looked so suddenly broken up that Stan felt terrible.

"Forget it," Stan said. "Obviously I don't know what I'm talking about. But neither does she when it comes to me and Kyle. And maybe it won't last, but so what?" Stan felt that land with a thud between them, and he was certain that Kenny would see through it. "I'll be right back," Stan muttered, and he headed down the hallway to make sure that Patrick was still safe. He was fast asleep when Stan peeked into the room, and Stan ducked out quickly when he experienced a surge of something like fondness arising from his relief that Patrick was still safely tucked into bed. Like Kevin, Patrick's face had a very innocent quality when he was asleep.

The inhabitants of the safehouse all survived Stan's shift, and Patrick even accepted coffee from Stan when he woke up and resumed his protection of Kenny and Karen. Stan had heard chatter at the station that indicated the safehouse might not be in operation much longer, and he wasn't sure how he felt about it. A week with no murders could only be interpreted as a good sign, but if the killer was attempting to wait out the duration of the remaining siblings' protection, there could be no end to their seclusion in the safehouse that would make Stan comfortable, even if they stayed there for a year.

On the drive home, he realized that this impractical approach to protecting potential victims of South Park's serial killer was not unlike how he had handled coming out to his children, or to everyone else for that matter. He didn't want to hurt anyone with the information, so it seemed wise to keep everything as it was, just in case. Once, Kyle had been among the people Stan protected this way, even when he rolled close to Stan and waited to be kissed. There just seemed to be too much potential to do damage, especially then.

Stan texted Kyle about getting together that evening, skipped a shower and went directly to bed. He woke up to his alarm at five o'clock in the evening and lazed in bed for a while, palming his half-hard dick and thinking about fucking Kyle again. The warmth of his bed sheets and the frost on the window also brought to mind cuddling, holding each other under these blankets and waking up more slowly than they had when Lola and the kids were suddenly in the kitchen. Kyle had agreed to spend the evening at Stan's house for the first time since that incident. Stan had promised ten times that there were no other social engagements that had slipped his mind, and that nobody who would barge into the kitchen while Stan cooked dinner for Kyle. He'd shopped for the occasion last night: tuna steaks, bok choy, risotto, and he'd even gotten Meyer lemons to squeeze onto the fish. It had been his first time at Whole Foods since he'd arrested a man who slapped a child there last year.

On the drive to work he got a bad feeling that came on like a stomachache, irritating verging on uncomfortable, a gut-pinch that made him lean forward toward the steering wheel. It was cold out, just a couple of days before Halloween, and the darkening sky was blanketed with lumpy gray clouds. Stan still needed to text Lola about letting Wayne trick-or-treat, though it was possible that Wayne wouldn't want to do it anymore if he knew that Stan supported it. Stan hadn't heard from Lola or the kids since the Brown Burro thing. It was normal, if the kids didn't need anything out of the ordinary: two and a half days of radio silence from the house that had been his home for eleven years. But it didn't feel normal this time.

He was early for his shift, planning to kill all his overdue paperwork in the morning instead of the afternoon. He wanted to get home early, too, to start on the dinner for Kyle, or maybe to have sex with him before starting on the dinner. The parking lot was empty except for a few cruisers and one gray Nissan that a woman in a stylish coat was leaning against. Stan recognized her when he climbed out of his car: Nicole, previously of his elementary school class and presently of The Denver Post.

"Everything okay?" Stan asked. She was smiling, holding a to-go coffee cup with two hands.

"Yeah, fine," she said. "You like coffee?"

"Um. Yes?"

"You sound like you're not sure." She passed him the cup she was holding. "I got that for you."

"Okay. What- the hell?"

Nicole laughed. They had never really been friends in school, but they had moved in the same circles. Her parents were kind of weird, according to Token. She had always held herself apart from South Park a bit, probably because she had arrived there fully formed. Gary had been the same way, despite his effervescent friendliness.

"I was just wondering if you'd be willing to talk," she said. "About the current state of the investigation into the killings."

"Oh, no," Stan said. "I can't, not on record. I'd get majorly fired. Random officers don't do statements on behalf of the department."

"I know," Nicole said. "I just meant on a friendly, off the record basis. My boss is kind of on my ass to keep this story a big deal in the city paper, and it's tapering a little since there haven't been any leads announced. It's too early in the media blitz for the trail to go cold, and it seems unlikely that it actually could, with all the murders having happened in such close succession. Can you point me toward anything they've come up with? Just in a general sense. I swear I won't tell anyone we talked."

"This is not a great place to have this conversation," Stan said, glancing at the station.

"True. I just thought it would be rude to show up at your house. And Bebe got mad at me when I asked her the same thing, so she wouldn't give me your number. What's going on with her, anyway?"

"She's stressed," Stan said. He felt achy with the need to comfort her, though he knew she wouldn't want that during their shift. "And she's very, you know. Principled about this stuff. She's loyal to the department, and so am I."

"Of course!" Nicole said. "And your department isn't even handling the investigation at this stage, so what information could you really betray? I'm not asking for the kind of inside stuff that the FBI is working on. I'm talking about the mood of the town, anything weird you might have noticed during your normal shifts. Any seemingly minor altercations that might have been a botched attempt at a fourth murder?"

"You would have heard about it if somebody managed to escape from having their tongue cut off."

"I don't mean anything that obvious. I've been paying attention to your blotter this past week, since it's been quiet on the murder front. You've had a couple of incidents- no assaults, but one report of a break-in and three calls from people who've been worried about suspicious characters hanging around near their houses."

"We've responded to all of those with utmost caution," Stan said, and he was annoyed when he felt like he'd been tricked into giving some kind of official statement after all. Bebe had been smart to shut this down. "It was nothing," Stan said, backing away from her, toward the station. "People are nervous, that's all. Understandably."

"Of course, of course. But this other incident, the break-in at the Denkins ranch. Was property stolen, or was this a prowler that got chased off? The blotter only mentioned the break-in."

"What's it got to do with anything?" Stan asked. "That wasn't some murderous psycho, trust me. It was a punk who spooked the cattle and stole some equipment from the barn."

"Equipment?" Nicole said. She pulled out her phone. Stan shook his head.

"That was off the record," he said. "And I'm not saying anything more."

"Stan," she said, friendly again, smiling. Stan remembered her on the cheerleading team with Bebe, their plastered-on grins for the football crowds. "Please, trust me. I don't even have anything to write about yet, for one thing. And your name would never appear if I did. I know you've got a lot on your plate as it is."

"Excuse me?" Stan stopped backing away, the coffee cup halfway lifted to his mouth.

"Oh, um." Nicole stuffed her phone in her coat pocket and shrugged. "I just heard Clyde Donovan hit you, or something."

"Or something," Stan said. He was getting hot around his collar, feeling exposed. He checked the front windows of the station. Nobody seemed to be watching them. "Clyde threw a drink at me," Stan said. "I guess you heard why."

"I heard a few things. Kyle's still in town with the FBI, right?"

"Yes. He's here."

"That's good. You guys are finally back together, huh?"

"What? No. I mean-" Stan dragged his hand through his hair and turned away from her, then back. "We're still friends," he said tightly. "We weren't together, ever. Back then."

"Oh, right, well. We all sort of thought- anyway, that's none of my business. Tell Bebe to call me. I didn't mean to piss her off. I'm just trying to get my head around what's happening in this town, like everybody."

"Sure," Stan said. "Good luck with your story."

The station was quiet when Stan pushed inside, still feeling jumpy from that encounter and from his apparent inability to exercise discretion. Bebe hadn't shown up yet. Stan logged into his workstation, already aware that trying to do paperwork when he felt this agitated wouldn't go well. People weren't only talking about him and Kevin and Clyde's subsequent meltdown. They were talking about him and Kyle, and apparently they had been before some time, before anything had ever happened.

He did what he could at his desk and was relieved to go out on their shift when Bebe came to collect him for it. They took her cruiser, and Stan sat in the passenger seat debating whether or not to bring up the Nicole thing. He couldn't bring himself to say much of anything not work-related until they were sitting in the parking lot of the closed-down City Sushi building, which had briefly been a Pizza Hut before being boarded up.

"I have to tell my kids I'm gay," Stan said. They'd gotten City Wok for dinner, and he kept his eyes on his fingers as he wiped some sticky sauce residue that had leaked from an egg roll. He could feel Bebe watching him, waiting to know what to say.

"I know," she said when Stan finally looked up at her, and she put her hand on his knee. "I'm sorry, sweetheart. I didn't want it to happen this way for you, with everybody else knowing first. Thinking they know, anyway."

"Yeah, well. I guess I'm the architect of this whole disaster. What?"

"Nothing," she said, smiling more widely. "You sound like Kyle. 'The architect of this disaster.' That's like something Kyle would say."

"Great. Apparently everyone thinks we were fucking back then, and they already know all about what's going on now."

Bebe shook her head. "Only you and Kyle really know. But I think people are just happy to have something fun to talk about, after all the tragedy and horror and whatnot."

"Me and Kyle are fun?"

"Well, yeah. Compared to finding out another person has been killed by the tongue slicer, you getting drenched by Clyde's margarita is a barrel of fucking laughs."

"Ugh," Stan said, wincing at the comparison. "The tongue slicer? Is that what the papers are calling him?"

"No, they're calling him the Park County Ripper. Classy, right?"

"Did Nicole make that up?"

"I doubt it. She's more subtle. Usually, anyway," Bebe said, mumbling.

"She told me you guys fought."

"She- what? When?"

Stan explained about the run-in that morning. Bebe rolled her eyes a lot.

"It wasn't like I thought she was trying to get me in trouble at work," Bebe said. "I just don't know what she wants me to tell her. Like I'm holding some secret clue that will unlock the whole thing, but I'm too dumb to realize it until I run it by her? Please."

"Yeah, she seemed to think we might have overlooked an attempted fourth murder. I guess it's not the craziest thing in the world, with all these freaked out people calling us every time their dog seems nervous." They had gotten a call like that two days before. Suddenly the whole population of South Park had turned into Linda Stotch, seeing prowlers lurking in every shrub.
"I feel like I've been awake for a month," Bebe said. "You know?"

"Yeah," Stan said, though the past three weeks had felt more like a bizarre dream to him, shunting him from one intense and nonsensical experience to another. "Did Kenny propose to you?" he asked. Bebe snorted.

"Is that what he said it was?"

"Well- no, not exactly."

"I think Kenny might be an alien," Bebe said. Stan laughed, but she stared at him as if she was serious. "I've been researching," she said. "You know, we get reports about UFO sightings from time to time. He was born on March 22, thirty years ago. Allegedly."

"I can't tell what you're actually talking about," Stan said. "Where is this metaphor going?"

"It's not a metaphor. There's something superhuman about him, I'm telling you."

"Huh. Well. Never knew Kenny was that good in bed."

Bebe grinned. "The department shrink says it's a coping mechanism, because thinking of him this way makes me like him more and want to forgive him. Like he's this adorable creature from outer space who is just trying to fit in. I like thinking of him that way, at this point. Maybe you know what I mean?"

"Sure," Stan said, though he had no idea. She smacked his arm.

"I meant with Kyle," she said. "You have to reclassify them, sometimes."

"Are you sure you're okay?"

"Yes, cleared by the shrink weekly. Have you done any of your appointments yet?"

Stan groaned and thunked his head back against his seat, staring straight ahead through the windshield. So not everyone had forgotten about this.

"You know they're mandatory," Bebe said. "I think you have ninety days to get them in."

"Great. I'll calendar it for when things are less fucked up."

"But therapy is supposed to help during times when things are fucked."

"Yeah, and I've tried it during those times," Stan said. He hadn't meant that to sound so sharp, and he reached over to tug on Bebe's braid. "If Kenny is an alien," he said, "What does that make Kyle?"

"Oh, I don't know. Kyle's so ordinary. I think you're the supernatural creature in the relationship."

"He's not ordinary." Stan thought of Kyle's suspenders, for some reason, and the way the fine red hair at the back of his neck, just under his hairline, dusted over his pale skin. Bebe shrugged.

"So he's a mermaid," she said. "I don't fucking know. I'm not the one who's in love with him."

"Are you in love with Kenny?"

"Don't do that."

"Do what?" Stan assumed she was referring to his strategic subject change, a move that he had begun to overuse.

"Don't ask questions that you already know the answers to," Bebe said.

Stan drove home from work that night trying to conceptualize Kenny as a sad alien and Kyle as a former mermaid who had earned a pair of legs that had carried him away to places where Stan couldn't follow. Though the thought was depressing, something about it was also arousing, as nearly everything had been since Kyle returned to Stan's life. At home, Stan hopped into the shower and beat off under the steaming water, wishing that Kyle was already with him. When he turned off the water he could hear impatient knocking from the front door.

"What the hell!" Kyle said when Stan answered. Stan was still dripping, holding a towel around his waist. "I've been knocking for-" Kyle checked his phone, which he had clutched in one hand while he held the neck of a wine bottle in the other. "Seven minutes!"

"I'm sorry," Stan said, gathering him into the foyer. "You need a real coat." He kicked the door shut and bolted it before turning to kiss Kyle's neck, trying to warm him up. Kyle grunted but didn't move away, even when Stan dripped onto him.

"I brought red," Kyle said, lifting the wine bottle. "So I hope you're not making fish."

"I have tuna steaks," Stan said. He felt bad about this, like he'd failed a pop quiz. "They're marinating."

"It doesn't really matter." Kyle leaned up to kiss Stan on the lips, holding the rest of his body back a bit to keep his clothes from getting wet. "Did you do this on purpose?" he asked, glancing down at Stan's bare chest. "To make me want you right away, as soon as I was through the door?"

"No, but you can have me right away if you want."

"Nah, I'm starving. I'll just go wait in the kitchen with my semi while you dress."

Stan was a little disappointed not to be asked to tend to Kyle's immediate needs, but waiting until after dinner to fool made both of them a little punch drunk and giddy with anticipation. Kyle nipped at the back of Stan's neck while he worked on the meal, and Stan caressed Kyle's ass every time he delivered a wine refill. They sat close together at the kitchen table, the overhead lights turned off and an orange and black Halloween candelabra glowing in the center of the table.

"I love what you've done with the place," Kyle said, lifting his hand to tap the paper ghost that hung from the center of the light fixture over the kitchen table.

"The kids had fun with it," Stan said, and a familiar undercurrent of guilt snagged through his wine-drenched, lovesick haze. He didn't want to make the whole situation even more alarming by disrupting their routine, but every night he spent away from them was another chance for somebody to bungle the news before he could talk to them himself. They were coming over the next after next, which was also the night before Halloween. Mischief Night, if kids still called it that. Stan had no idea what he was going to say.

"I'm serious," Kyle said. He spoke softly and laid his hand on Stan's wrist, recapturing his attention. "I love all this Halloween stuff, and the fact that you own this little house, that these are your plates. I never thought I'd love being back here, but there are these pockets of South Park, when I'm with you, where suddenly there's no place else I'd rather be."

"You're drunk," Stan said. He grinned, trying to make the moment lighter than it was, for his sake and for Kyle's.

"I'm not a lightweight," Kyle said. "Not anymore. I can handle half a bottle of wine."

"Hey, I know." Stan dragged his chair over to Kyle's and put his arm around Kyle's shoulders, pulled him close. "I'm just teasing. You know I feel that way, too. Especially since I don't live with the kids anymore, the town feels so gray and ordinary when they're with their mom and I'm just-" Stan couldn't come up with the right word. It was possible that he was pretty drunk himself; wine seemed to do that where beer could not. He shrugged. "You colorize my world," he said.

Kyle scoffed and forked up a soggy piece of bok choy. He was smiling, but Stan couldn't tell if he'd rescued the moment with that awkward line or not.

"You were always too spectacular to end up here," Stan said. He was afraid he sounded desperate. He needed this night, a reprieve where he could hide before he dropped the bombshell of his bisexuality onto Lola and the kids. He needed it tonight to be gentle and easy, to fortify him.

"What even is this?" Kyle asked, squinting at the bok choy. "I didn't think you could get exotic greens in South Park."

"We have a Whole Foods now."

"Right. I guess I noticed that. I think my mind course corrects for all the changes in town as soon as they're out of sight. I revert to my memories of how things were."

"I guess I can understand that," Stan said. The truth was that he only wished that he could.

Kyle put the bok choy down without eating it, and Stan noticed that he'd mostly just pushed all his greens around on his plate, leaving them to wither in the oily sauce from the fish. Kyle wiped his mouth with his napkin while keeping his eyes locked on Stan's.

"This is somewhat momentous for me," Kyle said. "You're going to take me to bed, aren't you?"

"Yes," Stan said, gripping the edge of the table. He was also willing to fuck Kyle right there, by the light of the Halloween candles and in view of his uneaten greens.

"I'm going to get fucked in Stan Marsh's bed." Kyle exhaled slowly, and Stan opened his legs under the table to give his cock room to get hard. "That's something I once thought about a lot," Kyle said. "I built a shrine to the idea that I could never have you inside me, in your bed, because I wanted it too much for it to be a thing that could happen in the real world."

"Well," Stan said. "Let's burn down the shrine."

Stan was relieved when Kyle laughed. He had been a little nervous about the way this moment kept ballooning with things that might be considered climactic. Stan stood, sensing that Kyle wanted him to take some decisive actions. He took Kyle's plate away and dropped it into the sink.

"Go in my room," Stan said when he turned. "And get yourself ready while I clean up."

"Ready?" Kyle pushed his chair away from the table. "You want me to put my fingers in myself? Ready like that?"

"Yes." Stan wasn't in the mood for laughing anymore. His cock was straining against the front of his jeans and his heart was hammering. He wanted to do this right, to meet Kyle's expectations without having to hear him spell them out. "Get in my bed and get yourself slicked and open for me," Stan said. "I'm going to come in there ready to fuck you hard. Understand?"

"I do."

Kyle stood, and Stan could see the outline of his dick through his tight pants, pressed along his thigh. Afraid he would crack a smile and spoil the mood, Stan turned to the sink and started on the dishes. The steam from the hot water deepened his full body flush, and his cock throbbed when he thought about Kyle peeling off his clothes in the bedroom, climbing into his bed, touching himself with trembling fingers. The last time Stan had slipped his fingers into Kyle he'd made the softest noise, a half-swallowed thing that Stan had wanted to lick off his lips. Kyle tended to get progressively louder as he let himself unravel and got closer to coming, but Stan still got the sense Kyle was always holding something back. He wanted Kyle to know that nothing he exposed would be mocked or used against him, not ever, not by Stan. If it took some kind of filthy sex scenario to prove that, Stan was ready, though it hadn't really been in his plans for a romantic evening by Halloween-themed candlelight.

He walked into the bedroom expecting to find Kyle on all fours or naked and spread-eagle on the bed, but he was tucked into Stan's bed with the blankets pulled up to his chin. Kyle's smile was a little sheepish, as if he still thought he was getting away with something that something he wasn't really allowed to have. He had laid his clothes neatly over Stan's desk chair, his suspenders and gun belt looped diagonally across it. Stan shut the door behind him, though there was no one else in the house. He figured Kyle would feel more secure that way.

"Did you get yourself ready?" Stan asked, working his jeans open. Kyle nodded.

"Come feel how ready I am."

The dirty talk felt a little strange with Kyle tucked in like that, almost childlike with his chin poking out from the blankets, but Stan didn't want to stop. He had done some things like this with Kevin Stoley-Donovan, actual role play and plenty of filthy exchanges, but it had always felt a little flat, like they were staging the scenarios for some third party and not just for their own mutual enjoyment. Stan felt completely lost in talking with Kyle like this, bolstered by it and buying into it, both of them flushed and trying to play it cool as he slid under the blankets and groped for Kyle. He had thought he might come in here and dial it up to ten right away, maybe give Kyle's ass a little spanking if he was into it, but as soon as Kyle clutched at him under the blankets he knew that it wouldn't be like that tonight. Kyle didn't want Stan to burn his old shrine to this down: he wanted to be inside it with Stan, in worshipful awe of how good it felt to finally be together this way.

"That's good," Stan whispered when he reached down to slide a finger into Kyle, keeping their faces close and his eyes locked on Kyle's as he did it. "Got yourself good and wet for me, huh?" Stan's bottle of lube was sitting on his bedside table, brazen. Of course Kyle hadn't had trouble finding it.

"Stan." Kyle clutched at Stan's bicep, curling his fingers in until Stan flexed. "Don't tease me."

"Shhh," Stan said. He swiped his finger across Kyle's prostate and grinned when Kyle clenched up, gasping. "I was thinking I'd fuck you hard and fast, 'cause you need it so bad," Stan said, murmuring this into Kyle's ear while he rubbed at his prostate in measured brushes of his fingertip. Kyle whimpered and turned to hide his face against Stan's cheek, his mouth falling open. "But now," Stan said, "I'm thinking maybe I'll fuck you real slow, until you're begging me to slam into you so my dick hits you right- here."

Stan pressed his finger in firmly as he said so, and he was surprised when Kyle shouted and came, thrusting desperately against the friction of the blankets. Stan leaned down to mouth at Kyle's throat when he threw his head back and pressed his lips together, breathing hard through his nose. Kyle's eyes were pinched shut, and there was something prudish or maybe petulant about it that Stan found adorable. He grinned when Kyle peeked at him, his chest still shuddering.

"You're right," Kyle said. His eyes were just short of glittering, not wet but thick with something held-in. "I need it so fucking bad, Stan."

"I know you do," Stan said, speaking against Kyle's lips before parting them with his tongue. He kissed Kyle while extracting his finger in a way that was both gentle and, he hoped, effectively teasing. Stan's dick was so hard he felt like he'd burst from tip to balls; he needed Kyle really fucking bad, too. He'd say so later, maybe, when they were cuddling in the afterglow. He didn't want to spoil the mood, because he loved the way Kyle was peering up at him like he believed Stan would give him what he wanted, and like he was still just a little bit afraid this was only a good dream.

Stan was glad he'd had the foresight to beat off in the shower. He was so ready to be in Kyle that he would have gone off inside him at the first perfect clench of Kyle's muscles if not for that bit of forward thinking. As it was, he didn't last as long as he'd hoped to, but Kyle didn't seem to care. He stroked his hand through Stan's damp hair when Stan paused to breathe heavily and revel in their connection. Stan wanted to tell Kyle how sweet he looked when they were glazed with surrender, the sharper light within them mellowed into hazy trust. He was afraid any attempt to articulate this, especially during sex, would sound ridiculous or, worse, like a kind of gentle taunt about how vulnerable Kyle was in the moment. Stan didn't have the words to make it come out right, and knew that he probably never would. All he could do while surrounded by the heat of Kyle's body was groan and curse and give Kyle imprecise, too-wet kisses.

When they were through, Kyle rolled against Stan's chest and hid there, his eyes closed again. Though they had held each other every other time, this was somehow different from Kyle's previous post-coital behavior. Usually he would sit up after some lazy nuzzling, press his hair down with his palms and ask Stan to get him a damp washcloth from the motel bathroom. He didn't seem concerned about cleaning up even five, ten, twenty minutes after they had both begun to breathe normally again. Stan pulled up the blankets and held Kyle tight.

"Bebe thinks Kenny is an alien," Stan said.

"She's probably right."

Stan smiled and smoothed Kyle's hair. He'd missed this so much more than he could have known before having it back again: Kyle hitting every beat Stan laid down for him, always knowing what to say but never coming off as cavalier or polished. He was still a little tense against Stan's chest, holding onto him tightly.

"Please tell me nobody's going to burst in here in the morning," Kyle said, his voice getting smaller with every word. "I really want to fall asleep believing, you know. That it's just you and me."

"It's just you and me," Stan said, and he pulled the blankets up higher, until they touched Kyle's cheek. "I promise."

He wanted to say something more: about how much he had missed just talking with Kyle in bed at night, and how he'd never before used sex to really feel close to someone but always to hold people at arm's length, and how absolutely terrified he was to live so fully in this daydream life that Wayne and Evan would know that Kyle had shared his bed before joining them for breakfast, but Kyle fell asleep more quickly than Stan had expected, and Stan didn't want to wake him up for an impromptu therapy session beneath the blankets.

In the morning there was a light dusting of snow on the ground. Stan felt like he'd missed something, like he should have stayed up to see the snowfall or roused Kyle in the middle of the night for more sex. He was worried that something was approaching that would put an end to everything calm and quiet, as if the thin layer of snow over his yard was a warning about an oncoming blizzard. He made cheese toast for Kyle, with fancy Whole Foods cheese, and served it with organic orange juice.

Mac called during breakfast to say that he was on his way to pick Kyle up for the start of their work day. They stood in the foyer awaiting his arrival, breakfast dishes in the sink. It annoyed Stan that Mac always seemed to have purveyance over the rental car he shared with Kyle, though Mac didn't also have acquaintances in town who could give him rides. Kyle was wearing Stan's old bomber jacket, a relic from high school. Stan had insisted, expecting Kyle to put up a fight. Kyle had nodded and allowed Stan to help him into it, not mentioning that the snow outside was hardly serious coat weather stuff.

"It'll be okay," Kyle said when Stan peered down at him, rubbing his hands over Kyle's shoulders as if he was already out in the cold.

"I know," Stan said. "I'm fine. Don't worry about me." They hadn't talked about his forthcoming confession his children, but Kyle knew what was on Stan's mind without needing to hear it out loud. He leaned up to kiss Stan's cheek.

"You need a shave," Kyle said.

"I'll do it before my shift. You want to get dinner tonight?"

"I can't, I have a meeting with my boss. He's coming down from Denver to go over the status of the case. We have to have dinner with him and the assistant director of the department, it's this whole nightmare thing. They love Mac, so it'll be fine." Kyle seemed to be trying to convince himself of this, his gaze drifting from Stan's eyes to a point over his shoulder. The sleeves of Stan's coat were hanging over his hands. "And then you have your kids," Kyle said. "The night after, so. I guess I won't see you until Halloween."

"That seems ominous," Stan said. He regretted saying so, and smiled to show that he'd been joking, though he hadn't been. He pulled Kyle into a hug when they heard Mac's tires in the driveway. Stan held on longer than Kyle did, stalling his departure for the third time that morning. They had stayed in bed for a long time, and Stan had thought he'd want sex again, but they had only rubbed lazily against each other and talked about frothy, frivolous things that had happened when they were kids.

"Thank you for last night," Kyle said when he pulled back. "I loved it."

"We can do it again," Stan said, no longer concerned that he sounded desperate.

"I hope so," Kyle said. He looked very serious and a little paler than usual, as if he was coming down with something. "I consider you to be, you know. Back in my life again. If that's okay with you."

"Of course that's okay with me. Kyle, I love you."

"Oh." Kyle smiled and put his hand on Stan's chest. His touch was light enough to feel slightly apologetic. Stan felt like he'd just yanked out one of his own organs, which was something he had wanted to do for Kyle ever since they were kids. Now he stood holding it in his outstretched palm, waiting to be told that it wasn't a good enough match. "Well," Kyle said, and he backed toward the door, his hand sliding down and then off of Stan's chest. "I still love you, too."

"Still," Stan said, nodding. "That's what I meant to say."

Kyle rolled his eyes, but he was still smiling. Mac honked the rental's horn in a short, almost polite bleat.

"Wish me luck," Stan said when Kyle opened the door. Stan felt like he was about to watch Kyle dive off the bow of a ship and into the same icy ocean that had parted them before.

"You'll be fine," Kyle said.

"Good luck with your boss and everything."

"I don't need luck," Kyle said. "I do this all the time." He winked and slipped out the door.

Stan stood at the front window and watched Kyle climb into the car. What would Kyle tell Mac about last night? Did Mac hate Stan over what had happened at Brown Burro? Did it matter? Could Kyle be talked out of what was happening, convinced not to love Stan anymore by a rational dialogue about where this was headed?

That was Stan's main concern over the excruciating day that followed, leading up to the kids coming over on Mischief Night: how much would have to happen before the people who loved him decided that they didn't after all? Though he hated to admit it, even to himself, he'd felt vaguely abandoned by his mother ever since she moved away to be closer to Shelly and her kids. They had always had a special bond, but Sharon and Stan had been close, too. Bebe said Sharon had only 'picked' Shelly because she was the girl, but over the past few years Stan had been nurturing a suspicion that he was easy to leave behind. Lola had seemed relieved when they finally started talking about separating, and Kyle had turned his back on Stan so easily when they were in high school. Stan didn't think of himself as a quitter, but he didn't like the idea of fighting people on their urges to leave him behind. It seemed wrong, the kind of thing his father would have done. He knew he would have to fight to stay close to his kids when they were left reeling by the news that he wasn't precisely who they had thought he was. He knew, too, that he would be tempted to let them pull away, especially Wayne. He understood why the people he loved might want to be free of him, to the point that he often felt like he should help them pack their things when the time came for them to turn their backs in disgust. The problem was that he usually agreed that they would be better off elsewhere, without him.

"You're a mess," Bebe said in the early hours of the day before Halloween. Their shift would end at noon, and Lola would deliver the kids to Stan's house after they finished school for the day. Stan and Bebe were sitting in a booth at their usual dinner, and Stan was mopping up the coffee that he had just spilled all over the table.

"I shouldn't be drinking coffee," Stan said. He hadn't slept well and needed the energy boost, but it wasn't really worth the increased shakiness and sense of unease. "I don't even have a plan," he said, his hands still full of soggy napkins. "Bebe, what's my plan?"

"The truth," Bebe said. "The PG-13 version of the truth, anyway."

"Who wants to hear that their dad is bisexual? That's worse than hearing that he's gay. At least if he's gay there's a gender-specific reason he left your mom. They're gonna say, you know, they'll say-"

"Stan, they probably won't say much of anything. They'll be shocked and quiet and it will be hard for them and for you. You don't have to solve the whole thing in one night. Just accept that it will a bumpy, years-long process before all of you get completely okay with this."

"Is that what the department shrink would say?" Stan asked. Bebe shrugged.

"You could ask her," she said. "If you think that would help. I'm sure she does emergency appointments-"

"No. That's the last thing I need right now."

"Really, Stan? That's the last thing you need?"

"You don't understand." Stan shoved the wet napkins away and wiped his hands on his uniform pants. Bebe was giving him a humorless stare, but he wasn't really in the mood to get into a fight with her about the benefits of therapy or anything else. "I told Kyle I love him," he said. Bebe's eyebrows went up.

"What did he say to that?"

"He said he still loves me, too. And he made a point of emphasizing the 'still,' like he was one-upping me during our mutual love confession."

"Is that really what he was doing, Stan?"

"Yes. I think so? I mean, you know Kyle. It was like he was all, 'oh, you love me, eh? Well, I still love you, so your effort to impress me with this information is negated.'"

"You sound insane," Bebe said.

"I know." Stan put his elbows on the table and his hands over his face. "Why am I afraid of my own kids? How does that happen? What's wrong with me?"

"You're not afraid of them, you're worried about hurting them and you hate the thought of being an imperfect father. There's nothing wrong with any of that. That's every good parent. It means you care."

"Sorry you keep having to give me pep talks," Stan said, his hands still covering his eyes.

"That's in the best friend job description," Bebe said, and she smiled at Stan when he spread his fingers to peek at her. "And I'm pretty sure it's also in the partner description, cop-wise. You'll be okay. You always agonize over this emotional stuff. It took you eleven years to leave Lola."

"I never should have married her." Stan thought of Kyle on the day of the wedding, and the toilet they both got sick into, the sad stalls in the men's room at the back of the church. They both looked a little green in all the wedding pictures.

"You did the best you could," Bebe said. "You were a kid. I hope you're at least using condoms these days."

"You're worried I'm going to get Kyle pregnant?"

"No, but you've both been around the block a few times."

"We're using condoms," Stan said, and he turned to see that their usual waitress had appeared with a stack of napkins.

"You okay?" she asked when Stan thanked her and took them.

"I'm fine," he said. "Sorry about the mess."

"It's no trouble, looks like you cleaned it all up yourself. How's the investigation going?" She addressed this to Bebe, who shook her head.

"Ask the FBI suits," she said. "We're off the case."

"That don't seem right."

"You're telling me."

Stan didn't have much room in his current thought process for speculation about the murders or the fact that they seemed to have stopped. Kyle gave him bits and pieces of information about his and Mac's investigative efforts, and he had promised to tell Stan all about the meeting with his FBI boss when they got together on Halloween night. Stan tried to keep that evening in mind as he drove home from his shift with both hands tensed around the wheel. Whatever happened with the kids, Kyle would be there the following night to hold his hand and talk him off the ledge.

At home, Stan knew trying to sleep would be useless. Even attempting to pay attention to a hockey game on TV was painful. He couldn't stop projecting onto everybody on the screen, imagining that the players, fans, and coaches had calm, happy evenings to look forward to, that they hadn't screwed up their lives as spectacularly as he had. By the time Lola's car pulled into the driveway Stan was on the verge of nausea, and as soon as Lola came through the door with the kids he could sense that something was already off. Evan threw her arms around him in greeting as usual, but Wayne barely looked up from his phone and Lola was stoic in what seemed like a pointed way, clearly tense.

"What do you have planned for tonight?" she asked Stan, lingering near the door while Evan bounced onto the couch and started flipping through channels on TV. Wayne had drifted toward the kitchen after mumbling hello, his thumbs still moving on his phone.

"Just pizza and some Halloween movies," Stan said. "Did you guys finish making your costumes for tomorrow?"

"Yeah," Evan said. "Mom took pictures. Can I show Dad the pictures?"

"I'll send them to him," Lola said. "I've got to get going." She glanced at Wayne. "If you guys have everything you need?"

Wayne finished whatever he was typing on his phone and looked at Lola, shrugged.

"It's fine," he said. "You can go."

"Are you doing a costume for Halloween?" Stan asked, desperate for Wayne to at least look at him. As soon as Wayne's gaze slid to Stan's it was obvious, undeniable: he had heard about Brown Burro, the margarita, Clyde's breakdown. He knew.

"Why would I do a costume for Halloween?" Wayne asked. "I'm not in second grade. I'm not trick-or-treating. That's for little kids like Evan."

"He's really too old for it," Lola said. There was an edge of apology in her voice, maybe more for Wayne's benefit than Stan's. When he tried to hold her gaze she looked away quickly. "I've got to go," she said. "Call me if you need anything."

"Okay," Stan said, though he got the feeling she'd been talking to Wayne. "Have fun, um. What are your plans for the evening?" He wasn't ready for her to leave, because whatever would happen next had already begun, and he was already flailing.

"Stan, you know, it's not really your business what my evening plans are," Lola said, quietly enough to keep it from Evan, who was preoccupied with the TV. Lola hurried out the door and closed it hard behind her. When Stan turned back to Wayne he was already walking off toward his room with his bag. Stan had imagined talking to Wayne and Evan together, but he wasn't sure Evan really needed to hear anything about it until she was older. It occurred to him that the right course of action, based on the current climate, was probably to follow Wayne into his room and have the talk now, while Lola was distracted by the TV.

"Excited about tomorrow?" he asked Evan, lingering near the couch like a coward. She smiled and nodded.

"Candy," she said.

"Indeed. Hey, um. Is your brother okay? He seems a little. Upset."

"Wayne wants to trick-or-treat. He just doesn't want to admit it. He acts like he's too cool. His friends are mean."

"They are?" Stan glanced at the hallway. Wayne had closed his bedroom door. "They've been mean- to Wayne?"

"They're just mean, dad. Like middle school boys are."

"Oh, yeah. I remember that. I'm gonna chat with your brother. You want a snack, some juice?"

"I can get it myself."

"Okay. Right. All right."

Stan forced himself to walk down the hall. It was already getting dark outside, almost four o'clock. He tried to imagine what he would have wanted Randy to say in this situation. Nothing, probably, but he wouldn't feel right sweeping this under the rug the way his father would have. He knocked softly on Wayne's bedroom door.

"Buddy?" Stan said when there was no answer. He imagined finding the window open and Wayne gone, whereabouts unknown in a town where there was still a serial killer on the loose, no thanks to Stan. "Can I come in?" he asked, and he grasped the door knob.

"What?" Wayne called out. Stan took this as invitation enough to step inside. He opened the door and surveyed the room: the window was still shut, and Wayne was sitting on his bed with his overnight bag unpacked beside him, as if he hadn't decided whether or not he was really going to stay. Stan assumed that Lola had told him he could run home to her if he needed to, and he was afraid that would be the inevitable outcome of the conversation he was about to have.

"Can I come in?" Stan asked again, lingering in the doorway.

"You are in," Wayne said. "What do you want?"

"Just to talk for a minute." Stan stepped into the room and shut the door behind him. Wayne groaned and kicked his overnight bag onto the floor.

"I don't want to talk about this whole stupid thing," he said. "Mom said you would try to talk about it. She agrees with me that I don't have to talk about it if I don't want to."

"That's true." An eerie calm settled over Stan as he sat on Evan's bed. In his panic over his inability to do anything to fix this he hadn't realized how prepared he was to be battered by Wayne's anger, to be unable to say anything that would alter the course of his rage. There was a potential for peace in hearing whatever Wayne needed to say; Stan could at least be useful in listening to it. His response was never going to matter as much as his willingness to deal with his son's feelings. That was one thing Randy would have missed. It was one opportunity to do better, even if it still meant nothing could really be mended. "I just want you to know that you can ask me any questions you want," Stan said. "If you have questions."

"I just said I didn't."

"Okay." Stan looked to the window. The forecast was for a clear, cold night. On Halloween there was a chance of a wintry mix. "You really don't want to trick-or-treat?" Stan asked, hoping they could at least discuss this metaphorically.

"Why would I?" Wayne barked. "It's lame and gay."

"I see."

"I can't believe you did it in high school. That's fucking stupid. Did people make fun of you?" Wayne's voice was breaking up a little, but he didn't even blink when Stan met his eyes. He was glowering, pink-cheeked.

"Everybody did it back then," Stan said. "I guess we thought we were being- ironic, or something. Or just getting something for nothing. Free candy."

"Well, I guess everyone was stupid back then." Wayne turned away from Stan and stretched out on the bed, his hands resting over his stomach. "Can you get out of my room, please?"

"Okay." Stan stood. It was easy, like it always had been, to imagine that the right thing to do was to walk away as soon as he was asked to go, but he knew this wasn't supposed to be easy. "Wayne," he said. "I never cheated on your mother. I don't know what people are saying-"

"I don't care what people are saying!" Wayne shouted. Stan flinched; Evan would hear their raised voices and would be scared. "It's not about me," Wayne said, his face burning from pink to red. "It's you, not me. I can't control what you do."

"I don't want to embarrass you," Stan said. His eyes were burning, but his voice was holding up well so far. "And I know that I have. And I'm so sorry-"

"No, you're not. You don't care. You pretend to care about us, but you left so you could do this, so that's great. Bye."

Wayne rolled onto his side, facing the wall. Stan waited, afraid at least one of them would start sobbing. Wayne had gone perfectly still except for the rise and fall of his side as he tried to control his agitated breathing.

"You know I care about you," Stan said when he was confident that he could speak without breaking down. "You and Evan mean more to me anything."

"Yeah, whatever. Okay. I know you got mom pregnant by accident. So don't act like-" Wayne's voice broke off there, and when Stan sat on the bed and tried to hug him he slapped Stan's hand away and launched himself off the bed like it had just caught fire. "Stop!" he said, turning back to Stan. "Just stop pretending! It doesn't matter. I don't even care."

Wayne's eyes were red-rimmed, and Stan's were already wet. Evan would be terrified by this; Stan had even less of a bearing on how to talk to her about why things were tense and bad and terrible. There was no point of entry there, while Wayne at least was already angry.

"I'm so sorry," Stan said. "I screwed up after I left your mom. I did something really stupid. But everything I did before that? I don't regret any of it. Please never think that you weren't wanted. There is nothing I'm even half of proud of in my life as I am of you."

"That's crap," Wayne said. He used his sleeve to wipe his eyes. "You're just trying to make me feel better, but I don't even care. Can you fucking understand that? I don't care if you're proud or not. What you think means nothing to me, okay? Okay? Why are you crying? Jesus, stop!"

Stan shook his head and tried to dry his face. He shouldn't have cried; Wayne was right. Crying was the worst thing he could do right now. He heard Evan's timid knock on the door and wasn't sure what to do.

"Daddy?" she called. "Wayne?"

"It's okay, Ev," Wayne said. His voice had mostly recovered, and Stan was tempted to think Wayne was therefore telling the truth about how worthless Stan's opinion was to him, though Stan had never quite managed to dismiss Randy's altogether, even when he was at his worst. "We're fine," Wayne said. "Dad's just mad at me."

"I'm not," Stan said. "Wayne, I'm not mad at all."

"I don't care." Wayne wiped at his face again and walked toward Stan, who experienced a brief but delirious hope that they would hug. Wayne moved around Stan and went for his phone, which he'd left on the bedstand.

"I'm going to make sure your sister is okay," Stan said. "And we can talk more tonight, or not. I just want to give you whatever you need to deal with this, because you're right that it's my problem, not yours, and you don't have to deal with it on my terms, or at my pace."

"Whatever." Wayne was closed off, pretending to be absorbed by his phone. Stan was alarmed by how deep Wayne's voice suddenly sounded, having broken up only to be paved over by his attempt at indifference. Stan wanted badly to offer even the smallest physical reassurance, to be allowed to touch the top of Wayne's head or squeeze his shoulder, but he didn't dare. When he opened the door he was surprised to see that Evan had left the hallway.

"Honey?" Stan called, panic taking him off guard. In all this worst imaginings of how this night might go, one or both of the kids fled the house in tears and into the clutches of god knew what. South Park was no longer safer than any other town. "Evan?"

She was in the kitchen, sitting at the table as if she was the singular participant in Stan's imminent intervention. Her expression was frightened, her face pale. When Stan knelt down and pulled her into a hug, she clung to him.

"Don't fight with Wayne," she said, whispering. Stan shook his head.

"I won't." His voice almost broke up again, but he swallowed it down for her sake. "It's okay for Wayne to get mad at me. Teenagers fight with their parents sometimes. It's normal."

"Did you fight with your parents?"

"Sure, sometimes. Mostly with my dad."

"Will you fight with me when I'm thirteen?"

"I'm sure we'll have disagreements. But it won't matter in the long run, because I love you, we're family, and we'll always be close. Okay?"

"Okay." Evan sat back and looked toward the hallway. There was only silence from Wayne's room. "Are you still mad at him, though?"

"I'm not mad at him, honey. He's upset because I embarrassed him. Unintentionally, but it was my fault and he's right to be mad."

"What did you do?"

"I, uh." Stan had run through a lot of potential discussions that they might have about what had happened and what it meant about who he was, but trying to come up with an Evan-appropriate version of the events at the Brown Burro had not been fruitful. "I got into an argument at a Mexican restaurant," he said. "You know the banana books?"

Evan nodded. Stan hadn't wanted Lola to buy them for her, but she had. Signed copies, even.

"Well, the guy who wrote those, Mr. Donovan, he felt disrespected by me, um. He's a very sad man, in some ways."

Evan just stared, and Stan could see that he was losing her. He shrugged and went to the fridge to get her a snack.

"Grown-ups in South Park step on each other's toes sometimes," he said. "It's because it's a small town, you know? We don't have that much room to tip-toe around each other."

Evan seemed to consider this while Stan sliced off hunks from a block of cheddar cheese and set them on a plate with crackers. When he looked up to give her a smile she smiled back, a little uncertainly at first, and more widely when he passed her a cracker with cheese.

"Guess what we did in class today?" she asked.

"What?"

"We made chocolate-covered pretzels. For Halloween. You melt the chocolate, and you dip the pretzels in it, and then you put them on a cookie sheet and stick it in the fridge. We got to go in the teacher's lounge."

"Cool," Stan said. He wanted to insulate her in the purest light and never let any South Park gossip touch her, let alone anything more insidious. He knew she was making a conscious choice to not find out anything more about what Wayne was upset about, and that kids put these kinds of blinders on willingly all the time. Evan already knew how to protect herself, at least in this way, even if it was subconscious. She would rather talk about pretzels, and Stan decided he wasn't weak for following her lead. She didn't need or want to hear about his bullshit in detail at this point in her life. "Let's watch a movie," he said. "Wayne's okay. He just needs to be alone for a little while."

Stan hoped this was true, and he listened intently for any sounds from Wayne's bedroom while Evan munched on crackers and watched a witch movie that seemed like it was probably the same one they had watched last week. Stan was too distracted to really pay attention, and as dinnertime approached he was sweating whether he should fetch Wayne or let him come out of his room on his own terms. Stan had bought stuff to make Philly cheese steak-style subs, which was one of two dinners he actually made from scratch for the kids. He got up and started puttering around the kitchen, pulling sandwich ingredients from the fridge. Evan had nodded off on the couch toward the end of her movie. Stan wanted a beer, but he wasn't Randy. He had accepted what Bebe had told him earlier: this would be hard. Doing it correctly meant enduring every long moment of it without a crutch.

He was chopping green bell peppers when he heard his phone vibrating on the kitchen table. He assumed it was Lola calling to make sure that Stan hadn't further traumatized their children in any irreversible ways, but as he crossed the kitchen he realized she would probably call Wayne's phone first. Possibly they were already texting. When he picked up the phone he saw Bebe's name on the screen and was instantly alarmed. She knew what was going on tonight with him and the kids. She wouldn't have called if not for an emergency.

"Was there another murder?" Stan asked when he answered the call, not pausing for greetings. He kept his voice low and turned away from the living room. "Hello?" he said when he could only hear breathing on the other line. "Bebe?"

"Yeah- I'm here. And yeah, someone's dead. Sorry, I'm kind of in shock."

"Jesus." Stan thought of Kenny, and something in him pitched downward. He dropped into a chair at the kitchen table, his ass only partially connecting with the seat. "Who?" he asked, not wanting the answer.

"It's Cartman."

"Cartman?" Stan's stomach lurched when he pictured the scene: massive Cartman slashed open, tongue missing.

"It's not the slasher," Bebe said. "I just heard a report over the scanner about a 10-16 at a residence on Pine Circle. I was headed that way so I drove by to see if I could assist. It's his house - Liane's house - it's him. He shot himself, he's dead."

"Wait." Stan started to rise from the chair, then only shifted so that he was slumped into it more squarely. He turned to make sure Evan was still sleeping. "Cartman- Eric Cartman? He. Are you sure?"

"Yeah, I'm sure, I'm at the scene. Something's up, Stan. Yates is here, and there's been a lot of whispering. I heard they found a note, and there's some kind of complication."

"Is Liane okay?"

"Well, she's hysterical. She was out of the house when it happened. She found him, she. Yeah. She's unharmed, physically, but I wouldn't say she's okay."

"Jesus. She didn't deserve that. Finding him, I mean- what a fucking- but I can't believe it, that Cartman would kill himself. That doesn't seem possible."

"Why, because he had too high an opinion of himself? That was always an act, Stan. I was surprised, too, but it makes a kind of sense. Shit, I gotta go. Yates is calling everybody over."

"Okay. Keep me updated."

Stan put the phone on the table and took a deep breath, his hands resting over his knees. His first thought after Liane's well-being was Kyle's, and he wondered if he should call with the news. Kyle would feel strange about the whole thing, and it would certainly dredge up old, bad memories. Maybe he would also feel a sense of relief or closure, but it seemed unlikely, with this as the end of the story. Stan eyed his phone and decided to delay the call until he had time to process this himself. It was sad in a dispersive, almost irritating way: Cartman's whole life had been a failed scheme, mishandled by everyone involved and especially by Cartman himself. It still seemed impossible to Stan that such a self-important, ruthless person had taken a hard look at his own demons long enough to decide to end his life. It occurred to him that the 10-16 call might have been made by a rookie who took Liane's interpretation of the crime scene for granted. It seemed far more likely that Cartman had been murdered, but Bebe had sounded confident on the phone, and she had at least spoken to the officers on the scene. Yates was there; he wouldn't misread a suicide. Bebe had mentioned a note.

Stan tried to refocus on slicing up the pepper for dinner, but his hands were shaking and he kept getting distracted by little things: checking and re-checking his phone, peeking in at Evan in the living room, poking his head out the back door when he thought he heard a noise from the yard. Finally he couldn't delay calling Kyle any longer, but as soon as he reached for his phone it rang, displaying Bebe's name again.

"What's up?" Stan asked. "You talked to Yates?"

"Yeah." Bebe sounded newly torn up; Stan could hear her choppy breath. "He, uh, he's called in the FBI."

"For Cartman's suicide? Why?"

"Stan, the note. You can't tell anyone, this is confidential. Yates said he probably shouldn't even tell us, but he wanted to explain why the FBI was getting involved, why he had to pull us from the scene-"

"What, Bebe? The note- what?"

"It's a confession. I haven't read it, but. Yates said it's a confession to all three murders. Ruby, David, Marc."

"But that's not right." Stan spoke without thinking, dismissing this on instinct, but his certainty persisted after he'd said it. "That seems fucked up, in a big way."

"Yeah." Bebe let out a long breath. "The FBI will analyze the note, of course. And the crime scene. Fuck, Stan. You don't think. You don't think it's really over?"

"It just seems wrong. All of this. Maybe it's only because I'm hearing about it over the phone-"

"No, I know. It seems wrong here, too."

Stan heard footsteps behind him and turned expecting Evan, but Wayne was leaning in the kitchen doorway. He looked younger than he had in a while, like he'd just had a bad dream and needed a glass of milk.

"I gotta go," Stan said. "I'll be in touch. You don't think- they won't call me in, will they?"

"I doubt it. Some of us are staying on scene for crowd control, but it's gonna be the FBI picking this apart from here on out. Jesus, Kyle- have you talked to him?"

"No. Stay there, okay? He'll need a friendly face."

"Sure. Okay."

Stan hung up with her and slid his phone into his pocket. Wayne still looked vaguely frightened, but he was also keeping his distance, and his posture didn't invite the reassuring hug that Stan wanted to give him.

"Travis texted me," Wayne said. "He said his neighbor shot himself. He said there's cops everywhere."

"Yeah." Stan moved a little closer, cautiously, as if Wayne was an injured animal who might get spooked. "I just heard."

"He said it was that fat guy, the Cartman Cadillac guy from the radio commercials."

"Uh-huh. That's what I heard, too."

"Mom once told me you were friends with him when you guys were kids."

Stan felt his phone buzz with a new text, but he ignored it.

"We weren't really friends," he said. "I mean, I guess we were? But we definitely weren't, uh. We never had that much in common, and I had to arrest him more often than I saw him socially as an adult. You okay? I know it's pretty upsetting-" Stan struggled not to wince at his re-use of that word. "Just, suicide. It's scary."

"Scary?" Wayne huffed. "Like a ghost on Halloween? Why do you still talk to me like I'm the same age as Evan?"

"Bud, I don't-"

"Until I screw up, and then suddenly I'm this hardened criminal who needs to be screamed at."

"What's happening?" Evan asked, wandering in from the living room. She was rubbing her eyes, yawning, and Stan was glad for the interruption. That conversation hadn't been going anyplace good.

"Just something from work," Stan said. "But I'm not on duty, so I don't have to deal with it right now. You guys want to eat soon?"

He gave Wayne a pleading look. Some of the fury had drained from Wayne's eyes, and Stan wanted to apologize for always being able to tell when his kids were scared, no matter how old they got or how much they didn't need him to point it out for them.

"Sure, let's eat," Wayne said. "I'm hungry."

He walked over to put his hands on Evan's shoulders. She beamed up at him, and Stan's eyes burned a little when Wayne gave her a friendly jostle. He was growing up, for real, it was true. He wanted to protect Evan just as much as Stan did.

"What's for dinner?" Wayne asked. His voice was still sharp, but not very.

"Philly cheese steaks," Stan said. "I was just chopping up the vegetables." Stan's phone was vibrating in his hand. He didn't want to answer it, wasn't ready to deal with the fallout of this next life-altering incident. He glanced down and was relieved to see that it was only Lola calling. "Whoops, that's your mom. Better get this- Wayne, can you slice the sub rolls? They're over there on the counter."

Lola had already heard the news about Cartman. She wanted to know if the kids had heard, and if they were okay. Stan spoke to her from the living room and kept his voice low, reassuring her that they were fine.

"I'm on a fucking date," she said. "And this happens."

"Whoa." Stan was a little alarmed by this information, mostly on the kids' behalf. "Who- Is this the first time you're, uh. Seeing the individual?"

"I'm not going to discuss it with you right now. He's waiting for me. It's a man."

"I assumed it was a man."

"Yeah, well. I assumed whoever you were screwing around with was a woman, and here we are."

"Lola, I wasn't-"

"Sorry, I'm really nervous right now. I'm babbling. Sorry."

"It's okay. Look, get back to your evening. We'll talk later."

"I just can't believe it. Three murders and now a suicide. What the hell? They're not related, are they?"

"Uh, I don't know." Stan wanted to tell her about Cartman's alleged confession, but he didn't trust that information yet.

"Maybe you can sleep on the floor in the kids' room," Lola said. "Maybe don't let them out of your sight."

"I'll keep them safe. You don't need to worry about that."

They hung up, and Stan returned to the kitchen. Wayne had sliced the rolls as asked, and he was quiet but cooperative while the three of them made dinner together. Stan's phone kept dinging with new texts, and after a while he turned off the sound. None of the texts were from Kyle.

Stan lit the Halloween candelabra when the sandwiches were done, but he didn't turn off the overhead lights. The kitchen felt cozy in a precarious way, a safe place surrounded too snugly by the darkness outside. He almost wanted to say a prayer when they all sat down to eat together, for the excuse to grasp Wayne's hand if nothing else. Wayne didn't say much during the meal, and Stan was too distracted by the thought of what was going on at Cartman's house to follow Evan's chatter about Halloween and what all of her friends were going to dress up as, but she seemed content with the occasional nod or one-word remark from him.

"You're not doing anything to celebrate?" Stan asked Wayne when Evan paused to take a bite from her sandwich. Wayne shrugged.

"I'll probably just watch some creepy movies with my friends," he said. "And eat candy."

"Well, you can't have any of mine," Evan said. "You have to trick-or-treat if you want candy."

"I can eat from the bowl that Mom's giving out." Wayne looked at Stan after saying so, as if he wanted confirmation that this was true. Stan nodded.

"But it's more fun to have a variety," Stan said. "Plus, just walking around at night and getting it is fun." He thought of the Cartman house, which would be barred off with crime scene tape on Halloween night. Kids would have a field day with that, and then there were the scenes from the recent murders. "Mom's taking you around with the usual group, right?" he said to Evan, and she nodded. "And which friend are you watching these movies with?" Stan asked Wayne.

"Gabe," he said.

"Who's Gabe?" Stan asked.

"My friend."

"Well, obviously."

Stan's phone vibrated in his pocket. He wanted to answer it, but Wayne's willingness to talk to him as if things were still normal was a precious gift, and he wasn't going to squander it for anything.

"Gabe is a guy who hosts parties," Wayne said. "But it's not, like, a real party. There won't be girls. Or beer," he added dryly, and Stan snorted.

"Mom has talked to Gabe's parents about this plan, I assume?"

"Of course she has, she's as paranoid as you ever since- you know." Wayne glanced at Evan.

"Dad?" she said.

"Yes?"

"Did they find that killer?"

Stan again thought of what Bebe had said about Cartman's confession. He wanted to tell Evan yes, but his gut told him no, and that what was happening to their town was far from over. He shook his head.

"But the FBI has lots of clues," he said. "They'll find him soon."

This, despite Stan's sense of foreboding, felt true.

When the kids were installed in front of the TV and watching a ghost movie that Evan insisted she wasn't too young to see in its TV-edited form, Stan checked his phone. He had a missed call from Kyle. When he called back he got Kyle's voicemail.

"Hey," Stan said, and he turned the kitchen sink on full blast for cover. "I saw you called, just. Bebe told me what happened. Jesus. Call me back when you can. I love you."

Stan was afraid that sounded desperate, or atonal, blurted at the end of his message. He hung up and again felt the strong pull of the beers on the door of the fridge, but he returned to living room without getting one.

On the couch, the lack of sleep finally caught up with him. He passed out with his head tipped back onto the cushions and his arms folded over his chest. His sleep was uninterrupted and deep but not restorative, and he woke up with a jerk when Evan shrieked at something that was happening in the movie. Both the kids seemed startled by Stan's panicked leap off the couch.

"What- oh." Stan rubbed his hands over his face, and he was glad when Evan laughed. Wayne was actually grinning. "Sorry. I fell asleep."

"Daddy," Evan said. "You were snoring. Wayne threw a pillow at you."

"It didn't help," Wayne said.

Stan sat on the couch again, disoriented by lingering exhaustion. He thought of the Cartman house crime scene and dug out his phone, his panic returning. He had three missed calls from Kyle, and one text message:

Please where are you. I need you

Kyle being grammatically incorrect in a text message was a bad sign. Stan herded Evan toward bed, declaring the movie officially too scary for her. He figured she had probably come to that conclusion, too, since she offered up only minimal resistance. He'd planned to nudge Wayne toward bed after Evan was settled, but when he returned to the living room he realized this was an opportunity to treat Wayne like he wasn't a baby anymore, and to allow this tense but civil quiet between them stretch on a little longer before Wayne refreshed his outrage.

"I have to make a call for work," Stan said. "I'll be right back. There's ice cream in the fridge if you want some."

"We had some while you were asleep," Wayne said.

"Jesus." Stan checked his phone again. He'd been asleep for over two hours. "All right, um. Be right back."

"Kay," Wayne said, still looking at the TV. It felt like a bear hug to Stan after what had happened earlier.

Stan shut the door of his bedroom and dialed Kyle's number. He felt a bit guilty about letting the kids out of his sight on a night like this, though it wasn't as if he was actually going to sleep on the floor of their bedroom with a flashlight like a lunatic. Kyle answered on the third ring.

"I'm so sorry," Stan said. "With everything, I've been- haven't been sleeping, and I just crashed- jesus, fuck. Are you okay?"

"I'm fine." Kyle sounded stony, like he'd made the executive decision not to lean on Stan after all. Stan had expected as much, but he knew Kyle was probably shaken enough to let the facade crumble if Stan poked the right places. "Mac is with me," Kyle said. "We're back at the motel."

"Is it true? Cartman killed himself? He left a note, he confessed to the murders?"

"It's all true. He shot himself with one of the rifles that was stolen from the Denkins ranch last week. It's all in his note. I'm not really comfortable saying more over the phone."

"One of the stolen- one of Carl's guns? Cartman was the one who broke in there?"

"Yes." Kyle paused, and Stan imagined him getting up and slipping into the bathroom for privacy; he thought he heard a door close. "It's the same gun, ostensibly, as the one Carl used to kill Cartman's father. Before we knew Jack Tenorman was his father. This is all about that, apparently. The siblings, and what Cartman did to Scott Tenorman, his guilt. It's all in the note."

"Wait- what? Cartman's guilt? He never felt guilty about anything. Not even about that."

"Well, perhaps not, in any sense that you or I could relate to, and maybe that's why he chose to murder three people before he finally killed himself. He didn't have the ability to empathize. He was a textbook sociopath from childhood on."

"Do sociopaths kill themselves out of guilt?"

"No, and I'm sorry I used the word 'guilt.' That's inaccurate- his note is stream of consciousness lunacy, was probably written while he was drunk out of his mind, and I'd have to look again, but I'm pretty sure the word guilt isn't actually in there. It's not uncommon for sociopaths to commit suicide in desperation after going on a killing spree. Look, I can't go over all of this again right now. I'm exhausted. Can I, um. Could I possibly come over there?"

"Here?" Stan glanced at his bedroom door. He wanted Kyle with him, badly, but Wayne was in the living room, and throwing a Kyle-sized rock through this particular window of opportunity with his son wouldn't go well. "Um. You know I've got my kids, so-"

"Right, forget it."

"No, well, maybe-"

"Stan, you're right. It's late, you've got your kids. It was crazy to think- look, I don't belong there. I'll be fine. Mac has Ambien."

"You do belong here," Stan said, lowering his voice. "Kyle-"

"No, it's just too much. Cartman is dead, we've got the confession. It all makes sense, I'm just reeling."

"It all makes sense? I guess you know a lot more than I do, because from where I'm sitting this is not making sense at all."

"Why not?" Kyle asked, sharply. He was angry, hurt, and there was nothing Stan could do about it until Lola came to get the kids in the morning. "No, don't answer that," Kyle said. "You're right, I know more than you do. About the case, and about Cartman. About how deeply, deeply sick he was. You never seemed willing to buy that he was anything more than a harmless buffoon, no matter how much damage he did to me, but I've got a signed confession that says otherwise."

"Kyle, calm down."

That was the wrong thing to say. Stan felt it so profoundly that he bit his tongue hard, wanting to sever its traitorous tip. Kyle let out a slow breath on the other line. Stan could feel him seething.

"Right," Kyle said. "I'll be in touch."

"Wait," Stan said, but Kyle hung up.

Stan sat in the room with his phone for a while, trying to come up with something to text, an apology that would hold Kyle over until the morning. Stan was tired, and struck motionless by a sense of whiplash. He wanted to be out there with Wayne, absorbed in some movie, sharing companionable silence by the glow of the television. He wanted to be with Kyle, too, wrapped around him and hashing out the bizarre conclusion that Cartman's suicide purported to represent, but it wasn't going to happen tonight, and sending a groveling text in lieu of physical comfort would probably only make things worse.

"What happened?" Wayne asked when Stan returned to the couch. "Was it about that Cadillac guy killing himself?"

"Yeah," Stan said. It sounded so wrong: Cartman had killed himself. Stan would have had trouble believing it even if he'd been first to the scene when the body was found. It seemed impossible, and the idea of Cartman carefully plotting three murders was just as unreal. "But everything's okay," Stan said. Wayne snorted.

Stan was drowsy as soon as he settled back onto the couch, and he fought off sleep when his eyelids grew heavy. He felt like he was being negligent in multiple ways, as if he should be helping out at the Cartman crime scene, holding Kyle's hand after a difficult night at work, and having serious conversations with his kids that they would clearly rather avoid. Stan wanted to hide with them in the pretense that everything was still the same, mostly because, in the important ways, it was. He fell asleep twitching, anxious about all of the knots that he was not working to untangle.

Stan dreamed that he was in Kyle's childhood house. He was an adult in the dream, and the house was boarded up, dusty sunlight streaming into the living room from around the edges of the plywood that had been nailed over its windows. Stan knew he was dreaming as he moved through the rooms of Kyle's old house. In reality, a family with young children lived there now. Still, he proceeded with caution, his flashlight darting through the empty rooms and illuminating cobwebs in corners. He was aware that he was looking for something, and that only the Stan in the dream knew what it was. They weren't completely connected: he saw things from the dream-Stan's vantage point visually, but he didn't share his thought process.

In the kitchen, the countertops were littered with rotting garbage: old milk cartons and egg shells, moldy bread, crusted dish towels. There was a boy standing at the back door, which was the only door in the house that wasn't boarded over. It was the same screen door that Stan and Kyle had burst through on their way to the backyard hundreds of times as kids, lit with an eerie glow from the late afternoon sun. At first Stan thought the boy standing there was Kyle, some version of him that had not grown up with Stan but had been stuck here in this fetid stasis, ignored for too long. Then he realized it was actually his own son: it was Wayne.

"Buddy?" Stan tried to say, but the Stan in the dream didn't speak. He raised a gun, not his department-issue handgun but a hunting rifle with a long barrel. Wayne turned.

He wasn't the Wayne that Stan knew. He was a young man with fuzz on his chin, but Stan was certain that this was Wayne, though his wide eyes were as blank as a stranger's when they locked on Stan's.

"It's already happening," Wayne said, his voice shaking with fear that ripped through Stan, too.

Stan woke without flinging himself off the couch this time, but he was shaken by the dream, his heart slamming. Wayne was asleep in the armchair next to the couch, sweet and harmless and nothing like the frightening apparition in the dream. Stan draped a blanket over Wayne and went to check on Evan. When he'd confirmed that she was safe in bed he returned to the couch and stretched out on his side, his eyes glazing over when he attempted to focus on the TV. He couldn't stop hearing that wraith in his dream telling him what had felt like important information when he heard it there, in the ruins of Kyle's childhood home: it's already happening. Stan had no idea what that meant, but it still felt true, like both a threat and a warning that had come too late.