Title: Keeping Secrets
Author: Megan Ann
Genre: Drama, Angst, a hint of romance
Rating: PG-13 (for now)
Pairings: Stan/Kyle (in future chapters)
Disclaimer: I do not own anything even remotely related to South Park. I don't own Kyle, or Stan, or Cartmen, or Kenny. Honestly, do you think I'd be writing this if I did?
Warnings: For this chapter: violence, swearing
Probable future warnings: Slash, more violence, more swearing
Notes: My brain came up with this one day. I don't know how long it's going to be, but it might be quite a bit. So sit back and just enjoy the ride.

This takes place many years after the show. Stan is twenty-six.

---

Keeping Secrets

Chapter 1

"Three may keep a secret, if two of them are dead."
Benjamin Franklin

---

Stan Marsh's hands methodically moved through the task of dismantling his P90. They were easy movements that had been drilled into him through years of constant repetition. Most people would think it was crazy to be calmed by cleaning a gun, but the simple task was more relaxing to him than any trip to a spa. He could do it blindfolded.

He had just slid the last piece into place when the door opened and his team looked to the opening. They got up and moved silently towards the exit.

He was the last through, and his CO pulled him aside as soon as he cleared the room. "There's an agent. Not our department. He's going by the name David Welling. If he's hurt, we're going to end up in deep. He needs to be out."

Stan frowned. This bit of information threw a wrench the size of Montana into their plans. It had the potential to ruin everything they'd been planning for months. "What department? Why wasn't I told earlier?"

Johnson's dark eyes were calm, but there was anger behind them. "I don't know. The operation is so black that I don't have clearance." Stan blinked in surprise. "This has the potential to go south so fast it would make your head spin. The only reason it's still on is I trust you."

Stan knew what that meant. If he screwed up, he would be at best demoted to a janitor. He might end up out of the department and out of a job. He might end up dead.

"Yes, sir."

---

He took aim. With one smooth motion he flipped a switch and a red light appeared on the torso of one guard. A single shot was fired off and the light vanished. He heard the almost silent sound of some of his team discharging their own shots. Glancing to his side, he made a few quick hand motions. Night vision goggles in place, they moved in.

Once upon a time, Stan compared the movements of his team to a shadow. Now, as he watched his men, the analogy seemed to pale in comparison. Their movements were poetic.

The security was disabled in seconds. They moved into the mansion with no warning, splitting into groups of three. While the outside seemed like a beautifully decorated and luxurious palace, just inside the windows there were no remnants of comfort. The walls were gunmetal grey and the florescent lights buzzed harshly.

At the first door, Yates dropped to the floor on one side of the door. Norman swiped an identification card they'd stolen from a fallen guard through the slot. Stan hung back.

The door slid open and just behind it was a man with black hair, brown eyes, and an angry frown.

"My name is David Welling. Code alpha-charlie-seven-seven-three-niner-two dash five-three. What the fuck do you assholes think you are doing?"

Yates and Norman glanced back and Stan lifted a hand up in a 'hold' signal. He stepped forward.

"Mr. Welling, I have orders from my superiors. We are to secure this site."

Welling rolled his eyes with contempt. "I know your orders. I knew them before you heard anything about them. You morons are destroying months of hard work."

Stan said nothing.

"I'm going with you. Give me a gun."

Norman took the sidearm strapped to his leg and handed it to Welling, who checked the gun quickly. And then nodded to the three of them. "This level is mostly empty. The upper ranks are on the second floor, sleeping. I've made sure that any personalized security has been disabled. Security is at a minimum." He gave them a wan smile. "I've done most of your job for you."

As they filed through the door he fixed Stan with a stare. "What's your name, soldier?"

Not intimidated in the least, Stan met his gaze. "Stan Marsh."

An emotion he couldn't quite pin down flickered across Welling's face, but it was gone an instant later. "Let's go."

---

The rest of the operation went off completely smoothly. In just over an hour the site was secure and the cover-up was underway. That aspect of the job was something that Stan hoped he never had anything to do with. Tracking down all of the paper trails and eliminating all evidence was a tedious and time-consuming job.

He was watching the action from a short distance away when he got the peculiar tickle at the back of his neck that meant he was being watched. He twisted his head slightly to the side.

"You're good," Welling said as he walked up to stand next to Stan. "While I'm not happy that my operation was ruined, I'm glad they at least assigned the task to a competent soldier."

Stan glanced at Welling's profile. In the pre-dawn light, he seemed a little sad. "How long had you been undercover?"

Welling paused a second. "Five months."

Stan whistled quietly. "Hell of a long time for one mission." Silence. "What's your name?"

"You know my name."

"Your real name."

Welling laughed; a short, sharp bark. "I barely even remember that. But when I'm not on missions, I go by Andrew Evington."

The two stood in silence until Welling—no, Stan corrected himself, Evington—put a hand on Stan's shoulder. His other hand grasped Stan's in a firm handshake. "You're a good soldier. I'll be writing your CO a letter of commendation. I'm sure this is the last time we'll ever speak."

Stan kept his face carefully blank as Evington walked away. He turned back to the activity on the lawn of the mansion and shoved his hands into his civilian jeans. Ten minutes later he got into his car and left.

---

Stan waited until he was one hour away, in the middle of a mall parking lot, and made sure he hadn't been followed, before he took the slip of paper out of his pocket. He'd been surprised when Evington had slipped him the note, though he hoped he'd hid that surprise well. He took a penlight from his glove compartment and carefully studied the note.

'15 2020 -- O'Malley's Bar & Grill. Corner booth.'

His mind spun. He knew where O'Malley's was, having been there once before with some friends. The fifteenth was tomorrow. 2020 was 8:20 that night.

Why was Evington trying to contact him? Surely the man had better things to do than deal with some underling. Something was up.

It could be a trap, he reminded himself. He could end up dead. He could end up worse than dead.

But, he noted as he opened the car door and set fire to the note with a lighter, he would be going anyway.

---

Stan later realized that O'Malley's was the perfect place to stage a meeting. It was noisy and just a little crowded, but he was able to find the seat he wanted. The lighting was dim, and the food was excellent. He ordered a glass of moderately expensive wine and assumed that Evington would be paying for it. After all, the man probably made thousands more than he did.

He arrived just after eight and kept a casual but constant eye on his watch. He told the flirtatious waitress that came around that he was waiting for someone, and at precisely 8:20, Evington slid into the booth across from him.

"You came." Evington's smile said that he hadn't expected Stan to show up.

"Is that a good thing?"

"Maybe."

The same waitress was back, smiling a little too much. Stan ordered steak and potatoes and Guinness. Evington ordered chicken and wine.

"Why am I here?" Stan asked when the girl left. She was way too young anyway.

The other man favored him with a wry smile. "I'm no philosopher."

"You know what I meant."

"Well, why you came I couldn't tell you." His eyes were studying Stan intently. "Most people wouldn't. They'd be too afraid, too cautious."

Stan frowned. "Nice to know you think I'm incompetent."

"Oh, I know you're not."

Annoyed by the constant evasion of his question, Stan asked again. "Why did you invite me here?"

Evington went quiet. When he spoke, some of the self-assured manner had left him. "I invited you here because... because I wanted to talk."

"About?" He wasn't about to let him get off that easily.

The same express Stan swore he saw when he first met David Welling flittered across Evington's face, and this time he thought it was sadness. Evington was saved from answering by the waitress returning with their drinks.

"So...?" Stan prompted.

Evington's gaze seemed to be locked on the soft motion of Stan's Guinness settling. Absentminded fingers played with the stem of his wine glass. "I recognized you."

"You invited me here because you recognized me?"

"That's what I said."

Stan leaned back in his seat. "Well, I don't recognize you, so you're obviously mistaken."

Evington's unsure manner left in an instant and steady brown eyes met Stan's. "I'm never mistaken. And definitely not about this."

Stan's mouth pressed into a thin line. "Well, even if I did know you once upon a time, why all of this secrecy?"

The other man's wry smile was back. "I'm not supposed to know people. It's dangerous—for them."

Stan's temper, which never had been as obvious in him as it was in his sister, flared. "So you just decided to put me into mortal danger for the hell of it? For kicks? What makes you think I would care?"

Evington was silent.

Stan leaned forward, hissing his words across the table. "So if you're going to put me in all this fucking danger, then tell me... who are you? Your real name. Come on, spill."

Evington spat his response back, defiantly. "Kyle Broflovski."