A/N: Sorry this took so long to complete! Thanks to anyone who is still reading, and please let me know your thoughts if you have some on the ending.

Stan was given the okay to start driving again when his cast came off, but he was still unsteady and reliant on a cane while his leg continued to heal. When Friday came, Bebe insisted on chauffeuring him to Denver one last time.

"Just until you get used to maneuvering around with that thing," she said, and she gave the cane an unfriendly look when Stan turned to stash it in the backseat of her car. "I mean, what if you got a flat tire or something?" She shifted her grip on the steering wheel, studying Stan. "I'll just feel better driving you."

"I already agreed to it," Stan said. "I'm in the car, we're leaving."

"I know I'm just – saying."

They had both been more protective of each other than usual since the incident at the Mephesto lab, and Stan wasn't quite ready to give up their weekly drives to Denver either, despite his confidence that, if he'd had a flat tire on the way there, he would have been able to handle it without crumpling into distress. It was nice to have quiet time with Bebe, away from the job and the whispers and stares that they both still got around town. The national news stories about Tenorman and Cartman were finally beginning to die down, but in South Park the murders and the aftermath would be a hot topic for a while longer, and so would Stan and Bebe's recovery, by extension.

It was January, the second week of the new year. Next week Stan would be expected to return to work. Bebe had already, but the Chief had started her out slow, twenty hours a week and then thirty, and she still hadn't been out on a patrol. She said she couldn't hit the streets again without Stan at her side, which was intentionally flattering but also felt true, at least from Stan's perspective. He couldn't imagine going back without her, and some days he still couldn't imagine going back at all. Lola and Sharon had both said they would love a two and a half month long vacation, and both had apologized for saying so, as if this dismissed Stan's suffering. He was still rattled, sometimes out of nowhere, and that he still had nightmares, but most days his time in Tenorman's lair seemed so brief and far away that it felt like a movie he'd seen. This was sometimes the most rattling part of the aftermath: trying to wrap his head around the fact that this thing had actually happened to him. Having visits to Kyle's place in Denver to look forward to helped with the out-of-work boredom, and at first these trips lasted four days, then six, and lately they had only been intersected by Stan's weekends at home in South Park with the kids. Without the need to show up for his job, there was no reason for him not to linger in Kyle's world, and it was refreshingly dreamlike to finally be able to do so, the other side of the surreal coin that his life had become. Stan was afraid of waking from this reprieve, though he did miss working and always felt a bit out of place hanging around Kyle's apartment in Denver, unless Kyle was there with him. When they were together, everything was in place.

"I'm going to ask Kyle tonight," Stan said as Bebe merged onto the highway. "About the kids coming to stay for a weekend sometime."

"He'll be receptive to it," Bebe said. "I'm surprised he hasn't suggested it!"

Stan wasn't, though he knew Kyle hoped to have a relationship with his kids eventually. Like Stan, Kyle had been reveling in their ability to be alone together during this between-eras time that would end when Stan returned to work. For now, they seemed to belong wholly to each other, even when Kyle left the apartment for a work meeting or Stan climbed into Bebe's car for the drive back to South Park. They had been careful with each other since Stan's release from the hospital, but not in the old, timid way that had stalled things in the past. They were careful to say precisely what they meant, and they both had a lot of plans for the future, none of which involved staying apart for very long.

It was a Friday morning, and the traffic was bad going into the city. Stan was anxious by the time they pulled into the half-circle driveway outside of Kyle's apartment building, and he couldn't figure out why until Bebe rushed around the front of the car to help him climb out of the passenger seat. It was the cane; it felt like a kind of bad omen, a signal that things had changed already and that he hadn't actually gone back in time with Kyle at all. They were still hobbled, a little, and Stan was embarrassed by how awkwardly he moved toward the building's lobby doors.

"You don't have to walk me all the way in," he said when Bebe hovered. "I've got it."

"Just let me get this for you." She held the door and gave him a worried smile as he walked inside. "Can you get the elevator?"

"Of course I can get the elevator." Stan nodded to the doorman, who knew him well by now. "Thanks for the ride," he said when Bebe kissed his cheek. "I'll have Kyle bring me back."

"He doesn't have to. I know he doesn't like being there. In South Park, I mean."

"Well, he doesn't stay, he just drops me off."

"Right, but I could, I don't mind-"

"I'll call you," Stan said, and he squeezed her arm with his free hand. "Okay?"

"Okay." She nodded. "Tell Kyle I said hi."

Stan was anxious on the elevator ride upstairs, wondering if he should have texted Kyle from the road to tell him they had almost reached the apartment. He'd had a bad dream involving Kyle the night before, which wasn't unusual, and the lingering, vivid memory of it was making him antsy to hold the real Kyle safe in his arms. The elevator seemed to take forever to climb to the sixteenth floor, and Stan was irritated by his own slowness as he moved down the long hallway toward Kyle's apartment. He hadn't gotten the hang of using the cane, and his leg was aching with every clumsy step. There was a kind of giddiness accompanying his anxiety, like the blissfully brief impatience to get downstairs on Christmas morning. He could hear Kyle hurrying to get the door after his second knock, and the sight of him was almost too much, like a kind of emotional ice cream headache. Stan made an embarrassing, needy noise and hugged Kyle hard with both arms, letting his cane clatter to the floor.

"Whoa," Kyle said. He gripped Stan tightly when his weight slumped against Kyle's. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing- I had this dream, um. Nothing, I'm good, hi."

"You're still not sleeping well?" Kyle rubbed Stan's back and kissed his cheek. Stan shrugged, his injured leg beginning to tremble.

"I'm sleeping okay, it's just- the dreams, sometimes." He wobbled on his feet when he tried to pull back, and Kyle caught him. "I dropped my cane," Stan said, staring at it. It had landed mostly inside Kyle's foyer, the tip poking out into the hall near Stan's feet. "It was supposed to be a surprise."

"The cane? Oh, right, your cast! It's gone, wow. Come here, come in, poor Stan."

Kyle helped Stan over to the living room couch before returning to the foyer to retrieve the cane and shut the door. He was inspecting the cane with an unfriendly stare when he walked back into the living room. Stan slumped back onto the couch and let out a deep breath, exhausted just from the trip up from the lobby. He felt like an old man, but also like he was home at last.

"It's not, like, fashionable or anything," he said when Kyle leaned the cane against the couch, within reaching distance. "They gave it to me at the hospital. On loan, I guess."

"How long do you have to use one?" Kyle asked.

"They didn't give me a specific time frame. Just until I can put weight on the leg without any pain, I guess. C'mere."

"I was going to make tea," Kyle said, but he dropped into Stan's arms. Stan scooped him up and leaned back onto the couch cushions again, kissing Kyle's neck and his cheeks before bringing his lips to Kyle's. They flexed against each other and both laughed a little when Kyle mounted Stan's thigh. Kyle was blushing. Stan was getting hard inside his pants. "Tell me about your dream," Kyle said, touching his fingertips to the stubble on Stan's jaw.

"It was about you," Stan said.

"I knew it. Let me make some tea, okay? Do you want some Advil for your leg?"

"Nah. Tea's good, just tea."

Stan didn't particularly like tea and strongly preferred coffee, but he loved that Kyle always wanted to make him something on cold afternoons when he had just arrived, and he gladly took anything Kyle offered. Hot tea had become a kind of ritual for them at the start of these visits, to ward off any icicles that might have formed while they were apart. Stan stretched out on Kyle's couch and glanced over at his cane, again feeling self-conscious about how plain it was: dark brown wood of unknown origin, no flourishes. He wondered if there was such a thing as a fashionable cane, by modern standards. Kyle would know, but Stan was still a little embarrassed to ask questions about aesthetics, afraid he sounded like a bumpkin when he did. Kyle's apartment was fit for a magazine feature in its understated elegance, and the whole building was only two years old. It was a stylish space, and Kyle's décor was fitting within it: simple but warm, muted colors with tasteful accents. Stan loved every detail, though he didn't know enough about interior design to put his finger on why it all worked so well. He loved every decorative pillow placed with deliberate casualness on the couch, which was a firm, L-shaped sectional that was more comfortable than it looked. He loved Kyle's sleek, stainless steel tea kettle, which matched his other appliances thematically but not too precisely, and he wished he was able enough to help Kyle in the kitchen. Kyle emerged with a tray that held two tea cups on saucers and a little clay pot with tea bag strings dangling from its lid, cheese and crackers arranged on a plate that didn't match the tea cups but also didn't clash.

"You're the best," Stan said when Kyle set all of this down on his coffee table. Kyle snorted as if this was inaccurate. "No, you are," Stan said, wanting to grope for him even as he poured the tea. "I'm serious, just. I love it here. All the little details. This pillow, even," he said, picking up a squat, royal blue one with a velvet cover.

"I'm glad you like my pillow," Kyle said. "Three sugars?" He asked every time, as if he was hoping Stan would change his mind.

"Whatever you think is best," Stan said. Kyle laughed.

"What's with you?" he asked. "You're punch drunk or something. Here, have some cheese. And tell me about this dream you had."

"I don't know if I should."

Stan didn't want to upset him; he knew Kyle was haunted by bad dreams, too, and that his sleep cycles could be erratic due to various types of stress. When they were together, waking from a nightmare was nice: the artificial danger vanished, and comforting each other afterward felt like important work that they were both well qualified for, a kind of sacred duty they were specifically designed to perform for each other. Apart, the empty bedrooms they woke to felt more like confirmation that the bad dreams might sneak past the unguarded borders of the real world and hurt them.

"Maybe it's more something for a therapist to hear," Stan said when Kyle handed him a tea cup, then a stack of crackers with some soft cheese melting between them.

"Nonsense," Kyle said. He settled onto the couch beside Stan, scooting under his arm. "You said it was about me! That means I've got to hear it."

"Well, it's not a prophecy," Stan said, horrified by the thought. The dream had been worse for Kyle than for him, by far.

"Obviously," Kyle said. "But you can't tell someone you had a disturbing dream about them and then not say what happened. And I can help you analyze it." Kyle snuggled closer, resting his shoulder against Stan's as he sipped his tea. "I have lots of experience with analysis," he said, and Stan leaned over to kiss his nose.

"Okay," Stan said. "Well. To start with, it took place in South Park, and I was a teenager."

"Of course it did, and of course you were. See, this is fertile ground already."

"Huh, yeah. So, it's wintertime, and I'm walking to your house. You're sick, in bed with a cold or something like that, and you're waiting for me to turn up and keep you company while you rest. And on my way there I take a detour."

"Uh oh," Kyle said. "Is Cartman in this dream?"

"No, thankfully." Stan hadn't been dreaming about him or Tenorman much, and when he told his therapist this she said the subconscious was often less literal than that.

"So where was your detour to?" Kyle asked.

"An icy pond. It wasn't Stark's Pond, it was this weird suburban reservoir right in our neighborhood, behind the houses. I got in and started swimming, and I could feel how cold it was even in the dream, maybe because my bedroom was cold in real life. The water was murky, swimming in it was miserable, and it was like I'd gotten in because I thought I deserved that."

"Stan." Kyle cuddled closer to him, resting the bottom of his tea cup against Stan's reclining chest. The heat that emanated from it felt good, a welcome supplement to the warmth of Kyle's body. Stan pressed his face into Kyle's hair and braced himself to tell the rest.

"So I'm swimming from one side of this pond to the other," Stan said. "But the water isn't still. It's swirling, moving pretty fast, like a river, and I'm confused about that until I see that it's all being sucked into this giant storm drain. I mean, the thing is huge, maybe ten feet tall and twenty feet wide, and I'm headed straight for it, this strong current pulling me in. Inside the storm drain there's just this gaping darkness, and this feeling of doom is coming from the darkness, like if I get swallowed up by it there's no getting out."

"Jesus," Kyle said, petting Stan's chest. "I don't suppose I saved you?"

"You tried to! But I remember thinking in the dream, 'I'm strong, I can swim to the other side, I can fight the current.' And I did, I got past the storm drain to the other side of the pond, and I pulled myself out of the water. And then I turned around and I saw what I'd done. You'd seen me, I guess, and you had jumped in to try to save me. You were heading straight for the storm drain, and when our eyes met it was like we both just knew you wouldn't be able to swim hard enough to fight the current. Because you were sick, I guess."

"You don't have to stroke dream me's ego," Kyle said. "Maybe I wasn't strong enough anyway, in your view. This is about, well. You did always want to save me, and I guess you thought you couldn't. Or that you were imperiling me somehow."

"Well, yeah. Kyle, ah, god, it sounds dumb now, but this dream was so fucking heartbreaking."

"It doesn't sound dumb! What happened? I was sucked into the darkness, never to be seen again?"

"No. Worse! You grabbed onto the edge of the storm drain, and we both knew you only had a few seconds before that current dragged you inside. It was like a sewer, and I wasn't just worried you'd be hurt, I knew you'd be disgusted once you were in there, and that it was my fault you were going to end up in this repulsive place. I told you that I was going to get help. You looked at me – dude, the look on your face, it was so sad. Like you didn't want to blame me, and you wanted to trust that I'd get you out of there, but you also just knew you were done for. And then the thing sucked you in, you disappeared into it, but I could still hear your little voice from inside the drain, and you were so scared. You were trying to convince me that you believed I was going to get you out of there, but I could hear that you were having a hard time believing that. It was this little whimper, your voice– Sorry, is this awful? I should have just said all this in therapy."

"It's not awful," Kyle said. He put his tea cup on the coffee table and wrapped both his arms around Stan. "I like that you're telling me," he said, more softly. "I like hearing, um. All the behind the scenes Stan stuff."

"Okay." Stan finished his tea in a gulp; it was still too hot and burned the back of his throat a bit, but he wanted his hands free to grasp the real Kyle while he told the rest. "So," he said, sliding his arm around Kyle's waist, the other snug around his shoulders. "I take off running to get this thing that's going to save you. And this is where the dream gets more absurd than disturbing."

"Oh, good!"

"But it's still disturbing to me, in the dream, because I'm trying so hard to help you and everything's fucked. Anyway, um, the thing I need to save you, apparently, is this little carton of four Easter eggs."

"Of course."

"Right. So I run into this supermarket to buy them, but there are only four cartons left, and each of them has at least one egg missing, and I somehow know that it's because people have stolen them. I'm furious."

"Me too! Those assholes. What did the thieves even need these Easter eggs for?"

"I don't know, but I say, screw it, I'm gonna go back and pull Kyle out myself. Like, suddenly it occurs to me that I had the power to save you all along, and I didn't need to waste time getting any eggs. But when I turn around, half the supermarket has transformed into the set for one of those celebrity judge TV shows, and I have to like, sneak across the floor in front of the judge's- podium?"

"Bench," Kyle said, reaching for the cheese and crackers.

"Oh, right, the judge's bench. Anyway, I get past that obstacle, and suddenly I'm in this crowded dining room full of old women in church clothes, and everywhere I move I'm bumping into them, they're as thick as spawning salmon, and they're preventing me from getting to you."

"Poor Stan!" Kyle popped a cracker in his mouth. Chewing, he brushed away a few crumbs that had fallen onto Stan's sweater.

"Sorry," Stan said. "This is inane, I know, telling you my dumb dream-"

"It's not inane at all, I'm on the edge of my seat! What became of me? Did you start thrashing church ladies out of the way?"

"No, what happens is that the judge takes the podium – bench, I mean – and he starts giving the old ladies this sermon, and they're all cheering. He says he'll see them outside for 'street praise,' whatever that means."

"That's funny!" Kyle said. "I just saw a poster for Street Yoga at my gym the other day. I thought, what the hell?"

"Yeah. What the hell is that?"

"I don't know, yoga you can do while waiting to cross a busy intersection?"

"There's a busy intersection in the next part of the dream!"

"Seriously?"

"Yeah, I finally get out of the supermarket television studio dining room nightmare and I'm outside, running back to the pond, to you. I come to this really busy intersection with icy roads, and I know it's dangerous, and that the people driving these cars won't care if they hit me. But I manage to get across one street onto this kind of grassy median between the next street and the pond, only I step in a huge mud puddle and my shoe fills with mud."

"Oh, Stan. Your leg." Kyle reached down to rub Stan's thigh. "It'll heal soon. Good as new, you'll get all your mobility back."

"I know. In the dream it was more like, um. Well, maybe you're right. It slowed me down. General leg anxiety. So then I woke up."

"You woke up! You never got back to me?"

"No." Stan pushed his hand up under Kyle's sweater, stroking the bare skin over his hip with his thumb. "I woke up and I wanted to call you. To make sure you were okay. But it was four thirty in the morning."

Kyle pulled away from Stan and stared into the distance, frowning slightly, as if this was a prophecy after all. He sighed.

"I want you to live here," Kyle said. "But I know that's not possible right now," he added quickly. "I'm glad you told me about this dream, thank you. I just wish I was always there when you wanted me, at four thirty in the morning, whenever."

"You are, though," Stan said, leaning over to hug him from behind. "I could have called. You wouldn't have been that mad." He thought about using this moment as an opportunity to ask about bringing the kids along for his next Denver visit, and wondered if that would be like some kind of middle ground between his living here and not, or an even less ideal scenario, in Kyle's view. "What's the plan for today?" Stan asked, not ready to get into it about the kids or his future living arrangements. He gave Kyle a little jostle and kissed his cheek. "Hmm?"

"Well," Kyle said, relaxing against him again. "The plan is that we're going to finish our tea, and I'll tell you about my work week."

"Okay, good. Someday soon I'll have a work week to tell you about, too."

"Yes, and I want to hear about how you're feeling, you know, about going back on patrol soon. After that, you can make love to me down by the fire."

Kyle gestured to the gas fireplace, which was turned on already, fluming low and cozy. There were some large throw pillows resting inconspicuously against the hearth, and Kyle had tossed a velvet blanket over them. Stan grinned and nodded, consenting to this plan. They'd called sex 'making love down by the fire' as kids, because it was an inside joke, and because it was less embarrassing, somehow, to say it that way. Lately they had resumed this habit, and Stan now found the phrase both arousing and comforting.

"Then we can do whatever we want until dinner," Kyle said, his hand sliding down to the inside of Stan's thigh. Stan was aware that this probably meant they would nap and have sex again, and he was all in favor. "I thought we could go early to Meadowlark, or maybe Brazen? They both get slammed on Fridays after office hours, but they don't take reservations. That still bugs me, you know, I guess it's suburban of me, but I really do get anxious not having a reservation on a weekend evening, and then I turn up at five and feel stupid, but if you wait an hour or whatever, to be less pathetic about it, you're screwed!"

"I know," Stan said. He was unbuttoning Kyle's shirt, ready to lay him down by the fire. "It's crazy. Why don't they take reservations?"

"Well, they'd have to turn away too many walk-ins, I guess, or maybe it's just considered lame to have a reservation book anymore, who knows. But does that sound good to you?"

"That sounds perfect to me," Stan said. He leaned in to kiss Kyle's neck, slipping his hand inside his half-unbuttoned shirt. "I wish I could carry you," he said, trying to shake the lingering memory of watching Kyle slip helplessly into that storm drain in the dream.

"What, to the fireplace?" Kyle grinned as if he liked the idea, his grip on Stan's thigh tightening. "Well, soon enough that will be possible. Maybe, um. Let's wait to talk about work after we fuck. I mean, after we make sweet love down by the fire. You know what I mean."

"I know," Stan said, and he kissed Kyle in agreement.

It was awkward to be helped over to the fireplace by Kyle, but still better than using the cane, which Stan left leaning against the couch. It had no place in their fireside lovemaking scene. Getting down onto the floor was awkward as well, and Stan's leg was hurting, but he mostly forgot this when Kyle slumped down onto him and rolled his hips down against Stan's, grinding their erections together. They were both partial to dry humping as foreplay, and Stan had considered this might be some kind of physical lamentation for the teen romance they'd withheld from each other. The thought was more uplifting than wistful, and he liked the idea that they could reclaim those lost years in wordless intervals, as if sex was a kind of time machine, and then reappear as adults who were finally making a home together, one long weekend at a time.

"Get the condoms," Stan said when Kyle's mouth was still on his dick, this tongue traveling up and down the shaft while he held Stan's trembling thighs apart. Stan sat up on his elbows and peered down at Kyle, not sure if he wanted this command to be pragmatic or hot; it was hard to know exactly when Kyle would want to be ordered around. "I need it now," Stan said when Kyle just stared at him like the call for a condom had confused him. "You, now," Stan said, reaching for him.

"I've got lube here," Kyle said, and he dug a slender white bottle from between two of the throw pillows. He stared down at the bottle, sitting on his knees and turning it over in his hand. They were both naked, hard, and Kyle had put on an streaming playlist that Stan hadn't really paid attention to until this moment. The playlist had arrived at "Pink Moon," and it was probably designed as music for two adults to have sex to in an unironic but also not too serious way.

"What's wrong?" Stan asked when Kyle remained on his knees.

"Nothing." Kyle uncapped the lube and gave Stan a shy smile. "I, uh. Well, I just saw the Bureau doctor, you know, we have to get a physical every year. I'm, you know. We could have sex without a condom, as long as you're okay to do – that. As long as this is going to be, like. Just you and me, from now on."

"Yes," Stan said, maybe too eagerly; he didn't want to sound like he was overcompensating for some rogue thought that this wouldn't now last forever, because he was counting on it being him and Kyle from now on so completely that losing faith in that would be like waking up in alternate dimension. He just needed Kyle to know, as firmly and quickly as possible, that his answer to that question was yes. Kyle smiled down at the lube and squeezed some onto his fingers.

"Good," he said. "And none of those vile Kevins gave you anything?"

"No, god, no- I, you know, when I was in the hospital I had blood work done, I'm fine. You can hop on with confidence."

Stan's dick was standing up like a tent pole, so this phrasing had seemed funny before he heard himself say it. Kyle snorted and spread his knees apart, reaching back to finger himself. Stan wanted to complain that he couldn't see, but it didn't seem like the right time to do so.

"With confidence," Kyle said, and he smiled a little, crookedly. "Yeah," he said, arching his back while he worked two fingers in. "That's a trick only you can do."

"What?"

"Making me feel confident. Really and truly seeing me this way that, just. Yeah."

Kyle squatted over Stan and sank down onto him slowly, which Stan appreciated, because he wanted to spend several years just relishing the feeling of Kyle all around him, nothing between them at last. Stan had never had anal sex without a condom, which didn't seem romantic enough to vocalize, though it did seem important and was probably something he would mention to Kyle later, after a few beers and before a more adventurous, less monumental fuck. Kyle was gasping a lot, as if going without a condom had made Stan's dick bigger, thicker, and more impressive generally. Stan appreciated that, and kissed Kyle hard when he finally leaned down and brought his gasping mouth to Stan's.

"This is really all I want to do," Kyle said, shifting his hips up. They both gasped when he snapped them back down, though it was the smallest of thrusts, just an inch or so of Stan's cock out and then in again; still, it was miraculous, and Stan's mouth was wet with everything he wanted to say. "Well, and dinner," Kyle said, his face hovering over Stan's. "Later."

It was barely two o'clock in the afternoon and Kyle was thinking about dinner, while having sex, worrying about how they would have to show up early, always thinking far ahead enough to make himself fear that he might not have everything just as he wanted it. Stan was overcome with a kind of physical sensation of love that seemed to be emanating from Kyle's body as much as from his own, something that rippled through him like an always present but previously locked-up substance that had been released into his blood stream. He took two handfuls of Kyle's curls and kissed him hard, pressing his hips upward. Kyle moaned into Stan's mouth and clenched around him, thrusting down to meet every jerk of Stan's hips. Stan abandoned any attempt at rhythm and came without warning, like a teenager, like they really had traveled back in time.

"Fuck," he panted, trying to keep his eyes open. Kyle was a beautiful blur above him, kissing his eyelids. "Sorry," Stan said when Kyle moved down to kiss his neck.

"No, don't be." Kyle swallowed a kind of whinnying noise that made Stan hold him closer, his arms tightening around Kyle instinctively. Kyle was either on the verge of tears or trying not to come so quickly himself. "It was perfect," he said when he lifted his face to Stan's again. Stan smiled, because he knew what Kyle meant: it was like it would have been back then, everything brand new and over too fast, but also with the the whole lazy day ahead of them, every unclaimed minute another opportunity for them to try it again.

They took their time disconnecting and arranged themselves on the floor by the fire, Kyle only protesting softly when Stan used the blanket to mop some come from Kyle's belly. Kyle flipped the blanket around before he pulled it up over his shoulder, and he rested his head on Stan's chest while he talked about work, updating Stan on the mundane caseload he had take on since the ordeal in South Park. Stan stroked Kyle's hair while he listened, enjoying the freshly shampooed smell that got stronger when his fingers moved through Kyle's curls.

"My mother was asking about you," Kyle said, and something about this statement made Stan laugh. "What?" Kyle said.

"Nothing. What did Sheila want to know about me?"

"She was asking if you have a new lease on life now that you've cheated death. I think that's how she put it." Kyle sat up on his elbow and frowned as if he didn't approve of that phrasing. "I mean, she wants to know if your perspective changed, or something. That was her first question after I told her we were seeing each other now."

"That sounds like Sheila."

"I've wondered, too," Kyle said, looking down at Stan's chest. "Or worrying, I guess. It will sound stupid, but I was worried that this was some kind of post-escaping death mood that would pass."

"This?" Stan said.

"Us. But-"

"Kyle-"

"I know, I know." Kyle kissed Stan as if to tell him that worry had mostly passed, but Stan could still taste his hesitation to relax into their new reality. Stan understood, because they were still partly between realities, and he was determined to help ease Kyle into it while he figured out how to believe they could keep this, too.

They decided to eat at Meadowlark, since it was the shorter walk from Kyle's apartment. Being in Kyle's space and lounging by the fire had made Stan feel so floaty and between worlds that he had nearly forgotten he would have to use the cane. It was awkward on the icy sidewalk, and Kyle offered to hail an Uber car at least ten times during the two and a half block to the restaurant.

"Stop," Stan said. "Seriously, dude. I'm fine. I need the practice."

"I feel like this is my fault," Kyle said, eying Stan like he was going to tumble into the street at any moment.

"It's actually Scott Tenorman's fault," Stan said. "And mine, partly, for chasing him myself like an idiot."

"You're not an idiot. He might have gotten away, if you hadn't- God, it's so weird to hear his name out loud, still. It's like the more I hear it at work and on the news, the more surreal it is, not less."

"Yeah." Stan wasn't sure 'surreal' was the right word for his feelings about that name, though the whole thing felt like something that had taken place in another dimension. "I hate the idea that you'd blame yourself for anything that went on in South Park last year," Stan said, and he used this as an excuse for a dramatic pause in his fumbling progress toward the restaurant, which they had nearly reached. Kyle turned to him, his expression serious but calm. His cheeks were a little pink from the cold. Stan was looking forward to a good meal and some drinks, the noise of a crowded restaurant in a city that still seemed very big to him, but he was also already thinking about returning to the apartment and wrapping Kyle up in blankets again. "Nothing was your fault," Stan said. "We all did the best we could in an insane situation."

"I just feel like I muddled things," Kyle said. "Not even professionally, but emotionally. With my name ending up in that fake suicide note-"

"I know." Stan touched Kyle's cheek, the cane wobbling a bit when he rested his weight more fully on it. "But the truth is, you saved me when you came back. Everything's better now, Kyle, just. Everything."

Kyle grinned and turned to look at the front door of the restaurant. People in stylish overcoats were overflowing from the front lobby and huddling around the glow of their phones while they waited for a table. Stan hoped that the cane would mean he would at least be given a seat at the bar while they waited.

"It is better," Kyle said. "Here, too. Oh, Stan, you're shaking. C'mon, let's find you someplace to sit."

Stan's cane proved to be an express pass to a small table near the restaurant's front windows. It was a bit cramped and loud, close to the bar, but this gave Stan an excuse to lean across the table and nearly rest his forehead against Kyle's in order to be heard, and he liked the feeling of both of them straining toward each other while ignoring the noise of the crowd that swirled around them. It reminded him a little bit of their experiences in South Park, growing up within a cacophony that they endured together by leaning in close, and he considered telling Kyle so after one strong drink with a rye whiskey base and at least four other impressive ingredients, but he decided it could wait. Kyle ordered a bottle of champagne, and he justified this by reminding Stan that select bottles were half-price until six, as if Stan had objected.

"There's a band playing later," Kyle said. "But not for three hours or something like that. I should have asked you if you wanted to hear the band, we could have come later-"

"I'm happy with this," Stan said, and he reached across the table to rest his fingertips over Kyle's knuckles. Kyle leaned onto the table in something like a swoon, and Stan knew this would a good time to bring up the idea of his kids coming for a visit. He hesitated, and then a waitress arrived with the champagne and two glasses. When she was gone, Kyle seemed too preoccupied with his order of onion rings to really concentrate on conversation, or maybe that was a lame excuse. Stan couldn't decide if during dinner or back at the apartment would be the right time to bring up the kids. "How's Mac?" he asked when Kyle looked up at him, chewing.

"He's fine. Are you sure you don't want some of these?"

"I'm good, you finish them. So is Mac, uh. Still busy with the Tenorman fallout, or is that mostly wrapped up for him now?"

"Well, there's lots to do, but nothing as urgent as actually, you know, locating an active killer. I think he's a little tired of desk work. Personally, I'm finding it refreshing."

"Yeah." Stan thought of returning to patrol and felt a little twinge of dread, but the idea of doing paper work at the precinct indefinitely was worse. "I'm just glad Bebe will be there when I get back to it," he said. "I think between the two of us we can sort of, you know, get past this."

"Right. And your therapy-" Kyle let that statement trail off, and Stan drank some champagne.

"I'm still going," he said. "It helps." This was true, but not something he loved discussing, even with Kyle.

"I'm glad," Kyle said. He looked out the window at the street, where the bundled-up crowd still waited for space to open up inside. Stan finished his champagne and threaded his fingers through Kyle's on the table, bracing himself.

"I was thinking," Stan said, and he could feel Kyle stiffen a little as his gaze slid from the window to meet Stan's again, a slight twitch in his hand. "What about- and if you hate this idea, that's okay, if it's too soon-"

"Oh, god," Kyle said. "What could be too soon, between us, after all this time?"

Stan smiled and shrugged. Kyle was right.

"I was thinking about my kids coming here for a visit," Stan said. "I think it would be good, eventually. I still think about that breakfast we had with them in South Park, just. How happy it made me to feel like you were a part of my family, like they could see how much I love you, and why."

"I loved that breakfast, too," Kyle said. "And just- I mean, it is weird to think of your kids here, I'll admit, but. At my apartment- Where would they sleep?"

"Well-"

"But it's good!" Kyle brought Stan's hand to his lips and kissed it, smiling. "We'll figure it out. I can buy an air mattress, or- no, would they hate that?"

"Evan would love it. Wayne could sleep on your couch."

"Right, true."

Stan could see plans formulating behind Kyle's eyes, concerns and details and some measure of excitement, too. He was still sort of nuzzling Stan's hand, absently kissing his knuckles in little pecks, and he didn't stop until the waitress came to ask if they wanted to order more small plates. Kyle picked six things he wanted, and Stan nodded along with every selection when Kyle looked to him for input. It seemed like a lot of food, but also appropriate, along with the champagne: they were celebrating, feasting, and it was both the end of this refreshingly simple interlude and the beginning of something better.

The rest of the weekend was like that: bundled up together against the cold, they were decadent and revelatory but still careful, tip-toeing around joy that was so suddenly copious it didn't need to be cataloged and hoarded like it once had, like meadows full of flowers blooming in winter, growing stubbornly through thick snow. Stan slept late in the mornings and woke to see Kyle at his computer, working on reports and doing research, and at one point browsing for air mattresses online. Kyle fretted over Stan's leg and seemed always ready to catch Stan when he hobbled around with the help of the cane. Stan stumbled a few times but never actually fell, and even his dreams were mild. Early Monday morning he woke from a disorienting dream about wandering through a maze; it wasn't a nightmare, but the maze was a place that he badly wanted to leave behind, and when he woke and found himself in Kyle's bed, wrapped around Kyle's back, he realized where that sense of urgency came from. He would always be trying to get back here, to the blanket fort he had been occupying with Kyle in varying degrees since childhood, where they could both rest easy in the feeling that they had made it through many mazes to get to this, the prize at the center.

Kyle drove Stan back to South Park on Monday afternoon. They were going against the flow of traffic that was still heavy on the other side of the highway, and it was nice to listen to the radio news together but also a little tense and sad. Stan kept thinking of ways that they could at least live less than an hour apart, but he wasn't confident enough about any of these half-formed plans to vocalize them yet. He kept his hand on Kyle's thigh for most of the drive, his cane leaning against his knee.

"When do you have the kids next?" Kyle asked when they started seeing the signs for the South Park exit.

"This weekend," Stan said. "But that's – we don't have to have them up to your place that soon. I know you need time to, like. Get the place ready."

"They're not infants," Kyle said. "I don't have to baby-proof the place. You could- maybe not overnight, but you could bring them up for dinner, if you can drive."

"I can drive," Stan said. He hesitated to confirm this plan, not sure he would be able to talk Wayne into it. They had gotten along fine since Stan's hospital stay, but Stan was afraid things had been a little too smooth between them, as if Wayne was holding back his real feelings and would unleash them as soon as Stan wasn't teetering around pathetically with the help of a cane. "We'll work it out," Stan said, patting Kyle's thigh. "This weekend, or maybe next weekend. I'm just glad you're okay with hosting them."

"Stan! Of course I'm okay with it. It always bothered me to think that you had these children that I didn't even know, even when we'd sort of lost touch. Just the idea that there was this huge part of you that I had no concept of- I hated it. I want to know them, really, like. It's important."

Stan was relieved, and also embarrassed by how nervous he had been about bringing up this subject. Bebe had been right: of course Kyle wanted to get to know his kids, of course enough had transpired between them to make that appropriate now. It was just strange to finally be dating an adult after a year of Kevins and the longstanding sense that he and Lola had never quite graduated from children who were playing house together too soon.

They rounded the corner onto Stan's street and something immediately struck him as off. He sat forward, squinted, and saw someone shoveling his driveway. It was a man Stan didn't recognize at first, and when they drove closer he realized why. It wasn't a man, it was his son. It was Wayne.

"Wow, look at him," Kyle said. "That's sweet. Has he been doing this since you hurt your leg?"

"No," Stan said. "I mean - I thought. I noticed someone was doing it, but I assumed it was Kenny. He's been coming over with groceries, with Bebe, so I just- thought."

Wayne stopped shoveling and looked up when he heard Kyle's car slowing to a stop. His expression was somewhere between annoyed and startled, as if he'd been caught doing something wrong. Kyle put the car in park and shifted his hands on the steering wheel. He smiled uncertainly when Stan turned to him.

"Should I get out?" Kyle asked. "I'm never going to know what to do," he said before Stan could answer. "That'll be the thing that will drive you crazy, maybe, when it comes to your kids. I don't have any experience."

"Nobody has experience with kids until they do," Stan said. He was so thrown by Wayne's unexpected presence that he barely knew what he was saying, and he wasn't sure if he could kiss Kyle goodbye with his son watching. "You've got that meeting at three- it's fine. The drive back will be shitty, so. You should get going. Thanks for driving me. Thanks for everything." Stan took Kyle's right hand from the wheel and squeezed it. "I love you," he said.

"Yeah." Kyle squeezed back. "I know. And you know-"

"I know."

"Don't dream anything too awful about me until I see you again, okay? No bottomless sewers."

"I'll be the one who gets sucked into the bottomless sewer next time, I promise."

"Stan! No!"

Stan leaned over to kiss Kyle's cheek, quickly and without really thinking about it. He winked before climbing out of the car, only struggling a little with the cane. Wayne was still standing in the middle of the driveway, holding the shovel across his body like he might need to use it as a weapon.

"I thought you wouldn't be back until tonight," Wayne said when Stan hobbled toward him. Wayne's cheeks were pink from the cold, or the from the effort of shoveling, or maybe he was embarrassed. Stan heard Kyle driving off, his wheels crunching over the snow in the gutter as he turned the car back toward the neighborhood entrance.

"He has a work meeting," Stan said, tilting his head in the direction of Kyle's departing car. "So we came back a little early. Did Mom tell you to do this?"

"No." Wayne was watching Kyle drive off. He shifted his gaze to meet Stan's when Kyle's car had turned the corner. "Where's he going? He doesn't have to leave because of me."

"He's not, bud. I told you, he's got a meeting back in the city. He was just giving me a ride. C'mon, come inside for a minute. Take a break. Has it been you this whole time?"

"Me- what? Shoveling?"

"Yeah, shoveling."

Wayne shrugged, which meant yes, and Stan slid his arm around Wayne's shoulders as they walked toward the front door together. He didn't shrug Stan off, maybe just because of the cane.

"Well, thanks," Stan said. "I didn't know. I thought maybe it was Kenny."

"I didn't want you to know," Wayne said, mumbling.

"How come?"

"Because then you'd make it into a big deal. I do Mom's driveway and then I do yours. It's not a big deal."

Stan nodded and unlocked the front door. He could remember that feeling, when his parents thinking something was significant or important or worthy of discussion was a sign that it should be minimized and avoided as much as possible. He remembered wanting even the nice things about himself to fly under the radar and avoid too much parental attention, so he didn't fall all over Wayne with weepy gratitude for shoveling his driveway, though it was a hard impulse to resist. Wayne followed him into the kitchen, and Stan thought about what Randy would have done in this situation. Probably he would have offered his son a beer, a little taste of maturity as a reward for doing something kind without being asked. Stan was half tempted to, though he knew he shouldn't. He heated up some milk for hot chocolate instead, overcome for a moment by a powerful wave of longing to hang out with his dad. Randy was a resource Stan had once never thought he would miss when it came to navigating fatherhood and wanting advice, but here he was, hating that he'd never have that again.

"Take your coat off," Stan said when Wayne just stood near the fridge. "I'm making you a hot drink. Want something to eat?"

"No." Wayne slid off his coat and draped it onto the back of a kitchen chair, then unwound his scarf, pulled off his gloves. He didn't sit at the table, and Stan got the feeling Wayne was surfing some kind of emotional storm surge, too, but he knew these things were delicate, and that if he prodded at all he might scare any impulse to share it away. "Dad?" Wayne said when Stan turned toward the sink to rinse off some dishes that had accumulated there.

"Yeah?" Stan kept his back turned, waiting.

"Why'd you- If you just wanted to be with that guy the whole time, why'd you even marry Mom? Why'd you do, like. Any of it?"

Stan shut the water off and braced himself on the counter as he turned, leaving his cane propped against the dishwasher. He'd known this question would come, but he'd thought it might still be a few years down the road. Wayne was holding the back of the chair where he'd laid his coat, this thumbs fidgeting while he tried to keep his expression hard. He didn't really seem angry, not yet. He seemed like he was trying to be grown-up, which meant he had to keep pace ahead of whatever he was actually feeling, and Stan knew there was no going back now: Wayne would keep trying to be grown-up until suddenly he was.

"I didn't want him the whole time," Stan said. "I wanted a lot of things. Maybe he was one of them, but I hadn't worked any of that out yet. All I knew back then was that I wanted to be there for your mom, and then for you. I wanted a family. That was one thing I had in mind even when I was your age. I always pictured myself growing up and having a kid just like you."

It was true, but Stan wasn't sure Wayne would believe it. He knew his credibility was in the toilet at present. Wayne pulled out the chair and sat, looking down at the table.

"What do you mean, just like me?" he asked.

"I mean a son who looks like me and is a good kid, and smart, and who looks out for his little sister. You know. The basics. When I thought about my future, I thought about you. Even before your mom got pregnant."

Stan went to the fridge and got out a beer. It was early, but this was a special occasion. He set it on the table and went to the microwave for the mug of hot milk, poured in the powdered chocolate with the little freeze-dried marshmallows. He hoped Wayne still liked the stuff.

"What do you think about coming up to Denver with us sometime?" Stan asked when he took a seat across from Wayne. He popped open the can of beer, and Wayne hugged his hands around the mug of hot chocolate.

"Me?" Wayne said. "With you- and him?"

"You and Evan both." Stan was doing his best to pretend to be more grown-up than he really was, too, and that meant acting casual: this was not a big deal. "Just for dinner in the city, and you guys could spend the night up there if you want. Kyle has a cool apartment. He lives right in the middle of town, on the sixteenth floor of this pretty swanky building."

Wayne snorted, probably at the word swanky, and blew on his hot chocolate. Stan sipped from his beer and passed it over, moving it carefully between his thumb and forefinger. Wayne stared at it, then looked up at Stan.

"You're giving that to me?" he said.

"No. But you can have a sip if you want. Until your hot chocolate cools off. And if you don't tell your mother."

"I don't even like the way it tastes," Wayne said, but he picked up the can and sipped from it, wincing a little. "Gross," he said. He slid the beer back toward Stan, smiled and stared down into his hot chocolate mug while steam swirled up from it. "I won't tell Mom."

"I know," Stan said, and he had to stop himself from gushing: I do trust you, you're so good, you're a better kid than I'll ever deserve. "So do you think you'd like to do that sometime?" he said instead. "Come up to Denver, you and Evan? We could go to a Broncos game."

"Whatever," Wayne said. "If Evan wants to, I'd go with her."

When he was done with his hot chocolate Wayne returned to the driveway to finish shoveling. Stan called Lola to make sure that she knew where he was, and she confirmed that this had been Wayne's idea, not hers. Feeling guilty for resting inside while he listened to the scrape of the shovel against the the pavement, Stan decided to make some cheeseburgers with bacon for an early dinner. It was Wayne's favorite, and while it might not be enough to convince him to stay after he finished with the driveway, it was worth a shot.

"You've got to be hungry now," Stan said when Wayne came into the kitchen, breathless and red-cheeked. The light outside was already fading, and the bacon was just coming out of the frying pan, burgers already finished and leaking grease onto a paper towel-covered plate. "I had to use Swiss cheese," Stan said when Wayne stood in the kitchen doorway, surveying the scene. "I know you like cheddar, but I'm out."

"Swiss is okay," Wayne said. "I'm gonna take a shower."

"Yep, go ahead. Mom knows you're here. She won't mind if you stay for a burger."

Stan put some frozen tater tots in the oven while Wayne took a shower, and he put out some of his own clothes for Wayne to change into. It was incredibly endearing to see Wayne walk into the kitchen with Stan's old Bronco's sweatshirt pulled on over his jeans. Stan pretended not to give it much notice, not wanting to make a big deal. Until he had kids of his own, Wayne wouldn't understand that he was a big deal by default, every day, all the time. Stan put the condiments on the table and dropped ice into two glasses before filling them with some flat-ish Sprite from a two liter bottle that had arrived with the pizza last time he'd had the kids over. Wayne sat at the table and yawned into his hands.

"Hey Dad?" he said while Stan assembled the burgers at the counter.

"Yeah?"

"Since Evan's not here, can you tell me what it was like?"

"What- what was like?" Stan thought of Kyle, but Wayne wouldn't want to know about that.

"The Tenorman thing," Wayne said. "You said you'd tell me sometime."

"Oh, yeah." This was another question that Stan had assumed was years away from needing an answer. He licked some ketchup off his thumb and nodded, because he had promised. "Okay," he said. "I'll tell you, if you really want to know."

"I want to."

Stan set Wayne's plate down and touched his damp hair, figuring he could get away with it. He sat down with his own plate and turned back to check the timer on the tater tots.

"Well," he said, not sure how he could tell this story honestly but without giving his kid nightmares. Wayne had his elbows on the table, mustard at the corner of his lips as he chewed up the first giant bite he'd taken from his burger. "I guess I should start at the beginning," Stan said. He couldn't remember the last time he'd gotten to tell Wayne a story, or the last time Wayne had looked at him like this, like Stan had something big and important to say, something that nobody else would know how to tell him. "It all started when this kid, Scott Tenorman, decided to pick on a fat kid named Eric who was younger than him."

"Eric Cartman?"

"Yep, that's the one."

Stan censored a lot of the details, but Wayne didn't seem to mind, maybe because he didn't censor the part about how scared he had been down there in the dark, waiting to know what Tenorman would do and thinking about how life up on earth might go on without him. Wayne mostly listened but asked questions at some points, and Stan didn't scold him for talking with his mouth full. They finished their burgers and then ate hot tater tots right off the baking sheet. It was almost nine o'clock by the time Stan drove Wayne home, the Broncos game playing on the radio.

"I keep telling everyone I can drive," Stan said, his cane stuck between the driver and passenger seats. "You're the first one who's actually let me."

"Will you start teaching me soon?" Wayne asked, his face bright and hopeful when Stan looked over at him.

"Sure, yeah," Stan said. He was beaming, unable to hide how happy this made him; he couldn't pretend it wasn't a big deal. "I mean, it's still a couple of years until you can get your permit, but we can go over the basics."

"Yeah, the basics," Wayne said. He was smiling, too, watching the windshield wipers brush away a soft dusting of snow. Stan still looked out at the streets of South Park with more trepidation than he once had, even though the killer that had stalked the town was gone and buried. He had once thought of this town as a wholly insulated place, a snow globe that he'd lived inside all his life and would never escape, but now it felt open to everything, good and bad.

Dropping Wayne off and waving to Lola as she met him at the door was still a surreal experience. Stan supposed he might never get used to it, after ten years of sharing a roof with his kids every night. It was strange, too, to go back to his empty house after three nights spent bundled up with Kyle in the city. He left the lights on in the kitchen and the living room as he moved through the house, and after he'd brushed his teeth he walked back out to check the lock before heading into the bedroom. When he found it bolted he felt stupid, and he snapped all the lights off on his way to bed.

In bed, he brought the glow of his phone to his face and checked his text messages, smiling when he saw one from Kyle:

Everything okay?

Yeah, Stan sent back, wanting to kiss the screen of his phone, wanting it to be Kyle's warm cheek. Everything's okay here.