Work Text:
As the morning light gently seeped through the curtains, Stan reluctantly stirred from his sleep. With a tired sigh, he rubbed his eyes, attempting to shake off the lingering drowsiness despite a full night's rest.
Rolling out of bed, he braved the cold touch of the floor that sent a shiver through his body. Glancing at the clock, he realized it was later than expected. Weary but determined, he tousled his hair and made his way downstairs. He still had time before work.
The familiar creak of the staircase filled the quiet house as Stan descended. The scent of freshly cut oranges lingered lightly in the air. He shuffled into the kitchen, feeling the remnants of sleep clinging to his shoulders.
Opening the fridge, he retrieved a carton of orange juice and poured himself a glass, the liquid cascading slowly into the waiting container. The coolness of the glass felt soothing against his hand, a slight relief from the residual drowsiness that clung to him despite eight hours of sleep.
Taking a sip, Stan leaned against the kitchen counter, closing his eyes momentarily as the tangy sweetness of the juice danced on his palate. But even as he drank, the weariness persisted, a reminder that sometimes rest couldn't entirely chase away the fatigue that plagued his days.
Stan stood in the quiet of the kitchen, his gaze fixed on the wall calendar. His brow furrowed as his eyes scanned through the dates. The red circle around today’s date stood out, prompting a pang of realization in him.
Father’s Day.
Emotions tangled within him, a blend of regret and disappointment flooding his thoughts. The significance of the day had slipped from his mind, lost amid the demands of daily life and the challenges of single parenthood.
A heavy sigh escaped him, laden with unspoken guilt that weighed heavily on his shoulders. Upstairs, Michael peacefully slept in his crib, oblivious to the importance of the day. Stan raked a hand through his dark hair, the reality tugging at his heartstrings.
Other than Micheal, Stan Marsh didn’t have a family.
The recollection of his family’s disapproval was like an ever-open wound, especially on sentimental occasions like these. It was a festering pain that surged forward, carving deeper into his heart with each passing year. The haunting echoes of a teenage party, a moment of recklessness that changed everything.
When Micheal was born, Stan was seventeen. Now twenty, Stan had grown accustomed to the guilt ridden routine.
The disappointment lingering in his parents’ eyes, once brimming with pride, now reflected a profound sense of disillusionment. Their unspoken words cut deeper than any harsh reprimand. His sister’s pity-laden remarks stung like barbs, adding salt to the festering wound of regret.
But the memory that pierced him the most was his mother’s tears – tears he couldn’t bear to witness, that etched a permanent scar on his soul. It was an indelible mark of his failures, a testament to the pain he’d caused the people who’d once looked at him with unwavering love and hope.
The memory that cut deepest was witnessing his mother's tears—tears he couldn't bear to see, leaving an enduring scar on his soul. They were a reminder of his perceived failures, a testament to the hurt he'd caused despite the once unwavering love and hope in their eyes. Amidst this pain, a simmering anger brewed within Stan, questioning their right to judge when they themselves were far from perfect. The bitterness of their lack of acceptance toward his son clashed with their own imperfections, they were all hypocrites.
In the stillness of the house, the weight of the day pressed upon him. He reached for his phone, hesitated for a moment, and then with a deep breath, composed a brief message: “Happy Father’s Day, Randy.”
The send button felt heavier than usual as he pressed it, the message disappearing into the digital void, a silent gesture amid the echoes of his past mistakes and the lingering longing for a semblance of reconciliation.
Stan climbed the stairs, his steps familiar as they creaked under his weight. The thought of Michael waiting for him upstairs tugged at his heart. Reaching the landing, he gently pushed open Michael's door, finding his son curled up under a blanket, the soft rise and fall of his chest in peaceful slumber.
Michael lay in bed, his tousled black hair contrasting with the pale sheets that enveloped him. The faint morning light peeked through the curtains, casting a soft glow on his face, highlighting the deep brown eyes that mirrored his mother's. Those eyes, a reflection of an absent presence, held a depth of unknown stories and emotions, quietly concealed behind the tranquility of sleep. As Stan observed him, a pang of bittersweet affection surged within him, a reminder of the connection he held with his son despite their challenges and the absence of Michael's mother in their lives. At the tender age of sixteen, no one had truly comprehended the looming risks of her post-partum depression.
Her farewell note was addressed to Micheal.
"Hey, buddy," Stan whispered softly, brushing the hair from Michael's forehead. The boy stirred, blinking sleepily at his father. Stan managed a smile despite the bittersweet feelings that lingered.
"Time for breakfast. We gotta get ready for the day," Stan said, coaxing Michael to wakefulness.
As Michael rubbed his eyes and stretched, Stan couldn't shake the notion that his responsibility went beyond just his son. He tiptoed into the small kitchen, where he fixed a simple breakfast, the familiar routine carrying a certain comfort. Pouring cereal into a bowl, he grabbed some fruit and placed it on the table, ensuring there was enough for Michael and perhaps for anyone else who might join them. Stan made it a habit to feed Michael before leaving because he wasn't entirely certain if his housemates would remember to do so.
"Come on, sport," Stan called out, setting the breakfast on the table. Michael padded into the room, his small steps resonating against the floorboards.
While they ate, Stan couldn't help but glance at the clock, mindful of the time ticking away. His care for Michael extended to a silent concern for the others, knowing their routines might not always align with his own responsibilities.
When they’d finished, Stan swiftly washed their dishes and headed upstairs with his son in tow. Stan stood outside Kyle’s bedroom door, rapping his knuckles lightly against the wood. “Hey, Kyle? You up?”
A muffled voice responded from within, “Yeah, I’m here. Just working on this essay.”
Pushing the door open, Stan found Kyle hunched over his desk, surrounded by textbooks and notes. “Morning, man. Look, I’m heading out to work. Just making sure you’re up and running.”
Kyle glanced up from his work, emerald eyes meeting blue. “Gotcha. I’ll be fine, Stan. Go ahead, and have a good shift.”
“Thanks. Oh, and before I forget…” Stan grinned, motioning toward the door.
Micheal, who had been lingering in the hallway, poked his head in, a sheepish grin on his face. Stan chuckled, “Kyle, would you mind if he crashed in your bed for a bit? He’s got this thing for your comfy pillows.”
Kyle chuckled, setting aside his pen. “Sure thing, M&M. Come on in.”
Micheal dashed past Stan as soon as he heard the familiar nickname that had started as a playful jab at his alliterative name. Without hesitation, he made a beeline for Kyle's room, aiming straight for the bed. Stan chuckled softly at the sight before turning his attention back to Kyle.
"Thanks. Take care of him while I'm out, alright?"
"Of course, I've got it covered. Go earn that paycheck, Stan," Kyle replied with a slight smile.
Stan nodded, ruffling Micheal’s hair gently. “Be good, bud. I’ll see you later.”
With a final wave, Stan left Kyle’s room, closing the door gently behind him. He walked down the hall, checking to see if Cartman was up for his own job. Satisfied that the house was in a decent state, he stepped outside, heading to the grocery store for his shift.
The morning was a blur of customers and tasks at the grocery store for Stan. He maneuvered through the aisles, restocking shelves, assisting patrons, and managing the daily hustle and bustle of the store. The hours passed swiftly amidst the sounds of checkout beeps, friendly chatter, and the swishing of sliding doors as customers entered and exited.
After what felt like both a long and fleeting workday, Stan finally punched out in the afternoon. Exiting the store, he was met with the faint glow of the afternoon sun struggling against the thick clouds, hinting at the encroaching winter nightfall.
The wintry air had a sharpness to it, a reminder that the season was slowly tightening its grip. Stan’s breath formed misty clouds as he trudged his way back home. The neighborhood was quieter now, the streets less crowded compared to the morning rush.
Arriving at the house, Stan opened the front door, welcomed by the warmth that spilled from within. He peeled off his coat and set it aside, taking a moment to shake off the cold before stepping inside.
As Stan stepped inside, the sight of Panda, the border collie technically belonging to Kenny, curled up near the door caught his eye. The dog lay there, blissfully dozing away, seemingly unfazed by life’s complexities.
He glanced at Panda with an air of admiration. "Look at you," he quipped quietly, "living the dream. Not a care in the world except chasing squirrels and basking in belly rubs."
A wistful grin played on his lips as he considered the dog's seemingly idyllic lifestyle. "Must be nice," he muttered, half-jokingly. "Maybe I should trade places for a day, see how the other half lives."
Stan's hand instinctively reached for his phone, a silent hope lingering that maybe, just maybe, there'd be a message from his dad after a full day. Yet the screen remained devoid of any new notifications, the disappointment subtly etched on his face.
He pulled out a chair at the kitchen table, sitting down with a sigh. The quiet of the house surrounded him, and the absence of any message from his father weighed heavily on his mind. A mix of emotions brewed within him, a blend of disappointment, resignation, and a faint hint of longing for a connection that felt increasingly distant.
Each tick of the clock seemingly amplified the fears that lingered within Stan. He rubbed his temples, his mind clouded with the memories of his own upbringing, the mistakes of his past etched deeply into his consciousness.
The haunting fear of turning out like his own father, replicating the same errors, and, worst of all, unknowingly causing hurt to Michael gnawed at his soul. The cycle of disappointment and missed opportunities threatened to repeat itself, and Stan dreaded that. He leaned back in the chair, staring at the ceiling as if seeking solace amidst the faint cracks and paint imperfections.
The hurried pitter-patter of small footsteps echoed through the hallway, signaling someone’s approach. Moments later, Micheal emerged, a wide smile lighting up his face. He rushed towards Stan with an outstretched hand. Stan couldn’t help but be taken aback by his son’s infectious energy. He quickly composed himself, meeting Michael’s hand with a high five, the warmth of the moment dispelling the clouds of his introspection.
“Hey there, champ! What’s got you all excited?” Stan asked, unable to suppress a smile at Michael’s enthusiasm.
“Guess what, Dad!” Michael exclaimed, his eyes sparkling with excitement. “Kenny showed me a cool science thing! It was super cool! He said I can do it too next time!”
Stan’s heart swelled with pride at the mention of Kenny’s involvement. He ruffled Michael’s hair gently, his voice filled with genuine happiness. “That’s amazing, buddy! I’m glad Kenny’s showing you some cool stuff. You’d make an awesome scientist one day.”
“Dad, can I show you this?” Michael asked, his eyes glimmering with anticipation.
Stan looked at his son, curiosity piqued. “Of course, buddy! What do you have there?”
He stepped forward, proudly presenting a crumpled piece of paper covered in colorful scribbles and stick-figure drawings. “It’s for you! It’s you as a superhero!”
Stan’s eyes widened as he took the drawing, a wide smile spreading across his face. The depiction was unmistakably him, with a cape and an oversized ‘S’ emblem on the chest, standing triumphantly amidst wobbly lines that resembled buildings. It was a masterpiece crafted with love by his young son.
Beside the superhero version of Stan were smaller figures – resembling Cartman, Kyle, and Kenny – cheering on the hero, then another scribble of legs and a tail that Stan assumed to be Panda. The heartfelt innocence of the drawing touched Stan deeply.
Turning the paper over, Stan found a note scrawled in a mix of careful and hurried handwriting, accompanied by smaller doodles from each of the boys.
“Dear Stan,” Kyle’s neat handwriting began, “You’re an incredible father, never forget that, you’re always there for Michael and all of us. Your strength and love make you a hero in our eyes. Happy Father’s Day!”
Kenny’s message, written in slightly messier handwriting, added, “Yeah, dude, you’re like a superhero, always saving the day and stuff. Thanks for being awesome.”
Cartman’s contribution, in bold and slightly erratic writing, read, “Stan, you’re not bad for an old man at the ripe old age of twenty. You’re an okay dad. Happy Father’s Day, I guess.”
Stan’s eyes shimmered with emotion as bent down to hug Michael, the warmth of the embrace encapsulating the love he felt for his son. Holding the drawing close to his heart, he savored the genuine sentiment expressed by Michael’s artwork and the heartfelt notes from Cartman, Kyle, and Kenny.
“Thank you, buddy,” Stan said softly, his voice filled with heartfelt appreciation. “This… this is really special.”
As Stan held onto Michael, a swell of gratitude filled his heart for the unique and unbreakable bond they shared. Their love and the moments they'd woven together as a duo held an incomparable significance for him.
Their unconventional family held a depth of love that surpassed societal norms. Stan reflected on their journey – the hurdles they'd overcome, the shared challenges, and the victories they'd celebrated. In that cherished moment, amidst laughter and the comfort of their embrace, Stan understood that their small, tight-knit family was the most precious treasure in his life.