Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Surprise! More extras that shall be freed from tumblr jail!

I’m extremely fond of The Webs In The Rafters, and it warms my heart that others are too! I’m obsessed with TWITR Stan, the ultimate good boy final boss, and my fighting firefly Kyle. I traumatized them beyond belief this au, and think about the healing process often, especially the early days following the events of the main story. 

I’ll be getting into the depths of Kyle’s fear of being poisoned again, so expect detailed information on his eating habits, and the effects on his body. Fair warning it will get pretty graphic at times, and so will the injury recovery aspects of these stories. 

I think it’s important for me to acknowledge the after effects of what I put the boys through in this au, and their healing. Stan’s fear of inadequacy and guilt over past helplessness, Kyle’s self flagellation over being blinded to the abuse from the Spider. These boys aren’t okay, but they have each other, as long as they can let go of the need to protect the other from what’s going on in their minds. 

so, if you’re a TWITR fan or just enjoy reading characters being put through the wringer, I hope these weavings please and sparkle!!!

Chapter Text

Exhaustion still has a chokehold on all of them, a week since the fall.

Kenny was out of the hospital now, though still under strict instructions to take it easy, or else face the wrath of Wendy Testaburger. By some connections Stan couldn’t pretend to be surprised by, Cartman had secured the former residents of The Haven several units in an apartment complex on Main Street, all while most of them were still shell shocked and recovering.

Stan didn’t know if Kyle would ever completely recover.

He himself was alright physically after a couple days of painkillers and some rest, when he allowed himself to take a break from worrying about his crew. The only visible reminder of the confrontation with the Spider was the fading bruise on his forehead from their skulls forcibly smashing together.

It was weird, he thought, studying his body in the bathroom mirror like he had plenty of times before. It was weird seeing his bare shoulder without the crisscrossing scars; the mark of The Oath he’d had since he was sixteen.

Sometimes, he thought he could still feel it burning the skin.

Tugging a shirt on, Stan switched the light off and slipped back into the bedroom, relieved to see that his shower hadn’t woken Kyle.

The frail redhead still slept, but uneasily, like his dreams were anything but pleasant. He’d been sleeping a good deal the past few days, his poor, battered body too exhausted to do much else. Soon, the more he started to heal, the more reality would sink in, and the psychological consequences would push to the forefront. They were expecting night terrors, PTSD flashbacks, horrible panic attacks. Stan knew he had to be the strong one here. He was okay as long as Kyle was okay, but Kyle had been through more than any of them. He’d need all the support Stan and their friends could give him.

Stan smiled sadly as his partner whimpered quietly, starting to stir. He’d probably only be up a few hours before needing to rest again. Stan sat down lightly on the edge of the bed, Sansa at his feet.

Green eyes opened about halfway, and Kyle was moaning lowly, his pain awakening faster than he was.

“Hi, dude,” Stan whispered, gently running his fingertips over Kyle’s cheek. “Good morning, Ky.”

“Mm. Hey.”

“How do you feel?”

Kyle grimaced, looking down at himself. “‘Bout as good as I look,” he said shallowly. “And sound.”

The strained breathing was something that hurt Stan’s soul to hear, a raspy reminder of broken ribs and a bruised diaphragm from being beaten and put through the wall. Kyle struggled to sit up.

“Easy,” Stan murmured, moving to help. “Go nice and slow. You dizzy?”

Kyle squeezed his eyes shut for a second, then relaxed a little. “I think I’m okay.”

Stan breathed a sigh of relief. Kyle’s vertigo had returned, though unlike a few years back, they knew what the cause was. Lingering poison in his fragile system made him unsteady and nauseated at any fast movement. It was awful, seeing him wait for a wave to pass, so they always tried to move slowly.

“I think I want to make some tea,” Kyle declared firmly.

“You don’t want me to do it?” Stan asked.

Kyle pushed off the blanket with his good arm, determined expression on his slim face. “Not today, sweetheart. I need to do a few things for myself, okay?”

He didn’t like it, but he knew his Firefly. Kyle was fierce, and stubborn, even when he was practically on the verge of crumbling with every move. Stan moved to the side so he could get up, trying to to resist the urge to hover.

Stan always turned the heat up in the mornings, because Kyle was easily chilled but had started feeling trapped if he was bundled in too much clothing. The thin tank top and sagging pajama shorts only accentuated his gauntness, pale skin littered with bruises in varying stages of healing, bony joints painful to look at. He held his sprained elbow to his chest as he trudged to the kitchen, not liking to sleep in the sling but healing too slowly to straighten his arm comfortably yet.

Was it shitty to say that looking at the love of his life hurt so much?

It wouldn’t forever, Stan told himself. Kyle would get better. They all would.

Stan followed behind, attempting to disguise his protective lingering as making a pot of coffee and filling Sansa’s food bowl. He bit his lip as Kyle struggled to fill up the kettle, hand shaking with the weight.

“Cut it out.”

It was like they could read each other’s minds. Stan feigned innocence. “Uhh, cut what out?”

Focused, Kyle managed to get the kettle on the stove. “Pitying me, Stanley; I’m not helpless.”

“Dude.” Stan planted a gentle hand between his shoulder blades, reaching the other around to turn the burner on and drawing Kyle against his chest. “Baby, I’m not.”

Kyle scoffed.

“I’m not , Stan insisted. “I can just tell that you’re already hurting this morning, and I want to make sure you’re not straining yourself.”

There was a long pause, and then Kyle sighed as deeply as his broken bones would let him. “I’m so sick of everything hurting, dude.”

Stan planted a kiss on the top of his head, thinning red curls tickling his face. “I know, Ky. You wanna go sit down?”

Kyle looked down dejectedly, and Stan, feeling him giving in, started to carefully direct him to the couch. “Would you maybe want to try taking something?” Even as he said it, he cringed. Kyle had been firmly opposed to medication of any kind since he was coherent enough to leave Wendy’s clinic.

Blessedly, the first few days after getting the shit kicked out of him, he’d been willingly taking painkillers; without them, he hurt so badly he couldn’t think. By the time Kenny had woken up, Kyle had decided he was done. 

Stan respected that, but he hated seeing Kyle in such an awful way. So he still offered, even though he knew the answer.

“ Agh , I’ll pass.”

Figures.

“Alright, baby.” He kissed him again and went back to their morning hot drinks.

A black coffee, strong, with a tiny splash of cold water so Stan didn’t burn his tongue. Jasmine green tea, with the bag still in, so Kyle could see how much his circumstances had changed.

“And an ice pack,” Stan announced, setting the mugs on the table. He pressed close to Kyle, delicately taking his inflamed arm in his (hopefully not too rough) hands. “God, dude, it’s still swollen.”

“I just heal slow,” Kyle mumbled.

Stan could feel the strained tendons beneath thin skin, and he found himself nearly growling like a protective alpha wolf at the clear fingerprint shaped bruises. How many times had he seen similar marks and been able to do nothing about it? To goddamn many.

Stan Marsh did not get angry easily, but physical evidence of Craig’s violence against Kyle had always made him want to kill .

“Hey. Stan. Hey. Look at me.”

He did. Sympathetic forests invited him in.

“I don’t like to see that look in your eyes,” Kyle murmured. “Come back to me.”

He’d always find his way back into the forest, eventually, find the comfort in dappled sunlight and orange wildflowers blooming in the clearings. Kyle was that forest. Beautiful, strong with a delicate balance, wild. Stan looked down, embarrassed at letting his rage take over, however briefly. “I’m sorry. I’m here. I’m okay.”

Kyle tilted Stan’s chin up so their eyes could meet. “We’re okay. We’re safe now. I’m safe now.”

He always knew when Stan needed that reminder.

Stan would keep him safe, too. He gently eased the ice over the worst of the swelling, keeping Kyle’s arm in his own lap so the smaller man fit naturally closer into his side. His other hand ran absently over Kyle’s hair.

“It’s been falling out more the past few months.”

“Hmm?”

Kyle sighed. “My hair. I know you’ve noticed. I’m practically bald now. I look like Gollum.”

It wasn’t like Stan hadn’t noticed every time he went to play with those long red curls he loved so much, there seemed to be less of them. He just really didn’t want to point it out. It was a huge stressor for the both of them, each fluffy lock that came away far too easily. Kyle wasn’t “practically bald”, though. It was just freaky to find a clump of hair not attached to the head it was supposed to be attached to.

“It’ll stop soon,” Stan promised, because Wendy had told them the poisoning symptoms would eventually ease up. “Just wait, this time next year, the only one of us shedding all over the apartment will be the dog.”

Kyle laughed weakly; it didn’t last long on account of his ribs, and he was hunching over slightly afterwards to catch his breath, but it was still a laugh.

“Still,” Kyle panted, “I was thinking about going ahead and shaving it. Fresh start, and all that.”

“Dude.” That was… big. A big change, a big step. Stan never did great with change, especially when he got attached to something. And he was very fond of Kyle’s hair.

“Think about it, Stan,” Kyle urged. “Hair holds memories, right? That’s like, a thing.” He looked up with shining eyes. “How many horrible memories does mine hold?”

Stan considered what he was saying, really listening. He then slipped a frizzed lock through his fingers and whispered, “but not all of those memories are bad.”

“That’s why I want you to do it.”

“You… want me to cut your hair?”

“You are my good memories, sweetheart,” Kyle insisted. Then he smiled. “Plus, how the hell am I gonna do it? I’m right handed, and even if I wasn’t, I can’t raise my arms up much anyway.”

He had a point, but that was a lot of pressure. 

And then Kyle, looking so vulnerable and trusting, pale and wan and traumatized, said in hardly a whisper:

“Please, dude. You’re the only one I trust.”

Stan nodded resolutely. “Alright. Now?”

“Now.”

They decided that the bathroom made the most sense for their purposes, Stan bringing in a stool so that Kyle wouldn’t have to stand during the haircut. The clippers were already on the counter from Stan’s own much needed trim the other day, and he took a deep breath as he picked them up.

“Oh, we should, uh, probably do this without your shirt on. Don’t wanna get hair all in it.”

“Right.”

Both of them braced themselves for the frightening sight that was Kyle’s bare torso. Stan carefully helped him get out of his shirt, and held back the tears that threatened to spill. He’d never get used to it; the deep purples and blues, bright reds, sickly yellows and greys at the edges of each impact point. Clear lines of bruising pressed the stamp of his brittle ribcage onto the skin, and Stan could see which ones were broken without having to think about it. He’d been helping Kyle change since the beginning, but he wasn’t desensitized to that sight. Stan had a feeling Kyle wasn’t, either.

“It’s starting to look better back here,” he lied. 

Kyle scoffed. “Bullshit. I can’t turn well enough to see it, but I can feel it.”

Stan kissed the nape of his neck in apology. “I know, baby. You’ll get there. I’ve got you.”

He met Kyle’s gaze in the mirror. “So, how do you wanna go about this?”

Kyle shrugged, then winced. “Ow, fuck. Okay, so I guess just cut the majority of the length with scissors and go from there.”

Nodding, Stan rifled through the drawer until he found what he was looking for, and gathered a handful of curls before he could lose his nerve. “K, Ky, are you-“

“Quit thinking and just cut,” Kyle commanded.

So Stan cut.

A fiery tangle fell to the floor, mesmerizingly, drifting like a red gold ember. Stan grabbed another section and let the distinct sound of scissors cutting through hair fill the otherwise quiet apartment, repeating the process until Kyle’s hair was significantly shorter, if not pretty uneven.

“Scary part’s over,” he said lowly, more to himself than to his partner. “I just have to neaten it up.”

“I trust you,” Kyle reminded him.

The droning * bzzzzzz* of the clippers provided an ambiance weighted with change, with release, with relief . Stan was as focused as he’d ever been, like he was welding or something. Except this felt like so much more than the inherent danger of a blowtorch. And it wasn’t just a haircut. This was a symbol.

Fluffy, drifting clumps fell to the tile, scattering to all corners where they’d be a bitch to sweep up later. Stan kept concentrating, mourning the length he’d always gazed longingly at a little, but ultimately seeing this for what it was.

It was slow; almost indulgent. Then, with a final run of his hand over the crop, Stan could breathe.

“Done.”

Kyle opened his eyes to look. “Damn.”

“Did… did I do okay?”

His shirt was immediately caught in a small fist, pulling him down. Kyle kissed him, long and tenderly. “I feel better already.”

“Good enough to come get breakfast with me?” Stan implored. “Nic said Chef has something special he wants you to try.”

God, that smile. Fleeting as it could be sometimes, Kyle lit up the darkest of shadows when he smiled like that. “I’ll do my best,” he promised.

Stan dropped another kiss to the new hairstyle. It would take some getting used to, just like everything these days, but they’d make it. Make new memories, too.

“That’s all you can do.”

Chapter Text

December sees a quick decline in Kyle’s health after he’d only just started to gain a little color back.

It starts innocuously, with the still recovering man only complaining about the cold, saying he feels tired and achy. Naturally, Stan is instantly on high alert, anxiety coursing through his veins. Kyle can’t afford to be sick right now. His body is still weak, doesn’t have the energy to spare on fighting off an illness. Kyle waves the worry off, insisting that what he’s feeling is just his immune system adapting as the poison slowly leaves him.

To some degree, that’s true, confirmed by Wendy when the doctor checked him over. He’s also running a fever, though, having been susceptible to them for the past few years. A mild chest cold, she said, but in Kyle’s condition, they need to keep an eye on it so the cough doesn’t turn into bronchitis or pneumonia.

Stan knows Kyle’s strong. He does. But he’s also not stupid, and pneumonia would kill Kyle without hesitation.

A lot of his health scares wouldn’t be so terrifying if he had a little more weight on him; that’s just fact. But despite everyone’s efforts, Kyle’s ARFID still wins out a lot of the time, and he isn’t gaining nearly as fast as they hoped. Granted, it hasn’t been that long free of the poison, but Kyle is still in survival mode. Wendy’s looking into maybe getting Kyle on a feeding tube, at least for a little while, if he keeps having so much trouble eating. The loss of autonomy would be even more damaging psychologically, especially with the nature of Kyle’s trauma, though, so it’s a last resort.

Kyle coughs in his half asleep state, then mumbles out a complaint, curling into the fetal position. His very much still healing cracked ribs have been taking a beating, and Stan hurts for him with every cough.

“You’re okay, dude,” Stan murmurs, stroking a hand over his partner’s buzzed curls. “It’s okay, Ky, I’m here.”

He’s still burning up, and Stan isn’t sure how aware he is of his surroundings, either. He’d always gotten hit hard by illness, his whole life, but Kyle doesn’t have the health to spare right now.

Stan’s been more freaked out than anyone, and he has to remind himself that Kyle’s out of the danger zone, as far as this cold is concerned. And they’re doing what they can, keeping an eye on his temperature so it doesn’t spike again, plenty of rest, and hydration when it’s manageable. Stan’s scared, though. He’s been scared for just about as long as he remembers.

It makes him feel at least a little better to know that he’s trying, that he’s doing something, even if it’s just carefully holding him. Kyle feels more breakable than ever, here cocooned in his arms. It’s kind of primal, really. Where Kyle is small, and hurt, needing cared for, Stan is big and strong and eager to take care of him, to protect him while he heals. Stan will provide all the safety he can, and Kyle will have a safe place to get better.

He can’t think about it too deeply, or he panics, so that’s why Stan has simplified this whole thing down to its most basic form. Can’t afford to panic, not when he needs to be Kyle’s safe space.

There’s a song in his head, some sappy Ed Sheeran bullshit that he’d sometimes play on quiet evenings at the ranch, and the guys would rip on him for it. He kind of wants to hum it now, because Kyle used to like to pretend to hate being romanced like that. Stan smiles, thinking of it. Oblivious as he was sometimes, it took him a while there in the beginning to realize that as much as Kyle would tease, he actually needed affirmation and praise like oxygen, and lord knows he didn’t get that from Cr-

Anyway, it became Stan’s job to make sure Kyle was loved the way he deserved, and he’s never going to fucking quit.

“Are- mmngh- ‘s that Thinking Out Loud?”

Stan tries not to cringe, because poor Kyle’s voice sounds so painful, even if he says it’s not hurting as much. “Sorry, baby. You just go back to sleep, I’ll be quiet.”

“No,” Kyle whispers, and turns his face to blink languidly Stan’s way. There’s an only partly lucid fondness in his green eyes, sort of dreamlike. “ ‘m up. Helps.”

“Careful…,” Stan urges, because Kyle’s trying to sit up now, evidently declaring himself fully awake for the time being. “That’s it, okay, don’t twist-“

Kyle weakly smacks the guiding hand away, stubbornly settling against the headboard without too much movement of his bruised torso and tiredly cocking an accomplished eyebrow.

“Hey,” Stan greets. “We conscious this time?” Because in his delirium Kyle has had a few instances of false alarms. With his fever having been going down, he’s hoping things keep improving.

“Mhm.” Kyle leans against him, and Stan instinctively cups a hand around the yellowing bruises on Kyle’s arm. They’re starting to look less like fingerprints.

“Is it late?” Kyle asks.

Stan checks his watch, shakes his head. “Not really, little after five. Just been gross weather.”

It’s been sleeting and raining off and on, and Sansa is probably tired of being cooped up , but Stan had been hesitant to take the dog out, just on the chance that Kyle might wake up and be scared with them gone. Yeah, okay, he’ll take her on a walk now that Kyle’s up, after he makes sure he’ll be okay for a few minutes.

Stan grabs the thermometer from the nightstand. “Let’s check your temperature, okay, dude?”

Then he fights back a laugh, because Kyle, sick as he is, still insists on doing that for himself.

“101,” Kyle reads off tiredly. “‘S not getting any worse.”

He’d still prefer to get it down some more, but with even Tylenol out of the question, Stan will take that for now. He lightly squeezes Kyle’s skinny thigh through the blankets in acknowledgment. Now for the million dollar question.

“How bad are you hurting?”

“Pretty bad,” Kyle sighs. He’s long since stopped trying to lie about it, thank god, because that makes Stan worry even more. “My chest, mostly.”

“Yeah, your breathing doesn’t sound great,” Stan agrees. “I’m sorry, Ky.”

There’s a humidifier going with eucalyptus and peppermint oil to help with congestion, but Stan can’t do anything else about the discomfort his partner is in, and that fucking hurts his feelings.

Kyle starts to reach for his cup on his side’s bedside table, but there’s a hesitation there, a slight hitch in his breath. Stan knows what that means: that particular water has been sitting there a while. Kyle’s not a hundred percent sure that water’s safe.

“I got it.” Stan jumps at the chance to have something tangible to help with. A doable task.

He climbs over his partner, carefully, and hops off the bed on that side, snagging the cup and flashing what he hopes is an encouraging smile. “Fresh water, coming up!”

Kyle rolls his eyes with a half amused snort, and Stan decides he’ll let that buoy him into something like optimism, if it’ll last.

He grabs one of the little bottles of orange juice from the fridge while he’s up, too. Orange juice is usually a safe bet, and maybe the sugar will kickstart at least a little bit of an appetite. It’s been a decent strategy these past weeks; easily processed sugar takes the edge off Kyle’s nausea, and liquids are easier a lot of the time anyway. Chef at the diner has taken to whipping Kyle up milkshakes so he doesn’t have to spend too much energy on chewing.

Fuck. Okay, now Stan’s thinking about the feeding tube suggestion again, and it scares the shit out of him, because he knows it’d scare the shit out of Kyle.

Back to the water and juice.

Sansa trots in front of him back to the bedroom and plants her face on the mattress beside where Kyle’s sitting, happily accepting the light head pats she gets in greeting. Stan hands over the cup and tries not to overthink the way Kyle’s hand shakes a little as he brings it to his lips.

Kyle swallows gratefully, cheeks flushed from illness and that small effort. He’s so tired . It’s plain as day, breaks Stan’s heart. “Thanks, dude. You okay?”

“You’re asking me that?” Stan asks incredulously. “Baby, you’re the one who’s sick, and- here, Ky.” He takes the cup from Kyle’s trembling hand to set it to the side. “Fuck, dude, you still seem really unsteady.”

“I’m just drained.” Kyle rubs at his eyes; he probably has a headache, too. “I’m asking because you seem like you’re trying not to freak out.”

He is trying not to freak out, at least not until he’s alone. Stan gently cups a hand around the back of Kyle’s neck, trying to ease the tension there. He sighs heavily. “I’m just… I’m really worried about you. You always get so sick, and those nightmares last night-“

Fever dreams are awful for anyone; Stan can only imagine all the nightmare fuel Kyle’s brain has to work with. He’d woken up screaming more than a handful of times, especially since he’d come down with this cold.

Kyle nods and lets his eyes close. “I know,” he mumbles. “‘S gonna be okay. Little more sleep, maybe.”

He needs it, Stan knows, but he hates that Kyle’s the one having to reassure him right now. Not the time to dwell on that, though, so Stan pushes away the urge to apologize; takes the hint and guides the ailing man to lie back down. Every time he winces as he moves, Stan has to concentrate hard not to flash back to that night. Kyle’s technically still supposed to be sleeping with his ribs supported, but he gets claustrophobic trapped in too many pillows. Stan supports his frail body instead, when they’re both settled in. He’ll do that here in a bit.

Stan drops a kiss to Kyle’s cheek, tucking him in. “You do that, baby. I’ll be back. Gonna take our girl out real quick.”

Kyle lets out a little whimpering murmur in acknowledgment, already slipping back under the fog of sleep deprived sick-brain. Stan watches him shift around trying to get comfortable, as he himself backs through the doorway before silently clicking it closed.

His eyes feel hot, which he does his best to ignore while he shrugs on his coat, grabs his familiar blue beanie and Sansa’s leash. She leans comfortingly against his legs as he locks the front door behind them. Stan feels wrung out, and she can clearly tell. Kenny argues that she’s psychic, and sometimes Stan believes it, even if his friend had been talking out of a traumatic brain injury.

Main Street is wet, streetlights reflecting off the dark asphalt and casting a misty glow into the still, cold air, and it seems lonely. It’s quiet; this sleepy town is tired this time of night, early as it is, especially this time of year as autumn gives way to winter and mountain rains fall as sleet, too stubborn to land as snow just yet.

The cold stings his skin as Stan lifts his face to the sky, but he feels that hot burn of tears behind his eyes for the billionth time that day. He can’t cry in front of Kyle. He can’t do that, because he’s done that too much since that awful moment he pulled the love of his life, his firefly, from the crawlspace, and fuck , he’s been trying so hard to keep it together, but seeing Kyle hurt like that, knowing he couldn’t stop it from happening, destroys him. And now Kyle’s so, so fragile, sleeping fitfully in their bed in the building behind him, and Stan still can’t keep him from hurting. God, he can’t even hold him as tight as he wants to, not without making him hurt even more.

Stan lets the leash fall from his hand; Sansa will stay close, and he crumbles, those trapped tears finally falling too.

He’s numb to the cold and wet seeping into the knees of his jeans, and he drags shaky hands through his hair as he lets out the first of many sobs. His hat’s in a puddle now, not that it matters, because all Stan can feel or care about is how helpless he’s been, for so long. A protector who couldn’t protect. A sentinel keeping watch for something he couldn’t fully see.

He isn’t sure how long he stays like that, finally letting everything out, but eventually, there’s a soft whine at his side, and he looks up to see Sansa looking pointedly between him and the apartment building. She’s right, Stan thinks, because it feels like she’s saying it’s time for him to go back to keeping watch.

And Stan isn’t actually sure what he’s guarding Kyle from now, but he feels better taking the side of the bed closer to the door anyway.

———

It isn’t until the next day, with Kyle starting to feel a little better but still not well , that Stan lets him in on this fear, this paranoia, this feeling of inadequacy.

“I can’t get it out of my head,” Stan whispers, voice cracking. He’s holding him, being careful not to squeeze too tight on accident, but he feels like he can’t possibly be close enough to the man in his arms.

“Everything reminds me of- of you… not okay. I see your bruises, I remember all the times I’d see how rough he’d been with you and I couldn’t believe- like, I’d always be thinking, doesn’t he know what he’s doing? And-“ Stan nuzzles his face in the crook of Kyle’s neck, spilling tears on him. “And, god, baby, you’re still so hurt, every time you move and I can tell it hurts you and I see you beat up all over again. Or- or how you can’t eat and it’s because you’ve been literally fucking poisoned before! For years, and I didn’t know! I thought I was protecting you but I WASN’T-“

“Shhh,” Kyle soothes. “Sweetheart, don’t. Don’t, dude.”

Stan cries harder. He hates breaking like this, but it keeps fucking happening, because he’s not strong enough-

Sansa whines, and Stan pulls out of his spiral enough to see her nosing onto the bed and looking up at her humans with big, wise eyes. He also realizes he was holding Kyle tighter than he should’ve been, and releases him with a start.

“Shit! Fuck, shit, Ky, I’m sorry, am I hurting you?”

“I’m okay,” Kyle promises softly. He shifts, painstakingly, slowly, until he’s turned around in Stan’s lap, facing him. “You could never hurt me.”

Bony arms wrap around him, and Stan feels Kyle rest his head on his chest. “You’re so good, Stanley. You’ve always been so good to me.”

It helps, hearing that. Stan resumes their embrace, hands coming to protectively span sharp vertebrae and shoulder blades. “That’s all I’ve ever wanted to be.”

“I know.

There’s a fifty fifty chance Kyle will fall asleep like this, which would be fine by Stan. He feels calmer this way, with Kyle tucked into him and held secure. He’s still crying, but it’s more of a silent cry, dripping slowly down his cheeks, tears leaving damp trails in their wakes. Stan drifting off is a possibility too, cried out as he is, but the part of him that fancies himself a romantic would see him staying awake, to guard against pain and fear and nightmares and bad memories. Logically, that’s ridiculous. He can’t keep Kyle’s trauma away; it’s already in there.

Doesn’t mean he won’t keep watch.

Chapter Text

 They’re both doing a little better. A mostly unbroken night helped Stan’s nerves, and Kyle’s a lot more alert, even if the hollowness of his face speaks of the exhaustion that can’t be cured by a good night’s sleep. He’s finally over the cold that had hit him with the weather turning, but still weak.

With him on the mend, Stan’s next priority is getting Kyle to eat better. Healing takes a lot of energy, and literally everyone in their lives has been concerned about Kyle’s low weight for years, and now that they’re together without having to hide, Stan knows he’s been vocal about how vehemently he considers it his personal mission to get his boyfriend healthy. Ky can tell him it’s not his responsibility all he wants; that’s one of the few things Stanley Marsh doesn’t defer to Kyle on.

He’s no Chef, but Stan’s pretty good when it comes to simple meals. Feeding a bunkhouse full of ranch hands isn’t exactly rocket science, and none of them have ever been particularly picky, so it’s not like his standards have ever had to be super high, but he’s been putting a lot more thought into the cooking he does for himself and Kyle the past month or so.

Meals tend to be quick, for one, since neither of them has much energy to spare a lot of the time, and Stan’s anxiety spikes when he isn’t giving Kyle a hundred percent of his attention, anyway. Quick, nutrient dense, and minimal ingredients . The simpler the food, the less likely it is that Kyle’s mind will deem it unsafe. And, since he’s been sick anyway, they really need to play it safe.

Stan washes off a few decent sized potatoes, thoroughly, because he’s leaving the skin on. Poke some holes with a fork, and into the microwave for six minutes. When they’re done, mash ‘em up roughly, add some seasoning, and he calls it good. This has been the go-to, when his partner has more of an appetite. Otherwise, Kyle can nibble on some oyster crackers throughout the day without much of a problem.

“Hey, dude,” Stan greets softly. He figures he’s going to get an earful for being ‘too gentle’ eventually. Kyle’s still engrossed in the book of Greek myths he’s read a thousand times, still kind of glassy eyed but holding focus better than he has been. “Let’s try to eat something real quick.”

Kyle sighs dramatically as he sets the book to the side, taking the bowl handed to him. He isn’t even hungry. Not that he bothers to say this, because, one: Stan already knows, and two: because Stan would give him the sad puppy eyes and then he’d feel guilty for worrying him on top of being dully nauseous.

Eating is such a chore .

He manages a neutral expression, though, settling against the warm stretch of Stan’s side, looking up at his soft, dimpled smile as his lover’s strong arm wraps securely around him. Kyle reaches to ghost a hand along his jaw, never mind the way the bruises still decorating his rib cage pull with the movement.

“You’re getting scruffy,” he points out.

Stan’s chest vibrates with his chuckle. “Think I should just go ahead and grow a beard?”

They both know he won’t; Stan has tried before and found anything beyond a few days growth to be a sensory nightmare. “Yeah,” Kyle says with mock seriousness. “A super big, long one. Braid it and shit. Like a fantasy character.”

“Hmm, ya think?” Stan kisses the top of his head and pointedly pokes his fork through the bowl of potatoes, where it sits in Kyle’s lap. He obviously isn’t falling for any distraction tactics.

Kyle takes a deep breath to steady his nerves, and follows suit.

The smell alone has done something to awaken his appetite, thankfully, and, reassured by Stan’s satisfied hum when he swallows his first bite, Kyle lets that spur him into scooping up a clump of steaming potato. Stan squeezes him lightly in encouragement.

Sometimes, Kyle’s brain really pisses him off about this shit. It’s just eating. Just a normal human thing that everyone does. It’s no big deal to strong, steady, healthy Stan, but it’s a fucking battlefield to him.

It’s pretty good. Inoffensive, gets the job done, mild enough to be easy on the stomach, a good variety of textures with the tender chunks  and starchy mash and chewy skin. That’s something that helps: staying present in the moment and noting the experience of eating. Helps keep his mind off of the things he’s come to associate with food and drink. Eating does not equal being sick. Ingesting something does not equal poison.

Stan is a good example. A big man with a big appetite. “We should work on getting some more protein and fats in your diet,” he muses. 

Kyle just hums in passive agreement.

They eat in relative silence, Kyle pushing himself to test his capacity just a little bit before considering this particular meal a battle won. Stan visibly relaxes at this as he finishes off the plate, but blessedly doesn’t patronize him by going “good job” or whatever. He knows better by now. Well trained. Kyle snorts, bracing his ribs from the quick laugh.

Stan sets the bowl on the coffee table and adjusts their position so they’re cuddling a little closer. “What’s funny?”

“Just thinkin’ about you,” Kyle tells him coyly. He rests a hand on his stomach, the little bulge that stands out prominently when he eats because of how lean the rest of him is. It’s not necessarily uncomfortable, but he’s undeniably full, getting sleepy from it.

“Thanks for cooking, dude.”

Stan laughs. “Dunno if I’d call that “cooking”. I just heated up a couple potatoes.”

“Which are gastrointestinally toxic raw,” Kyle points out without thinking. “So basically, you stopped us from being poisoned.”

“…baby.”

Kyle messes with the edge of the blanket he’s under, guilty. “I know, I know,”

“Why do you even know that?” Stan groans.

“Just do, I guess.” Kyle turns his face into Stan’s chest, because now he’s all worried and Stan is comforted by touch and maybe nuzzling into him will calm that worried protective urge that makes him restless. “‘M sorry.”

Stan gently rubs his back, soothing the aging bruises there with his large, calloused hand, warm even through the sweater Kyle wears. “You feeling okay, Ky?”

“Tired, still,” he admits. “Not stuffy anymore, though. My head doesn’t feel as… cottony.”

“That’s good, baby,” Stan says, and he looks genuinely glad to hear it. “You had me really scared for a while there.”

He knows. It’s like Stan’s living in a constant state of worry, especially over him, and nothing Kyle can do or say can change that, reassure him. It’s heartbreaking, honestly. Because to look at him, Stan is every bit the confident, secure, strong and unbreakable leader he aspires to be. The kind of man strangers look at and assume that nothing shakes this wall of strength, this giant. But strangers don’t know how heavy his heart weighs him down. His fear. His insecurities. The voice that tells him he can never do enough for the people he loves.

Kyle balls his fist in the front of Stan’s tee shirt; faded white and worn in, comfortable, like the man wearing it. “My poor Stan,” he whispers. “It’s okay. You know I’ll never stop fighting, yeah?”

“Yeah.”

Stomach full and warm in his partner’s arms, Kyle dozes off like that. He isn’t sure how long, but they’re still in the same position when he lets reality draw him back.

“Hey,” Stan greets, squeezing him lightly. “You dream?”

Kyle shakes his head. No dreams, but he’s left with that uneasy feeling you get after a hazy nap. Everything hurts, too.

“God, I feel like all I do these days is sleep,” he complains.

Stan frowns down at him. “Dude, don’t be so hard on yourself. Healing is exhausting . And you kinda have a lot to heal from, ya know?”

Kyle’s very bones throb in agreement. “Don’t remind me,” he mutters, scrubbing a hand over his face. “We’ve all been through a lot, Stanley. It’s not just me.”

Kyle’s mind goes automatically to Kenny when he says that, and by the look on his face, Stan’s does too.

“You gonna go do your rounds?” He asks.

Stan nods, and his leg starts bouncing. “I’m sure everyone’s fine, but just- Ken . I hate that one of my guys got hurt like that.”

He understands. Stan has always been very protective of the crew, and when they were waiting for Kenny to wake up after his head injury, he’d been extremely worried about his newest ranch hand. The spunky blond had recovered remarkably well for someone with a TBI, but that didn’t stop Stan from dutifully keeping an eye on him. All the men, really, making sure that everyone was settling into life without the curse of South Creek Haven.

He’s sort of been tunnel vision on Kyle for the past week, though.

“Go,” Kyle urges, nudging him and hiding a wince when his sore joints protest. “I’d go with you, but I should probably stay on the safe side, right?”

Stan murmurs in agreement, dropping a kiss to his forehead and lingering too long, like he doesn’t trust that that fever’s really gone. “Too cold out there for you, baby. Want you to stay in here with Sansa and the heater.”

At some point he’s going to go stir crazy, bored, but for now he’s still in too much pain to worry all that much about being a shut in. He’ll go back to hanging with their friends when he’s a little stronger.

“Tell the guys I said hi.” Kyle watches Stan hop up from the couch and stretch, making a noise like a bear. He moves so easily, the broad muscles of his back and shoulders pulling the fabric of his shirt, broken in jeans moving with him like a second skin.

He’s mesmerizing, honestly, or maybe that’s Kyle’s jealousy talking, envying someone who can move without pain. He misses his teenage naivety, almost. Back then, he would have just been jealous from an aesthetic standpoint, perpetually insecure and comparing his own small stature to that of more quintessentially masculine guys. Now, he finds himself longing for health above anything.

Stan’s long legs carry him effortlessly around the apartment as he bundles up against the elements. There’s no indication of exhaustion from the act of pulling on a hoodie. Blue eyes don’t squeeze shut in dizziness from bending down to tie his work boots. The thick brown jacket he always wears during the colder months doesn’t even seem to weigh him down like it would Kyle.

“I won’t be long,” Stan promises, coming over to kiss him again.

Kyle kisses back, smiling through it in spite of himself. There’s nothing productive in jealousy, but he can try and turn it into motivation to work on getting better.

“You should see about work, while you’re out,” Kyle suggests. Stan needs routine to really be okay, and Kyle’s worried about his partner’s mental health as is.

Stan nods. “I’ll ask if Jimbo and Ned could use some part time help at the store.” He turns and flashes Kyle a boyish wink, hand on the doorknob. “Hold down the fort?”

“It’ll be here when you get back,” Kyle confirms, and his heart thrums at the fondness in Stan’s eyes. He just loves him. So much.

With their dog still snoozing on the rug, Kyle momentarily debates going back to his book, but decides against it for now. He’s stiff, needs to move around a little, and he’d rather take advantage and do it now, out from under Stan’s worried gaze.

There’s only so much he can do to hide the extent of his pain from Stan. He knows Kyle hurts, obviously, but he doesn’t know the deep ache in his bones, in his joints where there isn’t enough cushion. That pain isn’t exactly a new one, not like the cracked bones and bruises from being beat up. It’s the kind of pain that creeps in over the years and gets exacerbated by the body not getting enough nourishment.

Kyle knew being skinny was cold. But what no one talks about is how much it hurts .

Despite being small his whole life, there’s a difference, Kyle’s come to realize, between his body’s set point, healthier thin, and too thin. Even before the poisoning making everything worse, he’d teetered that line for years, probably since the first semester of college, when he was no longer under the constant watch and generous kitchen of his mother for the first time. He’d always had a stubborn streak, anyway, and had relished in the young adult freedom of eating what and when he felt like. In hindsight, the sporadic two in the morning study session fast food pizzas replacing actual nutritiously balanced meals three times a day didn’t really help him keep up the healthy habits he’d had drilled into him as a kid, so, yeah. His body doesn’t know what the fuck is going on, and he’d kind of accepted that he’d dip into a lower weight when he got sick or stressed or busy for the rest of his life. But this ? Pretty much since signing himself away by marrying his late abuser, Kyle had been on the emaciated side, and stayed there.

Now, he’s spent so much time in a body in survival mode, he isn’t sure he’s even capable of living in a healthy one.

With a sigh and a mental slap on the wrist for lamenting disenchanted about the flesh prison he lives in again, Kyle pushes himself slowly up from the couch.

He grits his teeth against the nausea that rises; thankfully, moving slowly tends to keep the vertigo from hitting too severely. Shaky muscles keep him standing with some concentration, one hand on the armrest for balance and Sansa at his feet, waking up to keep a careful eye out.

Kyle knows it isn’t the best idea to shower while he’s home alone. It’s risky, for plenty of reasons. He has to mind his blood pressure in the hot water, for one, because God knows passing out would land him right back at the clinic with a collection of fall injuries to add to the list. Probably more fractures that would heal agonizingly slowly, with his luck (and osteoporosis; who knew years of habitual undereating and being regularly dosed with mercury was bad for your bone density?). But, there’s a stool in the shower that’s been a massive help so far, and he has his bathing routine down to an only minimally tiring science, so he figures he can handle things even without the added security of Stan’s ever protective sentry respectfully waiting on the other side of the curtain.

The carpet whispers beneath his socked feet as he pads his way around the bedroom, going slow, as ever. He pulls a pair of sweatpants from the drawer, knowing he’ll be sick of looking at his knobby knees and bony legs once he’s done showering. They keep the apartment warm for his sake, but he’s always still a little cold until he dries off. A thick plaid flannel of Stan’s, he decides, will be plenty cozy as lounging around clothes despite being comically large on him. Plus, it’s been easier to wrap a shirt around himself than to pull one over his head, he’s found.

Kyle pushes the shower curtain aside to turn on the water to heat up while he sheds his clothes, hoping that the warmth will do something for the pain. For the thousandth time, he curses his irrational fear of painkillers. Undressing is hard enough mentally, forget the physical toll it takes. He kicks off his socks and braces his hands on the counter, looking up to glower at his stark naked reflection.

Fuck, it’s not getting any easier. The mirror only shows him from about the waist up, but that’s more than enough.

Maybe if he builds some muscle up, he could be considered wiry, but for now he’s really and truly borderline skeletal. A concave chest, showing clear imprints of his sternum and ribs. His waist doesn’t have an inch of padding to grab, and his hipbones could cut glass. And he doesn’t have to see his lower half to know that the entirety of his pelvic and tailbone are visible, glutes hollow on the sides. There’s enough to his limbs and torso that he’s not actively shriveled up , but he’s little more than wasted muscle, cracked bones, and bruised skin. Doesn’t help that the cold he just had stole a lot of the minimal weight he’d been working to put on.

He feels so ugly , like this, which is stupid, because beauty’s only skin deep, is what his ma always said, and it’s vain to be so hung up on his appearance anyway. It’s what’s on the inside that counts, right? Well, Kyle’s just as beat up on the inside too, there’s organ damage, and, hey, skin is also an organ. The largest one, in fact.

Kyle lets out a shaky breath, hearing Sansa settle down against the other side of the door with a huff, like she’s telling him to get on with it. He looks away from his grotesque reflection, draws back the curtain again, and thrusts a hand into the stream, checking the temperature. Warm, but not so much as to shock him and trigger hypotension. Slowly, and a little wobbly, he plants himself onto the shower chair with his back to the spray.

He’s going to have to try harder, Kyle decides, to try more actively to gain. He wants to be able to lie down without the mattress bruising his spine. He wants to be able to move without every joint screaming at him, once his injuries finish healing, at least. And he wants those to be able to heal faster, enough energy in his body’s stores to assign to that task. Hell, maybe he’ll get healthy enough to where his hair grows out again.

Though, a positive to the unfortunate buzz cut is that it cuts down on shower time, and Kyle’s done washing himself before black spots start appearing in his line of sight.

He shuts off the water and stiffens against the chill that immediately starts to creep in. The bathroom’s still steamy as he hastily tucks a towel around himself, but his teeth chatter anyway. Kyle doesn’t trust his balance getting dressed, but he manages it pretty damn well half sitting on the toilet seat. He starts to warm up in Stan’s shirt that smells like Stan , and that helps steady him the rest of the way. 

Everything still hurts , though. Like his skin is pulling too tight over every contusion and slipped rib, like there’s a pressure over every part of him. He raises his eyes to the medicine cabinet.

Just good old ibuprofen. No big deal, nothing extreme. He’d seen Stan take some for a (definitely worry induced) headache just that morning, and he was fine. Nothing bad happened. Kyle had been too delirious and strung out on fever dreams to willingly take any when he was sick, but maybe now, relatively sound of mind, he could handle a little something to get his fractured bones to announce their presence less obnoxiously with every breath.

It would be progress, too, wouldn’t it. Wendy would be encouraged. Stan would be so overjoyed at this one small win that he’d swoop Kyle up joyfully into his arms and shower him with praise. And Kyle could call it a step in the right direction, a giant “fuck you” to the fears the Spider gave him.

Emboldened, he pops the pill bottle open and shakes out one tablet, then washes it down with a gulp of cold water from the sink before he can overthink it. He feels the water flow down his esophagus and cool his stomach, and it feels like victory. A small one, but a victory nonetheless. And maybe it’s a fluke, maybe he won’t be able to do that again for a while, but maybe Kyle has thicker skin than he gives himself credit for.