Chapter Text
College was relatively calm.
Kyle had a routine. Each morning, she'd wake up at 7:45 to start her day. Creep past her roommate that was most likely hungover from the night before, brush teeth, style hair, wear some clothes that are at least a little trendy right now, grab that big ass tote bag that held most of her morning classes's supplies, and head out to grab a drink from the on-campus coffee shop. Greet the cashier, order, sit down. She always got a cold brew, accompanied by whatever pastry was cheapest for the day if she was hungry and her body allowed. Always drank her coffee at the shop, and spent around an hour using that time to be on her computer and fully wake up.
She would set up at her usual spot, right in the back of the café, with only one seat and a bunch of plants near. It wasn't really her spot, but she came here so often that it might as well have been. She walked over to that perfect, secluded spot and saw somebody sitting there. A woman, most likely around her age… looking absolutely exhausted.
She was probably shorter than Kyle, but it was kinda hard to tell since she's fucking slumped over the table. Bronze skin and (just a bit hairy and… visibly strong) arms were bent in a way which was probably supposed to support her head.
They're not.
Her blonde hair is frazzled, with her black roots also being present. She needs a touch up immediately, but Kyle wouldn't say that out loud. Not now, at least. Over the phone to a friend, possibly. The girl has a cup of coffee near her figure, half empty and a little puddle of condensation near the base. Her outfit reflected her current state pretty well: a black spaghetti strap top with gray sweatpants, and a cotton (presumably) varsity jacket wrapped around her waist.
Flattering.
Cautiously, she approached the lady from behind and tapped her shoulder. Obviously, it wasn't a good or necessary idea to try and get her out of her spot, but it was Kyle's. It was the spot she sat in every day, and she was pretty determined to get it back. Kind of a dick move to move somebody out of a place that isn't technically yours, but… enough with the technicalities.
The girl shifts, once, twice, three times before sitting up, groaning. She rubs at her eyes (which are a nice, deep shade of blue, Kyle notices), and stares up at the redhead with an unreadable look.
She has a few piercings, too. The ones on her ears are fairly pretty.
She also has a giant red circular mark on her forehead. Kyle would've laughed if she wasn't trying to get her seat back.
Kyle also decides that she doesn't like her.
“Excuse me,” she starts, shifting nervously, or cautiously, or whatever the fuck. Her hands busy themselves with the straps of the tote bag. “This is, um. My seat.”
The girl glances between Kyle and the table, the unreadable expression still on her face. Then, she speaks.
“Oh, shit.”
Her voice is… smooth, for someone who just woke up. The girl groggily gets out of the seat, not even taking a moment to think or process what's going on. “Ah… my bad. Just passed out at the nearest table. Sorry,” she grabs her half-empty cup and rolls her shoulders. “See ya.” she salutes at Kyle and exits so casually, her face still clearly sleep filled. Kyle has the urge to fight back a scoff that's bubbling in her throat. She doesn't even know why.
She clears her throat and sits down at the table, the seat now uncomfortably warm. Right as she's pulling out her computer, she notices…
A wallet.
Navy blue with a sticker of a dog and a paw print. Huh. A little childish, but cute. She moves to pick it up, opening it to inspect its contents. Some cash and coins, barely any debit cards, an ID ‘volunteer’ card for the local shelter, Paws and Kisses, and a driver's license.
‘Stanley Randall Marsh’. …
Weird ass name for a girl, Kyle hums. Then, she pauses. They both have guy names, you dumbass. (In her defense, hers is a nickname she picked at the ripe age of 8, when she– and most girls– decided that being feminine was lame. It just so happened to stick.) The picture of the girl– Stanley– looks pretty dorky, but in an oddly endearing way.
5”9 (Kyle had almost 6 inches on her), 187 pounds, 22 years old. Born October 19. They were the same age.
Wait.
Did that girl just forget her fucking wallet?
The good thing to do here is to return it. The bad thing to do here is drop it on the floor and pretend she didn't notice it. It could teach a valuable lesson. Maybe someone else less petty than she is might pick it up and return it.
…Ah, fuck it.
Haphazardly stuffing her computer back into her tote bag and completely forgetting about her cold-brew, she jumps up and rushes out of the shop, her head on a swivel. She searches, trying to find that poorly executed bleach job or that varsity jacket in the thin crowd of people up at this time. She then finally spots her, idly swaying in front of a vending machine. Kyle jogs over as casually as she can, catching the exact moment the blonde realizes she doesn't have her wallet anymore.
Stan turns and is about to dash back towards the shop when she crashes into Kyle, who was right next to her. She groans and puts a hand on her head, rubbing it from the collision. “Fucking hell, I'm sorry, shit. I-I was just trying to go somewhere, and–”
Kyle frowns. She doesn't need an explanation, she just needs to get out of here. Judging off the fact she immediately chose to ramble, she seems like someone who likes to socialize. Kyle used to be like that, but definitely not anymore.
“I found this in– where you left it,” She shoves the wallet into Stan's arms, trying her best to get the fuck out of there before something else happens.
But, lo and behold, something has to happen because the universe must hate Kyl(i)e fucking Broflovski.
“Hey, wait,” Stan calls out right as Kyle is about to absolutely book it out of there, her hands barely grazing over her wrist. “Thank you! Um… can I repay you? I can- I can get you something from here.” She offers, tilting her head very slightly. Her words are awkward, uncoordinated.
Goddamnit.
Kyle sighs, heavily, and reluctantly steps close to Stan. She doesn't bother with eye contact.
I mean, Kyle thinks, It's rude to deny an offer like this. And who wouldn't want a free snack?
“Thanks for, um. Getting my wallet.” Stan murmurs again, attempting to stifle a yawn. She rubs her eyes, and clicks out a number on the machine. “So…” She draws out the word, her fat, glossy lips forming an ‘o’ as she's about to say something else, and…
Wait. What the fuck? Who describes someone's lips as fat? That's not the right adjective. Maybe something like ‘plump’ or ‘thick' or literally anything else. There's a lot more appropriate words to use, and–
“–ey? S'cuse me?” Stan gently elbows her, trying to grab the taller's attention. Her eyes are waiting, expecting.
“Wait, what? Fuck, sorry, repeat that?” Kyle cringes at her own tone and how sloppy that string of words was. Apparently, Stanley didn't care. Or notice, more accurately.
“I was wondering what you wanted,” she says, already having a 5 dollar bill in her hand. Kyle's eyes flicker from the bill to the person holding it. She sighs to herself and then taps the glass screen of the machine absent-mindedly.
“I want the… cheese crackers.” she murmurs, hand subconsciously trailing to the particular snack. She taps the glass again with her nail, almost like a damn kid watching fish in an aquarium or some shit. Stanley(?) nods. She feeds the bill into its respective slot, typing in a few numbers until the snack that was requested fell.
“There you go. I know it's not much of a ‘thank you’, but this was the quickest thing I–...” Oh. Stan looked around.
Kyle had fucking darted, little pack of snacks in her palm. Lord, that was a much more embarrassing situation than it needed to be. Why was that so unnecessarily awkward?
Stan looked after her for a moment before directing her gaze down at her wallet. ‘Weird,’ she hummed to herself before pocketing it and glancing up at the machine. She couldn't help but wonder if she'd see her again.