Night Vale Fic: Everything That Happened
Title: Everything That Happened OR Innocence and Skepticism
Fandom: Welcome to Night Vale
Pairing: Carlos/Cecil
Author: Kagedtiger
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: Night Vale belongs to Commonplace Books
Warnings/Spoilers: Huge spoilers for episode 25, "One Year Later"
Series: None; a detailed re-telling of episode 25
Summary: Carlos doesn't understand what it is that Cecil wants from him, really.
Notes: Inspired in part by Carlos's speech from 25, which seemed incongruous to me given that he says the exact opposite of what just happened to him (something he thought was innocent turned out to be hostile), as well as all the awesome fanart and head-canons about Cecil's third eye.
Science is about skepticism, and Carlos is nothing if not a man of Science. Skepticism in Night Vale is, however... problematic. On the one hand, there’s no shortage of things for which ‘unbelievable’ is, frankly, an understatement. On the other hand though, well, those things ARE everywhere in Night Vale. And if you don’t get used to them quickly, start taking them for granted, even, then you’re not likely to have much of a lifespan in this town.
“I can’t believe you’re staying!” Janet grouses at him as she packs away her lab equipment. “After what happened to Marcus! He’s dead, Carlos, doesn’t that bother you? This place isn’t safe! If we don’t leave now, any of us could be next!”
But Carlos doesn’t listen. He stays. Because there are so many strange things here, and someone has to get to the bottom of them! No one in Night Vale acts like any of it is a big deal, so it will need someone with an outside perspective, someone who hasn’t been brainwashed by this town, to figure it all out. And if that someone has to be Carlos, then so be it.
Cecil’s affections probably aren’t in the list of top ten threats to his life, but Carlos can never be sure in Night Vale. He doesn’t know much about Cecil, other than the fact that the radio host is dangerously obsessed with him. Carlos had tried to make friendly overtures at first; Cecil is not only a good source of information, but his radio show is probably the best way to disseminate information throughout Night Vale. Everyone listens to Cecil.
But Cecil apparently will NOT get it into his head that Carlos is only here for the science. Carlos had tried to tell him about the clocks, to show him the problems with time in Night Vale, but Cecil isn’t interested in listening to his theories. Or, rather, he’s too interested, but not in the theories and that’s the problem.
Carlos isn’t sure what Cecil’s angle is. His attention is too severe for mere affection. Carlos suspects that Cecil might be somehow associated with the Sheriff’s Secret Police, a mouthpiece for their propaganda, and that maybe they’ve assigned him to investigate Carlos, since Carlos is still, nearly a year after arriving in Night Vale, an outsider.
At any rate, he’s in one such skeptical state of mind when his phone buzzes, screen flashing, at the side of his desk.
Carlos puts down the grainy photograph from the bowling alley’s security footage and checks the phone’s screen. Cecil calling. He looks back down at the photo. He needs to look into this bowling alley thing; it seems absolutely ridiculous, as most things in Night Vale do at first - it’s far too blurry to even begin to call the grey smudge a person, or figure. But the city is definitely real; Carlos has seen it himself. This matter certainly demands his attention more than a radio host with unknown, possibly sinister motivations.
Carlos sighs and picks up the phone anyway, bringing it to his ear. “Hello?”
“Carlo~s,” comes the chiming voice, laden with overly-sincere affection. “How are you?”
“I’m fine,” Carlos says, voice neutral. He feels himself relaxing, though, and once again he wonders about that. It seems like some strange power Cecil has, to throw him off his guard. Though he knows, academically, that Cecil’s true motives are mysterious and that he needs to be wary, as soon as he starts talking to Cecil it always seems different. Less obvious. Cecil’s gushings just seem so - sincere, he supposes. Though embarrassing, Cecil’s obvious excitement and fluttery nerves at talking to Carlos are somehow endearing, and it’s hard to remember that he has to be cautious. That anything and everything in Night Vale could be (and usually is) a threat.
“Is this important?” Carlos asks.
The tone of Cecil’s enthusiasm is momentarily dampened, but it recovers quickly as he speaks. “No, not important. Well, yes, I mean, yes it’s important but it’s not urgent or anything. Um. I just, I wanted to have a little ceremony, to celebrate. Um. Here at the station. I mean, celebrate you, your being here for a year and all. It’s your Night Vale anniversary this Friday, and I just thought maybe you’d like to come and celebrate. With me.”
Carlos scowls, mostly at himself, because his first instinct is to accept. But if ever Cecil were planning to spring a trap on Carlos, this would be exactly the way to go about it. Down at the station, Cecil’s own turf, with no witnesses? If there were ever a time and place for the Secret Police to make a grab at him, that would be the ideal. And besides which, even if he did want to go, he has other, more pressing matters to attend to. Best not to let them know, though, that he’s on to them.
“Hmm,” says Carlos noncommittally. “Well, I have some investigations I have to do at the bowling alley” - idiot, don’t tell them where you’re going to be! - “so I’m not sure if I’ll have time. If I can swing by though, I’ll try and make it. We’ll see.”
“Oh.” Carlos can tell that Cecil is trying hard not to sound disappointed or upset, and he feels a pang of guilt. “That’s... okay. Um. See you, then.” Cecil hangs up.
Carlos doesn’t know why the radio host, normally so suave and in command of his language skills, always gets so flustered talking to him. Just another oddity, he supposes. He looks down at the bowling alley photo once more. This is going to need more research.
******
Cecil sighs as he hangs up. He really does get tongue-tied around Carlos, but it’s difficult not to. Even just hearing that beloved voice is enough to send shivers racing up and down his spine. But! He’d gotten a maybe - which is basically as good as a yes!
Carlos will be at the ceremony for sure. He has to be! And Cecil will be ready, and everything will be perfect, and Carlos will see that Cecil is actually a great, caring guy, and he’ll fall head-over-horns- but, Cecil is getting ahead of himself. It’s just a little party, just a little intimate party for two. It will be perfect. Cecil will make sure of that.
He arranges for catering from Sally’s, the best amphibian deli in all of Night Vale, nothing super fancy, just some sandwiches and non-alcoholic beverages. He orders enough so that everyone at the station can have some, interns included, and puts it on the station’s tab as a work-related celebration of something important and not-to-be-mentioned. They’ll think he means the dog park opening, if anyone even bothers to check, and be pleased that he chose not to mention it by name. And the lie-sniffing bats won’t get a reading off the form, because it’s technically true that Cecil is having an important anniversary celebration at the station. Cecil is used to navigating this sort of bureaucracy.
He also stops and has a trophy made. It’s just a small thing - if Carlos is too embarrassed, he can play it off as a joke. It’s one of those kitschy sorts of things, just borderline between a funny joke between friends and heartbreakingly sincere. Cecil has it engraved to say ‘#1 in our hearts,’ partially because it’s true and partially because it’s one of five stock engraving options, and ‘Congratulations on your male and/or female spawn’ seems less appropriate. He almost goes with ‘Congratulations on your survival,’ a classic, but he figures that everyone has one of those at home, and he doesn’t want to be redundant.
When he puts the finished trophy in the backseat of his car along with the order receipt from Sally’s, his emotions vacillate madly back and forth between an ecstatic, excited, ‘He’ll love it!’ and the creeping dread of ‘He’ll think it’s stupid.’ He doesn’t really know Carlos that well yet, much as he’d like to. He has a hard time predicting how the beautiful scientist will react, and how much of that prediction might be wishful thinking on Cecil’s part.
Cecil hums the weather to himself as he closes the car door. It will be perfect. It will be.
******
By Friday morning, Carlos has entirely forgotten about the ceremony. He’s been studying the footage from the Desert Flower Bowling Alley and Arcade Fun Complex security cameras, as well as the photos he took himself of the distant city, and now, finally, he’s had his Eureka moment. And not a moment too soon, it looks like - word is that the portents from the alley have been getting serious. He throws on his outdoor lab coat and heads to the lanes - he has a hypothesis, and now it’s time to prove it.
******
It had taken Cecil quite a while to get used to the Eye, but today he’s grateful for it. The Eye is mandatory for the current radio news host, and Cecil had gotten his surgically installed and incanted the day he’d had his first broadcast. It had been near madness, the distraction of it - one moment he’d be speaking and the next the faint vertical scar on his forehead would open and he’d be seeing something else, as though transported to an entirely new location - and be expected to keep narrating the report as it came in! The split of focus, seeing one thing while still being aware of your own physical presence elsewhere, was tough - had, in fact, driven other candidates into dribbling nervous breakdowns and frantic murmurings about an evil, seeping light crawling around the edge of reality in the cracks between spaces.
(Cecil had seen that light sometimes as the eye opened and didn’t really see what the big deal was. It was soft, pinkish-white, and only slightly more menacing than the average Night Vale street lamp, which was far more likely to kill a careless pedestrian than some nether-light from the space beyond reality that most people never even saw.)
Today, Cecil is grateful for the Eye because it lets him watch the most important news events as they’re happening, and today’s most important news event is Carlos. Okay, so Cecil is a little disappointed that Carlos didn’t come straight to the radio station for his party, but clearly Carlos is doing important, brave things for the town! And anyway, Cecil is not upset. Carlos will be here when he can. Right now, he’s just a little busy.
******
Carlos stands next to the tiny city triumphantly. Everything he had guessed is true! The city is not an enormous, distant metropolis of sinister intent, but a tiny, miniscule city with equally miniscule inhabitants. It seems so silly now, the fear of the place that everyone had had. He’s finally starting to get the hang of Night Vale, he thinks. He knows a threat when he sees it, and something told him that this wasn’t nearly the threat everyone claimed it to be with increasing hysteria.
Suddenly, Carlos feels a sharp pinch in his big toe and looks down to see a tiny man standing by his foot, his tiny hand gripping the handle of a tiny, tiny knife. The knife has gone through the side of his sneaker and is embedded in the flesh of his big toe. It feels like the needle bite of a hypodermic. Carlos turns around to face the city, only to see the barrels of hundreds of tiny guns and cannons peeking from its windows. A shout comes up from the city, thousands of miniature voices raised in a war cry.
Carlos has a sudden, dreadful sinking sensation.
******
Cecil is just finishing up another public service announcement about the non-existence of angels when he feels the Eye begin to open with blinding speed. Cecil clutches the edge of the desk frantically. It only happens this fast when it’s something really important. He starts narrating almost automatically, before he’s even taken any of it in, as the scene swims into focus in front of him.
Carlos, falling. Carlos, covered in blood. So much blood, covering his face and torso. Carlos, collapsed on the ground, still.
Cecil feels his own breath coming in short, panicked pants as he searches desperately for any sign of breath in Carlos’s body, even as he barely registers his own mouth, still speaking, his own words, still describing the situation. But he can’t see it, can’t see from his vantage, and the vision of the bowling alley and the city and the crowd of people and poor, poor Carlos is starting to go fuzzy, blurred and dim, and suddenly he realizes it’s because he’s crying: the Eye is blurred with his own tears. He didn’t even know the Eye could cry.
He can feel the sobs, the panic standing around his heart like a circle of dark and menacing figures, waiting for him to give in, waiting to leap and pounce on his weakness. He tries to maintain his discipline as a journalist, tries to keep going.
“Let us take a moment to-” he tries to start, then falters. No, he’s a professional. He can do this. “Let us take... this moment-” Can’t start it this way. Don’t think about time. Don’t think about the fact that it’s Carlos, who was always suspicious of time in Night Vale. Don’t think about Carlos. Don’t think about- “Ladies and gentlemen, let us mourn the pass-” He can’t. He can’t do this. He’s going to break, he can feel it.
Cecil fumbles hastily for a pre-recorded PSA; he still can’t see. The Eye is still open, but everything in his vision is a white fog, blurred by terror and despair. For the first time Cecil understands the fear of the white light, the fear that he’ll be lost in it, unable to close the Eye, unable to return to his body and trapped forever with his awareness partially lost, adrift on the edges of unreality. He finds the dials on the console by feel, switching over to the PSA playlist, slamming the play button with his palm as quickly as he can before losing it.
His grip on his own reality, on himself slips slightly as he lets out a pure, sonorous wail that shakes the very walls of the studio. He can hear the glass of the booth shatter and crack, but he can’t see it, can’t see anything, can only see the roiling white mist, tinged with the red of Carlos’s spilling, spreading blood.
******
Carlos isn’t sure where he is. There’s a white light everywhere. He wonders if maybe he’s dead. He knows that people say there’s some sort of white light when you die. He looks around, wondering if maybe he should take notes, if there’s any way to still communicate with the living world.
But he isn’t alone, he realizes suddenly. A small noise makes him turn, and he sees Cecil, of all people, knees folded, collapsed on the ground. He’s crying. Sobbing, actually, full-body wracking shudders. He’s holding something, clutching it tightly to his chest, his body folded around it like he’s protecting something precious.
Carlos walks over to him - seeing no other points of reference in the stark white landscape, and kneels down next to him. He’s not sure what to do. He’s never been great at comforting anyone. He reaches a hand out tentatively for Cecil’s shoulder.
It passes right through him. Startled, Carlos tries again, but again he can make no contact. He must be dead after all, then. “Cecil!” he tries, wondering if Cecil can hear him.
Cecil doesn’t look up, but he does start muttering, a hiccuping mumble around his sobs that’s barely audible. Carlos leans in close to hear it.
“Carlos. Carlos, my poor, sweet Carlos. I’m so sorry. Carlos, please, I love you, please. Oh God. Oh God.”
Carlos sits back on his heels, staring at Cecil. He doesn’t know what to say, not that Cecil can hear him anyway. He feels guilty for ever thinking that Cecil’s feelings might not be in earnest. If he ever needed evidence of the depth of Cecil’s heart, here it is in front of him. He feels helpless and stupid. If he were still alive, he could do something about this. He could help, or... or something. Carlos’s shoulders slump. Looks like, in the end, he was useless after all.
He attempts a weak smile at the hunched, sobbing figure. “It’s okay,” he tries, knowing the futility of it. “Cecil, it’ll be okay...”
Cecil looks up, then, uncurling slightly. His eyes are unfocused, dim, not looking at Carlos. Not looking anywhere. A strange, third eye - vertically slit and blank, matte white - is open and staring in the center of his forehead, but it isn’t looking at Carlos either. All three eyes are crying, streaking tears down Cecil’s face.
Unnerved, Carlos looks away from that strange third eye. His gaze falls down into Cecil’s lap, to the strange object that Cecil is clutching. It’s... of all the strange things, it’s a little trophy. The kind of simple, cheap thing that you might buy for a child after a soccer tournament to make them feel better for coming in second. Curious, Carlos peers closer at it. It has some sort of inscription...
It’s his own name, and under it the words: ‘#1 in our hearts.’ It’s so silly, so childishly earnest and sincere that Carlos can’t help a startled laugh that breaks from his chest in a harsh bark. It’s so very... so very Cecil.
Cecil’s head turns towards him, expression calming, and the third eye flickers, the strange whiteness within it agitating like a candle flame in a wind. The entire scene - Cecil, the eye, the whiteness - begins to fade into a dark, inky black. But Carlos isn’t afraid.
The image of the trophy remains like a warm, fond little glow in the center of his chest.
******
His vision begins to clear. Cecil can see again, and the first thing he sees is the rise and fall of Carlos’s chest. The Apache Tracker, in his stupid, stupid headdress is there, dragging Carlos bodily away from the gunfire. The bowling alley crowd is cheering as the Tracker emerges from the cavern, laying down Carlos’s comatose - but ALIVE! Breathing! Alive! - body on the linoleum floor beside the pin retrieval.
Cecil’s breath comes back to him in shaky relief, and he pulls himself together long enough to continue his news narration. He feels like he’s been in a fight, like he just had a close encounter with a Librarian. His chest heaves and pants with the adrenaline now seeping from him, replaced by a giddy, silly joy. Carlos is alive. Carlos is alive, and alright, and will be fine. Everything will be fine.
Cecil wipes the remaining tears from his cheeks as he speaks. Carlos is alive.
******
When Carlos wakes up, there is still chaos in the bowling alley. Teddy Williams, the manager, is stooped over the downed form of the Apache Tracker, his strange, slightly feathered hands examining the bloody form.
Carlos’s first thought is of Cecil.
It’s stupid - there are definitely more important things for him to attend to. The town needs to be warned about the miniature city and its ill intentions. He should check to see if the Tracker is even alive, find out what happened. But he does none of these things. Instead he takes out his phone.
“Hi, you’ve reached Cecil’s voicemail!” says the cheerful voice on the other end. “I’m probably broadcasting right now, or am otherwise unavailable, but leave me your message and I’ll get right back to you as soon as I can! Ciao!”
“Cecil, I...” Carlos begins, and then realizes that actually he has no idea what he wants to say. He hadn’t really thought very far ahead at all, had called on instinct more than any conscious decision. He sits a moment, wasting time in silence on Cecil’s answering machine. Finally he hangs up, feeling silly. He stares at the phone’s screen for a long moment, his mind feeling sluggish and unresponsive. All he knows is that it’s important that he see Cecil; the image of Cecil crying, emotionally wrecked by the thought of Carlos’s death, is vivid in Carlos’s mind. Where is the image even from? Did he dream that? But he’s not dead. He’s not dead at all, and he needs to tell Cecil that.
Finally he sends a text. ‘Meet me at the Arby’s parking lot?’ it reads. Then, as an afterthought, he adds to the end of it, ‘It’s important.’ He hits send before he can think too hard about it.
******
Cecil tunes the Eye to reverse auto-broadcast as he leaves the studio. He knows he’s not supposed to use that feature for things like this. Personal things. The auto-broadcast is so that his narration, his voice, can still be broadcast for the listeners while he himself is actively involved in a news-worthy scenario or interview. A portable mic, of sorts, for his thoughts. But it was either this or continue his broadcast in the studio and stand Carlos up at the Arby’s.
And Carlos had said it was important. There’s no way Cecil’s not going.
The Eye opens, reading the images around him, translating them into words. Cecil tries to calm his thoughts, to ensure that the listeners will hear only the details he wants them to hear. He’s careful where he looks, careful how he thinks, even though he can feel his heart pulsing to the frantic beat of ‘Carlos, Carlos, Carlos.’ He takes deep breaths.
******
Carlos is sitting on the trunk of his car, waiting. The sun has just started to set - he’s not sure what time it is though, whether the sun is on time or off, or whether that even matters anymore.
Cecil looks nearly frantic when he arrives, although he also looks like he’s actively trying to suppress the franticness. The vertical third eye in his forehead is also open again - the one Carlos saw in his dream, or vision, or whatever it was. It’s not white though, like it was before. This time it’s like a mirror, reflecting everything with a solid, unflinching sheen.
“What is it?” Cecil asks, his voice only mostly devoid of panic. “What’s wrong? Is something wrong? Is there some- some science thing you need my help with?”
Carlos shakes his head, embarrassed. He’s appalled at himself that he ever suspected this man of any kind of ulterior motive. It seems so ridiculous now. And Cecil - despite his panicked demeanor - is still having the usual effect on him. Relaxing him, making him feel like - like himself. It’s not something Carlos is used to.
“No, I just... It’s nothing.” Carlos smiles, sheepish and self-deprecating. “After everything that happened, I just wanted to see you.”
“Oh?” Cecil squeaks. His face breaks into a smile of such bliss, such disbelieving joy, that Carlos is once again taken aback by his own cruelty in doubting Cecil’s sincerity. He can’t bring himself to meet Cecil’s eyes, particularly the strange, blank third eye that seems to be staring into his very soul. Instead, he looks towards the sunset.
“I used to think it was setting at the wrong time,” he says, gesturing at the sun. “But then I realized that time doesn’t work in Night Vale, and none of the clocks are real. You know, sometimes... sometimes, things seem so strange or malevolent, right? And then you find that, underneath, it was something else altogether. Something pure and innocent.” It’s not much by way of an apology, but Carlos isn’t 100% sure Cecil would even understand what he’s apologizing for anyway.
“I know what you mean.” Cecil comes to sit next to him on the car. And Carlos thinks that yeah, Cecil probably does know what he means. Cecil, after all, has lived in Night Vale his whole life. Presumably.
They sit quietly together. Carlos doesn’t ask about the eye. He feels like he’s found some kind of fundamental truth about Night Vale. Sometimes, it seems, you just have to accept the town at face value, and let it bring you whatever it means for you to have. Maybe it’s time he just stop questioning these things, and let them happen. He puts a tentative hand on Cecil’s knee, and Cecil rests his head on Carlos’s shoulder.
Fandom: Welcome to Night Vale
Pairing: Carlos/Cecil
Author: Kagedtiger
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: Night Vale belongs to Commonplace Books
Warnings/Spoilers: Huge spoilers for episode 25, "One Year Later"
Series: None; a detailed re-telling of episode 25
Summary: Carlos doesn't understand what it is that Cecil wants from him, really.
Notes: Inspired in part by Carlos's speech from 25, which seemed incongruous to me given that he says the exact opposite of what just happened to him (something he thought was innocent turned out to be hostile), as well as all the awesome fanart and head-canons about Cecil's third eye.
Science is about skepticism, and Carlos is nothing if not a man of Science. Skepticism in Night Vale is, however... problematic. On the one hand, there’s no shortage of things for which ‘unbelievable’ is, frankly, an understatement. On the other hand though, well, those things ARE everywhere in Night Vale. And if you don’t get used to them quickly, start taking them for granted, even, then you’re not likely to have much of a lifespan in this town.
“I can’t believe you’re staying!” Janet grouses at him as she packs away her lab equipment. “After what happened to Marcus! He’s dead, Carlos, doesn’t that bother you? This place isn’t safe! If we don’t leave now, any of us could be next!”
But Carlos doesn’t listen. He stays. Because there are so many strange things here, and someone has to get to the bottom of them! No one in Night Vale acts like any of it is a big deal, so it will need someone with an outside perspective, someone who hasn’t been brainwashed by this town, to figure it all out. And if that someone has to be Carlos, then so be it.
Cecil’s affections probably aren’t in the list of top ten threats to his life, but Carlos can never be sure in Night Vale. He doesn’t know much about Cecil, other than the fact that the radio host is dangerously obsessed with him. Carlos had tried to make friendly overtures at first; Cecil is not only a good source of information, but his radio show is probably the best way to disseminate information throughout Night Vale. Everyone listens to Cecil.
But Cecil apparently will NOT get it into his head that Carlos is only here for the science. Carlos had tried to tell him about the clocks, to show him the problems with time in Night Vale, but Cecil isn’t interested in listening to his theories. Or, rather, he’s too interested, but not in the theories and that’s the problem.
Carlos isn’t sure what Cecil’s angle is. His attention is too severe for mere affection. Carlos suspects that Cecil might be somehow associated with the Sheriff’s Secret Police, a mouthpiece for their propaganda, and that maybe they’ve assigned him to investigate Carlos, since Carlos is still, nearly a year after arriving in Night Vale, an outsider.
At any rate, he’s in one such skeptical state of mind when his phone buzzes, screen flashing, at the side of his desk.
Carlos puts down the grainy photograph from the bowling alley’s security footage and checks the phone’s screen. Cecil calling. He looks back down at the photo. He needs to look into this bowling alley thing; it seems absolutely ridiculous, as most things in Night Vale do at first - it’s far too blurry to even begin to call the grey smudge a person, or figure. But the city is definitely real; Carlos has seen it himself. This matter certainly demands his attention more than a radio host with unknown, possibly sinister motivations.
Carlos sighs and picks up the phone anyway, bringing it to his ear. “Hello?”
“Carlo~s,” comes the chiming voice, laden with overly-sincere affection. “How are you?”
“I’m fine,” Carlos says, voice neutral. He feels himself relaxing, though, and once again he wonders about that. It seems like some strange power Cecil has, to throw him off his guard. Though he knows, academically, that Cecil’s true motives are mysterious and that he needs to be wary, as soon as he starts talking to Cecil it always seems different. Less obvious. Cecil’s gushings just seem so - sincere, he supposes. Though embarrassing, Cecil’s obvious excitement and fluttery nerves at talking to Carlos are somehow endearing, and it’s hard to remember that he has to be cautious. That anything and everything in Night Vale could be (and usually is) a threat.
“Is this important?” Carlos asks.
The tone of Cecil’s enthusiasm is momentarily dampened, but it recovers quickly as he speaks. “No, not important. Well, yes, I mean, yes it’s important but it’s not urgent or anything. Um. I just, I wanted to have a little ceremony, to celebrate. Um. Here at the station. I mean, celebrate you, your being here for a year and all. It’s your Night Vale anniversary this Friday, and I just thought maybe you’d like to come and celebrate. With me.”
Carlos scowls, mostly at himself, because his first instinct is to accept. But if ever Cecil were planning to spring a trap on Carlos, this would be exactly the way to go about it. Down at the station, Cecil’s own turf, with no witnesses? If there were ever a time and place for the Secret Police to make a grab at him, that would be the ideal. And besides which, even if he did want to go, he has other, more pressing matters to attend to. Best not to let them know, though, that he’s on to them.
“Hmm,” says Carlos noncommittally. “Well, I have some investigations I have to do at the bowling alley” - idiot, don’t tell them where you’re going to be! - “so I’m not sure if I’ll have time. If I can swing by though, I’ll try and make it. We’ll see.”
“Oh.” Carlos can tell that Cecil is trying hard not to sound disappointed or upset, and he feels a pang of guilt. “That’s... okay. Um. See you, then.” Cecil hangs up.
Carlos doesn’t know why the radio host, normally so suave and in command of his language skills, always gets so flustered talking to him. Just another oddity, he supposes. He looks down at the bowling alley photo once more. This is going to need more research.
******
Cecil sighs as he hangs up. He really does get tongue-tied around Carlos, but it’s difficult not to. Even just hearing that beloved voice is enough to send shivers racing up and down his spine. But! He’d gotten a maybe - which is basically as good as a yes!
Carlos will be at the ceremony for sure. He has to be! And Cecil will be ready, and everything will be perfect, and Carlos will see that Cecil is actually a great, caring guy, and he’ll fall head-over-horns- but, Cecil is getting ahead of himself. It’s just a little party, just a little intimate party for two. It will be perfect. Cecil will make sure of that.
He arranges for catering from Sally’s, the best amphibian deli in all of Night Vale, nothing super fancy, just some sandwiches and non-alcoholic beverages. He orders enough so that everyone at the station can have some, interns included, and puts it on the station’s tab as a work-related celebration of something important and not-to-be-mentioned. They’ll think he means the dog park opening, if anyone even bothers to check, and be pleased that he chose not to mention it by name. And the lie-sniffing bats won’t get a reading off the form, because it’s technically true that Cecil is having an important anniversary celebration at the station. Cecil is used to navigating this sort of bureaucracy.
He also stops and has a trophy made. It’s just a small thing - if Carlos is too embarrassed, he can play it off as a joke. It’s one of those kitschy sorts of things, just borderline between a funny joke between friends and heartbreakingly sincere. Cecil has it engraved to say ‘#1 in our hearts,’ partially because it’s true and partially because it’s one of five stock engraving options, and ‘Congratulations on your male and/or female spawn’ seems less appropriate. He almost goes with ‘Congratulations on your survival,’ a classic, but he figures that everyone has one of those at home, and he doesn’t want to be redundant.
When he puts the finished trophy in the backseat of his car along with the order receipt from Sally’s, his emotions vacillate madly back and forth between an ecstatic, excited, ‘He’ll love it!’ and the creeping dread of ‘He’ll think it’s stupid.’ He doesn’t really know Carlos that well yet, much as he’d like to. He has a hard time predicting how the beautiful scientist will react, and how much of that prediction might be wishful thinking on Cecil’s part.
Cecil hums the weather to himself as he closes the car door. It will be perfect. It will be.
******
By Friday morning, Carlos has entirely forgotten about the ceremony. He’s been studying the footage from the Desert Flower Bowling Alley and Arcade Fun Complex security cameras, as well as the photos he took himself of the distant city, and now, finally, he’s had his Eureka moment. And not a moment too soon, it looks like - word is that the portents from the alley have been getting serious. He throws on his outdoor lab coat and heads to the lanes - he has a hypothesis, and now it’s time to prove it.
******
It had taken Cecil quite a while to get used to the Eye, but today he’s grateful for it. The Eye is mandatory for the current radio news host, and Cecil had gotten his surgically installed and incanted the day he’d had his first broadcast. It had been near madness, the distraction of it - one moment he’d be speaking and the next the faint vertical scar on his forehead would open and he’d be seeing something else, as though transported to an entirely new location - and be expected to keep narrating the report as it came in! The split of focus, seeing one thing while still being aware of your own physical presence elsewhere, was tough - had, in fact, driven other candidates into dribbling nervous breakdowns and frantic murmurings about an evil, seeping light crawling around the edge of reality in the cracks between spaces.
(Cecil had seen that light sometimes as the eye opened and didn’t really see what the big deal was. It was soft, pinkish-white, and only slightly more menacing than the average Night Vale street lamp, which was far more likely to kill a careless pedestrian than some nether-light from the space beyond reality that most people never even saw.)
Today, Cecil is grateful for the Eye because it lets him watch the most important news events as they’re happening, and today’s most important news event is Carlos. Okay, so Cecil is a little disappointed that Carlos didn’t come straight to the radio station for his party, but clearly Carlos is doing important, brave things for the town! And anyway, Cecil is not upset. Carlos will be here when he can. Right now, he’s just a little busy.
******
Carlos stands next to the tiny city triumphantly. Everything he had guessed is true! The city is not an enormous, distant metropolis of sinister intent, but a tiny, miniscule city with equally miniscule inhabitants. It seems so silly now, the fear of the place that everyone had had. He’s finally starting to get the hang of Night Vale, he thinks. He knows a threat when he sees it, and something told him that this wasn’t nearly the threat everyone claimed it to be with increasing hysteria.
Suddenly, Carlos feels a sharp pinch in his big toe and looks down to see a tiny man standing by his foot, his tiny hand gripping the handle of a tiny, tiny knife. The knife has gone through the side of his sneaker and is embedded in the flesh of his big toe. It feels like the needle bite of a hypodermic. Carlos turns around to face the city, only to see the barrels of hundreds of tiny guns and cannons peeking from its windows. A shout comes up from the city, thousands of miniature voices raised in a war cry.
Carlos has a sudden, dreadful sinking sensation.
******
Cecil is just finishing up another public service announcement about the non-existence of angels when he feels the Eye begin to open with blinding speed. Cecil clutches the edge of the desk frantically. It only happens this fast when it’s something really important. He starts narrating almost automatically, before he’s even taken any of it in, as the scene swims into focus in front of him.
Carlos, falling. Carlos, covered in blood. So much blood, covering his face and torso. Carlos, collapsed on the ground, still.
Cecil feels his own breath coming in short, panicked pants as he searches desperately for any sign of breath in Carlos’s body, even as he barely registers his own mouth, still speaking, his own words, still describing the situation. But he can’t see it, can’t see from his vantage, and the vision of the bowling alley and the city and the crowd of people and poor, poor Carlos is starting to go fuzzy, blurred and dim, and suddenly he realizes it’s because he’s crying: the Eye is blurred with his own tears. He didn’t even know the Eye could cry.
He can feel the sobs, the panic standing around his heart like a circle of dark and menacing figures, waiting for him to give in, waiting to leap and pounce on his weakness. He tries to maintain his discipline as a journalist, tries to keep going.
“Let us take a moment to-” he tries to start, then falters. No, he’s a professional. He can do this. “Let us take... this moment-” Can’t start it this way. Don’t think about time. Don’t think about the fact that it’s Carlos, who was always suspicious of time in Night Vale. Don’t think about Carlos. Don’t think about- “Ladies and gentlemen, let us mourn the pass-” He can’t. He can’t do this. He’s going to break, he can feel it.
Cecil fumbles hastily for a pre-recorded PSA; he still can’t see. The Eye is still open, but everything in his vision is a white fog, blurred by terror and despair. For the first time Cecil understands the fear of the white light, the fear that he’ll be lost in it, unable to close the Eye, unable to return to his body and trapped forever with his awareness partially lost, adrift on the edges of unreality. He finds the dials on the console by feel, switching over to the PSA playlist, slamming the play button with his palm as quickly as he can before losing it.
His grip on his own reality, on himself slips slightly as he lets out a pure, sonorous wail that shakes the very walls of the studio. He can hear the glass of the booth shatter and crack, but he can’t see it, can’t see anything, can only see the roiling white mist, tinged with the red of Carlos’s spilling, spreading blood.
******
Carlos isn’t sure where he is. There’s a white light everywhere. He wonders if maybe he’s dead. He knows that people say there’s some sort of white light when you die. He looks around, wondering if maybe he should take notes, if there’s any way to still communicate with the living world.
But he isn’t alone, he realizes suddenly. A small noise makes him turn, and he sees Cecil, of all people, knees folded, collapsed on the ground. He’s crying. Sobbing, actually, full-body wracking shudders. He’s holding something, clutching it tightly to his chest, his body folded around it like he’s protecting something precious.
Carlos walks over to him - seeing no other points of reference in the stark white landscape, and kneels down next to him. He’s not sure what to do. He’s never been great at comforting anyone. He reaches a hand out tentatively for Cecil’s shoulder.
It passes right through him. Startled, Carlos tries again, but again he can make no contact. He must be dead after all, then. “Cecil!” he tries, wondering if Cecil can hear him.
Cecil doesn’t look up, but he does start muttering, a hiccuping mumble around his sobs that’s barely audible. Carlos leans in close to hear it.
“Carlos. Carlos, my poor, sweet Carlos. I’m so sorry. Carlos, please, I love you, please. Oh God. Oh God.”
Carlos sits back on his heels, staring at Cecil. He doesn’t know what to say, not that Cecil can hear him anyway. He feels guilty for ever thinking that Cecil’s feelings might not be in earnest. If he ever needed evidence of the depth of Cecil’s heart, here it is in front of him. He feels helpless and stupid. If he were still alive, he could do something about this. He could help, or... or something. Carlos’s shoulders slump. Looks like, in the end, he was useless after all.
He attempts a weak smile at the hunched, sobbing figure. “It’s okay,” he tries, knowing the futility of it. “Cecil, it’ll be okay...”
Cecil looks up, then, uncurling slightly. His eyes are unfocused, dim, not looking at Carlos. Not looking anywhere. A strange, third eye - vertically slit and blank, matte white - is open and staring in the center of his forehead, but it isn’t looking at Carlos either. All three eyes are crying, streaking tears down Cecil’s face.
Unnerved, Carlos looks away from that strange third eye. His gaze falls down into Cecil’s lap, to the strange object that Cecil is clutching. It’s... of all the strange things, it’s a little trophy. The kind of simple, cheap thing that you might buy for a child after a soccer tournament to make them feel better for coming in second. Curious, Carlos peers closer at it. It has some sort of inscription...
It’s his own name, and under it the words: ‘#1 in our hearts.’ It’s so silly, so childishly earnest and sincere that Carlos can’t help a startled laugh that breaks from his chest in a harsh bark. It’s so very... so very Cecil.
Cecil’s head turns towards him, expression calming, and the third eye flickers, the strange whiteness within it agitating like a candle flame in a wind. The entire scene - Cecil, the eye, the whiteness - begins to fade into a dark, inky black. But Carlos isn’t afraid.
The image of the trophy remains like a warm, fond little glow in the center of his chest.
******
His vision begins to clear. Cecil can see again, and the first thing he sees is the rise and fall of Carlos’s chest. The Apache Tracker, in his stupid, stupid headdress is there, dragging Carlos bodily away from the gunfire. The bowling alley crowd is cheering as the Tracker emerges from the cavern, laying down Carlos’s comatose - but ALIVE! Breathing! Alive! - body on the linoleum floor beside the pin retrieval.
Cecil’s breath comes back to him in shaky relief, and he pulls himself together long enough to continue his news narration. He feels like he’s been in a fight, like he just had a close encounter with a Librarian. His chest heaves and pants with the adrenaline now seeping from him, replaced by a giddy, silly joy. Carlos is alive. Carlos is alive, and alright, and will be fine. Everything will be fine.
Cecil wipes the remaining tears from his cheeks as he speaks. Carlos is alive.
******
When Carlos wakes up, there is still chaos in the bowling alley. Teddy Williams, the manager, is stooped over the downed form of the Apache Tracker, his strange, slightly feathered hands examining the bloody form.
Carlos’s first thought is of Cecil.
It’s stupid - there are definitely more important things for him to attend to. The town needs to be warned about the miniature city and its ill intentions. He should check to see if the Tracker is even alive, find out what happened. But he does none of these things. Instead he takes out his phone.
“Hi, you’ve reached Cecil’s voicemail!” says the cheerful voice on the other end. “I’m probably broadcasting right now, or am otherwise unavailable, but leave me your message and I’ll get right back to you as soon as I can! Ciao!”
“Cecil, I...” Carlos begins, and then realizes that actually he has no idea what he wants to say. He hadn’t really thought very far ahead at all, had called on instinct more than any conscious decision. He sits a moment, wasting time in silence on Cecil’s answering machine. Finally he hangs up, feeling silly. He stares at the phone’s screen for a long moment, his mind feeling sluggish and unresponsive. All he knows is that it’s important that he see Cecil; the image of Cecil crying, emotionally wrecked by the thought of Carlos’s death, is vivid in Carlos’s mind. Where is the image even from? Did he dream that? But he’s not dead. He’s not dead at all, and he needs to tell Cecil that.
Finally he sends a text. ‘Meet me at the Arby’s parking lot?’ it reads. Then, as an afterthought, he adds to the end of it, ‘It’s important.’ He hits send before he can think too hard about it.
******
Cecil tunes the Eye to reverse auto-broadcast as he leaves the studio. He knows he’s not supposed to use that feature for things like this. Personal things. The auto-broadcast is so that his narration, his voice, can still be broadcast for the listeners while he himself is actively involved in a news-worthy scenario or interview. A portable mic, of sorts, for his thoughts. But it was either this or continue his broadcast in the studio and stand Carlos up at the Arby’s.
And Carlos had said it was important. There’s no way Cecil’s not going.
The Eye opens, reading the images around him, translating them into words. Cecil tries to calm his thoughts, to ensure that the listeners will hear only the details he wants them to hear. He’s careful where he looks, careful how he thinks, even though he can feel his heart pulsing to the frantic beat of ‘Carlos, Carlos, Carlos.’ He takes deep breaths.
******
Carlos is sitting on the trunk of his car, waiting. The sun has just started to set - he’s not sure what time it is though, whether the sun is on time or off, or whether that even matters anymore.
Cecil looks nearly frantic when he arrives, although he also looks like he’s actively trying to suppress the franticness. The vertical third eye in his forehead is also open again - the one Carlos saw in his dream, or vision, or whatever it was. It’s not white though, like it was before. This time it’s like a mirror, reflecting everything with a solid, unflinching sheen.
“What is it?” Cecil asks, his voice only mostly devoid of panic. “What’s wrong? Is something wrong? Is there some- some science thing you need my help with?”
Carlos shakes his head, embarrassed. He’s appalled at himself that he ever suspected this man of any kind of ulterior motive. It seems so ridiculous now. And Cecil - despite his panicked demeanor - is still having the usual effect on him. Relaxing him, making him feel like - like himself. It’s not something Carlos is used to.
“No, I just... It’s nothing.” Carlos smiles, sheepish and self-deprecating. “After everything that happened, I just wanted to see you.”
“Oh?” Cecil squeaks. His face breaks into a smile of such bliss, such disbelieving joy, that Carlos is once again taken aback by his own cruelty in doubting Cecil’s sincerity. He can’t bring himself to meet Cecil’s eyes, particularly the strange, blank third eye that seems to be staring into his very soul. Instead, he looks towards the sunset.
“I used to think it was setting at the wrong time,” he says, gesturing at the sun. “But then I realized that time doesn’t work in Night Vale, and none of the clocks are real. You know, sometimes... sometimes, things seem so strange or malevolent, right? And then you find that, underneath, it was something else altogether. Something pure and innocent.” It’s not much by way of an apology, but Carlos isn’t 100% sure Cecil would even understand what he’s apologizing for anyway.
“I know what you mean.” Cecil comes to sit next to him on the car. And Carlos thinks that yeah, Cecil probably does know what he means. Cecil, after all, has lived in Night Vale his whole life. Presumably.
They sit quietly together. Carlos doesn’t ask about the eye. He feels like he’s found some kind of fundamental truth about Night Vale. Sometimes, it seems, you just have to accept the town at face value, and let it bring you whatever it means for you to have. Maybe it’s time he just stop questioning these things, and let them happen. He puts a tentative hand on Cecil’s knee, and Cecil rests his head on Carlos’s shoulder.