storypaint (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
storypaint) wrote2013-11-09 09:50 pm
storypaint) wrote2013-11-09 09:50 pm
[Welcome to Night Vale] lend me to the world (Cecil/Carlos)
Title: lend me to the world
Fandom: Welcome to Night Vale
Length: 1254 words
Prompt: fic_promptly: Welcome To Night Vale, Cecil, literal rebirth
Pairing: Cecil/Carlos
Other: Angst, mourning, discussion of death.
Excerpt: A giant snake didn't kill Cecil. Carlos never quite determined what it was.
Cecil had once mentioned on air what was, in his opinion, the best way to die. It was the first broadcast Carlos had ever listened to... well, half-listened if he were being honest. Cecil's voice was fantastic but it also made for great background noise, the deep, steady tones quite relaxing. In any case, the community radio station was the only one he could get on his old radio. The rest was static and occasionally something in Russian.
But the words had caught Carlos's ear, and he paused to listen as Cecil told the listening public that he wasn't interested in dying in his bed, or during sex. Instead, he informed them, quite cheerfully, that he'd rather be swallowed by a gigantic snake.
After that, Carlos started paying attention. Really, that statement should have been his first clue. Anyone so familiar and at ease with death probably didn't think he would live very long.
*
A giant snake didn't kill Cecil. Carlos never quite determined what it was. He hadn't been first on the scene, since he wasn't a paramedic or a bystander. He sat in the second pew at Cecil's funeral and took notes while the medical examiner at the podium explained, in punishing detail, the exact shape of the clawmarks that had marred Cecil's perfect throat. He described the color of Cecil's blood in such a way that it made Carlos think that red wasn't a common color in Night Vale.
Carlos took notes because he was a scientist, because that was easier than breaking down in front of everyone. He wasn't alone on the pew. Cecil didn't seem to have any family -- or at least, they didn't have a part in the ceremony. WNTV had arranged the funeral, and the morning announcer narrated it quietly from the back of the un-church. But Old Woman Josie had filed in next to him, and then convinced him to scoot over for her friends. Carlos found it hard to look at them. One of the angels reached around Josie with a long, skinny arm to pat Carlos on the shoulder.
If there was one thing Night Vale was good at, it was funerals. Perhaps the proper word was actually "efficient." They'd sung a hymn that Carlos had never heard before and never wanted to hear again, made an offering at the bloodstone circle at the altar, and then everyone filed out. Carlos followed behind the rest, wondering where the cemetery was. It had just occurred to him that he hadn't seen one. Perhaps it was invisible. He couldn't feel upset by the idea, only resigned. He wasn't sure if that was the mourning encroaching on him, or if he was just getting used to Night Vale.
He turned to Josie to ask but she'd already gotten into her little blue Volkswagen. He tried to follow the person who pulled out of the parking lot before him, but they took three rights in a row and then pulled over. Carlos saw the glint of metal in the car window and speeded past. He didn't need another bullet hole in his coupe. There was only one auto repair place in Night Vale, and they overcharged terribly. Cecil had told him so. Strange, how the mind could still focus on mundane things.
Carlos went home. He walked over to the lab and looked at his notes, tried to see what tests he had planned for the day, but the pages kept blurring and after a while Carlos realized that he had started crying. He walked home and went to bed.
*
He woke up later, disoriented and dry-mouthed. Someone was talking quietly in the next room, their voice a dark, gentle murmur. Carlos wasn't sure what time it was. His alarm clock said 28:63, but he'd long given up on paying attention to it. Instead, he got up, body stiff, and minced over to the window to consider the state of the sky. This wasn't always a good indication of time either, but he estimated that it was about eight p.m. The sun was descending, blood-red, into the sand.
The person in the next room hadn't changed his inflection and didn't seem to realize that Carlos was awake. The man hadn't attacked him, but Carlos found it hard to care. Perhaps it was the Sheriff's Secret Police, come to confiscate his notes again. (He'd gotten quite good at memorization since he moved here.) He grabbed the fireplace poker he kept next to his bed, scratched at his stubble, and then made his way into the kitchen.
There wasn't anyone there, but he recognized the voice. The speaker was Cecil. He'd left the radio on when he'd left for the funeral, simply out of habit. The station must have been playing highlights from older broadcasts. Carlos set the poker down on the kitchen table and crossed to the counter to turn the radio off. He couldn't listen to this. It didn't feel right. It was like listening to a ghost.
And then Carlos actually listened to the words coming out of the radio.
"--Time, perhaps," Cecil was saying. "I was nearly there, but I've been slacking off a bit since Carlos came to town. It's hard to feel like earning death when you feel so gloriously alive. I do hope that someone explained this to him. Intern Jonah told me that it was a very good un-funeral. All I know is that I woke up at home with an aching throat and a terrible casserole in my fridge. I know that the City Council doesn't usually bother to have a sense of taste, but professionally speaking--"
Carlos missed the rest of that because he was running. He ignored the semaphores all the way to the radio station, but the Sheriff's Secret Police were merciful and waived most of the fines and re-education (Cecil told him, Cecil, breathing and talking and moving Cecil, that the Sheriff was a secret romantic).
Cecil didn't mind the show of affection, although there had been a rumble from behind Station Management's door after the first lengthy kiss. Cecil had hurriedly cut to a pre-recorded advertisement and convinced Carlos to sit in the sound booth. He'd sat there and watched Cecil through the broadcast, waiting for him to disappear or explode or something. He convinced the sound booth operator to pinch him in case this was a dream. The intern had nearly drawn blood and Carlos hadn't woken up.
Cecil came to him after his shift was over, looking amused and slightly puzzled. Carlos didn't know what to say, so he kissed Cecil again. When they emerged for air, Cecil spoke.
"Oh, dear sweet Carlos," he said. "I told you I was born-again, don't you remember? It was one of the first things we discussed when you moved here. I'm afraid I just wasn't lucky enough to die for good this time. Are you upset?"
Carlos remembered the conversation. He had spent some time worrying that Cecil would pressure him into attending church, and when he hadn't, the idea had quite slipped his mind. He'd discovered other things to worry about.
So he laughed and laughed and laughed, and then he took his boyfriend home.
Fandom: Welcome to Night Vale
Length: 1254 words
Prompt: fic_promptly: Welcome To Night Vale, Cecil, literal rebirth
Pairing: Cecil/Carlos
Other: Angst, mourning, discussion of death.
Excerpt: A giant snake didn't kill Cecil. Carlos never quite determined what it was.
Cecil had once mentioned on air what was, in his opinion, the best way to die. It was the first broadcast Carlos had ever listened to... well, half-listened if he were being honest. Cecil's voice was fantastic but it also made for great background noise, the deep, steady tones quite relaxing. In any case, the community radio station was the only one he could get on his old radio. The rest was static and occasionally something in Russian.
But the words had caught Carlos's ear, and he paused to listen as Cecil told the listening public that he wasn't interested in dying in his bed, or during sex. Instead, he informed them, quite cheerfully, that he'd rather be swallowed by a gigantic snake.
After that, Carlos started paying attention. Really, that statement should have been his first clue. Anyone so familiar and at ease with death probably didn't think he would live very long.
*
A giant snake didn't kill Cecil. Carlos never quite determined what it was. He hadn't been first on the scene, since he wasn't a paramedic or a bystander. He sat in the second pew at Cecil's funeral and took notes while the medical examiner at the podium explained, in punishing detail, the exact shape of the clawmarks that had marred Cecil's perfect throat. He described the color of Cecil's blood in such a way that it made Carlos think that red wasn't a common color in Night Vale.
Carlos took notes because he was a scientist, because that was easier than breaking down in front of everyone. He wasn't alone on the pew. Cecil didn't seem to have any family -- or at least, they didn't have a part in the ceremony. WNTV had arranged the funeral, and the morning announcer narrated it quietly from the back of the un-church. But Old Woman Josie had filed in next to him, and then convinced him to scoot over for her friends. Carlos found it hard to look at them. One of the angels reached around Josie with a long, skinny arm to pat Carlos on the shoulder.
If there was one thing Night Vale was good at, it was funerals. Perhaps the proper word was actually "efficient." They'd sung a hymn that Carlos had never heard before and never wanted to hear again, made an offering at the bloodstone circle at the altar, and then everyone filed out. Carlos followed behind the rest, wondering where the cemetery was. It had just occurred to him that he hadn't seen one. Perhaps it was invisible. He couldn't feel upset by the idea, only resigned. He wasn't sure if that was the mourning encroaching on him, or if he was just getting used to Night Vale.
He turned to Josie to ask but she'd already gotten into her little blue Volkswagen. He tried to follow the person who pulled out of the parking lot before him, but they took three rights in a row and then pulled over. Carlos saw the glint of metal in the car window and speeded past. He didn't need another bullet hole in his coupe. There was only one auto repair place in Night Vale, and they overcharged terribly. Cecil had told him so. Strange, how the mind could still focus on mundane things.
Carlos went home. He walked over to the lab and looked at his notes, tried to see what tests he had planned for the day, but the pages kept blurring and after a while Carlos realized that he had started crying. He walked home and went to bed.
*
He woke up later, disoriented and dry-mouthed. Someone was talking quietly in the next room, their voice a dark, gentle murmur. Carlos wasn't sure what time it was. His alarm clock said 28:63, but he'd long given up on paying attention to it. Instead, he got up, body stiff, and minced over to the window to consider the state of the sky. This wasn't always a good indication of time either, but he estimated that it was about eight p.m. The sun was descending, blood-red, into the sand.
The person in the next room hadn't changed his inflection and didn't seem to realize that Carlos was awake. The man hadn't attacked him, but Carlos found it hard to care. Perhaps it was the Sheriff's Secret Police, come to confiscate his notes again. (He'd gotten quite good at memorization since he moved here.) He grabbed the fireplace poker he kept next to his bed, scratched at his stubble, and then made his way into the kitchen.
There wasn't anyone there, but he recognized the voice. The speaker was Cecil. He'd left the radio on when he'd left for the funeral, simply out of habit. The station must have been playing highlights from older broadcasts. Carlos set the poker down on the kitchen table and crossed to the counter to turn the radio off. He couldn't listen to this. It didn't feel right. It was like listening to a ghost.
And then Carlos actually listened to the words coming out of the radio.
"--Time, perhaps," Cecil was saying. "I was nearly there, but I've been slacking off a bit since Carlos came to town. It's hard to feel like earning death when you feel so gloriously alive. I do hope that someone explained this to him. Intern Jonah told me that it was a very good un-funeral. All I know is that I woke up at home with an aching throat and a terrible casserole in my fridge. I know that the City Council doesn't usually bother to have a sense of taste, but professionally speaking--"
Carlos missed the rest of that because he was running. He ignored the semaphores all the way to the radio station, but the Sheriff's Secret Police were merciful and waived most of the fines and re-education (Cecil told him, Cecil, breathing and talking and moving Cecil, that the Sheriff was a secret romantic).
Cecil didn't mind the show of affection, although there had been a rumble from behind Station Management's door after the first lengthy kiss. Cecil had hurriedly cut to a pre-recorded advertisement and convinced Carlos to sit in the sound booth. He'd sat there and watched Cecil through the broadcast, waiting for him to disappear or explode or something. He convinced the sound booth operator to pinch him in case this was a dream. The intern had nearly drawn blood and Carlos hadn't woken up.
Cecil came to him after his shift was over, looking amused and slightly puzzled. Carlos didn't know what to say, so he kissed Cecil again. When they emerged for air, Cecil spoke.
"Oh, dear sweet Carlos," he said. "I told you I was born-again, don't you remember? It was one of the first things we discussed when you moved here. I'm afraid I just wasn't lucky enough to die for good this time. Are you upset?"
Carlos remembered the conversation. He had spent some time worrying that Cecil would pressure him into attending church, and when he hadn't, the idea had quite slipped his mind. He'd discovered other things to worry about.
So he laughed and laughed and laughed, and then he took his boyfriend home.