It has to be admitted that the house smells amazing. Tim detects garlic, onion, peppers, and a heady mix of spices, not to mention the subtler but still delicious smells of chicken, ham, and tomato. It’s enough to make the pickiest eater start salivating with anticipation.
The only problem is that Tim isn’t so much a picky eater as an obligate timorivore.
Cecil is just coming out of what Tim presumes to be Esteban’s room, the toddler once more on his hip and Charlie following him, beaming, when the others come out of the guest room. Charlie somehow brightens further and dashes over to give all three of them hugs; Tim ruffles his hair affectionately before shooing him after Cecil. To Jon and Martin, he says, “Go ahead. We won’t all fit in the hall. I’m right behind you.”
Jon and Martin exchange glances, but start forward. Tim, true to his word, stays behind them. He’s not really thinking about food, though.
Mostly he’s worrying about what Martin Prime said, about how Charlie doesn’t know everything yet. He knows, probably more than the others do, what that means. Charlie doesn’t know what any of them go through on a daily basis. He doesn’t know how hard it is for Martin to avoid asking questions when someone is visibly hurting or upset because he’s afraid of taking away their choice not to, how much Jon works not to take shortcuts and extract secrets out of people. He knows Martin Prime’s blindness means he’s cut off from the Eye—mostly—but not that that’s why he’s blind in the first place. He knows—because Jon Prime asked the three of them if they were okay with him knowing and they agreed—that the Web claimed his aunt and the Desolation killed his father, but he doesn’t know about Martin’s father. He knows the Primes came back in time, but not why, not really.
And most crucially, he doesn’t know what Jon Prime and Tim are, and how much worse it is for Tim. Jon Prime had a whole year of suffering and moping and denying himself before the Eyepocalypse happened, and then he had the whole of the Eyepocalypse to get accustomed to what he was capable of and, more importantly, what his limits are. Tim’s had his guidance, obviously, and he’s had his Jon and Martin to anchor him when it gets really bad, but the truth is that there are things Tim can do that Jon Prime never could. And on top of that, there’s a part of him that envies Jon Prime that…freedom probably isn’t the right word, but if he’s being honest, it’s the only word his worst impulses can come up with. Jon Prime got to experiment on his own. He got to try and fail and scare himself rather than have someone else wagging their finger at him and scolding him. Yes, Martin Prime staged an intervention when he found out about the pouncing of random civilians, albeit vicariously, but Jon Prime had weeks, months, of getting to feel out what his limits were, and more importantly, what he could do without getting caught. The only thing stopping him was his own morals. Tim doesn’t know, empirically, what his moral limits are, so how can he really know how strong he is, or when he should stop?
And…okay. The fact that Tim’s even thinking that way is probably something he should confess to someone. It’s…not great, and it’s probably going to end badly for him. Best case scenario, he’s going to lose his temper on the people he loves and make them both feel guilty about getting upset. Worst case scenario, he’s going to sneak around and suck too much power and it’s going to go to his head, and he’ll lose himself and probably end the world in the bargain. It really wouldn’t take that much prompting to get Sasha to come up with at least the theoretical basics of a ritual and then fill in the gaps himself. And he doesn’t want that, he doesn’t. But the fact that the scenario is lodged in the corner of his brain like a particularly sharp and stubborn kernel of popcorn is, or should be, enough to worry him.
Maybe the more worrying part is that it doesn’t worry him as much as it should.
Shaking his head minutely, he follows them into the dining room. It’s bright and cheery, with a well scrubbed table with leaves that fold out and plenty of chairs to go around, and the high chair settled at the table matches perfectly like it came with the set. Tim also notes that it’s a bit lower than he would have expected—not child sized by any means, but lower by maybe six inches than your typical dining room set. Connected with the ramp outside, Tim doesn’t need any kind of supernatural confirmation to guess that they have a regular visitor who uses a wheelchair.
Esteban makes a grabbing motion at Charlie and points at the chair next to him. Charlie looks up at Cecil, who nods with an encouraging smile, then sits down in the seat indicated. Esteban nods once in satisfaction, then looks up at Cecil. “Dada, st’awbees?”
“We’ll have strawberries for dessert, Esteban,” Cecil assures him. “Papa made a special dinner tonight first.” He ruffles his hair the same way Tim does Charlie’s, making the little boy giggle, before turning a smile on the other three. “Have a seat. What are you drinking? We’ve got water, lemonade, orange juice, hot milk—”
“Hot milk drawer’s empty, sweetie,” Carlos calls from the kitchen. “There’s just cold.”
“Oh, sorry, just cold milk,” Cecil corrects himself.
Jon looks confused. Martin looks like he’s considering being sick. Tim answers for all four of them. “The lemonade sounds wonderful, thanks.”
He hesitates for a split second before taking the seat next to Charlie. There’s not really a good place to sit, from his point of view, at least not if Cecil and Carlos insist on sitting at opposite ends of the table. Carlos has too many secrets, and Cecil…well, Cecil’s a nice enough guy, but he is the Voice of Night Vale, and he and Tim serve too close to the same purpose. If they find themselves at odds, or if they end up in a feedback loop, it could make things awkward, to say the least.
Naturally, Jon, picking up on none of this, sits opposite Charlie after a brief moment of indecision; Martin sits opposite Tim with an apologetic smile. Cecil comes in with a pitcher of lemonade and fills all the glasses before dashing back to the kitchen. He comes out carrying a bowl of yellow rice carefully in both hands, Carlos behind him beaming as he carries in a steaming pot. He sets it on a trivet in the center of the table with a flourish.
“Ta-da,” he sings. “I hope you like it.”
Charlie’s nose twitches. “It smells really good. What is it?”
“Pollo al chilindron,” Carlos says. He pronounces the word like a native of Navarre, which Tim knows—although he’s not sure how—is where Jon and Carlos’ grandmother was from.
Jon’s face does something interesting. Tim can’t actually guess what his emotions are about that. “Abuela’s recipe?”
“Yes. Or at least as close to it as I can get. I think the tomatoes are different here.” Carlos looks momentarily troubled by this. “I hope it turns out well. I haven’t tried making it since…well, since the last time you visited, Jonny.”
“Neither have I,” Jon admits softly. “I don’t know why.”
Tim glances at Martin, and they both share a flash of understanding, either because they both know Jon so well or because the Eye has given them the insight. Jon hasn’t made chilindron because it’s something he only had with his mother’s family, and making it for them feels, to him, like tacit acknowledgment that he’ll never see any of them again. And even at his worst, he wasn’t prepared to accept that he was completely alone in the world.
It’s definitely the Eye that tells Tim Carlos’s reasoning is the same, though.
“Well.” Carlos’s smile is too bright and definitely overcompensating for his worry. “Then I guess it’s a double celebration. Family reunion and resurrecting old recipes.”
The rice goes around the table first, then the chilindron, which looks and smells like some kind of chicken stew. Nights can actually get cold in the desert, so something warm that sticks to the ribs isn’t entirely unwelcome, and the comfort of family memories makes it even more appealing. Tim serves himself what he hopes is a healthy enough portion not to offend Carlos and not to worry Jon or Martin. Charlie probably won’t notice—Esteban certainly won’t—and it’s a toss up whether Cecil will notice and be offended on his husband’s behalf or notice and understand where Tim’s coming from. Evidently he judges right, though, because nobody bats an eyelash.
And the food is good. The problem is still Tim, because the first bite is an explosion in his mouth—not of flavor, but of knowledge. He’s flooded with the identity of every spice, the variety of pepper and tomato, the breed of chicken. He knows exactly how it tasted when their grandmother cooked it last when they were children and exactly how it tasted when they made it together while Jon was recovering from the breakdown he’d nearly had in university and exactly why it’s different this time. He can taste every heartache and every painful memory dredged up while Carlos picked the vegetables at the Ralph’s and stirred the stew together, and it sparks and fizzles in his mouth with the burning desire to reach out and pluck those memories—from Carlos, from Jon, from the fucking chicken.
He forces himself to swallow those urges with the mouthful of stew and smiles as Charlie’s eyes light up. “Mmm!”
“Mmm!” Esteban echoes, a grin on his face to match Charlie’s.
“You like that?” Carlos sounds surprised and delighted.
“Yes, it’s really good,” Charlie assures him.
Esteban nods enthusiastically and babbles a few sounds that could probably be interpreted as him trying to imitate Charlie before instead chanting, “Ess, ess!” He bangs his spoon on the tray of his high chair for emphasis.
Cecil hides a laugh with a cough behind his hand. To Tim, in a low voice that doesn’t carry to the other end of the table, he says, “We have a hard time getting Esteban to try new foods sometimes. It usually takes him a little bit to like anything, but it sounds like he wants to be just like Charlie already.”
Tim’s eyes travel to Jon as another memory flashes through his mind. “I think he gets that from his cousin.”
“You got that too?” Cecil’s eyes flick to Carlos briefly. For just a moment, Tim feels rather than hears the static.
“This certainly tastes better than when I tried to help you with it,” Jon says with a bit of a rueful laugh.
Carlos frowns. “That was not because you were helping.”
“The tomatoes were bad,” Tim murmurs.
“The tomatoes were bad,” Carlos continues in the same instant, in a way that makes it clear to anyone listening—so Cecil—that he could not possibly have been prompted by Tim. “I didn’t realize until I went to use one of the other cans after you left that everything in my cupboard had expired a week before you even got there. I’m…very bad at checking those things, which is why Cecil doesn’t let me buy canned food anymore.”
“We don’t use tinned food either,” Jon admits. “For…very different reasons. Not necessarily fresh, mind you, but—”
“There is nothing scientifically wrong with frozen food. And it’s much easier to tell when that’s past its usable date than canned.” Carlos takes a sip of his lemonade. “How was your flight? It’s been a long time since I’ve flown internationally. I don’t think I’ve ever flown into Night Vale.”
The conversation continues throughout the meal, punctuated by mouthfuls. Tim doesn’t contribute much, but he notices Cecil doesn’t either. Jon and Carlos more than make up for it, though. Tim doesn’t think he’s heard Jon ramble this much since he gave an impromptu lecture on emulsifiers when they all went out for ice cream on Martin’s birthday. Obviously they have a lot to catch up on. But the conversation skims along the surface, dwelling on mostly lighthearted and non-volatile subjects. That’s not a surprise on their end, with Charlie at the table, but Tim is…less surprised than incredibly aware that there’s something Carlos isn’t mentioning, too. Probably a lot of somethings. Things he wants very much.
All of them clean their plates; everyone but Tim and Cecil has seconds, but they spin their firsts out long enough that nobody else catches on. There’s a delectable strawberry custard for dessert, which Esteban charms his fathers into giving him seconds on as well, and then it’s the scraping of plates and draining of glasses and claims of being unable to eat another bite.
Esteban gives a huge yawn and stretches out his arms to Carlos, who nods. “Yes, that’s right, it’s later than usual. Bedtime.” He starts to get up, then hesitates. “Um, you all don’t mind if I….?”
Charlie twists his arm to look at his wristwatch, a ninth birthday present from Martin. It’s supposed to change time based on what timezone they’re in, so he should be able to accurately see what time it actually is. “It’s kind of close to my bedtime too,” he says. He pauses, then looks from one adult to another. “Do I need to go outside on the front porch to talk to Auntie, or can I do that once I’m ready for bed like usual?”
Carlos blinks, obviously confused, and gives Jon a puzzled look. Jon, for his part, has the look of a deer caught in the headlights. Martin, too, has gone slightly pale.
Cecil, however, tilts his head to one side, obviously considering the question. “Does that punch a hole through the fabric of reality? Or risk doing it?” he asks, as casually as though he’s wondering if there’s a risk of hearing loss from standing too close to concert speakers.
There’s a real undercurrent of worry there, though, so Tim assures him, “No, nothing can get through. From either side. We can’t even hear her back. She’s just listening.”
Carlos looks even more puzzled, but Cecil nods. “We don’t want to break up your routine too much, Charlie. You can talk to her before you go to bed.”
“Thanks, Uncle Cecil.” Charlie beams broadly and slides off his chair.
Esteban holds out his arms to Carlos again, who plucks him out of the high chair and props him on his hip. “I’ll be right back,” he promises. Still looking slightly confused, he leads Charlie down to Esteban’s room.
Martin automatically begins to help gathering up the dishes. Cecil, to his credit, doesn’t bother to stop him, doesn’t try to protest that they’re guests and don’t need to help. Instead, he just nods at the lemonade pitcher. “If one of you wants to pour the rest of that out, we can wash it and make more in the morning. Does Charlie like doing that sort of thing? Janice did when she was his age.”
“Who’s Janice?” Martin asks, setting the glass he was about to collect back down.
“My niece.” Cecil’s voice is proud and satisfied. “She’s a junior at Night Vale High School. You’ll meet her tomorrow night at dinner.” He falters briefly and glances at Jon. “Uh—if that’s okay with you. I know it can be—a lot, having a lot of new people come over at once.”
“How many is ‘a lot’?” Jon asks, a bit apprehensively.
“Three. My niece Janice, my sister Abby, and my brother-in-law Steve.”
Jon sighs in obvious relief. “I can handle that. It’s…large crowds in uncontrolled environments I generally have problems with. As long as everyone knows everyone…”
“I just wanted to make sure. I didn’t prepare Carlos for it enough, but, well, things were tense back then.” Something sad flashes through Cecil’s eyes. Tim doesn’t even bother reaching for it. Cecil is enough like him—and feels old enough—that the likelihood of him even being able to compel anything out of him is nonexistent. Cecil will tell them if he wants to.
Martin, on the other hand, swallows hard, and Tim knows he’s tempted. He probably doesn’t even realize how hard it would be. To forestall him, Tim asks, “How old was Janice then?”
“Eleven. She’s sixteen now.”
They get the dishes washed and the lemonade poured and are back in the living room by the time Carlos comes out from putting Esteban to bed. He gives Cecil a quick kiss on the cheek and accepts his glass, then settles on the love seat beside him. Jon, Martin, and Tim settle opposite them on the sofa, leaving the two matching armchairs unoccupied.
They all sit in silence for several seconds. Tim notices that Carlos sits almost stiffly upright next to Cecil, despite the arm Cecil has slung casually over the back of the seat. Clearly they’re meant to be cuddling, but Carlos seems too nervous for that. It probably isn’t because he’s wary of showing affection in front of his cousin, since Jon has just reached for both Martin’s and Tim’s hands. The way he’s holding them, though, is definitely not out of affection. It feels like he’s looking for…support.
Which he is, Tim realizes. They’re getting ready to tell Carlos and Cecil everything, and Jon, despite his claims back in London that he’s sure his cousin can handle it, is terrified that he’s going to sound insane. Between his mental breakdown when he was nineteen and his encounter with the Web when he was eight, he has no reason to truly believe Carlos will believe anything.
But…he promised.
Before he can open his mouth, though, Carlos takes a deep breath. “Jonny, I need to tell you something. All of you, really.”
Jon tenses, somehow, even further. “Oh?”
“I didn’t want to say this over the phone. I’m not sure you would have believed me before you got here,” Carlos admits. He takes another deep breath. “Here goes. I told you when I first invited you here that Night Vale was…scientifically interesting. That is true. But it’s also…strange.”
It’s Tim’s turn to tense. Part of it is that word strange. Tim has a visceral hatred of the Stranger dating back to before he knew what it was, back when it killed his brother, and he hates it even more now after what it did to Jon, what it did to Martin…what it did to him, because whether the others want to acknowledge it or not, he wasn’t just in a coma after the Unknowing, he died. He died and came back to life and now he’s like this, and that is both the fault of Jonah Magnus and the fault of the Stranger. He’s grateful to be alive, because he has Jon and Martin and Charlie and the rest of their family, but he’s also more monster than anyone is acknowledging and he would rather have avoided that part.
But part of it is the hesitation in Carlos’s voice. It’s the undercurrent of fear—the thought, like Jon’s, that admitting this will break something irreplaceable, that he’ll destroy his relationship with the only family he has left worth talking to in a way that he won’t be able to come back from. While Tim doesn’t really think that’s going to happen, he wants that dredged out into the open. He wants that secret, and he wants it badly, so badly he can almost taste it. He’s still low on energy from earlier, and the supper didn’t really do anything for him, not in a way that matters.
“Strange,” Jon repeats. “H-how—how so?”
Carlos gives a small laugh. “You know, now that I’ve…I’m not sure where to start.”
The last of Tim’s self control snaps at the mere suggestion that Carlos isn’t going to share this. His hand slips out of Jon’s as he leans forward to look Carlos in the eyes, the gathering of static swift and sudden and sharp.
“Tell me about your first coming to Night Vale,” he commands.
Carlos’s shoulders unconsciously slack. His eyes lock onto Tim’s with the seemingly paradoxical mix of intense focus and distance he’s familiar with in these situations—like he’s both seeing the events of six years ago and aware of nothing in the world but Tim.
And then, he begins to speak.