“Who’s coming to the lab with me this morning?” Carlos asks brightly as they finish breakfast on Tuesday morning.
Esteban immediately throws both arms into the air and gives his papa the charming smile that usually gets him whatever he wants. Carlos’s smile falters briefly. “Oh—”
“Sorry, buddy, you have to be four to go see the science, remember?” Cecil interrupts, gently but firmly. He usually ends up being the disciplinarian. He’s not very good at it, but he’s better than Carlos is—Carlos who is so afraid of his son hating him the way he’s never actually said out loud he hates his own parents that he’s afraid, even at this young age, to tell him no sometimes. Cecil, at least, knows from his relationship with Abby that resentment is not the same as hate, and love can live with anger, and sometimes you can’t do that is another way of saying I love you. “You get to spend the morning with Daddy instead.”
Esteban’s face falls, but before he can get too upset, Charlie pats his arm gently. “I’ll tell you all about it when I get back,” he promises.
Just like that, everything is sunshine for Esteban again. He claps his hands and nods, grinning, then pats Charlie’s cheek before picking up his sippy cup for a drink.
Carlos turns to Charlie’s parents. “Are you all coming, too?”
“I wouldn’t miss this for the world,” Jonny—Jon—Cecil isn’t actually sure which he prefers, but only Carlos seems to call him Jonny—says with a smile.
“Yeah, sounds fun,” Martin agrees.
Tim smiles and shakes his head. “If you don’t mind, I think I’ll give this one a miss. Science and I don’t mix well.”
Martin and Carlos both look surprised at that, and Jon maybe looks a touch disappointed, but Charlie only gives him a hug. “I’ll tell you all about it, too,” he promises.
“I know.” Tim ruffles his hair. “Go brush your teeth.”
It doesn’t take long for them to get ready and get out the door; there’s another round of hugs, then away they go. Tim and Cecil clean the kitchen with Esteban’s…not exactly help, but certainly involvement. At Esteban’s request, they both sit down to color with him; he’s little enough that he has trouble coloring between the lines, but he grips the markers with determination and he’s choosy with his colors, and that’s good enough for Cecil. They talk to him like they would anyone else, the way you’re supposed to, and even if Esteban doesn’t respond in words he is responding and that’s what’s important.
A bit before ten, Cecil notices that Esteban’s eyelashes are—thankfully—drooping, so he convinces him to put the markers and paper away and takes him into his bedroom for his morning nap. He figures at first that Esteban will fight it, since Charlie isn’t there, but he’s evidently more tired than he wants to let on, because his eyes are closed almost before Cecil gets him laid down all the way, and before long he’s making the soft little snores they’re all accustomed to by now. Cecil smiles, plants a soft kiss on his son’s head, and turns on the night light before drawing the curtains closed and backing out of the room.
Tim is nowhere to be seen, but the coffee mug left out on the counter gives Cecil a pretty good hint. He picks it up, fills it, and steps out onto the back porch.
Sure enough, there’s Tim, leaning on the railing and cradling another mug in both hands as he stares across the backyard. It’s not large, but it doesn’t need to be. There’s a single tree, a wooden swing hanging from it on a pair of weathered ropes. The swing—and, if Cecil’s honest, the tree—are just like he remembers from his childhood, even though this is not the house he grew up in; Abby inherited it, he moved out as soon as he could afford it, and it’s where she, Janice, and Steve still live. The tree and the swing aren’t there anymore, but it’s not like they would have just been transplanted. Not in most places, anyway. They have no neighbors behind their house, at least not directly, but there’s a long way to the sand wastes. The important thing is that from here they can usually watch the sunset, if they so desire. Obviously the sun isn’t setting right now, but Tim is looking up at the sky anyway.
Cecil leans on the railing next to him, mimicking his pose. For several long moments, neither of them speak.
Finally, Cecil breaks the silence. “Can you actually see the dotted lines in the sky?”
“Nope,” Tim replies promptly. “You?”
“No, never. Steve’s described them to me a few times, tried to explain them. He usually does to anyone who stands still long enough to let him get started.” Cecil pauses, then adds, “How did you know they were there?”
Tim glances sideways at Cecil and gives him a rueful smile. “Either your sister is psychic and I was in the way, or she just thinks she’s psychic and thinks mentally shouting will get her ideas into someone’s head. And she really didn’t want him to bring them up.”
Cecil nods. “It’s illegal. Well, it used to be illegal, I’m not—it’s kind of a grey area now? Supposedly the chart explains the whole world, but…”
“But we don’t really need a chart to Know,” Tim completes.
“And if I’m being honest, I’m not actually sure if it’s even accurate. It could just be there to make him think he knows more than he actually does.”
Tim hums in agreement, and they once again lapse into silence. A helicopter flies overhead—one of the ones with complex murals of diving birds—and both Cecil and Tim track it with their gazes as it continues towards the Sand Wastes. Cecil likes those. They’re probably dangerous, but they’re something that has been a part of the fabric of Night Vale for decades that he still doesn’t understand, and that’s rare enough that he can appreciate it. At least when he’s alone and doesn’t have to worry about what will happen to his husband or son if one decides to grant him that knowledge.
This time, Tim is the one to break the silence as the helicopter shrinks to a dot rapidly vanishing over the horizon. “You know there are things he isn’t telling you, right?”
Cecil doesn’t even need to ask who he is. “I do. I’m not pushing him about them, though.”
The Look Tim gives him deserves both the capital letter and the italics. It might even warrant an indication of trademark afterwards. It’s an expression that very professionally says I admire your heroic efforts to maintain your distance and also says I know how badly you want those secrets and also, much less professionally, says you are so full of shit I’m going to slap a sticker on your forehead and call you a Porta-Potty. It’s honestly one Cecil deserves, but he meets it with a raised eyebrow and as blank an expression as he can get.
“You haven’t pushed,” Tim finally says. “That doesn’t mean you don’t want to.”
“No, it doesn’t,” Cecil agrees. “But honestly, I think we should all be proud of me for the fact that I haven’t.”
“It’s hard, isn’t it?” Tim muses.
“You have no idea.” Cecil pauses. “Maybe you do. How long have you been…?” He gestures vaguely.
“Like this?” Tim supplies. “About a year.”
“Then you probably get it. When I first—” Cecil hesitates. He hasn’t actually said this out loud in…has he ever said it? But something tells him Tim knows. “When I first became the Voice, I was a lot more aggressive about…getting interviews. I would stop people even when the show wasn’t technically on the air and start asking them questions. And they would answer. Oh, would they ever answer.”
“When did you stop doing that?” Tim asks.
“Honestly? Probably not long before Carlos came to Night Vale,” Cecil admits.
“And how long were you the Voice before that?”
“Time is weird here. But when I did my first broadcast as the actual host of the show, instead of just an intern, the world was at war. So…” Cecil wrinkles his nose. “Fifty years? As a rough estimate. Assuming I became the host and the Voice at the same time.”
“I think you were the Voice before you officially took the title,” Tim says, a little distantly. “You were always better at it than…” He concentrates for a second. “Leonard Burton?”
“Like you being the Archivist,” Cecil agrees. “You’re definitely better at it than…” He narrows one eye for a moment and reaches for the thing inside him that always tells him the names of new residents, staff members, and interview subjects. “Gertrude Robinson?”
“Proof that longevity doesn’t give you gifts.”
“Mm. I don’t think Leonard really leaned into it all that much? He read the stories, but he never…cared about the why.”
“Yeah, that was Gertrude. Everyone we’ve talked to said she didn’t like leaning into her powers too much. The ones who fall furthest tend to be the ones that don’t know what they’re doing until it’s too late.”
“I sure didn’t,” Cecil admits. “I always wanted to be a radio host like Leonard, but…I didn’t know what it entailed. Even being a native of Night Vale…even when I was an intern.”
Tim nods. “If it hadn’t been for the Primes, I’m sure I would have never known what I was getting into. Jon Prime was basically the Archivist before he even found out everything was connected, let alone the basics of what it meant.”
Cecil hums. “Pretty sure there are a few…people like us scattered around Night Vale, or people who are going to end up like us, who don’t even realize it.”
“Like your Leann Hart,” Tim says.
“She’s not my Leann Hart. We’re rivals. The television people at least have the sense to stay out of the worst of it, but Leann’s always right in my face. Or used to be, anyway.” Cecil pauses and thinks over the list of categories Jon gave them last night. He’s pretty sure the names are different here, if they even have names here, but since he doesn’t actually know what they are, he’ll use Tim’s for now. “The Slaughter?”
“Hunt.” Tim taps the corner of one eye with a forefinger. “That was my first…boon from the Ceaseless Watcher, was the ability to see the colors of the Fourteen and where they’ve left their marks. Usually I can switch it off, but if someone catches me off-guard…and I was tired and worn out and worrying about Charlie. He’s claustrophobic, so now I have to watch out for the Buried coming after him. Leann shouting at us startled me enough that the Fear-o-Vision engaged, and God, she was clotted in the stuff. All over her hands, her chest…and fuck, the hatchet.”
“Uh, yeah. A few years ago she kind of went crazy on a bunch of news bloggers with hatchets,” Cecil says. “She insisted it wasn’t murder because she was trying to protect her job. About the only survivor was Maureen, who was my intern at the time and got mistaken for a blogger, but Leann said she wasn’t trying to kill her, just throwing a hatchet at her, so the Sheriff couldn’t arrest her for murder or attempted murder. Both of which were illegal by then.”
“She killed anyone since then?”
“Plenty. But it was always in defense of the town, so it’s okay. Or at least she can spin that it is.”
Tim nods, and once again they lapse into silence. Neither of them are drinking their coffee. That’s not surprising. Coffee is not conducive to the sort of conversation they are having. Actually, it’s not the coffee itself, but the act of drinking. Neither of them wants to have something in their mouth when the other breaks the silence to start off the next round of questions.
Speaking of, it’s Cecil’s turn. “Those statements you take.”
“Yeah?” Tim says, like he’s been waiting for Cecil to ask, or maybe like he’s been wanting to ask the reverse of the question Cecil is about to ask.
“Do they…fuel you? The way the interviews do me?”
“Yeah,” Tim says again, this time as an affirmative rather than a prompt. He purses his lips briefly. “Does anyone in your life know that you get energy from those interviews?”
Hey, okay, ouch. But, Cecil concedes, fair. “No. Carlos is the first person I’ve ever been close enough to talk to about it, and by then it was just so normal I didn’t think about it.” He glances at Tim. “Does your family know?”
“We got all this from the Primes,” Tim reminds him. “Jon Prime was a full blown avatar before we ever met him. There was never going to be a scenario where they didn’t know.”
“It doesn’t bother them?”
Tim sighs. “I think I have an advantage over you in that they’re both part of the Beholding, too. And were before I became…what I am. They knew me before I was what I am.” He pauses, then adds, “And they don’t actually realize I’m…what I am. I think even the Primes are convinced it’s still Jon.”
Cecil nods. “Fair. I don’t think anyone I know actually realizes that I’m the Voice. Or at least that that’s an actual title.”
Tim hesitates. It’s not a full blown silence this time, but there’s a definite break in the conversation before he finally asks, “Do you…ever get tired of it?”
“Of what?”
“Of being the only one with secrets.”
Cecil doesn’t answer for several moments, but not because he’s trying to change the subject. This is the first time in his life he’s ever been able to talk to anyone about this. Most people don’t know. Leonard might have, but once he left the radio station he didn’t want to talk much, and then he was gone and there was no one left to talk to. And Cecil shares so much on the radio that Tim is probably the first one to notice that he never really talks about himself.
“That’s why I haven’t pushed Carlos to talk about whatever he’s keeping from me,” he admits at last. “I know he’s been…what did you call it? Marked? Even if I didn’t know the names for them—assuming we have the same names for them that you do—I knew something got at him. I wanted to ask, but…I don’t think he realizes that he can’t avoid answering me if I press him. At least if there’s a microphone in my hand. I haven’t really tested it without that. It doesn’t feel…fair.” He sighs. “Not like I’ve ever had a real, serious relationship before him.”
“I don’t want to take that away from you,” Tim says. “Or him. You deserve to be the one he tells, and it deserves to be his choice. But…God. I don’t know if I’m going to be able to make it the whole week without taking something.”
“I know. And as…interesting as Night Vale is, just standing and passively absorbing stories and fears doesn’t do nearly as much as you might think. You have to—” Cecil stops himself from saying you have to eat, but it’s true. Instead, he points out, “If you do take Carlos’…statement, at least it won’t be so tempting for me, because the story will be stale. Once that happens, maybe he will choose to tell me himself. Right now I don’t think he can.”
For the first time, Tim turns to fully look at Cecil. “You know they’re always afraid when they answer us, right?”
Cecil, too, turns to fully look at Tim. “I know.”
Tim stares at him for a moment, then nods. It’s not agreement, more confirmation of what he’s said, but both of them understand what they mean, and they both understand what’s going to happen, and they both understand that no one but the two of them will ever absolve them of it even if any of them even are aware that absolution is needed.
“Would you like to come be on the show sometime this week before you leave?” Cecil asks. “Maybe on Friday afternoon, before we all go to Janice’s wheelchair basketball game?”
And Tim answers, “Yes.”