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Nothing about being Carlos is glamorous. Even the living in a town unexplainable by the laws of physics part gets mundane after awhile.
This, though, is unglamorous on entirely new levels. Levels that involve a whole hell of a lot of pain.
Cecil is sweet--brings Carlos his painkillers, and feeds him by hand for the first couple of days until the swelling’s gone down enough for Carlos to do it himself without wanting to shriek every time he moves his arms, and guides him to the bathroom after Carlos realizes just how disoriented he is under the influence of heavy narcotics.
And he stands with his back turned and hands neatly clasped behind himself while Carlos takes care of his business, which is even better.
But Cecil isn’t eligible for FMLA--if FMLA is even a thing in Night Vale, which Carlos has to admit is in doubt--and so after the week off Station Management granted him to get Carlos out of the hospital and back home, Carlos is on his own--living in a Percodan haze, Cecil sleeping on his sofa but getting in long after Carlos is asleep and there in the morning only long enough to help him shave and get breakfast.
For the most part, Carlos is on his own.
Which is why, when the doorbell rings, he literally jerks in his chair and then stares blearily at the door, wondering why Cecil doesn’t just let himself in with his key. But the bell rings again, and finally Carlos drags himself to his feet and opens it so he can blink in surprise at someone who isn’t Cecil.
He bites his own tongue hard enough to come back from the floating-balloon Percodan feeling, and combs his brain: black, scleraless eyes; skin that reminds Carlos perfectly of a walnut in terms of both color and wrinkles; short, and round, and--
Right. Big Rico, whose name is actually John Angiotti. He’s got a delivery bag in one hand, and Carlos tries to remember if he ordered pizza. He might have. He’s kind of hungry, in a detached sort of way that means he’d probably be ravenous if he wasn’t high on narcotics. He should probably try to remember what he did with his wallet.
And then Rico is nodding at Carlos’ chest, and Carlos almost curses. He hasn’t been wearing anything over the bandages except his robe, and that only when Cecil’s around.
“Mastectomy, huh? My wife had one a them. They’re a bitch. Here, I’ll put this up for you.” Rico lifts the delivery bag. Carlos pulls his robe around himself and lets Rico inside--he’s not even sure he could put words into order to say no. “Cecil said you were under the weather when he came in for lunch, but he sure as hell didn’t say you shouldn’t be lifting nothing. Gotta put some sense into that boy. Kitchen's to the left, right?"
"Uh . . . Yeah. How much was . . . sorry, I'm a little . . . "
“Nope, nope, if I can’t afford a pie every now and again I ought to get out of the business,” Rico says, and slides the pizza and a side salad out of the delivery bag onto Carlos’ kitchen table. “Listen, you need anything, I ought to be the first number on your speed dial. Sheriff’s Secret Police take care of it when you move to town. You make sure you’re keeping those stitches clean, infection’s an even bigger bitch.”
Rico claps Carlos’ shoulder--gently, the man must be serious his wife’s surgery--and slings the bag back over his own shoulder. “Got to get back. Dance at the school tonight, you know, we’ll be busier’n a one-legged man in an ass-kicking contest. But I was serious about you giving me a call you need anything, it’s not two minutes to get up here.”
"I . . . thanks." Carlos fidgets with the robe. It's light, but even that tiny bit of pressure hurts. He looks down at his feet to be sure he doesn't tangle them around each other—again—and sees Rico to the door. Then he contemplates the food on the kitchen table.
The radio is also on the kitchen table, and he's far enough removed from his last dose of Percodan that maybe, just maybe, he could follow at least part of Cecil's show, instead of the whole thing sounding like one of those slowed-down-record nightmare soundtracks--although in all fairness, he thinks, that might not be the fault of the Percodan.
So he sits and flips open the pizza box and turns on the radio, just in time to hear Cecil reminding everyone they're supposed to eat at Rico's at least once a week and then moving on to a story about a dead woolly mammoth at the last PTA meeting. Typical news day, in other words, Carlos thinks as he bites into his pizza—peppers and onions and pepperoni, someone at Rico's has been paying attention to what Carlos eats—and then he wonders when an extinct animal at a PTA meeting became typical in his life, and then he realizes he's on schedule to take his ibuprofen and forgets all about the PTA meeting.
---------------
It's two days later when the bell rings again. Cecil is at a mayoral press conference with Dana, so it's not about the keys he forgot on Carlos' front hall rack this morning. Carlos heads for the door—at least this time, he thinks, he's remembered his robe—and there stands Josie, looking up at him with an extremely tall winged being that is definitely not an angel standing behind her looking down at him.
"Josie?"
"Mm-hmm," she says, and shoves a large thermos into Carlos' hands. "Lunch. I'm going to guess Cecil hasn't thought to do your laundry, I know how that boy thinks. If you can call that thinking."
"It's fine, I was actually going to—"
"Going to what, strip your bed and tear your stitches open? Don't be foolish. Let me in."
The unblinking stare from the (not an) angel is enough to convince Carlos he could stand here all day and not make any progress, and finally he does as she asks, face hot. Josie looks around the living room and shakes her head.
"Cecil," she says at last, and starts picking up Cecil's scattered pages of the New York Times. It amazes Carlos, a little, that Cecil can read the Times and still not believe in mountains or the moon, but then again, Carlos also isn't entirely sure Cecil's Times is the one Carlos is familiar with. "That boy. Feet in the stars, head in the clouds."
"Then he'd be upside down," Carlos points out, feeling sluggish and stupid and almost wishing he hadn't taken a Percodan when he got up. Josie clucks.
"Well, that's appropriate," she answers, and makes little shooing gestures. "Go sit down and have a bowl while it's hot, it won't keep forever."
Carlos goes to the kitchen and empties the thermos. It's some kind of potato and bacon soup, and after the first tentative bite he starts shoveling it into his mouth as fast as he can swallow. When he's off the Percs he's going to get this recipe from Josie if he has to get on his knees and beg.
The radio is playing some terrible pop music Cecil loves to dance to (and Carlos puts up with it because Cecil dancing is something to see, even when all his clothes stay on; Carlos has never met anybody who can take such simple joy in music the way Cecil can), and Carlos mostly tunes it out. Then he realizes his broom is sitting in the corner by the sink instead of in the broom closet—probably Cecil getting sidetracked making a cup of tea—and while sweeping is more efficient when he can use his whole arm, he can do it almost as easily from the elbows down.
He's got the floor mostly swept when Josie walks in with a bunch of mugs and loads them into the dishwasher. She glances at his handiwork and shakes her head before finding the dustpan. Carlos reaches to take it away from her, and she swats his side with it.
"I think not," she says, and gets to one knee. Carlos feels his face go hot again; Josie can't be a day under seventy. She shouldn't be cleaning his house. He tries to say so, and she makes the shooing gesture again.
"Maybe people don't neighbor in the big cities, but you're not there," she tells him, and then swipes the broom out of his hands to fill the dustpan. "Here, we take care of each other."
"I know, but—"
"You'd better get used to it," she scolds. "Cecil said on the radio last night you're still recovering. I'm surprised half the town wasn't here this morning."
Carlos blinks hard, trying to clear his head, and catches sight of the coffeemaker. Cecil makes the most incredible coffee Carlos has ever had—plain percolator machine, regular old Folgers coffee, but Cecil does things to it before he hits the brew button and they make Carlos' daily caffeine taste like a piece of heaven—and there's still half a pot, turned off promptly after Cecil poured his own to keep it from burning.
"Can I get you some coffee?"
"You can tell me where you keep your mugs, and I'll get the coffee," Josie answers. "You can sit and rest."
"I've been sitting and resting for two weeks," Carlos protests, and she waves him off again.
"Never turn down food or a chance to rest. You don't know when you'll have them again."
It sounds like decent advice, especially in Night Vale, and so finally Carlos shakes his head and tells her the mugs are over the sink. Josie finds them and fixes a tray—sugar, cream, gluten-free shortbread cookies, a wry shake of the head at the little bottle of Bailey's Cecil installed in Carlos' fridge to put in his own morning drink—and brings the mugs to the table. On the radio, Britney Spears ends—at least, Carlos thinks it's Britney Spears—and the NVCR morning deejay signs off. Lunchtime with Lindsey comes on, and after an actual weather report (which Lindsey always announces as "the daily gripe," a title Carlos is pretty sure is some kind of elaborate joke) Cecil's voice comes on, a perky 90-second headlines-only version of the news recorded at eight that morning. Then Cecil is replaced by La Bohéme, and Carlos shakes his head. Someday—maybe after he's been in Night Vale for about eighty years—Night Vale radio will start making sense.
There's a loud buzz, and Carlos jumps enough to almost spill his coffee. Josie clucks at him, and shakes her head, and gets up. A few minutes later, Carlos hears the dryer start. Josie comes back and drains her mug.
"You tell Cecil I said he'd better fold that laundry for you," she says, and puts her mug in the dishwasher. "I know he's busy, nobody knows that better than me, when he was a boy the morning show was Morning Joe with Josie—"
"You were a deejay?" Carlos is aware he sounds curious for the first time in a couple of weeks, and decides it's a good sign. Either he's getting used to the pain, or the pain is receding. Josie laughs.
"I was the deejay," she corrects. "Ask Cecil sometime who taught him how to run the soundboard. If I'd had blue eyes and a beard and one of those terrible eyebrow piercings you'd probably never hear a single word about Leonard Burton."
For the first time since Carlos went under the knife, he laughs. It hurts, but it's tolerable. More than tolerable. It feels good to laugh, good to smile. Josie smiles back.
"You make sure he takes care of those sheets," she says. "They'll wrinkle otherwise. And stop fretting. This is a good town. It's not a crime to let people here like you."
"I'll keep that in mind."
"Make sure you do," she tells him. "There's another load in the washer, and if he knows what's good for him he'll put it in the dryer and fold it when it's done. I don't have to be his supervisor anymore to give him an earful."
Carlos chuckles again and shakes his head.
-----------
This time when the doorbell rings, Carlos has an undershirt on. The worst of the pain is over, there's that to be thankful for, but he's also expecting the bell at this point, and even though it's one of Cecil's rare days off Carlos is determined to answer the door on his own.
It's Steve Carlsberg, and Carlos can hear Cecil muttering in the living room when he says hello. Steve doesn't ask to come inside. Instead he hands Carlos a paper bag and a glass dish with something Carlos is pretty sure is lasagne in it.
"Eleanor said she usually sees you two out on Cecil's day off and didn't think you'd be up to it," Steve says. Carlos still doesn't understand how Steve and Eleanor work—they're legally divorced, but as far as Carlos can tell, the dissolution is only on paper—but he'sthankful Eleanor has someone to send, because no, he's not up to even their twice-monthly trip to the Moonlite All-Nite. And whatever's in the dish smells delicious.
"Thanks," he says, and carefully deposits the dish on the hall table before he can drop it. Steve nods and glances in the general direction of Carlos' living room, where Cecil is watching I Love Lucy because Carlos can't handle anything with a serious plot right now. Carlos shrugs. Steve shrugs back.
"Bag's for later," Steve comments. "Cecil doesn't really have what I think most people would call a decent eye for clothes and you're going to have some replacing to do."
Carlos opens his mouth to ask how Steve knows. Then he shuts it again. Cecil would have some answer that involves void and the Sheriff's Secret Police; Steve actually thinks like the people Carlos knows outside of Night Vale, and so his answer would probably be a logical one: town grapevine, maybe, or perhaps Cecil oversharing on the radio again (an idea that makes Carlos intensely uneasy, but nobody's spray-painted slurs on his door or left him anonymous phone messages calling him "it," so maybe not after all), or maybe even a friend of his own who's trans. "Thanks."
"Not a problem," Steve says. "You take care of yourself. I'm going to get back before Eleanor thinks I turned the wrong way down Ourobouros and fell down the sinkhole."
"I'll send your dish to the PTA meeting," Carlos says, and then Cecil is behind him, staring suspiciously at the pan.
"What is that?"
"Eleanor Carlsberg sent us dinner," Carlos answers, and then lifts the foil. Whatever's inside smells delicious. "I think it's lasagne. That's what it looks like through the side, anyway."
"If Steve Carlsberg cooked it, it's probably toxic."
"It smells good," Carlos counters, and Cecil picks the dish up with a sigh. Carlos deposits the bag in the hall closet to go through later.
It is lasagne—a great one, with fresh mushrooms and spinach and cheese and rice flour pasta—and even Cecil goes back for seconds before digging some vanilla ice cream out of the freezer for dessert. Carlos covers the leftovers and puts them in the fridge.
"Let's go put on a stupid movie," he suggests. Before his top surgery "stupid movie" was code for half-naked making out on the sofa, something his chest is still too tender for, but he thinks he's finally coherent enough to enjoy spooning, if he can be on the inside.
Cecil picks out something Carlos has never heard of called The Star-Creatures From The Inexpressible Void, which appears to be a Night Valean send-up of Rocky Horror. They sit and hold hands, and after an extremely long time Carlos finally realizes Cecil's been fidgeting for most of the movie.
"Is something bothering you?"
"Hm? No! Nothing, my lovely Carlos, I'm fine."
Carlos hits pause. "No, you're not."
"No, I'm really—"
"You're laying it on with a trowel, Cecil, you only do that when you're lying."
There's a long pause. Carlos feels something icy descend into his stomach as Cecil bites his lip.
"It's not about me."
Carlos wants to be sick. It's the first night they've spent up together since Carlos' furlough began, and if that's Cecil's opening line—
Cecil looks distressed. Carlos feels Cecil's hand on his cheek, and then long fingers tucking his hair behind his ear. "My sweet Carlos. Please don't look like that, I know sometimes my priorities are out of order but—"
"But you can't handle this." Carlos closes his eyes. It's always been easier to handle imminent rejection when he doesn't have to look at it, especially because Cecil doesn't answer right away.
"It's hard," Cecil finally says, and Carlos bites his tongue. He's far enough away from his last Perc to actually feel upset, which doesn't mean he wants to cry. "I don't know what to do. I mean, I know, everybody in Night Vale wants to help you and that means you have plenty of food and people checking in when I can't be here and that's fine, I'm not jealous, I'm glad you have them, but I'm your boyfriend and there's nothing else I can do for you and it feels, Carlos, like I'm standing on a mist-shrouded pier staring out at you in a rowboat with no oars adrift on a cold lake and can't be bothered offering you a line to pull you to shore." Carlos opens his eyes just in time to see Cecil hugging himself, and Carlos stares. Cecil rarely if ever self-comforts; Carlos has only ever seen it twice, and both times for things that would have left Carlos a sobbing wreck in a corner. "I promised to help you change, and I don't know how. I can't kiss you and make it better, I can't take your pain away, there's no sacrifice I can make to any god I know so you don't have to have more surgeries, I can't even hold you without hurting you, I can't do what I promised to do."
Carlos feels his mouth drop open, and tears come to his eyes in spite of himself. Cecil stares at him, horrified, and reaches out to brush them away. Carlos catches Cecil's hand and squeezes it. Then he stands up, and before Cecil can follow he plunks back down crosswise in Cecil's lap and pulls Cecil's arms around his hips.
He doesn't have Cecil's words, but Carlos doesn't need the master’s degree on the wall to know Cecil understands gestures just as much as speeches. Cecil lets out a quiet "oh" and reaches up to touch Carlos' lips, and Carlos leans his head against Cecil's.
"You have no idea how much you help me just by being here," he says. "Even if I don't get to see you for most of the day, knowing you're coming back and I don't disgust you—"
"Carlos, why would you think you’d—"
"A lot of people think trans people are disgusting. And a lot of other people think we're weird. You're the first person I ever met who saw me half-dressed and complimented me like it didn't change anything."
"Of course it didn't change anything. Those people are wrong." Cecil puts a finger on Carlos' lips. "You're still smart and lovely and sweet and brave and kind and beautiful and wonderful, Carlos, your body doesn't change any of those things." Cecil pauses. "Well—the beautiful part could be problematic, if you decided you wanted to look like Jabba the Hun."
Carlos starts laughing, and this time it almost doesn't hurt at all. "Hutt," he corrects, still snickering. "Jabba the Hutt, Cecil, oh my god." He rests his head on Cecil's to steady himself until the laughter subsides. "Yeah. That could be a problem." He slides his close arm around Cecil's shoulders, careful to keep his weight off his chest. "That's more helpful than food, you know," he supplies, and this time he's the one with a finger on Cecil's lips instead of the other way around. "Sometimes I need a reminder. And you—plenty of people can feed me after surgery, Cecil, but you bought me tampons."
"Of course I bought you tampons, I'm not going to be responsible for you having to walk around Night Vale covered in blood," Cecil says, and the tone in his voice is enough to make Carlos grin again. Then the grin fades, and he watches concern creep back into Cecil's expression before he shakes his head, frustrated, wishing for Cecil's unselfconscious ability to spit out into well-formed sentences whatever he happens to be thinking.
"It's not just the tampons, it's—" He frowns. Then he stands up, gestures Cecil to follow, waits until Cecil is unfolded from the sofa before sliding his arms behind Cecil's from below and resting his head on Cecil's shoulder, almost close enough to touch but without the pressure on his chest. "I needed you and you were there," he manages at last. "You've been there since the moment I set foot in Night Vale, whenever I needed you, no matter why I needed you. And that—that, whatever you call it, knowing you've got my back, that's important, Cecil, it's so important I didn't even know I needed it until I had it and then couldn't imagine what I'd do without it." He raises his head, gauges whether he thinks he can handle standing on his toes without stumbling before pulling Cecil's head down to kiss away the last of the doubt on his face. "You faced down station management to get family leave for me."
"It wasn't that hard, I think they actually like you—"
"You did my grocery shopping. Off my list. Even though you hate pinto beans."
"You're recovering from surgery—"
"You've respected my body since the moment I came out to you, and if you try brushing that off with some justification about decency I'm going to—I'm going to do something, and you're not going to like it, and it might involve wheat byproducts, Cecil."
The look of horror on Cecil's face almost makes Carlos laugh. Then it fades, softens into fondness. "Well—I love you. And decent people would respect you." He brushes Carlos' hair off his face. "But I'll accept what you say about it helping."
Carlos smiles as Cecil drops a kiss on his forehead. "Good," he says. "We should finish the movie."
Cecil smiles back. Carlos glances at his watch as they sit down—it doesn't keep real time worth a damn, but as an instrument for measuring amounts of time, it seems to do okay—and realizes he's due for his next Perc.
Cecil swings his legs onto the sofa to make a nest for Carlos to lie in comfortably. Carlos ponders it, and then he lays, head on Cecil's hip, legs bent near the sofa arm.
He'll probably need it before they finish the movie, but for now, he's okay just being loved.
---------------------
"Give me another five minutes."
His first trip out of the apartment shouldn't be this hard.
But one thing he didn't do before the surgery was shopping, and between the mastectomy and the ongoing T injections, his shape has changed. More.
Too much, in terms of fitting into clothes he already owns, and while he's thrilled by the flat chest and broader shoulders he's extremely unhappy with shirts that don't button right and underclothes that pull in all the wrong places. Finally he jettisons the T-shirt—he has no choice—and stares, frustrated, at the half a dozen shirts scattered across his bed. He's never been big on worrying about fashion sense, but comfort is—
Cecil doesn't really have what I think most people would call a decent eye for clothes.
Comfort might be as close as his hall closet.
Carlos finds the bag Steve gave him two weeks ago, stashed between Cecil's knapsack (because Cecil refuses to carry a briefcase these days, and while he's never said why Carlos has checked the look in his eyes and he's pretty sure it has to do with Strex) and Carlos' raincoat (because for some reason, it rains in Night Vale far more than the technical geographic definition of "desert" ought to allow).
He carries it back to the bedroom and tips it out on the bed, and then he bites his tongue before he can do much more than make a sound too choked to be a gasp.
It's not that the clothes are bigger. He remembers Steve commenting that Carlos would have to update his wardrobe; he expected bigger. This, listeners, he hears in Cecil's voice, goes beyond a change in size.
Cecil is waiting patiently when Carlos finally opens his door, and his own gasp isn't choked—in fact, it's almost theatrical in its size.
"Carlos, you look wonderful!"
"Yeah, I think I like it," Carlos says, and then he grins. Night Vale Target tends to have some pretty interesting color combinations when it comes to clothing, and Carlos is pretty sure anything with brown and cream pinstripes had to come off Amazon. He's not sure how Steve figured out his neck and shoulder sizes—that answer probably really does have to do with the Sheriff's Secret Police—but it's still incredible to wear clothes that fit, something that shows off his new, better shape, that he can happily wear when one of his superiors shows up to go over a review of his most recent paper.
It feels good. And the lingering ache in his chest is nothing compared to the stars in Cecil's eyes.
They walk to Rico's—not the most romantic date, but it's close and low-key and Carlos is ready to get out of the house but not for five or six hours—and Cecil pushes open the door to let Carlos inside.
There's not a party going on, exactly, but when he steps inside the room goes silent and then someone raises a cup of Coca-Cola and yells "hey, it's Carlos!" and suddenly Big Rico's is full of cheering and yelling and a pair of people—Carlos is pretty sure they're both high schoolers, but he can't see for sure before they're gone—quickly vacating the little table he and Cecil usually share. Someone else yells a pizza order at the kitchen, and still someone else hollers a question about Carlos and margaritas. Carlos shrugs and shakes his head at Cecil—say what? Cecil leans close, low over the table.
"Someone wants to know if you've been off painkillers long enough to have a drink," Cecil says, and after a moment's thought Carlos nods.
"I'm still on them, but not the ones you've got to skip the hard stuff for," he answers, and Cecil raises his arms in a burlesque thumbs-up.
"We're not going to be allowed to pay for our food tonight, are we?" Carlos asks, as the noise level slowly returns to normal. Cecil chuckles and shakes his head.
"Enjoy it," he suggests. "People are glad you're back."
"I didn't know this many people even knew I existed," Carlos shoots back, and Cecil rolls his eyes.
"Carlos," he scolds. "My dear Carlos. Do you really think people could fail to notice you and your brilliant work?"
"I'm not sure carnivorous caterpillar molt cycles count as 'brilliant'," Carlos counters, but he lets Cecil kiss him across the table, and he's feeling well enough to wave a single sardonic hand at whoever happens to be whistling in their direction. Someone deposits a glass on their table, and Carlos looks up. It's a margarita—of course it is—the kind Rico's calls Gold Ritas because the mix is made with oranges, something Carlos is pretty sure only happens in Night Vale—and he takes a single sweet sip of it before holding the glass out to Cecil, who looks perplexed.
"I know you don't really do tequila, but this is good," he says, and Cecil takes a sip of his own. He looks vaguely put out.
"I wanted to buy your first one," he says, and Carlos takes another long sip.
"You can buy my next one," he suggests. "And the one after that. And the one after that. I'm not going to make any promises past three, once I can play pool again I'm sure the guys at the bar are going to line up chips of their own."
Cecil starts laughing. "They've already got chips lined up, I went last night for a glass of wine before I went home," he answers. "Gary from the junkyard said you owe him a beer and a mastectomy is no excuse."
Carlos snorts into his margarita. "I think I do owe him a beer," he admits. "He kicked my ass at darts."
"Never play darts with an Air Force captain," Cecil declares. "It looks like our food is done."
The waitress deposits a pizza on their table—peppers and onions and pepperoni, Carlos' favorite—and offers Carlos a smile bright enough to power Las Vegas. "Glad you're doing better," she says, and Carlos nods and smiles as she heads off. Cecil reaches a hand across the table. Carlos squeezes it and grins. "Everybody wanted to tell me how scatterbrained they know you are."
"Ugh." Cecil rolls his eyes again. Carlos laughs.
“It feels good, you know,” he says. “Even though it still hurts. It was worth it.”
Cecil squeezes back. “I’m glad.” He brushes his thumb across the back of Carlos’ hand. “So what next?”
“Well, my sabbatical’s six months long,” Carlos tells him. “I’m going to be mostly through recovery just in time to go back to work. I’d like to get out of town and go shopping somewhere with bigger stores at some point. I’ve never been able to wear whatever I wanted before.”
“LA is a day trip from here,” Cecil offers, and his smile is unusually shy. “We could spend a weekend?”
“I’d like that.” Carlos looks down at their hands, still clasped under the pizza tray. “LA isn’t Night Vale, though, you know,” he says. “I mean--there could be people--”
“Who won’t lay a finger on you, if they know what’s good for them,” Cecil cuts in. “I know what people outside Night Vale can be like. I’ve traveled, you know.” He reaches out, brushes Carlos’ cheek, lets his hand fall and puts a piece of pizza on Carlos’ plate. “And those people don’t know you. What they have to say doesn’t matter.”
“It could be dangerous.”
Cecil rolls his eyes. “Please, my dear Carlos, danger is forgetting to leave proper raw-meat offerings for Station Management. Nobody is going to even think about bringing harm to you unless they’d like to argue with me, and no matter what they think I look like I think they’d be in for an extremely unpleasant surprise.” Carlos opens his mouth to protest, and Cecil puts a single finger over it. “I’m not making jokes. I won’t let you be hurt.”
“It shouldn’t be up to you to have to protect me.”
Cecil pauses halfway through a bite of pizza. Carlos twirls his fingers to get Cecil to swallow it. Cecil does and then straightens up, primly, the way he does when he wants to be taken seriously. Carlos has always been too entertained to tell him how much it makes him look like a maiden aunt.
“You bring me lunch when I’m working. That’s even.”
“Cecil, picking up Arby’s and offering to hurt somebody are not even.”
Cecil puts his hands under his chin and ponders. Carlos stares. He’s seen Cecil less than articulate before, but never actually lost for words. Finally Cecil turns his head, rests his cheek on his fingers.
“I bought you tampons,” he says. “And you sit with me during lunch.”
Carlos is about to say it’s not the same thing. Then he remembers some of the questions he asked after Cecil said he was a telepath, the answer I can’t see everything but just about, and how it might feel to sit alone day after day after day watching other people in love and passion without having a hand to hold--not for him, but for Cecil, who constantly craves human contact.
“Okay,” he says at last. “But I’m not a damsel in distress.”
Cecil looks vaguely offended. “Of course not. You make things explode in beakers, Carlos, that’s a very dangerous talent.”
Carlos bites his tongue before he can laugh. Then he reaches out and takes Cecil’s hand again.
“All right. But only for real danger, Cecil, I mean it. Rude comments are not real danger.”
Cecil sighs. “I understand.” He strokes Carlos’ cheek. “If anybody in Night Vale tries it, though--”
Carlos looks out over the Rico’s dining room. People have mostly gone back to their own meals and--as always--there’s a pair of kids fighting over the pinball machine in the corner, but occasionally someone glances in their direction, always with an expression so alien to Carlos’ life before Night Vale that it took him more than a year to recognize it: regard.
“You know,” he says, slowly, thoughtfully, like he’s realizing it for the first time. “I get the impression it won’t be. Josie was right, I think.”
“About?”
“This is a good town.”