Archive of Our Own

Tom Simons is a certifiably big man.

For the last two years, he’s been on his own, and he’s been doing fine. He’s fine! It doesn’t matter that he’s completely alone and more lost in his life than he’s ever been, working random jobs and driving his tiny RV from state to state, with no friends, no family, no prospects, and, perhaps worst of all, no wife . Which is, honestly, unacceptable. He’s not depressed or anything like that, he’s Tommy! Tommy is a ray of fucking sunshine and he’s not sitting in a nearly empty diner at 2 AM, staring into a cup of coffee and idly picking at pancakes while the waitress keeps looking at him like she’s wondering if she should call CPS.

He’s fine. He’s not lost. He’s not in the middle of the Sonoran Desert, contemplating where he’s going in life as he picks blueberries off the side of his plate, staring absently at the TV playing Fox News, the subtitles informing him that the stuck-up ass of an announcer is going on about politics again.

Tommy finishes the last blueberry, and the waitress comes to grab his plate as he sips his coffee, and a few minutes later comes back with his check.

“You don’t have to leave yet,” she adds, and there’s that pitying look again. “Stay as long as you need to, sweetheart. I’ll keep refilling your coffee.”

“Thanks,” Tommy tells her, smiling, and the waitress pauses, leaning back against a nearby table for a moment.

“You know,” she begins, watching as Tommy digs his wallet out and pulls out his debit card, “there’s this old story around here that you might be interested in.” And, hell, Tommy is bored and all he was going to do tonight was curl up in the back of his RV, on his shit mattress and scroll through his phone, so he motions for her to go on. “They say if you drive far enough into the desert with no destination in mind and a bit of desperation, you’ll come across a strange little town. They say that you know you’re almost there when you can only pick up two radio stations-- one that just plays a series of numbers, and with a perfect, smooth voice and the most haunting stories.”

Tommy sips his coffee, contemplating for a moment. “Is that true?” he asks, and the waitress shrugs as she pushes off the table.

“No clue. I only ever heard of one guy who attempted to find it, but he never came back, so maybe it is. Maybe he found a home there.”

Tommy hums, watching as she turns to greet some old trucker who just wandered in, and makes sure to leave her a decent tip before he finishes his coffee and heads out to his shitty little RV, and sure enough, he crawls into the back, and plugs in his phone, spending the rest of the night doomscrolling through TikTok and Twitter.

The next few days continue much of the same pattern. Tommy drives around the Sonoran, stopping at rest stops and gas stations and tiny towns tucked into the desert, occasionally doing odd jobs for some extra cash to fill his gas tank and to make sure he has enough groceries to keep himself fed. It’s not a perfect life, but the nomadic life is one Tommy is used to. Ever since he left the foster system when he got emancipated at 17, he bought this crappy RV from his neighbors at the time and never looked back. Even though his license reads “Massachusetts”, he’s pretty sure he’s not a resident of that state anymore. Or maybe he is. He doesn’t know how that works.

He’ll worry about it when he has to go to the DMV to get the damn thing renewed in two more years. For now, it’s not important, and Tommy doesn’t care enough to make it important.

He hears the same story the waitress told him again about a week later, this time on the edge of the Sonoran and Mojave Deserts in Southern California, the only sign of the change being a sign at the “border” of the sandy dunes. He’s paying for gas at the station, and, out of pure curiosity and boredom, asks the cashier if he knows any “banger urban legends.”

The cashier shrugs as he counts Tommy’s change. “I mean, the only one I know is about that weird ass radio show. If you drive off into the desert at night without a destination in mind, once you reach a certain spot your radio will only pick up a couple stations. One of them is this afternoon/evening radio show with this guy who’s got a great voice but says the oddest shit. Don’t remember what the other is.”

Tommy hums as he takes his chance, brow furrowing. “I think I heard that one before.”

The attendant doesn’t seem bothered. “Probably. Pretty sure it’s from Reddit.”

Tommy thanks the man and heads back to his RV, change in hand. Later that night, when he finds a place to park, he makes a quick post on r/UrbanLegends, asking if anyone has ever heard the story told by the gas station attendant or the waitress. He’s not really expecting much out of it, maybe a few upvotes and one or two replies, so he puts his phone aside and curls up in bed, trying his best to fall asleep.

Somehow, he manages, and when he wakes up in the morning, he opens his phone to find that, while his post hasn’t gone viral or anything, it’s gotten more attention than he expected. He opens it and reads some of the replies:

gummbear666

i’ve heard of it before. we used to dare each other to drive out in the desert at night when we were teenagers to hear the radio show. never heard anything tho.

poggersmoth_

One of my college roommates claims to have heard the radio show once. He said it was weird but not too creepy? He thought it was staged or a publicity thing or fiction stuff. IDK how trustworthy he was, tbh.

There are several other comments like that, of people who’ve heard of the radio show, or rumors of a town somewhere in the southwest that doesn’t show up on any maps, but there’s one in particular near the bottom that catches Tommy’s eyes:

Sinfonia

It’s real. The radio show and the town. You won’t find any trace of either outside of places like this, but I promise it’s all real. That place saved me.

There are a couple of people under Sinfonia’s comment arguing about the validity of their claim, and asking for proof, but Sinfonia hasn’t responded to any of them, and yet somehow it sticks with Tommy. Even through a screen, through the vast distance of the internet, he gets the feeling that they’re being genuine. Maybe it’s the insistence, or maybe Tommy just… wants to believe that it’s real. That the urban legends about a town that only the desperate and lonely can find, a place where solace awaits anyone, are true. That maybe there’s a place even for lonely ex-foster kids like him.

Maybe it’s stupid, but as he upvotes Sinfonia’s comment, he feels this strange spark of hope .

The days continue to pass, and Tommy continues to drive his RV aimlessly about the desert, and he can’t shake the story from his head. He can’t shake Sinfonia’s comment from his head. That place saved me , they’d said. They had never elaborated how, and when Tommy went to their Reddit profile, everything else was fairly normal. Most of their posts were in Spanish, but they were all on things like r/RealBeesFakeTopHats and r/Daddit and other boring, ordinary subreddits. Nothing else eluding to the urban legend, or strange towns, or anything. By all means, Tommy should write them off as a troll or some shit, but… he doesn’t. 

It sticks.

🜁☾🜃

Tommy thankfully doesn’t have too many bad days. He has a lot of neutral days, where things feel repetitive and empty and dull, but the bad days are limited (so are the good days, but that’s just for him to know). But when he does have bad days, they are bad days .

Today is one of them.

Tommy wakes up and doesn’t have any desire to get out of bed, doesn’t have any strength to so much as roll over to check the time on his phone. All he wants to do is lie there, and hope that these feelings will just… go away. That the ache in his chest, the self-loathing that weighs on him like a boulder will fade away, will allow him to find the strength to at least try and get up, instead of lying there, digging deeper and deeper into this hole. But Tommy deserves to stay in this pit. He’s worthless-- no one really wants anything to do with him. That’s why he’s out here in the first place, in an RV in some campground in the desert with no one else around. Because he’s an insufferable little prick who would be better off dead.

At least then things would be quiet.

The day passes much the same, with Tommy huddled beneath his blankets as the sun crests over the sky, wanting nothing more than it all to fucking end. It doesn’t, of course, because that isn’t how the world works, and eventually the sun crests back down over the horizon and plunges him, still alone, still in the same spot in bed he woke up in, into total darkness. At this point, Tommy should at least get up, get a shower, and maybe brush his teeth, but he’s still just… spiraling.

I want to die, Tommy thinks, burying his head in his pillow as his throat closes and his chest gets so very, very tight. He can’t breathe. I should just die.

He’s not sure why, but it’s that thought that finally gets him out of bed. He doesn’t go take a shower, he barely bothers to throw a sweatshirt and some shoes on, and heads to the front of the RV, starting the engine and closing his eyes as he listens to it stutter and growl to life. The sound is familiar, both comforting and haunting, and after a moment, Tommy buckles his seat belt and shifts into gear before pulling away from the campground, turning on his radio for the background noise, trying to drown out his mounting panic attack.

He knows he shouldn’t be driving right now, but… he can’t think of anything else to do. So he just drives, with no real destination in mind, watching as the dark desert passes him by, the silhouettes of stone formations and cacti slipping past the windows. He’s not sure what he’s doing, he has no idea where he’s going, and all he can think in his mind is to just… drive. To go, to get out of-- of-- he doesn’t know.

The desert passes before him, endless and empty, and at some point his radio loses signal, but Tommy doesn’t stop. Just keeps going and going, chasing corners to make sure he doesn’t run out of road, and for all he knows he’s going around in circles, and then--

The radio picks up a signal. The end of a blues song fades out, and instead, a voice comes in, smooth and calming, a surprising balm for Tommy’s fried nerves.

“We are only as much as we can see. And we don’t see. Welcome, to Night Vale.”

Tommy pauses as the voice fades out and a song, soft and mysterious, plays over the radio, winding through his ears and over the jagged edges of his mind. It feels like home , something Tommy’s not sure he’s ever felt before.

The song fades back out, and the voice returns.

“Good evening, listeners. I’m going to start us off tonight with a statement given to me by the owner of Oasis Coffee and Pastries. You know him, right? Very tall, curly hair, glasses? Wilbur Soot? Very pleasant guy, I highly recommend stopping by his shop for a cup of warm coffee or tea, if you prefer, and a wheat and wheat-by-product free pastry. Anyways, Wilbur has asked me to inform you that they have not received their weekly order of bloodstones, and so will be unable to perform their usual Saturday night ritual of extinct animal sacrifices and speaking in tongues. He did say, though, that he’s trying a new matcha recipe! So I highly recommend giving that a try.”

“What the fuck?” Tommy mutters, blinking, because this is not a normal radio show. He wonders if this is what the urban legends meant by ‘weird’. Because this certainly qualifies as fucking weird .

His engine stutters, and for a moment Tommy’s worried it’ll stop altogether, but then it smooths out again, and Tommy sighs, relieved, as he’s able to keep driving.

“In other news, the currently vacant Night Vale mayor’s office has been the victim of a flash flood. The building itself is fine-- it seems the flooding only affected the main office. The lobby, break room, and side offices are clean and dry, but the actual office intended to host the mayor is filled with brackish water. Flash flooding is no joke, Night Vale! I know we rarely get rain here, but any amount of rain, whether it’s a few centimeters or multiple inches, can cause flash floods in our little town. There’s just no infrastructure for rain! So please, when rain is expected, stay indoors. Or, at the very least, out of the mayor’s office.”

Tommy almost wants to laugh, because it’s so… outlandish. Strange. He crests a hill, and to his surprise, he can see the lights of a small town in the distance. He wonders what town, exactly, he’s coming up on. Is this the ‘Night Vale’ the radio host is talking about? He’s never even heard of the place, and there weren’t any nearby towns when he checked his map the day before yesterday. 

The engine stutters again, and this time it doesn’t pick back up. Cursing, Tommy pulls the RV to the side of the road just before it stalls and stops completely. But somehow, the radio is still going even as Tommy repeatedly tries to start the engine.

“And one more safety tip, listeners. Make sure when your RV breaks down that you’re pulled fully off the road, and set up warning lights, if you have them! It’s important to keep yourself and your vehicle safe in an emergency.”

Tommy freezes because there’s no way in hell that this radio announcer knows that he’s broken down at the side of the road.

“And yes, Tom Simons, I do know that you’re broken down on the roadside. I always know.”

Tommy gapes at the radio as the man moves on to talk about High School sports, going on about a basketball that the opposing team tried to sabotage by filling it with mercury and liquid lead. He turns the radio down after another moment and climbs out, figuring that the announcer probably has a good point with the road safety, at least, and that he probably should put up some reflectors, so no one hits him or his car.

It doesn’t take him long to dig out a set of reflective triangles and a flashlight before he clambers out of the RV. It’s not too cold out, thankfully, and it only takes Tommy a moment to flick on the flashlight and set up the reflectors so anyone coming from either side of the road will see them and hopefully slow down and stay out of the way so he doesn’t get hit. Not that there’s any traffic at all, out here-- Tommy hasn’t seen any cars at all tonight, actually. Just him.

He sighs and grabs a stool from the back so he can properly see into the engine, popping it open and wincing at the smell. He can’t outright see anything wrong with it, but Tommy’s never been that great with cars. You’d think after spending two years driving around the States in the same RV he’d at least have some idea, but nope. No clue.

“Fuck, shit, fuck ,” Tommy mutters, staring absently into the engine. He should probably go back into the RV, see if he can find his phone, if he’s got enough signal to call AAA or some shit, so he can at least get to a hotel or something for the night.

Just as he steps off the stool, though, he hears the sound of a car and turns to see a simple silver SUV pull up on the opposite side of the road before pulling over, and Tommy figures there are two options here-- one, someone has graciously decided to help him or two, he’s about to be murdered and buried out in the desert where no one will ever find him. 

The door opens, and a tall figure steps out and Tommy has to resist the urge not to shine his flashlight directly in their face. Actually, fuck that. Tommy shines his flashlight directly in their face.

“Ow, shit, point that somewhere else!” the figure, masculine with soft curls and wire-framed glasses, curses as they hold their hands up to block the light while also trying to cross the road without getting hit by a car. Tommy lowers the flashlight.

The man jogs up beside him, scowling slightly. “Do you greet everyone who stops to help you by pointing a blinding flashlight in their eyes?”

Tommy shrugs directing the flashlight at their feet instead. “Impulsive thoughts won.”

The man sighs, pushing his glasses up to rub at his eyes. “Lovely. Do you actually want help or are you just going to be a pain?”

“I want help,” Tommy admits, pointing his flashlight at the RV’s hood. “Why are you out so late?”

The man gives him a look as he walks over to the hood, stepping onto the stool and directing Tommy to shine the light over the mechanics. “I had to close my cafe late, and then I happened to overhear Cecil mention you on the radio. Thought I’d get my yearly good deed out of the way by coming to lend you a hand.”

“Cecil?”

“The radio announcer,” the man explains, lifting a cap and adjusting some things, coating his hands in grime and oil.

“Wait, you own a cafe? Is it the Oasis?” Tommy asks, recalling the first announcement on the radio show.

“That’s the one.”

“Then you’re Wilbur Soot?” Tommy asks, and the man nods, tugging at something in the engine and tutting softly.

“That’s me. Bad news-- your timing belt snapped. The RV won’t run at all until it’s replaced, and it looks like it damaged the cylinders and a few other parts. It’ll all need to be repaired, and the RV will have to be towed,” Wilbur says as he hops down from the stool, shutting the hood.

“That’s… shit ,” Tommy mutters, stressed. “That’s not good.”

“Nope,” Wilbur agrees, popping the ‘p’. “And unfortunately, even somewhere like Night Vale that’s up all night, there aren’t any tow trucks out at this hour.”

“Fuck, that’s… that’s literally my everything,” Tommy says quietly, staring at his broken RV. “... shit.”

“I can give you a ride?” Wilbur offers, sticking his hands in his pockets, and Tommy glances back at him. “I mean, I’d rather not be stuck with the guilt of knowing that I left some kid alone on the side of the road.”

“I’m not a kid,” Tommy argues, but it’s weak, and… “I don’t have enough money to pay you back. I don’t think I even have enough money for a motel.”

Wilbur shrugs. “My family has a spare room you can stay in, if you want, and don’t worry about paying me-- I wouldn’t have offered if I expected something from you. And I promise I’m not going to hurt you or anything.”

Tommy eyes, him, still unsure. “You’re not going to use me as a substitute for the… what was it, extinct animals in your ritual?”

He expects Wilbur to laugh, like the broadcast was some inside joke, and Wilbur does huff out a chuckle, but then he says, “You’re not an extinct animal, Tom. And besides, didn’t you hear? The ritual had to be canceled anyway. I don’t have any bloodstones.”

“What the fuck is a bloodstone?” Tommy stutters, and this time he gets a full laugh from Wilbur.

“Stone. Of blood. It’s in the name, mate,” Wilbur tells him, before gesturing towards his car. “Now, are you coming with me or am I going to stay up all night concerned that you got eaten by coyotes or cannibals?”

Tommy glances back at his RV and sighs. “Not like there’s much of a choice. I guess I’ll take you over the coyotes. Unless you happen to be one of said cannibals?”

Wilbur shakes his head. “Nope, not a consumer of human flesh.”

“Serial killer?”

“Only ‘serial’ I kill is my wheat and wheat-by-product free cheerios in the morning.”

“Armed robber?”

“I have both my arms, but I’m not a robber.”

Finally, Tommy gives in and follows Wilbur across the street, sliding uncertainty into the passenger seat of his car as Wilbur starts it, and watching silently in the rearview mirror as his RV vanishes in the distance. The radio show is playing here, too, though the announcer (Cecil, Wilbur said) has moved on to a community schedule that’s making Tommy’s skin crawl. He blocks it out until Cecil announces the weather, but instead of a forecast, music plays instead. A song Tommy’s never heard, sweet and sad and slow. Wilbur is humming along.

Tommy turns and stares out the window as the song plays, watching the town go by. There’s not anything all that odd about it, outside of what appears to be a police officer (?) with a cape, a leather Balaklava, and a chest belt with… blow darts talking to an individual completely covered in a hooded robe.

He decides that if he questions anything else about this weird ass night he’s going to lose his mind, so he turns his attention to the radio. The song is done, and Cecil is now talking about a PTA meeting and griping briefly about someone named Steve Carlsberg, before he signs off for the night, and the radio is playing what sounds like folk music, but before Tommy can even think of a question to ask, they’re pulling into the driveway of what must be Wilbur’s house. Only the lights in the front on the first floor are on, as is a porch light. The car stops, and Wilbur gets out. Tommy struggles with the seatbelt for a moment before following suit.

Wilbur waits for him by the front steps, and Tommy bounds up after him. “My dad owns the local mechanic shop,” Wilbur says as he unlocks the door. “So I’ll have it towed directly there in the morning. We can work out costs and stuff later, so don’t worry about that now. Priority one is getting you a bed and shower.”

“That sounds nice,” Tommy admits, stepping into the house, half expecting some kind of horror scene, but… It’s normal. Nice. He takes off his shoes and places them next to the door as Wilbur kicks off his own, and follows him out of the foyer and into the living room, where a man with dark hair sits, frowning at the TV, which is playing some Netflix show.

“Hola, Missa,” Wilbur says, reaching over the couch to squeeze him in a quick hug. “I brought home the stray Cecil mentioned on the radio.”

Missa sighs, shaking his head, but he’s smiling. “You’re too much like your dad,” Missa says, before glancing over his shoulder and giving Tommy a warm grin. “Mucho Gusto, Tom.”

“Tommy,” he says quietly, and Missa nods.

“Tommy, then. You’re welcome to stay as long as you need,” Missa says, and Tommy smiles, though it’s strained. How many foster families said the same thing at the start, only to send him right back?

“Thanks,” Tommy says, following Wilbur as the man heads for the stairs, glancing back to make sure Tommy’s following.

Eventually, he leads him to a small bedroom at the end of the hall. “The bathroom is the door across from here,” Wilbur says, gesturing towards it. “Go ahead and make yourself at home and I’ll get you some spare clothes for tonight and tomorrow, at least until you can get back into your RV.”

Tommy smiles and nods, heading into the bathroom. It’s simple, and it’s clear that someone (Wilbur, maybe) else uses the space on occasion, judging by the toothbrush by the sink and the hair products near the mirror, plus the shampoo and conditioner already in the shower. It’s nice, though, to soak off the strangeness of the day in the shower, and for a moment, when Tommy closes his eyes, he’s almost back in his RV. Not perfect, but familiar.

When Tommy finishes his shower, he finds that Wilbur has left some clothes outside the door. He snatches them up and puts them on before crossing the hall to the spare room. It’s simple, and nice enough, though there’s no decoration or personalization to it. That makes sense, he supposes- it’s just a spare room.

For now, though Tommy crawls under the covers and stares at the ceiling, and he can’t help but wonder what, exactly, is up with this place. The strange radio show, Wilbur’s nonchalant mentioning of strange rituals, and the hooded figure on the street, combined with what little knowledge he has on the urban legends that seem to have brought him here in the first place.

Somehow, though, despite all these questions, Tommy manages to drift off to sleep.

🜁☾🜃

He awakes relatively early the next morning, just as the sun is coming up, to find that Wilbur has left a set of day clothes by the door this time. It only takes him a moment or two to change, and he pokes his head into the hall when he’s done. No one is out there, so he risks creeping down the stairs. It reminds him of the first night at a new foster home, in a way, that strange sense of deja vu and feeling out of place and awkward, even when he’s meant to be there.

No one is in the living room, but he hears voices from what must be the kitchen, recognizing Missa and Wilbur, and creeps that way. He peaks around the corner into the kitchen to find Missa chopping vegetables and bickering with another man, who has long pink hair and is reading what appears to be some kind of hieroglyphics. Wilbur sits on the countertop, engaged in conversation with a man with blond hair that sits just above his shoulders. That’s not the first thing Tommy notices, though-- instead, he’s drawn to hte large pair of inky black wings on his back, and surely they have to be some weird furry shit or something, but then they move , and it’s so natural that they can’t be anything but real.

Before he can gape any longer though, Wilbur sees him looking and grins. “Tommy! Come help me convince Phil that duck eggs are better than chicken!”

The blond man, Phil, rolls his eyes as he pours some eggs into the pan, Missa leaning over to add some of the chopped vegetables. It’s chaotic but in a weird, domestic way. “Duck eggs are expensive. And they taste funky.”

“That’s only because the last time you got eggs from John Peters they were duke eggs, not duck eggs,” the pink-haired man points out, marking his hieroglyphics with a red pen.

“No, he specifically said ‘duck’ eggs, I swear!” Phil insists as Missa cackles softly. Tommy carefully takes the seat next to the pink-haired man, who puts down his papers and turns to him with a small, surprisingly gentle smile.

“I’m Techno,” the man says, sticking out a hand. Tommy shakes it-- they’re strong and warm. “You into history?”

“Tommy, and, I guess?”

Techno grins. “I can change that ‘I guess’ into an ‘absolutely’ if you give me ten minutes and a lesson plan.”

Phil rolls his eyes, flipping the omelet. “Ignore him, Tommy. He’s the local history teacher.”

“I’m the coolest history teacher,” Techno insists, and the hieroglyphics make more sense, now, as does the red pen and the ‘C+’ he writes across the top. “High school history-- we’re studying the history of Night Vale.”

Tommy kind of wants to know why that includes hieroglyphics, but before he can ask he sees Wilbur subtly shake his head out of the corner of his eye, and decides it might be better not to.

“I’m Phil,” the blond says, putting the omelet on a plate and barely getting a chance to move before Missa snatches it out of his hand. “Oi! Have some patience, you wet cat!”

Missa grins, “ Te amo, querido ,” he says, and Phil melts a bit.

“I love you, too, you goon,” Phil says, shaking his head before pouring more eggs in the pan. “What do you like on your omelet, Tommy?”

“Uhm, a bit of everything is fine,” Tommy says, and Phil nods, adding a spoonful of vegetables, meats, and cheese to the eggs. “You own the mechanic shop?”

“Mhm! Fixing things is one of my passions,” Phil explains. “Your RV is already there, in case you were wondering. They got it towed early this morning. As soon as I’m in I’ll look under the hood and see how much needs to be replaced or fixed.”

Conversation takes a turn towards work, after that, with Techno briefly complaining about his students and having to figure out how to get a replica softmeat crown for later that week, which Tommy wants to know nothing about, frankly. Missa talks briefly about going to the record store, and Phil advises that he keeps an eye out for the new hole into the abyss in one of the aisles, which Tommy does want to know about, and finally, breakfast is finished, plates are cleared away, and Tommy is left wondering what to do with himself as everyone but him and Wilbur filter out the door.

Wilbur must sense his distress because he turns to Tommy and says, “Why don’t you come hang out in the cafe? It’d be nice to have a lab rat to test new recipes on.”

“You’re sure?” Tommy asks, a little hesitant, and Wilbur nods.

So, because Tommy doesn’t have anything better to do than wait around for Phil to give him a price quote, he gets back into Wilbur’s car and they head down the streets towards the cafe.

Night Vale looks different, in the daylight. Some people sit outside their homes, chattering with their neighbors as they do yard work. Others walk their dogs (though ‘dog’ is pushing it for some of the creatures-- one has six legs and the other has a maw with teeth like a shark), and many wave to Wilbur when they see him.

Finally, they pull into a parking lot behind a tan, brick building, and Wilbur unlocks the back door, letting them both into a decent-sized kitchen. Wilbur takes a moment to grab an apron with his nametag on it and slip it on, before unlocking another door that leads out behind the main counter and Tommy follows him through, uncertain of what he’ll find-- judging by Cecil’s announcement, he’s half expecting it to be like something of a cult or horror movie, but he finds it’s quite the opposite.

‘Oasis’ is an apt name for the cafe. The walls are smooth white, and the floors are sandy wood. Two large bay windows look out onto the street, and Tommy can see a tattoo shop across the way, not yet open this early. All sorts of plants are scattered around the cafe, each bright and green and adding pops of color. It’s the kind of place that, back in high school, he might have spent a few hours studying. Might even have gone on a date somewhere like this, if he’d have ever found a girl to take with him. Needless to say, it’s nice, and when he tells Wilbur as much, the man puffs up with pride.

“It’s nice to hear that, especially from an out-of-towner,” Wilbur admits, as he turns things on and double-checks his machines. “I mean, most Nigh Vale residents love everything about this town, from my little cafe to Rico’s Pizza to the Brownstone spire--”

“The what ?”

“-- so to hear it from someone who doesn’t have that sort of local patriotism is nice,” Wilbur admits, as he checks his coffee grounds.

Tommy hums, kicking his feet, and then says, “Cecil mentioned something about a new matcha recipe.”

Wilbur grins. “He did! I do have a new matcha drink! You wanna be my first real lab rat? Outside of my family, of course.”

Tommy hesitates. “I dunno. I should probably be saving my money for my repairs…”

Wilbur waves his hand, unbothered. “On the house, since you’ll be testing it for me.”

“... Okay, sure.”

The drink ends up being an iced latte made of matcha cold foam, milk, espresso, and syrup made from roses and prickly pear fruit. It’s very good, and Tommy is quick to tell Wilbur that, making the man beam from ear to ear. It’s then that Tommy decides that he quite likes being around Wilbur.

Not that it matters-- Night Vale is just another stop in the road, but still. It’s nice to have even temporary friends, sometimes.

A few minutes after Wilbur unlocks the front door, it opens, activating the little bell, and Wilbur looks up with a bright grin as a man in a black and red hoody and wearing strange black gloves pushes it open, holding a large box.

“Bad! I was waiting for you to get in! You’ve got the pastries?” Wilbur asks, and the man, Bad, turns to face him, and Tommy has to stop himself from flinching because he is not a human being. There’s no way. Phil was weird enough, and Tommy could write off the wings as an elaborate costume in his head, but there’s no logical explanation for… this.

What Tommy thought were gloves appears to be Bad’s skin, because the man is pitch black, like absorbing nearby light kinda black. His eyes are completely white and glowing, and even when grins, there appears to be a backlight, because the inside of his mouth is glowing, and now that he looks, Tommy can see horns coming out of his head, with special holes in his hood.

Wilbur seems completely unbothered by this, though, as he takes the box from Bad, opening it and humming, happy. “These look amazing , as usual! Anything extra I need to note before I put them on the usual bill?”

“Just that Quackity specifically requested a chocolate croissant to be set aside that he paid me for-- he’ll probably drop by this afternoon,” Bad says, before noticing Tommy for the first time. “Oh, hello! Wilbur, you didn’t say you hired someone new!”

“I didn’t,” Wilbur says, setting the box on the counter and pulling a chocolate croissant out that he sets aside. “Tommy’s staying with us while Phil repairs his RV. He’s from out of town.”

“That’s rare!” Bad says, and he’s so cheery that despite his vaguely terrifying demeanor, Tommy can’t help but calm down. “I hope you stick around-- the last person from out of town did, Carlos, and I can’t imagine things without him here.”

“I… don’t know,” Tommy says, and Bad shrugs it off easily.

“It’s up to you, of course, but don’t hesitate to reach out!” Bad says, turning towards the door. “Wilbur has my number if you need it!”

“Okay, thanks,” Tommy says, and Bad waves one more time before heading back out into the street.

“C’mon, come get a muffin,” Wilbur says, setting one aside as he opens the pastry case, loading it full. “Bad makes the best pastries. He runs his bakery out of his kitchen, mostly making special orders, but he sells out of here, too. A way to advertise, I guess.”

Tommy takes a cautious bite of the muffin.

It’s incredible.

🜁☾🜃

After Bad drops off the pastries, the day in Wilbur’s cafe begins to pick up. Tommy thought for sure that he’d be bored out of his mind all day, but he finds that that’s far from the case. While plenty of the patrons are normal like John Peters, you know, the farmer? And Old Woman Josie, who lives out by the old car lot, there are plenty of other strange encounters. For one, the scientist, complete with a white lab coat, who runs in, orders a black coffee and two pastries, checking a loudly ticking Geiger counter the entire time, and then turns and all but sprints out, still checking his Geiger counter and downing his scalding hot coffee the entire time.

Later that morning, a GIANT FIVE-HEADED DRAGON pokes a head into the shop and orders, very politely, one of Bad’s muffins, using his tail to give Wilbur the cash and a generous tip. Wilbur simply tosses the muffin into the dragon’s maw, wrapper and all. A few minutes later, there’s a strange hissing and rattling sound, and everyone ducks under the tables and hides, Tommy following suit because he’s terrified, and he hears Wilbur’s voice shake as he hands over a London fog latte. After the hissing subsides, and everyone risks looking up again, Wilbur looks at Tommy, clearly terrified. “Librarian,” Wilbur rasps, before turning back to pull another espresso shot.

Just past noon, a young, pretty woman walks in and orders Wilbur’s new matcha. “Your stepdad fell into the abyss. Tell your old man he’ll be home late. He’ll have to walk from the Dog Park.” She does not explain before she leaves but does compliment the drink.

“What does she mean, Missa’s in the abyss?” Tommy asks, and Wilbur just shrugs as he restocks his paper cups.

“Just that he’ll be back later this evening then expected. Probably from the Dog Park.”

Tommy decides to just leave it at that.

Several other patrons visit, though most of them are blissfully normal, at least until early in the afternoon, when it’s quieted down, and the door opens as a disgruntled-looking man with dark hair, a beanie, and a lot of tattoos and piercings walk in.

“I swear to god,” the man begins as he walks up to the counter, “if Charlie keeps whining about his ‘bitch wife’ Mariana I’m gonna make him return my library books.”

Remembering the librarian from earlier, Tommy thinks that’s a pretty serious threat.

“You like having Charlie around,” Wilbur argues, shoving the croissant from earlier into one of the ovens to warm up, which means this must be Quackity. “I know damn well you do.”

Quackity sighs, running a hand through his hair as well as he can with the beanie in the way. “Yeah, I do. But I am sick of hearing about his divorce. This is the second time they’ve been married and divorced! Second!”

“That’s it?” Wilbur asks, handing the croissant over. “The way Charlie talks about it, you’d think they’ve been divorced and remarried like, six times already.”

“ That’s what I'm saying! ” Quackity says, almost squeaking from how high his voice gets, and then he seems to notice Tommy for the first time. “Oh, hi.”

“Hi,” Tommy manages. “You’re, uh, Quackity, right?”

“Yeah, I am,” the man says, turning to face Tommy fully. “Have we met?”

Tommy shakes his head. “I'm from out of town. I heard Bad mention your name this morning, that he was leaving you a croissant. Just put two and two together, or some shit.”

Quackity nods, relaxing. “Fair enough. What’s your name, kid?”

Tommy scowls. “Not a kid. I’m nineteen, that means I’m a legal adult or whatever. And it’s Tommy.”

“Say, if you’re nineteen, have you ever thought about getting tattooed?” Quackity asks, that cunning grin back in full. His teeth seem… unnaturally sharp. “I own the tattoo shop across the way, and I’d be more than happy to--”

“Stop advertising in my cafe,” Wilbur says, cutting him off, though the annoyance doesn’t seem genuine.

“Aww, Wilby!” Quackity coos, turning to face the man, ripping his teeth into his pastry. “Are you afraid I’ll steal your customers? Again?”

Wilbur sighs, and this time he does seem annoyed. “That was one time. One . And they still bought coffee, so I still made a profit!”

Quackity shrugs but seems to note that it’s a bit of a sore spot, instead choosing to take another bite of his croissant. “Game is game. Speaking of, are we still on for Gino’s on Sunday?”

“I wouldn’t miss it for the world, Q,” Wilbur says, a promise, and Quackity smiles and turns for the door.

“Nice to meet you, Tommy. Don’t know how long you’re in town, but if you actually do want a tattoo or piercing, you can always stop by to do a consultation,” Quackity says, and then he’s gone, jaywalking across the street to reach the tattoo shop.

“Is he always like that?” Tommy asks, having to resist the urge to roll his eyes when he sees the almost love-struck way that Wilbur is staring after him.

“He sure is…” Wilbur murmurs, before turning back to reorganize his syrups, “he sure is.”

🜁☾🜃

Late that afternoon, Tommy walks over to Phil’s mechanic shop to see what the scope of damage looks like for the RV. He finds the place easily enough, it’s only a few blocks down from the cafe, and the RV is parked out front, with Phil comparing a few parts he has on hand to the engine. The garage door is open, and Tommy can see an array of parts and tools, but also… jars, holding some kind of semi-transparent liquid and… organs?

After how weird his day has been so far, Tommy decides not to ask.

“How’s it look?” He asks as he approaches, Phil sighs, setting his wrench down before stepping off his stool, wings fanning out to keep his balance.

“I mean, I’ll be honest, mate, it’s not great,” Phil admits, shuffling his wings into position behind himself. “The timing belt is completely busted, and because you were in motion when it snapped, the recoil damaged other engine parts, I don’t have most of them in my shop, so they’ll need to be ordered.”

Tommy’s heart sinks. “That’s going to be expensive…”

“Yes,” Phil says, looking sympathetic. “But I’m sure we can work something out. I’m more worried about how long this’ll take. Depending on the parts I need to order it could take anywhere from a week to a month.”

It’s not like Tommy had anywhere he needed to be, but that doesn’t stop the wave of anxiety that comes over him upon hearing that. “A month ? I can’t--” Tommy pauses, swallowing hard. “I can’t afford that.”

“I wouldn’t be charging you for keeping the RV here,” Phil assures him. “Just the repair time and the parts. But… that still isn’t cheap.”

“Phil, I’m broke ,” Tommy chokes out, hands clenching and unclenching as he tries to get himself under control. “I’m not sure I could even afford the cost for your time, let alone the parts and this RV is everything I have and--”

“Hey, deep breaths mate…” Phil murmurs, exaggerating his breath and gesturing for Tommy to copy him. He does, and he feels a little better. “Like I said, we could probably figure out an alternate payment.”

“Are you going to take my organs?” Tommy asks, glancing back at the jars in the garage, suddenly unnerved.

“What? No!” Phil laughs. “Those are beating organs from things that should not have beating organs! You’re supposed to have beating organs, silly. I was thinking that you work for me to pay it off. Or Wilbur, if you’d prefer. He’d probably even let you keep any tips.”

“Are you-- are you sure?” Tommy asks. “You’d let me work to pay it off?”

“Of course, mate. I’m not unreasonable,” Phil says, not unkindly. “Tell you what-- you talk to Wilbur about an arrangement. I’d let you work here, but I’ve already got an apprentice, and I just wouldn’t have anything for you to do. I know Will could always use another set of hands at the cafe.”

“If you’re really sure…” Tommy begins, and Phil reaches up, squeezing his shoulder gently. Fatherly.

“I’m sure.”

🜁☾🜃

That evening, over dinner, Wilbur agrees to Phil’s idea and tells Tommy that he can even keep his tips and a portion of his hourly wage. Everything else will go to cover the costs of the RV. At some point during dinner, Missa finally shows up, dripping in blackish purple water, apparently from the abyss. He seems chipper, though, even when the table repeatedly makes comments about him being a wet cat, which seems to be a running joke. They even get Tommy in on it, and when he crawls into bed that night, the radio quietly on and playing Cecil’s broadcast, he’s… comfortable. Happy.

Working at the cafe isn’t bad, either. Yes, there’s the occasional terrifying librarian, and what Wilbur calls the “hooded figures” but most of the people who stop in, as strange as some of them are, are all polite and kind. Quackity always leaves a decent tip and keeps giving Tommy his card, trying to talk him into ear piercings or a tattoo on his arm or something like that. His banter/flirting with Wilbur is pretty entertaining, too, and eventually, Tommy meets the other employees at the tattoo shop. There’s Foolish, who’s another tattoo artist, and Jaiden, the piercer, and they’re also super nice. Foolish leaves massive tips each time, and when Tommy asks Wilbur about it, Wilbur simply says that the man is “rich as fuck” but gives no other explanation.

Outside of the cafe, the town is still… fucking weird. Even weirder than Tommy first thought it was. Entire blocks will just vanish and move around at their own will, and there are multiple strange structures scattered throughout. The people believe strange things, too, and at one point, Tommy spots a glowing cloud in the distance, dropping… dead animals? And then there’s Wilbur’s Saturday night rituals, which are not some weird joke and do, usually, involve a dead animal that Tommy’s pretty sure shouldn’t exist, stones made of solidified blood, and chanting in tongues. It’s weird. It’s really, really weird.

Missa isn’t quite as normal as he first appeared, either. During the day, when he’s out in the sun, Tommy can see a strange, skull-like pattern on the top half of his face, and one of his hands is completely bone, and yet still functions. He’s also from out of town, he tells Tommy, and when Tommy inquires further, Missa doesn’t give away much, but mentions that “Night Vale saved my life.”

“... You’re Sinfonia?” Tommy asks, jaw dropping.

Missa merely winks, pays for his coffee, and drops the change in Tommy’s tip jar.

But the longer Tommy stays, the more attached he finds himself growing to the people of Night Vale. Quackity is funny, quick with the jokes, and has all sorts of cool tattooing stories. Cecil, the radio announcer, comes by one day, and he’s incredibly welcoming and friendly, happy to tell Tommy about his husband, Carlos, and stories from when he and Phil were in high school together. Bad always slips Tommy an extra pastry with a wink and smile, and almost everyone in town leaves him a tip.

It’s not just the regulars at the cafe that Tommy likes. He’s growing fond of Wilbur and his family, too. Techno is always happy to give Tommy a history lesson or tell him stories about his students. Phil gives Tommy daily updates on the RV, but he also explains his wings to Tommy, nonchalant about the fact that he’s part crow. Missa always drags out the photo albums when Tommy asks, pointing out pictures of Techno and Wilbur when they were kids, or photos of his and Phil’s small wedding, fawning over the memories. Wilbur lets Tommy experiment with him and includes him in the Saturday rituals without question, unbothered that Tommy can’t speak in tongues, doesn’t know the names of the animals, or doesn’t understand bloodstones.

For the first time in a long time, Tommy feels like he’s found a home. Even the guest room is slowly becoming his own, Tommy bringing in strange trinkets he finds or buying records from Michelle at Dark Owl Records. He even has a scale that Hiram McDaniels, the five-headed dragon, gave him as a tip one day.

But all good things must come to an end.

… Okay, so Tommy could do without the horrifying librarians, or the occasional incident of the sinks in the cafe inexplicably filling with blood, or the organs on Phil’s garage shelf, but still, it’s been good.

So, when Phil comes home one evening, Missa inexplicably tossed over his shoulder and claiming he could “escape the abyss by himself, Phil”, turning to Tommy with an excited smile and telling him the RV is repaired, Tommy should be happy . He can leave this horror movie of a town! 

And yet, for all its complete batshit insanity, Tommy doesn’t want to go.

“Can I…” Tommy begins, painfully aware of the family’s eyes on him. “Would it be alright if I…”

To his surprise, Missa beats him to it, clambering down and reaching over and taking his hand tight in his skeletal one. It’s strangely warm. “We would never ask you to leave if you don’t want to,” he says, quiet and soft and full of love . “You’re part of the family.”

Tommy breaks down, but this time he’s not alone. This time they all tug him in tight. He clutches his hands in Missa’s sweatshirt as Phil’s wings wrap around them, Wilbur rubs his back and Techno runs a hand through his hair. He’s not alone.

He’s not alone.

🜁☾🜃

Tom Simons is a certifiably big man.

He can face down librarians and hooded figures and five-headed dragons. He knows how to drain the cafe sinks of blood without so much as batting an eye. He learns to speak in tongues, he knows exactly how Cecil Palmer, the Voice of Night Vale, likes his coffee. He has a tattoo on his left arm of a sunflower whose petals seem to move when he stands in the breeze. Any of these things would be somewhat impressive just on their own, but here’s the thing-- Tommy’s not on his own.

As he sits on the roof at night and watches inexplicable and strange lights dance across the skies over the desert, listening to Cecil’s calm, warm voice telling the news of what should be considered a horror story through his phone speakers, Tommy’s not alone. Wilbur sits beside him, pointing out constellations that don’t exist as Phil swoops through the sky on midnight wings, reaching for the lights but never catching anything, and Techno gives the story to every constellation, real or not, as Missa dozes on the tile beside them, Tommy knows he’ll never be alone again.