Work Text:
It's the evening of September first and Cecil wakes up, per usual, as a loudspeaker plays a jaunty tune that, to an outside observer, would sound like circus music from a horror movie. The wind ruffles the sand outside his window as he stretches, arching his back and extending his appendages. A solitary tentacle ripples from his back and snakes under his shirt as he swings his legs over the bed and yawns.
He begins padding to the kitchen for some coffee, but pauses when he hears the sound of papers shuffling from the office. Changing course, he finds Carlos, beautiful, perfect Carlos, in the midst of a pile of academic journals and writing utensils. He smiles fondly and comes up behind Carlos, nuzzling his neck and draping his arms over his shoulders.
"The secret police are going to be after us again if you keep all these pens out in clear view," he murmurs, placing one of his hands over Carlos's. "Any luck with the research?"
"Unfortunately not" Carlos responds, letting out a brief sigh. "I'm starting to think the scientific method itself doesn't apply in Night Vale. I've been attempting to carbon date some samples, and even my controls came out differently. The last one dated to three seconds into the future!" He places his head on his desk and murmurs "Que Dios me ayude".
Cecil runs a hand through Carlos's long, perfect locks comfortingly. "I'm sure you'll figure it out soon. You're, like, the smartest, most sciency guy I know! And I know a lot of people, yaknow." Cecil blushes as he realizes he's slipped back into his valley girl accent yet again. Just when he thought he was getting better! "Well, I guess I should head down to the station!" he blurts out, tripping over his own feet in his haste to get to the door. Carlos smiles fondly at him as he exits, but when he looks back down to his desk he realizes all of his pens are gone.
"I guess some things never change…" he muses.
Cecil's broadcast that evening was a particularly good one. Highlights included talking about Carlos's supposed expedition to a place called Alaska ("He says he not only saw a mountain, but climbed to the top of one and took samples! Can you believe that, viewers?") and explaining how one of the angels that don't exist and certainly don't live at Old Woman Josie's house helped nurse a baby bird back to health. Unfortunately, it turned out to be a leftover Pteranodon from that one dreadful PTA meeting. A representative from the Sherriff's Secret Police said they put it down, but Steve Carlsberg ("Oh, how I HATE that guy!") said he thought he heard its shrieks coming from the vicinity of the dog park. However, seeing as it was Steve Carlsberg, Cecil urged the citizens of Night Vale not to worry.
The sky was beginning to lighten as Cecil left the NVPR station. This morning, it began turning a brilliant shade of chartreuse as the first of the suns rose. The roads were empty, with only a lone hooded figure on the horizon. After returning home, Cecil let himself into his apartment and let out a sigh of relief. Don't get him wrong; he loves his job, but he would rather spend his time doing someon-, I mean, being with, someone else. His tattoos stirred impatiently as he prepared for bed, swirling in an agitated manner. They hardly ever did that before lovely, sublime Carlos entered his life, but as Cecil joins him in their bed (their!), he can't bring himself to mind.
"The show was great tonight," Carlos murmurs. He pauses, then "You're never going to trust me on the mountain thing, are you?"
"The municipally approved texts say you're delusional." Cecil replies.
Carlos chuckles (what a beautiful sound!) then shakes his head. "Go to sleep, Cecil" he retorts, sinking back into the bed and curling closer to Cecil. Cecil is all to happy to oblige.
...
"By the way, what did you do with all my pens?"