childrearing in night vale: part i.

[fishie]

As a scientist, Carlos found it convenient that he could discern so very much about Cecil — his mood, his intent, his meaning, his motive — simply by listening to his voice. As his boyfriend, he found it convenient and endearing.

So when Cecil's tone began to regularly dip from rich buttercream to ringing tuning fork (despite himself, Carlos couldn't quite manage to find scientific ways of describing Cecil's voice), he became understandably concerned. The last time this happened was the week following Carlos's first attempt at taking their relationship somewhere more physical. When he'd finally coaxed Cecil into a state of undress, he'd discovered why. Hermaphroditism hadn't been one of the many things Carlos had braced himself for, but the tentacles had been, and ultimately, Cecil's concerns were unfounded. Like the twelve fingers, the three eyes, the second row of razor-sharp teeth and the sentient tattoos, it was just Cecil. Dealbreakers were getting harder and harder to come by.

But he'd seen Cecil naked and he'd seen him set ablaze with arousal, all seven tentacles writhing, every inch of him alive with it. He couldn't possibly have any more surprises up his sleeve, could he?

(Unless he was pregnant. Carlos spent three days panicking and trying to subtly work questions about Cecil's internal anatomy into their casual conversations. He only succeeded in confusing and concerning his boyfriend, and got no useful answers besides. The discovery that his 'middle limbs' had 'dropped off' around puberty was in no way illuminating with regards to Cecil's ability to carry a child to term.)

When Carlos finally caved, it was Sunday morning. While it was impossible to tell if Cecil's frosty white eyes were focused or unfocused, his voice was a swirl of milk dispersing in coffee, slow and drifting and sweet. Carlos was staring at the edge of the table, trying to imagine a baby bump, when he decided he couldn't take it anymore.

"Cecil," he said, firmly, to get the man's attention. Two eyes blinked, then the other, as always, and Cecil's voice rounded up into the usual warm buttercream that Carlos suspected was reserved for him alone.

"Yes, sweet Carlos?" A smile curved his lips, small, but enough to crinkle the corners of his eyes.

Carlos cleared his throat and rearranged his napkin before he spoke. "You've been distracted lately," he asserted, and then, to prevent one of Cecil's meaningless pigeon-sounds or one-word murmurs, he added, "Is something on your mind?"

The brief silence that followed was unnerving. Silence always was with Cecil — his eyes gave little away, with no pupils or irises to study, and his many-fingered hands were rarely still. But it didn't last long; they never did.

"Well," he began, the word pitching up, "to be honest, yes. There is something I've been meaning to talk to you about."

Here it comes, Carlos thought. His stomach and heart clenched in time with each other, and he pushed his nearly-empty plate away. Cecil was pregnant, and Carlos was going to have to take responsibility. He would, of course. What kind of man would he be if he didn't? His mother would disown him.

Maybe it wouldn't be all bad, having a daughter or a son to follow in his footsteps, to teach the ways of science. But was Night Vale really any place to raise a child? People did it all the time, he reasoned. It must not be too bad. And Cecil was raised in Night Vale. He'd turned out all right. They could make this work.

"— daughter will be here soon. I'm sure I should have said something sooner, but I was concerned that it might be... well, too much, you know?"

"Wait, soon?" Carlos sputtered, despite his every good intention to be calm and rational and understanding about the situation. "We've only been dating for three months! How — oh. Oh. The gestation period must be different." His voice dropped into a frantic mumble. "Couldn't be more than a month along, right? Six weeks?" The image of a full-grown person bursting from Cecil's chest erupted in full Technicolor and surround sound in his brain.

"Carlos?" If Cecil hadn't laid a delicate, six-fingered hand on his arm when he'd spoken, Carlos probably wouldn't have heard him at all.

He looked up into concerned milky eyes. "I'm fine," he said reflexively. "How soon?"

Cecil kept his hand where it was. "Next Monday. She's being dropped off at the station. Are you sure you're okay?"

"Dropped off?" Carlos echoed. The visions of chestbursters were abruptly replaced with implausible Seussical storks. He felt like he'd missed something. There were a number of important questions on the tip of his tongue, but he couldn't quite formulate them.

Cecil's brows knit, the two of them together and the third in an expressive downward quirk. "Her father used to live in Night Vale, but he took her and moved away when she was very young. He said —" There was a hitch in the sentence, not the sound of an almost-sob or the catch of a surprise, but a stumbling block nonetheless. His eyes shifted, brows lifted to something less emotional, and his voice — his voice.

It darkened, deepened, from a soft cream to something dark and rich and bitter, and despite the obvious anger (fury) in every syllable, Carlos felt something prickle down his spine that was much less appropriate than fear. Cecil was rarely angry at all, and Carlos had never heard him this angry.

"He said that Night Vale," Cecil went on, enunciating as meticulously as he did on the air, "was no place to raise a child."

The pieces fell into place, soothing the last of Carlos's nerves. Cecil's daughter, not their daughter; a child from a previous relationship. She was coming to visit, presumably.

"Why is she being brought here, then?" he asked.

Cecil's expression lightened, and he broke into a grin, all straight teeth and no sharp ones. "He's in prison," he said, sugar flooding his tone. "And evidently, Child Services in Minnesota didn't know what to do with her."

Carlos could imagine why. The daughter of someone like Cecil (beautiful as he was) had the potential to be... well, troubling. (Monstrous had come to mind first, but that was a word near the top of Carlos's List of Things Never to Say to Cecil Baldwin, which had just now also seen the addition of the phrase Night Vale is no place to raise a child.)

"So she's coming here... to stay?"

The first hint of apprehension crept into Cecil's voice, the tang of tart fruit filling in a light and buttery pastry. "Yes. Is that... is that okay?"

Carlos found himself somewhat taken aback by the question. "What if it wasn't?"

Cecil spoke like a fallen pound cake: perfectly sweet and immensely heavy. He spoke with regret. "She's my daughter, Carlos," was all he said, but Carlos heard the rest, and he was glad. He was glad that his perfect hair wasn't enough to motivate a father (mother?) to disown his child.

"Of course it's okay," he said, and laid his hand on top of Cecil's. Cecil's smile blossomed instantly, lashes dropping, and Carlos smiled in reply.