childrearing in night vale: part iv.

[fishie]

By the time dessert was finished, Emilie was stifling yawns and trying to coerce Carlos into telling her more about his research team. She'd memorized their names already, and would interrupt every mention of them to clarify — 'Tony is the botanist, right? And Alice is the biologist?' Carlos had been concerned at first that she might grow bored if he talked too much about science, but it seemed to be quite the opposite.

Emilie's appetite for scientific discussion not only rivaled her mother's, but it didn't seem to stop at enamored commentary. She had a quick comprehension for facts and formulas, and reached conclusions at breakneck speeds that Carlos couldn't help thinking would astonish his team. When Cecil turned his wrist to look at his watch, a pair of Emilie's eyes lit on him and her whole face turned into an arsenal of pleading gazes and pouting lips.

"It's late," Cecil said, setting his glass down, and met Emilie's assault with a gently arched brow. Carlos had to admire his resolve in the face of such an adorable girl (and wonder when, exactly, seven eyes, sharp teeth and tentacled hands stopped being dealbreakers for 'cute' status).

"Cecil, no," Emilie said firmly, her deepest voice coursing in beneath the others to make a deliberate showing. "I want to hear more about Diane's study of Night Vale's inner atmosphere."

Cecil didn't flinch at his daughter's defiance or her baritone — or (and Carlos thought this was the most remarkable) her use of his first name, instead of 'Mom.' "Perhaps," he said instead, "if you ask very nicely, Carlos will tell you more when he puts you to bed."

Every idle motion at the table stopped: Carlos folding and refolding a napkin, Emilie's tentacles molesting her empty glass, and, strangely, the pleasant sway of the flowers in the centerpiece vase, which Carlos had hardly noticed were moving until they stopped. Even now, he couldn't bring himself to inspect them too closely (though he'd remember to mention it to Tony later), since he was a bit preoccupied with the notion of tucking a little girl into bed and telling her a story.

He'd never had to deal with children — his younger brother had a son, but Carlos had moved away from home before that had happened, and hadn't even met his nephew until the boy was seventeen. The idea of being left alone with a little girl was downright alarming. What if he upset her? What if she started crying? (Would all seven eyes cry, like all three of Cecil's did?)

But it didn't look like he had any way out of the deal. Emilie had turned all of her shining brown eyes on him, and Cecil was smiling a knowing, unfortunately charming smile in his direction.

"Could you pretty please tell me more about the inner atmosphere?" asked Emilie, the baritone and alto receding somewhat to give way to the saccharine voice that she must have inherited from Cecil.

Carlos never actually stood a chance.

Luckily for all of them, Emilie did not have a sudden psychotic break, a fit of tears or any form of conniption while he was putting her to bed. She settled in beneath the blankets, pulled them up to her chin and drew a stuffed grey cube with hearts on it close to her chest. Carlos told her everything he could about Night Vale's inner atmosphere, though in truth, Diane didn't know very much for sure — including whether or not there actually was a verifiable 'inner atmosphere.'

When her eyes were drifting closed in alternating pairs, Carlos let his words trail off, and replaced the phrase 'refracting sunlight' with 'sweet dreams.' Emilie murmured something indistinct, and the only voice that spoke was melting whipped cream.

He closed the door quietly behind him and crept down the stairs to the den, where he expected to find Cecil, but found an empty couch. Taking a seat, he also took a breath, and let it out in a sigh.

Tiring as the evening had been, he thought it had gone rather well. There were a few bumps at dinner, sure, but no disasters, and Emilie had taken to him much more than he'd expected.

Probably much more than Cecil had expected, too. Carlos frowned as he recalled Cecil's dispirited smiles over lunch on Thursday. Cecil was trying so hard to be a good mother, and Emilie, while not hostile, seemed both unimpressed and apathetic to his attempts. Then along came Carlos to talk about science, of all things, and Emilie, so far as he could tell, adored him. Cecil would have every right to be hurt and resentful about it, wouldn't he?

A pair of hands on his collarbone, slipping beneath his shirt, pulled Carlos from his thoughts. He tilted his head back to the sight of warm eyes and a warmer smile, just before Cecil leaned down to kiss his forehead.

"She's asleep," Carlos volunteered, and then, "Listen, Cecil, I hope you're not upset."

"Upset?" Cecil echoed, back to the warm buttercream that Carlos so preferred. "Why would I be upset?"

"Well —" Pulling back from Cecil's touch (as it was much easier to concentrate that way), Carlos turned on the couch to face him. "Emilie... really warmed up to me, I guess, and I thought —"

One long, slim finger held up in front of Cecil's lips made Carlos fall silent.

"Shhh, Carlos. You're perfect."

The word resurrected a thousand past echoes of itself, in tones ranging from cotton candy to Pop Rocks to dark cayenne chocolate, and the voice that spoke it this time (a rich cinnamon chocolate mousse) brought a warmth with it. Carlos felt it rush up into his face.

"I've been trying to get through to Emilie all week," Cecil went on, and Carlos watched with an even mixture of incredulity and intrigue as one long leg slid over the back of the sofa, carrying Cecil with it. He settled beside Carlos, one leg entangling with his, and insinuated himself so thoroughly into Carlos's personal space that Carlos could smell the coconut and orchid of his shampoo. "Now I know what she's interested in, and how to connect with her and make her happy. Why would I be upset about that?"

Carlos smiled, ducking his head in a halfhearted attempt to avoid Cecil's invasively adoring gaze. "I'm happy I could help."

He should have expected what came next — the gentle scrape and prick of two rows of teeth on the sensitive skin of his neck — but it surprised him anyway, and the jolt went straight to the pit of his stomach.

"Cecil," he said, even as he tilted his head to allow Cecil to continue, "your daughter's right upstairs."

"So she is," murmured Cecil, and then, in that dark, spicy chocolate tone that always, always proved dangerous, "I guess that means you'll have to keep quiet, darling Carlos."

Great.

Carlos supposed he was fortunate that he'd grown up sharing a room with his brother. He had plenty of practice in getting off quietly. The trick was doing it when Cecil was holding the reins.

He lie back on the couch, his eyes on Cecil as he nimbly divested Carlos of his shirt. Too many digits trailed down through the hair on his chest, down his stomach to the buckle of his belt, and Carlos exhaled slowly, reaching down to rake his own fingers through blond locks.

"Why don't you tell me," Cecil said against Carlos's khakis, "about the fault line running under Night Vale?" His voice was impossibly smooth, impossibly low, and its proximity sent goosebumps racing down Carlos's arms in waves.

"Cecil." It was a token protest at best. Cecil kept flicking his eyes upward as he worked oh-so-slowly at Carlos's belt, the direction of his gaze given away by the flutter of pale lashes. Carlos couldn't hope to resist.

Taking a deep breath as his belt was pulled free, he tipped his head back and fixed his eyes on the ceiling. "Night Vale lies on a transcurrent fault," he began, pausing at the sound and feel of his zipper being drawn down, "that would appear to extend only to the city limits on the north and south sides. It runs right down M— mm. Main Street."

Six fingers wrapping around the base of his cock had been the most bizarre feeling the first time it happened, but Carlos had quickly adjusted — it was like adjusting to ice cream being more delicious than usual. Nothing to complain about.

Tonight, Cecil's hands were slow, deliberate and playful, fingertips tapping teasingly up the underside of Carlos's shaft. Carlos swallowed and closed his eyes. Where was he?

Transcurrent fault. Right.

"A transcurrent fault is a kind of strike-slip fault...." Carlos trailed off. One of Cecil's hands had dipped in beneath him to cup his balls, and how the hell was he supposed to remember anything about tectonics when Cecil was doing that?

"Strike-slip fault?" Cecil murmured, lips pressed to the base of his cock. Carlos groaned softly in exasperation (it was supposed to be exasperation, at least) and continued.

"The plates move against each other laterally—" That was all he managed before the white-hot wetness of Cecil's mouth closed around him, and Carlos covered his own mouth with one hand to muffle the sound he made. When he pulled it away again, he breathed out, "Instead of the vertical motion of — m-most ahh — most plates."

As if cued by the phrase 'vertical motion' (and he probably was), Cecil raised his head, letting Carlos's length nearly slip out of his mouth before he lowered it again, hollowing his cheeks with a slow suck. Carlos panted, caught between giving in to pleasure and giving in to Cecil's ridiculous request.

In the end, the faint pressure of Cecil's teeth won out, and Carlos buried his hands in Cecil's hair. Pressing his lips closed to keep himself quiet, he raised his hips. Cecil's throat tightened around him — Cecil's throat, his lips, his tongue, all absolutely magic with the sounds they made and the sounds they made Carlos make, currently being choked down with every ounce of restraint he had.

Carlos had been taken aback at first by Cecil's eagerness to blow him. It wasn't something Carlos had ever enjoyed doing, himself, but Cecil loved it. There were evenings when Carlos had come over for dinner after they'd spent all week apart, and he'd barely gotten in the door before Cecil was on his knees in front of him. Such were the dubious joys of dating a younger man, Carlos figured — and a man whose mouth was his greatest talent, in every conceivable way.

He let go of Cecil's hair with one hand when he came, and even though he covered his mouth and turned his head toward the back of the sofa, he still felt like he was too loud. God, if Emilie woke up....

But when his head cleared and his toes stopped curling, and Cecil climbed up his body to lie down against his chest, there was no sound from upstairs. Carlos breathed slow, Cecil's weight a comfortable warmth on top of him, and closed his eyes. He couldn't fall asleep here, of course; Emilie might find them in the morning. But Cecil was snuggling close, and it wouldn't hurt to just rest here for a minute, right?

Just for a minute.