First WTNV fanfic I've posted.. I'm kind of nervous, but I do have ideas I could spin this off to..
Feedback is much appreciated.
A pin could drop in the lab, everyone remained silent. Since the first pained yelp had come over the radio, Carlos had froze-and, in turn, his crew did as well. Cecil's retelling of the events of his escape to the bathroom did little to calm him, though Cecil's brief respite with Khoshekh made the briefest of smiles flutter over his lips. But the moment was over as quickly as the Thing found him, harmed Khoshekh-
Cecil's voice.. It scared him in ways nothing in Night Vale had been able to. Even Strexcorp hadn't been able to truly make him afraid, as Cecil's voice had. Before he knew what was happening, his keys were clenched in a fist and he was racing to his car.
The radio lit up, tuning in to the end of the weather before Cecil's flat voice came back to the broadcast. His recounting left a pit in his stomach as he fought an internal battle over speeding and risking getting caught by the sheriff's secret police.
The birthday comment made his racing mind pause-it wasn't Cecil's birthday. It wouldn't be for a short time now.
His jaw clenched at Strexcorp.
But Cecil's voice-the condemnation in it, made his own anger cow in response. Cecil, despite being born and raised (or so he claims, yet doesn't remember) in Night Vale, was different from the rest of its citizens. While, yes, he can come off as a bit grim and dark at times, he wasn't a violent man. This being the same man who moves insects outside from their apartment, claiming that he didn't want to anger the great insect god underneath the hospital. Yet Carlos knew his radio host-though there might actually be some truth to his words-that he wouldn't harm anyone. Yet this voice by the same man, who saw his cat, his family, harmed in front of him (perhaps permanently marring the poor cat, in the very least removing him from his fixed point) was not the same as he knew him. The heat of his words left little room for doubt that Cecil wouldn't find the right recipient for his vengence.
There was little point in going to the station once Cecil signed off. His boyfriend's instant traveling (while Carlos has written it off as unexplainable, he refused to call it teleportation) would have whisked him off to the animal hospital, where his baby boy would be in surgery. Pulling into the parking lot of the animal hospital, he barely turns the car off and yanks the keys free before he's jogging into the building.
The waiting room is decidedly empty-a woman with a muntjac the size of a guinea pig, and the receptionist with four eyes and no mouth glance at him once before ignoring his existence. But there, in the corner, was the only one he was looking for.
Cecil was bent over on the bench, elbows planted into his thighs. His hands nested in his hair, hiding his eyes from sight. His collared shirt sleeves were rolled to his elbows, the gentle purple contrasting with the blood stains he was covered with. Judging by the differing hues, it wasn't all his blood.
Crossing the distance, Carlos knelt down in front of the man, gently patting the knee of Cecil's non bitten leg. "Cecil?"
"This is my fault, Carlos." Cecil's voice was deflated once more; hollow, empty. He hated the sound in an instant, of how broken his usually upbeat boyfriend had become.
"What do you mean?"
"It attacked Kh- Kho-" That strong, soothing voice broke and crumbled, making Carlos' heart ache. "My boy. It only attacked him because I hid in the bathroom. If I hadn't-"
"Mi corazón, look at me." It took a beat, but eventually red - rimmed eyes rose to meet his. "This was not your fault, okay? The possibilities are endless, but you have no way of knowing if you hid somewhere else if it would have gotten Khoshekh." Cecil's breath audibly hitched, and he squeezed his knee in return. "Khoshekh will be okay. Trust the vets of Night Vale. He's in good hands."
"Paws." Cecil automatically corrects, though he's leaning more forward now, resting his forehead against Carlos', eyes shut. His hands slip to hold either side of Carlos' neck, framing the ends of his jawline with his thumbs. "Okay." His eyes flutter open, catching Carlos' and giving his scientist a watery smile. "Thank you."
Carlos smiles back; small, hidden-a lot like the ones he used to wear a year ago when hearing a radio personality gush about him. "For what?"
"Being here."
Carlos says nothing, but his smile widens a fraction before he kisses Cecil gently. He's mindful of Cecil's leg when he edges closer, knowing he has to unbury his medical knowledge from college later to treat his boyfriend's injured knee. But for the moment they relish off one another's company; one on the stability of the other, the other relishing in knowing he is alive. They stay like this, until a mousey voice pipes up; "Mr. Palmer?"
Cecil's head shoots up, his hands sliding as Carlos stands. "How is he? Is he-?" The nurse squirms under their gaze, very rodent like, and glances back over her shoulder.
"No, sir. He is recovering from surgery. He'll live." Carlos shifts slightly, placing a hand over his boyfriend's shoulder.
"But-?"
The nurse sighs. "He may not be the same. The doctors are unsure if he can go back to his fixed point."
The wounded man covered his face with a hand to hide his sob, as the looming scientist gently tucked him into his side, fingers running through his hair, and murmuring soft words of comfort in a language the nurse didn't understand. He looked up, sharp eyes landing on her. "Can we see him."
Something in that tone didn't sound like a request.
"S-sure." She opened the door wider, beckoning them in.
"Come on, Cecil. Let's go see your boy, okay?" The usually outspoken radio host nodded mutely, allowing himself to be pulled up. Walking proved to be a challenge, as his limp was greater now that the adrenaline had subsided. But, slowly, they made it back to the recovery room, with Carlos a constant solid presence at his side.
There he was. Compartment 3B.
With a few tubes and lines, gauze bandages and shaved fur. His big kitty spine ridges were in a disarray or broken, but there he was. Breathing. Cecil consulted no one as he opened the door, slowly reaching out to pet his sleeping pet. His own breath was stuttered in an effort to keep his composure. But Khoshekh was alive, warm and breathing beneath his fingertips.
"Once he wakes up, we can assess when he can leave. Shall we give you a call once he wakes?" The mousey nurse asked, peering up from their knee level.
Carlos nodded his admission, content to watching Cecil have his moment undisturbed.