Work Text:
Carlos frowns at the old oak door, one foot wedged against its frame.
It’s not like he’s keeping it from Cecil—he only found it three hours ago—but a faint thrum of guilt keeps pinging through his chest, rhythmically identical to Cecil’s ringtone on his cell. It’s so convincing that Carlos touches his pocket at ten-minute intervals, fishing for the phone to check the display despite knowing for certain that Cecil is asleep. They said goodnight just three-point-five hours ago.
Just before Carlos found the door.
In the interest of accuracy—which itself serves the interest of science, of course—Carlos didn’t so much find the door as the door found him, popping up out of literally nothing and disrupting the principle of mass conservation. It also dinged his elbow pretty hard, leading to an extended session of creative cursing that echoed off the distant crags. Grumbling and scowling, Carlos twisted the knob with more force than was strictly necessary, then jammed his right shoe into the opening. A scientist does not need to learn that lesson twice.
Now, three hours later, he is still fiddling with his various instruments, attempting to calculate the odds of finding Night Vale on the other side of this specific slab of varnished oak. He’s also trying to throw something together that might prop the damn thing open in lieu of his scuffed-up Converse high-top. It’s difficult to work when he can’t move around, his right knee throbbing as it starts to cramp.
This is what he gets for wandering off. Alicia has warned him dozens of times.
“It’s best not to travel alone, Tiny Scientist. You know we’d never refuse our assistance.”
Carlos laughs, remembering their exasperation the last time Alicia delivered that lecture. They’d rolled their dark eyes, absently patting their huge Bichon Frisé, knowing that Carlos would never learn. Doug had guffawed as he built up the campfire, and Carlos offered a winning smile, complete with cheesy finger-guns for effect.
But he’d thanked them sincerely nonetheless.
“Sorry,” he says now, quietly chuckling, although the masked army is miles away. Another reason to prop open the door; he’d hate to leave without saying goodbye.
He’d hardly be leaving at all, but for Cecil.
“For what?” says a voice with alarming proximity, practically tickling the shell of his ear. Carlos cricks his neck as he whips around, his leg protesting the sudden movement. Somehow, his shoe remains wedged in the doorway. The interloper jumps back, obviously startled, and lands in a graceless sprawl on the sand.
“Who the hell,” Carlos starts, but his senses take over; the query dies off without touching his lips. The skeletal structure, the facial construction, that precise light-tanned shade of smooth, freckled skin. The familiar, steady undertone in his single muttered syllable, despite an audible difference in pitch.
And of course, the tattoos, gold and jittering down his arms.
The Voice of Desert Bluffs, blinking owlishly in the sun.
“You can’t be serious,” Carlos says, digging into his labcoat’s pockets. His fingers close around something metallic; without further inspection, he brandishes it like a weapon. It turns out to be his travel-seismograph—not remotely threatening, but Kevin doesn’t need to know that. Not when Carlos is backed up against a door in the middle of an unfamiliar, if fascinating, desert. Not when Cecil would never know what happened.
And not when Kevin looks, at second glance, like he’s barely able to keep himself upright.
Hesitant, still suspicious, Carlos lowers the makeshift weapon just slightly. “What are you doing here,” he says like a warning.
“Investigating,” says Kevin, head lilting to the left. “I heard swearing. A while ago. It sounded like you.”
“You know me?”
“Cecil’s scientist.” Kevin shrugs one shoulder and sways even further; Carlos lets the device slip another few degrees. “I’ve met you before. That one time. At the party. The mandatory one at the Desert Flower Bowling Alley.”
“And Arcade Fun Complex. Yeah. I remember.” Carlos sweeps his eyes over Kevin once more, disregarding the observation of Cecilian characteristics in favor of those more relevant to Kevin’s health. His limbs are stationary but trembling; his eyes seem unable to hold their focus. He looks worn, exhausted, subdued by the desert. His lips tilt downward, neutral and chapped. Carlos isn’t quite sure what to make of that detail. “You…you’re not smiling.”
“Nope. I am not.”
“Which is…unusual.”
Kevin does smile then, a halfhearted, wilted thing. He looks so much like Cecil it nearly breaks Carlos’ heart. “All things considered, I’m inclined to disagree.”
And then—so suddenly that Carlos jumps, bangs his head—Kevin collapses in full upon the sand, strings clipped but breath even, lashes dark against his skin.
“Well, fuck,” Carlos says, when he finds his voice again.
Sometimes his conscience is a pain in the ass.
-
When Cecil finally stumbles out of bed, it takes him a moment to catch the discrepancy.
In his defense, he has never been a morning person, and it often takes him five cups of coffee just to recognize his plane of existence. So it is, he thinks, not entirely his fault that he failed to notice the door in his kitchen. Nor that he nearly mistook it for the fridge.
Groping for coffee grounds, Cecil is shocked by the hand catching his, by the bleary vortex of mauve-tinted light.
More so by the scientist who steps into his arms, sandy and sunburned with a body in tow.
“Carlos!” Cecil yelps, tugging him sharply. Carlos laughs and falls into Cecil’s embrace, their glasses clacking with each frantic, fevered kiss, Carlos’ apparently-deceased companion slumping bonelessly against the linoleum. “What…how…there’s a door…in our house!”
“Unexpected,” Carlos says, both hands on Cecil’s hips. “But convenient. Coincidental? You don’t…by chance mind…if I prop that open…for a while?”
“Whatever,” Cecil breathes against Carlos’ lips, barely registering the request. He knows he has morning breath, but Carlos doesn’t seem to care, and Cecil isn’t worried if Carlos isn’t worried. Cecil’s finding it difficult to actually worry about anything, actually, with the sole exception of this turning out to be a dream. “I’m not dreaming this, right?”
“You are not,” Carlos says, “or I doubt I’d have dragged your double along.”
That takes a moment to filter through, Cecil’s brain fogged up with Carlos and kissing. Once it does, however, he jumps back as though scalded. “You did what?”
“Cecil, hang on—”
“Is he alive? Brownstone spire, he’s in our house and he’s breathing, Carlos, what was he doing with you in the desert?” Suddenly frantic, Cecil fumbles to pull off Carlos’ labcoat, lifting his shirt to check for blood. Finding none, Cecil lets his sense of touch take over, fingers dancing over Carlos’ skin in search of unfamiliar scars.
“Cecil, please,” Carlos says, catching his hands. “He just showed up when I found the door. And he passed out, like, less than five minutes later. I’m fine, I promise. I’m a scientist, remember?” Carlos flashes a smile, which is usually enough to derail any of Cecil’s horrified babbling, although this time it merely gives him pause.
Cecil shifts his weight back, his fingertips still brushing Carlos’ ribs, Carlos’ hands resting softly on Cecil’s wrists. Their eyes remain locked across the short space. “Why did you bring him back here?” Cecil asks, searching Carlos’ expression for truth. “After everything that happened…”
Carlos winces. “I know. But when he found me, he was so helpless-looking, like he wasn’t gonna make it. I couldn’t just leave him out there to die. And this look on his face, he…he looked just like you.”
Something cold and annoyed snaps its jaws in Cecil’s chest; with an effort, he brings it under control. His voice, while level, drops a few degrees cooler. “Did he, now.”
Carlos sets his dry lips into a line. “That’s not what I meant. Look, I don’t want to fight with you; I’m not trying to fight. I missed you, Cecil. Please. It’s your call.” He punctuates with a little tug at Cecil’s wrists, to which Cecil relents, falling into Carlos’ arms.
“I don’t know,” Cecil says. His words muffle themselves against Carlos’ shoulder. “Are you sure he’s unconscious?”
“Yes,” says Carlos, his voice gentle and close. Cecil feels its vibrations, feels the warmth and rhythm of blood beneath skin. The sensations are calming, enough to subdue Cecil’s lingering irritation. Carlos smells like the desert rather than lavender, with the faint static char that accompanies the void. He doesn’t quite smell like Carlos, exactly, but his arms decidedly feel like home.
Ugh, Cecil thinks. What a tired cliché.
It’s accurate, though. He’ll at least admit that.
“And anyway,” Carlos murmurs, hands adrift in Cecil’s hair, “he wasn’t smiling when he found me. He looked almost sane. I can maybe do some tests, but the Smiling God’s influence—”
“Okay,” Cecil says. “It’s all right. He can stay. We’ll figure it out, but Carlos, right now…”
Carlos’ smile touches butterfly-soft at Cecil’s cheek. “Okay,” he echoes. “I love you so much.”
-
When Carlos wakes, there’s a heart-stopping moment of bleary confusion, his panic fed by the unexpected surroundings. He jolts upright, groping through blankets and sheets for his glasses, only to find them on the bedside stand. His brain settles slightly by the time he slides them on; this is Cecil’s room—this is his and Cecil’s room. He’s home and in bed, body sore but well-rested.
Oddly, Cecil is not at his side.
Carlos checks the angle of the sun; it appears to be mid-to-late afternoon. He hadn’t intended to sleep so long. There’s so much to do: he needs to find a permanent solution for the door, get a message to Doug and Alicia, figure out what to do with—
Kevin.
Cecil is not in the bed beside him.
Carlos bangs his shin on his way out the door; cursing, he flings himself into the kitchen. Kevin is gone, but Cecil is there, blinking owlishly but appreciatively as he mashes a steaming pot of potatoes.
“Good morning,” Cecil says, opening one arm in invitation. Carlos crosses the room to accept the embrace, only distantly aware that he’s not yet wearing pants. Cecil doesn’t seem to mind, however, settling himself against Carlos’ chest while attempting to mash the potatoes one-handed. “I didn’t think you’d be up so soon.”
Carlos grins at the note of double entendre, takes a moment to luxuriate in Cecil’s presence, Cecil’s voice. It’s surreal to be here, standing naked in their kitchen, Cecil leaning against him in a lurid, ruffled apron. He’s not finished with the desert, but it’s so good to be home. So good to be here with Cecil, with—
Right.
“Um, Cecil,” Carlos says. “Do you know, uh. Where’s Kevin?”
“Oh, Kevin’s gone. The refrigerator got him.”
Carlos yelps; he can’t help it. Cecil huffs a sound, small and amused.
“I put him in the living room,” Cecil amends. Sympathy lurks in his voice, silky-smooth. “The Faceless Old Woman helped me wrestle out the sofa bed. He’s…not as heavy as I thought he would be.”
Carlos blinks, pulling his arms around Cecil’s waist. That’s…unexpected. Not impossible, but unexpected. “And the mashed potatoes?”
“I thought he’d be hungry when he finally wakes up.” Cecil shrugs against Carlos, ducks his head in apology. “There’s not much in the house, and the Ralph’s is closed because of yesterday’s Coupon Cotillion—it’s still technically a crime scene, according to the SSP. But we have mashed potatoes. Or we will, once I finish them.”
“You’re sweet,” Carlos murmurs, lips skimming Cecil’s ear. “What brought about the change of heart?”
Cecil trills and tilts his head back for a kiss, brushing his nose along Carlos’ jawline. “It just seemed like something you would do,” he says. “And I mean, if you’re right, if he’s not like he was… He’ll need help, if it’s anything like what I’m guessing.”
Re-education hangs in the air, unspoken. Carlos hears the word’s shadow in the tone of Cecil’s voice.
“You’re amazing,” he says, kissing Cecil slow and sweet. “You’re clever and observant and kind, and I love you.”
“I love you, too,” Cecil says, smiling. His left hand still lingers against the potato masher, but his attention is on Carlos, and Carlos is glad to return the favor. His to-do list can wait. Cecil’s waited long enough.
“What do you say we take this back to our bedroom?”
Cecil turns in Carlos’ arms, plants a kiss upon his lips. “I don’t think the potatoes will mind,” he allows. “And I would be more than happy to oblige.”
In deference to the exhausted man on their sofa, Carlos remembers to shut the bedroom door.