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They might have known what time it was if they hadn’t thrown the clock out the window.
They hadn’t meant to destroy it, of course. It wasn’t as if wanton destruction was a course of action they took on a regular basis, or at all, really, but it had been a very bad night, and everything was so loud, and they couldn’t sleep, and the clock wouldn’t stop making noise. In a fit of anger and desperation, the Presenter had opened their window, grabbed the clock, and thrown it out as far as they could into the night. The sound of it hitting the ground was, thankfully, distant and muffled, and they pondered how pain and sleep deprivation was enough to make even the most rational of beings completely lose their mind.
They stood by their window, breathing in the cool night air and wincing as the light from a street lamp hit their eyes in the wrong way. 2 a.m. couldn’t come fast enough. It seemed that the only thing that helped the throbbing that had branched from their head to their hands was when the Understudy read those letters from Apocacorp. The letters were appalling pieces, equal parts corporate jargon, empty promises, and cheerful bullying. The Presenter couldn’t stand them, and hated how they felt a little better with every word that the Understudy read.
Not that the Presenter was actually listening to the Understudy. They felt guilty about it; the pain they were in was their own fault, after all. The Understudy was simply the person who had to clean up their mess for them. The mess they should have been able to fix. Somehow. They didn’t know how, but somehow they should have been able to sort out on their own. They had sorted things out at the station on their own for a very long time; they were accustomed to it. Their own company was familiar, the rhythm of themselves as the times shifted around them, a fixed point talking to the air of the night. Dear Listener. You are here. You are fallible. You will learn. You are heard. You are loved. Know these things, and talk to each other. It’s what they all boiled down to in the end, the message they kept saying to everyone who asked, in whatever way it was needed. Except for the ones who had actually done something wrong. Like that one who had let their friend make something just…not exist. A painfully familiar threat.
A fresh spike of pain brought them back to their flat and the street lamps light, and they winced, closing the window and drawing the curtains. Painkillers were chased down with cool water, and then the Presenter lay in bed again, a cold cloth resting on their forehead as they waited to see if maybe this was the time they would fall asleep. The pain was making it difficult to get any sort of rest, and when they did sleep it was fitful and full of strange dreams. Strange nightmares. One, in particular, that kept waking them up.
They rolled over onto their side and took a deep, slow breath. They were alone. They were alone in their flat, in the cool darkness of the night, in the softness of the covers. No one else but themselves. Familiar company in an unfamiliar pain. They listened to their breathing, and felt their heartbeat in the throbbing of their body. Yes, they did have a heartbeat, and yes, they did have flesh, thank you very much, CEO. Or something resembling it, at least. The particulars of their body and being were between themselves and very few people. Their thoughts went to one of those very few people, and the Presenter was thinking of Mab. What was Mab doing? Was she holding up notes to the Understudy on the other side of the glass? Was she making gestures and trying to get their attention? Maybe the two of them were arguing about how many times the Understudy could play the sounds of goblin sharks as compensation for reading the letters.
“Why don’t we find out?” a voice asked, and the Presenter froze in their bed.
Not again.
The radio clicked on, and the Presenter could not move.
“Funny,” the CEO chortled, unseen in the dark. “You never have it tuned to the station. Always have to find it by turning the dial. Why not just leave it tuned to the network? It’s not like you listen to anything else…no wonder you’re so attached to that station. It’s your whole life, isn’t it?”
They weren’t really here. They weren’t really here all the other times, so they weren’t really here now. The Presenter felt cold. Their teeth were chattering as they shivered under the blankets, which were now so heavy they couldn’t move. The CEO’s voice dripped with disdain, their smirk practically audible.
“I understand now…old habits die hard, don’t they?” they chuckled. “Like trying to put out a fire that’s spread to the roots of the tree. You ought to enjoy your break. No more listening to snivelling creatures. Must get tiring, after so many years…and the cracks are starting to show, you know. We can all see it. Even the strongest pillars break.”
There was the sound of footsteps getting closer. Static hummed around the Presenter, clawed at their head and skin, fizzed in their bones, and their breath turned into someone else’s on their face as the CEO’s voice dropped to a whisper.
“Don’t worry. You don’t need to think about your mess. It’s all gone now,” they said reassuringly. “All of it’s gone. The letters. The station. Her. You don’t need to worry about it.”
No.
It was a dream.
It was always a dream.
And still the Presenter could not move, could not calm their heartbeat.
They felt a single finger press against their cheek.
“Oh dear,” the CEO tutted. “She was right. You really are burning up.”
The Presenter heard a sound like a cross between a shriek and a sob, and they were awake, shaking, clutching their pillow and trying to catch their breath in the darkness. They had rolled over again, and a stray pen had fallen from their nightstand onto their face. They batted at it and sat upright, the cold cloth long forgotten and probably hiding inside their pillowcase somewhere. Pain laced through their body at the sudden movement, and they hugged their pillow to their chest and groaned.
The first time the Presenter had this sort of nightmare, they had rushed through their flat, checking for signs that no one had been there except for them. The second time, they had turned the radio on and listened to the Nightfolk Network for three hours straight until they felt that everything was normal enough to try resting again. The third time, they had stayed in bed and listened to the ticking of the clock.
Tonight, they dialed a number that they didn’t want in their contacts. The phone rang once. Twice. Three times, and then—
“You’re supposed to be resting.” Mab’s voice was gently scolding, her smile as audible as the nightmare CEO’s smirk had been. The Presenter’s breath hitched before they breathed with relief.
“I—I am,” they said quietly, their tongue thick in their mouth. “I just…wanted to check if things are alright.”
Mab laughed lightly on the other end before replying. “We’re fine. The station hasn’t burned down yet. Are the advice segments making a difference, darling? Has your temperature come down?”
The Presenter had mixed feelings about the word ‘darling’ when it came from Mab, but she used it with everyone, they reasoned. “I think so, it’s just…taking longer than I thought it might.” They winced and took a breath. “I think I might owe the Understudy goblin shark soundtracks for the rest of the year at this rate.” They paused, and the silence sat between them for a long moment. “…I am sorry. For all this.”
“No,” Mab said immediately. “You’re not allowed to apologize. I understand why you did what you did.”
“I’m still sorry,” The Presenter murmured, lying back down and putting Mab on speaker. “You’re on speaker, by the way.”
“Oh, I’ll keep the scandalous words for later, then.”
“Mab, you know I live alone,” The Presenter sighed, pulling the covers up. “There’s no one to hear you. Besides, your idea of scandal is using store bought flowers in a flower crown,” they mumbled.
“Oh, come off it, I’m not that bad,” Mab retorted. She paused. “Anymore.”
“Anymore,” The Presenter agreed.
“To be fair, there are some very tacky flower shops.”
“Yes, but we can’t go about shaming people for using the—“ The Presenter hissed at another stab of pain before continuing, “—the…resources that they have available to them.”
“Should we end the call?” Mab asked softly. “You ought to be resting, not checking up on the station.”
“No,” The Presenter muttered into their pillow. “Wasn’t checking on the station.”
There was silence on the other end, and then Mab spoke. “The Understudy is doing just fine, darling.”
“…Oh. Oh, well. That’s good.” They cleared their throat. “Nothing’s…happened at the station?”
“Well, we almost had an issue with one of your notes, but fortunately I can still read your writing.”
“It’s not that bad.”
“Darling, it’s worse than mine.”
Again with the darling. “It is not worse than yours. I swear that yours stopped being legible in 1879.”
“I remember 1879,” Mab sighed. “Remember that winter? It was a terrible one. I was freezing.”
“Oh, yes, in that glade that bridges the gap between the Sapio realm and eternal summer. I’m sure there was quite the chill.”
“We get winter there,” Mab retorted, sounding a little put out. “And it was freezing.”
“It was cooler than normal,” the Presenter acknowledged. “I will give you that.”
It had been a cool year. They had met for the Solstice, and sat by a fire long into the night as they caught up with each other. Mab had worked snowdrops into a crown that they had placed on the Presenter’s head. “Come back soon,” she’d said. “I miss you, darling.”
“…I’ll be back as soon as possible,” The Presenter said, glancing at the dim light of their phone screen.
“Darling,” Mab sighed, “that stack of letters is still thick. You need to stay home and rest. What would you tell someone else who was struggling with resting?”
“Well I’m not someone else—“
“Dear Listener,” Mab intoned, her voice low and dulcet in an impersonation of the Presenter.
“Oh dear god.”
“It seems to me that you are equating your value with the labour you can provide,” Mab continued. “But you are much more than your function. You have put in ample work providing an essential service to the Creature Community—“
“Oh, stop it,” the Presenter retorted, face flushed.
“And I am sure that it is very much appreciated by everyone. While one may use the phrase ‘you deserve a break’, it implies that you must put in a certain amount of labour to be granted rest. This is not the case, and your smart and brilliant manager—“
“There it is.”
“Who is right about many things, was correct in signing you off of work.” Mab took a breath. “There will be ample work to be done upon your full recovery. I would advise you to take this time to rest, and to consider what you may wish to do in the future. You are a valued member of our community, and yes, your work is important, but not so important as to cause you undue pain. I wish you a long and restorative recovery, and you should call your very beautiful and intelligent station manager more often.” Mab giggled on the other end. “How did I do? Maybe I should step in and give some advice some time.”
“You’re far too self-absorbed to give advice.”
“Says the one who has manned the Nightfolk Network singlehandedly—“
“The Understudy helps sometimes.”
“For so many centuries that you can remember when Gregorian chants were a thing—“
“Technically not called the Nightfolk Network then, so—“
“Who had to be bullied by an entrepreneur until you appealed to the public before you would allow someone else to work with you.”
“I’ve been doing this on my own for a very long time, Mab, and I would argue I’m very good at it,” the Presenter said. “There’s a difference between being self-absorbed and being independent.”
“Yes,” said Mab, gently, “but either way…you don’t have to do all this alone, darling.”
The Presenter lay still in the darkness then, and wished for a moment that Mab was close so they could, perhaps, put a hand on hers.
“…Well. I’ve…got you? So…not alone. Technically.”
Mab laughed softly on the other end. “Technically not alone. That’s progress.”
The silence that hung between them was comfortable, even over the phone. The Presenter could, very faintly, hear Mab’s breathing, and it was strangely relaxing. The throbbing in their spine and head had receded a little, and even though it was the middle of the night they felt their eyelids drooping.
“I should let you go,” they murmured, not moving.
“It’s not a trouble,” Mab replied just as softly. “I’ll stay as long as you want, darling.”
“Hm.”
“Do you still like poetry? I could read to you if you want. Or we could just talk more.” A pause. “…I think there’s a lot we could talk about.”
“Perhaps,” the Presenter said as their eyes closed.
“Or,” Mab said with a laugh, “you could take a nap. You sound like you’re falling asleep, darling.”
“I’m not falling asleep,” they argued, forcing an eye open.
“You can, I don’t mind, it’s a bit like…well. The old days. Do you still like snowdrops?”
“Oh, I…I like all flowers, I think. Well enough, at least.”
“That’s fair, they’re all beautiful. Like me.”
“…Mab?”
“Yes, darling?”
“I’m glad you’re alright.”
You could practically hear Mab beaming. “Of course I am. I’m me, and I’m fantastic. Now, as your station manager—“
“Oh, now what,” the Presenter groaned without any menace behind it.
“I must say that you need to end your work call and get back to resting.”
“I’m doing nothing except resting.”
“Then jolly good job, my dear.”
“Never say ‘jolly’ again.”
“I cannot promise such a thing. Sleep well, fy nghariad.”
“That’s Welsh.”
“It means fool. It’s an endearment.”
“You’ve been calling me a fool for a long time then.”
“I know. Good night.”
“Good night.”
There was a moment where they sat in restful silence on either end of the call, and then someone ended it. The Presenter couldn’t remember who it was, but they assumed it must have been them. They were always the one ending things, putting fights to rest, dismissing anxieties, that sort of thing. Mab was the one who started things. Always had. Even their friendship had started with her…and so had the fight. The fight kept getting smaller. Or was the Presenter getting bigger? Growth was a matter of perspective.
The Presenter pulled up the covers and breathed deep. Had the room always smelled like snowdrops? It didn’t matter. They were here. They were safe. They could rest, and know that there were others who, at the very least, were helping. They had talked to someone they loved. And they were not alone.
The Presenter closed their eyes, and slept through the dawn.