crack_van | a love song for schrödinger, by patho (ghostsoldier) (PG)

Fandom: WELCOME TO NIGHT VALE
Pairing: Cecil/Carlos
Length: 2,220 words
Author on LJ: unknown
Author Website: cricketmask on Dreamwidth; pathopharmacology on Tumblr; works on AO3
Warnings: canon-typical violence
Notes: spoilers for “First Date” (ep. 27), possibly contradicted by “Cassette” (ep. 33)
Why this must be read:

Quoth the author, “I like the idea that Carlos is just as weird as Cecil, but in a slightly different way.” In this lushly descriptive story, Carlos visits the Ralph’s and (unexpectedly) the Night Vale Public Library, contemplates his adorable shapeshifting boyfriend over a meal at Big Rico’s, and demonstrates some of the traits that make him so beloved by Night Vale.

All seven feet and however many inches of the angel curve down into Carlos’ space like a flower bending towards the sun. Its eyes are wide and strange; their color is the hot, pale blue of the desert sky at midday. “Please,” the angel says. Beautiful and terrifying, painfully polite. “Can you tell me if I’m real?”

“I…” Carlos blinks, puzzled. “Sorry, what?”

“It’s all these announcements from the City Council,” the angel says. It sounds exasperated. Carlos didn’t even know angels could sound exasperated. “Josie says we shouldn’t pay them any mind, but you know how it is. People keep saying you don’t exist, and after a while you can’t help but wonder if they’re right.”

Carlos considers pointing out that the angel’s ability to even question its own reality is a pretty clear indication that it does, in fact, exist, but this is Night Vale and Night Vale laughs in the face of ontological uncertainty. With his own two eyes Carlos has observed a house that empirically doesn’t exist. He’s never seen a quantum particle, but his computer models and lab readouts reassure him of their presence. Cecil -- lovely and wonderful and strange Cecil -- is comforting and solid in every way…except in Carlos’ peripheral vision, when his edges waver as though the lack of direct observation has left him unsure of what shape he should be.

It means absolutely nothing, to see a thing in Night Vale.

Carlos shifts his basket to his other arm, closes his eyes, and reaches out a hand. When his fingers bump the angel’s chest, his right arm goes numb to the elbow. The angel smells of petrichor and old pennies, and the soft rustle of its feathers reminds Carlos of a breeze whispering through leaves. Heat radiates from it like a banked fire.

Carlos smiles. Opens his eyes and pulls back his hand, surreptitiously tries to shake the feeling back into his now-tingling fingers. He says, “You’re real.”

“a love song for schrödinger” on AO3; podfics linked in notes