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"Mom, I’m home!" Cecil shouted into the vast, echoing emptiness of the quiet suburban home. A flickering red light in the distance told him that his mother was hard at work in the kitchen. He wiped his feet on the platypus pelt and shut the door behind him, adding, in a clear, ringing voice, “I am Cecil Baldwin, arriving from Night Vale high school, and I am carrying three concealed weapons." The warm syrup smell of approval rose in the air. He nodded to himself and set out across the network of webbing which lead to the kitchen and dining area.
His mother was wrist-deep in viscera when he found her and whistling cheerfully. Cecil smiled and hung his backpack neatly on his designated hook, then walked over to inspect her handiwork.
"Smells great, mom," he told her, an affectionate hand on her glistening black carapace. She swatted him away, but it was with a smile.
"It’s not ready yet, dear, but thank you. Are your siblings still in the yard?" She worked neatly, efficiently, one set of hands breaking bones while another went behind and cleaned up the mess.
"Yup, still trying to dig up the rest of Casey." Cecil took a seat at the kitchen table, legs swinging freely. He’d hoped that his growth spurt would hit soon, but thus far he’d only gotten the downsides of puberty- body odor, pimples, and spots. At least the spots had only been the non-lethal green ones, but honestly, how embarrassing. He let out a long sigh. His mother swiveled around, lips pursed. She looked at him for a long moment with all of her eyes.
"How was school today, Cecil?" He shrugged and rubbed the back of his neck, tracing powerless sigils on the tabletop.
"It was okay. We’re making our costumes for the history pageant. Meat crowns today. I’m thinking of making mine a little avant-garde, you know, maybe cook the meat first or something." Two of his mother’s eyes narrowed.
"Now, Cecil, you know what I said about individuality—"
"That it’s okay in council-permitted moderation, I know, mom, gosh, I’m not a baby." His lips pouted, petulant, and his mother made an amused clicking noise.
"I know you know. I just don’t want you to forget. As the saying goes—" She grinned at him, and Cecil couldn’t help but grin back, and they spoke in unison.
“Quirky, not in custody!" Mom went back to making dinner, and Cecil entertained himself by trying to recall how to describe time travel without using the words “time," “travel," “clock," or “machine." The kitchen was silent but for the cracks and wet meat sounds from the stove.
"Is there anything else you want to talk about, darling? The Wilderness Survival Trial is coming up soon, isn’t it? Do you know who you’re going to ask?" His mother said eventually, rummaging in the kitchen drawers for something. Cecil rested his chin in his hands.
"Not really, I guess."
"You could ask that lovely Ratchii girl, you know, the sweet one with those adorable tentacles—"
"Sally?" Cecil yelped, twisting around to look at her.
“Sally, right, yes. She’s your age, isn’t she?" Cecil shifted uncomfortably, staring down at the table again. Sounds of screaming (probably joyous, not terrified; you learned to distinguish the difference fairly early on in Night Vale) filtered in through the open window and the walls.
"Mom," he said quietly, “I’m not gonna ask Sally to fight for our lives in the woods with me."
"Or Layla? Obviously the horn problem is a little unfortunate, but I understand that—"
“Mom." Cecil’s eyes could have burned holes into the table if it had been made with anything less than reinforced steel.
“I’m not gonna ask Layla to prom either. Or Sally, or Gen, or Ⓐ ✍ ✉, okay?!"
"Oh?" His mother’s tone was carefully modulated, mild.
"Mom I— I mean, it’s not that— mom, I like humanoids." His mother clicked sharply, and Cecil felt his face twist up like he was going to cry which was, ugh, so awful, he really hoped the others were gonna stay outside for a while because—
"Oh, honey." His mother came and wrapped her arms around him, pressing a soft kiss to the top of his head. Another hand touched his cheek gently.
"It’s okay, Cecil. We can’t help who we’re attracted to. I mated with your father, after all!" That made him smile, a little bit, even if it was wobbly.
"Goodness knows my family didn’t approve," she continued, “But we were in love. And, well, in heat." She petted his hair and Cecil’s smile got a little bit bigger.
"The story of how you got together is just so romantic, I love it," he confessed quietly.
"And it worked out well. Because I’ve got all of you awful little children fighting to grow old while I slave over a cold butcher’s block, but I still love that man." Laughing, Cecil pulled away and straightened, silently signaling that cuddle time was over and he was going to go back to being a nearly-adult man. His mother let him go with nothing but a soft sigh.
"I love you, darling," she told him as she grabbed a serrated knife. “No matter what."