Chapter Text
The first time it happens, they’re snooping through a witch’s cottage in Pendle.
Just three years into the founding of their agency, they’ve already agreed that as a general rule they should try to steer clear of getting enmeshed with the living at all, especially when there’s magic involved. Edwin’s only just starting to get a grasp on spellcasting himself.
But when the client offers up a “backpack capable of holding an infinite number of things” as payment, Charles’s puppy-dog eyes ultimately work in his favour.
They’ve timed their break-in carefully, waiting for the witch to head into town for her weekly Jazzercise class before phasing their way right into her front foyer for a look-round.
It’s eclectic-cosy. A settee piled with pillows beckons visitors to sit in front of the fire blazing in the quaint little fireplace. Definitely the sort of place one could lure a child in with the promise of tea and cakes.
Edwin is stooped down, trying to focus on examining the intricate moulding arched around the front door instead of getting distracted by the flashes of Charles’s brilliant white socks just within his periphery. The younger ghost circles the room appraisingly, shifting his weight from foot to foot as he gets a feel for the layout of the place.
Charles “Aces with People” Rowland has proven not only to be an asset when communicating with clients, but with his curious and impulsive nature, also innately skilled at on-the-spot surveillance and reconnaissance missions. Though Edwin has more than once scolded Charles for his impetuous behaviour, he’s both grateful for and slightly envious of his friend’s fearlessness.
“Alright! If I were a spooky witch, where would I be keeping a girl turned into a small piece of plastic?” Charles asks, pausing for a moment to stroke his forefinger across his chin.
“Shall we divide and conquer?” Edwin suggests, eyes trying to keep focused on a carved line of little rabbits and wolves, gloved fingertips gently pressing into the wood as he searches for hidden protection wards. Not finding anything, he stands straight and turns to face Charles. “Though we have set off no obvious traps upon our arrival, it would be far too optimistic of us to assume that she does not have something in place that would alert her to the presence of ghosts. Also, we should bear in mind that time may work differently here, in her home.”
“Aces! Best not muck about, then,” Charles agrees, then nods toward an open doorway that appears to lead to the kitchen. “I’ll take downstairs, yeah?”
Dashing, Charles is, like a protagonist in one of Edwin’s favourite mystery stories. It’s far from the first time that he’s thought so. Since they met in the attic at St. Hilarion’s when Charles was dying—even then—Edwin has always been drawn in by him. It’s difficult not to be. The glow of his smile is made even more striking by the glow of his tanned skin and the frisky glimmer in his dark eyes.
Sometimes, just bearing witness to Charles is enough to take Edwin’s breath away, until Edwin remembers that he hasn’t needed to breathe since 1916.
He tries not to let his thoughts devolve into hero-worship. It's unbecoming to elevate Charles so highly in his mind, to admire him so. If only Charles knew, he would no doubt find it offputting. Though he’s always been the kindest friend, he has gotten frustrated with Edwin’s peculiarities before. It would not come as a surprise if he wished Edwin was a bit less of a fuss-budget, a bit more like other boys.
Edwin glances unfavourably towards the narrow, uneven staircase ascending from the back of the room and huffs lightly.
Steepling his fingers together reflexively, he taps his pointers together. Courage. He must have courage.
To be like Auguste Dupin, or Louis Carlyle, or Sam Spade, or Tom Swift, or Frank Hardy, or even little Don Sturdy—anyone but himself—doesn’t come naturally, not at all. But for the sake of proving he is a bonafide detective…
So that Charles is happy. So that Charles will want to stay.
Selfish, wishing to keep Charles from his afterlife.
“Right,” he swallows. Then, almost as an afterthought, he says, “Charles, do keep in mind that potentially anything might be dangerous here. As much as we can, we must avoid picking objects up unnecessarily.”
Perhaps he’s being a bit of a Mother Hen now. It’s not that Edwin doesn’t trust Charles—he’s bright and capable, certain sure—but witches are tricky and most of all Edwin doesn’t want Charles enchanted, injured, or worse. Edwin’s not sure he’s clever enough to get them out of a pinch on his own if it comes down to it, and he doesn’t want to test his luck. He doesn’t want to let Charles down. He mustn’t let Charles down.
Charles considers him with a pinched expression.
“I’ll be careful,” is what Charles settles on, and to Edwin’s relief, he eases into a smile. “You be careful, too, mate.”
**
Once upstairs, Edwin takes his time to thoroughly investigate the witch’s bedroom. The only things really notable are the selection of flamboyant silk dressing gowns littered about her boudoir and a rather voluminous feather pink boa hung over the side of her dressing screen. No little girls turned to plastic anywhere apparent, not even in her stocking drawer. (How embarrassing, Edwin thinks, looking through a woman’s stocking drawer, even if that woman does happen to be a nasty witch. Curiously, it did not invoke much within him except distaste.)
He’s only just stepped inside the tidy, floral-emblazoned second bedroom when Charles comes bounding up the stairs.
“Hullo,” Edwin faces him to greet him. ”That was quick. Have you found anything?”
“Quick? I’ve been searching for ages. But nah, Sweet Fanny Adams,” Charles grouses, moving in to catch Edwin’s shoulder. “You?”
“Nothing at all,” Edwin replies with a shake of his head, staring down the jut of the younger ghost’s cheek before the words catch up to him. He cannot stop his expression from prickling. “Wait. Searching for ages, you say?”
Dread curdles in Edwin’s stomach as he glances out the window, only to find that it is dark and the moon has risen high in the sky. Impossibly, the room itself remains illuminated as if it is still midday
He’d warned them of this, hadn’t he, of time passing strangely in a witch’s house? Yet somehow, he’d still failed to notice they’d fallen victim to this trick. “Charles—“
“What is it?”
Edwin’s voice quiets into a breathy staccato. “It has seemed to me that barely five minutes have passed since we parted ways—
“Nah, mate, a half hour, at least, I’d say.“ His eyes catch onto where Edwin is now pointing out the window, and he blinks, squaring his jaw. “Bloody Hell!”
It’s at this very moment they hear a loud disturbance downstairs. With a bang, the front door opens and a perky, feminine voice is calling out into the lane, “Yes! Thank you, darling, for the lift home! It’s been lovely catching up! Ciao! Adieu! Kisses!” before the door closes again.
The witch is back.
Charles’s grip on Edwin’s shoulder tightens. Selfless to a fault, Charles's instinct is—as always—to protect. He pushes Edwin backwards and further into the room to obstruct them from the view of the hallway. Crowding into Edwin’s space, Charles opens his mouth and just about to whisper next to Edwin’s ear, but is distracted by something on a shelf just behind them.
He reaches forward for it, snatching it up. It’s a wooden music box, open, and in lieu of a tutu-ed ballerina, there is a little girl made of red plastic.
Clever Charles has found her, the very thing their client has requested.
Except.
As he jostles the music box, attempting to dislodge the girl, a few sharp notes of Für Elise chime out, disturbing the silence of the room.
Mi-Re-Mi-Re-Mi-Ti-Re—
Charles’s eyes shoot open in alarm, his bottom lip pulling taut as he grimaces, and they both freeze, holding breaths that they don’t even need—a psychological remnant of anticipation, or in Edwin’s case, the overwhelm of panic. Won’t do him any good to lose his head.
Keep it together, he chides himself.
Perhaps the music hasn’t been heard from all the way downstairs. Charles holds Edwin’s gaze, trying to listen but hearing nothing until—
“Hello?” calls the witch in a saccharine tone. “Is someone there?”
—the click-click of heels on wood indicates that the witch is headed their way.
Charles lets his head fall forward as his shoulders droop in disappointment for just a moment before his instincts kick in. He straightens his back and sets his jaw as the creaking footsteps pick up speed.
Edwin can’t think of a plan. There’s no time to escape—not even through the wall. His body feels stuck in place. Heavy.
Hastily, Charles places the music box back on the shelf, eyes scanning the room for a quick getaway. There are no mirrors. Edwin can only watch, frozen, as Charles realises there’s nowhere to run.
Charles, though, Charles does not freeze. Instead, with a confident tug, he pushes Edwin along and down onto the floor, rolling them until they’re squeezed together under the bed that occupies the majority of the little room.
Just in time, too, because from the tiny sliver of space between the ruffled bed skirt and the floor, a peek-a-boo of white patent leather dance heels and purple leg warmers come into view.
She’s here.
He mustn’t move. Mustn’t make a noise. Edwin’s good at that, from Hell. Being trapped is all too familiar. This—this is like Hell.
The shoes round the bedside, and the witch is cooing to herself. “Oh, my sweet little angel, was that you acting up again? I know you’d like out of that music box, yes, but you see, my darling, you were a very naughty girl.”
Be still. Be still.
Edwin is startled by Charles’s hand, which finds his and gives it a tight squeeze.
Of course Charles would be considerate, even during a time like this.
Shame burns deep within Edwin at the knowledge that Charles has felt the touch necessary—that he is aware of the way Edwin requires soothing. It’s compounded by the shame that Charles is correct in this assessment.
Proof that Charles already knows the extent of Edwin’s frailty. That Edwin is a coward.
He can’t see Charles from his position, and doesn’t dare move, and so he shuts his eyes because Charles is giving him this gift, giving him this opportunity to center himself. This should clear his mind so that he can think.
It tickles, Charles’s touch.
His thumb strokes up and down over Edwin’s palm, and though ghosts cannot feel and they're both in their gloves, a warmth that Edwin has not known for more than seventy years spikes through his body.
He does not have a beating heart—it shouldn’t be able to happen. There should be no blood to pump throughout his body to cause him to blush.
And yet.
Heat thrums through his abdomen, radiating up his spine and down his legs.
It’s been so long since he’s experienced anything like this.
It feels
It feels.
Sometimes, back in his schoolboy days, in the deepest hours of the night, he would awaken to sounds—to other boys—Edwin’s throat tightens—indulging. Slick, sticky sounds, wordless panting, and headsteads hitting against the plaster of the dormitory walls. Without his permission, he’d find his body responding in kind—begging for him to abuse himself. Some devil would whisper to him that it was alright, that all the other boys did it, and after all why shouldn’t he be allowed some small pleasures in a place so otherwise full of suffering?
That’s how it feels.
Why? Why is it like this?
It was unspeakable then, before Hell.
It is unspeakable now.
The memory of the blood-red iron stink of Lust flares in his nostrils. Iron is poisonous to ghosts.
Edwin tries to focus on that knowledge.
The witch moves back around the side of the bed, heels click-clicking again, but otherwise she is quiet. Can she sense them? Sense him, as his thoughts scream inside?
“Strange,” she considers, sniffing loudly at the air. “I could have sworn I heard someone…”
Not expecting ghosts, then—and why would she? They are the only ones of their kind, at least that Edwin knows of. It’s just him and Charles helping other ghosts solve their unfinished business.
If they don’t—if Charles were to leave him—then where would that leave all those souls in need?
Charles is caring for him as a true friend does. It’s nothing more. Nor does Edwin expect it ever could be. That would only bring Charles down.
And where would it leave his own chance for leniency if Hell were to demand his return?
Being as they are is enough. More than enough.
So Edwin simply… wills his desire away.
In the end, they wait out the witch, and when she goes downstairs to plot out her next meal, or her next crime, or both, they sneak away with the little girl trapped in red plastic, music box and all, through the witch’s boudoir mirror.
Charles gets his bag-of-tricks backpack as reward. Learning to navigate that complex pocket dimension builds his confidence and gives him purpose, especially when it’s revealed that Edwin’s no good with this particular brand of magic.
It’s no surprise that Charles loves to recount his version of events.
Edwin hates that he’s gone and sullied it.