Archive of Our Own

“Does this look alright?”

Charles, for all intensive purposes, never really imagined he’d see Edwin Paine in a monocle.

The boy holds it up to his right eye now, and then his left, and then his right. His eyes sit almost crossed, brows drawn in intense focus as the accessory shifts between his fingers. Light from the just-setting sun reflects easily off of neighboring buildings into their own office, and the sun snags in the lens of the monocle, bathing it in a warm glow.

There are a few ways Charles could reply to this— and he’s weirdly certain that he could never really say no to Edwin’s question— but they all seem to conveniently escape him the moment Edwin is the topic of discussion.

“S’not like it really matters what eye it’s on, right?” Charles chooses instead, because any other response would be silly. 

Charles all but forces his gaze back to the hacky-sack on the floor, and knocks it with the side of his foot, sending it rolling towards his partner. If only to give him something to do.

“It matters,” Edwin snips back, with no real heat behind the words. He catches the ball beneath his dress shoe easily. “If we are going to do this, we need to do it right. Don’t you agree?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Charles hums, eyes lingering on the dress shoes in question, before being drawn back to the little accessory in Edwin’s hands.

This isn’t normal. These, those , are far from normal.

Although not fully changed yet, Edwin has spent a good chunk of the past hour fiddling with accessories and attempting to replicate stylistic dress-shoes from memory. Something Charles would never have imagined his best mate doing, and especially with the ill-hidden amusement etched into each smile he gives to his own handiwork.

His own hand instinctively reaches to fiddle with the sleeve of his polo, eyeing the typical red thing with concern.

Edwin clocks the anxious movement ( because , Charles thinks, of course he does ), and he lowers the accessory from his face to cast a worried glance his way. 

“Are you not going to change?”

Well isn’t that the question of the hour? 

While Charles is decently comfortable in regards to experimenting with his personal style, dressing up is a little more out of his league.

Especially considering that, in the thirty odd years they’ve spent together, Charles has never had a reason to try and dress up around Edwin. His Rude Boy’s coat sits comfortably around his shoulders like a second skin, and even when that’s off, his undershirt and trousers are not entirely remarkable. Plus, the ghosts they help aren’t typically concerned with Charles’ appearance— not as much as they’re concerned about running away or evading him all together. 

So, if the stakes feel particularly higher tonight than the likes of their typical cases, Charles thinks that that’s pretty understandable. 

Because, of course he’s nervous! It’s normal to hold your best friend’s opinions of your appearance to a high degree of value. It also wouldn’t benefit their detective work at all if, upon entering an old and pretty highly regarded restaurant, Edwin was a picture perfect example of class, while Charles stuck out like an eighties punk’s thumb. 

He repeats these thoughts again for the upteenth time this evening, like a mantra. It makes these feelings feel a little more reasonable. 

“I— I will,” Charles coughs awkwardly. “Obviously.”

Edwin drags his gaze lazily over Charles’ form, before heaving an exasperated (and dramatic ) sigh. 

“You’re nervous,” Edwin states rather than questions, like it’s easier than breathing. 

“Am not !” Charles practically squawks, fingers freezing in their fidgeting and curling into fists by his sides. He squeezes each fist a few times, eyes glued to his loafers. 

“Just hard to know what to wear, innit,” he mutters, fingers cramming into his pockets. A suspender falls loose from his shoulder at the sudden movement, dangling limply against his hip. 

The office is silent for a few moments, besides the low squeaking of the office chair as Edwin readjusts in it. 

“Let me help you?”

And there’s the kicker. 

Only minutes later, Edwin sits with his legs folded neatly beneath him, magazines and books sprawled around the dusty office rug in a half-circle. He thumbs easily through a rather thick volume of something titled The Gentleman's Gazette , the pages desaturated with obvious age. 

Charles is mortified.

The monocle twirls incessantly between Charles’ fingers, flicking between the digits like a coin. 

“What about this one, Charles?”

The boy jabs his finger into a page he’s examining, an excited lilt to his voice. Under any other circumstances, the obvious joy in Edwin’s words would be enough to make Charles split into an immediate grin. 

Finally relenting in his endless pacing, Charles shifts his attention to the magazine in front of him, shoving the accessory into his pocket.

Panic seizes his chest, and he absentmindedly rubs at the discomfort.

The model sporting the coat— a rather nice looking trench coat, actually— is incredibly. . . objectively attractive. Sure, he’s illustrated — blonde, shaped brows quirk inquisitively at the imaginary camera, pale eyes and a chiseled jaw pointedly angled and intentionally sketched. His stance is so natural, the corners of his lips lifted in a cunning smile.

Charles shakes his head. Of course he’s attractive. The real guy was probably a model. So that’s, like, his job.

But Edwin has a glossy look in his eyes as he examines the page, and the pit in his stomach only deepens.

After what feels like an eternity, Edwin’s eyes finally drift from the page, giving Charles a once-over. 

He’s going to be sick, Charles decides. He’s going to defy any laws of ghost physics and throw up.

Edwin is still looking at him expectantly, and Charles swallows whatever abrasive sound he’s sure he’s about to make. Maybe he can get out of this, maybe he just doesn’t have to listen to this at all.

“Dunno why I can’t just go in this,” Charles replies, gesturing lamely to the white undershirt on his chest. Edwin’s look shifts into something like a glare, staring at him like they’ve had this argument a hundred times. 

Which Charles is sure they haven’t— he would remember that— that look on Edwin’s face. The one that, for a moment, was fixed on Charles.

He holds his hands up in a mock surrender, returning his attention to the page.

This time, he makes an effort to pay attention to the outfit he’s meant to be replicating— the coat, which is a navy colored trench that falls just above the model’s ankles, tied loosely about the man’s waist. The neck is low and wide, exposing a crisp dress-shirt with a corresponding navy tie tucked just beneath the collar. The model’s thumbs jut out from where his hands rest in each pocket, and Charles blinks at the mirror of his own mannerisms. 

“Trench coats were really quite popular during this time,” Edwin marvels, and only then does Charles remember their objective here. 

“I can’t wear that ,” Charles mumbles, tipping his chin to nod at the magazine. 

Edwin recoils a little at that, head jerking back. Something akin to a frown tugs at the corners of his lips, but it’s gone the moment Charles blinks, replaced with a careful skepticism.

“Why can’t you?” 

Because I won’t look like that , he wants to say. Because I won’t look that good. Because you won’t look at me like that .

. . .What?

“. . . ‘s blue, innit?” He fumbles in response instead. Edwin’s skepticism is replaced with that familiar curiosity, and it churns something deeply seeded in Charles’ spectral chest.

“Navy is a very popular color, Charles,” Edwin replies slowly. “Do you not like it?”

“No— no, I like it on you!” He rushes all too earnestly, and oh , the words are just coming out now, aren’t they?

“Just— it’s just your color, innit? You’re the blue one.”

Edwin, bless him, visibly cycles through another few complicated emotions before settling on something all too honest.

“I am confident you’d look. . . charming, regardless of navy not being your color —” Edwin emphasizes Charles’ word choice with air-quotes. “Besides, I cannot own a color, Charles.”

Charming. Charming .

The word flits busily like a caged butterfly in his stomach.

His face must betray some sort of reaction to that, and Edwin looks sharply back at the magazine now situated between them, something complicated behind those green eyes.

“What if it was red?”

The words catch even him off guard, Charles’ brow quirking at his own impulsivity. It gives Edwin a moment to recover though, from whatever that was, and in an instant his friend is back to fixing him with an agitated look.

“None of the coats shown here are red , not even burgundy. I do not see why you are so insistent about this.”

“Because red is kinda my color, yeah?”

He can feel the way his eyes shift naturally into a sort of pleading, puppy-eyed look that Edwin must be sick of by now. But the latter only rolls his eyes, flipping to the next page in a trained disinterest towards his antics. 

“ Your red was not an incredibly popular choice in the nineteen-twenties, Charles.”

“The— mate, you said this place was from the sixties !”

Adamant to prove his point, Charles fishes the now wrinkled invitation from his pocket. The action draws another dramatic sigh from his mate, and Charles can’t help the smirk that plays on his lips. This is more like it, this is banter, this is familiar territory.

“See? It’s down there at the bottom, innit. Copyright 1968 !”

Edwin shoots him a pointed glare, and Charles fights to smother his desire to grin under the attention.

“The establishment was founded in London in 1963. The event that was hosted there, the one that led to our case, was a ‘murder mystery dinner’ in which the fictional events took place in 1926. The experience advertised its attendants to dress on theme, or ‘with the times.’” Edwin declares. “If we want to ensure we do not draw attention to ourselves, we must dress like we intended to dine and participate in the event like everyone else.”

Charles only groans in response, taking a few paces backwards before dropping into a slouch on their couch. Edwin tracks the entire movement, and a spark of amusement breaks the illusion of whatever annoyance he’s trying to portray.

“Brills. We’ve gotta dress up all nice and old-timey so a bunch of ghosts think we’re there to have a fun night.”

The alley just outside of The Wolf’s Tailor sits undisturbed as Edwin phases through the mirror just behind him. It’s all rather bleak, the building itself very obviously long abandoned by the living. A heavy fog that drifts down the breezeway, unbeknownst to their presence, phases easily through Charles’ body.

Charles’ fingers tug impatiently at the collar of the cotton shirt he’s found himself in, feeling rather helpless.

Admittedly, their mutually decided upon choices for Charles’ wardrobe didn’t wind up as awful as he’d expected them to.

(‘But if you wear this one, you can pair it with the burgundy tie,’ Edwin had all but bribed. That was as far as their collaborative process went.)

The off-white of his dress shirt works comfortably with the beige vest Edwin selected, pulling from some comprehensive guide on vests and waistcoats alike. His slacks are an identical color, supported snugly around his waist by a genuine-looking leather belt that just peaks out from beneath the tails of his vest, fixed with a simple gold buckle. The single crease down the front of each leg— or a single pleat , as Edwin had so helpfully provided— has Charles feeling as if he’s just sauntered over from the dry cleaners, pressed and steamed.

The loafer-looking shoes might be the most tolerable bit of it all— the two colors, both a deep brown identical to that of his belt and a classy off-white, are intricately stitched and bound into the soft leather of the shoes. Edwin has gone on and on about two-toned and spectator shoes , noting their versatility and trendy appearance for their time, and Charles has to agree— they are pretty damn cool. A little bowler-shoe-ish, sure, but not horribly so.

And, of course, a burgundy tie hangs rather loosely about his neck, the color practically identical to his typical polo shirt. His signature golden chain rests just out of sight beneath his dress shirt, but is now paired with a second one that dangles between two of his front vest pockets. A simple pocket watch rests like a comfortable weight in one of the pockets.

But Charles, although off-kilter in these nicer clothes, isn’t paying them much mind. In fact, he’s begun to hardly pay his appearance any mind at all. 

Because, well. . . well. Well . 

Because Edwin looks great. 

He’s opted for a wool, three piece suit— in a very dark blue ( of course , Charles thinks), with sparse pinstripes running vertically down the fabric. The waistcoat cuts just a tad lower than Charles’ own, exposing the length of a beige tie adjusted firmly against Edwin’s low collar; he’s finally ditched the detachable collar he typically wears, surprisingly. The tie oddly compliments both the almost-black navy of the suit and the crisp white undershirt he’s chosen, in a way Charles is sure makes sense to someone with more working knowledge on color theory. 

Two rows of sparse buttons run down the actual waistcoat, and although hearing Edwin refer to the article of clothing as double breasted may have earned an unnecessary fit of laughter from Charles, he has to admit that the style is pretty flattering. 

The actual suit jacket— one Edwin had fussed over for quite a while, practically kneading the spectral fabric to his will as he debated between a jazz or classic twenties silhouette (whatever that meant) , now tapers in just above his waist. In this decade, according to Edwin, their suits were much more tailored to the wearer’s body than the ones Charles had a habit of pointing out in modern day shop windows. 

It’s definitely darker than his typical wardrobe, and Charles can’t help the way he examines the sudden lightness of the former’s hair in contrast, or the semi-lifelike flush to his skin.

“— arles? ”

For a moment, Charles thinks, as his eyes dart to meet Edwin’s— and they are so bright , it must be the suit, or maybe his change in tie— he’s sure that they should do this more often.

“Uh— yeah, mate?” 

They’d fallen into a brisk walk at some point, approaching the mouth of the alley. Edwin slows in his stride in a way that forces Charles to face him. A few cars speed by just past the sidewalk, and Charles shifts his attention to them, suddenly all too aware of their eye contact. 

“Did you hear anything I just told you?”

He blanks. 

“Um.”

Edwin continues to watch him like he’s expecting some further explanation— but Charles doesn’t really have one to give himself, let alone to give Edwin, for his sudden and apparent staring problem. So he allows the boy to bore holes into the back of Charles’ head with his stare, and shifts his own attention to the shoes on his feet.

“Are you upset with me?”

Charles startles at the question, foregoing his little game of avoiding eye contact and head whipping back to face Edwin almost instantly. 

“I am sorry about the whole suit debacle. I should not have pushed the issue so much, and if you are uncomfortable, we can find another way to approach this.”

“Wh—” he tries, but the boy doesn’t stop. 

“Although I— hmm. I do quite appreciate you humoring me, and it truly looks nice—”

“ Edwin ,” he interrupts, finally finding his words. Charles dislikes the too-real concern in his partner’s voice.  

“They— you did great, mate. Don’t stress it, yeah?”

Disbelief sets in the other boy’s gaze, and Charles doesn’t miss the way his eyes quickly dart to give him another once-over. His head spins with the attention.

“You, uh. . . yeah, they look great.”

A beat.

“ You look great,” Charles finishes sheepishly, but earnestly.

Edwin watches him like he’s just hung the moon before him, and maybe the stars while he was up there. The brunette shakes his head, mouth falling agape, before shutting his jaw with a small nod. As if he’s also fallen speechless. 

More than great , Charles thinks, and wow, he really needs to get a grip. 

“It’s a similar, yet much more intricate version of the Stone Tape Theory,” Edwin begins, hands lifting to adjust the cuffs of his sleeves. If Charles intentionally averts his gaze from the movement, that’s for him to know. 

Instead, his eyes drift intentionally over their new surroundings, the interior of the dimly lit speakeasy leaving much of the far side of the room to be imagined. The door behind them chimes with their arrival, although they’d only phased through the thing, which doesn’t really make sense. The detective in his brain chews easily on the influx of new information as Edwin continues to brief him. 

“As the killer is entirely unknown,” Edwin’s voice lowering to just be loud enough for Charles to hear, “Death is unable to allow the witnesses involved to move on to their afterlives until she can ensure that she’s convicted the correct individual to Hell. Thus, this places any individuals who could be guilty into an endless loop, until someone is able to provide the ample evidence needed to identify the killer.”

Charles can feel the cogs beginning to turn in his head as his earlier embarrassment slowly makes room for curiosity. 

“But how are these guys stuck in the loop if they aren’t dead?”

“That is what I wondered. I had assumed some sort of abnormally horrific trauma response, one detrimental enough to somehow enrapture the human witnesses. But, as it seems, this establishment was actually quite popular, and frequented often, by the ghosts of its time. Those that needed a night out during their stay before the afterlife.”

Charles gapes at him, Edwin’s words stirring that familiar and excitable detective part of his brain.

“Mate, this makes no sense. You’re saying that all these ghosts just happened to be watching a random human play for fun, and then got stuck in the loop when they saw our guys die?”

Edwin purses his lips, and Charles allows him the time to provide further explanation.

“Back in the sixties, this speakeasy was similarly well attended by the living. The spectral patrons would fill in whenever empty seats presented themselves, or linger about. It became a place fully inhabited by ghosts and the living alike. When the real murder happened, the humans reported on and investigated it, but never could discover the killer— so the establishment was forcefully closed.”

Charles’ information-hungry brain absorbs this information like a dry sponge, one hell of a distraction from his earlier. . . struggle. He nods quickly in acknowledgement, encouraging his partner to continue.

“Now, this place has become a bit of a dive, considering its reputation. No spirit or human alike wants to get anywhere near. It appears as though their dining services aren’t worth the trouble.”

His jaw drops further, and only shuts when a scrawny elbow jabs against his forearm.

“Wait— you mean that they had dinners for dead people?!”

Edwin’s head swivels to face him, eyes widening in alarm. 

“They can hear us , Charles,” he hisses. 

“I said, they had dead people dinners? ” Charles whisper-shouts with a playful, shit-eating grin.

Edwin rolls his eyes, and suddenly there’s a forceful presence on the crook of Charles’ arm as Edwin practically drags him from the front door. Charles can only stumble after him, chuckling at his partner’s overreaction. 

They eventually wind up near the restaurant’s full bar, situated against a far wall. The old wood of the countertop is stained and discolored, harboring an odd pattern of rings from condensation. Most of the rickety barstools are occupied by some incredibly well-dressed individuals— a few older men nursing frothy glasses of beer between their well-kept palms, some younger women with cigarettes twitching between their painted lips as they chat.

Charles’ mouth almost falls open at the sight, before the reminder of Edwin’s reprimanding only moments prior curbs his reaction. Instead, he lowers his voice accordingly, shifting his body so none of the nearby patrons take notice of his frantic questions.

“They— ghosts can smoke?! ” Charles mouths, lips over-annunciating the words to ensure that the absurdity he feels is obvious. 

Edwin catches his eye at that, and Charles spots it— a crack in his mask, that damned professional facade. The corners of his lips crease in a smug smile, and Charles drinks in the sight. 

“Yes,” Edwin answers all too confidently. “They are adults, Charles. Now I am going to go get a lay of the land here, as you say. You , on the other hand, are going to find us seats.”

“ Me ?” Charles practically whines, a pout forming automatically. “Why me?” 

Carefully choosing to not acknowledge the sudden lack of space between him and his mate, Charles folds his arms deftly against his chest. 

“I will only be a moment,” Edwin chides, but that exasperated smile is something , and it’s driving Charles mad. 

Reaching one hand into his chest pocket, Edwin fishes out his emblazoned notebook. He takes a moment to wag the thing in front of Charles’ eyes, as if punctuating his sentence, before spinning on his heel and wandering further into the hazy club. Charles catches himself practically chasing after his presence, leaning forward until he has to catch himself with a quick stumble.

That’s new, Charles thinks, blinking at his antics. A nervous laugh escapes him, as if he’s just told a rather lame joke.

That smug grin plays on repeat like a broken record behind Charles’ eyes. Edwin’s grin. His best friend ’s grin.

Charles squirms against the collar of his shirt.

While Charles may lead an unpredictable, emotional-rollercoaster-from-Hell of a lifestyle, there are a few things he’s pretty certain about. 

For starters, he’s certain that, regardless of having existed on Earth for over three decades, he probably doesn’t look old enough to legally drink. And, he’s more than positive that the boy in front of him doesn’t look old enough either.

He’s also certain that, in their thirty odd years of working with ghastly clients and characters from all walks of life, Charles has never been so blatantly studied by someone his age as he is now.

“Take a look,” The bartender practically coos, pushing a laminated piece of paper his way. “We’ve got a special drink menu for tonight’s entertainment.”

One glance down the bar gives Charles enough insight to know that if he requests something non-alcoholic, he’ll be the first man of the night to do so— and he might as well be giving two middle fingers to this whole fitting in business Edwin is pushing so hard for. With a dry swallow, Charles looks back to the menu at hand.

An Extra Bloody Bloody Mary doesn’t sound quite so appetizing, he decides. But he can work with this. 

“Anything but beer,” Charles replies after far too long, but it must not phase the bartender, who’s semi-casual expression melts away. An amused smile plays easily on the young man’s face as he shifts his weight from one leg to another, crossing his arms. He must not be much older than Charles, if the sparse and juvenile stubble on his jaw is enough of a tell. 

“Not a big beer guy, eh? That’s alright.”

“Or gin,” Charles tacks on, for good measure. Sure, this guy probably doesn’t have access to poisonous eye drops, but he’d rather err on the side of caution.

“No beer, no gin. Something nicer for your fine taste,” the bartender hums, something sing-songy to his words. “You a Scotch guy?”

His brain cycles easily through his most recent memory of the Rowland’s liquor cabinet— which is hazy at best, and nondescript.

“Sure,” Charles settles on, indecision heavy on his tongue. 

A sudden and familiar curiosity shines behind his eyes, and a phantom blush creeps its way up Charles’ neck. With a wink, the boy shifts to the other side of the bar, disappearing behind a concealed door to what Charles assumes is a makeshift cellar. 

This fucking collar , Charles decides, is too tight . 

Suddenly all too aware of his wardrobe again, Charles’s fingers play anxiously with the tie against his chest, allowing the thing to slightly loosen.

Where’s Edwin?

He’s only given a moment of reprieve before the bloke is waltzing back in his direction, placing a heartily poured glass of something potent and caramel looking before him. When Charles finally reaches to take the glass all too hesitantly, a call from the other end of the bar grabs the bartender’s attention. With an apologetic smile, he drums a quick beat on the countertop before heading to help his next patron. 

But that look never leaves his eyes, something almost prying, and Charles feels fully ill by now.

As if on cue, Edwin slides himself onto the stool by Charles’ left, and he breathes an audible sigh of relief. 

Edwin tucks his notebook into the interior pocket of his suit jacket, the movement highlighted by the too-orange lamp light that shines just off to his side. He practically glows in it, a soft light pooling in the creases by his eyes, highlighting every ridge of his profile. There’s something complicated playing in his expression, a pinch to his brow that deepens as Edwin’s eyes train on the man behind the bar. 

Suddenly, Charles’ eyes drift to the large square of fabric in Edwin’s outer chest pocket— namely, its specific shade of burgundy— and, somehow, he’s left breathless.

Surely , that had not been there when Edwin left a minute ago. That’s another thing Charles is certain of. It stands out like a sore thumb.

Whatever greeting he’d prepared for his partner dies in his throat. 

“Did you. . . did he just make you a drink?”

Bringing his hands to rest on the tabletop, Edwin’s fingertips rest casually against each other, his attention never leaving the bartender as he poses the question.

Charles blinks. 

“You were watching me?”

Whatever he’d meant to ask, that wasn’t it. 

The complex emotion on Edwin’s face only deepens, and his lips press into a thoughtful line as his eyes cast down to the counter. 

“Yes. I was looking for leads,” he snaps, and Charles winces at the slight but real agitation there. “That bartender is just as much of a suspect as anyone else here.” 

That’s not exactly the reaction Charles had been hoping for; why was he expecting ( hoping for? ) a different reaction? Of course Edwin wasn’t watching him just to watch him.

The drink in his hand suddenly feels oddly warm beneath his unreal fingers, tantalizingly so.

The reminder of the boy behind the counter, his twinkling eyes and expectant smile, has Charles’ previous flush returning tenfold. His eyes dart to the bartender in question, nearly missing the way his gaze has shifted into an absolute glare — one aimed not-so-subtly in Edwin’s direction. It darts down to the bullseye of the red pocket square, then to Charles, his eyes squinting in thought. Like he’s trying to piece together a puzzle Charles can’t quite see, one that requires another spiteful look thrown Edwin’s way.

A searing, white-hot feeling flares deep in Charles’ chest. 

His grip on the small glass tightens, and the liquor  in his hand sloshes at the sudden motion, as if reminding Charles of its presence. If just to prove a point— to the bartender, or to himself, he’s not sure— Charles brings the glass to his lips, taking a long swig of the drink. 

It’s molten lava down his throat, and it’s all too much at once and too fucking hot . 

As if on instinct, his other hand flies to grip at the base of his throat, head automatically shaking to try and rid himself of the feeling. It’s too much feeling for a ghost who doesn’t do that very often, and a shitty feeling at that.

“ Charles —” Edwin gasps, voice caught between pure confusion and reprimanding him. The phantom sensation of a hand on his back sends a chill up Charles’ spine, and he shifts a bit in his seat, still shaking his head.

“ ‘S fine ,” Charles coughs, his voice strained. A sudden, dizzying headrush washes over his senses, and Charles’s eyes screw shut in an attempt to fight it off. His glass clinks disruptively against the countertop, and Charles finally puts the damned thing down, silently willing away the reddening of his skin that he’s positive is there.

A low chuckle carries through the bumbling chatter and clinking of glasses in their surroundings, and Charles absolutely doesn’t miss the way the boy behind the counter laughs at them. It’s short-lived, only a beat or two, before he returns to polishing a glass. His eyes never leave Charles.

In one swift movement, Charles rests his right elbow on the countertop, fully shifting to face Edwin by his side— putting the bartender behind his shoulder, out of sight. 

His other hand raises to Edwin’s chest, taking the red pocket square between his thumb and index fingers, as if he can feel the fabric it’s made of.

Edwin stills beneath his hand.

“This is new,” Charles breathes, cringing internally at the waver in his voice.

When Charles looks up from his chest, Edwin’s eyes are already looking at him, torn from where they’d been lingering on Charles’ hand. He’s the textbook definition of surprise, lips slightly parted in it, a gleam in the whites of his eyes. The boy even quits breathing , a deer caught in the headlights, eyes wide and observing.

Charles swallows, dispelling the remnants of whatever heat still lingers in his throat.

“It’s. . .” the boy before him trails off, lashes fluttering as he blinks once, twice.

“Yes,” Edwin finishes. “It is new.”

Their gazes wind together, a silent challenge thickening the air there. As if the gray haze of the bar and scattered clouds of smoke only grow weightier with his words.

It’s pitting a marathon runner and a sprinter against each other, Charles thinks. Everything about this feels sudden, desperate, frantic— keep looking at me , he thinks, and let me look at you. Let me relish in whatever this is.

Edwin’s eyes, as they have for the past few weeks, read so differently. I’ve been here, they say, I’ve felt that, I’m not afraid to show it anymore.

“Another, uh. . .” Charles says, dazedly. “That another twenties thing?”

Edwin is nodding automatically before Charles even finishes his question. His lips— stop looking at those, he thinks— part around the beginning of a response, yet Edwin only closes them again.

His hand is still on Edwin’s chest, Charles finally notices, and he yanks his hand from that burgundy thing like it’s burned him. His eyes return sharply to the tabletop, unfocused, and Edwin only continues to stare. 

A few moments pass like this, Edwin’s gaze boring holes into the side of Charles’ head.

A nearby overhead light dims a few times, and the conversation surrounding them falls into an excited murmur. In his peripheral, Edwin finally relents in his staring, gaze instead snapping to the small spotlight that sparks to life, illuminating the center of the dining room.

“I believe,” Edwin sighs, “that the show is starting.”

“ Bang on ,” hums Charles, with a twinge of disappointment.

“I do say, Constantine, my dear— I have a poor feeling about our date this evening,” the lead croons from his spot on the makeshift stage.

He’s rather poorly lit by a violently bright spotlight, one that shines directly onto the shoddy wooden platform he and his co-leads stand on, and obvious sweat glistens on his face and neck. 

Edwin visibly rolls his eyes at the corny dialogue and flowery words, and Charles bites his tongue before he can make a mocking remark at his mate. Something like, ‘ you could be related,’ or, ‘I hope you know that that’s how you sound.’

Or maybe, ‘ a date, huh?’

The thought gives him pause, a theme of the night Charles isn’t particularly enjoying. He can feel the muscles in his face scrunch up.

A sharp kick to his ankle draws his attention back to Edwin, who shoots him a pointed look— one that probably means something like ‘we’re on a case, pay attention.’ He looks almost entirely in place here, before the backdrop of finely dressed patrons with their nice evening wear. Charles wonders, not for the first time, if Edwin would’ve grown up to enjoy spending an evening like this— with his parents, or even a family .

When Edwin finally returns his focus to the performance before them, Charles tries to ignore the half-empty glass of whiskey glaring at him from the bar. 

Cheers, mate, he internally groans.

Matteo— or was it Matt? — and Constantine have died about five times since their arrival, and Charles is too distracted by his best friend in a stupidly nice suit to be helpful.

Not so distracted that the lure of a case doesn’t capture at least some of his attention, anyway. They’ve circled the length of the room dozens of times by now, making light and intentional conversation with anyone they can, taking note of any odd inconsistencies and watching the case unfold before them from multiple different angles. Edwin seems to allow him to take a bit of a back seat as they converse, which Charles couldn’t be more grateful for. However, his time isn’t the most productive — he’s spent most of it waging an intense internal war, battling to shove away the ever-present desire to watch Edwin work in his element and focus .

At least, in their breaks away from their seats at the bar, away from that intimate atmosphere, Charles can breathe. The heated rush in his head quiets just a bit, sedated by the desire to piece together leads or cross-eliminate suspects with Edwin’s notes. 

Charles fully intends to keep things this way as long as possible. If it means sacrificing a few of the knowing glances he’d usually throw Edwin’s way ( and he always seems to catch them, Charles thinks), he’s willing to make that trade-off.

But, of course, whatever sick forces at play that got them here wouldn’t let Charles get through this so easily. If he had known that his bitching and complaining would’ve resulted in this, he would’ve kept his internal monologue’s mouth shut.  

After a too-close examination of one victim’s freshly dead body, just before the reset of the loop, blood had managed to seep into the sleeve of Edwin’s coat. Which, in turn, finally had led him to begrudgingly ditch the piece of clothing, leaving him in his pristine dress shirt and waistcoat— and gloveless, the bloody things now hanging from his trouser pocket.

It’s all Charles can think about, and it’s awful.

So maybe he’s not been much help uncovering clues, but something deep in Charles’ chest tells him that maybe he’s uncovering something a little more important.

Charles bats the thought away, again.

The boy in question twirls his pen absent-mindedly between his index finger and thumb, bottom lip caught between his teeth in thought. He’s sure that their suspect is saying something, but Charles struggles to pull his attention from where Edwin has slightly pushed up the arms of his sleeves. It’s something his mate has been doing much more in the past few weeks, as if finally allowing himself less physical restriction to get into the spirit of their work— and if Charles were capable of being poetic at the moment, he might have more to say about the implications behind all of that.

“And if I may, how do you know tonight’s performers?” Edwin prompts in his best attempt at subtlety, yet Charles can distantly register that they already know the answer— the woman that they’ve been questioning is Matteo’s sister in-law, here with her husband to watch his performance for the first time. But the loop has restarted, again , meaning they have to reintroduce themselves to any witness they wish to investigate further.

He isn’t the best person to criticize his partner’s subtlety, Charles thinks. To anyone else in the room, Charles must look absolutely stricken. 

Or, wait. 

Stricken as in struck by appreciation , maybe. Not love -struck. He doesn’t go around oogling at his mate like how the woman before them watches her husband, eyes softened with admiration. 

No, people wouldn’t think that.

Edwin’s notebook slams shut, finally jostling Charles from his thoughts. 

His eyes jump to meet the former’s, startled to find that Edwin is already watching him. He shoots an intentional glance at the woman seated before them before returning to meet his gaze, that thing he does when he wants to cue Charles into a conversation. 

Both pairs of eyes are on him now, and embarrassment, a now all-too familiar friend, joins easily into the flurry of chaos in Charles’ head.

“Uh—” Charles jumps to interject, but as his best friend’s wardrobe has been the only thing on his mind for the past few minutes, his attempt falls flat. The woman’s eyes shift into something kind and understanding, too understanding.

“It, um— ‘s nice to meet you,” he mumbles, before promptly pushing out of his seat and stalking away.

He can hear Edwin fumbling for apologies behind him as Charles beelines for a dim corner.

Constantine’s final words ring out violently from her podium, moments before the actress is meant to fake her character’s death.

“Our evening was darling, darling. I would not trade another night with you for the world.”

Darling. Charming.

Charles’ eyes flit nervously between the tables he’s passing— the too-obvious multitude of tables for two, a cigarette being shared between one finely manicured hand and the awaiting fingers of her husband, the older couple with their hands intertwined just beneath the tablecloth. Two glasses of wine, two plates, two forks, two knives. 

Dates .

The bartender’s glare from earlier is seared into the back of Charles’ eyelids. Specifically, the way it had switched from some odd appraisal to a form of disgust so quickly , the second that. . .

The second that Edwin sat by him.

Something aches in his heart, like the very thing has caved in on itself.

Did he think he and Edwin were there together ?

A date with Edwin. A date . A date with his best friend , the boy he’d lay his life on the line for if given the chance, the boy who doesn’t just love him but is in love with him. In love, like it’s a place, a home, a space Edwin occupies so easily that it radiates from him— more so now than Charles has ever been granted the pleasure of witnessing.

It’s a reckless thought, a careless one. 

When was it, Charles wonders almost desperately, that he completely and utterly lost the ability to not freak out around Edwin? Why did he have to make this bullshit mess of weird feelings Edwin’s problem?

God, what is he thinking?

“— Earth calling Charles ? What is it you say?”

Edwin’s hand lands like a boulder on Charles’ shoulder, yanking him from his thoughts in an instant. The image of his mate finally blinks into focus.

“ Bloody hell , what has gotten into you?” Edwin pries, a thinly veiled concern beneath his demanding tone.

It takes a few more beats for him to collect himself, even if partially. He tries to roll the tension from his neck, unsuccessfully.

“It’s Earth to Charles , mate,” Charles murmurs with a tight smile. “Think you’re on about Bugs Bunny.”

Edwin doesn’t seem to let the curveball throw him off. But his brow does twitch a little when he doesn’t immediately get Charles’ reference.

“Won’t you explain? You were meant to try and get a read on that woman’s history with our victims.” 

Frustration simmers beneath every other complex feeling Charles is stuck with, and wow, Edwin’s eyes really are green tonight, and holy fuck , what happened to his whiskey?

Brilliant hues of orange and red light thinly halo Edwin’s silhouette, casting deep, warm shadows across his face. His tie is slightly loose, probably from all of the stumbling around it’s taken to get anything near a lead— and his hair is losing its pristine shape, little strands falling about his forehead. Edwin pushes it all back with a swift run of his fingers through his hair, and he must catch the way Charles’ eyes dart to the action; he takes his time lowering his hand, and in an odd moment of impulse, rests the hand on Charles’ other shoulder.

He coughs, pointedly, and Charles is forced to make a decision.

“Your tie is loose,” is what he comes up with, because ‘ you’re beautiful’ and ‘ I was daydreaming about taking you out on a date' both feel a little too impossible at the minute.

Disallowing Edwin time to react, Charles brings both hands to the beige tie, tightening the thing himself.

“Charles,” Edwin sputters, purely out of shock. His hand moves automatically to Charles’ arm, trying politely to stop his worrying. “You can not just— it’s fine , won’t you just talk to me?”

“Just listen —” Edwin finally catches Charles’ wrist, halting his motions. His all-too wide eyes search Charles’ unabashedly, like Edwin can unearth his every thought with one look. 

He probably could . That maddeningly red flush creeps into his cheeks again.

“Are you. . . what is going on with you? Was it the drin—”

Edwin’s question halts abruptly, eyes flickering just past Charles’. His body goes oddly stiff, and the casualty of their moment shatters beneath Charles’ fingertips. 

He lowers his hands from Edwin’s tie instantly, shoving his hands deep into the pockets of his slacks. Nerves tie stones about his heartstrings, sinking the phantom organ further and further into the depths of his chest.

Edwin won’t look at him, and Charles’ head spins.

A blood-curdling scream fills the empty air, one they have already heard enough tonight. Somewhere on stage, Constantine’s actress is falling unconscious, her pulse probably nonexistent by now; soon, blood will start to pool from Matteo’s mouth, and his sister-in-law will cry one of the worst sounds Charles has ever heard. Or, that’s the general gist of the remainder of the loop, anyway— now seeming rather unimportant. 

“ Look , Edwin, I’m sor—”

“Wait a tick,” Edwin breathes, and Charles can only mourn the loss of his attention for another moment before his intent becomes clear.

Edwin is tracking something carefully over Charles’s shoulder. Anticipation stirs up a queasy sudo-feeling in Charles’ stomach, and he clenches his jaw against it. His eyes stay trained on Edwin’s face, assuming from past experiences that it’s in their best interest to remain unsuspicious, but he allows his hands to fall from his pockets and fiddle with the hem of his vest. 

He can’t help but admire the way the skin by Edwin’s eyes wrinkles as his scrutiny grows intense. 

Matteo’s in-laws weep somewhere off to their left, the other ghosts clamoring to get a better view of the downed leads. After a few seconds, time appears to slow, before they all practically teleport back to their initial positions— the ones Edwin and Charles had found them in upon their arrival, hours ago—  signifying the beginning of another loop. 

But Charles, for being a literal detective, can’t bring himself to care. Not when Edwin Paine is right here .

Edwin’s sudden, small gasp rises clear above the busy atmosphere, his eyes jerking back to Charles’ as one particularly loud clink- ing of glasses rings out.

Something clicks .

“I believe I have a lead,” Edwin grins, excitedly.

“You’re brills ,” says Charles. I love you , he thinks he means.

Maybe love-struck is the word.

“ There . Watch that door,” Edwin murmurs, and Charles fixes his gaze in the direction that the former nods. They’d meandered to a different side of the speakeasy, bumbling between patrons after the loop reset for another time, and secured a perch against a wall just near the back of the room. 

Now, with his arms crossed comfortably against his chest, Charles is thankful for the break in the odd silence that’s wedged its way between him and his partner. It’s wormed its way beneath the collar of his dress shirt, sitting heavy in his vest pocket like a second watch, tightening his tie like a damning noose. His fingers find the knot of the tie, loosening it considerably. Sure, he’d abandoned the rest of that whiskey back at the bar, but its lingering effects threaten to scramble the little bit of cohesiveness Charles so desperately clings to.

A few moments pass before the predictable cries start again, ghosts in the audience rising from their seats to catch a glimpse of the dying performers. There isn’t a head not turned towards the commotion, patrons and staff alike enraptured in the sudden drama. Admittedly, it’s much more exciting than that dramatic scene the actors have been performing all night; Charles can feel the way his brain kicks into gear, appreciating the chance to analyze the murders from this new angle.

And distractions be damned, Charles does see it, if only after a moment— the swinging of a far-off door, one he hadn’t noticed before now. It’s just down a corridor between the bar and a group of tables, opposite the doors to the bathrooms.

The only movement that’s not directed towards the murdered performers, concealed entirely in the chaos, is a gloved hand pushing the door open slightly. Its fingers seem to curl slowly around the wood of the door, one finger twitching as if tapping it, before time takes a slowing breath and sentences the loop to begin again.

“Could just be someone comin’ in to see about the ruckus, yeah?” Charles notes, leaning forward to squint at the now harmless looking door. “That’s not all too damning.”

“No gunshot, no murder weapon, and no obvious physical affliction on either of the victims,” Edwin huffs, as if Charles hadn’t spoken. “They are fine only moments before the deaths happen.”

“Poison?” Charles tries, eyeing the actors as they begin their first scene again. There are a few ensemble members mulling about the stage now, ones Charles hadn’t paid much mind to before— but his eyes jump to their hands and pockets, hunting for the distinct outline of a small bottle.

“Unlikely. I do not know of a poison with such a delayed release time.”

Finally looking at Edwin, he finds his eyes already lingering on Charles— or, Charles’ tie — before jumping to meet his. Every nonexistent nerve screams beneath Charles’ skin, and he desperately tries to shake the feeling.

“C’mon then,” Charles huffs, already springing from the wall and stepping towards the mystery door. “Let's go see what this bugger is on about.”

A hand traps his wrist, halting his steps. When he turns to meet Edwin’s rolling eyes, he can’t help but grin at the intentionally annoyed glare from his mate— a small semblance of normalcy in this fuckin’ mess.

“May I remind you that all of these ghosts can see us ?” Edwin chides, dropping his arm as quickly as he’d grabbed it. “If we go waltzing back there, we are practically asking for the murderer to get us caught up in this nonsense. That would spell out immense danger for us.”

The unexpected phantom warmth around Charles’ wrist jolts his thoughts, and he tucks that hand into his pocket.

“Sooo,” he draws out the last syllable, “how’re we meant to nail our killer then? Can’t we just hide the victims or something so they don’t get killed? Boom , loop broken?”

“It is not enough just to break the loop,” Edwin blinks, brows furrowing further. “In order for these ghosts to be properly freed, we must have evidence to prove who committed the initial murders. They will be sent to Hell, and the rest will be sorted accordingly.”

If he were anyone else, Charles may have missed the way Edwin stumbled over the mention of that place— but any chance Charles has to acknowledge that flies out of the window. 

An all-too familiar, asshole-ish laugh weasels through the crowd as the audience reacts to one of Matteo’s (only) good one-liners.

“I could only make out the potential suspect’s hands, though. Did you see anything else?”

He’s aware Edwin is asking him something important, yet Charles is turning before he fully realizes, a clear path between spectral bodies allowing him a good look at the bartender. 

The remnants of a chuckle linger on his distant lips, head lowering from where it’d been thrown back in laughter. The boy’s hand dances about an empty glass, drying the thing again; his oeyes shimmer where they sit fixated on the scene before him, watching the actors ramble through their lines. 

“It is a bit unhelpful that all of the staff wear gloves. Right, Charles?”

Memories of white-clad fingers around a glass of caramel liquor, attentive eyes and a wry smile flash easily behind Charles’ eyes. The artful twisting of the boy’s wrist as he toweled down the glass in his hand, glaring at Charles’ best mate like he’d been personally wronged. 

His stomach sinks, his throat working awkwardly around an unnecessary swallow. It’s a redundant habit, one he hasn’t ditched since death.

Edwin makes an odd noise in the wake of Charles’  non-response, and when he finally pulls his attention back to his mate, Edwin seems to have caught on to his rapidly accelerating train of thought. He gives Charles a knowing look— one that becomes more of a lingering once-over, eyes trailing the length of Charles’ figure— before peering over Charles’ shoulder again. Charles’s hands shift to quickly smooth out any creases in his impossibly nice clothing, the side of his tongue caught between his teeth. 

Surveying the bar just past Charles, Edwin’s lips press into an impossibly thin line. 

Edwin’s slender fingers halt where they’ve adjusted his sleeve further above his elbow, and Charles only allows himself an impossibly quick moment to acknowledge the further revealing of Edwin’s solid, freckle-kissed forearm.

Determination dances behind his partner’s brilliant eyes, a flame flickering on its wick. But there’s something else there, and it’s dark . Like something has snapped alongside whatever realization is dawning on the boy, a crack in everything that makes Edwin all proper like.

His face is doing that thing it does, creasing in all the odd spots and pinching between his brows— which, in the very familiar Edwin alphabet, spells out that the boy might have just the idea. 

And, when Edwin looks like that , who is Charles to stop him?

‘It’s a simple plan ,’ he’d said. ‘ Just distract him,’ he’d said. 

‘It’s not as if he’s not clearly interested in. . . speaking with you ,’ he’d said.

Charles had just about bashed his bloody head in, but eventually sauntered over to the bar, Edwin’s words playing on repeat in his ears.

“Take a look,” the bartender coos, pushing the menu his way. “We’ve got a special drink menu for tonight’s entertainment.”

“Brills, the bloody one,” Charles all but snaps after a too-quick glance at the menu. If the sudden reaction startles him, the boy doesn’t show it; a familiar intrigue sparks behind the bartender’s eyes, and Charles forces himself to suppress a groan.

Edwin told Charles that he had to keep the lad’s attention. Not that he had to enjoy it.

A facsimile of that coy grin from earlier settles onto the boy’s face, who winks again before shuffling a few steps down the bar. This, at least, Charles had enough of his shit together to plan for— in ordering a mixed drink, he’d be keeping the bartender just in eyeshot, and nowhere near Edwin.

Or, he assumed it would. Not much of a big drinker though, is he.

His thoughts linger on his partner, his whereabouts, his goddamn risky plan.

Oh, and the whole ‘ I love you ’ thought. Y’know, from earlier.

He, Charles has realized, in the midst of each hour-long minute and every moment of chaos in between them, doesn’t want this to feel so. . . difficult . He’d give anything to feel these things without worry or reason, dive so willingly into the impulsive part of his nature that he so often resorts to.

But this is Edwin. Reserved, buttoned-up, passionate , unyielding Edwin, who shouldn’t be treated with such impulsivity. Edwin, who surely shouldn’t have to be on guard in the middle of a goddamn case just to account for Charles’ sudden, longing stares and stupidly dumb-struck behavior. 

And going against that impulsive side? It’s fucking hard , innit.

Of course, this is the same Edwin who, by some divine intervention, has wound up on the other side of their mystery door, diving headfirst into whatever its contents entail. Meaning that Charles is truly the only thing keeping their likely suspect from stumbling upon Edwin’s snooping about.

Charles’ plight is interrupted by the low clinking of glass against the bar. A rather vibrant, saccharine red drink sits before him this time, with some herbal garnish he is positive Edwin would name for him.

Edwin. Looking for leads. Distract this guy. Behind the bar. On a case. 

Right.

He must pull some sort of face, because the bartender suddenly lowers his chin to rest on the stained wood, catching Charles’ eyes incredibly intentionally. The bloke lets out some dramatic sound, plastering on his best attempt at a fake pout.

“What, y’don’t like it?”

Something about their eye contact finally jumpstarts the gears in Charles’ brain. The way the bartender had oh so rapidly lowered his voice, further than necessary to accommodate for the quiet audience around them. 

He scoffs, as light-hearted of one as he can manage. Not liking this is certainly one way to phrase it.

Charles has spent all evening silently admiring his best friend— again, in a stupidly nice suit — and by some twist of fate, now has to pretend to entertain another guy to wrap their damn case. And all he can really think about?

Well, Edwin, of course.

Gripping the glass with unnecessary force between his fingers, Charles downs half of the concoction in one go. The ice clashes harshly against his teeth, and Charles all but suppresses a flinch at the sensation.

The boy behind the counter folds his hands beneath his chin, with a clearly pleased smile that Charles would be half-pressed to question when it’s getting him nearer to his goal. 

Or, when he’s a bit too busy trying to not cough his spectral lungs up. 

“I stand corrected,” says the boy, while physically standing from his crouch and brushing the creases from his trousers. “You uh, you okay there?”

“ Fine ,” Charles bites at a whisper, before clearing his throat a few times. He takes a steadying breath, blinking away the dizzying rush in his ears, the familiar flushing of his cheeks. The bloke’s eyes haven’t left Charles’, and he refuses to be the first to cower. 

“ More than fine ,” the lad hums, and something worse than the bloody fucking mary sinks like lead in Charles’ stomach. 

“Where’s your pal, anyway?” 

And fuck , way to add insult to injury. 

He savors a moment of growing silence, filled only by the droning of whoever’s on stage behind him, allowing the bartender’s curiosity to grow almost palpable. The bloke’s eyes dart from Charles’ to the patrons surrounding them, and when they land back on Charles, he has yet to collect himself. 

“What pal ?” 

“The lanky one, y’know. The one just by ya earlier, over there?” He tips his head in the direction of where Charles and Edwin had been plotting this plan only a few minutes ago, and Charles flinches— he thought they hadn’t been noticed. 

“You’s been standin’ by him all night.”

Charles’ nose scrunches in distaste automatically at the odd lilt to his words. Only further fanning the flames, it seems. 

“My mate?” Charles tries, feigning nonchalance as a steady fury boils in his chest. The word catches like tar on his tongue, in a way it hasn’t before. “Dunno, ‘s not really. . .”

‘Just buy me time, Charles,’ Edwin pleads somewhere inside his head. ‘ And do not, under any circumstances, allow him to find me.’

“He’s not my mate,” Charles steels, folding his arms carefully on the counter just a few inches from the lad’s side. “Just met him earlier, actually.”

The boy has the audacity to laugh at that, and Charles’ blood is boiling. 

“Right,” he barks, all too loud against the quiet of the room, and although Charles can’t exactly feel , he swears he can feel his confidence waver. The actors must be transitioning scenes by now, his surrounding peers finally falling into a polite murmur that’s more suffocating than freeing.

“Well, I’ll pretend I believe that. . .” the bartender trails, before something similarly self-conscious flickers darkly against his features— and he casts a wary glance down each way of the bar, eyes snagging on every other patron.

When the lad’s eyes catch his again, it’s almost violent , the shock it sends down Charles’ spine.

“If. . . if it means that you keep those pretty eyes on me .”

Charles can feel the bravery seeping from his body. If he were alive, it’d be a bit like bleeding out, he’s sure.

Fuck this , he thinks. Fuck this. Fuck this. Fuck this.

A clatter rings out from just behind the bartender, past the shelves making up the nearest wall. 

It’s something Charles would’ve absolutely missed in the heat of this awful moment, had his ears not spent three decades training to specifically listen out for his best mate in danger.

Without thinking, Charles’ hand flies to capture the bartender’s gloved one. It’s oddly soft, even against the phantom receptors of Charles’ long-dead hands, and the satin is uncomfortably foreign compared to the leather he’s grown so accustomed to.

“H-hey,” Charles sputters, trying for a grin, while he’d rather do anything but. He aims for something confident and flirtatious, grasping for that Charles charm that comes so naturally to him— but it’s sand between his fingers, entirely inaccessible. His hand rests like a damning weight between Charles’ clasped palms.

Wrong move, it seems— the sudden contact has the bloke yanking his hand from Charles’ in an instant, like the touch had burned him. Deep down, Charles can register the dull blow to his heart— at the all-too sudden reminder of just how long ago these ghosts were alive, at the implications of what that means for the boy before him. 

The lad’s eyes are blown wide, never quite meeting Charles’ own, not even when Charles attempts to duck his head to catch them. The former looks rapidly about the bar and towards the makeshift stage, across the faces of his nearby patrons, over his shoulder towards his extensive shelves of liquor; for a moment too long, the bloke never meets his gaze. 

Oh, but when he does.

“ Where is he ?” The bartender tries again, and the alarm bells in Charles’ head are blaring. Screaming at him, actually, screaming bloody murder. 

“Mate,” Charles rushes frantically, “I told you, ‘s just some bloke I met today—”

More crashing, and the sound of something thudding to the ground. Charles squirms against that all-encompassing urge to protect, the itch to find Edwin. He’s shaking, Charles can vaguely register, before strong fingers capture his wrist in a vice grip. 

Every nonexistent neuron in Charles freezes. 

“Where’s your little fucking fairy , huh?”

And, well, it’s pretty difficult for Charles to think— let alone play detective— when all he can see is a brilliant, violent red. 

It vignettes his entire peripheral, leaving only a pinhole sized view of the absolute bastard before him.

“Oi, what the hell did you just say?”

Charles’ gaping jaw clamps shut, teeth grinding against each other. 

“You heard me,” the boy growls, and any and all signs of amusement are gone from those pale, almost beige brown eyes. His pupils are blown, something alike panic glittering beneath them. 

“He’s not — What’s it fucking to you?” 

“Jus’ tell me where the fuck —”

There’s a familiar padding of feet as a figure rounds the corner from the back hall, approaching Charles’ seat at the bar. 

The grip about his wrist tightens, and it almost aches, impossibly so. 

“Charles?”

The adrenaline rushes from Charles like a rug being yanked from beneath his feet. 

With an exaggerated huff, the bloke pushes himself from where he’d been leaning against the tabletop, tension evident in every move. Charles’ wrist stings where it’s released from his grip, and he tries, with everything in him, to shove down the horrible memories arising with that sensation. 

With nothing more than a smoldering glare Charles’ way, and to his left, the boy stalks down the aisle of the bar, shoving through the door just a few paces away. 

And, just like that, Charles’ confidence crumbles.

There’s another hand there, resting against his trembling fist, a second one hovering against the small of his back. The flinch tears through Charles this time, entirely uninvited, and he hates the way he’s powerless to stop it. 

A quiet groan of metal finally draws Charles’ attention from the now unassuming door, and when he finally sees Edwin— here , by his side, not back where their suspect had stalked off to— it should be impossible how right things feel. 

Edwin is saying something, Charles clocks. His mouth parting around unintelligible words, lips reddened with the worried marks of teeth. Charles can’t hear a word of it, his head entirely too flushed, dizzyingly disoriented. 

There’s something cool encompassing his shoulders, then— but Charles doesn’t turn to acknowledge it, and wouldn’t if he could. No part of Charles will let him look away from Edwin. Like every cell in his body has come to some sort of mutual, respected agreement, and won’t take objections. 

Then, something vaguely warm cups the base of his neck, and the pieces finally start to click into place. They’d been laid out, the picture complete, but the bits not snapping together. 

“Charles, we must go now. We have to go,” Edwin whispers, a desperation behind the repetition of the words. He’s really worried, Charles can finally read, although trying his best to conceal it. 

“Can I lead you out?”

And there’s a hundred other questions there, behind the billowing wilderness of Edwin’s eyes. A million more understandings, too, all wrapped up in such an unassuming question. 

He nods, not trusting his voice. To crack, to threaten, to hurl insults at the now-empty bar— it’s feeling quite unpredictable, really. 

The drumming of his spectral heart drowns out any of their surrounding atmosphere as Edwin pulls them from their seats, bumbling through the electric energy of the audience. Charles’ fist closes impossibly tighter around the fabric draped on his shoulders, his other hand occupied, intertwined with—

Well, with a hand. Edwin’s, he’ll assume, because looking down to confirm that might be too much right now. 

There’s no one in the crumbling streets of London once Death’s pale light ceases to bathe the concrete before them. Not that it matters, anyway— as per usual, Charles and Edwin are back to being the only ghosts in their immediate vicinity.

It’d happened almost too quickly, the wrapping-up of it all. The murders hadn’t happened, not when they were supposed to, and the sound of cheers and gracious weeping had rung from the capacious speakeasy’s haunted walls. Death had come, as she does, and it was the only time for the rest of the evening that Edwin had left Charles’ side— and even if it was only momentarily, just to deliver a small vial of something to the awaiting immortal, Charles’ incorporeal being ached without his presence. 

They’d discussed the guilty person’s methods of murder ( poison , and Charles wants to be chuffed, because he fucking called it), and it had taken everything in Charles not to jump at the sight of his best friend beside their oldest ex-foe. 

Amidst the suffocating noise, he hadn’t missed it— couldn’t have, he thinks. The way that their key suspect and now convicted killer, that lowly goddamned bartender from earlier, glared daggers Charles’ way throughout the entire encounter, even after being magically bound where he stood to stop him from fleeing. 

Or, the way his accusatory gaze only strayed once, to watch the way Edwin’s now-gloved hand shifted to clutch Charles’ the moment he returned to his side. 

Uncertainty now bubbles uncomfortably in Charles’ chest, yet he bats it and the ruminating memories of their evening away with one look at Edwin— not a stolen glance, but a real , lingering look. 

The subtle lax to his posture. The few stray hairs that curl to-and-fro, somehow attuned to the obvious humidity of a summer evening in London, creating little crests and valleys in the prominent waves of his hair. The way his pristine dress shirt practically glows under the streetlamps, sleeves fully rolled up just past his elbows, tie hanging loosely around his neck.

The way Edwin isn’t holding a jacket, let alone wearing one, because Charles is wearing it.

Something like anxiety tries to thrum his absent heart, but it’s kinder, warmer . It’s as soft as the butterflies in his chest that Charles had become so acquainted with only this evening— the ones that, in hindsight, had formed their chrysalises the first time Edwin’s kind eyes had ever sought out his own. The ones that have grown every year since the rest of him stopped growing, three decades ago. The ones that unfurled few and far between at first, hardly noticeable, until Edwin specified with full certainty that no, I am in love with you , and then suddenly flourished.

“We are matching,” Edwin hums, something hesitant and soft behind his words. The clack ing of their dress shoes against the cobblestone is oddly comforting, and Charles almost jumps as Edwin’s words overtake the sound.

“Hm?” 

“Your tie,” Edwin continues, nodding slowly to the accessory around Charles’ neck, “and my suit jacket. They match.”

Charles’ eyes dart down to the offender in question, that damned pocket square, and a sly ( soft , something in him corrects) grin worms its way onto his lips.

“Oh fuck off ,” he chuckles, the sound light and airy, but still hesitant. “C’mon, Edwin. Don’t act like you didn’t. . . y’know.”

That look , the all-knowing one, glimmers behind Edwin’s eyes. The bastard.

“I don’t know what you mean,” Edwin continues, hardly suppressing a growing smile of his own. “Pocket squares were incredibly popular among the roaring twenties, as you refer to them. It would be a disadvantage to not. . . fully immerse ourselves into the fashion and culture outlined as necessary. To guarantee a successful case.” His reasoning all but falls apart at its seams.

Something strikes Charles then, a spark of flint on steel. It’s the warmth of a headrush from whiskey, but it feels safer, bolder . Entirely opposite of the trance-like panic he’s slowly creeping out of. 

“Mhm,” Charles hums, lingering on the last syllable. “But ‘s not as nice as a classic beige tie, right?”

Edwin flushes at that, chin ducking to his chest as they meander down the alley. His jaw clenches, an Edwin tell-all that means he’s actively holding back, literally chewing on his words.

“No, go on,” Charles lowers his voice, “tell me about it.” 

“You’re drunk.”

Charles gapes.

“Am not —”

Edwin only continues to walk, and oh bloody hell . 

Charles stops in his stride, hand reaching to lightly circle Edwin’s wrist. Edwin startles minutely at the contact, halting in his tracks. But he doesn’t pull away , rather, spins slowly to face Charles head-on, and Charles can breathe again.

“Why beige? Why burgundy?” Charles continues, using his chin to gesture to the red fabric in Edwin’s suit pocket, where it rests against Charles’ chest. He inclines his head, tilting it to the side just so.

There’s something new, mixed in with that growing, inquisitive spark behind the dazzling green of those eyes. It’s almost mysterious, if Charles were to name it. Mischievous .

Edwin’s first step towards him is calculated, the second one a little less so. Until, eventually, Edwin seems to give up on his calculations altogether, allowing the third stride to bring him much closer to Charles than he’d anticipated.

“Beige is a nice color,” Edwin murmurs, eyes trained on Charles’ beneath his lashes. “So is burgundy. I believe I like it.”

“You like it?” Charles mumbles, unable to smother the growing smile returning to his lips again.

“I like it,” Edwin repeats. “I like it. . . on you.”

Charles’ heart, where it doesn’t exist, breaks free from its restraints, its cocoon.

His hand, still encircling Edwin’s wrist, shifts down to the boy’s fist. Charles taps lightly on the back of his palm with his thumb, until a hesitant Edwin splays his hand open, and Charles can intertwine their fingers easily.

“Is it charming ?” He prods, fully anticipating an embarrassed wince from Edwin in return.

His partner, however, locks his eyes on Charles’ like it’s the easiest thing in the world.

“Yes,” Edwin states simply, like it’s a fact from a case file, a line from his notebook. 

He notices, then, the sheen that’s grown over the comforting green of Edwin’s eyes. As if Charles has suddenly sprouted blonde hair and longer legs, a chiseled jaw and arched brows. As if he’s donned a particularly nice trench coat, begun modeling on the side, and, right , gone two-dimensional in the process, squeezed between the yellowing pages of a fashion magazine.

It’s that. . . that look, at the model in the magazine on the office floor, the one from the beginning of all of this. But it’s more than that, too— it’s complex, with so many components, yet so clearly defined by the lack of a key one; there’s a noticeable lack of hesitation in the way Edwin watches him. It’s something Charles would have never thought to call hesitation up until very recently, and moreso, now that its absence is so clear. 

You’d think Edwin had left hundreds of pounds of baggage on those steps from Hell. 

It’s mint, really.

Charles removes his other hand from his pocket, and lets it trail from the base of Edwin’s tie up to adjust the collar of his dress shirt, like Edwin had done for him so many weeks ago. He can vividly remember the phantom feeling of Edwin’s fingers against his neck, the raw fervor pooling in his gaze as Edwin cherished Charles for all of him, even the horrible parts he’s often convinced ruin him. The memory alone maddeningly flushes the skin of his cheeks.

Though he can’t feel the fabric of his collar, it still glides nicely beneath Charles’ fingers, and he’s struck, again, by the craftsmanship of the clothing Edwin procured for their evening. 

They tremble the further they climb, and eventually, Charles rests a shaking hand against the slant of Edwin’s jaw. The boy is a statue beneath his hand, breath visibly caught in his throat, and he swallows awkwardly about it. Charles’ eyes flit to the motion, then back to his partner’s wide eyes.

“ ‘S this okay? ” Charles murmurs, afraid to shatter their sudden proximity. One finger idly traces the shape of Edwin’s jawline, before he shifts his hand to cradle Edwin’s face just beneath his ear.

Edwin nods, the motion slightly lifting his head from Charles’ hold— before leaning further into the touch, as if losing it had affronted him.

“Y’know,” he continues, soaking up the liquid ambrosia of Edwin’s undivided attention, “If you didn’t like that bloke, you could’ve just told me.”

A heavy pause. “You. . . that’s mean, Charles.”

Charles flinches. 

“What?”

Edwin doesn’t move, but doesn’t lean any further into Charles’ palm either. His eyes dance about Charles’ features like he has to commit them to memory.

“Of course I did not like him.”

“You told me to hit on him, mate.”

“I didn’t say that ,” Edwin interrupts, and now he shifts, tilting his head with slight offense. “I told you to distract him.”

Charles blinks, confusion twitching his brow. 

“But you knew he was into me?”

“Yes, I had assumed he might. . . fancy you,” Edwin continues, an odd darkness to the words. “But I didn’t expect anything more than that to happen.”

“Like what ?” asks Charles, and his fingers twitch helplessly where they’d held Edwin’s head. The latter shoots him an almost helpless look, that familiar, aforementioned hesitance creeping into his stiffening posture.

“You were holding hands, Charles.”

If ghosts were anything like the ones from the old flicks he’d seen, Charles would be about as white as one.

Sensing his confusion, Edwin takes a half-step back, and Charles immediately tightens his clasp on Edwin’s hand.

“Mate—”

“It is okay, really,” Edwin continues, and he’s on a roll now. “And I understand that he probably looked a lot less silly than I do in these clothes, this costume .”

“Edwin—”

“So I truly get it, and I apologize if my presence interrupted your— your advancements , in any way—”

“Hey, you—”

“You do not share my feelings,” he all but cries now, the words hovering like a guillotine above their necks. 

“I know this, and I would never ask you to pretend otherwise. So I am truly trying not to be bothered, as my feelings should not interfere with your decisions, your choices, your happiness , and—”

“ Edwin ,” Charles murmurs, all too soft yet with so much conviction. His hand finds its home against Edwin’s neck again, thumb resting against the curve of his jaw as Charles takes a tentative step forward.

It does the job, and Charles knows he has Edwin the moment his ramblings taper off into nothing, the boy’s eyes aching and subtly curious and waiting .

“Have you really not caught on to me checking you out all night ?”

It’s not all he wanted to ask, per se, but it surely does the job; Charles catches the moment the cogs in Edwin’s big brain start to turn.

“You. . . what?”

The worry in his words is almost palpable, and Charles can feel the way his brows furrow in response.

“All night, mate. You. . . you look aces, and I haven’t stopped looking at you. All night .”

The confession hangs between them, thick amidst the humid evening air.

“Your hands,” Edwin tries again, even sounding a little less convinced of himself. “You and that boy—”

“Were nothing ,” Charles affirms. “He— he was going to catch you, and, I dunno. . . I thought it’d distract him.” 

“But,” and Charles grimaces then, flinching against the memories of his evening, “I think he knew something was up. Kept askin’ about you, where you’d gone off to.”

“Is this why you were so. . .” Edwin slows, choosing his words carefully. “ Off tonight?”

Charles can’t help but bark out a laugh at that, startling the both of them. It rings against the buildings framing the empty street, a joyous sound.

“Edwin,” he chuckles, “I’m sorry, but I couldn’t name you a proper fact about that little play if I tried.”

Edwin’s own, abrupt laugh catches Charles by surprise, eyes drawn to the way Edwin’s shock morphs into a flushed smile. “And Matteo’s family, you—”

“Didn’t catch a wink of it,” Charles hums with a grin. “Couldn’t stop thinking about your stupid nice suit. What a bang on detective I am.”

Those butterflies rattle the cage in Charles’ chest, unadulterated affection threatening to tumble from his lips, to suffocate him whole. Edwin, in his nice vest and fancy slacks, tousled hair and slender build, loosened tie and impossibly flushed cheeks— all of it, this entire picture, is so shockingly perfect.

“Do you really think—?”

And finally, finally , Charles caves to that roaring, insistent impulsiveness. Only because he’s certain, more certain than almost anything he’s ever had to be certain about, that this is exactly what he wants.

Or, because it’s taken Charles this long to discover the desire to have his mouth on Edwin’s, and that’s long enough already.

Charles’ lips land against something soft, and he’s kissing Edwin. 

His mind all but blanks at the realization. Because, well, Charles is kissing Edwin . 

And Edwin? Edwin is kissing him back .

Edwin all but tumbles back with the sudden motion, and Charles drops their intertwined hands to brace his hand against the former’s waist, steadying his balance. Edwin only uses the momentum to lean into the kiss, his hand landing against Charles’ chest, the other arm fully wrapping somewhere about the small of Charles’ back. 

It’s almost maddening, the way Charles’ body, so incapable of feeling, can track every point in which he and Edwin collide. It makes his stomach swoop, adrenaline coursing beneath his skin.

A bone-chilling shudder wracks Charles’ spine, and he presses further against Edwin, dizzyingly so. It’s soft, and it’s sweet, and it’s every waking thought Charles has thrashed against since seeing his best mate in that navy waistcoat and more. 

In an impossibly sharp move, Edwin’s fingers climb the fabric of Charles’ dress shirt, curling beneath the strap of his tie and pulling him closer. It’s too much and not enough, and colors dance behind Charles’ eyelids as his hand on Edwin’s waist tightens.

An almost bashful grin slightly parts Edwin’s lips as Charles sighs into the kiss— like he’s returning from a long night away, and he’s home , and he knows it. 

A noise of protest fills the sparse space between them as Edwin lightly pulls back, one Charles only registers as his own moments later. He chases the contact unashamedly this time, and Edwin laughs at that, radiant and kiss-flushed and gorgeous . It rings like a translation of love itself, warm and blanketing, final and unwavering.

The hand not wound up in Charles’ tie finds its own place against his cheek, and Charles tilts his head into the touch. He itches with the desire to lean back in, breathing be damned, but Edwin is clearly fighting for the words to say something, and so Charles waits.

“Why?”

It’s not accusatory or doubtful by any means. It’s a question laced with genuine curiosity, one so Edwin that Charles’ heart aches.

“Because you’re charming ,” Charles coos, because he can. Edwin scoffs with fake offense, lightly shoving Charles’ chest, and Charles catches the boy’s hand before it can fall back to his side.

“You. You ,” he punctuates with a knock of his forehead against Edwin’s, earning a surprised chuckle from the latter. Wide-eyed with disbelief, Edwin studies Charles’ features again, and Charles’ eyes flutter shut as he revels in the contact.

“You are it for me, Edwin Paine.”

And is it really a second kiss, if Charles can’t help but smile uselessly against Edwin’s lips?