Archive of Our Own

Edwin never got to experience being a regular ghost.

To be fair, he supposed most people didn't, not really. At best, the dead got a few minutes to wonder what had happened to them before Death came and took them away. Still, a few minutes was a few minutes more than he got. He left the world of the living by being quite literally dragged to his afterlife, and by the time he crawled out, he was already something else entirely.

Evil spirits, vengeful spirits. At the time, he didn't yet have the words to explain what had happened to him –even though, without a frame of reference, he could still tell something was wrong– They formed when a ghost felt an awful injustice had befallen them, and few ghosts could claim to have been as wronged by everything as Edwin Payne.

He just hoped the boy from the attic wouldn't put two and two together.

Had Edwin not been so sure of his own wrongness before, it would have been confirmed by just a few minutes in the presence of Charles… once he died, that is. He was so clearly something else while standing next to this boy that he was surprised he wasn't being called out on it.

It wasn't the kind of otherness that could be perceived by sight, at least he hoped so. Charles certainly didn't seem to think there was anything special about the way he looked, perfectly mastering the art of looking at him and looking away… almost too perfectly, perhaps. Paranoia was a constant part of his being, as it had always been, but even more so after Hell, so he made a mental note of it before remembering he had actually acquired a notebook and making a physical note, on the page next to the one describing in hysterical, minute detail his experiences in Wrath. From the times he got lost trying to escape Hell.

Right.

If Charles found the sight of him grotesque or hellish in any way, he gave no indication of it, choosing to smile like he hadn't just suffered a gruesome death and even giggling while they hid behind some wooden boxes and a whole layer of dust that had probably been sitting there for as long as Edwin had been running in Hell. It forced Edwin to put his hand on top of the boy’s mouth because he would not be dragged back due to this kid having a charming nervous laugh, and it, again, showed just how different they were.

The whole being dead thing made interacting with anything feel foreign, and although the ghost rules dictated that he could freely touch and feel other supernatural creatures, it wasn't the human-like sensation of Charles' skin that gave him pause. Charles' energy felt… bright. Pure. Concentrated and clean. The sparks and bubbling were refreshing, and surely an effect of being just recently deceased, his entire being settling into his new form.

(Edwin had thought so at the time, but it wasn't long before he realised that it was just how Charles was. Unable to be still even in such an abstract way)

On the other hand, Edwin's entire energy was just off. Moving, too, but in a restless, uncoordinated way, like some part of him was still trapped down and desperately trying to run away, or struggling against the sheets tying him to an improvised sacrificial altar. It felt dark and murky, tainted, and although Edwin had once believed he could get used to anything if given enough time, decades in Hell had sourly proved him wrong, and this would as well. He could only imagine what it felt like for Charles, his own pain tolerance making it bearable for him, at least, and guiltily let him go once Death gave up on her search for the newly deceased boy.

“Sorry,” he whispered, although the threat had already passed.

“Good call,” Charles dismissed, his voice loud and clear. They were ghosts, and realistically nobody could hear them, but Edwin still felt the urge to cover his mouth once more. He took a step back instead. “But hey, you lied to me.”

Edwin froze. Of course, anyone would notice the turmoil of the energy that was now, for a lack of body to store it, him.

“I– I don't–”

“Yeah, I totally felt that,” Charles poked Edwin's shoulder, not pushing, just enough to prove a point. “You told me ghost rules don't allow that.” 

Edwin stared for a bit, then squinted at the boy from the attic. He still felt bright sparks on his shoulder.

“Supernatural forces are capable of interacting with each other in–”

Charles let out a big breath, like Edwin's words had punctured him and he was in the process of deflating, not unlike a sad balloon. He looked at the body on the floor.

“Supernatural, am I?” Charles mumbled to himself. Edwin still heard him, because they were both ghosts and, indeed, supernatural.

Right. Being dead was actually extremely recent for some of them. As in, less than a few minutes recent. Edwin didn't know what he'd do if this kid started crying, so he cleared his throat.

“Quite. Shall we go, then?” Edwin avoided his eyes as Charles looked at him, “I've no interest in haunting the school grounds, but if that's what you'd prefer, I'll be on my way.”

“No,” Charles shook his head so fast Edwin could almost hear the sparks. “Nah, mate. Lead the way.”

It took Edwin six months to find a book that explained what he was, and two years to conclusively decide that Charles had no idea.

The book was orange and honestly looked more like a pamphlet. It was unfortunately titled “Magical beings 101” and seemed to be American, or so he gathered, since the bloody thing didn't even have a colophon. Edwin felt stupid just reading it, but it did provide some answers.

Vengeful or evil ghosts: they are said to be the spirits of those who suffered a wrong or unjust death, returned from the afterlife to enact revenge. Destroying the remains can often eliminate such spirits.

It did fit well enough, and perhaps less important but more convincing, it felt… Correct. Edwin wasn't looking for any justice for himself, that had been beaten out of him during the first decade in Hell, but the energy constantly sizzling inside of him didn't exactly agree.

As for Charles' ignorance on the matter, that actually involved an evil spirit other than himself. Back then, their office was an abandoned treehouse, and their clients were few and far in between. Edwin felt unsettled from the moment he realised the man in front of them was all too similar to his own restless soul, convinced that this would be the moment Charles connected the dots and decided to finally move on to his well earned afterlife.

The man, John, suspected his wife had poisoned him, and wanted confirmation before moving on. Edwin would normally trust that statement. Most ghosts really just had one unresolved business they needed to take care of before moving on, but this was different. He could feel the energy, and he was sure Charles could as well. It wasn't exactly like his own, but it felt just as oppressive and dangerous, like a thermos full of boiling water about to explode. Edwin had a good hold on the lid, but he wasn't sure John was even trying.

Still, to call attention to it would be to expose himself, and having yet to gain the experience that would eventually allow them to pick and choose cases, they took it.

And John had been right, was the thing. His wife had slipped something in his food, and was now happily living her life as a widow. He, of course, didn’t see his suspicion being confirmed as a reason to move on, but rather, as an excuse to go on a rampage.

Edwin had read a lot about vengeful spirits, to be ready in case he slipped. To know what to expect, at least. To leave enough breadcrumbs so that Charles would know how to react. But nothing had actually prepared him for the real thing.

John became bigger, faster, his shape distorted in an uncanny way as he began to try and destroy their few possessions. His voice sounded like a scream that overlapped every emotion he had ever experienced, both in life and death., and the strength of it sent their few possessions flying.

Later, Edwin would scold himself for deciding to share the news in their treehouse, but at the time, he was rather distressed about the state of the five books he had gotten so far. Charles, less worried about their only source of reliable information on the supernatural but just as keen on stopping the attacker, had gotten hold of a tree branch and was brandishing it like a sword.

No branch or book was needed, in the end. A red light began to cover the room, and a terrified part of Edwin immediately identified it as hellish in nature. Without thought, he grabbed Charles, sparkly energy soft again his hands, and jumped off the tree.

The aftermath of that particular case left Edwin feeling more scared than he had since meeting Charles. First, because of the idea that his partner had finally realised what he had decided to spend his afterlife with. Charles wasn’t big on books or research, but he often asked Edwin to read to him, and having so few books available, to avoid the topic of evil spirits had been impossible. He knew what they were, he knew how they were formed and, most damning, he now had a frame of reference for what they felt like: the same kind of unsettled energy he experienced any time Edwin allowed him to get a little too close.

Second, because Hell was involved, and that wasn’t the kind of thing he could get past. 

For his part, Charles was just as upset, if not more. Edwin attempted to act normal as he tried to convince himself that it was better, that he knew. It was fair.

Not too eager to go back to the treehouse so soon after the red light, and also wanting to allow the other boy space to leave quietly, so to speak, Edwin announced that he would, then, go to the nearest police station and leave an anonymous letter, explaining what John’s wife had done. They had proceeded just like that once or twice, and he was still unsure if anyone at the Yard took the letters seriously. Still, it felt like they ought to at least warn someone.

Charles was usually on board, but not that time.

“I don’t know, mate,” he looked up at the treehouse, still visibly upset. Angry, maybe, though Edwin didn’t think he had ever seen Charles mad at anyone. “That red light, it was Hell, wasn’t it? and you saw the bruises on his wife's arms, yeah?”

“What’s your point?”

“Maybe he deserved it.”

Edwin felt his hold on the metaphorical lid slip, just slightly. He took a deep breath, as Charles always instructed. Held on tighter.

“My experience with what makes one deserving of eternal damnation leaves a lot to be desired,” he argued, and fought to keep his hands still. After a couple of years, his friend could read his gestures better than any member of his family ever managed. “Just because he turned into an evil spirit, I don’t…”

“Oi, no, I don’t mean he deserved Hell ,” Charles grabbed his shoulder, and Edwin felt the sparks. “That I don’t know. I’m just saying, it looks like he was a waste of a husband. Maybe she didn’t have a choice.”

“Charles, I hardly think murder is excusable, bad partner or not”.

“Don’t know. Sometimes it’s not that simple, I think”.

And Edwin dropped it, because in the end he didn’t care that much, and John had torn to shreds one of his top five books (the fact that he only owned five was irrelevant).

When one entire week went by without Charles even hinting at knowing that Edwin was a corrupted soul, he cautiously, optimistically, decided that his friend didn’t know, and everything went back to normal.

Edwin had always known he had the ability to love, and Charles was there to prove that not even Hell could take that from him. Edwin had loved his parents, in a way that had more to do with duty than any personal connection. Similarly, he had loved his siblings, from a safe distance. He had loved the family dog until she passed, and even after that –he sometimes wondered if she was still roaming the area, unaware of her death– Edwin had especially loved his grandfather, who always read to him if he asked.

Never had he loved someone the way he loved Charles, though, and he supposed it was because he never had a real friend before. It wasn't a feeling he could safely tuck away somewhere and reach when needed, unlike his previous experiences. This love was one that demanded attention, one that Edwin was all too aware of at any given time. It was a constant desire to protect, to keep close, to be the cause of a smile or, God willing, a laugh. It required effort not because it was hard, but because it was worth doing right. Edwin loved Charles like it was a task he had to perform to perfection, and he relished every second of it.

Still, his best friend could sometimes be just a bit unsettling. 

Of course, being a ghost, that came with the territory. As all of them, Charles could willingly revert back to the state of his death, which for him meant getting very pale and very wet. Where Edwin's transformation was more subtle —just a few bruises where he had been restrained— his partner could look like something similar to a mortal’s nightmare, or so he chose to describe himself. Edwin rather thought he would like to give him a blanket, whenever Charles presented that way, especially since it only happened when he was very tired.

A living person's nightmare or not, the fact was that Edwin was not alive, and so he found this side of his friend, as all others, lovable.

No, the most unsettling part of Charles Rowland was that he loudly, proudly, happily loved Edwin Payne back.

Like it was easy, like it was good. 

What he found unsettling was Charles' willingness to not only remain close to him, but to touch any part of Edwin he could reach. Edwin was all too aware of what his energy felt like, and he couldn't understand how someone else, let alone this boy, would choose to experience it.

Having had close to five years to think about it, Edwin had landed on a description for Charles' energy that felt appropriate enough, if perhaps a bit reductive. He had not shared his findings, but had kept meticulous notes of the whole thinking process until he reached a conclusion: soap bubbles.

Touching Charles always felt like a lot of bubbles bursting against his skin. Soft, delicate, refreshing, occasionally a bit damp, if only for a few seconds. Harmless. Hard to perceive, somehow harder to miss. Edwin enjoyed it.

His own energy, on the other hand, was a lot less charming. He had put just as much thought into it, as it couldn't be any other way, and decided to describe it as droplets of boiling oil. A prickly sensation that burned for a moment and then left him feeling cold. Erratic and violent. He had not yet gotten used to it, and he suspected he never would. Charles, who was significantly less exposed to it, definitely couldn't have.

Yet, time and again, the boy would touch. Pat his back or grab his hand or bump their shoulders, as if he couldn't feel the burning. For a while, Edwin considered that maybe he couldn't. Perhaps this whole energy thing was one of the experiences normal ghosts did not share. That theory did not fly, as it were, since he could always see the flinch, the hard intake of breath whenever he shook a client's hand. Eventually he just left that kind of thing to his companion, and limited himself to wonder why Charles would put up with such an unpleasant feeling.

He couldn't ask. That would draw attention to the issue, and he was still waiting for the penny to drop, for Charles to reach the conclusion that loomed closer and closer with each year. If he couldn't stop it, he would do everything in his power to not contribute to its arrival (except pull away from his friend's touch. He had tried that once, and the sad look Charles gave him was far more unsettling than any mirage of their time in the school attic his ghostly form could perform).

He was considering this as he examined the cricket bat his friend had entrusted him with. He wanted Edwin to put an enchantment on it, despite his honest disclaimer on not being that prolific as a magic user yet. Charles had insisted, claiming to have faith in him, and had spent the rest of the hour ‘giving him space to work’ while he searched for an ideal place to put an ugly cursed perfume bottle he had gotten from a questionable source as ‘decoration’. Honestly, he could place it wherever, as most of the shelves on their new office were sadly empty.

The enchantment had worked on the first try. Edwin threw a few more at it, for protection and strength, looking to stall for time, so Charles wouldn't claim he had told him so, as he had. He spent the rest of the hour attempting to look like he was concentrating, and ended up just petting the bat instead. He was trying to imagine he could feel the bubbles from its owner, or at the very least the wood under his fingertips, when Charles spoke.

“So how's it looking, master detective?”

Charles had placed the perfume bottle on a very high shelf, making it hard to spot and defeating the whole purpose of it. It was really ugly, so Edwin said nothing on the matter, and instead offered the cricket bat.

“I do believe this should suffice. It will not break easily, at the very least.”

Taking the bat from him, Charles attempted to do a weird, complicated movement one handed, probably a swirl, and it fell to the floor. Edwin looked at him, unimpressed, as his friend picked up his new weapon and smiled at him, unashamed.

“Cheers, mate,” Charles took his eyes off him to attempt another, slightly more successful, swirl. “You'll keep us safe, won't you?”

The question was very clearly aimed at the non-sentient cricket bat, yet Edwin answered before he could stop himself.

“Yes,” he stood up, trying to get out of the range that would get him an enchanted cricket bat to the face. “Well, it certainly can't hurt.”

“Oh, but it can,” Charles followed him, still waving the weapon around. “Especially now that it's been cursed by a powerful warlock, yeah?”

“It is not a curse, Charles, and I–” Edwin sighed, despite having to fight a smile as his friend began to laugh, the part of him that loved this boy (or was it all of him?) perfectly pleased with being gently teased.

“Seriously though,” finally stiling the bat, Charles walked up to him and gave him an one armed hug, softly bumping their heads as he was wont to do. “Thanks, Edwin. I knew you could do it.”

It wasn't exactly an ‘I told you so’, but Edwin still let out another long-suffering sigh as he leaned against his partner.

He felt the bubbles, and he wondered.

Charles actually cried quite a lot.

That wasn't entirely true, he supposed. In thirty years of friendship, Edwin had only seen actual tears on his companion’s face a handful of times, and the boy always made sure to clean his face fast enough for plausible deniability.

Still, Edwin was a detective, and he found the signs even when he was not actively looking for them. He couldn't help but notice the glassiness of his eyes, or the way his face got paler, his hair looking just a little wet, his tone of voice cheerful but quiet, subdued. Nothing about Charles Rowland was ever subdued unless something was very wrong.

He could recognize the signs, and sometimes he even dared ask. Charles never gave him a straight answer, and Edwin learned to accept that. He had never really gotten to mourn his life, he reasoned, going from watching his corpse to telling jokes in a matter of hours. Edwin didn't have much to miss from his time amongst the living, everything that brought him joy then still available to him after death. Charles had living parents, even if they weren't the best. He had friends, probably even some that hadn’t been directly responsible for his death, and girls he missed kissing. Edwin couldn't relate, but he could be understanding.

Often or not, the truth was that even with decades available for him to decide on a course of action, Edwin never managed to do more than freeze when this happened. He remembered how the lady who took care of him and his siblings would soothe them if they cried, with soft words and gentle hands. But his own voice was awkward, never given the opportunity to grow into it, and his touch hurt.

Besides, Charles was no toddler, and his emotions, his joy and sorrow equally, were particularly strong. Fortunately, happiness was the rule, and sadness the exception. Edwin would sit next to him for a million years if that's what it took for his friend to smile again, no questions asked, but he didn't want this wonderful boy to suffer anymore. He'd had enough of that in life.

That was probably what went through his head as he crouched next to Charles while his friend sobbed. Never before had Charles cried in front of him the way he did in Port Townsend, fallen to the ground after sending one of Death's lackeys to the bottom of the lake.

His hand had barely gotten to Charles' back when his friend pulled away, never pushing, never hurting Edwin even as he was in pain himself, even as Edwin caused pain. He didn't try again. He had forgotten himself, for a second, he had allowed his mind to run wild and ignore that he wasn't a creature made for comfort, not anymore, if he ever was.

The restless energy that was Edwin got darker and more erratic still, and he knew if he ever went full on vengeful spirit, it would be for the benefit of the boy crying in front of him. This was not a new revelation, and he didn't mind.

Perhaps he had been way too kind in his initial assessment. His energy didn't consist of mere drops of boiling liquid, painful but concentrated, its effect lasting only a few seconds. Maybe it was more like a lot of tiny fire ants biting anywhere he reached, their poison burning through whoever got too close, the pain expanding. Edwin was familiar with that particular sensation, as the second demon who had owned his soul had been rather creative with her torture methods, before getting tired of him always trying to run away.

“I know someone who will have no problem with that nasty habit of yours,” she promised, right before sending him to the Doll House. Edwin never did find out what she got in the exchange. He wondered if it was a good idea to know what his soul was worth.

Edwin's soul had belonged to two demons and a thing that was worse, and he was beginning to realise that he may have given it away to Charles at some point during the last thirty years. It wasn't a pretty gift, though, not after Hell. It was something that burned and hurt and wanted revenge to the point of being on the very verge of explosion constantly. It wasn't even something that he wanted his friends to see.

All this to say, Edwin watched his best friend cry, and he didn't try to touch him again.

The hug was surprising, but Charles usually was like that. Unpredictable, because he acted based on what he was feeling. Unable to learn a lesson, touching even when he had been burnt in the past.

Edwin was no better, he thought as he hugged back, feeling a million tiny bubbles caress him delicately.

Edwin had forgotten what being a human was like, until Hell.

Technically, he had no body. The real one had been destroyed the night he died, and the one he was currently being was a product of the Doll House, just a toy for the creature there to gnaw on. Charles had a body, somewhere in the world, buried in a grave on the school's ground, possibly, and definitely not down there in Hell, where no part of him should be at all.

Real or not, the truth was that Edwin touched Charles and he found no bubbles, only pressure, warmth and softness. It stood to reason, then, that Charles felt no drops of oil, no ants, no hurt.

That wasn't the reason Edwin told him. He already had two big secrets, and he hated keeping things from the boy he loved. A part of him was willing to vow that he would come clean entirely, at some point. We have forever to figure it out, it echoed, like he hadn't been on edge for over three decades, waiting for the boy to catch up and realise what stood beside him.

Edwin told Charles how he was loved, because it was true, he deserved to hear it, and he just needed his friend to know.

His other secret followed them out of Hell, and it was the first thing he felt, the prickly burning already erasing the memories of what being without it was like.

Salt circles were effective trapping ghosts so long as no gusts of wind blew.

Unfortunately for Edwin, but unsurprisingly considering his track record, they were indoors and not even the state of disrepair of the building allowed for a breeze to make its way through. He kept looking at the circle –if one could even call it that, with how crudely drawn it had been– and willing it to move, while outside his friends actually did useful things.

Charles and Crystal couldn't be blamed for prioritising the fight, especially since Edwin wouldn't be particularly useful during it, as it were. Not only did he avoid violent confrontations for fear of the excitement finally making his vengeful nature snap, but also because he was, frankly, not at all good at it. With his enchantment book out of reach, still secure in Charles' backpack (he hoped) Edwin limited himself to observing from his undignified, salty prison, making sure to look properly impatient all the while, even tapping his foot occasionally. Charles kept throwing glances his way, probably checking to see if he continued to be unharmed, and then grinning amusedly before returning to the fight.

It was a rather typical case, so far as any case could be considered so. No witches, no cursed objects, no actual threat, just a bunch of living people who could see ghosts and decided to make it everyone's problem. They were trying to capture ghosts to… Edwin wasn't sure, make an army? Crystal had mentioned ‘going viral’ but it was still unclear to him how any disease propagation was involved. Regardless, if the best they could offer was a salt circle, Edwin figured that most spirits would have been able to free themselves without their intervention.

The humans did have iron weapons, though Edwin didn't disregard the possibility of it being dumb luck. They didn't seem to know what they were doing, but that didn't mean they weren't just as capable of harm as anyone with true understanding of their nature and, indeed, one of them eventually landed a lucky hit on Charles’ face. It hadn’t been particularly hard. Crystal, who had been trying to get a reading on the abandoned building to hopefully find the three missing ghosts they were after, visibly flinched, but the scream was purely Edwin's doing.

It was somehow disappointing, after so many years of hiding it, that his secret would be revealed due to an injury that’d heal in one minute at most, on a not particularly special Sunday, and from a bloody salt circle, of all places, but Edwin's hold on the lid finally slipped.

In the spirit of granting himself some grace, it would be fair to mention that Port Townsend was still very recent, and everything that came with it. Hell, sure. The confession and subsequent rejection. The Cat King and Monty and Esther with her blasted machine.

Niko.

Edwin had felt on edge since arriving at that cursed town, and where he thought distance would alleviate some of the pressure, it had actually made holding on harder the more time went by. He’d had good reasons to keep himself in check while everything was happening, but back home, away from it all and with too many opportunities to look back, just a little shove turned out to be enough to push him over the edge entirely.

The salt circle ended up being a blessing, as it kept him contained. Edwin had had enough decades to imagine what he'd look like when he finally caved in to his true nature, and having had more opportunities than most to watch evil spirits in his line of work, his guess was pretty spot on. At the time, however, he couldn't see himself, and he could think of nothing but getting out and tearing someone apart, trashing against invisible walls like a rabid, angry animal.

He looked more dead than usual, Crystal would tell him later. Pale, eyes black (like a demon’s, she didn't say, but he knew), his shape distorted like it was vibrating on different frequencies and his molecules couldn't pick what space they wanted to occupy. He moved so fast, apparently, that at first she had thought there was something else trapped there with him.

Although his movements, fast as they were, weren't enough to break the circle since he was as unable to move salt as he always was, vengeful or not, his energy filled the place. The mortals had run away, and Crystal had almost wanted to do the same, she would confess, head lowered like it was something to be ashamed of. It felt like electricity, she assured, like being burned, he thought. Edwin gathered that it didn't feel very different from usual, just stronger. Then again, she had never been exposed to it before.

Edwin remained unaware of it all, feeling only anger and wanting to stop being restrained, why was he always being restrained? While Charles ushered her out, with clear instructions to rescue the three ghosts and not come back because something was happening. He had looked so scared, Crystal would later mention, that she had thought Hell was involved again, and received a firm push when she refused to leave (Charles would keep apologising for it over the next two weeks, like that was the worst thing that had transpired in that building).

Even after that, Crystal stayed, and Charles, because he was impulsive and had not been paying attention to thirty years of Edwin's subtle clues on what to do if this ever came to pass, used his cricket bat to hit the ground until the salt circle broke.

And after that, it was bedlam.

Edwin was able to sort of remember the next bit, if only as chaos. Freed from his stupid prison, he had chosen to not abandon the building. In fact, he hadn't even left the room. Edwin the vengeful spirit spent the next two hours bouncing off the walls, breaking everything he came in contact with, shattering windows and boxes and putting the whole integrity of the place at risk, like a supernaturally strong toddler throwing a tantrum. It was humiliating, though it didn't register as such at the time. While he did it, Edwin just felt right. 

Charles and Crystal sat there when it became clear nothing they did was going to get to him, and Edwin didn't touch or harm them once.

The building had already been in a bad shape when they arrived. It had once been an inn, according to his quick research, and it was far older than Edwin himself. It had actually still been functioning when he escaped Hell the first time, but only for a couple of months. The only reason the building was still standing was a group of historians and concerned neighbours who had protested its demolition, but were happy enough to leave it to rot once that was no longer a threat. The place had water damage, it was covered in graffiti that Edwin could barely read and had apparently become a meeting spot for humans who decided to meddle with the supernatural for lack of a better pastime.

Edwin had taken his fury out on the poor historical site, but he didn't have it in him to be upset over it. When he came to himself, he felt just as angry as he had been while trashing the place, and he marched towards his friends, suspecting that he would explode again if only he had it in him.

“Edwin?”

“I want you to tell me what moment of the last thirty-five years gave you the impression that it's not bloody stupid to stay in a room with a violent, evil spirit!”

Charles stared at him for all of five seconds before standing up, putting on his backpack like he had just been waiting for permission to go home.

“Oi, you're not evil, nor…” he looked around at what was left of the place, and grimaced. “Violent. Not towards us, at least.”

“And you, Crystal,” Edwin was shaking, but he didn't feel at risk of blowing up again without enough energy left on him, so he took his chance to say his piece. “I'm aware you only joined the agency recently, but I dared hope you had some sense!”

“Hey, save it! I don't even understand what the fuck just happened. You've had the zoomies for like two hours and Charles wouldn't tell me shit, so start explaining, brains,” Crystal crossed her arms, but looked down before continuing softly. “I thought you were possessed”.

“Sorry,” Charles mumbled. “I'm a bit lost too, aren't I? You didn't really…”

And that was it, the moment Edwin had been trying to avoid since he met a boy dying in an attic. The fear, the confusion. All that was wrong with him and all that he was, exposed for all, for Charles to see.

There was no chance of hiding. His outburst had made all of the flashlights and candles the humans had with them go out, but he had also broken the windows and part of the walls, so enough sunlight came through. It wasn't the kind of setting he would have chosen for this conversation, but then again, he'd had over thirty years to pick a better time.

“I'm afraid I did,” he said, as matter of fact as he could manage, before addressing Crystal. “I am sorry for worrying you. I was not possessed nor otherwise influenced by external forces. What you saw is known as a vengeful spirit, a ghost that feels they've been wronged either while alive or in death, and reacts violently because of it… It was me.”

“So what, you got pissy and decided to pick a fight with the walls?”

“Not quite,” he avoided looking around at the wreckage, focusing instead on his boots. “It is not inherent to all ghosts. I guess you could call it a corruption, of sorts”.

“Okay… so what now?”

“Now,” Edwin adjusted his sleeves, trying to regain some control. Crystal was covered in dust that had once been part of the building, but as a ghost, he had been spared. It felt unfair, but he had learned that most things were. “We finish the case”.

“What? We're not gonna address the… corruption thing? Feels like something that should be addressed”.

Charles, who had been disturbingly quiet and was lacking his usual smile, squinted at him, something like an accusation in the way his arms were crossed.

“You don't seem awfully surprised, mate”.

With the last of his big secrets out in the open, Edwin saw no reason to not come clean entirely. They had come a long way since the beginning, and he knew that something like this wouldn't drive Charles away. Sometimes he was sure nothing could. That certainty did not mean he was thrilled about the conversation they needed to have.

“The case takes priority,” he decided, like a good detective, or perhaps a coward.

As always, Charles followed him without complaint, at least until the case was closed and the three ghosts freed, two of them deciding to move on. Still, Edwin had no illusions of avoiding the inevitable.

Your best friend of 35 years being an evil creature forged in Hell was not the kind of thing one could just overlook, even if they had still been in the habit of discussing feelings only as far as it would appease the other. The outcome was clear as day, though. They would return to some semblance of normalcy, maybe with some extra rules in place, maybe with a few extra precautions and a couple of weeks of uncomfortable interactions. They would be fine, in the end. Edwin was certain of it like he was of little else, and so he hoped they could just skip the talking about it part.

Charles, on the other hand, seemed eager to start discussing it, impatiently fidgeting through their client and the remaining ghost's reunion, jumping in place as Edwin handled payment, even though he usually avoided interacting in such a direct way with people, especially during emotional moments. Charles clearly couldn't wait, though no one would have said he was excited about it, his expression stormy, his smile notably absent. Crystal hadn't finished closing the door behind the retreating ghosts –unnecessary, really, as they could just go through it, but she insisted opening the door for people was polite and she didn't want to get too used to treating people like they were already dead– when he started.

“So was it Esther's machine or Hell? Or…”

God, Niko. Had his soul not been ruined beforehand, surely that event would have left him just as broken.

Edwin turned towards Crystal, still by the door, hoping she would interrupt. She didn't, instead looking at him with her eyes huge and her lips closed, the traitor. He cleared his throat and straightened his coat, both useless gestures.

“Hell.” 

“Right,” Charles walked away from the desk, and then returned, planting himself on the same spot he had been. Upset, then, though Edwin could have deduced that one from context alone. “Why not say anything, then? We said we could trust each other with anything, didn't we?”

Again, Edwin looked at Crystal. He wasn't certain whether he found her presence annoying or comforting, but she had tentatively approached them, expression carefully blank. Being reminded once again that he wasn't the only one who knew Charles anymore, he realised Crystal could probably tell their friend was upset.

Edwin was about to make it so much worse. “Deep breaths,” Charles in his head advised, even as the one in front of him offered him nothing but a slightly hurt look.

“It is not really the kind of information you disclose if you're trying to avoid scaring someone,” he explained, and hoped it was enough. “And regardless, I didn't yet know what, exactly, I had become.”

Undoubtedly, Charles remembered their first meeting just as well as Edwin did. The shock on his expression left no room for doubt, shoulders dropping like Edwin had just placed the weight of the world on him.

“How long?”

“Charles, I assure you, I wasn't trying to–”

“When did you know?”

In a rather useless attempt to delay the inevitable, Edwin didn't move, perhaps hoping his friend would just take back the question. Charles did nothing of the sort, persistently staring at him instead, and so he walked to his desk.

His copy of Magical Beings 101 had stayed on a desk drawer ever since they moved to the office. Its awful orange colour was slightly faded, and the paper was so cheap that despite his care it looked like it would crumble in the case of being handled with anything more corporeal than a ghost's hands. Edwin had no reason to believe it, but he was also sure the damned thing must've reeked of humidity since the turn of the century at the very least. Still, the indignity of displaying it was not the reason he kept it hidden. That was, he could admit, partially an effort to feel safer. He figured out the truth by reading it, and to keep it from everyone else felt like keeping his secret, despite the multiple tomes on the bookshelves discussing the same topic in much more detail.

The other part was sentimentalism. Finding out who you are is an important moment, even when you don't like the answer.

Wordlessly, Edwin handed this piece of himself to the most important soul in the universe, and watched as it was examined, holding his breath like he might need it to defend himself, even while knowing that Charles would never attack him.

The pages were carelessly flipped, not a second invested in any of them. Like any time he was handed a book, Charles waited for an explanation to follow. Edwin offered it.

“Page 42,” he instructed. Crystal approached to read it, too, and proving once again just how affected he was, Charles didn't even move to make it easier.

Vengeful or evil ghosts: they are said to be the spirits of those who suffered a wrong or unjust death, returned from the afterlife to enact revenge. Destroying the remains can often eliminate such spirits.

Edwin had that bit memorised, of course. He had spent decades considering every word and pondering over all the implications. No remains, so that disproved that. A wrong or unjust death, certainly. Evil.

“You got this one a few months into 1990, yeah? I remember because you kept complaining about it having no colophon,” Charles was frowning at the page, not making eye contact, and yet Edwin felt himself smile, endlessly fond. “I hadn't the foggiest what that was, back then.”

“Well, what is it?” Crystal asked.

“It’s the page with all the information. Year it was published, printer, that sorta stuff,” before Edwin could offer a more precise definition, his friend's eyes found him, and he froze. “You've known this long?”

The answer was already plain to see, and so he gave an explanation instead.

“Initially,” Edwin pressed his fists together, knowing it gave away his emotional state and being unable to help it. “I figured it wouldn't matter. I was under the impression you’d move on to your afterlife soon enough, so you didn't need to know. Then, I worried finding out what I… am should be the cause for you leaving, and I resolved to allow you to discover it on your own.”

“And then?”

Because that couldn't be it, because Edwin ought to know better. Because Edwin knew better.

“I suppose I decided it didn't matter, after all. And in all fairness, Charles, it did take 35 years for it to come up.”

Charles took a deep breath, like the ones he was always prescribing Edwin to get him to calm down.

“Right,” he dropped the book on the desk, no satisfying sound to it since it was still a thin, floppy thing. “Why should I need to know, huh? Surely it's all the same to me.”

“But… well, it is, isn't it? You're not…”

Leaving, Edwin wanted to say, yet that wasn't right, because Charles wouldn't. He would not. He needed a different word to end the question, and yet none seemed to fit. Angry? Disappointed? Hurt? He was, he was, he was.

“It isn't!” Charles protested, voice raised. “It is not all the same, Edwin!”

Edwin could feel himself setting up walls. He had never been good at just taking what was thrown his way, in all honesty, which had always encouraged the bullies. He needed to have the last word before retreating, or running away, as less kind but more truthful kids and demons would call it. He already had the retort loaded and ready to shoot, and a path to follow on his way out, closed door be damned.

“The only thing that's different is you no longer being none the wiser!” He began. “And frankly, the fact that you didn't see it earlier is–”

“Okay! Okay, Edwin,” Crystal pointed at him rather rudely. “Shut up. Charles… you need to calm the fuck down, alright?”

Charles joined the pointing, though in a more broad way, and didn't even afford Edwin the courtesy of looking at him, focusing his eyes on the girl instead.

“He's been a vengeful spirit since the beginning!”

“Yes!” Edwin agreed, arms crossed to avoid pointing at himself too. “Since the beginning! So nothing has actually changed now, has it?”

“You never said anything!”

“Oh, you wanted a bloody disclaimer?”

“Yeah, maybe!”

“Boys, that's enough!” Now Crystal seemed angry as well, probably as sick of the useless back and forth as Edwin himself felt. “Charles, I know you two are best mates for death or whatever, but Edwin doesn't actually owe you any information he's not comfortable sharing. And you, Edwin, considering what I saw today, it was a fucking stupid and dangerous move to keep this under wraps for as long as you have for no reason!”

There were plenty of reasons, really. Because even as he accepted that Charles would always stay by his side, evil spirit or not, Edwin also longed to preserve the image his best friend had of him. Charles had always held the belief of his inherent goodness, and Edwin had somehow managed to not change his mind after all this time. He had known, logically, that his feelings had very little chance of being reciprocated, but who could blame him, really, for wanting to be seen as an equal? To be something more than a monster, to maybe be considered for even a fraction of a second. Edwin had always wanted to keep Charles, but once that was secured, he had wanted to be liked by him, even while knowing himself loved. Perhaps he was greedy, and a coward. Perhaps he had a right to it, after everything he'd gone through. And perhaps it was an attempt at feeling safer, or sentimentality.

Instead of saying any of this, Edwin turned around and left, forgoing the last word for once.

For a reason they would both struggle to explain, Charles and Edwin's arguments always got resolved well into the night, while the rest of the city slept. If it was a sense of privacy they were after, it was a rather pointless effort, as most of London’s inhabitants couldn't actually see them, awake or not, and between those who could, even fewer would care. Still, it had always been this way and it would probably always be, for as long as they existed together. And, since for as long as they existed, they would be together, that particular fight was not an exception.

Whatever Charles and Crystal had done after his retreat, it had clearly calmed the boy down. He approached and sat on the bench next to Edwin at St. James’ Park, hands in his coat’s pocket.They liked the park and often went there at night, making use of their amazing ghostly abilities, such as remaining indifferent to the weather and being a rather unlikely target for muggers on the account of having no actual bodies to speak of, nor any possessions any normal person would be interested in.

To be honest –and apparently he had to be– Edwin had stopped feeling upset hours ago, and had just been waiting for night to fall so they could talk things through and return to normal. He knew Charles would find him at the park, if he wasn't there already.

He had always accepted the fact that his friend wouldn't take the news well, due to the simple fact that absolutely no one would, so to get defensive had been entirely his mistake, emotional distress caused by literally losing control of his very being and suffering a grotesque transformation aside. Whatever his partner was feeling, they could talk it out, and whatever he was feeling, he would force himself to share in order to move forward.

Love, in whatever form it took, had hurt Edwin Payne too much. The Cat King had trapped him and Monty had deceived him and Simon had… well.

It wasn't only him, though. David the Demon had tricked and used Crystal, and Maxine had attempted to murder Jenny. All evidence pointed at love being something scary, terrifying, even. But not when it came to Charles. If there was someone in life or death of whatever awaited him if he ever crossed over that would never purposely hurt him, that would be Charles. Loving him felt safe, which was one of the reasons he told him, confident in the fact that he could place his soul –that is to say, all that he was– in his friend's hands and know himself guarded. He already owned it, anyway.

The fact that Charles could still worry about being bad, while simultaneously being the safest person Edwin could conjure up, a creature soft as a battalion of bubbles but fierce as holy fire, was baffling. The fact that Edwin could somehow doubt him, still, was somehow worse. He had meant to apologise first, but Charles had always been faster than him on anything that counted.

“I don't think any different of you,” Charles offered, voice soft but not ashamed. “You know that, yeah?”

“Did I frighten you too badly?”

That had not been what Edwin intended to ask. Nevertheless, it was what he wanted to know.

“Nah, mate,” Charles bumped their shoulders for a moment, giving Edwin a dose of bubbles and getting an onslaught of sizzling and burning for himself. “You're not scary.”

“I'm afraid I do not recall much of it at all. It must've been quite a mayhem.”

“It was something.”

“I think,” Edwin looked ahead, ignoring the boy next to him and his own nervous hands pressed together. “Had the humans not fled, I may have hurt them. I certainly wanted to.”

He could tell Charles was looking at him, but he wasn't willing to find out with what sort of expression.

“Everyone gets angry, Edwin,” he softly bumped their shoulders again. “Especially me, you've seen it. But you didn't hurt anyone, even though me and Crystal were right there.”

“That's hardly the same, Charles, I–”

“We are, aren't we? The same. Always have been,” risking a glance, he found Charles smiling, of course. “You just get a bit funny looking when you're pissed off.”

Edwin couldn't help it. He snorted. He'd long since accepted that there wasn't a single part of Charles Rowland he wouldn't find charming, and had in turn tried to show him only the least condemned bits of himself.

“I knew you wouldn't leave, if you found out,” he admitted. “But I feared you would like me less.”

“Mate–”

“I know myself loved,” Edwin thought of his parents, who loved him like duty, and his siblings, who loved him from a distance. People who had undoubtedly lamented his passing, and yet had certainly not mourned him . He amended: “I know you love me.”

“Good.”

“I also want you to like me.”

He had thought no one had ever liked him, before Charles, although now he supposed Simon had, as far as he could, considering how little they knew each other, and despite his rather dreadful ways of showing it. He wondered if that was the result of being liked without being loved, or if it was something else entirely. He wondered if Maxine had merely liked Jenny.

The boy next to him made what Edwin liked to call his thinking noise.

“Are those different?”

“Yes.”

“I like you.”

Edwin smiled at him, unsurprised but charmed nonetheless.

“I know, Charles. I like you as well.”

“I like…” Charles moved his hand like he was trying to attract the right word with it. “Everything. Nothing I've ever learned about you has made me like you any less. I like you even more, now, I think.”

“Because I'm a vengeful spirit?” he asked, baffled but amused.

“Because it's something about you, and I always want to know things about you.” Charles pushed him lightly. He had been pushed plenty of times before, but it never felt like this with anyone else, playful, safe, loving.

He certainly had never been liked the way Charles liked him.

“I'll strive to remember that,” Edwin vowed, happy. The chaotic energy inside of him settled for the time being.

“Mate, you truly do overthink stuff,” Charles complained, but his smile was still in place and he looked relaxed. “This is why you gotta tell me these things.”

“What do you mean?”

“I've never thought of them as separate things, liking and loving, you know? at least not when it comes to you. Pretty sure they happened at the same time,” since the beginning, Edwin knew, as it had been the same for him. Charles leaned against him, like it didn't hurt, and Edwin realised he could finally ask why. “You're the most important person to me.”

Edwin hummed, content. Questions could wait. You could only have so many serious conversations on a park bench.

“You've said, yes.”

“You're my favourite, too.”

They got back to the office while it was still very dark, and everything was just as they had left it. There was no reason for anything to be different, really, but Edwin still paused at the little book, on the desk right where Charles had dropped it.

“We're gonna have to apologise to Crystal tomorrow, mate,” Charles patted his back, like he was trying to comfort him at the prospect of even more chatting. “Can't be the only one doing the talking this time, I'm afraid.”

Edwin was not good with people, but that was fine, because Charles was always there to take over. He hated emotional conversations and would avoid them as much as he could. Sometimes, though, Charles would deem his participation necessary –mostly when it came to apologies, actually– but he would always warn him beforehand, so they could prepare. Well, Edwin was about to surprise him once more that day.

“Why'd you do that, Charles?”

“What's ‘that’?”

“Touching me.”

Whatever his friend had been expecting, it clearly wasn't that. He squinted at him, not entirely a frown but certainly on its way to one. Edwin kept himself steady under the scrutiny, hands politely clasped in front of him, face neutral.

“I… come again, mate?”

“Frankly, I've always wanted to ask, but was worried about calling attention to my, ah, nature? so to speak,” he explained. “I am aware that, due to my status as a vengeful spirit, touching me turns painful, yet you've kept doing it over and over. I suppose I'm curious as to why you'd subject yourself to such a thing.”

“What?” Charles fully frowned, then, and grabbed his hand as if to prove a point. “Touching you doesn't hurt. Does it hurt you?” 

He said it as if there was anything he could do about it, like he would march up to whoever decided that his own energy would be painful and beat them with his cricket bat. Edwin squeezed his hand, thankful.

“It doesn't hurt me, no,” he clarified, and watched as Charles relaxed slightly, still looking at him. “I imagine it is thanks to the pain I endured in Hell. I have built a sort of tolerance.”

The relaxation was gone. Charles frowned even more intensely.

“‘Thanks to’ that's…”

“Poor choice of words,” Edwin conceded.

“Well, it has never hurt me,” their hands were still joined, and Charles focused on them like he might find the pain he spoke of hidden somewhere between their fingers. “So maybe it just doesn't, right? Hurt.”

Edwin considered all the clients that had flinched upon contact throughout the years, and how the humans had fled the scene earlier that same day.

“It doesn't hurt me,” he repeated, Charles' eyes returning to him. “But I can still feel it. I've come to describe it as droplets of boiling oil.”

“That's not it at all!” Seemingly personally offended by the notion, Charles shook his head. Something told Edwin he would be even more affronted by the ants allegory. “It's more like spicy food.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Spicy food. You know. Strong, but… not painful.”

His experiences with spicy food were rather limited, as in, he couldn't recall ever having any at all. Still…

“You cannot taste touch, Charles.”

“Not a flavour, though, is it? It's more like a sensation. I always liked it, back when I could eat. My dad couldn't stand it, mum had to prepare a separate batch for him whenever we had it.”

“You're being truthful,” Edwin noted.

“I swear to you, mate! You've never hurt me.”

“So, can I…?” Tentatively, Edwin touched Charles' arms, sadly having to let go of his hand. His friend, understanding immediately, nodded and hugged him, humming.

“I really do like it,” Charles said, like they hadn't done this before, rubbing Edwin's back and down as if to commit the feeling to memory. “What do I feel like to you?”

“Bubbles,” Edwin replied immediately, holding on a bit tighter. Charles laughed.

“Bubbles?”

“It is rather lovely.”

“Cheers.”

Come morning, Edwin would move the stupid orange book to one of the bookshelves, where it was easy to see.