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***
If Edwin Payne were to acquire a singular pound stirling for every instance in which Charles Rowland has impulsively taken off in pursuit of a fleeing, supernatural subject during an investigation, he might have enough money to completely fund both of their perpetual retirements. And could be convinced to, were they not needed now more than ever.
It is not every day that the spectral pair aim to apprehend a witch, their interactions with magic and all associated unpredictability -by design- typically few and far between.
Ester Finch had not been their first sorceress by any means. The boys have been dealing with spell-casters for as long as they've been in business, but she had certainly been the most formidable.
By comparison, this craven, low-level magic-user, absorbing wayward souls from the abandoned asylum in order to grow her own power, should have been easily dealt with.
The hunt had been deceptively uncomplicated. Crystal had used her newly-honed abilities, by means of touching a carelessly forgotten spell-book left at the scene, to ascertain the location of the witch.
All that was left was for Charles (purportedly the brawn of the operation, despite his well-demonstrated penchant for magic) to pin the suspect in place long enough for Edwin (heralded as the brains of the business) to use his own spell to rid her of her power.
A winning plan, alas, not such winning execution.
The witch had been more cunning than the group had initially foreseen, rigging her innocuous London flat with the magical equivalent of a trip wire, giving her advanced notice of their conspicuous break in and unfortunately sufficient enough time to flee.
The startled trio had watched the raven-haired woman spring upright from her place atop the cobalt, crushed-velvet sofa, staring at them intently, as though they would only advance if she averted her challenging gaze.
"Nowhere to run, mate." Charles had been admittedly cocky, having presumed that they now covered the only existing exit to the flat. Their victory assured.
What none of the detectives had anticipated, given the cowardly means by which the woman sought to increase her power, was her unfettered gall.
They had all watched, in stunned inaction, as the witch turned on her crimson heels, running toward the glass balcony doors.
Charles barely had time to drop his pack, so as to follow, before the spell-caster was climbing over the outer railing, attempting to bridge the not-insignificant distance between her balcony and the next in her attempt to escape.
"Charles!" Edwin called concernedly after his companion.
Despite the woman's crimes, their intention had been to rid her of her power and let her return to mortal life as means of punishment. Now, it seemed, that she would likely die from a lengthy fall, before they had the chance.
"I know! I've got it!" Charles answered briskly, phasing through the far wall of the flat, in a sharp subversion of Edwin's expectation.
"What the hell is he doing?" Crystal demanded, echoing the older ghost's thoughts, as they watched the last of the witch's dark, layered skirt disappear from sight.
"I'm not entirely sure," Edwin had responded, moving awkwardly into direction of the door and rapidly tapping Crystal on the arm with the intention of getting her to follow.
"But he shouldn't be doing it alone."
Now, as he and Crystal hastily emerge from the witch's flat and into the hall, they're met with screams from the adjoining apartment.
There is the sound of chaos, presumably from the home's owner at having their abode broken into -via the balcony- by a woman who could not look more like a witch if she tried (perhaps if she had a pointed hat), followed by the door bursting open.
Their suspect flees down the length of the hall, toward the stairwell, Charles hot on her trail.
"How did you let her get past you?" Crystal shouts, as the remainder of the trio take off running behind him.
Were the situation not so dire, Edwin might find it amusing that the girl has once again stolen the words directly from the tip of his tongue, albeit far less formal and a touch more blunt than he is inclined to be.
"Don't wanna hear it!" Charles is still breathlessly, humorously defending himself as Edwin catches up to him, matching his pace, whilst Crystal lags some.
To the girl's credit, the mortal form tires, while theirs (at least physically) might not.
The ghost detectives are less than two metres from the fleeing witch, who must pause briefly to reef open the emergency door to the stairwell, when the woman whips back around toward them.
Edwin sees the suspect raise her arm as if in slow motion, a noxious, yellow ball of light glowing in her sharply manicured hand.
"Charles, watch out!" Crystal's distant cry of warning only confirms the elder boy's suspicions.
Edwin watches the witch train her gaze on his determined companion as though taking aim, yanking her hand -and the likely harmful spell within it- backward and flexing her fingers quickly, before firing it at Charles.
Panic floods Edwin's chest like water rapidly filling a submerged car. He cannot help but recall Niko's loss, still so fresh in his mind, to a fate so achingly similar.
Though he knows realistically that Charles cannot die, the reality of any harm befalling him is unthinkable.
In perhaps the most scarcely considered, recklessly devoted act of his entire careful existence, Edwin shoves Charles through the nearest wall, the resulting jolt placing the older boy's own ghostly form directly in the line of fire in his stead.
There is the sound of a far-off scream, though Edwin cannot, with any clarity, ascertain who from, as his vision retreats from him.
He is robbed seemingly of every sense except sound, the way a mortal might be right before they lose consciousness. He is starkly aware of the sound of the door to the stairwell slamming and two panicked sets of feet moving toward him. He hears more than feels his own stiff form slump to the ground.
***
The awful, all-consuming fear that Charles experiences in the moments before he returns to Edwin's side, would be enough to drive even the sanest mortal mad.
A horribly familiar, engulfing terror wreaks havoc on his heart, as though his dread were tenter hooks dug ruthlessly into the helplessly pulsating organ, pulling at odds, threatening to tear the muscle in two.
He cannot bear the thought of losing his friend again, after so newly liberating him from Hell.
The idea that he is too late, that Edwin is already be gone, that he might have truly, willingly chosen nonexistence, in order to save Charles, is enough to bring the younger boy to tears.
Moisture burns ceaselessly in the corners of his eyes as he phases back to Edwin's side -via the wall through which he was shoved- kneeling desperately by his friend's frighteningly still body and taking the boy's slack face into his hands.
Crystal is beside the pair in seconds, hovering fretfully.
"Oh my god, Edwin!" she exclaims, attempting to lean down as though to appraise the damage.
Charles feels panic and possessiveness ignite within him like a flashbang. He pulls the older ghost into him protectively, cradling Edwin's head to his chest.
"Leave it, Crystal," he barks before he can stop himself. The hurt that forms on the girl's face in response hardly seems to register in comparison to his own all-encompassing, resounding hysteria.
"Edwin," he attempts to rouse the boy, gently at first, a shaking hand run across the high apex of his cheek.
The dreadful, enduring stillness of his friend nearly sends Charles over the edge. The wretched tears he had been fighting, now spilling down his face in aching waves.
"Edwin!" He's firmer this time, or perhaps more desperate. He shakes the ghost harshly by the shoulder, anguish burning in his chest.
Charles dare not even breathe again until he knows his companion is alright.
In this moment, there is nothing he wouldn't give to see his best friend's knowing, celadon eyes flutter open.
"Charles," Crystal's voice is gentle, commiserating, as is her hand on his shoulder. Charles tenses as though her touch might have frozen him solid, the cold burn of indignation and frustration leeching beneath his skin.
Crystal cannot possibly understand the depth of his grief. She never could. His friendship with Edwin spans more years than the girl has been alive, well and truly. Even elderly humans die without knowing such lengthy, enduring and steadfast companionship.
Charles yanks himself and Edwin -who remains cradled carefully in his arms- away from her touch crudely.
Mercifully, the unconscious ghost stirs with the harsh movement.
"Edwin," Charles breathes the boy's name like a prayer, as though it were his salvation, relief dripping from the word.
Despite the crook hand the Fates have dealt he and Edwin both, the younger spectre silently thanks them for this show of leniency.
If he never knows true happiness again, this singular moment of sweeping relief, might be enough to nourish him into eternity.
Edwin reaches upward in response to Charles' thankful expiration, running a searching, uncoordinated hand across his trembling companion's cheek and down his chest, before hooking his finger around the slighter ghost's necklace.
"Did the witch get away?" he asks weakly, having yet to open his eyes.
Charles lets out an aghast laugh, curling his hand affectionately around Edwin's atop on his chest.
"She did. Hardly bloody matters though, as long as you're alright," he attempts to light-heartedly play off his distress, but the tightness in his throat betrays him.
"Charles, have you been crying?"
Edwin must hear the torment in Charles' voice, even before he sees it on his face. He sits upright inquisitively, finally opening his eyes, his hand unwittingly finding the smaller boy's knee.
Charles wipes his own undereyes embarrassedly.
"I have. Some idiot tried to sacrifice himself for me," he responds, with a wet laugh.
He looks toward Crystal, in hopes of swiftly rectifying his previous aggravated, insensitive display, to see the girl's face drawn in consternation.
He follows her troubled gaze, his eyes hastily returning to Edwin's evidently panicked form.
"Charles," he gasps, reaching blindly outward to clasp the younger boy by the collar, his hands fumbling for the fabric.
Charles feels his briefly abated terror return full force, anxiety clenching his stomach into an impossibly tight ball.
"I'm here, Edwin," he reassures ardently, desperately trying to draw the other boy's blank gaze.
Once focused, verdant irises stare unseeingly past Charles' anxious face.
"Charles, I cannot see," Edwin whimpers.
***
Edwin does not need to see Charles, to know that the other boy proverbially implodes with the realisation of the effect of the witch's spell.
He hears the gasping, wretched breath the younger ghost draws, feels the protectively clenched hands on his shoulders tighten unconsciously.
There is a moment of aching silence. In his sightlessness, Edwin is forced to imagine the alarmed look that Charles and Crystal must be sharing.
His vision has been replaced by a sea of disorienting, swimming colour, impossibly bright oranges and yellows and reds playing behind his eyes in an effective attempt to addle him.
He supposes that this was the desired result of the spell. One cannot fight if they cannot see. He can only hope that the affliction is temporary. Though, the return of his sight being reliant on the good nature of a witch, does not offer him much in the way of comfort.
"It's okay," Charles' distressed reassurance does anything but. The boy seemingly cannot tame the panicked anguish of their predicament, so potent in his tone.
"It's okay. It's gunna be okay. We'll fix it," he repeats, hurriedly, pulling Edwin into his arms.
The elder ghost has no choice but to allow himself to be led into the embrace. He cannot even enjoy such closeness, for the terror of his own sudden vulnerability.
"We just have to get you back to the office. Me and Charles will tear through those books until we find something to make this right," Crystal agrees, her own tone uncharacteristically strained.
Despite the pair's evident determination and field-proven capability, Edwin cannot help but think of the irony of his predicament; that he might have been the most well equipped detective to find a remedy for his condition, had it not already robbed him of his sight.
***
They take a mirror back to the office, one from the witch's flat, if Charles and Crystal's worried voices are to be believed.
Edwin cannot quite stomach the level of confidence he must now afford his companions.
His trust in Charles was never a question. He believes that that boy has his best interests at heart, as sure as he believes the sun will rise each morning. But never has he been so well and truly at another's mercy.
Edwin would like to consider himself -despite the widely held belief of the contrary- a protector of the group.
He's always felt the burden of their joint safety, being the more senior, more experienced ghost.
After all, he had protected Charles from the terror of his own death, had liberated himself from Hell and then led he and the younger boy both from damnation a second time.
Now, he feels entirely uncertain, each step he takes reliant on his companion's sure eyes and will.
He wonders what he could possibly have to offer his friend like this. How he could ever hope to protect the other ghost again.
As he stumbles back into the office, Edwin is overcome with a greater respect for people that live the entirety of their lives this way, whether by birth or happenstance.
He knows how people with disabilities were treated in his day, how they were neglected and othered.
As vulnerable as he feels now, he can only hope that the new world is more kindly to people who are simply doing their best, who are surviving and often thriving, despite the challenges of their lives, not met by others.
"I got you," Charles' voice is in his ear again, a fraction more certain now.
Edwin imagines that the younger boy believes that the solution to their problem is housed within the office walls and as such is relieved to be home.
"Crystal won't be back for a while. She had to take the long way 'round. But I won't leave you," Charles promises, staunchly.
Edwin merely nods his head. He cannot bear to be the voice of reason now.
He cannot tell the boy, already so renewed with hope as he is, that nothing within their workroom might offer them aid.
In a great deal of such circumstances, a witch's spell is only rectified by the caster themselves, or by the passage of time.
God, he hopes it's time.
He cannot stand the notion that he might be left here, a helpless bystander in his own rescue, while Crystal and Charles go off together in search of the offending witch.
He gasps as Charles' broad hand finds his waist, angling him in the direction that must be the couch. The harsh movement, combined with the winding colours in his mind, threaten to have him empty his incorporeal stomach.
"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," Charles frets aloud, endearing in his concern.
Despite his lack of sight, Edwin can practically see the unwarranted guilt engulf his friend's winsome features. He's known Charles long enough, privately studied the contours of his face long enough, that he can nearly perfectly conjure the boy's being from memory.
It is more difficult past the whirling, incandescent pigments swarming his vision, but he manages, the recollection of the other ghost's face (even distraught as it sounds) a welcome comfort.
"I should let you know, before I do anything, before I even touch you. I don't want to scare you. I'm making a bloody mess of this. I just want you to be comfortable, safe, it's my fault..."
Edwin raises his hand to still Charles' spiralling, his fingers knocking clumsily against the younger boy's chest.
He flattens his palm against the tightly-woven fabric of his companion's shirt, reassured by the sensation of his heavy jewellery against his fingers.
Until now, Edwin might not have fully comprehended just how tangible he and Charles are to one another.
He had always believed that sight, and awareness and memory were the foundations of their sense of touch, given their lack of corporeality, but now, he understands that he was mistaken.
He can feel Charles against his hand, as surely as though he were made of flesh and bone, even without his sight.
Once more, the elation of the prospect is thwarted by the anxieties of his newfound vulnerability, the idea that his circumstances might be permanent too overwhelming to comprehend.
He understands that people adapt to this kind of life, that human beings are one of the most adaptable species.
Edwin is sure that Charles would afford all of his time and care, into ensuring the older boy's existence were as comfortable and convenient as possible.
But he wishes that he wouldn't have to.
No matter how thankless and conceited the thought might make him seem, Edwin does not want to always be this way. He does not want to have to rely more heavily than he already does on Charles' unshakeably good will.
The boy had already accepted his undue confession in Hell, and even before that, accepted the risk of willingly tethering himself to a damned escapee for eternity.
Edwin will not let him further inconvenience himself by remaining by the side of a blinded ghost.
He cannot help but think;
'What use am I this way?'
It's an ugly thought, that his or anyone's worth is tied to their usefulness, or that there is only one way to be useful, but he thinks it regardless.
Edwin spent his entire life convinced he was nothing, sure that he was worth less than the air in his mortal lungs.
He spent his time in Hell constantly reminded of his uselessness, his inability to escape for seventy agonising years only reasserting his own perceived infirmity.
Further, he has spent the past thirty years needlessly attempting to prove himself useful, trying to earn his way out of his unjust damnation.
How is he supposed to help anyone this way? Most of all Charles.
"This is not your fault," Edwin says seriously, fingers tightening around Charles' necklace.
"I saw the spell in her hand, I knew the risk, the fault is all mine. I couldn't let you get hurt. And now I've ruined our case and greatly inconvenienced you and Crystal both," he adds, tone rife with self-condemnation.
"No," Charles defends, softly.
"No, I won't let you do that. You saved me, Edwin. You had no idea what that spell would do, and yet you pushed me out of the way," he laments.
"Well of course I did, Charles," Edwin responds, as if the notion, that there were ever an alternative to his sacrifice, is ridiculous.
He turns away from the sound of the other boy's voice, hoping to conceal the pain on his own face.
"You know my feelings. You know why I could not bear to see you hurt," he admits, ashamedly.
Charles speaks so quietly in response that Edwin cannot discern his words.
He turns back toward the whispered sound quickly, determined to inquire as to what was said, but in the process, finds himself untethered from his friend for the first time since the onset of his blindness, disoriented and entirely alone.
"Charles," he calls, desperately.
"Still here," comes an achingly gentle reply.
"Is it alright if I touch your hand?" Charles asks, warmly.
Edwin nods, gasping as their fingers intertwine.
"I'm going to lead you over to the couch, okay?" his friend informs him with assuaging diligence.
Once more, Edwin can seemingly only nod.
He feels Charles tug on his hand, moving a few paces forward, before stilling.
Edwin allows himself to completely submit to the younger ghost's tender care.
"I could not quite hear what you said, earlier," he confesses, distractedly.
"Gunna touch your waist, mate," Charles explains, turning Edwin away from him.
The older boy is unsure if his friend deliberately dodges the question, or if he is too consumed by his task to respond.
"Do whatever you must," he answers, attempting to appear unaffected as Charles' hand settles on the small of his back.
"I trust you," he swears.
He hears Charles swallow loudly.
"You can sit down now. I won't let you fall," he instructs, reassuringly.
Edwin does as he is bid, sitting with Charles' careful guidance.
"Charles," the fairer boy whispers, turning his head at the sound of his companion settling on the seat to his right; the question of the other ghost's previous, unheard statement rattling around within his mind the way pockets filled long-forgotten change in a dryer might.
"Yeah, Edwin?" Charles answers, softly.
"Did my admission, just now, cause you discomfort? I only meant to explain why I acted so recklessly. I did not mean to cause you unease. If you'd rather forget..." the boy's concerned inquiry is cut off by Charles' earnest voice.
"It didn't," he comforts, unflinchingly.
Edwin cannot help but be reminded of their conversation on the roof of the Tongue and Tail, following their escape from Hell.
"I want to say, I'm sorry if my confession created some-"
"It didn't."
He can picture Charles' face so clearly that night, the gentleness in his eyes, the warmth in his smile.
He wants to weep with the boy's kindness then, and now.
"You seem very determined to move past it, if it did not cause you discomfort as you claim. I asked you to clarify what you said in response to my profession and you ignored my request..." Edwin's further musings are once again interrupted by Charles' speech.
"I said 'you really do love me'," he confesses.
Edwin cannot be sure he has heard correctly.
"I beg your pardon," he apologises with the rote formality of his upbringing.
He casts his mind back, trying confusedly to conform Charles' apparent confession to the whispered words he couldn't quite hear moments ago. He supposes the sentence fits, regardless of how much sense his supposed realisation makes.
Of course Edwin loves him.
After their time in Hell, how could his feelings possibly be in question?
"I don't think I actually got it, before. Like, I know you said you loved me... but no one has ever loved me like that. I don't think I knew what love looked like, until today, until you risked your existence for mine, until I held you without knowing if you'd wake up," Charles explains, discomfiture and vulnerability evident in his tone.
Edwin reaches clumsily for his friend's hand, his fingers finding purchase on the boy's trembling palm.
Past the jarring implication of his companion's soulful admission, the elder ghost can only feel terror.
"Charles, what if this is permanent?" he asks, fretfully, his hand tightening around the other boy's fingers.
Charles makes a sympathetic sound in response.
"It won't be."
"What if it is?" Edwin begs.
"Then I'll be your eyes," Charles answers, unwaveringly, as though his allegiance were never a question.
"Might take us a bit to start working cases again. And you're gunna have to teach me how to read Aramaic, but we'll manage. 'Always do," he continues, achingly casual about the prospect of devoting his afterlife to Edwin's care.
"I don't believe it would be so simple. You'd be better off without me, you and Crystal alone. I'd be useless, Charles," he rebuts, anxiously.
Charles runs his free hand up the elder boy's arm, giving him plenty of time to decline or withdraw from the touch, before resting his palm gently on his cheek. Its movements like this, affectionate, but considerate, asking without asking, that only affirm Edwin's trust.
"You don't have to be useful, Edwin," he disagrees passionately, his thumb caressing the fairer ghost's cheek.
"You don't have to be anything at all. Just you. I need you," he confesses.
Edwin feels tears burn in the corners of his eyes, the fiery light show behind his vision dulling some with the flaring sensation.
He blinks rapidly, sending rushing tears down his cheeks.
"Edwin," Charles croons sympathetically, swiping away the older boy's grief with soft, caressing thumbs.
Edwin swears he can just make out the smaller ghost's outline, past the retreating redness in his vision.
He blinks desperately a few more times, his sight returning the way the sun peeks over the horizon, dark night shifting to blue morning sky.
Charles sits before him, tears wetting his face also, such longing and devotion trapped within his kind, chocolate eyes.
"Don't cry," Edwin soothes, reaching forward to press a gentle hand to Charles' grief-reddened cheek.
"I've too often been the cause of your tears."
The younger ghost stills with evident shock, his eyes searching Edwin's drawn face frantically.
"You can see me?" He laughs astonishedly, a characteristic grin lighting up his wet features. He is even more beautiful than Edwin might have recalled, long, dark lashes damp with tears.
The older boy nods shakily, too overcome to speak, a breathless smile tugging on his own previously forlorn face.
Charles leans forward to rest his forehead against Edwin's, a relieved sigh expelling itself from his chest.
"You can see," he repeats joyfully, his eyes meeting the fairer ghost's.
Edwin is overwhelmed by fondness, by endearment, by love.
He acts rashly as a result.
"What a tragedy it would have been, to never see your face again," he offers, yearningly.
Before he can renege on the enamoured confession, Charles' lips are upon his, hungry and desperate.
The younger ghost kisses with a fervency enviable to the romantic poets, with beauty enough to inspire a generation of fine artists, with tenderness worthy of endless devoted love songs.
As Edwin has only recently come to understand, and now to relish, Charles feels real against him, not because he can see the ghost and recall what a boy of his size and build might feel like, but because they are made of the same matter.
Since he was a small boy, fascinated by science, determined to find meaning in his seemingly meaningless existence, Edwin has been fond of Antoine Lavoisier and the Law of Conservation of Mass.
This law posits that matter cannot be created or destroyed. Whatever it is that ghosts are made of, Edwin is certain that he and Charles came from the same place. That perhaps they were two halves of a dying star, always destined to find their way back to one another. Incomplete until this very moment.
He sighs into the embrace of the other boy's lips, curling wanting fingers around the collar of his shirt.
He is unsure how he will ever have his fill of this, the elation, the reciprocation, the wondrous heat pooling in his stomach.
He supposes he is grateful that he is no longer alive, for he would gladly starve and suffocate in favour of the other boy's mouth.
Charles pulls away fractionally from the kiss, so far that he might speak, but close enough still that if they were human they would be breathing the same air.
"I love you," he confesses, ardently.
"I love you so much... After getting out of Hell, and getting a free pass from the Afterlife, I'd taken our forever for granted. It hadn't occurred to me that we might be split up. But nearly losing you today- I realised just how much I need you... how much I want you," he elaborates, threatening to still Edwin's noncorporeal heart with his unshakeable devotion.
"I want you too," Edwin agrees, pulling his yearning companion into another vehement kiss.
Charles' hands move to the back of the older boy's head, curling around the dark brown strands there, so that he might deepen the embrace of their mouths.
The thrill of the other ghost's touch cannot be overstated. Edwin feels as though he is on fire, as though he might gladly burn.
"Forever," he adds, making his oath against his beloved's soft skin and winning a breathtaking smile from the smaller boy in response.
Charles drags his lips across Edwin's mouth fondly, before resting them on his cheek, their joined flesh humming with the enamoured, reciprocated touch.
"Forever," he agrees.
***