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It's a nifty trick, to learn that ghosts can change their clothing at will.
Charles gets rid of the long coat and athletic wear he sported to fit in with his mates. He much preferred his polo anyway, and the familiar red jacket that he'd become too fond of.
He spends time picking up pins when he and Edwin go round and round, exploring at first, then solving cases under their detective agency. Soon he has a whole roster of pins and a patch he sowed on himself, after trying to remember how his mum used to stitch up his fraying shirts, wishing he had paid better attention. It doesn't take long for them to become part of him, for all of it from the jewellery to the loafers, to feel like Charles.
Edwin wears his uniform like armour, never removes it, not even when they go to Brighton, walking along the sea, taking in the breeze they can't feel. Edwin settles down on the rocks, Charles handing him a book – fiction this time, but surprisingly not a detective story – from the top of his backpack, and looks out at the sea.
He never did get to go much to the seaside when he was alive, not in recent years at least, but he can remember the flashes of memories of building sandcastles and splashing in the shallows. Of getting lifted and dropped in the water and caught again by his dad, all when the concept of a family trip wasn't tinged by tense silences and tears mixing with the rain on the car windows.
Getting in the water with his clothes on feels a bit weird, even if they won't get wet – Charles can never help clinging on to those habits of life that Edwin seems so ready to abandon – so he strips down to his singlet while Edwin reads, completely engrossed, and the rest of the Brighton populace carries on, completely oblivious.
He hesitates, only a tick, before removing his singlet as well, letting the material pull over his arms naturally rather than be willed away and-
There are bruises littering Charles's body.
Purple splotches scatter across his sides, trailing over his chest and stomach, some darker than the others. A few are shaped differently, rectangular lashes rather than blooming flowers, and others are hardly visible at all, not having had the time to develop before he died.
They make a horrible fucking picture, watercolour paints mixed together to make a colour that Charles can’t bear to look at for another tick.
The singlet reappears in an instant, Charles’ stomach threatening to turn itself inside out. He casts a glance over the beach, trying to spot anybody who could’ve seen him- seen that, but no one notices his spiral. But when he looks towards Edwin, Charles finds him already staring back at him, expression inscrutable, the book resting on his tucked-up legs.
Charles freezes. “Mate-”
“Charles, I seem to have misplaced my bookmark.”
Charles’ chest loosens, the unnecessary action of breathing becoming much easier as he crouches down next to his backpack. “Here, mate, I’ll grab you your spare. Know I placed it in here somewhere.”
“I was fond of that one,” Edwin says, letting out a short sigh. “Very well, the spare will do.”
He hands over the personalised bookmark, pulling back too quickly when Edwin’s fingers brush his own, suddenly too afraid to look into his eyes.
The polo rematerialises and Charles never ends up taking that swim.
On the rare occasions, that Charles is alone in the office, he does peel up his singlet, almost expecting the action to hurt as the fabric brushes across the bruises that look fresh, that look old, that look awful. His dad never did aim for anywhere that would show, and the brunt of rolling down the stairs to his bedroom was usually taken by his back and sides. But they were still there, frozen in a strange stasis of never bruising further nor healing over.
He doesn’t tell Edwin, even when any attempt at willing them away just leaves Charles frustrated at the lack of change. His only saving grace is that they’re easy enough to hide since the reasons for Charles to be stripping completely are next to none. And all things considered, it’s not like Edwin needs to know.
(It’s not a conversation Charles wants to have.)
But then there is a case.
And it always starts with a bloody case.
The iron knife sings each time it makes contact with Charles’ swinging form, cutting through his jacket and polo to kiss his skin with burns that linger. His left arm is a shredded mess of fabric, a result of his arm coming up to instinctually block each blow by the fucking dick who apparently learned how to wield a knife in a pit match. The fight is dirty, and Charles lands a few good hits, gets kicked in the stomach for it – iron-soled hoofs are overkill, bloody hell – and eventually manages to restrain the thrashing satyr long enough for Edwin to banish the evil nature spirit taking residence.
But everything bloody hurts afterwards, the burns not getting the memo of been too long, that when both of them step through the mirror, Charles must make a face ‘cause Edwin is immediately fussing.
“It will most likely be an enchanted knife, one designed to harm ghosts with longer-lasting effects,” he says, striding over to disappear into the closet.
“Oh, so as if the iron wasn’t bad enough, eh?” Charles winces as he leans against the desk, putting pressure on a wound he hadn’t even noticed under the amalgamation of pain his body was complaining very loudly about.
Edwin shakes his head as he walks out, holding onto the fancy medical kit, the one with enchanted gauze and needles that actually pierce their skin. They’ve never needed to use it, ‘cause their run-ins with iron are in small batches and magic users don’t exactly go for physical, lasting blows. Clearly means that Edwin is properly worried right now, even if you could never tell by the calm and poised way he directs Charles to sit on the couch and instructs him to remove his jacket and polo, leaving him to shiver in his singlet.
Shiver. That’s new.
“Is all this really necessary, mate?” Charles asks, watching the way Edwin inspects his arms with a single-minded focus that- look, it looks good on Edwin, alright? Charles isn’t blind. But having the full force of that sort of attention is making his head spin. Or maybe that’s the cuts.
Fuck, what was up with that damn knife?
“Of course, Charles. The cuts are closing up but the burns remain, indicating that your form may need to rest before it can fully recover. You must regress into your natural state, but not before I wrap your wounds. Besides, I would prefer knowing you are not uncomfortable.”
There are gentle hands brushing over his arms, wrapping the wounds in gauze but not before applying a healing ointment that soothes the hurt. It’s not a slow process – Edwin is quick and efficient – but Charles is aware of every brush of Edwin’s hands on his arms, lighting up long-dead nerve endings, feeling sharper than anything from before. A side-effect, Edwin notes when Charles jolts at a lingering touch against the inside of his elbow and is under too much stress to come up with a proper excuse.
By the end, Charles looks properly mummified. Edwin pulls back to check his handiwork.
“This is aces, mate,” Charles says, moving his arms to check his mobility. Hopefully, he won’t have to be wrapped up too long. He lets his hands come to rest against his side and winces again, letting out a sharp hiss. It hurts like nothing else has, or maybe Charles has gone too long without really feeling anything. At least they can’t bleed. “Fuck, forgot about that.”
Edwin is on him in an instant, reaching for his side, where his singlet still covers the burn and he’s dangerously close to the point where Charles’ brain becomes a wailing mess of waitwaitwait-
“Charles-”
“I can do that bit myself!” It comes out strained but halts Edwin long enough for Charles to push himself off the couch, grab a roll of gauze, and shut himself in the closet where he could hopefully deal with it without Edwin seeing the other things.
The light is still on from when Edwin was in earlier, and Charles takes a tick to sag against the door, listening to Edwin shift on the couch and then walk over to the desk. Good, that means Charles won’t have to shoo him away.
“Alright, here we go,” he mutters, dropping the gauze on a sort-of-less-cluttered shelf. At least the light in here isn’t too bright; Charles won’t have to see the worst of it.
The singlet disappears, and Charles’ skin feels the change all too suddenly. Charles breathes out through his mouth, trying to focus only on the wound and not the rest. He reaches for the-
A knock sounds through the closet.
Shit.
“Charles, you forgot the ointment. It is essential so do not tell me you have wrapped it already,” Edwin says and the singlet reappears. He can’t stop the muffled yelp that escapes his traitorous mouth as the material brushes over the burn and he instinctively dematerialises it again, the rapid effort making him feel just a tad bit woozy. Okay, it’s alright, this is alright, not even the worst he’s had to deal with. Spells feel much worse than a physical wound and he’s been hit with tons of those. He just needs to wrap it and move on.
“Charles?” Edwin calls out again, sounding half impatient, half worried, and like he’s shuffling closer, hand resting on the closet door handle.
“Just a tick, mate!” Charles replies, a tick too late ‘cause Edwin swings the door wide open.
The office lights have never been too bright, the lamps warm and cosy, scattered around, enough for Edwin to read by or for Charles to paint by. But it is still a drastic fucking change from the closet, washing over Charles’ body, highlighting every scar and bruise and story that Charles can never begin telling. Not in a way that would make Edwin not probe further.
“Are you alri-” Edwin begins but stops as his eyes land on Charles’ chest, Charles’ stomach, Charles’ sides, the things he’s been hiding only to have them thrust forward under lantern light, much uglier than a boy shivering to death.
Everything rematerialises in that tick, but the damage is already done. Edwin has already seen everything, the little furrow in his brow indicative. Charles brings his hands up in front of his body and pushes past him to escape the confined space.
“Sorry, sorry, I'll just deal with it later. Don't wanna bother you anymore, do I?” he says, willing his voice to be steady, normal, willing Edwin not to ask.
But that’s a fool's errand, to think that Edwin Payne wouldn’t try and figure out every problem set in front of him. And Charles has always been a problem.
“Charles, are those from today's fight? Forgive me, I hadn’t realised they had managed to maim you that badly. I should have been quicker with the spell but I hadn't prepared in advance. I will rectify that in the future, of course.”
Charles freezes at the barely concealed guilt in Edwin's voice, spinning back around to see him looking away, fists pressed together, squeezing the ointment bottle. Charles is crossing the space before he realises, reaching out helplessly, like a moth to a lantern, to peel apart Edwin’s hands, unfurling his fingers and taking the bottle. There is no world where Charles lets Edwin take the blame for this, even if it is a world that would be easier. “Nah, mate, wasn’t your fault, alright? These are… old. Nothing to worry about.
The furrow of Edwin’s brow just deepens, turns contemplative, and usually, Charles loves that look ‘cause it means Edwin’s about to blow a case wide open, use his brilliant mind and solve all their problems by placing all the clues together, but here it just makes Charles’ stomach turn unpleasantly, fear ricocheting through his entire being.
“How old?”
There is something blocking his throat, choking his words. But Charles doesn't need to say anything ‘cause Edwin answers his own question.
“Oh. Before your death.”
Charles can only nod, standing stock-still like cornered prey. One wrong move and he thinks it'll all come spilling out. Edwin’s hands are still in his, and it is the only thing grounding him to the now.
“May I see?” It's whisper-soft but steady, and Charles’ grip on Edwin’s hands tightens.
He could say no. It would be so easy to say no. To let this wash past them and continue on as normal. Charles knows Edwin wouldn’t press if he says no. ‘Cause Edwin has always been kind, kinder than Charles ever deserved but that is no fault of Edwin. If anything, it makes Charles love him more.
But if he says no, that age-old fear will remain, haunting him like his own personal ghost. Edwin’s already seen it, hasn’t he? The damage is already done. It’ll be like the beating heart under the floorboards, driving Charles mad ‘cause if they don’t talk about it now, they’ll never fucking talk about it. But it’ll be there.
And really, it’s always been building to this point, hasn’t it? Sure, it’s been a good two decades or so with Edwin at his side, living a life – we are dead, Charles – that he never imagined he’d get to have, solving mysteries with his best mate, being in London, being with someone who cares. But Edwin doesn’t know about Charles’ home, doesn’t know about the bruises, doesn’t know about the nagging thought that winds itself around Charles’ brain like choking vines of how he’s just as bad as his dad or his friends. He would never hurt Edwin, of course; he’d rather drag himself to hell than hurt Edwin, but that doesn’t mean it’s guaranteed he won’t. Fuck, he’d hurt him just mere ticks ago by letting Edwin think those bruises were his fault.
Charles got those beatings whenever he fucked up. No matter how big or small. He’s always fucking it up, and really, what’s changed now? Now Edwin will know. Edwin will know just how much of a fuckup Charles really is, and those bloody bruises prove that.
So yeah, it’s always been building up to this point. Charles can never go too long without ruining everything. His dad made that crystal bloody clear.
“Okay,” Charles finally says, stepping back and letting go of Edwin. “Okay.”
He thinks about taking it all off himself but the thought of having to watch Edwin as each centimetre is revealed sounds fucking awful. So Charles screws his eyes shut as his chest is bared with a focused thought, unable to look at the sure disgust or, or, or- pity that is overtaking Edwin’s face.
(‘Cause what else would it be?)
The office is silent. Charles doesn’t hear Edwin move away in shock, or ask him to cover it back up, or ask him why and who and how.
What he does hear is the unscrewing of a cap.
Charles peels his eyes open as the ointment – which Edwin must have taken back from him – is applied to the last wound, doing away with the burning feeling that he’d almost forgotten about. The action is so unbearably gentle against a part of him that he’d forgotten could even feel gentleness. He blinks away the tears gathering in his eyes, forcing himself to focus on Edwin.
Edwin who tells him to wait a tick as he goes to fetch the gauze from the closet, wrapping it around until it’s secure. Edwin who steps back and says, “There, that is done with. Does anything else hurt?”
It’s a question in a question. Do the bruises hurt?
“No,” Charles replies. It’s a mercy. They’re only real in appearance – another bit of life that didn’t follow him into death. He watches the way Edwin watches him, a realisation settling that makes him shrug. “Proper awful-looking though, aren’t they? M’glad we can’t see our reflections.”
Edwin's watchful gaze turns sharp. “None of that, Charles.”
Charles laughs, but it has none of his usual charm. “C’mon, mate, you don’t have to lie to me. I know they’re not the most pretty to look at. I mean, it’d defeat the purpose if they were, innit?”
“And what exactly was the… purpose?” Edwin asks, eyes trailing over Charles’ like he’s trying to memorise each blooming colour.
“Punishment.” The answer is, and has always been, simple. It’s the one thing that remained a constant in Charles’ life. It’s what got him solemn nods of understanding or a bit of laughter and joshing in the locker room after practice. The punishment bit isn’t surprising, not by a long shot. It’s meant to be the why.
So he doesn’t expect that to be what causes the sharp intake of breath, the twist of Edwin’s mouth, the widening of his eyes. It’s like the unfurling of a flower, the way Edwin seems to let go of his politeness and lets something like horror bloom across his features. Charles sort of hates that look immediately.
“Nah, seriously, wait, mate, don’t worry about it,” Charles rushes to say, waving his hands in front of him like it’ll wipe away whatever is causing Edwin’s distress. “It wasn’t like- it wasn’t random, yeah?” – ignoring the fact that, sometimes, Charles had no idea what he’d done wrong – “I deserved it. Wasn’t exactly doing the best and it was basically inevitable really.”
“That doesn’t make it any better, Charles,” Edwin whispers, sounding broken. “I know what punishment is like.”
The realisation hits Charles like a bucket of ice water, shocking him to the very core. Hell. Edwin hasn't gone into details about hell but it's easy enough to guess the basics. Charles burns at the thought. “This isn’t like that, you didn’t deserve it but I did-”
“Senseless punishment is senseless, Charles. I do not believe, for a second, that you deserved it.”
Charles shakes his head. “You don’t know that. ‘Cause I was always fucking up, mate, you see it even now! Remember when I forgot the sherds last week? And then I misplaced that book of yours the week before–”
“I wouldn’t-” Edwin interrupts, and he’s gone still while Charles feels like his veins are about to burst. “I wouldn’t punish you for that!”
“But I’d deserve it!” It comes out louder than Charles would’ve liked, reverberating through the office, bouncing around their collected trinkets, and settling back in his ears to ring endlessly. “My dad was- he was rough. And that’s all this is, alright? Him being rough 'cause I deserved it.”
I deserve it. It’s a lesson. A reminder. A mantra.
It’s all Charles has ever told himself.
There were one too many moments for him to keep track of them all, not if they left a mark that scarred – not if his mother was around for the worst of it, and he could close his eyes and clearly see her crumpled face – but Charles remembers. He remembers the fear. He remembers begging. He remembers realising that nothing would ever stop his dad from laying into him because Charles could never be good enough.
(And it hurts, in an inexplicable way, to check in on his parents and realise they’re fine. Realise that he truly was the only reason his dad was so bloody angry all the time. That, without him, his family is… better off. It hurts and it reinforces every single belief that Charles has carried with him, the few damned things that did follow him into death; he will never be good enough and he deserved it.)
Charles isn’t looking at Edwin anymore, but rather the floor. His shoes. His trousers. He can’t look at Edwin.
But then there’s another pair of shoes. Of socks pulled over trousers, endearingly Edwin. And outreaching arms with ungloved hands that hover over his unclothed chest as if asking for permission.
Charles doesn’t look up.
But he gives the barest of nods.
Those hands settle and span over his chest, stomach, side, and back, just like they had over his arms earlier – a lifetime ago. Charles isn’t sure what Edwin’s doing, not until he feels his fingers circle over spots, trace over lines, cataloguing each bruise and long-healed scar.
He’s not sure how long he stands there, bare and vulnerable, but trusting under Edwin’s steady palms.
And he’s not entirely kicked away the idea that Edwin may not want him anymore, not after he’s seen- felt, just how terrible Charles was. But he can’t exactly bring himself to care, not when the world narrows down to Edwin’s touch, unbelievably caring.
“Listen to me, Charles,” Edwin says, breaking the silence, and Charles shifts on his feet, standing up straighter but keeping his head lowered, waiting for judgment. Edwin’s hand leaves his chest to skate under his chin. “Please, would you look at me?”
Charles blinks, once, twice, then lifts his head until he comes face to face with Edwin. He isn’t sure what he was expecting but the pure affection on Edwin’s face floors him, and he is sure that he would’ve gone tumbling to the floor if Edwin wasn’t holding onto him, his very own anchor.
“Mate-”
“No, do let me speak, Charles.” Edwin waits until Charles makes a noise of agreement before continuing. “Listen to me: you did not deserve it. Whether you made a mistake or not, you never deserved to have been hurt like this. There are no exceptions. Simply none.”
Charles swallows back his protest as Edwin gives him a knowing look as if he can see right past all the splotches of purple and blues to Charles’ phantom heart trying to beat right out of his chest.
“And these” – Edwin’s hand splays out across his stomach, cool against his sudden, feverish skin – “do not make you unsightly. If anything, they are a testament to your strength and your perseverance. For you, Charles Rowland, are the strongest person I know. The best person I know.”
“I’m not the one who went through literal hell and made it out,” Charles argues, ‘cause he can and ‘cause it’s true. “If anything, you’re way stronger than me, mate.”
“I do think that gives me the proper authority to know strength when I see it. The brawn to my brains, yes?”
“Always.” A fact of the universe.
“And hell can be anywhere, Charles. Trust me, life was not pretty for me even before literal hell.” It’s said almost nonchalant-like if not for the minute spasming of Edwin’s hands. “You have gone through your own sort of hell. An unfortunate fact, but you did not deserve it. Do you understand me?”
Charles gets one last clear look at the absolute love on Edwin’s face before his eyes water up and he pulls Edwin in for a hug.
There is a tick there where Edwin’s hands flail – as if Charles hadn’t felt them brush across his entire torso – before they finally settle around his back. Charles has half a thought to rematerialise his clothes, but Edwin sighs into his neck as Charles rubs an unconscious thumb into the divot of Edwin’s shoulder blades from above all his layers, and that thought promptly flies out of his head.
Edwin is cataloguing his back again and Charles follows along, trying to scrub some of the memories of his dad’s belt away to paint them over with Edwin’s gentle fingers. It works, in some ways, and it doesn’t in many others, years of it all too deeply engraved into Charles’ skin to be wiped away in one evening. Charles lets out a soft breath.
Edwin has always been Charles’ grounding point, his very own guardian angel, his north star, and it feels bloody unreal that he gets to have this. Sometimes, it feels like one long blissful dream before he’ll be yanked out of bed to face a world without Edwin.
It’s moments like these, where Charles waits for the other shoe to drop. Swaying in Edwin’s arms, wrapping himself tightly around him, and praying to a god he long stopped believing in, that nothing changes. But Charles has grown up bracing for the impact, the worst of the worst, and it is a hard thing to unlearn. He’s not sure he ever can.
So, when Edwin pulls away, he braces. The fact of the matter is that Edwin is so bloody kind that he says all these things that make Charles’ eyes water, but he doesn’t know the full story, does he? Charles hasn’t told him everything because he’s too much of a fucking coward to do so. But he needs to. He can’t let Edwin continue thinking that Charles is the best person he knows if Edwin doesn’t know everything. He’d been too selfish to correct Edwin immediately, too wanting for those words that are a healing ointment to Charles’ bruised and battered heart, but Charles will never be able to stand himself if he doesn’t clear the air now.
“I have to tell you something,” Charles begins, loosening his grip so Edwin can move away fully from their half embrace. Edwin doesn’t. “‘Cause I need you to know about the things that matter.”
But Edwin is shaking his head. “It does not matter if you have not told me everything,” Edwin says, loosely encircling his waist. “You do not have to for me to stand firm on the belief that you did not deserve to be hurt. You deserve nothing but kindness, Charles, and I am truly sorry that you were not shown this beforehand.”
“You don’t have to apologise for anything, mate. It's not your fault. S’never your fault, alright? Even when I get hurt on a case” – it’s his turn to steamroll over Edwin’s protest – “that’s not on you.”
There is no agreement here, not a solid one, only a nod by Edwin that's jerky and conflicted, but Charles thinks they’ll get to it. He wants to say something more, feels a bit unsteady in their role reversals at the moment, with Edwin being the calming one and Charles being the quiet one, but he’s exhausted. He’s exhausted and the whole moment has had him running on some ghostly adrenaline rush that’s crashing.
“Thank you,” Charles settles on, after a tick of comfortable silence. He presses as much as he can into those two words. He hopes Edwin picks up on it.
“You have nothing to thank me for.” Edwin smiles. Sometimes, it feels like he can read Charles’ mind. Charles loves it. “Do you- are you alright?”
“Brills, mate,” Charles says and finds that he means it.
Later, they will talk. Later, after his wounds have fully healed in their natural state – as Edwin has begun to call their glowing, orb forms – Charles will stretch across the sofa, head resting in Edwin’s lap, eyes shut as he tries to recall as much as he can without hunching over and getting lost in one too many memories. And it will be a revelation, over and over and over again that Edwin will not push him away, will not kick him out, will not tell him he deserved it, no matter what Charles reveals. It won’t be everything, not when there is far too much to unravel, but it’ll be something.
And maybe- maybe that something will be enough.