Chapter Text
The first time it happens, Charles doesn’t even really notice. He’s playing catch with himself, bouncing a tennis ball off the wall while Edwin reads: not the most exciting way to pass the time, but it serves a purpose. Throw, wall, floor, catch. Simple, repetitive to the point where it’s almost a meditation. He’s spent so many nights like this, inventing one-person ball games and trying to beat his personal best at keepie-uppies to while away the quiet hours before dawn.
Still, it can only hold his attention for so long. He breaks his rhythm, tossing the ball from hand to hand a couple of times, then glances over at the desk.
Edwin is sitting in his chair, sleeves rolled up past the elbow. It’s a privilege to see him stripped out of his layers. That’s something Charles always understood, from the very first time Edwin allowed himself to remove his jacket in his presence, but his awareness of it has been sharper since he saw Edwin in Hell. He knows, now, that Edwin spent his worst years wearing nothing more than his underclothes. It makes sense that his formal clothing is armour, only to be removed when he feels safe.
Warmth uncurls in his belly like a cat stretching in a sunbeam at the reminder that Edwin feels safe with him. As well he should, because Charles decided long ago that anything dangerous that wanted to get to Edwin would have to go through him, first.
Edwin’s entire focus is on the book in his hands. It’s a new mystery novel, rather than research, and he must be enjoying it because he’s leaning back in his chair, holding the book up in front of him. His gaze flashes across the page, brow slightly furrowed in concentration, lips gently parted as he reads.
Charles’s stomach squirms again with the same sort of pleasant heat, but this time it’s nothing to do with him being a safe harbour where Edwin can let his guard down. It’s everything to do with the intimacy of being allowed to see him like this. He takes in the sharp angles of Edwin’s jaw, in contrast to the softer line of his lips, and his insides swoop —
He drops the tennis ball. Or, more accurately, it phases right through the hand that’s holding it and bounces across the floor.
Charles dives after the ball, swearing, and that breaks Edwin’s concentration. He tips his chair upright to peer over the edge of the desk at him kneeling on the floor. “Charles? Is everything all right?”
“Yeah, mate,” he says with an apologetic grin. He throws the ball up and catches it, then explains, “Just missed, that’s all.”
He puts it down to being a clumsy oaf, so he doesn’t have to wonder how it happened, and doesn’t think about dropping the ball again.
~~~~~
A ghost fisherman comes to tell the Dead Boy Detectives about a Will-o-the-Wisp causing trouble on the banks of the Thames. He isn’t best pleased that his posthumous angling is being interrupted by a string of curious people tramping down to check out the lights. They’re scaring away all the fish. He offers them their pick from his trove of treasures dredged up from the river bed, and Edwin clearly has his eye on a few bits and pieces no matter how much Crystal pulls her face at the supposed smell, so they take the case.
Charles doesn’t love the ones where water’s heavily involved, but in this case there’s not much danger of him ending up in it. A Will-o-the-Wisp can’t actually compel him to go anywhere, not like sirens and mermaids, and they don’t drag victims in like kelpies either. Besides, it’s May and the weather’s warm, so even if he does end up wet, chances are good that the water won’t be freezing cold. Not that he can feel it, but it’s good to remind himself that it’s summer when, sometimes, getting caught out in December’s drizzle is enough to bring back the blue pallor and the shivers from the night of his death, whether he feels it or not.
They arrive at the right spot on the river bank on the cusp of evening, and Charles makes Edwin and Crystal stop while he gets a weapon from his backpack. He can’t go into situations with restless spirits totally unarmed. That’s just asking for trouble, even if Edwin thinks he’s fussing.
The sword isn’t quite what he wants: it’s the wrong shape and heft, and he doesn’t necessarily like that it’s a blade. Nobody should be fighting with a sword unless they’re comfortable with killing whatever they’re up against, and he’s not sure he wants to be that guy when it’s not the last resort. Still, his cricket bat is gone. He might miss it like someone cut off his arm, but he has to make do with alternatives.
He swings the sword in a circle, like he used to with his bat, to remind himself of how it handles. Edwin’s gaze flicks towards the movement and then lingers, though he keeps his head turned slightly away as if it’s a secret that he’s watching. Charles’s insides leap and on impulse he repeats the move.
The sword clangs on the pavement.
“Shit, what the fuck?” Crystal yelps. They both jump back from the blade on instinct. It bounces harmlessly, missing Charles’s legs by an inch, and comes to a rattling rest on the pavement.
“Butterfingers,” he says as he crouches. Collecting the sword gives him a nice excuse not to look at Crystal, or at Edwin. It’s embarrassing — he’s done that move hundreds of times, with all kinds of different weapons, and he’s never botched it so badly he chucked something on the floor before.
Unfortunately, he still has Edwin’s attention when he stands up, armed once again. He’s frowning. “You are not normally so careless, Charles.”
He’s been with Edwin for long enough that he can interpret a statement that is really meant to be a question. He shakes his head. “Not used to this bloody thing, am I?”
“Oh, that’s reassuring,” Crystal scoffs.
“I can handle a dancing light,” Charles says, a bit more sharply than he really intends — but the fact that he dropped the sword needles at him, like an itch he can’t scratch. He doesn’t know how it slipped out of his hand. He didn’t even feel it go. Not that it matters. He just has to make sure it doesn’t happen again, so no more showing off until they’re done.
“I have every faith in you, Charles,” Edwin says. That soothes him a bit more than it probably should.
They make their way down to the water, and the Will-o-the-Wisp flickers to life on the shore as they approach, like a tongue of silvery flame at the water’s edge. It bobs and dithers before growing tapered limbs and tripping backwards to stand beckoning above the surface of the river.
As it turns out, Charles doesn’t need the sword after all. The solution is as simple as Edwin hoped. This Will-o-the-Wisp isn’t a trickster, or a nature spirit, but the lost soul of an unbaptised child. Charles has never quite worked out the rules for which kids end up stuck on Earth because of specific superstitions or religious convictions and which don’t, but in this case all Edwin has to do to fix it is say a few words and splash it with some river water. Despite Crystal’s incredulity that a baptism can be performed by anyone in an emergency, even the dead, it works. After the third handful of water sloshes back into the river, the light flips and flickers in a way that seems delighted and, out of habit, Charles drags Edwin and Crystal back up to street level before the blue glow of Death’s presence sweeps over the beach.
In all the excitement, he pretty much forgets about dropping the sword.
~~~~~
Working with the Lost and Found Department is an adjustment, and not always one that everyone handles with grace. Generally, the Night Nurse seems content to leave them to it as long as she receives the reams of paperwork the Afterlife requires, but sometimes she sticks her oar in.
“What on Earth is all this mess?” she asks.
Charles freezes. She’s walked in on him rearranging his backpack, and the horrified edge to her voice seems a bit extreme. There are items spread across the floor in front of Edwin’s desk, but it’s neatly laid out. It’s not heaped in a pile. He’s going to put it all away. Not that those excuses ever helped him when he was alive.
“Getting ready for our next case, aren’t I?” he says.
“And this,” the Night Nurse says in disbelief as she picks her way over the supplies towards the centre, “Is your idea of preparation?”
“Yeah,” he says. The cheery grin he’s been trying to maintain falters as she continues to stare at him with an air of extreme disapproval. It’s like being summoned to the Headmaster’s office, only the dread is worse, now. If he’s in trouble, if he does a bad job, it’s not a bollocking from his dad he has to worry about, but the threat of being separated from Edwin — and of Edwin being sent back to Hell. That spurs him to unstick his tongue and defend himself: “Worked so far, hasn’t it?”
The Night Nurse looks around at the tools, materials and trinkets he keeps on-hand and sniffs. “Has it, indeed.”
“It has,” Edwin says in a warning tone from the other side of the desk where he had been quietly reading until the Night Nurse came in. Charles feels a surge of gratitude that his best mate has his back.
The Night Nurse ignores the comment and points an accusing finger at one of the items on the floor.
“Charles Rowland, are there bees in that jar?” she asks.
“Yup,” Crystal says. She’s sitting sideways on the couch with her feet up, engrossed in her phone. Charles glances over. The look on her face makes it very clear that she thinks it’s weird, too.
“What possible purpose could you have for a jar full of bees?” the Night Nurse asks, incredulous.
Charles bends to collect the jar. The bees bumble around inside the glass, humming softly. He holds it out to the Night Nurse for inspection and gives her his best winning smile. “You never know what might come in handy on a case.”
Crystal snorts. Charles shoots her a look, because he could really do with moral support right now and not whatever that was, but this time she hasn’t even looked up from typing on her phone screen.
“That is not an answer, young man,” the Night Nurse says, “And I will thank you not to be glib.”
“I wasn’t,” he mutters, because he really didn’t mean to be disrespectful, but the Night Nurse just clicks her tongue at him.
“My Department would never condone carting around such a useless and frankly ridiculous item,” she says. Charles draws the jar of bees back in towards himself and holds it between both hands against his chest. He feels about two inches tall, especially when she takes another look at his carefully curated gear and shakes her head like it’s a bunch of children’s toys, worthless and silly and in need of tidying up. It’s a thought that crosses his mind sometimes, usually when a case goes bad or if he doesn’t have what they need: an echo of his dad’s voice telling him his backpack is as full of shit as he is, and about as much use.
“Then it is well that we are not in your Department,” Edwin says, his voice glass-sharp. He rises to his feet, the very tips of his fingers braced on the desk in front of him, and glares at the Night Nurse. “You are our chaperone, but may I remind you that you are the newest member of this Agency, and you have the least experience of both this plane of existence and our type of casework.”
The Night Nurse sputters an attempt to interrupt, but Edwin doesn’t allow it. He straightens up still further, clasps his hands in front of him and speaks over her.
“Charles and I have been operating as the Dead Boy Detectives for decades, and your superior seems to think we have done an admirable job. On a par with the work for which your Department received a commendation,” he points out, in a tone so scorching that Charles has to choke back an involuntary laugh. The Night Nurse’s lips have thinned to a narrow line of red and she looks all the more furious when Edwin goes on: “Here, we are the experts. We know best what is required to solve our cases. So I hardly think you are in any position to judge the items Charles deems worthy of a place in his arsenal, no matter how frivolous you consider them.”
The Night Nurse draws herself up to her full height, paperwork clutched to her chest, but Charles isn’t looking at her. He’s transfixed by Edwin — Edwin, who just stood up for him over a jar of bloody bees. Their eyes meet, the smug little upturn at the corner of Edwin’s lips grows into a proper smile, and Charles’s body feels like a shaken can of cola: filled with fizzy bubbles, at risk of spilling over.
“I have never,” the Night Nurse begins in a furious stage-whisper.
She’s interrupted by the sound of shattering glass. Charles looks down, confused. His hands are empty, even though he hasn’t moved them. The jar is in pieces at his feet.
There are angry bees everywhere.
“Charles, what the fuck?” Crystal yells over the rising buzz. She crashes for the door, arms crooked around her head.
“Of all the petty, childish, unnecessary stunts!” the Night Nurse cries as she too beats a reluctant retreat from the incensed swarm.
The door slams behind both of them, leaving Charles and Edwin alone in a room filled with agitated bees.
“I could have dealt with her without you resorting to such extreme measures, Charles,” Edwin says in a mildly disapproving tone, but there’s an amused edge to it that makes Charles’s insides shiver. A furious bee zips right through his cheek, sending up a puff of blue-tinted smoke, but he doesn’t think much of it. Edwin’s gone incorporeal, too, in self-defence.
“I know you could, mate,” Charles reassures him. “You were aces.”
Edwin doesn’t laugh, or even smile really, but Charles knows that look. It’s the one he gets when he’s pleased and doesn’t want to show it. He folds his arms and pretends to be aloof. “Yes, well. Much as I appreciate you leaping to my defence in return,” he says, as if that’s without question what happened, “What are we to do about your friends?”
Charles lets the assumption that he dropped the jar on purpose slide. He’s fine with Edwin thinking that was the reason for it, and he’d rather not admit he doesn’t know what happened.
“Not very friendly just now, are they?” he says, his smile turning apologetic. He spots an empty jar amongst the supplies Crystal and the Night Nurse didn’t scatter in their dash for the exit. “Reckon we can persuade them to go back in a nice fresh jar?”
“It would be far simpler to open a window,” Edwin says.
“But they’re not a proper swarm, are they? They don’t have a queen, I don’t think,” Charles says. “I don’t know if they’d survive if we just let them fly off …”
Edwin sighs and relents to his pleading. “Very well, then. Let us see if a calming spell has any effect.”
It does, thankfully, which makes it safe for them to be tangible again without running the risk of being stung: not a pleasant experience, even for a ghost. Then the real challenge of rounding up the bees and coaxing them into their new home begins. Somewhere in the midst of insisting a dozen times that, of the two of them, he should definitely be the one gently cupping bees in his bare hands to transfer them into the jar, Charles convinces himself that Edwin was right after all. He must have dropped the jar of bees to get the Night Nurse off Edwin’s back. Protecting Edwin is his job, whether it’s from potential stings or their bureaucratic minder’s temper, so of course he stepped in.
It’s a simple, comfortable explanation that fits, so long as he doesn’t think too hard about the moment it happened. With bees to herd and the backpack’s contents yet to be sorted, he has the perfect excuse not to think about it at all.