Archive of Our Own ^beta

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“Uhh, hey, boss?”

The Cat King blinks his eyes open slowly, tail lashing in annoyance at the interruption of his very nice nap in a very warm sunbeam.  “This better be good, Meatball.  If you woke me up for something dumb, I’m gonna make you kitten-sit for Marmalade again and you can fend for yourself against her horrible tiny chaos monsters.”

The gray-brown tabby winces, ears flat, as well he should given the outcome of the last time he found himself at the mercy of five miniature orange whirlwinds.  But he determinedly shakes his head.  “It’s your ghost, boss.  He’s down by the pier just kind of…wandering around?” 

“Edwin’s here?” The Cat King sits up quickly.  That is interesting, and worth abandoning his nap for.  It’s been a few weeks since Edwin last turned up, and he’s been missing his favourite ghost.  “Why hasn’t he come up here yet?”  It’s a little unusual for Edwin to come to town and not make his way to the cannery fairly quickly; usually he comes striding right in, sure and certain of his welcome when he comes to call, as it were.

Meatball shakes his head, ears flicking in agitation, eyes narrowed.  “I don’t know, I didn’t go talk to him.  But he seems kinda weird?  Sure, I’m not friends with the guy, but he don’t seem like himself.”

The Cat King growls thoughtfully.  That’s a bit concerning, actually.  Meatball can be a little dumb sometimes — his tendency to be easily bribed with sardines, for example — but he’s not a cat prone to dramatics.  If he thinks something’s not right, well. 

Obviously the Cat King wants to see Edwin, anyway.  He could wait for Edwin to turn up, but frankly he hasn’t got the patience for that.  Now that he knows Edwin’s here, he wants to see him.  Chances are Meatball’s concerned about nothing, and his curious ghost got distracted by something on the way over.  It honestly wouldn’t even be the first time.

Standing and stretching his back in a long arch, tail up, the Cat King yawns.  He’s more than willing to give up his sunbeam if it means he can get some quality flirtation time with Edwin.  Maybe if he’s lucky, this time he’ll finally get a kiss. 

Jumping lightly down from his throne, he heads out of the cannery with Meatball trotting quickly along behind.  It doesn’t take too long to make their way along the waterfront to where Meatball last saw Edwin, but the Cat King has to admit it’s a bit of an odd spot for his ghostie to be.  There’s nothing interesting down at this end, just an empty span of concrete quay with a short set of stairs leading down to a rocky strip of ground strewn with the bits of flotsam washed in on the tide.  One of the old, long-abandoned piers juts out into the water, a mess of rusted metal and old wood. 

And wandering slow and aimless across the rocky ground, sure enough, is Edwin in his typical brown coat and matching gloves.

The Cat King pauses at the top of the steps, looking down at Edwin.  He wants to go bounding down to surprise him, to jump into his arms and have a laugh as Edwin fumbles to catch him; he’s done it before and it’s always hilarious.  Edwin has never once dropped him.  But it doesn’t take more than a second of observation to think that Meatball was right.

Edwin seems…strange.

Tail twitching thoughtfully, the Cat King sits and observes.  It’s nothing obvious, really.  Edwin looks lost in thought, wandering in a random pattern back and forth, occasionally crouching to idly pick up stones or shells and examine them curiously, discarding some and keeping hold of others.  He spends several long minutes almost motionless save for fingers tapping his opposite hand, staring out over the ocean; after a bit, the Cat King realizes the tapping seems to be counting the seconds between waves.  Then Edwin tilts his head to look at the sky, then the horizon, turning in a slow circle as he studies his surroundings. 

None of this is entirely odd in and of itself.  Edwin is notoriously curious, seeking knowledge with dedication and determination, and it’s honestly one of the Cat King’s favourite things about him.  And that’s exactly why Edwin seems so strange now: he’s too aimless, too purposeless, with none of his usual focus. 

“See?” Meatball mutters, tail lashing.  “Weird, right?”

Edwin’s eyes pass over the Cat King and Meatball where they’re still perched at the top of the steps, and his attention lingers on them with that adorable little head-tilt.  The Cat King straightens, ears perking up in anticipation.  But Edwin merely looks away, no wave or greeting, and continues his examination of the area, walking slowly along the waterline.

“Yeah, definitely weird,” the Cat King agrees.  Edwin knows both Meatball and the Cat King’s current black cat body perfectly well, there’s no way he didn’t recognize them sitting here.  And the Cat King’s pretty sure he hasn’t done anything lately to piss Edwin off, so it’s probably not that Edwin’s giving him the silent treatment, and if he was, why would he come all the way to Port Townsend to do it?  But maybe the sun’s in Edwin’s eyes, or he’s so lost in thought he’s really not paying attention.  Maybe, maybe.

“This is stupid,” the Cat King finally mutters.  He’s not going to figure anything out staying up here.  He slinks down the steps on silent paws, following behind Edwin and shifting to his human body when he’s a few steps away. 

He slips up to Edwin’s side and catches his hand, tugging him around playfully with a smile.  “Hey, sweetheart, you look seriously lost in thought.  What brings you to town?”

Edwin flinches hard at the touch, whipping around and yanking his hand free with a ferocious glare.  Taking several steps back, shoulders ruler-straight, he snaps out, “Excuse me?  I’ll thank you to be a little less familiar.”

The Cat King freezes, wide-eyed and confused and trying to decide whether to be pissed off, because what the fuck.  “Edwin?”

Edwin stills, too, his angry glare lessening to a slightly less angry glare accompanied by a raised eyebrow and slightly tilted head as he eyes the Cat King up and down with none of the usual poorly-veiled appreciation.  “Do I know you?”

Ohhh, this isn’t good.  Every animal and magical instinct the Cat King has is screaming that something is very, very wrong here.  Magically wrong.

The Cat King studies familiar gray-green eyes, but there’s no poorly-hidden interest or playful faux-sternness in them.  Just a mix of annoyance and confusion and no sign of recognition at all.  It’s definitely his Edwin, the unmistakable scent of ozone and old books overlaid with hints of sulfur and hellfire filling his nose, impossible to fake.  Which means there’s clearly something going on here, and the last thing the Cat King wants is to make it worse.

“Uhhh, yeah, you’re Edwin Payne and we…”  Shit shit shit, what to say?  This isn’t Edwin being petty or bitchy because he’s in a mood.  This is Edwin who doesn’t seem to know who the Cat King is at all. 

He runs an unsettled hand through his hair.  He wants to grab Edwin and shake him until he comes to his senses, but that’s probably a terrible idea.  “We met awhile back, last time you were here?” he hints carefully.  But Edwin doesn’t seem to remember or believe him, if the skeptical expression is anything to go by.  The Cat King offers a handshake, mostly because he doesn’t know what else to do.  “Thomas King?”  For good or ill, it’s not a name he’s given Edwin before, but it’s the one he used on the deed for the cannery property, so it’s as good as anything else right now.  He doesn’t think the Cat King is gonna go over very well at the moment.

Edwin hesitates, staring at the outstretched hand like it’s gonna bite, and oh, that hurts somewhere deep in the Cat King’s heart.  He’s gotten spoiled by the closeness they’ve developed over the last few months, and he’s not used to those disdainful looks from his ghostie anymore.  Not when Edwin means them for real.  Instead of making Edwin do something he clearly doesn’t want, the Cat King lowers his hand again and shoves both fists into his pockets.

“And where is here, exactly?” Edwin asks, looking uncomfortably relieved that the Cat King has withdrawn his hand.  But before the Cat King manages to come up with an answer, Edwin cuts him off.  “Also, do you always greet strangers in such an impertinent manner?”

The Cat King winces, memories of their first meeting burning through his mind.  “Sometimes?”

Edwin gives him a considering look that shifts to a mix of understanding and curiosity.  “Oh.  You’re American.”  He looks around again, toward the town along the curving waterfront in the distance, then out across the ocean.  “Are we in America?”

Oh, this is so, so bad.  “Yeah.  This is Port Townsend, in Washington state.”

“Fascinating.”  Expression brightening with interest, Edwin goes back to exploring, walking away along the waterline and occasionally picking up another shell or stone.

The Cat King trails behind, trying to seem normal and chill and not like the kind of weirdo who will scare off a polite Edwardian gentleman, while inside he’s panicking.  He’s gotta assume there’s some magical fuckery happening here for Edwin to not recognize either the town or the Cat King himself.  And depending on what kind of magical fuckery Edwin’s gotten himself tangled up in right now, it’s very possible for the Cat King to stick his paw in it and make it worse, if he’s not careful.  Mind magic, memory magic, is not something to fuck with carelessly.

The fact that Edwin’s here alone is the other concern.  That he’s wandering around here without Rowland at the very least…  The Cat King glances pointlessly around the empty beach; he knows none of the others are here, though the rest of Edwin’s little band of misfits are welcome to show up any goddamn time and shed some light on what’s going on.

Stumbling to a halt, the Cat King swears under his breath.  Shit on a stick, if Edwin doesn’t remember being here before, what else doesn’t he remember?  He hasn’t mentioned the others, clearly isn’t looking for them. 

Does Edwin even know he’s not alive?  Fuuuuck.

Kicking back into gear, he jogs forward to catch up to Edwin.  He’s trying for a casual tone, but even he can hear the pitchy, strained edge to his voice.  “Hey, so, uh, how’re you feeling?”

Edwin shakes his head thoughtfully.  “I am well enough, for all that it has been a very strange day.”

“Yeah, I bet…”  The Cat King isn’t sure how this is gonna go, but he’s already asked, the words are out there, he’s committed now.  And one way or another, he needs more information.  “So like, how—  Strange how?”

Edwin hums and passes a small stone from hand to hand, holding it out on his palm.  “Well, I appear to be some sort of ghost or spirit,” he says as he allows the stone to phase through his palm and drop to the ground with a little clack.  “So I must assume that I died, I suppose.”

The Cat King groans weakly, shoulders slumping with relief and he doesn’t know what else.  “Oh good, so you already know that part.”  At least he doesn’t have to tell his not-quite-lover that he’s very much dead.  Covering his face, he giggles a little manically into his hands, because what the fuck.

Edwin frowns at the laugh, folding his hands primly at his waist.  “It wasn’t hard to deduce.  No one seems able to see me, several people in fact walked through me — an experience I do not recommend, by the way.  My senses, aside from sight and hearing, are strangely dulled.  With a bit of consideration, it was quite obvious.” 

Cautiously, the Cat King says, “You don’t seem that upset about it?”

“It is oddly unsurprising, but no, the realization hasn’t been unduly upsetting.”  Edwin shrugs a little.  “I suppose I must have known I was dying when it happened, and that knowledge somehow carried over.”

Yup, this isn’t just bad, this is Bad bad.  It’s way more concerning that it’s not just the Cat King and Port Townsend that Edwin can’t remember, but apparently much more than that — possibly his whole goddamned afterlife.  And the last thing the Cat King wants to do is dredge up bad memories, but he’s gotta know just how bad this situation is.  “Fuck, I really hope this isn’t the wrong thing to ask, but what is the last thing you remember?  Do you know how you got here?”

Edwin gives him a concerned, searching look.  “Is that…important?”

“Yeah, it might be.”  The Cat King tries to seem not too upset because he doesn’t want to upset Edwin, no matter how untroubled he seems about being a ghost.  But he needs answers. 

Edwin is clearly skeptical, but acquiesces easily enough.  “Well, all right.”  He narrows his eyes thoughtfully.  “I was at school, on my way back to the dormitories.  It was late because I…was in the library.  Avoiding someone, which is not unusual.  My peers at that place are largely unpleasant.  It is easier if I keep to myself.”  He frowns, the little pinch between his brows deepening as he clearly starts to struggle.  The Cat King doesn’t like the look of that. 

Edwin shakes his head.  “After that, I’m not sure.  I can recall…a great deal of noise.  Something…hurt.  There was a girl there, and another boy, and….  I was…running.  And then I was in an antique shop, the one up the hill.”  He points away from the waterfront and toward High Street and the shopping district.  “I have to conclude that somewhere in there, I died and became a ghost.”  His features smooth out into a less tense frown, accompanied by a slight shrug.  “And ended up in America, of all places.  Like I said, a very strange day.”

In a voice strangled with concern, the Cat King mutters, “Uh-huh.  Yeah.”  His mind races as he tries to figure out what to say next.  But there’s so much to be worried about he doesn’t even know where to start.

Edwin turns abruptly, looking at the Cat King with laser focus.  “Wait a tick.  You can see and hear me just fine.  You even grabbed my hand.  Why is that?”  He stares intently, studying the Cat King from head to foot and looking like he wants very badly to poke and see if he’s real, except for the fact that he clearly doesn’t like touching people.  “Are you also a ghost?”

“No!  No, I’m…something else.”  The Cat King waves both hands dismissively, and a little desperately.  There’s no way he’s up for explaining beast kings and magic at this point.  “Let’s not worry about what right now.  I can see you and hear you, that’s enough to work with.”

Edwin looks reluctant to let it go, but after a moment subsides.  “Fine.  But I will get to the bottom of the mystery of you eventually.”

The Cat King closes his eyes against the stab to the heart.  He knows Edwin doesn’t mean it in the way he really wants — out of a desire to know all the little quirks and secrets of his nature.  But hearing these words in Edwin’s voice when there’s nothing real behind them hurts.  Yeah, they’ve been circling each other for months now, flirting and testing each other, but Edwin is still spare and reticent with sharing his true thoughts, with admitting his interest in the Cat King at all.

“I’m not that mysterious,” the Cat King returns, just a little bitterly, because at the very least it’s never been a mystery for either of them how he feels about Edwin. 

Except despite the familiar voice and expressions and curiosity and clothes, this isn’t his Edwin, really. 

Leaving the Cat King only one choice.  He needs to figure out what happened, so he can get his Edwin back.

With a little growl of frustration, the Cat King shoves both hands through his hair, mussing up the curls.  Get it together.

He tries not to let the stress of it all come through in his voice; the last thing he needs is Edwin getting scared or offended and running off or some shit.  “Look, how about we do this somewhere not on a dirty beach at low tide.  I can probably get you some answers.”

Edwin eyes him warily.  “I don’t see how you can help.”

“You said it yourself, you had a weird fucking day and you don’t know how you ended up in America.”  The Cat King holds out a hand imploringly.  “I promise you I’ll help you figure it out, I just can’t do that from here.”

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

It takes nearly fifteen minutes to convince a very stubborn Edwin to come up to the cannery, but thank fuck he finally agrees.  Despite Edwin’s undeniable curiosity, he was understandably wary of following the Cat King — for all intents a stranger, at the moment — but he finally stopped his politely stubborn refusals.

At the top of the steps, the Cat King scoops Meatball up briefly, whispering instructions in his ear — Warn the cats not to say anything weird, and be on guard for funky magics — before letting the tabby scamper off back to the warehouse ahead of them.

They follow at a slower pace in Meatball’s wake, Edwin still preoccupied with looking around the wharf curiously.  “He is your cat, I take it?  There was a second one earlier, though it seems to have gone.”

The Cat King hesitates, because there isn’t a great way to answer that without getting into the king stuff.  “Kinda.  More like he hangs around a lot.  A bunch of them do, so, uh.”  He winces slightly.  “I hope you like cats.”

Edwin hums thoughtfully.  “I’ve never spent much time with them, I must admit.”  Slowly, as though he can’t quite bring all the details to mind, he murmurs, “There was a bad-tempered old mouser that used to roam the school halls.  She wasn’t much for people, I found, though certainly I could relate.  I didn’t much like anyone at the school, either, and I can’t imagine they were any kinder to an animal.”  His gaze drifts off to the middle distance and the long-ago memory.  “But if I were tucked away somewhere and stayed very quiet, sometimes she would come close enough that I could pet her ears.”

And the Cat King is pretty sure he can read between the lines on that one, from what he knows of Edwin’s past.  A scared young man hiding from bullies, and a tired old cat trying to offer a little comfort.

But he doesn’t want Edwin lingering on those long-ago hurts.  “Well, mine are all pretty friendly.  Probably a little too friendly, honestly, and I’ll warn you now most of them have terrible manners.”  He ignores Edwin’s confused look and shoves the warehouse door open wide enough for a human-sized entrance.

He loses a little of his tension once Edwin’s safely inside the cannery, and inside its sphere of protective magic.  The wards on the place can’t keep out every threat — Esther having stalked right in with her fucking iron cane being a perfect example — but they do a pretty good job against magical attacks and nosy mundanes.

He rolls his eyes a little at just how many cats are spread around the room, trying and failing to lounge casually across crates and floorboards.  But perked ears and bright eyes and lashing tails give them all away.  There were not this many of his subjects hanging around earlier today; clearly the feline grapevine’s been working overtime in the hour he was down by the water with Edwin.  Nosy, gossipy assholes, the lot of them. 

It’s a little cute, though, he’ll admit.  Meatball might not be Edwin’s biggest fan, for understandable reasons, but most of the cats have become very fond of a certain ghost detective.  And, well, the Cat King can relate.  He’s pretty damn fond of Edwin himself.

For Edwin’s part, he’s typically rather amusingly cautious still when it comes to the cats.  Overly polite verging on wary, sparing with his words and his pets.  He confessed once, quietly, that having made the mistake of offending the cats and their king before, he’s determined not to make the same error, especially now that he understands the individuality and intelligence of cats so much better than he did previously. 

Most of the time when he visits, Edwin seems mildly bewildered at the cats’ enthusiasm for his company, which leaves him civil but reticent.  Cats being cats, this makes them all the more determined to win his favour, and for the most part the Cat King pretends he doesn’t know about the various unspoken wagers and competitions going on among his subjects.

Which he maybe should have considered before bringing Edwin back here.

Because as Edwin follows the Cat King through the door, the dozen-odd cats resist for barely a minute before swarming in a crowd at Edwin’s feet.  Greeting Edwin and saying his name.  Because the Cat King ordered them to ‘not say anything weird’ instead of ‘maybe don’t talk in front of the ghost who lost his memories.’  Goddammit.

He pinches the bridge of his nose and sighs the sigh of the deeply put-upon monarch that he is.  “Edwin, my cats.  Cats, you all know Edwin.”

Edwin stands frozen, clearly afraid to move and step on paws or tails, hands half-raised defensively.  “This is a lot of cats.”  He looks even more awkward than he usually does around the cats.  It’d be cute if the Cat King didn’t know the reason was because Edwin’s forgotten most of his afterlife.

“These are just the ones hanging around today,” the Cat King mutters, glaring pointedly at the cats, “who will all be on their best behaviour.”  A chorus of sure boss and yes majesty comes from the cats, with varying levels of sincerity.  The Cat King will just have to take them at their word and hope for the best.

“Also, they’re talking?”  Edwin’s voice wavers a bit with confusion.  He’s watching the shifting cats at his feet with wide eyes.  None of them get too close, thankfully, so the Cat King doesn’t have to start scruffing anyone.

“Uh, surprise?  Cats can talk.  They just don’t usually bother talking to humans, but you’re a ghost now, so.”  He gestures vaguely in the direction of the cats. 

The Cat King hesitates then, because he doesn’t want to leave Edwin alone right now, but he also doesn’t feel up to trying to explain the whole, ‘you went to Hell, escaped, became a ghost detective’ thing until he has a better idea of what’s happened to Edwin’s memories in the first place. 

“Why do they know my name?” Edwin demands, still staring at the cats.

“Let’s go with, you met them last time you were here,” the Cat King says, his impatience to get a move on warring with concern.  “So just, uh, relax.  Get reacquainted with the cats, who will not say anything weird, and I will be right back.  I just have to…check on something real quick.”

Edwin gives him an indecipherable look.  “You’re a very odd man.”

“You don’t know the half of it, ghostie.” 

He forces himself to turn away and head toward the back rooms of the cannery, well out of Edwin’s sight and hearing, before he shifts himself into his private quarters. 

And in that privacy, he takes a couple minutes to have a bit of a goddamn breakdown. 

He allows himself two minutes of hissing angrily into his hands, before taking a deep breath and straightening.  The Cat King isn’t a goddamn detective but the rest of Edwin’s friends are, and he has to believe they’re already well on their way to figuring this out.

He pointedly ignores the clawing concern over the fact that still none of them have shown up.  Specifically, that Charles hasn’t followed hot on Edwin’s heels. 

But they won’t get anywhere with him standing here being pissed and panicky in an empty room.

The Cat King conjures up the mirror he keeps around for Edwin’s visits.  Usually it sits in a corner of the main warehouse, with an open invitation for Edwin to come and go as he pleases.  Currently, they’re both better off if he does this without Edwin seeing and inevitably asking questions the Cat King doesn’t have the patience to answer right now. 

He doesn’t exactly need the mirror for what he’s going to do — he can mirror-travel if he wants, it’s just not his favourite.  But he’s not actually visited Edwin’s office in London yet, and it’ll be easier to find his way there with a little bit of a trail to follow. 

Setting a hand on the mirror, the Cat King searches for the little magic thread left from Edwin’s repeated visits.  It’s easy enough to find, Edwin’s own magic warm and familiar to his senses.  Shifting to his cat-self, the Cat King circles the mirror to step into the shadowed space behind it, but slips into the magical side-ways instead, following the thread all the way to the shadows behind a mirror in London, emerging from the dim corner into the office proper.  It’s not a method of magical travel available to just anyone, but cats go where they want, and Cat Kings especially so.

He ignores the memory of Edwin’s intrigued little hum when the Cat King explained it to him a few months ago.  They never did get around to a demonstration.

Shaking away those thoughts, he shifts to human, looking around the cozy space. He’s immediately charmed.  Books and scrolls and artifacts, an old-fashioned desk, exposed brick and thick rugs.  It’s somehow so very Edwin.

It’s also so very empty.

Goddammit. 

“Rowland!  If you’re in here, fucking show yourself!” he shouts, more in frustration than that he thinks the ghost is somehow hiding from him.  Ghosts can’t really hide from cats’ eyes, anyway, no matter how much they’d like to.

But the office remains empty and silent.  Shit.

The place looks comfortably messy with use and familiarity, but nothing strikes the Cat King as being out of place in a bad way.  So whatever Edwin and his little crew were up to, it probably didn’t happen here. 

Which leaves, what?  Just the whole fucking world.

A quick search of the desk and other surfaces reveals nothing useful — no handy destination address or convenient case notes laying around, because this isn’t a fucking movie — and as much as the Cat King badly wants to poke into every nook and cranny of Edwin’s home, now is not the time. 

He finds some spare paper and scrawls a message to Rowland — with any luck, he or the girls will turn up soon, but the Cat King’s not gonna just wait around.  If they do know Edwin’s lost his memories, the recent ones at least, then they might not think to check Port Townsend.

Slipping back through to the cannery, he drops onto the edge of his bed with a grunt.  He slowly falls backwards into the bedding, both hands rubbing his face in frustration.

What does he have to work with, here?  He’s got a ghost missing memories and no way to tell where Edwin might have been before turning up in Port Townsend.  Probably a spell-caster in the mix who is malicious or incompetent or both.  An empty office, no sign of Rowland or the girls, and who fucking knows if they also got memory-zapped or not.  So they’re either wandering around lost, or they’re fine and searching for Edwin.  And there’s no way for the Cat King to know which of these is correct.

He growls into his palms.  Even if he was willing to leave Edwin here alone while he goes searching high and low for either the site of the incident or the other detectives, he doesn’t even know where to start. 

Raised voices from the warehouse floor have him bolting upright, and between one second and the next he’s gone from his private rooms back to the main space. 

Where he immediately freezes, arrested by the sight in front of him.

Edwin, sitting on the floor cross-legged, coat discarded on a nearby crate, laughing freely as he flicks little glowing balls of light for the cats to chase, grinning wider and brighter than the Cat King has ever seen.  It makes his eyes crinkle, and oh, he has dimples.  He looks happy, and lighter than the Cat King has ever seen him, giggling with delight as two cats tumble into each other trying to catch the same bouncing light.

And the Cat King’s heart breaks a little.

He crosses the floor slowly, quietly, trying not to distract too much from the game in front of him.  He doesn’t want to disturb Edwin’s fun, not when it puts that smile on his face.  He curls up on his throne, chin propped on his fist, and settles in to watch.

Of course, he hasn’t gone entirely unnoticed.  Edwin turns to him with bright, wonder-filled eyes, excitement overriding his earlier reticence and wariness.  “Did you know ghosts can do magic?”  He conjures up another little ball of light with a whispered spell-phrase, and sends it bouncing across the floorboards.  “The cats suggested I try, and look at this.  How fascinating!”

The Cat King snorts a soft laugh, because of course his cats would sneakily remind Edwin of their favourite game, one they had only recently begun to talk him into playing.  “Some ghosts can do magic, yeah.”  He catches one of the lights in his hand when it bobs in the air next to him, cups it gently in his palm.  “You’re good at it.”  And he means you’re good at magic, he means all the time, but he knows Edwin will hear it as this light trick and right now.

Edwin gives a pleased little smile, eyes lingering on the Cat King curiously for a long moment.  But then the cats clamour for his attention again, and he goes back to playfully flicking lights across the floor. 

The Cat King just watches, in a strange mix of enjoyment and melancholy.  Trying to smile, but he’s pretty sure it doesn’t reach his eyes. 

Who is this strange, happy boy?  The Cat King swallows hard against the tightness in his throat.  God, Edwin looks so young like this.  His eyes as wide and fascinated with the lights as the cats’ are, his giggling voice as he scolds and teases echoing through the cannery, filling the space. 

He forgets, sometimes, how young Edwin was when he died.  Because Edwin’s face and voice, the way he thinks and the way he holds himself like the entire world is carried on his shoulders, all show the weight of the century’s worth of years he’s existed, every loss and heartache and hurt.  He is almost seventeen, and nearly fifty, and a hundred and twenty-four, all at the same time.  Simultaneously young and old, a dichotomy the Cat King is intimately familiar with by now, on his fourth life.  More than two centuries old; reborn into new skin less than a year ago.

“See if you can do colours,” the Cat King prompts softly.

Edwin turns his way curiously.  “How?

The Cat King just arches a brow challengingly; he’s quite sure Edwin can figure it out.  Edwin gives him a delightfully bitchy little glare, and the Cat King just winks.  “Go on then, show me what you can do.”

Murmuring the spell under his breath several times, Edwin hums.  “Well, it is in Latin…”

The Cat King smiles, watching Edwin talk his way through determining how to adjust the incantation, and it’s so familiar — the focus, the little pinch between his brows, the muttered repetition as he tries different combinations.  The smug, triumphant little look he turns on the Cat King the first time he conjures a light of bright purple.

But at the same time, the longer he sees Edwin like this, the more apparent it is that this isn’t his Edwin.  Not really.

His Edwin is polite to the cats these days, having learned my lesson quite thoroughly in that regard, as he puts it.  But he doesn’t sit on the floor and play with them, soft and joyful, grinning in a way the Cat King has never seen, wide and bright and full of laughter.  He’s been mostly polite and not overly snippy toward the Cat King, if a little reserved, but lacks the pointed barbs characteristic of their usual interactions.

Sitting on the floor in front of the Cat King is Edwin as he was before everything, or at least before the worst of things.  Or perhaps how he should have been, were the world a kinder place.  Edwin without his walls, his masks, his armour.  Without the vault around his heart.

Edwin is still dead, of course, there is no undoing that.  But he is without the hurts and cruelty of his death and his years in Hell that cut away so much of his softness to leave so many sharp edges behind.

And the Cat King wants his jagged, hurting, bitchy ghost back, of course he does; that selfishness is built into his very nature.  He wants what he wants and decided almost from the start that Edwin is his person, fascination falling quickly into something much deeper.

But looking at those bright eyes, that smile, free and unburdened and young in a way that Edwin never is, the Cat King can’t help but think that losing his Edwin might be worth it — not good, never good, but survivable — if it means Edwin would be this happy every day.

It might even be easy.

Because Edwin doesn’t remember the good stuff, either.  His life in London, his little detective agency, his friends.  He doesn’t remember Charles, and if that isn’t the sign of some powerful magic, well.

The Cat King isn’t one for lying, usually; he mostly doesn’t see the point and as a consequence, somewhat surprisingly for a trickster, he isn’t all that good at it. 

Omission, though.  Not lying, just…not saying.

Because oh, the Cat King can imagine it so clearly.  How it would be to keep Edwin all to himself.  Keep him close, keep him safe.  Follow the twists and tangents of Edwin’s boundless curiosity and take him anywhere in the world he wants to go, show him everything he wants to see.  Satiate Edwin’s thirst for knowledge with the centuries of experiences in magic and history, the strange and the mundane, that the Cat King has to share.

And maybe, maybe, without the distraction of cases and Hell and Charles-fucking-Rowland, Edwin would come to love the Cat King as much as the Cat King already loves Edwin. 

Maybe for a year, or a decade, or a century, however long he could make it last, the Cat King could be happy, too.

Except he knows it would never be real; only cruelty dressed as kindness.

He closes his eyes against the sting that he refuses to acknowledge is from tears.

A soft, inquiring noise has him looking up, to see Edwin studying him with a concerned frown.  For a moment the Cat King thinks, hopes, that the look in Edwin’s eyes is familiar.  But then he asks, “Is everything all right, Mr. King?” and it’s wrong, it’s so wrong, it shatters the Cat King’s thoughts and his heart again.  It’s hard, but he forces himself to breathe deep and shove all those selfish desires back into their box buried in the depths of his heart.

And then he puts on a smile, hopes that it doesn’t look like the mask it is.

“Ugh, okay, no,” he wrinkles his nose with mild distaste.  “Just call me Thomas, please.”

Edwin gives him an adorably scandalized look.  “I hardly think we know each other well enough for that.”

The Cat King rolls his eyes.  “Look, it’s just…an American thing.”  When Edwin still just glares with a pinched little frown, the Cat King shrugs.  “When in Rome?”

Edwin keeps up his annoyed expression for another moment before he visibly relents.  “All right, fine.  Thomas.”

“Edwin,” the Cat King returns with a satisfied grin, the sound of Edwin’s voice saying his name — well, one of his names — rolling through him like a wave of warmth.  It makes him want to purr, but he does his best to tamp down the urge. 

Edwin huffs in exasperation and rolls his eyes, but can’t entirely hide his amusement.  He goes back to quietly conjuring lights and successfully achieves several more colours, to the delight of the cats, but lowers his hands to his lap after sending the lights rolling away across the floor.  He straightens his shoulders, preparing himself, and doesn’t quite look at the Cat King as he speaks.

“I’d appreciate it if you explain to me what is truly going on.”

With a sigh, the Cat King shakes his head, mostly directed at himself.  He should’ve known the evasions and unfinished sentences would eventually be too much to ignore.  “Picked up on that, did you?”

Edwin casts his best bitchy little glare at the Cat King.  “While it has been a very strange day, and you are a very strange man, it is nevertheless apparent that there is a problem of some sort, and that it involves me.”

“Clever ghostie,” the Cat King sighs, the words coming out far too fondly.  “Yeah, there’s a bit of a problem, and you’re right in the middle of it.  I didn’t want to say anything in case I made it worse, but I don’t—”  He cuts himself off.

Edwin twists his hands together, expression thoughtful.  “Is keeping it to yourself making it better?”

The Cat King clenches his jaw on a frustrated pout.  “No.”

Edwin gestures encouragingly.  “Well then?”  When the Cat King hesitates, Edwin says firmly, “Thomas.  If I think anything is getting ‘worse’ as you fear, I will tell you immediately.  Though that is hard to judge when you haven’t informed me of the problem.”

One last internal argument and the Cat King relents, because now that they’re past both the ‘you’re a ghost’ and the ‘existence of magic’ lines, there are a couple things he can try — carefully — if Edwin’s willing to let him.  Probably won’t find a solution, but if he can get even an inkling of whatever magic stole Edwin’s memories, maybe it’ll help. 

He slinks off the throne and comes to sit in front of Edwin, matching his cross-legged position and scooping one of the cats that comes trotting over. He settles her in his lap, gently burying his fingers in her warm fur to ground himself.

He would prefer to focus on the purring cat in his lap, so that he doesn’t need to see Edwin’s reaction if it’s bad.  If restrained good humour will change to anger, or betrayal.  But he forces himself to look up and meet Edwin’s eyes, calm and expectant.

“Not really sure where to start,” he mutters.  “When I said you were here before, that wasn’t a lie.  What I didn’t say is that we’ve known each other for nearly two years, and we’ve been… friends… for a bit less than that.  And within about a minute of talking to you down on the pier I realized you didn’t remember any of it.”

Edwin is serious and unreadable, but something in the tenor of his voice is unsure.  “I know I am a ghost, now, whatever that entails.  Being dead, if nothing else.  But I was at school two years ago, and certainly not allowed to travel.”

“No, you.”  It’s all the Cat King can do to keep holding Edwin’s gaze because this part, well, this part is gonna suck.  “You died in 1916, which is, was, more than a hundred years ago.”  He tries and fails to say the next part, can’t bear to be the one to tell Edwin about Hell.  Prevaricates, probably unsubtly.  “You were…stuck for awhile, but you got out in 1989 and spent the last thirty-five years in London.”

“Oh.”  Edwin is quiet for a long moment, looking down and conjuring a small light, a softly glowing red-gold, and rolling it between his fingers.  “As a ghost?”

“Yeah.”

Edwin’s next words come in a voice gone small with something the Cat King can’t name.  “Alone?”

“No, Edwin, no,” the Cat King is quick to refute, leaning forward and only just barely stopping himself from catching Edwin’s hands when he sees those slender fingers flinch and curl away.  “You’re not alone.  You’ve got friends there, and a life — well, afterlife — and you’re not alone.  Your best friend,” and he almost trips over the words, but they’re not as bitter as they used to be.  “Your best friend in the whole world is another ghost, his name is Charles.  You’ve been pretty much inseparable since you met in ‘89.  And you’ve got a couple others now, too, not ghosts but a pair of living girls, Crystal and Niko.  And they all care about you so much.”

Edwin’s voice is still low and sad and a little confused.  “If what you say is true, why do I not recall any of this?”

“Remember the thing about magic being real?”  The Cat King ignores the sting of distrust — because he gets it, he does — and tries for flippant, but he’s not sure he hits the right note.  “If I had to guess, you probably got hit with some kind of, I don’t know, spell or curse or some shit.  Something that took your memories, or hid them from you.  Without knowing what magic it is, I can’t be sure.  And memory magic….  Is tricky.  One wrong word, the wrong counter-spell, there’s a thousand ways to get it wrong and make it worse.”

Edwin falls silent, staring at his hands with a lost look.  The Cat King lets him think, just watches quietly as subtle expressions chase themselves across Edwin’s face, settling into a frown of concentration.  Eventually, Edwin sighs and shakes his head.  “I am afraid I don’t recall anything else, other than what I’ve already told you.”

“Okay, well, that’s not ideal.  But it’s not all bad,” the Cat King says thoughtfully, petting the cat in his lap one more time before gently depositing her to the side.  There’s a sharp edge of determination scraping at his thoughts.  “Maybe we can narrow this down.”

“And how do you propose we do that?”  Edwin raises a skeptical eyebrow.

The Cat King grins with a little bit of fang, lets his eyes shine extra golden and a small purple flame dance across his palm, because he never can resist a bit of drama.  “You’re not the only one here who can do magic, sweetheart.”

He expects fear, if he’s being honest.  For Edwin to flinch back from the display of power.  Instead, all he sees is wonderment, followed by a flustered glance down to where the Cat King’s lips curl before Edwin blinks and looks away.  The Cat King doesn’t bother feeling bad for the little flash of smugness he feels.  Not so different in at least one way, then.  But that’s not a crisis he needs to be kickstarting today, so he just files it away for later teasing.  Doesn’t even remember me, but can’t resist my charms.

“Don’t call me that. It’s not appropriate,” Edwin mutters, visibly uncomfortable, and the Cat King mentally kicks himself.  Obviously he can’t be acting on his usual flirtatious nature, when this is Edwin before everything and still repressed approximately one thousand percent more than current-day Edwin who is, well, still repressed.  But maybe only like, thirty percent or so. 

Still.  That’s not the Edwin he’s dealing with right now.  “All right.”

With a brisk nod, Edwin straightens, going on as though the little moment never happened.  “What do you propose to do?”

“Well,” the Cat King hums.  “Learning you’re missing memories didn’t give your memories back, or make you lose your mind entirely, so that rules out…kind of a lot, actually.”

“Leaving what exactly?” Edwin asks.

The Cat King pulls at his magic and lets purple and gold spark across his fingertips.  “Let’s see if we can find out.”  He raises his hand slowly in Edwin’s direction.  “I don’t have to touch you,” he reassures at Edwin’s reflexive lean away, “but I do have to get close.”  And he waits until Edwin braces himself and nods.

Nodding back, the Cat King extends his arm until his hand hovers an inch or so from Edwin’s heart.  The purple-gold sparks of his magic grow to circulate in the air around Edwin, and with a quick wink the Cat King closes his eyes and concentrates.

Edwin surrounded by the Cat King’s magic glowing like purple fire, trying to figure out the spell that stole his memories.  Drawn by the amazing StarlightArcher.  Art post can be found here.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Edwin eyes the sparking violet-gold magic — magic, of all impossible things — that glows in Thomas’ hands, but does not move away again.

It has been a terribly strange day.

True to his word, Thomas does not let his palm touch the front of Edwin’s blazer.  He feels nothing save a faint tingling sensation as the purple and gold sparks and flames swirl up and float around him or land on his skin and clothing, but that is in line with the rest of this day, where he has been feeling very little of anything at all.

Because he is a ghost.

Because it follows — or perhaps, precedes — that if he is a ghost, then he has died.

More than a century ago, if Thomas is to be believed.  Even though Edwin would swear to anyone that he was at school as recently as yesterday.

He has the vague sense that he should be much more upset about all of these facts — that he is a ghost, that he is dead, that he apparently lost a hundred years’ worth of time and memories, somehow.  But mostly he finds that if he is not actively and intentionally thinking of them, these concerns fade to something that does not hold his attention; indeed, he almost forgets about them entirely.  It just doesn’t seem important. 

Which should also be more concerning, surely.

Yet since this morning, when he found himself confused and alone standing in the middle of a cluttered, unfamiliar shop, spent hours wandering and trying to ascertain his location, and discovered that no one can see or hear him, nor can he properly feel — or even touch things, unless he concentrates — he has at best found himself mildly perturbed. 

By the time he ended up at the water’s edge, he’d determined he was nowhere near where he ought to be, but was no closer to figuring out where he was.  And he was no more than mildly perturbed about that, either.

Standing there staring out over what surely must be the ocean, the thought that something was fundamentally wrong had begun to creep closer.  But before Edwin could determine why or what exactly was the cause of his unease, he was pulled around by a stranger who knew his name, a man entirely unfamiliar yet also not not familiar, provided Edwin didn’t think too hard on it, and well.  His strange day only became more so.

That first conversation was…confusing, uncomfortable.  But Edwin often found conversing with strangers discomfiting for one reason or another, so this was hardly anything new.  Truthfully, he would have expected to be far more unsettled than he is, being faced with someone like this.  Brash, and confident, and far too bold.  Far too much of something Edwin never thinks about, never examines too closely.  

Edwin focuses on his curiosity, instead.  Observing his surroundings with the new understanding he is in the Americas; noting the half-finished statements and rather concerning amount of tension very radiating from the man standing next to him.  It feels a little bit like a mystery to solve, a puzzle to sort through and assemble the pieces.  One that clearly has Edwin at its center.

Questions nag at his thoughts, of how he arrived here and where exactly he came from, and why he’s here and not somewhere else.  The itching feeling that he should be somewhere else.

But it all fades in the face of talking cats, and magic, and Thomas King.

A strange man with a strange manner of dress, of speech — though perhaps being from the Americas can explain both of those — and strangely sad eyes that belie his smile and his carefree wit.

Thomas, who is—

Edwin looks away from Thomas’ face gilded by the bright gold and purple magic around them, unusual hazel eyes currently closed and the peek of a sharp tooth biting his lower lip in concentration.  It does not do to dwell on those thoughts.

Thomas, who has been very strange, but also strangely kind.  Who is trying to help.  Who is, apparently, Edwin’s friend.  Who said Edwin has multiple friends, and even a best friend. 

If there were anything he would like to remember, he thinks it is these friends; he’s never had many, and virtually none at all since he left childhood behind and it became obvious to his peers that he was…different. 

Now it seems he even has a best friend, has done for an impossible-sounding thirty-five years — and he cannot remember this Charles at all.  Yet adding to the mystery is the ache in his chest when he thinks the name, and it’s just enough of something that it pushes Edwin to believe what Thomas is saying.

That there is an entire life — well, afterlife — that Edwin cannot remember.

There is something more, too.  Edwin can tell that even with the story Thomas just related, there is more that he is holding back.  But the more Edwin prods at that particular question in his mind, the more he’s gripped with the certainty that there is something…bad…lurking behind that horizon.

So he stops poking at it, refocusing instead on Thomas and the magic he is attempting. 

It’s very clear that Thomas is determined to recover Edwin’s memories, and just as clear that he’s increasingly frustrated at each failure.  He tries one incantation after another, asks Edwin question after question, as his frown grows and those striking eyes narrow with frustration. 

Yet he is never less than kind and careful to Edwin.

It reminds him that Thomas said he was Edwin’s friend, too.  And though to look at this man, Edwin cannot imagine the circumstances in which they would even meet, let alone achieve some state of friendship, he cannot deny that the idea is…appealing.

That someone as unique as Thomas could find something in Edwin worth befriending, well.  Edwin admits to himself that he wants to know more.

Maybe, once they have sorted out all this memory business, Edwin can ask.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

An hour later, the Cat King lowers his hands for the last time and hisses in annoyance.  The good news: at least he didn’t make Edwin worse, as best they can tell.  But the bad news is he still can’t fucking fix it.  “Dammit!”

“Thank you for trying,” Edwin says.  The Cat King scowls, but it just seems to make Edwin more earnest.  “Come, it wasn’t entirely without benefit.  We learned several very useful things.”

“I guess.”

“Truly, Thomas,” Edwin insists.  He begins counting off his fingers with a little flourish.  “Telling me I am missing memories changed nothing, for good or ill.  I am not without any memories at all; I know who I am, it is only a span of time that is missing, and I am not otherwise injured or impaired.  There is magic affecting me, but not from a malign curse or an enchanted artifact.  Which leaves a spell, casted magic, which by its thoroughness and effectiveness you believe must have been done by a highly skilled magic user.  This is a great deal of information that we did not have before.”

Letting the annoyance at his failure drain away in the face of that adorable summary, the Cat King admits that Edwin’s right.  They are at least a little farther ahead than they were before.  Hopefully when the other detectives finally show up — and he refuses to consider that they won’t, because what the hell would he be able to do about them being memoryless, too? — the Cat King will at least be able to offer them a starting point.

But for now, he’s out of ideas.

He flops backwards onto the floor, staring dejectedly up at the dusty rafters high above them.  He hates waiting, but at this point the only option seems to be holding out for Rowland and the girls to turn up.

Marmalade wanders over and nudges her whiskered cheek against his chin with an inquiring noise, and he reaches up to scritch behind her ears reassuringly. 

“I wish to ask another question,” Edwin says. 

“No need to be so formal, ghostie,” the Cat King teases, amused.  “Ask away.”

“Will you explain to me how it is you can also do magic?”  A pause, and then as though he cannot hold back any longer, “And also, why there are so many cats here, and how is it they can talk, and why do your eyes look like that?”  He clearly has more questions and only barely manages to stem the flood of words at the sound of the Cat King’s chuckle.

Well, given everything that’s already been said, there probably isn’t much reason for the Cat King to keep holding back at this point.  And he’s feeling frustrated, and sad, and a whole mess of other things, all swirling together to make him want to be selfish.  He can’t whisk Edwin away, and he can’t play the hero and solve this problem.  But he can still indulge himself, just a little, if Edwin will allow it.

Sitting up, he gives Edwin a teasing grin, letting magic fire dance over his fingertips.

“I am no common being,” he winks.  “I’m a cat king.  In this case, the Cat King of Port Townsend.”  He rolls bright violet flames over his hands, delighting in the way Edwin’s eyes follow the display.  “Which means, among other things, that I’ve got a lot of inherent magic to play with.”

“A Cat King?” Edwin repeats incredulously, eyes wide.  He looks around at the cats scattered through the warehouse, still chasing lights.  “So, the cats here…?”

The Cat King nods.  “My subjects, in a manner of speaking.  Because, cats?  Not always much for obedience, really.”  He gets a chorus of snarky hisses and other commentary from the feline peanut gallery for that one, but it makes Edwin smile, so he’s willing to let it slide. 

“So you are the ruler of these cats, and able to use magic.  Fascinating,” Edwin says, and the Cat King preens a little under the words.  But he wants more of that warm intrigue, too; wants more of Edwin’s attention, wants all of it if he can have it. 

“More than just use magic, ghostie,” the Cat King says, and in a swirl of fire he shifts to his black cat-self.  He flicks his ears and tail playfully as Edwin stares in surprise.

“Oh!” Edwin exclaims.  “That’s—  You’re a cat!”

“A Cat King,” he corrects with a slow blink, tail swaying.  “And the shape is just the shape; I’m always me.”

He pads forward slowly, alert to Edwin’s reactions as he begins to slowly circle him, tail held high.  Brushes ever-so-slightly against Edwin’s elbow, tail-tip dragging along Edwin’s back.  Edwin doesn’t exactly lean into the touch, but he doesn’t shift away, either, sitting extremely still as though afraid that any move would be the wrong one.  Because he can’t know, this Edwin without his memories, that the Cat King will take any touch at all that Edwin deigns to share.

The Cat King comes around Edwin’s other side and pauses beside his crossed legs, looking up into wide gray-green eyes locked on his movements.  Delicately, he lifts one paw and sets it on Edwin’s knee.

Maybe it’ll turn out to be a bad idea, but the Cat King’s longing and his selfishness are winning out.  Because he can’t fix Edwin’s memories, and he can’t steal Edwin away, so he’s going to let himself have this one thing while he can and if it all goes to shit later, at least he can have a sweet memory to hold close.

When Edwin doesn’t protest, a second paw joins the first, and he stretches up toward Edwin, blinking invitingly.

“What are you…?”  Edwin’s hands hover uncertainly.  His brow pinches in confusion.  “Do you…want me to pet you?”

“I absolutely want you to pet me,” the Cat King replies, because it’s true.  There’s nothing he wants more than Edwin’s hands on him, any way he can have them.

“You just said you are some sort of…cat royalty.  Surely that cannot be appropriate?” Edwin sounds unsure, but his eyes are focused on the Cat King’s ears, following the movement as they flick back and forth. 

“The key word in this instance is ‘cat’,” he says, leaning a little closer toward Edwin’s hands, tail twitching invitingly. 

“If you’re certain,” Edwin replies.  Gently, his fingers come to rest on the soft, short fur between the Cat King’s ears, petting hesitantly. 

At the first touch, the Cat King positively melts, leaning into Edwin’s hand and following the careful stroking pressure until he’s climbed right into Edwin’s lap.  He’s wanted this for so long, has been waiting for Edwin to just ask, and he’ll apologize later for being so shameless, if he has to, but it’s a distant concern in the face of bliss. 

He almost doesn’t hear Edwin’s soft, “Oh,” over the sound of his own purring, but he does, and Edwin’s hands dig a little deeper into his fur and it’s perfect, perfect, perfect.

Except for the fact that it’s not quite his Edwin, but the Cat King presses a little closer to his ghost’s sweater-covered chest and lets himself pretend for just a bit longer.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Edwin gazes curiously down at the cat — the man, the…creature? — in his lap, mildly surprised to realize that Thomas has apparently fallen asleep.  The rumbling purr from a few minutes ago has given way to slow, quiet breaths accompanied by the occasional flick of an ear or twitch of a whisker where the small black-furred face is nuzzled into the center of his chest.  He adjusts his hold to be a little more secure. 

Quite honestly, Edwin has no idea what to think about this development.  He’s gone from thinking Thomas was some strange, flamboyant American to learning he is in fact apparently some kind of magical, supernatural feline who can transform into a cat, and out of all the strange things to happen to Edwin today, this may be the most astonishing of all.

Edwin is pulled from his thoughts by a muted, distant clatter from somewhere in the depths of the warehouse.  He wonders for a moment if he should be concerned, before realizing that’s likely unnecessary; this is a kingdom of cats, after all, and there are no doubt countless opportunities for harmless mischief.

Except the noise is followed almost immediately by an echoing voice shouting, “Cat King!  Where the bloody hell are you?” and Edwin clutches Thomas in his arms as he scrambles to his feet.

The movement jostles Thomas awake, and he blinks lazily.  “Edwin?”

“Are you expecting company?” is all Edwin manages to say before a young man comes storming through the back wall and across the warehouse floor, long coat swinging around his knees.  His expression is wide-eyed with anger and panic, and he is carrying a cricket bat like it’s a sword.

“Cat!  I don’t even want to know why the mirror lets out in your damn bedroom—”

“Oh, thank fuck!”  Thomas leaps from Edwin’s arms and transforms mid-air.  He lands on booted feet and stomps across the floor toward the new arrival, clearly not a stranger.  “Took you fucking long enough!”

“Wanker!  Don’t be acting like I’ve just been sitting on my arse,” the young man exclaims, shoving his free hand through dark curls.  “I appreciate the note you left, I do, but fuck you, Cat, we’ve been across England and back a dozen times by now searching for him.”

“And not one of you thought to come ask me for help?” Thomas hisses, teeth bared.

“I’m here now, aren’t I!” Eyes flashing, he paces back and forth in front of Thomas.  “I’ve spent all bloody day checking all his usual spots he likes to run off to!  And yeah, you were on the list, we just ended up back at the office first.”

Thomas growls, eyes narrowed to slits.  “What the fuck happened?”

“I don’t bloody well know!  One minute we’re in this dodgy basement facing off against some sorcerer who’s been hunting ghosts.”  He twirls the cricket bat in his hands demonstratively.  “And I get a good swing in while he’s trying to cast some spell at Edwin, then the bastard’s down and Edwin’s gone through the mirror and it’s just me and Crystal in a goddamn empty room!”  His voice is verging on frantic even as he glares at Thomas.  “And I could ask you the same!  How’d Edwin end up here?”

Thomas throws his hands up in frustration.  “I’ve got no fucking idea, he said he came through a mirror at the antique shop!  I found him walking around on the fucking shore.  Alone!”

Edwin hangs back, more than a bit concerned as these two continue to exchange barbs and accusations.  They clearly know each other fairly well, though it seems like it may be a rather antagonistic relationship.  But the longer their argument goes on, the more Edwin realizes they must be referring to him. 

And he realizes he’s also maybe getting a little annoyed.  He may be missing some memories, but that doesn’t mean he suddenly needs a nanny. 

“Will the two of you kindly cease,” Edwin snaps.  “I am standing right here, and I am fine.”

Thomas gestures at Edwin grandly.  “See?  He’s here and he’s fine!  Can we please move on to figuring this out?”

But Edwin barely hears the rest of Thomas’ words, because he suddenly finds himself under the full force of the young man’s attention. The shoulders beneath the black and red jacket slump in relief, the cricket bat is lowered at his side, and he is all doe eyes and styled curls and a smile breaking like sunshine across his face as he dashes past Thomas.  “Mate.  Edwin.  Thank god you’re all right.  I’ve been looking everywhere.” 

Which is when Edwin properly realizes, Oh, this must be one of the friends.  The friends that he has no memory of.  “I’m terribly sorry, but I…don’t…”  He trails off at the look of near-devastation that transforms the young man’s features.  Edwin immediately wishes the sunshine smile would return.

“You really don’t remember me?”  Worried brown eyes flick to Thomas and back to Edwin.  “I know you put it in the note, Cat, but I just thought…”

Thomas sighs, scrubbing both hands through his hair.  “That you’d show up, he’d set eyes on you, and this would all magically fix itself?”  His voice is thick with disappointment.  “Yeah, I was hoping for that, too.”

Edwin feels an aching twist in his chest at Thomas’ words, at this young man’s sad eyes; at the clear indication that they both know Edwin in a way he has no memory of.  That they miss a version of himself he doesn’t know.

“I’m sorry I don’t remember you.  It seems I’ve run afoul of something of a magical nature.”  He hesitates.  “Thomas says…we’re friends?”

The young man is visibly shaken at Edwin’s words.  But he pulls himself together, straightens up, hides his upset behind a cheerful smile.  “Yeah.  Charles Rowland, Dead Boy Detective.  And you and me, we’ve been best mates more’n thirty-five years.”

“Dead Boy Detective?” Edwin repeats curiously, because it’s such an odd phrase. He immediately frowns when Charles’ face falls for a second before pasting his grin back in place. 

Behind the grin, however, he looks conflicted. “Uh, maybe don’t worry about that? We can talk about it later.”  He addresses Thomas, though his attention stays locked on Edwin.  It’s disconcerting, the intensity, but also somehow comforting.  “Tell me what you’ve already tried, then.  Or did you spend the whole day lazing about?”

“Fuck you, lazing about,” Thomas snipes back in a terrible imitation of this Charles’ accent.  “We’ve been trying all afternoon to figure this out, but nothing I—”  His voice cuts off a moment before he manages to continue in a more moderate tone.  “Nothing I tried has fixed this.”

To Edwin’s eye, Charles looks as though he wants to be mad but cannot quite hold onto it, and finally he sighs.  “What’ve you already done?”

“It’s definitely a memory spell, not a curse or hex,” Thomas starts, and Edwin listens as he begins rehashing their day, from that first meeting on the shore to their magical investigations of the last couple hours.  But Thomas is relating events without too much embellishment, and Edwin finds his thoughts drifting as he watches the other ghost — Charles, Edwin’s friend, his best mate — as he paces back and forth in front of Thomas.  His movements speak of a restless energy seeking an outlet, and the fact that he keeps glancing at Edwin every few seconds, as though to make sure he’s still here, makes Edwin certain that the cause of Charles’ restlessness is worry over him. 

Edwin can’t help but study him, this ghost boy who is apparently his friend.  He is more modern than Edwin, that’s easy enough to see, with his casual slacks and low shoes, and the array of colourful pins and buttons decorating his coat — all of it in a style Edwin has never seen before.  Not to mention the shiny gold earring dangling from one ear.  Charles’ speech and manners are something that would be considered quite coarse and low-class by most of Edwin’s acquaintances, but Edwin finds he rather likes it.  As though Edwin could say or do nearly anything and this boy would take it in stride with a smile.  It is oddly comforting, in a way quite different from Thomas’ more flamboyant and laissez faire attitude. 

There are other thoughts about Charles, too, brushing at the edges of Edwin’s mind.  Unbecoming thoughts, like those that attempt to rise when Thomas turns his way with those unusual golden eyes.  Edwin shoves them all back down. 

He focuses back in on the conversation, in which Charles and Thomas appear to have moved past their contentious beginnings into a more reasoned recounting, but neither looks happy about the results. 

Thomas scowls, shoving a hand through his hair.  “I think what’s pissing me off the most is that I can feel it, right there, once I knew what to look for.”  He casts Edwin an apologetic glance.  “But casted magic isn’t actually something I’m an expert in.”

Charles blows out a long breath, his attention also falling to Edwin.  Under the weight of both their stares, he feels his shoulders tense up from the knowledge that he’s not currently what either of them remember him to be.  His hands find each other at his waist, knuckles pressing together, and he feels the urge to apologize yet again. 

Charles’ eyes flick down to Edwin’s hands briefly, as though he knows the gesture, then he’s smiling once more and slinging the rucksack off his shoulder and down on top of the nearest crate.  Opening the flap, he sticks his hand inside.  “Right then, well that narrows it down at least.  Pretty sure we’ve got a few things in here we can try, to start.”

Edwin watches, fascinated, as Charles reaches deep into the rucksack.  Far deeper than should be possible; the bag is a good size, but Charles is currently into it up to his shoulder.  When he pulls his arm back out, Edwin is shocked to see a large tome emerge, followed by several more books and a wide assortment of strange trinkets and objects — far too many, and many too large to all possibly fit within the bag’s confines.

He drifts closer curiously, standing next to Thomas where he’s leaning over the growing pile atop the crate and examining each new thing that Charles pulls out.  Unable to resist his curiosity, Edwin is speaking before he realizes he intends to do so.  “How can all of this possibly fit in that bag?”

Charles flashes a bright smile, though again Edwin can tell somehow that it’s covering something less happy.  “Infinite backpack, isn’t it?  Holds anything I want.”

“Fascinating,” Edwin says, leaning forward in an attempt to peer down inside the bag.  At first glance, it just appears to be a cluttered rucksack.  But the longer he tries to focus on any of the items, the more his eyes ache.  Interesting.  “How does it work?”

“You’d know better than me,” Charles replies cheerfully, then winces.  “Well, normally.  Sorry.”

“It’s of no matter.”  Edwin is aiming for reassuring, but seems to miss the mark; Charles merely looks troubled again before once more putting on a grin. 

Thomas, meanwhile, edges back slightly away from the bag.  “Fuck’s sake Rowland, are you telling me you carry this thing around and shove your whole arm into it on the regular, and you don’t even know how it works?”

“Hey, rude,” Charles retorts.  “Know how it works well enough to use it without losing my arm, don’t I?  Edwin and I figured it out ages ago, more or less.  But we’ve no idea who made it.  Won it off some eldritch-looking bloke back in ‘95 in a game of poker.  Bluffed him out on a pair of threes, wasn’t it?” 

The words are directed at Edwin, teasing and clearly leading a shared joke, a shared story.  Inviting a response, but Edwin doesn’t know it.  Charles’ face falls when Edwin only looks at him, and Edwin has to turn away. 

“Can’t really blame the guy,” Charles continues after a few seconds, voice upbeat and cheerful once again.  “Edwin’s got a wicked poker-face, when he wants to.”

Despite his good-natured response, Charles appears to abandon the attempts at levity in the face of Edwin’s lack of memory, and instead focuses on filling them in on each of the items he’s brought as he produces them.

Soon enough, Charles finishes pulling things from the bag, setting the last item down with a flourish.  The next hour is spent trying to identify or resolve the magic affecting Edwin, which mostly involves Charles handing Edwin the various objects, or waving them around in Edwin’s vicinity, and swearing in disappointment each time the answer fails to be provided or Edwin’s memories fail to return.

Thomas is leafing through the stack of books, skimming for any likely information, because for all that he is American, he turns out to know enough languages to take a stab at it.  But he’s not finding anything useful, plus there are several he complains about not being able to read. 

Edwin works his way through several of the books as well, in between Charles’ magical testing objects, but runs into much the same problem.  Anything written in English and French is easy, and he is able to parse his way through the archaic Latin well enough.  But there are books in languages Edwin’s never seen before, and he wishes very badly that he was able to read them.  He can only imagine the knowledge they must hold.  Neither Thomas nor Charles says anything outright, but from their occasional glances Edwin suspects that if he were in possession of his memories, he would be able to read every book in this infinite bag perfectly well. 

As it is, with the books Edwin can understand, he keeps getting distracted simply reading.  So many magics, and strange creatures, curses and hexes and healing.  It’s incredible.

Charles is rummaging shoulder-deep in the bag for yet another magical item, which he seems to be having trouble locating if his mumbled swearing is any indication.  Edwin’s attention is drawn to the book Thomas is leafing through, quietly fascinated by the strange and detailed — if occasionally grotesque — illustrations that accompany the unreadable text.  Several more large books emerge from the bag before Charles gives a quiet exclamation and pulls out a much smaller book, a slender leather-bound journal with a faded coat of arms stamped into the battered cover.  He passes it to Edwin with a quick, “Here you go, mate.”

Edwin turns the little book in his hands curiously.  It tingles a little against his fingers, the faint vibration he’s learned to associate with the brush of magic.  An enchanted book, perhaps?  “What is this?  Another spellbook?  It doesn’t look like the others.”

Charles casts him another one of those unreadable looks from behind a smile.  “It’s yours, yeah?  Your notebook.  You dropped it earlier.”  He tips his head teasingly at the piles of books littered around them.  “I mean, all the books are yours, really.  But that one’s like, personal.”

Edwin studies the notebook more closely, intrigued.  The warehouse is rather dimly lit, but at the right angle Edwin can make out the details of the crest on the cover and recognizes it as that of his own family, his last name ‘Payne’ underneath.

“You do have some spells in there,” Charles says distractedly, still busy rummaging around in the bag.  “And you put an enchantment on it so that it’ll never run out of pages.  That was a neat trick.”

Edwin takes a few paces away, in search of brighter light beneath one of the high windows.  The notebook doesn’t look familiar, exactly, but he thinks it vaguely resembles one he was given when he was younger.  He never kept a journal of any kind at school; too much risk of the other boys finding and taking it, and using it to torment him.  They didn’t need a book of Edwin’s private thoughts in order to bully him, of course, but it certainly would have made things worse.

He wonders what sorts of things he would have written in these pages, though.  During thirty years of being a ghost, of friendship with this Charles.  Whatever do ghosts get up to when they linger on Earth for decades on end? 

He opens the cover and flips through a few pages, filled with his own sharp handwriting and strange, inscrutable sketches.  The tingle of magic grows stronger against his hands.  

He only vaguely hears Charles start saying, “Shit!  Hold on, mate.  There’s maybe things in there you shouldn’t be reading right now—”

And then he doesn’t hear anything at all.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

There is so much noise.  Spectral screaming echoes through the room, reverberating against stone walls in an overwhelming cacophony.

“Edwin?” Charles shouts from across the room, voice raised to be heard over the screeching of trapped spirits.  “Any time now, mate!”  He takes another swing at the sorcerer chanting something in badly accented Latin, but the cricket bat rebounds forcefully in Charles’ grip.

“I am working on it, Charles!” Edwin flips determinedly through his notebook in search of the dispelling charm that he knows he wrote down.  If he can just get rid of the magical shield keeping Charles from reaching the bastard—

Aha!  He slaps a hand on the page, shouting, “Ad hoc scutum loquor, frango et in nihilum dispergo!” 

The sorcerer ’s shield wavers, but holds.  His furious face, however, tells Edwin that he’s on the right track.  He repeats the spell, and this time sees cracks forming in the magic haze.  “Dispergo!  Dispergo!”

“Yeah!  Keep going, Edwin!” Charles cheers, charging forward with another swing at the magic shield. 

Which turns out to be less than wise.  The shield cracks and shatters under the force of Charles ’ bat, but the result is a release of energy in a magical rebound that sends him soaring through the air to land in a tumbling heap at the far side of the room. 

The blowback catches Edwin and the sorcerer both, but not enough to knock either of them off their feet.

“Charles!”

“I’m all right!”

Edwin can see Charles struggling to get up from where he ’s half-buried in a mess of fallen shelves and other objects, tangible to ghosts because of their magic nature and most definitely getting in the way.

But he can ’t reach Charles to help him up, and the sorcerer has regained his balance and begun chanting another spell, something different this time.  Edwin strains to catch the words over the spectral screaming filling the room.  He can’t counteract if he can’t hear the spell, and he certainly won’t leave the room without Charles.  At least if the sorcerer is focused on Edwin, then Charles will have time to find his feet and act.

Moreover, judging by the volume of spectral screaming still filling the room, Crystal is not yet finished freeing the trapped spirits via her powers from her place hidden just outside the room.  So they need to keep the sorcerer ’s attention on Charles and Edwin, to give her time. 

He can tell she is making progress, though, as the volume of ghostly screams begins to decrease. 

Which is when it ’s as though Edwin’s hearing snaps into focus, and he can finally hear enough of the spell being chanted to understand what the sorcerer is casting. It isn’t a spell Edwin recognizes, but he catches the words ‘infernus memoriae’ and thinks he can take an educated guess.

“You don’t want to do that,” Edwin says, voice steady, but inside he can feel panic building.  “Nothing I have will be of any use to you.  You will only come to a bad end.”

But the sorcerer doesn ’t stop reciting the spell and Edwin can feel the force of it gathering thick and heavy in the air around him.  Attempting to dig in and drag things out of Edwin that he refuses to allow.

Edwin doesn ’t know how to counter this spell; he thinks he knows what it is attempting to do, but it’s otherwise unfamiliar.  Quite likely crafted by this sorcerer himself. Edwin flips through his notebook madly, searching for anything that might work.  Pressure claws at his head from the spell trying to take hold, but he cannot let this bastard get what he wants.

Dammit dammit dammit—

Page after page and none of it useful.  He does not have a counterspell for something some random sorcerer made up—

Edwin feels the moment the spell catches in a wash of confusion and a syrupy-slow slide of something across his mind that he instinctively wants to push away, he ’s losing something important and he can’t allow that, those need to stay safe, they need to be in their proper place—

Like his books, on the shelves; there ’s a way to do that—

Words fall from Edwin ’s lips, desperate and half familiar—

It doesn ’t work.  He’s still losing them, he can feel it.

The stranger before him leers, hands outstretched greedily, but the gloating sneer begins to shift to rage.  What does he want?  Who even is this man?

A body — no, Charles, it ’s Charles — comes flying through the air with a furious yell, tackling the angry man around the chest and taking him down to the ground.  They crash into a table, books and beakers falling and shattering around them.  Edwin dodges out of the way.

Everything is so confusing.

Something is wrong.  It ’s so loud.  He can’t think.  He just wants to find somewhere quiet and solitary to hide until curfew.

No. 

There ’s something important he was just doing.

Edwin looks around wildly at the unfamiliar room.  Stone walls, cluttered, dirty.  Someone is screaming.  Another voice is yelling, two bodies rolling around on the floor in a furious fight.  The noise all around him grates on his ears and he flinches away from the bodies scrambling at his feet.  One of them looks …familiar.

What is this place?  It doesn ’t look like any part of the school Edwin’s ever seen.  What is he doing here?

Something ’s terribly wrong.  Why does he feel so confused?

Edwin backs away from the men grappling on the floor.  One of them looks young; if this is an altercation between a student and teacher, Edwin will be better off far away and uninvolved lest he be caught up in the inevitable punishment.  He collides with a narrow mirror in the corner of the room.  It clatters against the wall, cracked but unbroken. 

Something prickles at his mind.  Mirrors are important.

He needs help.  He doesn ’t want to be here.  He needs to leave this room and get help from—

Who?

His palm finds itself pressed against the mirror ’s surface.  He knows someone who can help, doesn’t he?  He can’t remember their name, but yellow eyes and purple fire flash across his thoughts.  Magic.  Edwin needs magical help.  He knows someone who can help.

He needs to go …somewhere.  Where?

Slate gray ocean.  Overcast skies.  A dark room lit by neon lights.

Help.

The mirror ripples beneath his fingers.

He ’s gone.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Edwin comes back to himself with a quiet gasp, looking up from his notebook to find himself faced with the twin force of Thomas’ and Charles’ combined worry. 

Charles gently reaches for the book.  “Sorry.  Should’ve been quicker to warn you, there’s some…bad stuff in there.”

Edwin reflexively pulls the notebook closer, pressing it between his palms and his chest protectively.  Now that it is back in his possession, he cannot bear to let it out of his grasp.  “It’s fine, Charles.”

Charles freezes like a hunting dog that’s caught a scent, eyes tracking over Edwin intently.  Hopefully.  “Edwin?”

And Edwin cannot help but smile, relief and recognition.  Because he does recognize Charles, every curl and pin and glint of gold, this beautiful dark-eyed boy.  His very best friend.  “Yes.  All present and accounted for once again, it seems.”

“Edwin.”  Charles casts aside whatever trinket was in his hands and throws himself forward, wrapping himself around Edwin in a crushing hug.  “Mate.  You’re not allowed to scare me like that again, yeah?”

“I certainly do not intend to.”  Edwin’s hands are still wrapped right around his journal and caught fast between them so he cannot properly return the embrace, but he relaxes into it with a grateful sigh.

“Thank fuck!”  A wooden thump accompanies Thomas’ exclamation, and Edwin opens his eyes to see Thomas has slumped heavily onto the neatest crate, loose-limbed with relief.  His gold-green eyes are focused on Edwin, a relieved curve to his lips, yet somehow he does not seem entirely happy. 

Under Thomas’ gaze, Edwin goes a little tense over thoughts that he will return to later; not just that expression, but it doesn’t escape his notice that Thomas has not come any closer. 

It’s not what Edwin intended, yet Charles picks up on the change in his stance, immediately loosening his hold and stepping back.  Thankfully not far, leaving his hands curled over Edwin’s shoulders — comforting and blessedly familiar.

“You remember, then?” Charles checks, and Edwin nods.

He searches his memory, his mind, and as best he can tell everything is once more as it should be — a century and more of the good and the bad, Charles and hell, Crystal and Niko, the Cat King and cases and everything in between.  “Everything,” Edwin confirms, meeting Charles’ eyes and then Thomas’, and does not miss Thomas’ wan smile in response.

Well, that will need to be addressed.  But first—

“What the bloody hell happened, mate?!” Charles exclaims, back to being wide-eyed with worry.  “One minute that sorcerer’s come at you, then next all I see is the mirror rippling behind you.”

“Seconded,” Thomas chimes in impatiently.

Edwin winces.  “Ah.  Well, this is…embarrassing.”  He glances between Charles and Thomas sheepishly.  “It appears that I…did this to myself.  Accidentally.”

“What?!”  Charles’ and Thomas’ joint shout echoes through the warehouse. 

Straightening his shoulders against the feeling of mortification, Edwin exhales sharply.  “The sorcerer was attempting to gain my knowledge of Hell and its denizens, for what purpose I can only speculate, but doubtless nothing good.”

“Is that what he was chanting on about?” Charles shakes his head, perplexed.  “What use is that to him?  Long as he’s alive, anyway.  And I did leave him alive,” he asserts before Edwin has the chance to ask.  “Concussed him good and smashed up his lab-dungeon, though, and Crystal got all the trapped spirits out.  Job well jobbed, except for how you’d vanished in the mess of it all.”

“Excellent work, Charles,” Edwin smiles, pleased to hear that things were handled well despite his incapacitation.  They’ll still have to decide who to report the sorcerer to for more mortal means of punishment, but at least in the meantime it will be difficult for him to go after more ghosts.

“Please get back to how you accidentally lost your own memories,” Thomas growls insistently.  And Edwin supposes his impatience is valid, given the events of the day.  With the benefit of hindsight and memory, Edwin can tell that Thomas really was quite overwrought by it all.

“Yes, well.  He intended to…take my memories, to steal them, and thus gain the knowledge of Hell that I hold.  The spell he was attempting to use seems to have been one of his own devising, which means there is no direct counterspell.  And he was succeeding.”  Edwin shudders a bit remembering the slimy, slippery sensation in his mind.  “I could feel it.  Confusion, a lack of recognition of my surroundings, even of you,” he tips his head apologetically towards Charles. 

“If he got your memories, how’d you get them back just now?” Charles asks, curious.  Thomas has a similar expression, which makes Edwin want to laugh at how alike they are, but he suspects neither of them are in a state to appreciate it at the moment.

“Because he didn’t get my memories.”  Edwin admits, shaking his head, chagrined and grateful in equal measure.  “I knew no counterspell, and I was…forgetting myself.  I could feel my memories being pulled from my mind, and I just wanted them back where they belonged.  I said the only words that came to mind, and, well.”  He murmurs the first few words, and sees both Thomas and Charles blink curiously.

“Sounds familiar,” Charles says, tilting his head thoughtfully.

“It’s a cleaning cantrip,” Edwin admits with an embarrassed shrug.  “One I’ve used plenty of times around the office.  It’s meant for returning things safe and sound to their proper place.”  He holds up his notebook, considering it as he rifles through the pages.  “It seems to have been enough to interrupt the sorcerer’s spell, but at a guess I would say that as I was currently under attack and therefore not safe, the cantrip redirected my memories into the nearest secure place that was not…me.”

“An enchanted notebook that you enchanted, full of your writing and your thoughts, for decades,” Thomas fills in the rest of the thought.  “Part of you in a way that nothing else in that lab would have been.”

“Indeed.”  Edwin tightens his hold on the book, wildly grateful for its presence.  “It was pure dumb luck I recited that particular cantrip, much less that it worked — more or less.  Certainly lucky, Charles, that you found this after I ran off.  Which I’m quite sorry for, of course.  Under normal circumstances, I would never—”

“No, I know you wouldn’t, Edwin.”  Charles shakes his head, denying the need for an apology.  “Why did you leave, though?  How’d you even know about mirror-hopping?”

“It’s all very jumbled.  I wasn’t losing memories wholesale, but in fits and starts.  It was noisy, I didn’t know where I was, but I certainly knew I didn’t want to be there, and I managed to touch the mirror before everything was gone.”  That Edwin had been sure, even in his muddled state, that help lay on the other side of the mirror, he keeps to himself for now.  That seems like a conversation to be had separately.

“By the time I exited the mirror here in Port Townsend, I did not remember anything of the last century, quite possibly to the very day before I was sent to Hell.  Though it has been far too long for me to be sure.”  He turns a grateful look on Thomas.  “And then the Cat King found me wandering about, and the rest you already know.”

He hopes he can be forgiven the somewhat clinical explanation.  Though his memories returned as though they had never been gone, rather than a rush of reliving them all in an instant, he can still recall the hours of existing without the memories of Hell.  How it felt to be out from underneath it’s weight, even for just a few hours.  His feelings on the matter need some contemplation, however, before he wants to speak of it. 

Thankfully, neither Charles nor Thomas comment on it.

Tucking his book safely away in his blazer pocket, Edwin folds his hands at his waist, suddenly uncertain.  He has his memories back, and a case to wrap up — and a surprising reluctance to leave.  Too much of the day feels unfinished, but he does not have the slightest idea where to start untangling it all.

“I suppose we ought to be getting back,” he finally says.  He tries to look at Thomas, to silently express…something.  He only makes it as far as the thick black boots planted on dusty floorboards.

Charles nods and begins shoving all their books and magical objects back into the bag of tricks without much care for organization.  “Shit, yeah, Crystal’s probably gone spare, and Niko too.  I was supposed to check quick and let them know if you were here.”

“For goodness sake, Charles.” Edwin rolls his eyes, but it’s fond.  He crouches down to retrieve the trinket Charles had tossed aside during their hug.

He’s overly aware of Thomas sitting silently nearby, watching them pack up with unreadable eyes.  Uncharacteristically distant and guarded.

“Alright, Whiskers,” Charles says as he shoulders the backpack.  “I don’t exactly want to go through your bedroom again—”

“Believe me, I don’t want that, either,” Thomas snarks back, putting on a carefree grin as he stands.  With a wave of his hand, the mirror reappears in its usual corner of the warehouse and he shoos Charles condescendingly towards it.  “Rowland, this was charming as always.  Get out of my house.”  He turns a much softer look on Edwin.  “Get home safe, Detective.”

Charles is already in front of the mirror searching for the connection to the office, but Edwin hesitates.  Acutely aware of their audience of Charles and cannery cats, he steps close to Thomas, looking down into golden eyes.

“Thomas.  Thank you.”  The words are quiet, and very sincere.  Who knows where he might have ended up if it weren’t for Thomas finding him.

“Of course.”  Thomas blinks slowly once, twice, and Edwin nods in return.  Turning on his heel, Edwin joins Charles at the mirror.  Just before stepping through, he glances back over his shoulder.

Thomas stands surrounded by cats, watching them go, a smile covering something unreadable.  “Don’t be a stranger, ghostie.”

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

“Hey, boss,” Meatball greets from his perch on a crate outside the cannery entrance.  “Your ghost is back.”

“Is he, now?” Thomas says casually, as though his immediately perked ears and tail don’t give him away.  He’s been out and about on four paws making sure everything’s quiet in his kingdom.  Figures that’s exactly when Edwin would show up. 

“I told him he could wait inside,” Meatball replies, closing his eyes and curling back up to nap.  Thomas can smell the unmistakable scent of sardines, however, so figures it might be more like bribery.  But since it’s Edwin, he’ll let the impertinence slide.  No doubt that’s what Meatball was counting on.

He can’t deny he’s a bit nervous as he trots inside.  Edwin’s last visit here was fraught, to say the least, and they didn’t exactly have a chance to sort it all out before Edwin and Charles popped off back to London.

The nerves take a back seat when he sees Edwin standing next to his throne, idly paging through the little notebook.  Thomas pads silently across the floorboards until he can rub up against Edwin’s calves.  It’s an indulgence he wouldn’t have allowed himself before, too afraid of pushing Edwin away, but after experiencing being held by Edwin last week — and considering he hadn’t been sure Edwin would ever come back, at all — he’s unable to resist seeking out the contact.

“Oh!” Edwin jumps a little, fumbling his book closed as he looks down.  When he sees Thomas, he breaks into a smile, and isn’t that gratifying.  “There you are.  I hope I haven’t come at a bad time, if you’re busy.”

“Never too busy for you,” Thomas says with embarrassing sincerity, winding through Edwin’s ankles.  When he’s gotten his fill, for now, he paces away and shifts to human-shaped, grinning up at Edwin.  “I was just out making the rounds, you know how it is.”  He takes a moment to check over Edwin head to toe.  “You look like you’re feeling yourself again.”

“Very much so,” Edwin confirms.  Serious and certain, armour firmly back in place.  Thomas is maybe a little sad to see it, though he understands. 

But when Thomas looks closer, he realizes that Edwin’s nervous, too. 

Thomas, being who he is, covers his own nerves with bravado.  Swaggering past Edwin to his throne, he settles into a comfortable sprawl.  “While you’re always welcome here, and I do hope you know that, the look on your face tells me you aren’t just here to say hello.”

Edwin follows.  “You are correct.”  He pauses at the base of the dais, studying Thomas with an unreadable look.  Whatever he sees has him ascending the steps with deliberate movements and seating himself primly on the arm of the throne, half-turned toward Thomas.  Knees together, hands tucked at his waist, back straight.  It’s fucking adorable.

Thomas arches a brow and hums teasingly.  “Presumptuous.” 

“Yes.”  Edwin smirks, just a little.

“Well, we both know I appreciate a little presumption,” Thomas acknowledges, and gestures for Edwin to speak.  As though he is merely a monarch at leisure, and not a lonely cat desperate to hear every word to fall from his favourite ghost’s lips.

Edwin nods, quiet for a moment while he gathers his thoughts.  “First, I wanted to say thank you, again. Your assistance was invaluable, and, well.  I would have been quite lost without your help.”

Thomas shakes his head.  “That’s nice of you to say, but we both know I wasn’t much help at all.  I couldn’t fix any of that shit.  It was all you.”  He laughs as a thought occurs.  “Damn, I even said it, didn’t I?  That I could tell whoever cast that spell was a powerful magic user.  Turns out I was right.  About that part, anyway.”

“Yes, well.” Edwin nods, looking pleased at the compliment.  Which is good, because Thomas definitely meant it.  “But that’s not entirely what I’m thanking you for.”

Thomas is almost afraid to ask, but whatever damage he’s done is already done, so.  “I wasn’t sure how much you’d remember.  From your amnesia day, I mean, not like, remembering all your memories again.”

Edwin tilts his head in thought, looking off into the warehouse, in the direction of where he’d sat and played with the cats.  “I remember it all, I think, though some parts of it I admit feel rather dreamlike.  I was not nearly as concerned as I should have been, for one.  I’m still not sure why.  I wonder if it’s because some part of me recognized my memories had gone somewhere safe.”

“You were different,” Thomas says softly.  “Still you, like, the core of you.  But lighter, without all the weight of the bad shit.  Could’ve just been that.”  His voice goes a little wistful.  “When you were playing with the cats, the lights, you looked.  Happy.  And I—”  Fell a little more in love.  But he manages to keep those words behind his teeth.  It probably doesn’t matter, he’s no doubt clearly, obviously besotted; too late to try and hide it now.  He slouches further down in his throne, watching Edwin from the corner of his eye.

Edwin has been studying him, sharp and focused as Thomas talks, some sort of consideration going on behind his even expression.  Assessing Thomas, searching for the answer to some unspoken question.  Eventually, with a thoughtful tilt of his head, Edwin says, “I am a little surprised that you didn’t spirit me away, like some wild fae thing from the old stories.”

And Thomas is still a bit ashamed of those thoughts.  He can’t quite look Edwin in the eye, even as he feels compelled to speak as honestly as if Edwin had stroked a golden truth spell over his lips.  “I thought about it.”  Then adds, even quieter, “I wanted to.”

Edwin hums thoughtfully, not otherwise showing any particular emotion in response.  Thomas can’t read him at all right now, and does his best not to shy away from those sharp green eyes. 

“Why didn’t you?”

That is the question, isn’t it?  All Thomas can do is shrug.  “It wasn’t the real you.  The you I want, the you I l—”  He manages to cut that one off, doesn’t look too closely at Edwin’s expression to see if he caught it.  “Is the you who is sharp, and bitchy, and hurting, but still so clever, and so kind.  Our pasts make us who we are.  A version of you without your past, no matter how sweet, just wasn’t really you.”

“Is that the only reason?” Edwin asks, as though Thomas wanting Edwin’s whole self is somehow not enough.

But he’s right, anyway, his clever ghostie. 

Nothing to do but be honest.  “Well, I decided a long time ago that my kingdom, myself, might be built of want and pleasure, but my line in the sand would be ‘fair and consensual’.  And I wasn’t going to cross that line now.”  He lets his eyes fall closed.  “Not even to get everything I want with you.”

After a thoughtful pause, Edwin says, “Well, you needn’t spirit me away in order to see me.  Especially not after everything you did for me last week.”

Thomas opens his eyes, giving Edwin a weak and slightly bitter glare.  “I don’t want you to spend time with me out of pity, Edwin, or because you feel grateful—”

“Thomas!  That’s not it at all.”  Edwin takes a deep breath, straightening his back and shoulders with determination.  “I visit you, I spend time with you, I ask for your advice on cases.  I do all of that because I hold a rather significant affection for you.  Though I have clearly done a poor job of showing it.” 

“Oh.”  Thomas stares at Edwin, stunned.  Something quiet and hopeful begins to unfurl in his chest, so delicate he’s afraid to give it voice.  “Really?”

Edwin rolls his eyes, though it is accompanied by the beginnings of a smile.  “Yes, really, you foolish cat.  When have I ever given you the idea that I am the type to do anything I don’t want to do?”

“You like me,” Thomas breathes out with dawning joy.  He hadn’t been sure Edwin would even come back, not after remembering who the Cat King was, and all the shit that happened.  Not after remembering and being reunited with his Charles, all at once.  Except clearly he was wrong, because Edwin is here, and just said—

“Yes, Thomas!  I like you a great deal, actually!” Edwin exclaims with exasperation.  “So much so that even in the throes of my memories being stolen from my mind, some part of me reached out for help and knew how to find you.  Even when I didn’t remember your name.  I was certain that everything would be all right, as long as I stepped through that mirror.  It was not an accident I came here, of all places.  It was you.”

Thomas feels a little like he’s been knocked sideways these last few minutes, but finally manages to get his mouth to work.  “I like you a lot, too.”  Laughs a little, because Edwin likes him!  “Obviously.  Was it obvious?  It feels like I’ve been pretty obvious.”

“You have been quite…forward,” Edwin agrees, his teasing tone underlaid with fondness.  “But I suspect that has been for the best.  I’m not sure I would ever have been brave enough to pursue this connection, if I had not been quite certain you returned my affections.” 

“And now that you’ve been brave?”  Because right here, right now, Thomas can be a little brave, too.

Edwin holds out his hand, shy but sure, and threads their fingers together when Thomas takes it in his own.  “Once I would have called it ‘courting’, but I understand the modern term is ‘dating’?” 

Grinning with delight, Thomas squeezes Edwin’s hand.  “Courting, dating, whatever you want to call it, I most definitely want that with you.”

If ghosts could blush, he’s pretty sure Edwin would be glowing.  “I look forward to it.”

“So, what do you want to do now?” Thomas asks. 

Edwin smiles bright and warm, conjuring a little sparkling ball of light with his free hand.  “Let’s go play with the cats.”

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~