Chapter Text
Things aren’t perfect, back on Earth. They’re ghosts now, and Earth is as messy and complicated and chaotic as ever. But they’re not in Hell. That’s perfection enough for the both of them.
“What do you want to do now, mate?”
Edwin flounders, looking as uncertain as Charles has ever seen him. “I… I do not know,” he settles on after a moment. “I’m afraid I’ve never given the matter much thought.”
Charles bites back his instinctual reaction at that – the pang of grief that hits him simultaneously with the shock. He’d spent plenty of time wanting after things on Earth while he was in Hell, but that was only for a few days, he reminds himself now, no matter how long it had felt. He’d seen how single-track Edwin’s mind had been, down there, he’d acknowledged that. It only makes sense, a horrible sorrowful sense, that Edwin doesn’t have a clue what to do with his freedom, now that he’s won it.
“Surely you…” Edwin hesitates. “Surely there are things that you would, would rather be doing?”
Charles bites back his reaction to that too. ‘Course Edwin would be thinking that. He’d probably thought the whole time that Charles would just wander off the second Edwin got him out of Hell, shout out a quick thank you, wave a bit, and then that would be it for the two of them.
He’s a bit of an idiot, Edwin is, but Charles can’t blame him for that. (He blames Hell. He blames the boys who killed Edwin.)
“Nah,” he says easily, grinning. It’s easier to grin here, now that he knows Edwin never has to die for him again. Feels nice. Safe. He elbows Edwin lightly. “C’mon, there must be something. You’ve been trying at this for ages.” He doesn’t let himself think about how long those ages were. “If I wasn’t here, if you’d gotten out a few days ago without me slowing you down, what would you have done?”
Edwin’s expression has gone stern. “Charles,” he says, scolding, and it’s at a normal volume, fond, and Charles loves the sound of it.
“What?” he asks. He’s still grinning even as Edwin frowns at him.
“You cannot think of yourself like that,” Edwin says.
Okay, now Charles is frowning a bit. “Like what?”
“Like… like you were just another obstacle Hell deigned to put in my path.”
Oh. Charles rewinds his own words. He hadn’t really meant it like that, it was just the truth, wasn’t it? Edwin hadn’t needed Charles to escape Hell. He’d had that in the bag. Charles isn’t putting himself down, really. He’d helped Edwin as much as he could, pushed through Gluttony and Lust and Limbo for him, but he knows Edwin could have managed on his own. And he’d certainly spent his fair share of time pausing to explain things to Charles.
“Just saying you didn’t need me down there, did you?” Charles clarifies. “I’m not being mean about it, and all. Just… Edwin, you found the way out of Hell, all on your own. I just followed your map.”
Edwin shifts a little where they sit, not much, but enough to put some distance between them. Charles could shift back, could press their legs together again, but he lets Edwin have the distance for a moment. He’ll let Edwin have anything he wants.
“Charles,” Edwin says again, this time slow and considering, like he needs a moment to put his thoughts together. “I… I know the circumstances of your death were… not of your choosing, to say the least. Having experienced it myself, I can understand… That is to say…”
Charles doesn’t remember being all that patient, back when he was a living sixteen-year-old boy. Now that he’s a dead one, he thinks he can manage. For Edwin, at least. He holds in a glib comment about the ritual sacrifice that killed the both of them, seventy-three years apart.
Edwin looks him square in the face. “You do not have to remain with me, just because you think I got you out of Hell. You do not owe me anything, Charles.”
Oh. That’s, that’s wrong. Charles owes Edwin everything, and it’s not even really for escaping Hell. He thinks, even if he was stuck down there with Edwin for another seventy-three years, he’d still owe this boy everything. No one’s ever cared about Charles, about what Charles wanted, as much as this boy has. This is just more evidence of that, more evidence that Edwin wants to make sure Charles is okay, that Charles is taken care of.
Charles owes Edwin the world – but he can’t tell Edwin that. The other boy would take it entirely the wrong way. Charles isn’t thinking it like there’s a debt to be paid, that one day he’ll have done enough favors for Edwin and he’ll feel like it’s enough and they’ll go their separate ways. It’s not a duty or a commitment or an obligation it’s… it’s… It’s community. That sort of responsibility that comes right along with just being a decent fucking human being.
It's love, that’s what it is, plain and simple. Devotion without expectation.
Charles Rowland loves Edwin Payne.
(‘You think’, Edwin had said. ‘Just because you think I got you out of Hell.’ As if it isn’t pure and simple fact.)
Charles turns where he sits, turns to face Edwin better, turns to look him in the eyes, turns so he can put his hands on both of Edwin’s shoulders and make sure Edwin gets it, what he tells him next.
“’Course I don’t,” he says, bright and easy, because he means it, because that’s what Edwin wants to hear, because Edwin doesn’t need him to dwell on the negatives. Because Edwin deserves joy. “Doesn’t change anything though. You’re stuck with me until you get sick of me, Edwin Payne.”
Edwin looks away but not… It’s not like his mum would look away sometimes, like she couldn’t bear to watch him hurt. Or like his dad, looking away, scoffing in disgust. Or like his mates, whose gazes would slip right off him if Charles wasn’t who they wanted him to be in that moment, wasn’t fun enough, wasn’t British enough. It’s not like any of those looks at all, so Charles ducks down, changes their positions, meets Edwin’s gaze again.
He squeezes Edwin’s shoulders, light and gentle and nothing that would ever, ever hurt him. (Charles will never be like his dad. He loves Edwin Payne and he will never love him like his dad had loved him.)
“Hey,” he says. “I mean it. Nowhere else I’d rather be.”
He’s not sure Edwin believes it just yet. That’s okay. Charles is happy to repeat himself until Edwin does.
They go to the library first. Honestly, Charles would rather get the hell off this campus, away from the place where he died, because it’s tempting to linger. Too tempting. He wants to see if they’ve cleared out his dorm yet, how his former friends are doing (the ones that didn’t kill him, given that the ones who did, are, well, probably still in Hell). He wants to check in on his parents. He doesn’t even know if it’s been long enough for them to have held the funeral yet.
But Edwin manages to get out that that is what he’d prefer, when Charles finally squeaks an answer out of him, and Charles hadn’t gotten much of a chance to hear about Edwin’s love of books while they were in Hell, but he’d heard enough. Besides, Edwin’s asking for it. That’s enough for him.
So, they go to the library. It’s been rearranged since Edwin’s time but Charles still remembers it. He shows Edwin to the non-fiction section and just sits down in the aisles next to Edwin as he devours book after book after book.
Hours must pass. Part of Charles wonders as his own patience. But he likes the looks on Edwin’s face as he reads, the furrow of concentration, the delight, the sorrow, as he consumes as much of the history he’d missed out on as he can. He likes it when Edwin asks him questions about what he’s reading, that no matter how many times Charles admits he doesn’t know something Edwin never stops checking in with him, never stops asking.
They see a few students, on occasion, but one of the other facets that comes along with being a ghost is that they can’t be seen in turn, apparently. Edwin freezes anytime a voice rings out louder than most, or a student walks by. When Edwin tenses, Charles does too, straightening, wary, ready to pounce on anyone who even looks at Edwin funny. But no one sees them and Edwin inevitably returns to his book.
Eventually, though, Charles does tire of watching Edwin read. He thinks about wandering away to get a book of his own, maybe stepping outside, maybe giving in to the burning desire to find out what happened after he died, but he doesn’t think he can bear to leave Edwin’s side. If he doesn’t know where Edwin is at all times, if he can’t physically see him –
They’re not in Hell anymore, but nearly every time Edwin had left Charles’ sight he’d died.
“C’mon,” he says eventually, when darkness cloaks the windows in sight and the sounds of students have long since faded. He stands.
Edwin looks up, a little surprised by the interruption.
“Got to take a break every now and again, yeah?” Charles asks, even though no part of his new ghostly form feels like it needs a break.
Edwin casts a hesitant look toward the library’s main entrance. Oh. He’s scared to leave. Probably scared of the world outside waiting for him – Charles has seen the way he’s reacted to all that history after all, all those questions about how the world works now. Charles rapidly casts around in his mind for something to show Edwin, something simple – sports and music are out, with the crowds they gather. The cinema? Not yet, not until he knows a bit more about what’s showing.
“I can show you the Tube,” he decides on a whim. Simple. Modern. A way for them to get the hell out of here and around London.
Now Edwin only looks bemused. “I have been on the Tube, Charles,” he says.
Charles blinks. “Really?”
Edwin rolls his eyes. He lightly places the book he’s holding on an empty spot on the shelf and stands to join Charles. “I am not that old.”
“No, I just…” Charles shrugs. “Thought the Tube was a bit more modern than that. Still, gotta have more stops now, don’t it?”
Edwin looks hesitant again.
“We can come back,” Charles promises. “We can go to any library you want.” He holds out his hand.
After a moment, Edwin takes it.
Edwin is hesitant to venture out into the world at first, even as the presence of the basement lingers in his mind, a reminder of where he’d been imprisoned, but Charles has no such doubts. His endless enthusiasm buoys Edwin up in turn, reminding him that there had been things about life he’d enjoyed beyond books.
They ride around London countless times, over and over. At first, Edwin simply watches everything, takes it all in, but Charles hadn’t minded his questions with the books so Edwin starts to ask them here, too. Charles starts to explain things even before Edwin asks.
They don’t seem to grow tired as ghosts, another benefit. They see London at night, walking into and out of closed storefronts and museums and libraries, experimenting with their ghostly abilities. Morning brings people and their modern devices and fashions, and more questions that Charles takes easily, even when he doesn’t know the answer. They wander to the British Museum. Edwin gets to see familiar sights like Buckingham Palace and the Tower of London.
Charles dares them to sneak into the palace as they pass by, joking about meeting the Queen. Edwin had read about this – George V had been followed by Edward VIII, who had abdicated after less than a year. Then George VI, then Elizabeth II. As interesting as it is, Edwin has no interest in spying on England’s monarch. (Charles’ irreverence for the Queen would have scandalized the people of his day, or at least his parents and their cohorts; Edwin doesn’t feel similarly, only fondness and amusement at Charles’ humor.)
Days and nights pass. They stroll through Kensington Gardens and St. James’ Park and a dozen other tiny parks besides during the daylight hours, all at once familiar and different from Edwin’s memories. They visit theaters and cinemas, where Edwin gets to watch a movie for the first time. Charles takes him to smaller corners of the city too, little ‘punk’ music shops (wherein ‘punk’ apparently refers to a type of music, these days, and the culture around it) and pubs and venues that play live music and things called arcades. He drags him to a sporting event at one point and is rather good-natured about it when Edwin admits afterward that he still doesn’t see the appeal.
They traverse marketplaces and little shops and vast department stores that sell everything under the sun – including countless things Edwin has never heard of. Charles lets Edwin map out every stop on the Tube and explore all the new bridges that have been built over the Thames.
They don’t go back to St. Hilarion’s, but Edwin gets to explore a hundred new libraries around London, and Charles indulges him there too, lets him stay for hours or days, reading books, fiction and non-fiction both.
They meet other ghosts along the way. Ghosts like them, just wandering – and ghosts who aren’t like them at all. Ghosts who are lost to their emotions, stuck or grieving or angry. Ghosts who need help.
That’s where it all starts, really, because there’s no one else out there who can help them, is there?
The Dead Boy Detective Agency, founded 1990, ninety years after Edwin’s birth and less than one year after he escaped Hell, is everything Edwin could ever have dreamed of.
Their cases bring danger to them again – cat scratches and iron and magic, outside the need to run from Death – but it’s different than the danger had been in Hell. Less all-consuming, more… mundane. At least when it comes to themselves. When it comes to each other, on the other hand…
Huffing in frustration, Edwin pivots on one heel and strides off. Charles is too frustrated to even snap at him as he leaves, bursting with energy he wants to get out himself. Following Edwin’s lead, he turns and starts walking the other direction. One of these days, one of them, he’s going to get it through Edwin’s thick head that his pain matters. He is. He doesn’t care how stubborn Edwin is, Charles can outlast him.
God! Edwin can be so pig-headed sometimes, so stuck in his ways. Nausea settles in Charles’ gut at the reminder of why. He’s still angry – he’s not capitulating on this argument, not at all – but he pauses and throws a glance over his shoulder. Edwin’s nowhere in sight, having stormed off around a corner maybe, rounded a bend out of sight.
Charles’ stomach drops unpleasantly. What if Edwin’s getting himself into trouble again? What if he’s hurt? (He is hurt; the iron burn hadn’t been smoking anymore, but it had still been there, black and horrid looking.) He fidgets. He’s still angry at Edwin – very, very angry – but…
Without letting himself dwell on it, Charles turns around and hurries back the direction he’d come from, then further in the direction Edwin had gone. Shame starts to settle into the dread. He doesn’t really feel bad about his part in the argument – he’s right, he knows he’s right – but how on Earth could he have let Edwin storm off like that? The most they’ve really been apart so far is when they’re in between different stacks in a library or wandering different parts of a store or crime scene or client’s former home.
He hadn’t realized how desperate he’d been to keep Edwin in his sight until just this moment.
Luckily, Edwin hasn’t gone far. Charles hurries along the path Edwin had been on, rounds the corner, and finds Edwin standing there, looking a little lost and distraught himself. Charles hurries to his side. He takes Edwin’s hand because he knows Edwin won’t take his, not in these circumstances.
Neither of them says anything for a moment. They both think they were right.
Edwin’s still adjusting to being out of Hell, Charles reminds himself. It’s going to take time, changing his mind.
The other boy is nearly trembling now, staring at Charles worriedly. The look on his face is too similar to how it got whenever he froze in fear.
Before he can second guess himself, Charles surges forward and buries himself into Edwin’s side. He clasps his arms around Edwin and shoves his face into Edwin’s shoulder. Edwin doesn’t hug him back – can’t, really, the way Charles has latched onto him – but he stops trembling and seems to relax a bit.
“I’m proper pissed at you,” he says, so Edwin doesn’t get confused, but he doesn’t let go, so Edwin knows he’s not going anywhere.
Taking cases helps them learn more about being ghosts too, and just more about the world in general – and, Charles learns quickly enough, if there’s one thing Edwin enjoys more than anything else, it’s learning new things.
“Charles!” Edwin says, voice high and excited, nearly shrill with his glee. He claps a hand over his mouth in shock at the sound of it, but even the spike of fear doesn’t dampen his excitement. He’s mostly gotten over the fear, anyway, by the time Charles hurries to his side from where he’d been rummaging around a couple aisles over.
“Ooh,” Charles coos appreciatively. “One of your fancy books?”
“Fancy books,” Edwin replies, scathing and still gleeful. He casts Charles’ words aside, he’s so pleased at his find. “Yes,” he says smugly, “I suppose it is.”
Charles clasps him on his shoulder, heavy and comforting all at once. It’s not a gentle touch, necessarily, but it’s a friendly one, not meant to cause any pain. “Cheers!”
Edwin huffs in amusement, a slim smile on his face. Charles hasn’t even bothered to glance at the title yet, just pleased because Edwin is.
“What’s this one about, then?”
“Charles!” Edwin says again, scolding this time, a gentle chiding even as amusement colors his tone. “We discussed what I was looking for on the way over here! It was the entire point of this outing!”
“Did we?” Charles returns cheekily. He shrugs. “Must have forgotten sometime between the third and fourth shops. Or was it the fifth?”
“Yes, yes,” Edwin says. Perhaps it has been a bit much for Charles; he must be bored out of his mind – and yet he hadn’t hesitated to indulge Edwin when Edwin had suggested the outing in the first place, or at any moment since. He hugs the book to his chest protectively, though Charles has never, not once, grabbed his things from him. Charles wouldn’t do that. There are other patrons of this shop, however, and now that Edwin has found his treasure, he doesn’t intend to let it be taken from him. (He never got to keep anything he found in Hell, and he’d found so little, over the years.) He gives Charles a once-over. “Have you found anything you wish to purchase?”
“Nah. Let’s just get you sorted. Unless there was something else you were looking for?”
Honestly, there might be other treasures in this shop as well but… It has been hours. “This will do me quite well,” he says. “What was it you were saying this morning, about that new film in the cinema?”
Most importantly, though: they get to be boys together. They get to have fun.
Edwin’s running. He’s running hand in hand with Charles and the sun is shining brightly above them as they skirt around other pedestrians who can’t see them. Edwin is trying to be stern, but Charles is laughing so hard he makes it difficult. Edwin’s practically dragging the other boy along, Charles stumbling over his own feet. There’s a shopkeeper somewhere behind them shaking his fist at the two ghost boys who’d ‘infested’ his shop; in any other situation Edwin would think the man one of those half-hearted actors in the comedy films Charles keeps showing him, but no, he’s real, and he’s really irritated.
“Charles,” Edwin scolds, dragging them around the corner and pulling them to a stop. It’s unlikely the shopkeeper will chase them. He has a shop to manage after all. “That was uncalled for!”
Charles has his hands on his knees as he laughs, beaming a grin up at Edwin. “Yeah, but it was funny, wasn’t it?”
Edwin can’t stop his lips from quirking upward into a grin. Trying to hide it he turns and strides off. The peals of Charles’ laughter behind him ring even louder at that; in private, assured that even Charles can’t see him, Edwin stops trying to keep his own smile off his face.
That’s one shop they won’t be coming back to – but Charles’ antics had been quite funny.
And they get to laugh: Edwin’s laughter, when Charles finally gets to hear it – not an amused huff of air, not a fond scoff, not a light chuckle but real, genuine laughter, the two of them safe and comfortable in the space they’ve carved out for themselves, layers shed, relaxed, sun streaming through the window on an unseasonably clear day – is the most beautiful sound Charles thinks he’s ever heard. And the best thing about it is he’ll get to hear it again. They’ve still got plenty of challenges in front of them, running from Death, Hell nipping at their heels, cases to solve, but Charles will hear Edwin laugh again.
He knows he will.
And they get to live, in their own way: Edwin had never given much thought to what he’d do with himself, once he got out of Hell. The actual escape of it all was much more important. But he never, not once, not even in the early years, when he'd been much less tormented, could have imagined what he’d gotten, in the end, could have imagined this: an existence not filled with constant terror, a purpose that brings people hope, and a best friend – the best friend possible – to share it all with.
He is, he thinks, the happiest he’s ever been in his entire ninety years of existence. He has a best friend now – and forever, Charles has promised him. He’s solving mysteries. He’s helping souls now, people who are stuck and distraught just like the souls in Hell had been, but in these cases are not (usually) beyond his – their – help.
What Edwin does matters now, in a way it never has before. And more than just on the grand scheme of thing – what Edwin does matters to Charles too, because Charles cares about him, cares if he’s happy, cares if he’s safe.
He hadn’t been able to see that in Hell either. He can see it now.
He never wants to stop seeing it again.
It isn’t perfect – Charles bristles at anyone who even looks at Edwin funny, throwing himself in front of even the slightest danger for the other boy; Edwin struggles to remember how to hold conversations, how to process any emotion other than fear or despair or desperation; Charles can’t bear it when Edwin leaves his sight; Edwin despairs that he can’t offer Charles the comfort he needs at times – but it’s theirs, trauma and all, and they won it with their own efforts and they’re not letting it go. That’s close enough, isn’t it?