Chapter Text
Now
Edwin knows nobody will come for him.
It’s maybe the worst part of being down here again. Hell had been an unending torment for seventy years, and then he’d been free, and now he’s here again, and he knows somewhere deeper than logic that he doesn’t have the strength to pull himself out a second time. And nobody will come for him.
He whispers it to himself, huddled into the corner, arms wrapped around his legs. He speaks for the doubtful comfort of hearing his own voice, in between the moments where his personal torturer gives chase, and he is forced to run even though he knows he’ll never get away. Nobody’s coming for you. He’s not coming for you. You’re alone. You’re as alone down here as you were back on Earth. You have nobody to blame but yourself. You. Are. Alone.
The thing about being in Hell for the second time, is that he’s had a real taste of happiness with which to contrast the torment of his current reality. It makes everything so much sharper, more unbearable, because he knows how things might have been different, he knows what he might have had— He’d had years, decades, of companionship and laughter and a purpose he’d felt proud of. He’d had the steadfast friendship of someone who would, Edwin has no doubt, charge into Hell itself to rescue him without a second’s hesitation.
He’d had Charles Rowland as a best friend for nearly twenty-five years, and then he’d ruined it, like he always seems to ruin everything.
So no. Here he is, back in the darkness, the clammy cold of relentless and insidious fear, the kind that worms under his skin, rattles against his bones and makes him feel, paradoxically, more alive than he’s been in over a century. Alive enough to fear death, fear pain, fear the physical sensation of pincers biting into his skin, alive enough for callouses to develop on his cold and sore bare feet. Alive enough to wish for the end to come, and to know that it never will.
And worse than any of the rest of it is the knowledge that he’s carried with him for the last ten years up on Earth, even before he got dragged down here for the second time.
He’s never going to see Charles again.
*****
Then
From the beginning, Edwin had tried to tell himself that his friendship with Charles would be a temporary one. It was only logical, after all. Charles hadn’t been ready to go off with Death when he’d first passed, and that was alright, that wasn’t so unusual, for a young person who had died by violent and unexpected means, to have a bit of trouble adjusting to the reality of his new status among the deceased. He’d clung on to the only person available in the moment, a person who had shown him some kindness in his final minutes of life.
Edwin was grateful for the company, grateful for the easy way Charles seemed to enjoy his company in return. Charles just… he liked people. Automatically, easily. He connected with them. He’d said as much on that first day. Edwin’s no good with other people, but Charles is good enough to make up for his own lack.
It happens so gradually he’s not able to build up proper defenses to it— Charles becomes not a pleasant interlude in his life, but a permanence, a necessity. He starts to believe, against his will, that he’s found the rest of eternity, working side by side with the best person he’s ever met, Charles’s brash bravery complementing Edwin’s meticulous caution. Charles’s charisma and Edwin’s research skills. Charles’s strength of purpose and Edwin’s quiet but no less steadfast determination to do some good in the world.
And in truth, if he’d kept his mouth shut, they probably would have continued in just that way more or less indefinitely. That had certainly been Edwin’s hope, and it had been Charles’s plan, and if it hadn’t been for that rogue malevolent spirit in 2013 who had given them more trouble than either of them was used to, maybe none of the rest of it would have happened.
A typical case in most regards—
A ghost that had stuck around too long; angry and despairing at the injustice of his life and death. And their concerned clients, more peaceful ghosts who worried about the wellbeing of their living relatives in the area.
A simple binding spell was all that was needed, and Edwin had the book in hand, was chanting the phrases, while Charles stood between him and the very angry spirit attempting to thwart their efforts. A pattern as familiar as anything, as natural as their quiet nights together playing cards or reading aloud to each other, watching movies, talking about everything and nothing. This, the memory of adrenaline spiking through Edwin, the sound of Charles egging the spirit on, keeping it distracted, on edge.
He hadn’t even been looking when it had happened. His face had been buried in the book, when suddenly Charles’s voice took on an unexpected urgency, and he heard his own name shouted in his friend’s voice, strangled and afraid— “Edwin!” and then he was being shoved to the ground, Charles’s arms wrapped around him, a grunt of pain as they hit the cobbled street together.
The spirit had vanished in a whirl of angry red energy, and Edwin had only a moment to feel the frustration of that— now they’ll have to track him down and start the banishment ritual all over again— before Charles let out a quiet groan of pain.
It spikes Edwin’s own alarm dramatically; he’d been waiting for Charles to roll off of him and jump to his feet, prepared to take another swing at their fleeing foe, but when he doesn’t move right away, Edwin shifts, bringing a hand up against Charles’s back. “Charles, are you—”
And then his hand hits against something protruding out of Charles’s back, and he pulls away with a hiss of pain.
“Sorry,” Charles says, breath coming in heaving gasps. Edwin gets an arm wrapped around his shoulders and shifts him, as carefully as he can manage, so he can slip out from underneath him and take a look at what they’re dealing with.
And what they’re dealing with is— an iron bar, shoved straight through Charles’s chest, right where his beating heart would be, were he a living human being.
There’s a moment where, contrary to all logic, Edwin feels his own heart skip a beat. Icy cold terror washes through his entire body, cascading ripples down his spine. His hands feel numb, which is odd because ordinarily his hands don’t feel much of anything, on account of his incorporeal status.
Charles is gasping, sprawled awkwardly on his back, eyes glazed with pain as he stares up at the starry sky above them. He opens his mouth as if about to speak, but all that comes out is a horrid, garbled choking sound.
It’s not rational, what Edwin does next. He knows how bad it’s going to hurt, he knows he might not have the strength for it. But even as Charles lets out a choked breath, a warning falling out of his lips— “No, don’t—” Edwin is wrapping his hands firmly around the length of iron and pulling.
It burns against his hand, a physical sensation stronger than anything he’s known since he died— well, no, maybe not, but at least since he’d escaped from Hell. The heat is sharp and vital and blistering, his entire body shakes with it but he does not flinch away from the pain. He leans into it, he pulls with all of his measly strength. He can think of nothing coherent, nothing rational. He can think of nothing but not Charles, no, no, not Charles.
The second the bar is free— it makes a sound, slipping its way free from Charles’s body, and Edwin will never forget it for as long as he exists— Edwin tosses it aside and puts his hands on Charles’s chest, over the wound.
“Are you alright?” It’s a stupid question. Of course he’s not alright. He’s just been stabbed, and he’s still just lying there, immobilized by the pain, and there’s nothing Edwin can do for him, is there? Nothing at all.
“Yes,” Charles says, his voice thready. “Yeah, I’m— give me a mo’ and I’ll be— ouch. Just grand.”
Edwin feels like he’s in one of those action movies Charles likes, his shaking hands pressing against Charles’s torso, his voice wavering as he tries to speak, to calm him, gentle him— “Yes, of course. You’re all right, you’re going to be just fine, Charles, do you hear me? Please— don’t go anywhere—”
The danger is past, and the rational part of him knows that, but somehow it feels like the end of the world, seeing Charles laid out and gasping for air he doesn’t even need, it’s like the verge of something worse than dying, worse than Hell.
“I’m not going anywhere,” Charles says, and he sounds, absurdly, a little annoyed with Edwin for asking. “Just— give me a minute and I’ll— I’ll be right as rain, won’t I?”
“You— you’ve got a hole— in your chest,” Edwin says. It’s only logical to point this out; Charles seems ready to brush the whole incident off as a minor inconvenience. He’s already shrugging, attempting to shift into a sitting position.
It’s about then that Edwin realizes he’s openly weeping. His own breath hitches into sobs, his numb, shaking hands useless where they’re pressed against Charles’s chest. The bloodless wound is already closing up, and the tear in Charles’s shirt is cohering into what it usually looks like. Everything is just fine, everything’s all right.
He cannot stop the sobs from coming, for some untenable reason. Humiliating. Or, he supposes it will be humiliating later, when he remembers how to feel anything other than the fear.
“Hey, hey,” Charles says, a gentle voice, almost cooing with reassurance. “‘M okay, the pain is already fading. Seriously, mate— Edwin, don’t cry, okay? I’m right here. We’re both right here.”
Edwin fights valiantly to control his breathing, finds it impossible for far too long. He doesn’t need to breathe, and surely that should prevent the indignity of a panic attack, should it not?
It’s irritating, the lack of logical cause and effect. It’s infuriating, that his own lack-of-a-body would dare to betray him in this manner. Charles wraps his arms around him and holds him tight, and Edwin clings back, and fails utterly to pull himself together for a long, long time.
*****
Now
Hell has its varieties. There are periods that feel like comparative respite before the chase and the pain and the blood come back. There are occasional detours into other people’s torments, so Edwin can compare his own fate to those of his comrades in endless pain.
But really, most of the time it’s just a loop. Hell’s most unique horror is its repetition, its unceasing sameness.
He has time, in between the monster’s attacks, to sit and wait and know it’s coming for him again. He has time to wonder at his own cowardice, his lack of conviction. When he’d been dragged to hell the first time, the terror had been all-consuming, but after a little while he’d started to feel indignant, as well. He’d never fooled himself that he was a great person back when he’d been alive, but after all, he’d been a sixteen-year-old boy, he’d been quietly minding his own business, the demon who had dragged him to Hell had known he hadn’t earned a place there—
Surely, surely, there was some larger cosmic justice in this world, was there not? Surely, there was a way to right what had gone wrong? It had been that conviction, that indignation about a fundamental mistake, that had given Edwin the strength to fight for better for himself.
This time is different. This time, as much as he believes in the abstract sense that nobody could possibly deserve the level of pain he himself is suffering, he also can’t seem to find the strength to do a single bloody thing about it.
Maybe that in and of itself means he does deserve it this time. Maybe only fighters deserve to break their way free.
He doesn’t believe that. How could he believe something like that? This place twists the mind, as much as it tortures the body. This place makes everything that makes him himself seem so far away, muddled and incoherent, a shadow of a memory.
He’s not sure how long he sits there. He’s not sure how many times the monster comes for him. He’s not sure how many times the pain rips through him, sharp and vivid and vital. He thinks maybe Hell allows him to live, to truly live, to feel the blood pumping in his veins and his heart thundering in his ears, just in those scant few seconds before he’s ripped apart. A way to feel the contrast, a way to appreciate the terror of that pain.
In the lulls between the torment, he crouches in a corner, tucks himself as deep into the shadows as he can manage. He leans his head against the grimy wall and tries to think of happy thoughts. Plays through memories of peaceful times until all the jagged edges of reality have faded away, leaving only the smooth stone of impossible comfort behind. Charles, looking back over his shoulder and grinning at Edwin, eyes sparkling with a ridiculous joke. Sitting in the office with a book open on his lap, Charles laid out on the couch beside him, his feet touching Edwin’s thigh. Running through the streets of London, chasing an adversary or fleeing a formidable foe. Grabbing Charles’s hand, feeling their fingers slide against one another as they step through a mirror, guiding them where they need to go.
A simple life, a life he’d loved, a life he’d abandoned at the first glimmer of complication. Hell can do as it pleases to Edwin Payne; nothing could be worse than what he’s already done to himself.
At some point he hears a noise, echoing footsteps from nearby, and he tenses, prepared to jump to his feet and run. He’s exhausted at just the prospect, but whatever spark of defiance does still exist inside him refuses to let him just lie here and allow that thing to kill him again. There’s enough inside of him that wants to exist, and it’s cold comfort, but comfort all the same, to know this about himself.
But the noise— it doesn’t sound like the scuttling limbs of his long-time tormentor. The steps are hurried but quiet. They sound human.
Edwin musters the strength to shift slightly on the ground, turning his face in the direction of the noise. He swallows, prepared to speak to whoever it is who’s wandered by accident into Edwin’s Hell, send them back to their bespoke afterlife of pain and misery. He’s not much for company, these days.
But then—
But then—
But then—
Around the corner, chest heaving for breath, eyes wide and skin cast a strange grey in the dim light, is Edwin Payne’s impossible salvation. The best thing he’s seen in life or death, Hell or Earth or a Heaven he’ll never reach, never deserve. There, smudged circles under his eyes and lantern held clenched in one hand, is Charles Rowland.
*****
Then
After the iron bar incident, Charles seems determined for things to carry on as they always have, but Edwin’s not sure that’s possible.
Ghosts can’t sleep so they can’t dream, but in periods of quiet, of rest, Edwin finds himself haunted by the image of Charles on the ground, face blanched with pain, body curled and contorted around the iron spearing through his chest. He closes his eyes and he sees it. In quiet moments he can hear his groan of discomfort, the wail of agony as the iron had slipped from his body. He can feel the phantom burning against his own palms from where he’d grasped the metal.
They finish off the case with no further incident, banishing the corrupted spirit to wherever its fate will land it next, and Edwin feels an unusual level of personal satisfaction at the knowledge that the thing who’d skewered his best friend no longer resides on the same plane of existence.
Charles keeps up a chipper attitude, trying to entice Edwin into one of their usual post-case rituals— a night out on the town, going to see a movie or just wandering around a park somewhere to people-watch. Or a quiet night in, he suggests— maybe they could play cards, or Edwin could read some more of that Sherlock Holmes story they’d been working through, or they could try and get their ghostly senses to resonate with the telly and see if anything’s worth watching.
Edwin can’t really muster the energy to respond with much enthusiasm, and Charles, never one for patience, finally breaks. “All right, listen. Do we need to talk about this?”
“Talk about what, exactly?” Edwin says, flipping through stacks of notes on their recent cases that he’s already organized and reviewed half a dozen times.
“You’re— skittish.”
“Skittish.”
“Yeah, you’re— off your game, and it’s making me off my game, and I don’t like it one bit, so— so maybe the adult thing to do is have a chat about it.”
“We’re not adults,” Edwin reminds him, just for something to say. He doesn’t really want to talk about Charles’s recent skewering— just thinking about it makes him squeamish enough, and he’s already preemptively irritated about Charles’s dismissive attitude.
“Come sit down with me,” Charles says, cajoling but somehow firm as well.
Edwin sighs, as if he’s been asked to do something truly onerous, but he circles around his desk and sits down beside Charles on the couch, posture straight, hands resting on his knees.
“Edwin,” Charles says. “I know I freaked you out.”
Edwin braves a quick look at him, his wide dark eyes, his mouth quirked into a gentle smile. He looks away. It’s too much.
“I probably wouldn’t choose that phrasing, but— yes, you rather did.”
“It’s an occupational hazard,” Charles says. He shifts on the couch so he’s sitting sideways with his legs up, poking his feet into Edwin’s leg. Edwin faces forward. “Not ideal, and I’m not looking to go around repeating the experience, but— it’s just a little pain, yeah? I wasn’t in any real danger.”
“Pain is what makes ghosts lose themselves,” Edwin says tightly. “You know that. And anyway, that level of pain in and of itself should be avoided whenever possible, I hope we can agree.”
“Sure, yeah, obviously. I just said, I’m not keen on anything like that happening to me again, it did not feel— fantastic, to say the least. But… Edwin, mate, this has clearly really rattled you, and I guess I’m just trying to figure out why.”
God, how to answer that? Charles is right, there has been no lasting harm done, and their jobs are bound to put them in the paths of dangerous people sometimes. The risk is inevitable, in the lives they’ve chosen. But it’s just that— for Edwin, the choice is simple. Life with a little risk here on Earth, with Charles at his side, is infinitely preferable to what’s waiting for him in his afterlife.
But Charles? Charles need never suffer pain again, if he were to choose…
He decides not to mention this obvious difference between them; Charles visibly balks whenever Edwin brings up Hell, and it’s not as if they both aren’t well aware of the reality.
“I simply…” Edwin sighs and looks down at his hands, resting against his knees. “It was disquieting. Seeing you in that amount of acute distress. It’s never been so bad before.”
“Look,” Charles says after a short pause, and his smile is fond, but also trepidatious, cautious. “I understand how you feel. Every time I’ve ever seen you in danger, or in pain, it’s like someone’s trying to rip my lungs out from inside my body. I can’t explain it. I’ve never felt anything as intense and terrible as watching you suffer.”
Edwin can only stare at him, eyes finally drawn to meet Charles’s. Does he not hear how that sounds? How can he say these things out loud, so easily, without flinching from it, the bald truth of what they mean to one another?
“So,” Charles continues, shrugging, “if it’s anything like that for you, it must have been right awful, seeing me hurt like that.”
“Agonizing,” Edwin agrees, a little mechanical. “Yes.”
“I’m sorry I put you through that,” Charles says, and he reaches a hand out, puts it on Edwin’s shoulder. His thumb comes up and brushes lightly against the front of Edwin’s neck, and the touch is impossibly warm and gentle and perfect. “I’ll try and be careful, I promise. I just— couldn’t help it.”
“I do understand, Charles,” Edwin says, trying to keep his voice light. “I daresay I’d jump in front of any number of horrors if I thought it was the only thing I could do to protect you.”
And here Charles frowns, eyebrows scrunched together. “Appreciate it, mate, really, but that’s my job, yeah? Don’t get any funny ideas about throwing yourself on grenades.”
This conversation had been making Edwin feel a little better, up to this point, but now he frowns, the darkness sweeping back in. “So it’s okay when you risk yourself for my sake, but not the reverse?”
“Yes,” Charles says, with such a level of conviction that Edwin nearly laughs. “It’s my job, right? You’re the one who knows all the magic and everything. You’re the one who can actually complete the cases. I’ve got to keep the bad guys off of you so you can do your job. It’s— what’s that word, for when two things work together, like the bees and the flowers?”
“Symbiosis,” Edwin says.
“Right, yeah, symbiosis. We make a good team.”
“We do,” Edwin says, furrowing his brows in turn. “But not because— it’s not your job to… to take my share of the danger on your own shoulders, it’s— we’re partners in this. The risk has to be shared, like everything else.”
“Well yeah, sure,” Charles says with a shrug. “I know that. I’m just saying— we’ve each got our strengths.”
Edwin would like to argue. This topic seems as if it’s bumping up against Charles’s appalling lack of self worth. A flaw they perhaps share, although it manifests in different ways. When they’ve talked about it in the past, Charles had jokingly said that Edwin would just have to respect Charles enough to make up for the lack, and vice versa.
Well. It’s good enough to be getting on with, anyway.
Charles stands up from the couch, a bounce in his step. “So stop with the maudlin routine, yeah? I solemnly swear not to jump in front of any more iron spikes unless the situation really, seriously calls for it.” Charles holds his hand to his heart as if he is indeed making a sacred vow, and Edwin finds it simple enough to smile, to stand up and reach a hand out to Charles, smooth the line of his shirt over his shoulders.
“I suppose it’s better than nothing,” he says, and Charles grins, gives him a fake little punch on the shoulder, and announces he’s going out for a walk, and does Edwin want to join? It’s pouring rain outside, and Charles loves that, loves walking around in the night with the water turning the world around them into wet shadow, his own incorporeal body dancing safely through the drops with no effect.
Edwin goes with him, of course. He’d follow Charles anywhere. And it’s easy enough to ignore the strange urge he suddenly has, to reach out and take Charles’s hand, tangle their fingers together as they go.
Maybe it all would have worked out after that, really. Maybe Edwin would have allowed his bruised and terrified heart to heal around the new shape of what had happened, watching Charles scream in pain like that, knowing it had happened to protect Edwin himself. Maybe he might have recovered, might have been able to move past it and into the equilibrium so precious to both of them. Charles wanted to be here with Edwin, He wanted it, even with the risks, and Edwin knew that. Was grateful for it even though he knew he couldn’t possibly deserve it.
But unfortunately, their very next case after the malevolent spirit with an iron poker, was the case of Mary-Ann Johnson.
No vengeful ghosts, no violence, no fear of bodily harm or pain. One of the gentlest, simplest cases the two of them had ever taken on. And it was the one that broke everything, in the end.
*****
Now
“What are you doing here?”
Edwin says the words numbly, almost by accident. It’s not what he means to say, it doesn’t even make sense. The bald reality of the situation is that Charles is not here. Charles cannot be here.
“I came to rescue you,” Charles says, and he clenches his jaw, something defiant and wary flashing in his eyes. “And let’s leave off with the inevitable lecture, yeah? My choice. Wasn’t going to leave you down here, no matter what.”
Edwin blinks several times, trying to make the world make sense. Hell never really makes sense, truthfully, but this scenario is wildly outside of the expected scope. “But…” he says, then stops, cringing against the wall as Charles takes a step toward him. “But— no. You can’t be here.”
“Tough luck,” Charles says, still stubborn. He’s holding a familiar lantern in his hands, a lantern Edwin remembers very well. He wonders if Charles had kept it all those years, or—
But to wonder that is to believe the thing standing in front of him is actually Charles Rowland, and he knows that to be impossible, so…
“This isn’t possible,” he says. Charles doesn’t seem to be listening, to be tracking Edwin’s panicked denial.
“Those notes you had on Hell,” Charles says. “Found ‘em in the office, traced my way back here. But the bloke who’s doing me the favor of keeping the door open, not exactly the trustworthy sort, if I’m honest, so I think it’s best we don’t dawdle.”
“You can’t— you’re not real,” Edwin says. His voice comes out a little louder this time, more emphatic. It’s the only thing he can think to say, the only words his mouth is capable of forming. And he hates himself for even addressing this— this person, this thing, whatever it is, that dares to take this shape, he hates himself for even pretending to talk to it like it’s Charles, because—
“I’m as real as you are,” Charles says, grimacing. He’s not meeting Edwin’s eyes, staring at a point just over his shoulder instead, and that’s not like him, is it? That’s not like Charles at all. “Depends on your point of view, I s’pose. Now come on, we have to go.”
Edwin opens his mouth to say something else, he’s not sure what, but the words don’t come. He looks exactly the same as the last time Edwin had seen him, nearly ten years ago, he looks so beautiful, he looks solid, and that was always something that made no sense about the two of them together, how the real, tangible world could seem faded and gray and insubstantial compared to the reality of them, the two of them, the most real thing in all the universe, all of Edwin’s life.
Charles looks up at him directly, finally, their eyes locking together. The topography of his face changes, that gritty determination shattered by a momentary expression of shock. Edwin wonders what on earth his own face must be doing right now. He must look the way he feels, as if all of his insides have been scooped out with a rusty spoon, as if his heart has started beating again just long enough for the sight of Charles Rowland in front of him to tear it to shreds all over again. “Edwin,” Charles says carefully, “we just really need to get you out of here, yeah? We can talk about the rest—”
And that’s when the monster returns.
In the seconds after the clacking, grotesque limbs wrap around his body and whisk him down the hall and away, Edwin hears Charles— the thing that’s pretending to be Charles— calling after him. It’s not a word, precisely, more an unarticulated, garbled scream of denial, of horror. He thinks maybe he hears footsteps thundering after him, but the sound of his own evisceration takes over shortly thereafter, and then he hears nothing at all.
*****
Then
Mary-Ann Johnson has only one thing she needs to sort out before she goes gently into the great beyond. Her husband had died seven years before her, and she’d soldiered on quietly for the remaining span of her mortal life, a mother to four, a grandmother to seven, and even a great-grandmother to a tiny babe in arms, who she’s happy to have met before the end.
She’s the perfect candidate to pass directly on to her tailor-made afterlife. It’s unusual to meet a ghost so settled and content within herself. There’s just the one thing holding her back—
“It’s my husband, you see. Larry. He was a very good man and we were so happy together. He has family… a niece, she’s always needed a lot of help, and I worry that with both of us gone, nobody to check in on her…”
And so Edwin and Charles have the unique pleasure of checking in on a relatively functional, kind, mortal family, who don’t really have enough in the way of resources to live a stress-free life but who share whatever they do have, who fight hard to take care of their own.
There are no monsters to fight, no big mystery to solve. They help the new ghost of a sweet old woman pass some subtle messages along to her living loved ones, they make sure she’s at peace with the arrangements that have been made to care for those most in need of it.
And when their visit is over, Charles and Edwin return with her to her own modest home, where she sits back comfortably in the same spot on the couch where she always sits of an evening, and she smiles up at the two of them.
“Thank you, boys. I think I’m ready, now.”
That’s their cue to make themselves scarce, but after the goodbyes, both of them feel a little reluctant to step away entirely. It’s rare to have such a pure, simple, clean win in this job. So they wait outside the house— a mild risk, and Charles has a mirror inside his backpack that Edwin knows how to enlarge for them to run through if they need to make a quick escape.
They crouch by the window and watch as Mary sits back on the couch, smiling as she looks around at her home for a final time. All the tension has left her body, an easy gentle peace falling over her face. It’s such a comfort to see it, and when Death arrives, Edwin feels only the tiniest spike of alarm at the thought of what would happen were they to be discovered. He’s had enough run-ins with Death over the years to know that she’s not actually terrifying all on her own. She’s a comfort, she’s a promise of rest.
They watch as Death ushers Mary-Ann to her feet, a kind smile on her face, hands outstretched. There are quiet words spoken between them, and Mary smiles and nods, reaching forward to take her hand.
Edwin glances at Charles, expects Charles to be looking back at him. It’s time for the two of them to make themselves scarce, quietly tip toe away from the dangers that Death presents to them both, and leave their client to her happy forever.
But Charles isn’t looking back at him at all. Charles is staring through the slightly foggy window, eyes bright with unshed tears, looking right at Death as she gently ushers Mary away with her. The look on his face is filled with such profound longing that Edwin nearly gasps to see it. It’s a look of affection, of wonder, of delight but also melancholy.
Edwin knows what it means. He knows it deeper within himself than he knows almost anything. It’s a truth that blossoms up fully formed alongside other fundamental realities. Edwin loves Charles, will love him for the rest of whatever eternity he’s been granted by this uncaring universe. Edwin loves Charles, and Charles—
Charles wants to go home. Charles is ready to move on.
In the instant after this reality coalesces into Edwin’s soul, he chastises himself for not having seen it coming.
Of course. Of course this must occur to Charles sometimes, when they finish a case and take off before Death can spot them nearby, unclaimed and out of place. He must wonder what’s waiting for him on the other side of that kind smile, hand held out and promising an eternity where he belongs. Edwin is used to belonging nowhere, he’s used to existing in an in-between, forced by circumstances to make the best of a state of perpetual unrest. It’s more than bearable because of the peace and solidity he’s managed to build with Charles, but—
But Charles. He has a choice, he’s always had a choice, and his steadfast insistence over the years that he’d made that choice, that he’s where he wants to be, that doesn’t change the fact that there’s an impossibly enticing option waiting for him whenever he decides to reach for it.
Charles loves him, Charles wouldn’t ever want to leave him, Edwin knows that, but that doesn’t mean that if Charles had exactly what he wanted, it would be to stay here on Earth forever. Edwin had known that, once. When had he let himself forget that this wasn’t going to last?
He’s trying to hold back the tidal wave of feeling that’s accompanied this revelation. He realizes, in the scant seconds that have passed since he’d caught sight of Charles’s expression, that he will need to be very strong in the coming moments. He will need to be gracious and accepting, gentle and at peace. He will need to give Charles no reason to worry about the ramifications on Edwin, of the decision he now has the opportunity to make.
He’s just opening mouth to speak, though he has no idea what he’ll say when he does— it’s quite alright, Charles, no need to worry about me, go on then— she’ll be glad to see you, it’s been pleasant but all things must end—
These are things he won’t be able to say without bursting into sobs, probably, so perhaps it’s for the best that Charles turns away from the beautiful sight of Mary finding her eternal comfort, and meets Edwin’s eyes. “Let’s get out of here,” he whispers.
All Edwin can do is nod, numb, and turn away from the window. He follows Charles down the street, and marvels at the strength of the sensation, the twisting and shattering, the sharpness in his chest, radiating out down his arms. Heartbreak, he now learns, is less of a metaphor than he’d thought.
*****
Now
Time passes strangely in Hell. Edwin feels every second of it, but also can’t count those seconds as they pass, cannot track the passage from one endless torment to the next.
He knows he’s ripped apart again, he can feel the echo of it in his flesh, even though he appears to be whole, reset, curled into a corner of this wet damp labyrinth awaiting the next round of violence. The spider had ripped him asunder, and he’d thought of Charles as his consciousness had flickered. He always thought of Charles in the final seconds. He can’t make himself think of anything else.
“Edwin?”
Charles’s voice is close by, an impossibly tantalizing illusion. Before he even has time to relish in the hallucinatory gift his mind has given him, Charles’s hands are on his shoulders, turning his body towards him, eyes bright and wide with relief. “Hey. Hey. Oh thank god, I—” he cuts himself off, pulling in a harsh breath through his nose. “Come on, we should move before that thing comes back.”
Edwin blinks at him, astonished and heartsore. “Am I going mad?”
He hadn’t meant it as a real question, it had just been a passing thought, a possible rational explanation for the irrational.
For some reason, however, the question seems to make Charles angry. “No.” His voice is clipped, impatient, and it makes Edwin want to apologize, but he’s not sure what for. (There are a lot of things he’d apologize for, if Charles were here, if he were real, but that’s besides the point.) “No, you’re not going mad. I came here to rescue you because you’re my friend and I’m actually not that much of an asshole. Have the tiniest speck of faith in me, if you can manage it.”
Faith in Charles? That’s— if he can manage? Faith in Charles Rowland is the only real faith Edwin’s ever had in his life. Doesn’t Charles know that? Maybe Edwin’s never told him. Maybe Edwin’s failed him worse even than he’d thought.
“I don’t understand,” he says, which is insufficient, but it’s the only true statement he can make himself say. “This isn't— usual, for Hell. They don’t do this sort of thing, at least they haven’t done it to me before.”
Charles’s face is scrunched up in confusion, head tilted just slightly. It’s such a familiar expression, so beautifully Charles— Edwin thinks of countless nights together working on a case, Edwin thinking out loud as he looks over his notes, Charles asking questions and looking over his shoulder. Their version of domestic bliss, Edwin supposes. Now it just makes something squeamish curl up in his stomach. All he can think is— this is what he would conjure from his own brain, this is the kindness he’d give to himself. Or, even worse— this is the false reprieve Hell might give him, before tearing it away again.
“What are you talking about?” Charles says quietly, eyebrows pulled together. “That— that thing— there was blood everywhere— what did it do to you?”
Edwin shakes his head. He’s distracted, nothing makes sense— “No, that’s usual enough. I mean— you turning up here. My experience with Hell isn’t quite so… I’ve just never seen you down here before. I can’t make sense of it.”
Charles is silent for a long, heavy moment. Edwin can almost hear him thinking. “You think I’m a manifestation of Hell.”
“I can’t understand how else this could be happening,” he says honestly. But a second after he’s said it, he wishes he could take it back, because Charles looks as if Edwin’s just stabbed him in the gut. He pulls back slightly, shoulders hunched and eyes wide, mouth dropped open.
“Edwin,” he says. “I’m here, okay? This isn’t… a trick. I’m sorry if you didn’t want to see me, but— but it really is me. I couldn’t leave you here. I’m sorry, but I couldn’t.”
This really is Hell, isn’t it? Because there’s no way Edwin would conjure Charles from his own mind like this, eyes wide and scared, hands shaking as they hover anxiously over Edwin’s shoulders, like he’s afraid to touch him again. He’s never seen Charles look so… off balance. Not even that first day, when he’d turned around, seen his own corpse lying there wrapped in a blanket, and accepted the inevitable with a grace few can match.
“Why are you apologizing?” Edwin says. He’s so confused, he’s so cold and scared and Charles cannot be real but his heart is reacting to him as if he is, and it’s cruel, it’s a type of cruelty he hadn’t expected, not even here, and what is he supposed to do with it?
“You don’t think I’d come for you?” Charles asks, in that same voice, held tight on the edge of tears. “You don’t think I’d rip the fucking world apart to get down here and drag you out with me?”
“It’s not possible,” Edwin says, trying to hold firm to this conviction.
Charles’s jaw clenches, a flash of determination narrowing his wide wet eyes. He stands up, holds a hand out to Edwin. “Come with me. You can worry over your mental state another time. Please, we have to hurry.”
The thing is, Edwin isn’t sure it’s a good idea. Edwin’s sure that at best, taking Charles’s hand right now is going to be pointless. He’s not getting out of Hell. The one person in all the world who could save him is standing in front of him, but still he can’t believe.
The other thing is, Edwin isn’t strong enough to say no. Not to Charles. He reaches a hand up and clasps Charles’s, allowing himself to be dragged to his feet. Charles doesn’t let go of him once he’s upright. He holds Edwin’s hand tightly, clutches the lantern in the other, and marches them down the dank, dark hallway. Together.
*****
Then
Once Edwin has realized that Charles needs to go, he doesn’t hesitate to enact his plan. The raw horror of what he knows he must do exists as a living thing inside of his body, a twisted monster trying to break its way free of him, tearing him to shreds in the process. He just needs to say it, get it out, give Charles the permission he needs, and then it’ll all be over and he can contend with whatever remains of his own heart in the aftermath.
He knows Charles, is the problem. He knows that Charles is incredibly stubborn, incredibly insightful, and incredibly kind. This combination is downright deadly given the circumstances— clearly, Charles should move on to the afterlife he so richly deserves. Clearly, Edwin will be utterly destroyed to lose him. Charles will know this. Charles knows Edwin very, very well. Ergo, his selfless friend will stick around for Edwin’s sake. He’ll stick around even when it’s not what’s best for him anymore, simply because he’ll know it’s what’s best for Edwin.
And Edwin cannot allow that.
So, one night just a few days later, so late that it’s actually early, Edwin looks up from the notes he’d been pretending to read and clears his throat.
“Charles.”
Charles hums and looks up from the comic he’d been perusing, sprawled over on the couch. He looks so comfortable there, so perfectly where he belongs, and Edwin feels a lump forming in his throat. There must be some hint of his feelings on his face, because Charles’s eyebrows scrunch up and he closes the book in his hands, sitting up straight and turning more fully to face him. “You okay, mate?”
“Ah, yes,” Edwin says, clearing his throat again and fussing with the papers on the desk, straightening out the already-straight piles. “Yes, it’s only… there’s something I think we ought to discuss. About… well, about the future.”
“Another case will turn up, it always does,” Charles says encouragingly. “I know you’ve got a tough time letting yourself take a break, but it wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world, a few days of quiet.”
“You could have quite a bit more than that, if you wanted,” Edwin says.
“Than a few days of quiet?” Charles answers, shaking his head with a grin. “I mean, sure, but we’d get bored before too long, wouldn’t we? We’re go-getters, you and I, always jumping onto the next thing.”
Edwin tries to memorize the shape of his smile while he still can.
“I meant more… in the long term, not the short. You could have quiet, or chaos, or whatever you wanted. Afterlives are meant to be suited perfectly to the individual, after all.”
Charles turns his head sharply to lock eyes with Edwin. “What?”
“It’s something I’ve been thinking about. It isn’t fair to you, always having to run from Death, when for you there’s really no reason.”
The words fall rather clumsily out of Edwin’s mouth; his attempt at nonchalance is probably less than convincing, but he doesn’t know any other way into this conversation. If he tries to argue with Charles head-on about it, or if he pushes him away too obviously, it’ll only make Charles less likely to listen to sense. At the moment, Edwin is having rather a hard time looking in his direction, but he’s painfully aware as well that too much obvious avoidance will worry Charles— it’s a delicate in-between, an unnatural performance, but it’s all he’s got.
“No reason?” Charles repeats, openly incredulous. He’s still sitting on the couch, but he leans forward as if preparing to jump to his feet when the situation calls for it. “Come on. Are you serious?”
“Quite serious, Charles.”
“Well… you can stop being quite serious, Edwin,” Charles shoots back, in ridiculous imitation of Edwin’s accent. “There’s really no need.”
“I thought it best we had a conversation about it, at least,” Edwin says. The edges of his control are already fraying, and Charles, when Edwin glances at him and then quickly away, looks ready to dig his heels in. Dear Lord, that’s not an encouraging sign of things to come, is it?
“A conversation,” Charles repeats again, a wry twist of something that is decidedly not amusement on his mouth. “Edwin, my mind was made up about this a long time ago. I guess I can—” he takes a breath, as if fighting for patience, “—appreciate you wanting to check up on me about it, make sure I’m happy, but it’s not necessary, alright? I’m not going to change my mind. I have zero regrets about what I’ve chosen, I swear it.”
“I know you chose this,” Edwin says carefully. “I know it’s what you wanted, but even ghosts are changeable, even ghosts evolve. You were scared, you had just died, you weren’t ready for your mortal life to be over, so you… took the best thing on offer at the time. But Charles, it’s been over twenty years since then. You can’t tell me you never reevaluate that decision, wonder what else could have been.”
“I haven’t,” Charles says, so emphatic and loud that Edwin wants to believe him, but— he’d seen his face, looking towards Mary, looking towards Death, that quiet longing. “I haven’t reevaluated, there’s nothing to— Edwin, I’m staying here with you, that’s all I want, that’s all I’ve ever wanted since the day we met.”
“That’s very kind of you to say,” Edwin says, holding as firm as he can to his own conviction. He knows the end will come eventually, he knows that even Charles, stubborn as he is, will eventually realize the wisdom of Edwin’s argument. The longer this goes on, the worse it will feel when it ends.
Right?
“It’s only that I wonder if you’ve really thought it through,” Edwin continues. “I mean— eternity isn’t actually guaranteed to either of us, here or elsewhere. There are things that can destroy spirits entirely, as we well know from working our cases, and there— there are things that could take the choice away from you. Permanently. Surely eventually, in time, you’d rather be settled somewhere safe, somewhere you can be at rest?”
Charles, the look on his face, it’s— impossible for Edwin to describe. Angry, hurt, certainly, but also maybe— disappointed, like Edwin isn’t holding up his end of their unspoken bargain. “Where is this even coming from? Is this about that— the iron bar thing? If you’re still panicking about my safety— we settled this. I thought we’d settled this.”
Edwin braces himself, pulls out one of his trump cards— “No, it’s not about that. Well, at least not mostly. It’s only that, well, I’d certainly take the opportunity, if it were on offer. My current circumstances are obviously preferable to my only other option, but if I had peace waiting for me on the other side, I know I’d take it.”
Something shifts in Charles’s expression, a faltering, a flicker of doubt. That determination to push back falls away, leaving something tender and uncertain in its place. Edwin should celebrate this— it means he’s being convincing. Instead, it rather feels like he’s just swallowed an ice cube; he can feel the unsettling shiver of dread sliding down into his stomach.
“You… would?” Charles says, eyes wide and spine curved like he’s trying to make himself smaller. “You’d go, if it weren’t Hell waiting for you?”
“Eventually, yes,” Edwin says. It’s not a lie, in the sense that— well, if Charles goes where he really belongs, and if Edwin had the chance to choose something other than Hell at that point, he would go. There’s no point in being here on his own.
“And you want me to go,” Charles says. He’s still sitting on the couch, but he leans over now and rests his elbows on his knees, head bent forward. Like he’s thinking very hard. Or like he’s getting ready to pray. An odd thought, as if out of some different life that Edwin’s left behind a long time ago. He and Charles aren’t really the praying types, either of them.
“It’s not as simple as saying I want you to go,” Edwin says, hoping his tone comes across sincere and not quietly devastated. “Obviously I’ll miss you a great deal, but we both know this can’t last forever, don’t we? Isn’t it best that… well, that you go on to whatever’s waiting for you, and leave the past behind?”
And Charles looks up at him now, yet another new expression taking over his face. It’s harder for Edwin to read this time. That disappointment is still there, and maybe a growing resignation. Like Edwin’s proven himself to be unworthy of Charles’s devotion after all. It stings, the panicked feeling of dread growing more pronounced as Edwin watches Charles swallow, then stand up.
“You know what, Edwin? If you don’t want me around, then— fine. Fine, that’s your choice. I’m not forcing myself on you if you’re done with me.”
“Charles…” Edwin says. He can’t stand the idea of him walking out of here thinking such a thing, thinking something so ridiculously, patently untrue.
Charles swings back to look at him, back to the door. “But you don’t get to decide what’s best for me, got that? That’s my decision, and it always has been, and I’ve had about enough of you thinking you know better.”
“Charles—”
“So— so—” and Charles pauses to swallow again, his voice coming out a little shaky, like he’s finding the righteous anger hard to hold onto. “So I’ll go, if that’s what you want, but I’m not calling Death up for a ride to the afterlife, because that’s not what I want. And if you change your mind about keeping me around, if it’s tomorrow, or— or a year from now, or a hundred years from now, you just let me know. Because I’ll still be here.” He takes a single step closer to Edwin, and it’s never been more difficult, it’s never been more excruciating, not to touch him, not to hold him close— “I’ll be here Edwin. Do you hear me? I’ll— be here.”
Edwin should not want that. Edwin should hope and pray for Charles to change his mind, to stop being so stubborn, to find the peace he deserves. But as Charles turns his back and storms out the door, Edwin can’t help the traitorous relief that fills his body, just enough to counteract the bone-deep terror and grief of separation.
He can’t pretend he’s strong enough to want what’s best for his friend. And that’s exactly why Charles should go.