Chapter Text
Charles can’t help the way he gasps, pulling Edwin closer to him like the soul-eater’s in the room with them, saliva dripping down the smooth stretch of his neck. Edwin’s praise at his deduction is mint, yeah— he’s never gonna forget a compliment from him— but Charles’ brain is sticking on what the revelation itself means. That Chief Whitesaw knew her murderer.
That it’s possible, in the final moments before her death, she felt comfortable. Safe. And that just feels a little too familiar, doesn’t it? Charles doesn’t want to think about that, he’s had a decade to get over it, but just like always his brain keeps on doing what it wants. Bloody inconvenient, that.
“Charles?” Edwin asks, voice sharp with sudden urgency. “Are you well?’’
“’m fine,” Charles murmurs, relaxing his hold on Edwin by a few inches. “Just…spooky, innit? Knowing your murderer…” He trails off, ‘cause he knows Edwin doesn’t need an explanation of that, either, though he makes a mental note to follow up on Edwin’s attackers again. Even if they’re all still in Hell, like Edwin’s claimed, they’ve gotta have some family around, don’t they?
“Indeed.” Edwin sighs, trailing his fingers over Charles’ shoulders and down his spine before pulling away completely, though not without a fair bit of lingering from his hands.
Right. Back to the case. Charles perches himself on the edge of their desk, just to give himself a little extra distance. “She knew her murderer,” he repeats, and the words are a little less sharp coming out this time, though they still sting. “Did you get the notes on her immediate friends and family, mate?”
“Of course,” Edwin confirms, some of that snappy confidence returning. It’s a good sign, innit? Means he’s feeling less shaken up after everything that happened. “She’s unmarried, so that rules out the spouse, and she has a sister in Wales.” As he recites facts, Edwin paces the short length of floor between their bookshelves.
“Not likely she’s behind it, yeah? Probably a friend— someone who might have connections to the other victims.”
“Indeed,” Edwin confirms, smiling briefly, and it lights Charles up inside. Walking briskly to the coat rack, Edwin retrieves his notebook, flipping through it and making a sound of satisfaction when he lands on the correct page. “This may be what we’re looking for.” He crooks a finger, and Charles hops off the desk to join him.
Charles reads for a minute over Edwin’s shoulder, telling himself to focus on the spiky cursive of Edwin’s handwriting and not the warm curve of his neck and strong line of his back. “A support group? Mate, you don’t think—“
“I agree that it is grim,” Edwin interrupts, “but I would rather investigate the lead and rule it out than leave it hanging over our heads.”
“Won’t argue with you there,” Charles sighs. “When’s their next meeting?”
“The police file states they meet every third Thursday of the month.”
“So that gives us…” Charles hums, letting his chin rest against Edwin’s shoulder as he thinks. Cases like these mess with his sense of time, don’t they? It all just feels like one long, long night. “Two days?”
Charles feels Edwin’s agreeing noise as vibration more than sound. “We should catch up on our filing,” Edwin says, though the pause beforehand and lack of usual enthusiasm makes Charles wonder if his partner is also longing for a bit of a breather— but before he can debate on any kind of suggestion, there’s an obnoxious pop from the center of their office. Charles jumps, reaching for the closest weapon, a letter opener, and positioning himself in front of Edwin.
“Post for the Dead Boy Detectives,” the Ghost Postman announces dryly, stepping forward to let a thick stack of mail thud onto the desk.
“Bloody fuck,” Charles curses, lowering the letter opener and glaring openly at the Postman. “It’s been a decade,” he stresses. “Will you ever just learn to knock?”
The Ghost Postman says nothing, though he stares at Charles like he’s debating the worth of delaying his route to lecture him. After a few charged moments, he simply turns and vanishes through the wall.
As soon as he’s gone, Charles turns to Edwin, tossing the letter opener back onto the desk so he can cup Edwin’s shoulders. “Mate, you alright?”
“Fine, Charles,” Edwin assures, though he’s wearing that intense, distant expression he does whenever he’s planning an escape. The Postman spooked him plenty, didn’t he? No wonder, with everything going on. “Though the rudeness of that man never ceases to shock me.”
“Yeah. Could do with a bit of a lie-down after that, couldn’t I? Wanna join?”
Edwin smiles, though it’s unpleasantly tinged with something guilty. “You needn’t make such offers solely for my sake,” he murmurs, pressing his knuckles together. “I know I have not been altogether…myself, on this case.”
“Mate,” Charles says again, moving his hands up until they’re cradling Edwin’s jaw, “this case is awful, yeah? But you’ve been brills, like you always are. Maybe…” Charles thinks, trying to piece his disjointed ideas together into something cohesive.
Edwin doesn’t rush him, though one eyebrow does, for a moment, dart up in curiosity— which is right cute, so Charles can’t fault him— and he leads them both to the sofa, the fresh mail tucked under one arm.
After a minute or two, Charles thinks he’s got his approach, so he starts, “I understand if it sounds like too much, yeah? But maybe, maybe we should take on another case?”
Edwin’s eyebrow pops up again, not just curious but proper surprised.
S’not like they’ve never worked multiple cases at once before. Had their fair share of busy seasons, haven’t they? And sometimes a new case comes in that catches Charles’ interest a little too much, and he can’t wait till the current one’s solved. Still, Edwin finds his best focus in one-at-a-time solving, and Charles appreciates the more regular breaks. “I thought,” Charles continues, “it might be good to have somethin’ else on our minds sometimes, yeah? And…” this is the harder part, the part Charles needs to get right. “Figured it could be good, to see all the help we give.”
Carefully, Edwin sets the mail on the arm of the sofa, then scoots in closer against Charles’ side. Charles can’t tell if he’s against the idea, but Edwin doesn’t look upset. More…considering.
“There are cases I would currently refuse,” Edwin replies. “Another murder, for example, would not be welcome. But I can imagine cases that would feel satisfying to solve. As you say, I think I would appreciate the reminder of the good we do.” He responds to Charles’ pleased, relieved smile with one of his own, and reaches again for the stack of mail, presenting the first letter with a flourish. “Perhaps our intrusive Postman has delivered something of use?”
Together, they work through the hefty stack of mail. Any cases with currently unwelcome subject matter, such as demons or murder, are handed to Charles to store until such a time where they both feel ready to tackle them. Anything of potential interest is further investigated by Edwin. They’ve received multiple offers for end-of-year sales at several of the magic shops they frequent, and Edwin makes notes of what ingredients they’re out of, detailing the day of shopping they’ll need to stock up on everything as cost-efficiently as possible. It sounds proper nice to Charles, a day spent together just strengthening the foundations of their work, their life, Edwin with his clever words and quick fingers and thick eyebrows ensuring they get the best deals possible.
Still, that day isn’t really a case, so they keep looking. Two are letters that Edwin files away to respond to later, both from new ghosts who aren’t comfortable traveling to the office themselves, but still have questions about what being a ghost means. They didn’t always receive letters like this, but as their reputation has grown, they’ve increased in number. Edwin’s well thoughtful about them, too, detailing every possible aspect of their questions and often listing local, trusted supernatural resources in the area the ghost can contact, when they’re ready. A few of them have even come by with cases of their own later on, and Charles always feels a bit like a proud teacher, watching a student grow up in a way no ghost ever really can.
The next envelope Edwin passes him is thick and cream-colored, and Charles whistles under his breath. “Proper fancy, innit?” he comments, twirling the envelope in his hand before slicing it open with his letter opener. “Who do we know who’s throwin’ a party?”
Edwin considers for a moment. “Judging by the time of year, I believe it may be the annual Detectives' Ball.”
Charles frees the card and displays it for Edwin, grinning. “Bang on, mate! Had a good time last year, didn’t we?”
A small, pleased smile graces Edwin’s lips. “We did rather make the most of the evening, did we not?”
Charles isn’t sure whether he’s talking about all the networking they’d done, the fuck-off massive library they’d explored, or the dark corner of said library where they’d made out for a half-hour, pressed up against the books. Either way, Edwin’s right, and Charles looks forward to whatever this year’s ball could bring them. “I take it that’s a yes from us? Wanna send the RSVP?”
Nodding, Edwin files it into the pile needing responses. “The party is scheduled for the end of this week.”
Charles whistles under his breath. “Not much time to prepare, is it? Might just have to reuse my outfit from last year.”
The look Edwin gives him tells Charles that he will absolutely not be doing that. “I quite enjoy your artistic efforts,” Edwin murmurs. “I would hate to miss them this year.” His eyes are very close, and very green.
“Right,” Charles replies, swallowing hard. “Right, yeah. Aces.” He isn’t entirely sure how to squeeze in the planning and design of a new outfit in the midst of everything else, but beyond Edwin’s flirty gaze and the close warmth of his body, Charles can see something else— a faint hope. If they can plan out a fancy evening, if they can direct a little energy to new outfits, then their future, their forever, is still theirs to claim, case or not. It’s a reminder, even a small one, that the soul-eater doesn’t spell the end for them. And Charles isn’t gonna take that away from Edwin, is he?
“Is that all the mail?” Edwin asks, looking rather smug, and Charles realizes he’s just been staring into space, probably with a blush on his face.
He resigns himself to Edwin’s victory— it happens often enough that Charles should be used to it, by now— and holds up the last piece of mail, a rather thick envelope with sloppy handwriting addressing it to “The Ghost Detectives,” the line beneath reading “if you even exist.”
Edwin scoffs, brows furrowing. “Well!” He eyes the envelope like it could rear up and bite him at any moment. “Perhaps we should not even bother with such a letter, if the sender insists on being so rude.”
“Aw, c’mon mate,” Charles coaxes. “Not even a little curious? And the package still found its way to us, despite how it was addressed. Bit impressive, innit?” He waggles his eyebrows, and Edwin snorts, rolling his eyes.
“Perhaps,” he admits, but his mouth is still holding a pleased little curve. He nods towards the envelope, and Charles slices it open for him, placing it in his lap. Edwin first retrieves a single sheet of paper with a handwritten message that matches the writing on the envelope.
“Dear Ghost Detectives,” Edwin reads, “well they’re not off to a good start.” Charles nudges him, nearly bubbling over with curiosity. “Dear Dead Detectives,” Edwin begins again. “I don’t even know that you’re real, but my nan swears you solved a case for her back in ‘92, so I figured, why the fuck not.”
The curse sounds sharp and unnatural in Edwin’s mouth, and it makes Charles’ face heat to think of how rarely Edwin swears, and what usually causes it. He swallows, tells himself to focus.
“Recently,” Edwin continues, “my chief was murdered. Our chief, I guess. The whole department’s.” Over the letter, Edwin and Charles exchange a brief, horrified glance. “And everything about it was off, know what I mean? Guess you probably don’t. Anyway, things were already off before then, but, I thought I was still getting my feet steady. This…this is more. Figured somebody else should know. My nan said her house is ‘safe for ghosts,’ whatever that means, so meet us there if you think you can help. Cheers.”
Beneath this note is an address and the initials A. L.
“Bloody hell,” Charles whispers. “Do you think—“
“Yes,” Edwin says, sounding a bit shocked himself. “I do. Despite the vagueness of this letter, I believe we should accept this case immediately.” He reaches out and circles his hand around Charles’ wrist. “Well done, Charles. Your suggestion was excellent.”
The compliment lands like warm butter in Charles’ mouth. He thinks again how lucky he is to have Edwin, and then, nothing’s ever gonna take him from me.