Chapter Text
Hyde Park, Charles reckons, is an absolutely aces spot to have a crisis. Nice grass, swans, the odd dog chasing a squirrel. What more could you want?
He's currently sprawled on the branch of one of the massive trees that line the park's walkways. One perk of being a ghost, he's learned, is all of the new people watching spots he now has access to. Edwin typically prefers spots high on top of buildings, where he can see the city as a whole. And those views are incredible, but Charles prefers places like this, where he can get lost for a while and pretend that he's still part of it all.
Edwin'll be expecting him back soon. Charles had been growing restless from sitting in the office while reading up for their newest case, so he'd asked for an hour or two to clear his head and stretch his legs. Edwin, ever understanding, had waved him off with a smile.
Christ, Edwin.
His head tips back against the tree he's leaning on with a gentle thunk, as he scans the leaves above him for guidance.
Charles doesn't know why he's stressing out so much about this. It's a normal question! He knows that. He's not digging after anything juicy or private. It's a perfectly innocent piece of information to want to know about your best friend!
Yet Charles genuinely thinks he would rather lick rust than ask Edwin Payne when his birthday is.
'Cos listen, Edwin's mint, right? He's weird and bitchy and he says mad shit like punctillious and chicanery and he's just...he's just fucking mint. Hands down, the best mate Charles has ever had. Granted, that's not exactly a high bar, but Edwin still clears it by miles.
The thing about Edwin though, is that he's... not exactly what you'd call an open book. Which, fair enough, Charles gets wanting to keep some stuff private. But he's a people person right? He prides himself on it. So it's a pretty piss poor look on his part that after spending just over four years living in each other's pockets, he doesn't even know something as simple as Edwin's date of birth.
And it's not like Edwin doesn't know when Charles' birthday is! He's known since their first year together!
Well, Edwin hadn't actually asked, per say; the topic had come up naturally. They'd been looking into the history of a house for a case, and when he'd noticed that construction had began on his birthday, Charles, like a normal person, had said offhandedly, "Oh hey, that's my birthday!"
His partner had clearly been paying attention though, because every year since, Edwin always makes a point to mark the day. There's well wishes, a present wrapped with what can only be described as militant neatness, and a mandatory day off for the agency, where Edwin lets Charles call the shots for the day with no complaint.
Well, no serious complaints, anyway. Wouldn't be Edwin if there wasn't at least a token protest every now and again, Charles thinks fondly.
It took Charles dying for him to start having birthdays that he actually enjoys. Every year he's left feeling warm and cared for and seen in ways that he's never felt before.
Which is a special kind of depressing that he's not willing to look at too closely, but is it any wonder that it's driving him absolutely insane that he can't return the favour?
At this point he's half tempted to just wish Edwin a happy birthday every day. He's bound to get it right eventually, but he's almost positive that Edwin wouldn't put up with it for more than a week.
Maybe he's got some weird Edwardian hang-up that Charles is unfamiliar with, which means that Edwin can't actually reveal any personal information until after a decade of acquaintance and written permission from his parents.
Which doesn't sound right, but honestly Charles hadn't even known that the Edwardian era was a thing until he'd met Edwin, so what would he know.
Although, having said that, he has been trying to gently coax Edwin into the 20th century. 'Trying' being the main word, of course. There hasn't been a modern concept so far that Edwin hasn't scoffed at. (Except for Cluedo. Obsessed with Cluedo, is Edwin.)
Hopefully it's something else then. Maybe he keeps meaning to mention it, but it's just...slipped his mind?
Except no, because if there's one thing that Edwin's attached at the hip to more than Charles, it's his notebook. And Edwin scribbles in that thing like he's being paid by the letter. If he'd written something in there about telling Charles his birthday, then Charles would absolutely know by now.
Maybe...hmm.
Ooh! Maybe Edwin's birthday is on the same day as his, and he doesn't want to steal Charles' thunder! That sounds like something the selfless little git would do. But that's just daft, since they already share practically everything else with no complaint, not to mention how aces it would be to be birthday buddies. So no, it's not that.
...Edwin does have a birthday, right?
"Obviously I do Charles, don't be absurd." He says to himself in his best Edwin impression. Edwin himself thinks he's miles off with it, but Charles reckons it's getting better. He just needs to remember to pronounce the 't's properly. He chuckles and replies in his own voice.
"Sorry, mate, but I'm running out of options, aren't I?"
He shakes his head with a sigh. His own birthday came and went last week, which is why his little conundrum is frustrating him more than usual.
On top of a fantastic day out at Brighton, Charles had been gifted with a treasure trove of records, one of which hadn't even been released to the public yet. When asked how in God's name he'd gotten his hands on it, Edwin had smiled that coy little smirk of his and had simply said that he "had his sources."
God, Charles loves him. But currently he's filled with love and frustration in equal measure.
He wants to be able to do that! When's it his turn to dote on his best friend and spoil him rotten?
Like...okay sure, he sorta already does that anyway. He loves surprising Edwin with cool things and knick-knacks that he comes across, from old books that literally no one else on the planet would find interesting, to little rocks with crazy patterns. But doing it on a birthday's different, innit? It means that Edwin can't get all humble and refuse to accept it. Not that Edwin refuses his offerings now, but he gets all bashful and "Oh Charles, you shouldn't have!" about it.
Point is, as Edwin's best friend (a role he takes very seriously) he has to make sure that Edwin has a brills birthday. That's like, basically the law.
A boisterous giggle snaps him out of his musings. Apparently the universe has decided to taunt him specifically, as he spies a bunch of children playing tag on the grass, one of them proudly wearing a huge badge that declares '8 today!'.
Sod it, he tells himself as he jumps down out of the tree. Another perk of being a ghost that he's grown to appreciate, is that when he fumbles the landing and eats absolute shit, no one around him can actually see it.
And if Charles Rowland falls out of a tree and his best mate isn't there to laugh at him, did he really fall?
He brushes off his coat as he stands, watching the kids play for a beat, before heading off with a spring in his step to find a mirror.
He's getting to the bottom of this today. He's let this go on for far too long. Yes, Edwin can be a bit cagey with personal information, but come on, it's Charles! As long as he asks nicely, and throws in a 'please' for good measure, Edwin's bound to tell him.
He's been stressing himself out for no good reason. It's gonna be fine!
IT'S GONNA BE FINE
It's back in the office where it all goes to shit.
Charles tumbles through their mirror, slinging his his coat onto the arm of the sofa.
Edwin's facing their case board, and glances over his shoulder with a grin at his entrance.
"Ah Charles, there you are. I trust your walk was enjoyable? I was considering our options for the Mayweather case again. Perhaps we ought to-"
"When's your birthday, mate?" Shit, not a great start. He had planned to ease into it, and knows how much Edwin hates having his flow interrupted. He turns to face Charles properly, a puzzled look on his face.
"I, ah, I beg your pardon?"
He takes a deep breath in. He's already put his foot in it. Might as well go for gold.
"Your birthday, Edwin. I'm asking you when your birthday is."
The ensuing silence is horrific.
"...please?" He tacks on lamely with a wince.
Edwin looks genuinely baffled. "Whatever for?"
And Charles...doesn't really know what to do with that. He feels his confidence start to waver.
"Uhh...because I want to know?"
"Well is it vital you know right this second?" Edwin asks in a reasonable tone, crossing the room to scoop up his notebook and pen from the desk. Charles rubs a hand across the back of his neck.
"Well. I mean no, but-"
"Fantastic!" Edwin says as he plucks his coat from the coat rack and pulls it on with a flourish, "So, I'll head to the apothecary while you see to Mrs. Mayweather, and then we can-"
"Woah woah, slow down mate," Charles interjects, wondering how this had gone off the rails so quickly, "What's the problem? It's just a simple question!"
Edwin raises a sardonic eyebrow "A simple question that has nothing to do with our current case." He says slowly, in a tone that screams well obviously.
Charles huffs. "Yeah, I know!" He says petulantily, narrowing his eyes, "But it'll take less than ten bloody seconds-"
"Ten bloody seconds that could be spent solving this case, so can we please-"
Edwin's patent bitchiness, Charles is quickly coming to realise, loses a lot of its charm when it's direced at him. He frowns. "Edwin. Mate c'mon, why are you being difficult about this?"
"Oh I'm being difficult?" Edwin exclaims, pointing an index finger towards his own chest.
"A bit, yeah!"
Edwin rolls his eyes so hard that Charles is half surprised that they don't get stuck. "Charming, Charles, thank you."
Are they... are they fucking arguing right now?
"Hang on, why are you getting so worked up about this?"
"Why are you?"
Oooh, this little-
"Because I want to know! It's been nearly five years and you haven't told me!" Charles cries, more exasperated than angry.
Edwin scoffs, shaking his head as he looks out of their window with pursed lips. He's doing that compressing thing with his knuckles that only happens when he's properly stressed out, so Charles knows he has to tread carefully. He sighs and makes an effort to soften his tone.
"Look, you're always so nice to me on my birthday, yeah? I just want to do the same for you."
Edwin still won't look at him. "That's not the same." He mumbles.
Charles' eyebrows shoot up as he lets out a mirthless laugh. "Not the- in what world is it not the same?!"
"Charles, just drop it, please-" Edwin's brow is furrowed as if he's in pain, but Charles is on a roll now.
"No! Something's obviously wrong, and I don't know why you won't just tell me!" He's trying so hard to keep his voice level but he's frustrated, and he's confused, and he's a bit fucking hurt frankly. What, does Edwin not trust him or something?
"I thought we were friends." He hates how small and whiney it sounds, but he can't help it.
Edwin spins sharply to face him, a look of alarm painted across his features. "Of course we are!" He cries.
Rather than reassure, that just serves to rile Charles up more. He throws his hands out in exasperation. "So why won't you just tell me-"
"I DON'T REMEMBER!"
The shout leaves both of them reeling. Edwin's chest is heaving, and he's shaking like a leaf. Charles freezes, staring at Edwin with wide, non-blinking eyes. A cold feeling of dread settles in his stomach.
"You.." he croaks. That's all he can get out, his mouth left agape. His mind is racing with what on earth that could possibly mean, because surely not...
Edwin runs an agitated hand through his hair.
"Is that what you want to hear?" He snaps, "I. Don't. Remember."
Out of every possible reason Charles had come up with to explain Edwin's reluctance to share... He desperately hopes that Edwin's simply chosen a terrible moment to try and make a joke.
"Ed-" He tries, but is swiftly cut off.
"I don't know if it's come up before, Charles," Edwin starts, his words sharp and swift, "but after I died, I spent a considerable amount of time in Hell. Seven decades, in fact!" He even throws up seven tense fingers to underscore his words. "Have I not mentioned it? I feel like I must have mentioned it, no?"
He's genuinely waiting for an answer, Charles realises after a beat. "Yeah, you've uh," he swallows, "you've mentioned it."
Edwin nods as if in thanks, though the gesture holds no gratitude.
"Now, I do apologise if I've lead you to think that I was speaking metaphorically. When I say 'Hell', I am not simply referring to a bit of a rough patch. I mean Hell. Fire, brimstone, torture, the whole shebang."
He stalks from out behind the desk towards Charles, glaring. He has to pause for breath, apparently so wound up that he's forgotten that he doesn't actually need air.
"And in between all of said fire and brimstone and torture, I must admit, I had more important things on my mind than something as, as trivial or as pointless as my bloody birthday!" His voice raises at the end as he stops just in front Charles.
"Edwin," he manages to stammer, "I, I don't-" but Edwin bulldozes over him.
"To be frank with you Charles, my name is just about the only thing I had left when I made my escape. The minucia details of my life were simply gone." He barks out a laugh, a bitter, broken sounding thing that makes Charles feel sick. "I can't even remember the names of my parents, let alone my birthday!"
He looks at Charles, properly looks at him, and the tension suddenly leaves his frame. He closes his eyes and heaves out a sigh. Not one of his dramatic little oh-woe-is-me sighs, but a proper sigh of resigned exhaustion. He suddenly looks so...so old.
"All I know," he says quietly, "all I have, is this existence with you." Edwin opens his eyes and looks at him pleadingly, "And I love it Charles, I really do. You are the best friend that anyone could ever hope for, and I thank my lucky stars everyday that you decided to stay."
Charles wants to reassure him, wants to scoff at the word 'decided', because it wasn't like it was a difficult decision. Easiest thing he's ever done, giving up a nebulous afterlife to stay with Edwin. But his throat has gone and closed up. He can't speak. Charles doesn't think he'd be able to breathe if that was an option anymore.
"But I beg of you," Edwin reaches for Charles's hand but hesitates, as if scared the touch wouldn't be welcome. Charles quickly scrambles to connect them, and Edwin squeezes it in a non-verbal thanks. "Please, stop asking me for answers that I simply cannot give."
Edwin gives a sad little shrug, a what can you do about it sort of shrug, and Charles wants to break something. That's the sort of look you'd expect when the local corner shop runs out of your favourite crisps. Not...jesus, not this.
"Celebrating you and your birthday, Charles, it is an honour. And I look forward to it every year. That is more than enough for me, I promise. Alright?"
The look on Edwin's face is gentle. It's a look that Charles knows all too well, and it glows no less brightly in the absence of lantern light. Charles doesn't trust himself to speak, so all he can do is nod. Edwin lets out a breath through his nose and nods back.
"Alright. Now, if we could please get back to the case at hand?" He's moving before Charles can respond, briskly walking to the mirror. He places a hand on its surface, but pauses before he goes.
"Thank you," he says quietly to the reflectionless surface, "for trying to be kind. I am sorry for raising my voice."
With that, he steps through, leaving Charles alone, the hand that Edwin was just holding still uselesly outstretched. There's a lingering warmth on his fingers, and he curls them towards his palm as if in preservation.
The silence in the office is both enormous and suffocating, only broken by the words 'I don't remember' ringing in his ears.
He's caught off guard by the first sob.
He swipes harshly at the treacherous tears rolling down his cheeks, but the dam has already burst.
He stumbles backwards and collapses onto the couch, a hand uselessly clamped over his mouth as he weeps. He's gotten used to muffling crying in his lifetime, and it's a force of habit to do it now.
Charles doesn't know who exactly is in charge of sending people off to their afterlifes. If it's up to Death herself, or if there's some other higher being she answers to.
But whichever miserable bastard it is, he's gonna find 'em. And when he gets his hands on them, he's gonna wring their stupid fucking necks in.
Seventy three years. Seventy three fucking years. Charles had heard teachers in St.Hilarion's assemblies bang on and on about being virtuous and well mannered, lest he and his fellow school mates end up damned for all eternity. He's heard the scripture, he's read the poems, he's seen the paintings.
He'd never paid any of it much heed. Why would he? It was heavy shit to throw at teenagers, and it's not like he'd believed in any of it. It always felt like nothing more than a scare tactic to keep them in line.
It's bad enough to know that his teachers weren't actually talking out of their arses; scary enough to think that Hell is a real, tangible place. But to know that somewhere so cruel and unforgiving had sunken its rotten claws into Edwin?
He knows Edwin was in Hell, of course he does. Anyone who meets Edwin for more than twenty minutes knows that Edwin was in Hell. He doesn't exactly keep it quiet.
But Charles always tries his best to not think about it. Not because he doesn't care! Just the fucking opposite. Charles has always had an active imagination, and if he thinks about it for even a few seconds too long, lets himself process the idea of Edwin in Hell? Well he doubts he would ever let Edwin out of his sight again.
But it's not just that, though, is it?
Edwin had gone through fuck knows what for far too long, and what does he do when he finally escapes? Stumbles across a dying stranger who he owes nothing to, reads them a fucking bed time story, and makes sure that in their final moments, they feel safe. Seventy years of violence and agony, and the first thing he does is choose to be kind.
If Edwin Payne managed to earn damnation, then what hope is there for anyone?
I don't deserve him Charles thinks as drops his head and rakes agitated fingers through his hair, the everloving fuck did I do to deserve him?
He replays their argument, mentally kicking himself as he sees Edwin's face the moment everything starts to fall apart. He should've known to back off, and he feels bloody awful, but it's not just guilt niggling at him.
He's seen Edwin angry, properly angry only a handful of times. He's gets wound up sometimes, sure, but he's never had what Charles would call a temper. It's rare for him to get actually angry, and it's never at Charles. And that? Nah, that wasn't Edwin angry.
He pictures Edwin again, concentrating on his face instead of his words.
It was more like...
Charles looks up sharply, a terrible thought clicking into place.
Edwin wasn't pissed, he realises, he was embarrassed.
Like forgetting his own fucking birthday due to almost a century of trauma was an awkward social faux pas.
It's enough to set him off crying again.
"Oh, Edwin." Charles sighs shakily, "God."
He can't take it away, he knows that. As desperate as he is to, he can't take away the lingering fear and pain that insidiously clings to Edwin.
But he can give him something back.
Fifteen minutes, he tells himself as he squeezes his eyes shut. He'll allow himself fifteen more minutes of tears before he pulls himself together.
He's got a new case to be getting on with, after all.