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What should have been a mundane Thursday morning turned into an unnerving sequence of events when Niko and Crystal rang the emergency phone and requested Edwin's presence at their flat, sans Charles.
In hindsight, maybe that should have been the first sign that something was amiss.
When they had it installed in the office shortly after discovering Niko's whereabouts and, subsequently, bringing her home to London (not easily, but determinedly), Edwin emphasized that "The fossil," a name coined by Crystal, wasn't installed for casual chats. The phone was to be a protective measure that signaled danger and the need for a quick response. It was a fail-safe.
The girls had never rung the emergency phone before.
So, it was only reasonable that the shrill old thing, nearly vibrating off its perch not even an hour following the sunrise, after they wrapped a case up well into the late hours of the night and dropped the girls off at their flat at an ungodly hour for living people to be settling in, would make some alarm bells go off in his head, wasn't it?
On the other hand, Charles had become a bit of a worrier those months after Port Townsend. All the dangers they'd faced bringing Niko back did nothing to quell the nagging, incessant feeling that danger lurked around every corner. For a while, he couldn't tell if the work had changed or if he had changed. He'd no longer felt invincible and impervious to the monsters and mayhem as he once did, and he wracked his brain for answers as to why at every turn, because surely there had been risky cases before. It was undeniable, though, that after Port Townsend and the addition of the Night Nurse, everything felt so much more... serious. The stakes felt higher. He couldn't quiet the thoughts that insisted he'd taken too much for granted and that he'd been careless, so he couldn't let the events of that little seaside town happen again. He couldn't lose the life he'd made in death, and he couldn't lose —
Grey-green eyes filled with reverence. Deft fingers brushing Charles' jacket collar and popping it the improper way, just how he liked. The lilting cadence of repetitious, hard-learned spellwork, dead languages, and fictional stories. Competitive Cluedo matches. Wordless conversation through glances, raised eyebrows, a hand held out expectantly... trustingly. A laugh, bashful at first but then uninhibited — genuine, and never out of pity. A bowtie that was always being tweaked because Charles just couldn't help but touch, in whatever way he was permitted. Edwin, Edwin, Edwin...
It came back to Edwin. Maybe it always had, and always would.
After Port Townsend, it was as if he and Edwin, who actually had seemed freer than ever after his admission in Hell and reassurances from the Lost and Found Department, switched places. Charles poured himself into the work, clutched his bat a whole lot tighter, and stocked his bag with a bit more precision and intention. If he spent the downtime between cases scouring the shelves of London's best (and worst) curio shops to brush up on the base-level runic, protective magic he'd picked over the years, and went well into the late hours trying out new swings, new steps, new evasive maneuvers until his spectral body felt a bit frayed around the edges... well, that wasn't anyone's business, was it?
It took several months to get to a point where Edwin could leave Charles' sight without panic or dread setting in. It took just slightly more than several months for a nasty fight to inevitably ensue, which sucked in the moment but was ultimately for the best. Words were exchanged; some past insecurities were explored, and admissions of love and fear all in one were shared.
The changes were fucking terrifying, and they were good. Genuinely good. Because once everything was out in the open, it was as if all the color he'd lost over the course of seven or so months had rushed back into him at once, like each frantic what-if consolidated into a singular, manageable form that fit in the palm of his hands. He finally let his shoulders relax a bit, unclenched his jaw, and stopped pushing the limits of his ghostly abilities at every turn. He finally kissed his best mate after thirty years of denying himself the right to do so.
So when the call came, despite the nagging fear, Charles put on a smile and respected Niko and Crystal's wishes. He didn't push when Edwin's features fell into the vacant, far-off way that usually meant he was lost in the labyrinth of his own mind. He didn't jump on the first opportunity to question Edwin as he placed the phone down on the receiver and turned on his heels toward the mirror with uncharacteristic trepidation in his every step. He didn't even press when Edwin, in such a rush to get to the girls, didn't grab his coat. Charles simply sent his love off with what he hoped was convincing nonchalance, a simple, "I'll be here if you need me, yeah? Be safe," and a brush of his lips on Edwin's cheek. He watched, through clenched teeth, as the person he knew better than anyone nodded and smiled in a way that didn't quite meet his eyes.
Charles was a good detective. Not the best, he reckoned, but pretty damn good. The call might have been a clue, but Edwin's demeanor was a confirmation. Something was wrong, and whatever was wrong had to do with Charles.
Nearly an hour of restless pacing and shuffling the Cluedo closet around passed before Edwin finally reappeared through the mirror, fists pressed to his sides and the corners of his mouth pulled tight. Before Charles could fuss over Edwin's distraught appearance or finally ask any of the questions that had been resting on the tip of his tongue, the words growing clumsy and desperate in their time apart, Edwin seemed to have anticipated his anxiety. He closed the distance between them and gave Charles' arms a gentle, reassuring squeeze.
"Charles," he began, so breathless and achingly gentle that Charles might not have heard him at all over the sound of his long-dead heart needlessly phantom-pounding in his chest, "Rest assured, we are all perfectly well. I apologize for rushing out of the office with so little explanation. I... well, I did not mean to frighten you."
He didn't find the platitude particularly reassuring, because he knew Edwin Payne better than he knew anyone or anything else in his short life or afterlife. The only thing it made him realize was that things might actually be worse than he thought. Whatever was wrong not only had to do with him, it was also bad enough that his partner, the most articulate, straightforward person he knew, was dancing around the point and overthinking his words in a way he never did — not even in the face of danger.
"You guys figured it out, then? Assumed it was an emergency and all since, you know..." He did a half-hearted gesture in the general direction of the phone, but refused to take his eyes off his boyfriend.
Edwin stalled, looking conflicted for only a moment before he took a deep breath and exhaled, all of his unusual nervousness seeming to go with it. He reached for Charles' hands, which the younger ghost took without a second thought, despite his impatience about the situation. His traitorous body was pliable under Edwin's tender touch and demanded to be comforted and grounded in a way that only quiet moments like these could provide, circumstances be damned.
After caressing each of Charles' fingers two times over with the pad of his thumbs, he finally looked up, and they locked eyes. His voice was gentle and even as he said, "Would you be so kind as to accompany me to Niko and Crystal's flat? We have been working on somewhat of a case lately —"
Charles' face must have cycled through a million expressions. He wasn't sure what to expect, but a case? Without him? He was confused, but there was also the ugly, lingering shame of betrayal deep below his skin. Why would they take on a case and hide it from him? When did the client even stop by? How long had the case been going on? Before he could follow the impulse to interrupt and ask follow-up questions, though, Edwin barrelled on.
"I promise it will make sense soon enough." Edwin stopped, and Charles watched as he momentarily worried his bottom lip with his teeth before shakily adding, in a voice much quieter than before, "Please... trust me?"
Charles didn't need to be asked again; he'd taken Edwin's words like an oath from the moment they met, and it'd never failed him before. So he nodded and tightened his hold on Edwin's hand as permission and encouragement in equal measure, allowing Edwin to delicately guide him through the mirror dimension. In seconds, they emerged through the entryway mirror in Niko and Crystal's flat, and Edwin rapped his knuckles on the hall table three times in the agreed-upon way to alert the girls when they'd arrived. Instead of one of Crystal's usual clever digs at Edwin, or Niko's over-enthusiastic jump-hugs, they were met with silence, but Edwin kept moving them forward anyway.
When they entered the sitting room, the girls were on the couch, still dressed in their PJs. The adorableness of that visual might have been enough to soften the tension in Charles' body if not for the unsettling quiet that still hung heavy in the air. There was no music blasting from Crystal's portable speaker, short-form videos blaring from her cellphone, or blow dryer roaring on its highest setting from their tiny shared bathroom. None of Niko's cartoons or brightly colored shows were playing on the TV, not even as low-volume background noise. Half the time the boys arrived, they walked in midway through a lively conversation, but there were no animated giggles or chirpy, upbeat topics to butt in on. Both girls just sat with matching inscrutable expressions. Crystal wouldn't even meet his eyes.
Edwin, who hadn't left his side since returning to the office, finally broke the silence that seemed to stretch on.
"Charles, perhaps you should sit down..."
"Nah, mate. I'm brills right where I am, thanks. What's going on?" He knows it's more abrupt than he'd normally be, but the strangeness of the situation was starting to wear him thin.
"The case that I referenced earlier, the one we've been working on?" Edwin paused to check if Charles was following along, and he was. Charles nodded tersely, which was enough of an affirmative for Edwin to continue.
"The case has to do with your father."
"My dad? Why —"
Crystal cut in. "I ran into him at a coffee shop, like, a week ago?" She unfolded her legs and sat up straighter, as if steeling herself. "I didn't know it was him at the time, but he bumped into me on the way out, and you know how it's been lately, with my powers..."
Charles did know. She'd been learning things from her ancestors, about the full scope of her abilities. He was still confused about what all this had to do with his dad, or why they'd think any case having to do with his dad would be an okay thing to pursue without letting him know first. But, as if reading his mind — and hell, maybe she could now, for all he knew — Crystal elaborated.
"I've been working on this new thing; it's kind of like reading people, like how I could do before, but... more. Like I don't just see their thoughts or their memories, I get these feelings..."
Charles interrupted. "Feelings?" It came out tense, skeptical, frustration pouring out of every needlessly elongated letter.
Crystal's eyes flashed with impatience for a moment, so she looked up to the nonexistent heavens, mumbling something so low that Charles couldn't even hear her from his place a little ways across the room. To her credit, her voice only came out slightly strained when she finally continued.
"Yes, feelings, and they can be about a lot of things. I'm still figuring it all out, but sometimes a really strong one comes through. I've only felt it like two or three other times, but each time it felt the same and meant the same thing."
"Okay..." Charles looked around. Everyone looked at him expectantly, like they were waiting for him to have some kind of "aha" moment by now, but he still couldn't square what they were on about, especially with such vague and limited information. He ran a hand through his hair, huffed out a breath, and finally conceded, "Sorry, I'm just not sure I understand where you're going with this, Crys."
Edwin clarified, "She sensed death's mark, Charles. I admit, I wasn't sure about the validity of the premonition when Crystal first came to me. After some preliminary research and consultation with associates of the Lost and Found Department, however, I came to realize that I had been too hasty to dismiss her concerns."
Charles swallowed, his throat feeling the phantom sensation of being dry, even though his need for water had long since abandoned him in the attic of St. Hilarion's. The pieces slotted together, but he still needed to hear it.
"Death's mark... right. So he... he must have... how much time —"
"He passed late last night, dove," Edwin whispered, putting Charles out of his bumbling misery and confirming what he'd already deduced.
Everything went quiet again except for the sound of Crystal biting her nails, a nervous habit she told him she was trying to break a couple of weeks ago. She still wouldn't look at him.
His father had died.
Niko, who hadn't said a word since they arrived, sniffled quietly from her spot on the couch a few feet away and did her best to hide the evidence with a hurried swipe at her eyes. Her socked feet shuffled restlessly, toeing anxiously at the fluffy area rug, the grips producing the faintest squeak with each brush on the hardwood floor beneath.
His father was dead.
Edwin definitely started talking again, and even if Charles couldn't decipher what was being said, it filled his chest with a familiar warmth that kept him from phasing through the floor entirely. He stared down at his loafers, a faint ring in his ear joining the cacophony of muddled sound as other voices joined in with Edwin's. He couldn't make out what they were saying either. He hated wearing shoes inside, even now as a ghost. Was it too late to take them off? Should he ask? He opened his mouth, but no sound came out; he couldn't find his voice. When he looked back down, his gaze caught the jump-scare-induced cocoa stain Niko left on the rug during a movie night two weekends ago. It was Crystal's pick, a horror film to match the spooky vibes of the season, she had said. Edwin thought the plot was predictable. Crystal called him an elitist? A movie snob? Maybe both. It was hard to remember because when Niko's mug hit the floor, Charles felt the phantom sensation of his father's footsteps approaching from the other room, the sound of leather sliding along denim making his arm hairs stand on end. At the time, he sprang up to help without examining the why too closely.
His father had died, and he wanted to look up from the spot on the floor; he really did, but he hadn't done a very good job of helping Niko clean up the stain, had he? His lungs filled with water suddenly, a cold chill ran down his spine, and his hands shook helplessly at his side, even when he tried to curl them into fists. Everything was drifting farther away, so he gasped, the present part of him apparently forgetting that he no longer needed to breathe. The full weight of the situation bore down on him at once.
His father was dead. Charles could feel the sting of his father's knuckles across his cheek, his chunky, dated wedding band tearing at the sensitive skin of his upper lip on its way down, at the same time as he felt a warm hand patting him on the shoulder out of pride for a game well-played. He felt every ridge permanently etched into his back and his sides sting. He felt fingers tousling his curls in jest.
He felt like he was dying all over again.
Back in the early days, when he'd first met Edwin and had no fucking clue how to help him when memories of Hell would rear their ugly head, and Edwin would curl up and lose himself a bit, Charles learned a lot of breathing exercises and grounding techniques. They worked for Edwin; maybe they could work for Charles, too.
Five things he could see: the telly, a funky-looking lamp, Crystal's purple slippers, Niko's favorite tea mug with the kitty cozy, a laptop discarded on the floor — definitely not the safest place for that —
Crystal must have gotten up at some point. In two short steps, she was standing before him, her hands hovering helplessly. "Holy shit, can ghosts pass out, Edwin?"
More noise and movement; he felt like he was in the eye of a hurricane as everyone sprang into action around him, and hurriedly guided him to sit on the plush sofa. He could feel Edwin's hand on his chest, right over where his heart would be. He let out a shuddered breath and placed his own hand there, too.
Four things he could touch: not the sofa, that's for sure — why had they sat him here? The smooth fabric of his trousers, the teeth of his jacket zipper, the chain around his neck, Edwin...
He clutched the spot where Edwin's hand once was, but he had gone. Where had he gone? His vision blurred, his unblinking eyes locked onto a painting he'd planned to hang up for Crystal and Niko later that day.
Three things he could hear: the building's concerningly old pipes clamoring and coming to life with the early morning rush of people getting up and out the door. Crystal and Edwin's bickering — indiscernible in his present state. Niko —
Niko crouched down in front of Charles and covered his fidgeting hands with her own. "Charles, can you look at me?"
Two things he could smell: he and Edwin never got this far, did they? He's a ghost, he can't smell shit, so how in the bloody hell —
Niko spoke again, firmer this time. "Charles, I know this is a lot, but you're safe here. Can you give me a sign that you can hear me?"
He finally tore his eyes away from the painting, jolted back to himself by her earnest concern. Everyone was looking at him, sad and scared, and — oh god, were they scared of him, or how he might react? His brain started screaming fix it, fix it, fix it, so he cleared his throat and quickly cobbled an answer together.
"Sorry. That's... well, there's no need to cry now, is there?" He squeezed her hands in his and put on what he hoped was a comforting smile, an attempt to hide the fact that he was silently kicking himself for his voice shaking. "He was a right tosser, and you don't need to waste your tears on him, Neeks," he reassured.
Niko's eyes widened as she reached up and wiped a stray tear from his cheek. Was he crying? When had he started crying?
"Charles... I'm not crying for him. I'm worried about you. We all are."
It was all too much. Suddenly, he was phasing out, becoming incorporeal long enough for Niko to very nearly faceplant into the couch at the sudden loss of stability, but she didn't even try to brace herself. She reached back at Charles' hand instead, and Edwin caught her in the nick of time.
"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. Fuck! I don't know... I don't know what's wrong with me. I'm sorry..."
The words burst out of Charles between crushing sobs, each one sounding more pained than the last, scraping his throat raw in their haste to escape. He was having physical sensations he hadn't felt in years. The body remembers. You might be dead, but your body remembers what this feeling felt like, what it was like to be alive. What loss felt like. Niko started to scoot forward on her knees, closer to him.
"Don't," he wailed, "I'm sorry, I don't want to hurt you, you almost fell, and —" he pulled himself farther back on the couch, as if her touch would burn him. He felt like a child, instinctively tucking his knees tight to his chest and wrapping his arms around himself. He hated how he raised his voice at Niko, but more than anything, he just wanted to protect her. To protect all of them. Even if he had to protect them from himself.
Niko's features hardened then, and Charles thought for a moment that he'd managed to piss off one of the most immovable, patient people he knew, and that she was going to get up and leave him to lick his wounds alone. It would serve him right. Instead, she shocked him by throwing the weight of her whole body onto him. When he caught her, she rested her head on his chest and wrapped her arms around him, evoking the mental image of the soft, pink octopus plush that sat on her bed. Once Charles' chest wasn't heaving with exorbitant effort, she finally spoke.
"My dad was the kindest person I knew. He was silly, and gave the best hugs, and made everyone feel safe. He didn't die suddenly, and I'm still so sad that he's gone some days, Charles. I can't imagine what you're feeling right now, because I know things were different for you, and that makes me sad, too. But whatever it is you're feeling, you don't have to carry any of it alone."
Crystal, who had been standing back the entire time, resolutely reclaimed her spot on the couch, curled in tightly next to him, and joined the embrace. Edwin was on his other side in an instant, too, foregoing his usual prim posture, resting his chin on Charles' shoulder. His nose brushed along the side of Charles' neck, the only sensation he could really feel, and he left a kiss on his jaw before he mimicked Crystal's posture and held Charles tightly.
"We can stay like this for as long as you want, you know," Crystal began. "You don't have to ask questions right now or be okay. We can talk about the details when you're ready."
His shoulders relaxed; the permission to not sort through all the questions that swirled around in his mind gave way to a feeling of soul-deep exhaustion. He leaned down and kissed Niko and Crystal on the tops of their heads, then turned his head to face his best mate, his boyfriend, the love of his afterlife. When their eyes met, Charles let out a breath he didn't know he'd been holding and closed his eyes, resting his forehead on Edwin's and sinking into the embrace of a family he never thought he'd have.
"Questions later," he murmured. "Sounds aces."
***
Paul Rowland's death happened with little fanfare: a sudden stroke that resulted in a quick passing. His dad was gone the same night they brought him in. A quiet death after a quiet life. Charles would know; he watched from the sidelines.
The nature of his death wasn't a surprise. The old man's blood pressure was bound to catch up with him eventually, always through the roof from all that fiery, fizzing fury that never dissipated even when he got too old to swing a fist or throw something at the nearest wall. Charles passively knew his dad would die eventually; what he didn't realize was how much he'd care.
That was the bloody unfair part of it all, really. He'd gotten better at talking through his feelings, opening up about his parents and the abuse he endured — even if he still struggled with that word from time to time. Before the news of his dad's death, he was beginning to think he was past it all. The joys of his afterlife far outweighed the misfortunes of his short-lived life, and wasn't that enough? He'd gotten better at ignoring the voice that sounded an awful lot like his dad in the last few years, and some days he didn't hear it at all, but now...
Well, now it was like his dad's voice was all he could hear, louder than ever. He was ashamed of the small, secret part of him that hated his father before, but that was when he'd been alive. Now that he'd died, and that part of Charles still carried resentment and disdain, he couldn't help but hate himself a little bit, too, because surely maintaining a grudge against your own father, even after he'd gone and fucking died, was a little excessive. Maybe his dad was right, and he really was a shit son all along.
He'd genuinely wanted to go to the funeral, planned on it, even spent two whole miserable days messing with his clothes in an attempt to conjure up something suitable for a burial. No white — he'd save that for his mum — but something capable, clean, becoming of a young lad. He even took out his earring, made Crystal swear up and down that his eyes were kohl-free, and, with intense concentration, willed away every pin and patch on his coat.
It was ridiculous, really. No one would see him — he'd make sure of that — but his body and mind were operating on different modes entirely. Everyone let him fuss about and pace the office like a madman on a fruitless mission. No cases were taken, no errands were run. The girls were the Agency's only inhabitants for days on end, patrons warded off by a simple sign on the door for the foreseeable future. Concerned looks of all the people he loved followed Charles everywhere he went. When the girls visited, they whispered well-intentioned questions and concerns to each other, and to Edwin, and the only time they stopped was when they caught Charles trying to listen in.
Everything about the process made him feel like he was thirteen again, vying for his father's approval, and everyone tiptoeing around his disoriented, frantic state made him feel even worse. The fussing kept him distracted, though, and it brought on the day of the funeral fairly quickly. But when it was finally time to head out, he was in front of the mirror, coat halfway on, when a stream of thoughts washed over him all at once.
What if he showed up at the funeral and Dad was there, waiting?
What if Dad had unfinished business? What if he hadn't moved on?
What if he showed up at the Agency while Charles was gone?
What kind of son was he that his knee-jerk reaction to all of these thoughts was to beg any force in the universe that might be listening for mercy, and to please, please, please make sure none of those scenarios would be the case?
His father's harsh voice cut through the noise and bellowed, "Hoping your dead father was whisked off quickly for your own comfort... Christ, some son you are. Coward. Stupid boy. You're a fucking disgrace, Charlie."
His knees gave out on him, and he couldn't will himself to get off the floor. He couldn't cry. He wouldn't. He hadn't cried since the day on Niko and Crystal's couch, and he knew breaking down wasn't going to solve anything, so he pulled off his coat instead. He couldn't feel temperature, but somehow he was beginning to feel claustrophobic in clothes that didn't feel like his, and he was hoping that pulling off the extra layers, even if it was just for a moment, would trick his dead brain into compliance with his dead body.
Maybe he just needed to busy himself... make more adjustments to his outfit. He smoothed down the front of his sweater — he had one just like it in his closet when he was alive, and his dad actually didn't hate it like he did most other pieces of Charles' wardrobe — and adjusted his tie for good measure. He vaguely remembered the act of tying a tie, but it felt right under his fingers, so it must have turned out well enough. Little mercies of being a ghost. Finally, he dusted off his trousers and went to stand on shaky legs, when he noticed —
There were tiny faded spots, frayed edges, and pin-prick holes where the adornments on his jacket used to be. The well-loved fabric, which was just an extension of Charles' own essence — not that he ever understood that much — could only be changed so much, apparently. Glaring evidence of incompetence, at worst. Carelessness, at best.
"Get that shit off your nice coat, Charlie! You're gonna fucking ruin it."
Edwin was there in an instant and helped him up off the floor with a simple, "Come now, my darling."
Charles curled in on himself, head resting on Edwin's lap as the older ghost worked his way through lighthearted penny comics and cozy paperbacks. Sometime between the transition between a Hardy Boys and a Nancy Drew, Charles finally found his voice again.
"He was awful, Edwin."
Edwin's hands stilled in his hair. "Yes, my dear, he was." He paused for a second, taking a deep breath before continuing. "Even if he does not deserve an ounce of your sadness, it is completely understandable that you would mourn the loss of a parent. You need not ever apologize for your feelings, however complex or unpleasant they are, nor should you feel guilt for feeling pain he caused you."
Without saying a word, Charles reached for one of Edwin's arms and wrapped it around himself.
"I love you so much, mate."
"And I, you, Charles. I will always be here for you." Edwin leaned down and pressed a kiss to Charles' temple and picked up the story where they left off. They read until the sun set and rose the next day.
***
It'd been a week since the funeral, a little more than since his father had passed, when Charles finally mustered up the courage to visit his father's grave. There was no telling how long he'd been standing in front of it. He still had no idea if his father had moved on or if he was wandering about as a ghost; maybe that's why he insisted that he had to do this alone, and why he was clutching his cricket bat at his side like a lifeline.
Paul Richard Rowland
Beloved husband and father.
1947-2026
They were buried next to each other. When his mum died, she'd probably be buried on the other side of him, too. It was a cruel twist of fate that his body, or what was left of it, would be sandwiched between parents who hadn't mourned him for years. He tried not to feel bitter about it; that body in the ground meant nothing to him now. Still, he couldn't tell if it was the sight of the words 'beloved father' on the gravestone or the proximity of his father's final resting place to his own that was causing him to feel sick. He was about five minutes away from putting Edwin's theory about ghost ailments to the test when he heard footsteps approaching behind him.
"Hello, Charles."
He knew that voice; he'd heard it escort dozens of spirits into their afterlife. Every hard-wired instinct and years of habit screamed at him to run and not look back, but whether it was the fatigue or the odd sense of calm that came with her presence, his body felt rooted to the spot. So, instead of running, he turned and faced her —
Death of the Endless.
In all his years of being a detective and hiding from Death, he'd never gotten a good look at her. But now, with only a few feet of distance separating them, Charles could see that she was far lovelier than she had any right to be. Her warm, ebony skin seemed to glow under the bright spring sunshine. Her smile was radiant, and her curious brown eyes held a twinkle of mischief. From her leather jacket to her bouncy curls, the only word he could think of to describe her was 'mint,' but that didn't really do her justice.
The initial awe of her presence did wear off, however, and blistering, cold-blooded alarm took its place instead. Charles' fingers wrapped tightly around the handle of his bat as he looked her up and down suspiciously.
"What do you want? We, uh... work for your department now, you know, so..."
He held back a wince at how small his voice sounded, but refused to relent, shrugging in a sorry, what can you do kind of gesture that he hoped conveyed calm composure. His week had been bad enough; he wasn't dealing with Death of the Endless trying to whisk him off to the great beyond, too. But Death seemed completely unfazed by his attempted posturing. Everything about her was the picture of calm as she smiled at him — the same kind of smile his mum might have given him when he was being particularly cheeky — and before he could blunder on and make a fool of himself with the curses and threats sitting on his tongue, she finally spoke again.
"I've been meaning to catch up with you and Edwin for quite some time. I might be the Dead Boy Detective Agency's biggest fan, truth be told."
He deflated a bit, disarmed by her praise. "That so?"
She nodded kindly, humming in affirmation, suddenly sidetracked by a nearby magnolia tree. Her fingers gently traced over its delicate blooms and, for a moment, Charles got lost in the motion, too, watching the wind he couldn't feel shake the tree and wondering what it must feel like. She pinched one of the flowers delicately between her fingers, revering it as if it were something special, like it wasn't the same as the fifty other trees scattered all around the old cemetery they were standing in. Something about her careful, unhurried demeanor put Charles at ease, though, so when she'd finally seemed to look her fill and closed the gap between them, taking a place next to him by his father's grave, he wasn't afraid anymore. She wasn't even looking at him now, and holding on to the cricket bat suddenly felt... silly, almost, so he loosened his grip and let it land with a gentle thunk in the grass.
"I know it's customary to bring flowers. Sometimes I do, on the rare occasion I find myself in this position."
He looked over to her, but she made no move to meet his eyes. There was something dark in them that wasn't there before, but otherwise her face betrayed nothing. When she didn't elaborate, Charles broke the silence, unable to take any more heavy pauses. "Not this time?"
With zero hesitation, she said, "No, not this time," and turned toward him. The corners of her mouth deepened into a small frown, not one of pity, but of genuine concern, and, to Charles' surprise, she hugged him. Really, truly embraced him.
"I'm so terribly sorry, sweet boy."
Years of tension, anger, confusion, resentment, love, and fear bubbled up inside of him, and for the first time since learning the news of his father's death, Charles allowed himself to cry. He cried for his mother, who mourned her husband and son and lived in an empty home; he cried for his father's last moments, for the fear he must have felt. He cried about the memories of his father's cruelty that he could never forget, no matter how hard he tried. He cried because he never got to say goodbye, and he cried because he wouldn't know what to say if he got the chance. He cried because his father's death felt like freedom, and he couldn't understand why. He sobbed in Death's arms until he had no tears left to give, and she let him.
When he finally pulled away, spent and well past his emotional limit, he felt the familiar heat of embarrassment, but Death looked almost relieved... proud.
"Thank you, Miss... Death? Miss Endless?" The words felt ridiculous coming out of Charles' mouth, and absurd given the context of the situation, but his mother didn't raise him to be disrespectful now, did she?
Death snorted. "Absolutely not! Death will do just fine, thank you... and you're welcome, for the record. I couldn't have one of my favorite employees feeling underappreciated in a time of loss." She elbowed him playfully, and he couldn't help but let her infectious spirit pull a laugh out of him.
"I'm sorry I can't stay longer. It was nice to talk with you, Charles. Don't be a stranger."
She pinched his cheek and turned to walk away, but there was still so much Charles wanted to know, needed to know, and he likely wouldn't have the chance to talk to her again, at least for a very long time. He took a deep breath, steeled himself, and called out to her before she could get too far.
"Death?"
When she stopped to look over her shoulder, eyebrows raised expectantly, there was a smirk on her lips, like she knew he'd call out to her. He took it as encouragement to go on.
"I know you can't say much, but... did my Dad move on? And my mum..."
What about her? How long does she have? Is she close to the end?
Her gaze softened, smile going bittersweet. "Charles, you know I can't tell you any of that," she replied, tone firm but apologetic. He nodded, understanding, and fixed his eyes on the ground. Even though dread settled itself heavily in his gut at the open-ended possibilities, he refused to make her feel bad when she'd already brought him so much comfort.
Almost immediately, however, she tsked and relented. "Dad won't be showing up at the Agency, and if you crossed paths with Mum, she wouldn't be able to see you... if that helps at all." When he looked up, the twinkle of mischief in her eyes from earlier was back in full force. He smiled back at her and nodded in silent acknowledgement, feeling, not for the first time that week, like something major in his afterlife had shifted.
"Ad meliora. Be gentle to yourself, Charles Rowland... and tell Edwin I said hello," she imparted with a wink.
Before he could respond or assure her that he'd pass the message along, she slyly pointed over her shoulder with an air of fondness to where Edwin stood, endearingly bashful. Charles, who was positive he'd cried enough for one day only moments ago, felt fresh tears fill his eyes at the sight of his favorite person in the world, who, despite being reassured, stood before him, resolute...
...and waiting to walk him home.