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I.
"Okay, so what the fuck is the deal with ghost clothes?" Crystal finally demands one day when the boys return from a case and Charles drops his coat over the sofa while Edwin neatly hangs his on the office's designated hook. She's been wasting way too much brainpower speculating, and it's officially time for answers.
Edwin and Charles exchange confused looks. "What are you on about, Crystal?" Edwin asks, seemingly mildly concerned for her sanity.
"Your clothes are invisible like you are, right? So are they a part of you or what? Did you guys just shuck off a layer of ghost skin and set it aside for later?"
"I wouldn't put it like that," Charles says, grimacing in mild distaste. "But our clothes are invisible and they don't protect us from iron, so… yeah… they're made of the same stuff we are."
"Then--then where do they come from? Is there some ghost tailor you guys go to, or…?"
Charles stifles a laugh while Edwin suppresses a smile. "Much simpler than that, Crystal," the latter says. "We manifest them. As spectral rather than physical beings, we have full command over our appearance. Like so…"
Crystal blinks, and Edwin's now in the fetching green sweater he'd once worn back in Port Townsend with no bowtie, collar, or jacket. He spreads his arms. "See?"
"I'll do you one better, mate," Charles says with a mischievous grin, and suddenly he's in an exact replica of Edwin's usual suit, complete with high socks and knickerbockers. Even his hair's neatly coiffed. "What'd you think, too old-school?"
"Not at all," Edwin sniffs. "In fact, you look exceptionally distinguished for once."
"So let me get this straight…" Crystal says. "You guys can instantly conjure up whatever outfits you want, yet you've both stuck with the exact same looks for thirty-plus years? What are you, cartoon characters?"
"Oi, ease up," Charles protests with a slight pout. He's back in his red polo again. "We're blokes, and it's just simpler to keep things the same rather than worry about all that. Besides, our fits are part of our whole brand, yeah?"
As Crystal rolls her eyes, she notices that Charles' coat, the one he'd carelessly dropped on the sofa, has vanished. "Uh… where's your…?"
Charles glances over. "Oh, must've slipped my mind," he says lightly. A half-second later he's wearing the coat, and shooting Crystal a cheeky wink.
II.
From that point on, whenever their investigations lead them somewhere with a distinctive subculture, theme, or dress code, Charles adjusts to match. Crystal knows it's mostly for her and Edwin's amusement, and since even the latter deigns to give an affectionate eyeroll each time, it's clearly a worthy bit. On one memorable occasion when a case brings them to the Clowns Gallery-Museum in central London, Charles abruptly morphs into one--bone-white makeup, bulbous red nose, frilly onesie, the whole nine yards--and startles Edwin so badly he shrieks.
Crystal watches Charles chase Edwin around the exhibits, red-smeared lips puckered and arms thrown wide, while trying her damndest to not look like a lunatic chortling to herself.
"C'mere love, ol' Wiggles needs a snog!" Charles croons, looking utterly demented.
"Sod off, you utter cretin!" But Edwin's half-laughing, too, and Charles is thankfully restored to his normal appearance by the time he catches the former in his arms and gives him a brief, sweet kiss.
"You're a garish cad, Charles Rowland," Edwin declares, though his soft eyes tell an entirely different story.
"Mm, whatever you say, love…"
Once again, Crystal silently thanks the unnamed powers-that-be for Charles finally pulling his head out of his ass, and for one less potential ulcer in her future.
That's what she thinks. "Hey, you dorks gonna keep necking in the clown museum, or are we here to solve a case?" is what she says.
III.
In the long-abandoned ballroom of a haunted estate on the outskirts of London, a sizable group of well-dressed, turn-of-the-century ghosts are having themselves a grand old time. Several couples waltz to disembodied music while others chat and jest, perpetually-replenishing cocktails held in silk-gloved hands.
"Is this a loop?" Crystal whispers from where they're crouching just outside the ballroom's massive outer glass wall. "Like in the Devlin house?"
"I'm… not sure," Edwin says, brow furrowed. "No repeating patterns, no grisly, traumatic deaths. Wait here, Crystal. Charles and I will get a closer look."
"You're benching me? Why?" she demands.
Edwin gives his trademark look of weary condescension, and Charles fights a grin. "Because we don't yet know how lucid these spirits are, whether they even know they're dead, or how they'll react to interlopers. As fellow ghosts, Charles and I are far less likely to alarm them."
Charles leaps at the opportunity and promptly switches out his regular fit for a nice Edwardian-era tailcoat with all the fixings--he'd caught a glimpse of it over Crystal's shoulder when she'd been watching Downton Abbey on her laptop. He rises to his feet and runs a gloved hand down his starched white front; while he doesn't have the benefit of a reflection, he reckons he must look pretty sharp. "Shall we, Eds?"
Edwin gapes at him in a way that makes his stomach flip--as good an endorsement as any.
"C--certainly," he stammers, rising from his crouch and taking Charles' offered arm. Edwin changes too, but more subtly, only swapping out his schoolboy trousers and boots with a pair of matching slacks and dress shoes. Together, they phase through the glass and into the warmly-lit ballroom.
"Act natural," Edwin mutters from the corner of his mouth as a few ghosts turn to look quizzically in their direction.
"What exactly does that mean, mate?" Charles mutters back. He jumps when Edwin's answer is to circle his waist with one arm and take his hand with the other. "Uh, what are you--"
"What does it look like?" is the slightly-exasperated reply. Edwin's now facing him, and that look of calm, knowing focus never fails to turn Charles' knees to jelly. Definitely not ideal for what he's pretty sure they're about to do. "Put your hand on my shoulder, and follow my lead."
Edwin steps and turns to the music with elegant assurance alongside the other waltzing ghost couples, bringing Charles right along with him. It's easier than Charles expects, though most of the credit belongs to his spry-footed partner.
"Should've known you'd be good at this, Eds," Charles says with a fond grin.
Edwin inclines his head. "I was raised as a proper gentleman, after all." His eyes briefly sweep Charles up and down. "Obviously you can't see it for yourself, so you'll just have to trust me when I say that you look astonishing, Charles. This suit truly becomes you."
Charles ducks his head; if he could blush, he'd be deep crimson. Something about Edwin's compliments never fails to render him a bashful mess--their sincerity, their old-fashioned eloquence… or maybe it's just because it's Edwin giving them.
Edwin twirls them around and leans near Charles' ear. "And I very much anticipate removing it piece-by-piece," he murmurs.
Charles stumbles and nearly faceplants on the floor.
IV.
"Absolutely not," Edwin says shortly, crossing his arms. "I'll wear my disguise like we always do."
"Mate, you know those are for passing as human, yeah?" Charles says. "This is a ghost society we're infiltrating--we'll have to go as ourselves."
"A society of modern ghosts who all died six months ago," Crystal adds helpfully. "Your so-called 'brand' will bite you in the ass if you sashay in there dressed like a great-great-grandpa."
Edwin adjusts his cuffs self-consciously. "Fine," he relents. "Crystal, would you lend me your portable phone's services for a moment?"
She taps and scrolls for him, as touchscreens aren't exactly programmed to register ghost fingers.
"What are you doing?" Charles asks, coming over for a look. He peeks over Crystal's shoulder on her other side and finds her scrolling through images of various modern outfits.
"Ugh, no… not that… certainly not…" Edwin mutters as the pictures slide by. "Have I ever mentioned how utterly hideous your generation's fashion is?"
Crystal rolls her eyes at Charles, who grins.
Edwin eventually decides on his outfit after a sizable visual sample, though he doesn't voice it aloud. He only stands back and steeples his hands at his waist in that endearingly distinctive gesture.
"I'd like your honest appraisals, please, otherwise there's no point."
"Sure thing, mate," Charles says, surprised at the intensity of his own anticipation. Edwin in modern clothes--this would be a complete first for him. "Give it a go."
"I'll be as mean as possible, I promise," Crystal smirks.
With a look of weary resignation, Edwin changes.
What he goes with isn't half-bad, if a little safe--open collared shirt, T-shirt underneath, skinny jeans, navy trainers. It's just the sheer absurdity of these items on thoroughly-Edwardian Edwin Payne that strikes Charles dumb. Though, admittedly, his legs do look proper nice in those jeans.
Crystal cocks her head, eyes narrowed. "Kind of boring, but it'll work. Roll up your sleeves to the elbows; you'll look more casual that way."
Grudgingly, Edwin does so. Charles finds himself swallowing hard at the lean, pale columns of his rarely-exposed forearms.
Crystal taps her lip as she thinks. "Something's still off, but I'm not… oh!" Her eyes light up. "Your hair, that's a dead giveaway. Whatever ghost gel you use, get rid of it."
More indignant than before but acquiescent nonetheless, Edwin rearranges his hair. Loose, full curls replace the flawless coif, tumbling softly over his forehead, and Charles' breath catches.
He'd always thought that Edwin looked like a perfect relic of his time: refined, sharp-boned, with a certain sophisticated, austere quality to him that belied his tender age at his time of death. But the person standing before him looks young, painfully so. Just a boy like Charles was, who wouldn't have been particularly out of place in the latter's era if he'd looked like this, and for whom Charles would have definitely spared a few (hundred) additional glances.
"You haven't said a word, Charles," Edwin says. "Is it really that awful?"
Charles quickly shakes his head. "No, no, mate… you look… good. Really good."
Edwin preens a little, visibly pleased.
Charles tears his eyes from Edwin and turns to Crystal. "We're… going to have a slight delay."
"We are?" both Edwin and Crystal ask.
Charles' jaw works as he turns back to Edwin, whose breath catches and eyes widen in understanding beneath those lovely curls. "Yeah, for at least a couple hours."
Crystal can't flee the office fast enough.
V.
+1
Charles feeling like an idiot isn't anything new, but it's far worse this time because Edwin bore its direct fallout.
He'd leapt in front of Charles and taken a stream of spectral acid to the chest, shot from a massive Wraithbane Spitter in the abandoned, overgrown magical garden they'd been investigating. It would've melted Charles into a permanently-insensate puddle, but against Edwin's Hell-forged resilience it'd only regressed him to his purest, simplest state.
"Is he gonna be okay?" Crystal asks back at the office, eyes wide with worry. "Last time I saw either of you like this, Esther had stuffed you in some glass case--"
"He'll be fine," Charles says, cupping the glowing orb of Edwin's soul. "Moving, talking, and looking like we typically do takes energy, yeah? Not much, but some. When we really need a breather, we revert to basics so we can properly recharge. And anything that doesn't outright destroy us, we can always come back from." He gently guides the orb forward, and it bobs delicately toward her.
"Can he hear us right now?" Crystal says softly, cupping her hands beneath it.
"Nah, he's probably turned it off."
"Oh wow, he's warm…" She gently pokes the orb, because of course she does, and a faint aura of indignation radiates from it.
Later, after Crystal's left for the night, Charles plants himself comfortably on the sofa with Edwin cradled in his lap.
"Sorry, mate," he murmurs softly. "I should've been quicker and just jumped out the bloody way…" He sighs and holds Edwin closer, marveling at the purity and luminescence of his soul--not even all those decades in Hell had remotely tarnished it. "But you're the reason I'm not proper dead right now, so thanks for that."
What matters is that Edwin's safe, he'll recover soon, and that's enough. Well, almost enough…
Charles sits back and fully relaxes, the ghost equivalent of deliberately unclenching his muscles one by one. The world as he usually perceives it fades away, losing complexity and definition, and he himself becomes something smaller, simpler.
Eds, you there? he projects into the ether.
What is it? comes the vaguely irritable reply. I'm nearly restored, there's no need for you to…
Nothing, mate. Just… glad you're all right.
I'm perfectly fine, Charles. A few ticks more, and I'll be good as new.
No rush, Eds. You know, I think I'd be just as chuffed even if we were stuck like this forever. As long as you were there with me.
A brief pause. Two disembodied souls tethered together, floating aimlessly across the skies?
Yeah, exactly. It'd still be aces, wouldn't it?
A wave of wordless affection radiates tangibly from Edwin's soul. Charles bathes in its warmth, letting it soak into him, and repays in kind.
… Eds?
Yes, Charles?
When you come back, could you please let your hair down again?
… I'll consider it.
