Archive of Our Own ^beta

Someone is hurting Charles. 

The evidence for this hypothesis is damning.

First and foremost are of course the injuries. They do get bruised up quite a bit in their line of work. Charles might have a dozen mythological weapons, from Caliburn to the Khatvāṅga reshaped as a cricket bat, and Edwin’s spellcasting is certainly nothing to sniff at. But they are still human at the end of the day. Mortal, mostly. So the bruising across Charles’ ribs is easy enough to write off. Edwin assumes only that it’s left over from the Case of the Lotus Eaters. He’d lost consciousness toward the end of that fight, so it wasn’t at all implausible that Charles might’ve accrued a few injuries that flew beneath his radar.

The bruised and bloody nose that Charles is sporting a few days later, which makes Edwin’s heart jump up into his throat, is less easily explained. Charles comes up with all sorts of excuses, rambling on as Edwin clicks his tongue and dabs away at the place where the skin has split. He couldn’t more obviously be lying, but Edwin assumes—erroneously, apparently—that he’s covering up a moment of reckless heroism. Perhaps saving someone from a mugging or defending the nightly object of his affections in a bar fight. Both those things happen quite a lot. It drives Edwin mad with concern. And with—

Well, it doesn’t matter. 

The black eye that Charles gets the next week, despite their conspicuous lack of cases, turns the entire affair into a mystery. Once is nothing of note. Twice is explicable, if suspicious. But three times is well beyond cause for suspicion. Three times is enough to make Edwin feel poorly for not acting on the first.

The second clue, inevitably, is how cagey Charles is about the entire affair. It is not that Edwin feels entitled to the details of Charles’ life, really, though they’ve known each other for ages now—since they were teenagers. Probably longer, if you count the time they spent back in the Faewild, which must have been at least a few years, even if it amounted to only minutes in the outside world. 

Needless to say, they have very few secrets from each other, these days. Charles, in particular, has been far more open than Edwin ever expected or would have asked for. It also means that Charles wanting to keep secrets very often overlaps with threats to his health and wellbeing.

And that, in turn, is the one thing Edwin cannot abide.

The third and final piece of evidence is that Charles keeps…sneaking out. Edwin doesn’t realize that it’s “sneaking out” at all until that black eye, because Charles is an adult who does as he pleases. 

The difference between Charles sneaking out and simply, say, running some errands without alerting Edwin beforehand, is that he tries to make sure that Edwin is preoccupied before he departs. It happens twice a week, once on Monday nights and once on Thursdays. And for all that Edwin is not especially good with social cues, he can pick up on this one well enough.

Charles doesn’t want Edwin tagging along. He doesn’t want Edwin even entertaining the idea.

These three pieces of evidence are suspicious in isolation. Taken together, they do what all clues do: they come together to form a cohesive picture. A chorus of instruments, each one laid over the others to form a single melody.

Someone is hurting Charles. He’s in trouble, and for some indiscernible reason, he doesn’t trust Edwin to help.

Crystal wouldn’t normally be Edwin’s first, second, or even third point of recourse, no matter how regularly she consults with the Agency. This is not, however, because they aren’t friends. They are, these days. And if he needed help with a problem related to Niko, she would be the second person he turned to after Charles. That’s just practical. 

No, the issue here is that she is still closer to Charles than she has ever been to him. And she has accused him, on more than one occasion, of being a bit of a control freak.

Whatever that means.

Still, he expects that she’ll understand. Charles’ safety might be in jeopardy. So he’s a touch offended—just a touch—when she nearly laughs him out of her flat.

“Fuck,” she says, ignoring the splotch left on her velvet sofa from where she snorted her coffee onto it. Her revolver is disassembled on the coffee table in front of her, a microfiber cloth and a blue dropper of Lucas oil beside it. It is thankfully unloaded. “Oh my god. Did he not tell you?”

Edwin bristles. “Do you mean to imply that you know where he’s accruing these injuries?”

It is not entirely unthinkable. This wouldn’t be the first time that Charles has told Crystal something—something important—that he then declined to share with Edwin at all. Edwin has long-since forced himself to accept that bitter fact. It is still wrenching to be reminded.

“Yeah,” Crystal says. “You really don’t know?” Then she cocks her head to the side, regarding him carefully. “Wow, you don’t.” 

The days in which Crystal was strictly a touch telepath are like a halcyon dream.

“If you could please stay out of my mind,” Edwin reminds her sharply. “For both our sakes.” 

The memory of puckish laughter, overlaid on itself a thousand times and echoing through the woods, comes to the forefront of his mind. He doesn’t mean to call it up, but he doesn’t push it back down either. Maybe she needs to be reminded.

Crystal twitches, clearly disturbed by the cacophony, and her walls go up only a moment later. The shimmer in the air around her vanishes with a pop, tucked behind a protective shield. A turtle withdrawing into its shell.

“Trust me,” says Crystal. “No psychic powers needed for that one. I’m surprised, honestly. You’re aren’t usually that easy to read.”

Edwin hums, if only to hide his concern. If his skills are slipping, then he has a serious problem to deal with. After he figures out what’s happening to Charles, obviously.

“You won’t tell me,” he makes sure to keep his voice measured and flat. Crystal has perceived all too much of his emotional state for one day, thank you. 

“Dude,” Crystal says, though her mouth creases sympathetically. “You told me once that if I ‘ever betrayed Charles’ confidence, you’d turn me inside out.”

“I—” Edwin starts, before cutting himself off. ‘I didn’t mean to me’ is what he’d been about to say, but that…well, admittedly, that doesn’t sound right at all. He also doesn’t think that he’d actually turn Crystal inside out. Anymore. Not that he’d be able to if he wanted. Edwin isn’t too modest to admit that he’s an especially skilled caster, but there’s no denying that Crystal far outpaces him in raw power. “I believe I also asked you to protect him when his safety is in jeopardy.”

“His safety?” Crystal repeats. “God, oh my god, this is so funny.” She doesn’t sound very amused. She sounds bewildered almost to the point of exasperation. “Charles is not in danger, Edwin. Not even a little. I promise. Now can you go? I have a date with my favorite Chinese delivery place and the season premier of Survivor.”

“Then why has he been coming home injured?”

“I’m saying this one more time, Edwin. He’s. Fine. I’m not saying he didn’t get injured, but also, no offense, that’s literally all we do.” Crystal picks up her gun and flicks the cylinder back into place with her thumb. It’s empty, but she keeps the barrel pointed at the ground until she puts it away. Perfect trigger discipline, as always. “Like you, for instance.”

“Me? I beg your pardon?”

“Yeah, you,” she locks the drawer and turns around, and points at him in accusation. “Literally last month you blew two fingers off your hand trying to invent a new spell array. Did you think I forgot?”

Well, yes. He had. Edwin barely remembers it, if he’s being honest. “I fail to see how that’s relevant.”

“It’s relevant because we live dangerous lives,” Crystal practically throws her hands up in the air. “Really dangerous lives, Edwin. Just because Charles is getting the occasional bruise doesn’t mean he suddenly can’t handle himself. And also—” Edwin closes his mouth. “It’s not like you told anyone either, so don’t even. You could’ve called Charles! He was freaking out.”

“I meant to clean it up. The wait at A&E was longer than I expected.”

“So not the point.”

Edwin sighs. “Charles was on a date. I had no intention of interrupting.”

“Okay,” Crystal replies. “I wasn’t.”

“I’m sorry?”

“I wasn’t on a date. Or doing anything important at all, actually. I was watching the fucking Scooby Doo movie. You could’ve called me. You know, rather than driving yourself to the emergency room. But whatever.”

Oh. Edwin hadn’t been expecting that. 

“I…did not intend to hurt your feelings,” he says.

Crystal rolls her eyes. “You didn’t.”

Somehow, Edwin isn’t entirely sure that he believes her. “I suppose I can text you. Next time.”

“Oh,” Crystal glances up at him, mouth quirking slightly. “I’m not worth a call?”

“Don’t push your luck.”

“Fuck you,” she says, but she goes over to her fridge and pulls a menu out from under a three-dimensional magnet of Big Bird. She tosses it to him, underhand. “Now what do you want for dinner?”

“Alright there?” asks a very familiar voice.

Edwin presses his eyes shut and tries not to swear. He really should have hung back and let the old woman fuss over her toppled snack cart by herself. Because of course, of course, Charles would come back to help.

“Yes, yes,” the woman replies in an accented voice, before swearing quietly in another language.

“Oh!” says Charles brightly. “You speak Tamil?” 

“Yes! Do you?” the woman sounds relieved.

“Uh, a little,” says Charles, clearly a little nervous. “If you talk slow.” 

They speak for a minute—the woman glad and grateful, Charles softly concerned—before Charles stoops down to pick up some fallen bottles. 

“Sorry, didn’t mean to ignore y—Edwin?” Charles says. 

Edwin stands back up with as much dignity as he can, considering the mountain of crisp bags currently overflowing from his arms. “Ah. Hello, Charles.”

Charles beams at him for only a moment before his expression fades into soft concern. “Everything okay? I thought you were off to the little bookshop of horrors.” 

“It’s not going anywhere.” Edwin places the crisps haphazardly back atop of the woman’s cart, mostly so he can have an excuse to look away. 

“Alright,” Charles looks a little skeptical. “What’re you doing out here, then?”

“You…” Edwin runs through a list of possible excuses. They are lacking, so he settles on the only one for which he has a prop. “Forgot the charger for your cellular phone.” He pulls one from his bag and holds it out. “It’s a very important piece of safety equipment. You shouldn’t be going out without it.”

Charles’ eyes crinkle, his smile both amused and a touch bewildered. He accepts the tangled cord, however, wrapping it around his slender fingers as he bundles it up. “This one’s yours, innit?”

More careful examination does, in fact, reveal that the plastic isn’t nearly as scratched up as it should be. Damn. “Is that so,” says Edwin, carefully. “Well, you may borrow it for your outing. Have fun.”

“Thanks, mate,” Charles replies. He reaches over and pats Edwin warmly on the shoulder, then he seizes the woman’s cart by the handles and guides it to the spot she indicates. She hands him a bottle of water and a plastic container of fruit in thanks, looking so charmed that Edwin’s surprised she doesn’t pull out adult adoption forms on the spot.

“You need me to walk you back to the office?” Charles offers, when he’s done.

Edwin almost jumps. He’d been a little distracted. Even through the dark cloth of his jacket, Charles’ shoulders are quite striking. “No, that’s…that’s quite alright. Thank you.”

“Alright,” Charles gives him a pointed look. “Don’t buy anything too cursed, yeah? And have fun.”

Contradictory instructions. Not that it matters. Edwin doesn’t especially want to go to the bookstore today. He wants to follow Charles to wherever he keeps sneaking off to.

But today’s stealth operation is clearly a bust, so Edwin rolls his eyes, pretends to agree, and buys as many cursed books as he can carry. 

At this point, he really needs the plausible deniability.

Edwin does not, as a general rule, get intoxicated. He hasn’t sworn off alcohol entirely the way Charles has, but he rarely drinks aside from the occasional glass of wine at formal events. Marijuana he consumes even more rarely—only on the infrequent occasions that Charles partakes, offering almost shyly to let Edwin take a drag. Then and only then does Edwin ever try, and only a single puff, mostly because he likes the way that Charles worriedly rubs his back and fetches his inhaler when he starts to cough, and it fulfills a strange somewhat base craving within him, to place his fingers where Charles’ were. To imagine the lingering warmth.

He doesn’t usually feel it, except for perhaps the time that Charles had accidentally let his preroll extinguish, and so had leant over and let Edwin inhale the smoke from his lips. That had left him dazed and high, despite the fact that Edwin had been so stunned he barely inhaled at all.

But even that experience can’t hold a candle to his current state. His entire body is buzzing. In fact, he is bizarrely aware of his every molecule. He would swear that he can feel them moving, so that it seems strangely plausible that his atoms might line up so perfectly with those of the sofa that he’d fall right through to the floor.

The cushions are very soft. He likes that, but he doesn’t like the light. Thomas’ tastes have always veered toward the extravagant, and Edwin has told him before that the chandelier is unimaginably gauche. Now it is nearly blinding. Stupid.

Somewhere in the distance, a door slams open. 

“Mm.” The noise jolts Edwin out of his bleary haze just slightly. “Thomas?”

The air warps and pops, and abruptly a very familiar form is lounging gracefully across the arched back of the couch. “Yes?”

“Do you always open doors like you’re trying to rip them off their hinges?” He means for the words to be sharp, perhaps just a little bitchy. Instead, he sounds sleep-bleary and put-out.

Thomas’ answering smile is small and crooked, wicked as any fae’s, but Edwin knows him well enough to spot the underlying fondness. “I don’t use doors at all, darling,” he purrs, somehow maintaining his balance as he leans forward from his perch to brush the hair back from Edwin’s face. “No, this, I think we can blame on that loverboy of yours.”

Edwin isn’t good with vague intimations even when he’s feeling observant. And he is not feeling observant tonight. He furrows his brow as he turns that nickname over in his head. There are no loverboys in his life. Except perhaps Monty, but Thomas knows how he feels about that entire mess, even if Monty has turned over a new leaf these days. Monty isn’t the “kicking down doors” type either. Though he might shatter the occasional window, since he prefers to travel in bird form.

He’s not entirely sure how they got on this subject.

“Monty is a crow,” Edwin informs Thomas, very seriously.

Thomas laughs. It is a nice laugh—not the mean thing he does when he wants to get a rise out of someone, or the gold-plated amusement he offers when he wants to flatter whoever he’s talking to. This is nearly real.

Edwin doesn’t get the opportunity to comment on it before a hand closes around Thomas’ shoulder from behind and yanks.

Thomas starts to topple backward before he vanishes with a pop and reappears a few feet away, this time to Edwin’s left, in front of the television. “Okay,” he says, baring his teeth just slightly. “Rude.”

“Back the fuck off then,” says a very familiar voice. “What did you give him?”

“God,” Thomas replies, seething. “Someone’s possessive. I told him I had special brownies in the fridge. He had one. That’s all.”

“What?” says Charles indignantly. “Why would you say it like that? Course he doesn’t know what that means!”

“Well, he knows now,” says Thomas, and Charles must do something, because Thomas then groans and adds: “For fuck’s sake. He’s fine. High off his ass. But fine.”

“If I find out that you did anything—”

“Fuck you,” Thomas interrupts. All hint of appeasement has vanished from his voice now, leaving his tone low and dangerous. “I don’t roll like that.”

“Charles,” says Edwin dreamily. He wants to sit up and look at Charles’ face, but he’s not sure how, so he fumbles vaguely in the direction of where he last saw his hand. “Hello. How did you get here?”

“Edwin,” Charles immediately comes round the other side of the couch and kneels beside him, taking Edwin’s reaching hand in his. He looks nice, in a leather jacket rather than his normal canvas one, and what looks like an old band t-shirt rather than a polo. “How you feeling, mate?”

“I’m wearing socks,” says Edwin, because he is. And they’re very nice. He squeezes Charles’ hands. Charles squeezes back, for a moment, and Edwin likes that, so he does it again. “I feel...” 

So incredibly heavy, but also like he might float off at any second. Ecstatically happy that Charles is here. Unimaginably tired.

“You feel…?” Charles prompts. He tilts his head to the side slightly, gold earring glinting in the light. He looks so nice. The collar of his shirt is damp. Has he been exerting himself? Or perhaps it’s too warm in here.

“Yeah,” says Edwin. 

Charles grimaces and tosses a glance over his shoulder, in Thomas’ direction. “Surprised he isn’t having a panic attack, honestly.” He sounds almost grudgingly respectful. “Normally drugs make him anxious.”

“Yeah, well,” Thomas says, a touch bitterly. “He was on his way before I called you. Then he calmed right down.”

“Oh.” Charles seems frozen in place, which is fairly concerning. Hopefully Thomas hasn’t picked up time magic. Edwin pokes him gently on the cheek just to be sure and is delighted when Charles turns back around. “Sorry, mate. Didn’t mean to ignore you. Want to go back to the office?”

That sounds nice. Edwin makes a vaguely affirmative noise and hopes that Charles will be able to interpret it, and apparently it works, because Edwin is swiftly bundled up in surprisingly strong arms, buckled into their car, and then carried up four flights of stairs to Charles’ apartment.

Being carried by Charles is nice. Edwin half-wishes he would get injured more often so Charles could do this constantly, though he dares not manufacture any such scenarios. It is never worth the raw panic and guilty, frantic apologies that ensue, no matter how often Edwin insists that pain is of no real consequence to him. He scarcely feels it anymore.

Getting into the flat is the most difficult part. Charles has to half-lower Edwin to the ground and hold him up with one arm so he can use the other to fish out his keys. Once they’re inside, he kicks the door shut behind him and hefts Edwin back up into his arms just long enough to bring him into the bedroom.

Edwin misses the days they both lived in the office, but even in this compromised state, he is not so pathetic as to say it aloud.

But he is not too good to tighten his grip on Charles’ shirt once Charles, after setting him carefully down on the bed, begins the process of pulling his arms out from under Edwin’s shoulders and knees.

He can’t think of anything to say—any variation of don’t go—that won’t be dreadfully embarrassing. Charles seems to get the message anyway, because his chest rises against Edwin’s shoulder in a puff of exasperated laughter.

“Mate,” he says. “At least let me get your shoes. Won’t be but a moment, I swear, and then I’ll stay right here.”

Edwin makes a miserable noise. “I don’t need you to get my shoes.”

He regrets saying that at once. He likes it when Charles helps him get undressed.

Another thing he should never admit aloud.

It takes three tries for him to toe his shoes off, and he’s too tired remove anything more after. He lets Charles undo his tie and strip him of his jacket, so much more gently than Edwin himself would have done it. Then, true to his word, Charles flops into bed beside him. They are atop the sheets despite the chill, but this close, Charles’ warmth is enough. If they were freezing slowly to death in the arctic, it would be enough.

But Charles hates the cold. 

When Edwin’s fumbling attempts to find a blanket turn up nothing, Charles catches his searching hands. “You alright?” he asks, with no small amount of concern. “Did you need something?”

Edwin sighs. “I apologize for all this,” he says. It takes him twice as long as it should to push through the sentence.

Charles’ smile is small, but no less real for that fact.

“Don’t you dare,” he says. He’s rubbing his thumb across the back of Edwin’s palm. The fine bones there have been splintered and severed more times than he can count, but Charles’ touch soothes the phantom ache away like a balm.

Charles’ hands are a wonder. Edwin thinks about them with embarrassing frequency, but never have they seemed more remarkable than they do right now. They’re soft in most spots, except for the callouses that line the spot where his fingers meet his palm and the one on the webbing by his thumb—all from that damned sword, no doubt. The fingers are long and thin, just as graceful as they are capable of violence.

Edwin turns his hands over just so he can look at them more closely. Abruptly, it seems to him that there has never been anything more important in the entire world. The scar where once an arrow had pierced him straight through the palm, faded to a pale tan bump; the sparing freckles from sun exposure; the knuckles, particularly pronounced and bumpy and—

Bruised. They are badly bruised, split in more than a few places. And the injuries are relatively fresh too; injuries almost certainly earned today, because the blood is mostly dry, just on the non-smearable side of tacky, but not yet scabbed over.

The bubble of bliss that’s been wrapped around Edwin like an embrace ever since Charles picked him up pops. Violently. His gut lurches like he’s just fallen thirty feet, the world tilting perilously around him. 

He might throw up. Quite literally. He’s getting dizzy.

“Your hands,” he manages, through the haze. “Have you been fighting?”

It’s a stupid question. Of course Charles has been fighting, but the more important question is why. Because for all that Charles fusses about his own temper, for all that he worries, he’s not that easy to provoke except for a few select subjects. 

“What?” says Charles, surprised until he follows Edwin’s gaze down. He swears. “Right, I know it looks bad, but it’s nothing. Honest.”

He sounds like he means it, but perhaps the worst thing about Charles is that he so often underestimates threats to his own wellbeing. That he believes what he says is not always an indicator that Edwin should do the same. Sometimes it’s a contraindication, if anything.

“I would rather you didn’t get hurt,” Edwin informs him, with every intention of donning the commanding air that always makes Charles jump to attention. Unfortunately, he does not gather quite enough air in his lungs beforehand, so he stutters over the last few words.

His bad mood cannot last, though. Not right now. Not when Charles agrees then pulls Edwin closer, so he can loop an arm around his waist and nestle his nose in Edwin’s loose curls. 

It makes it too difficult to hold onto his frustration and fear, the closeness. Edwin tries to remember it, tries to keep his grip long enough to ask more, but the haze is consumptive. The world is so vast and beautiful here, beneath the bony press of Charles’ elbow and awash in the faintest hints of sandalwood and tobacco.

“You alright?” Charles shouts, as Edwin materializes beside him, the ends of his coat smoking from where the fire nearly reached him.

“Well enough.” Edwin pats the fabric, smoothing it down and suffocating the last of the embers. “I can manage the lion if you take the goat.”

The chimera’s snake head tail is already felled, severed half-way down its spinal column by Charles’ gleaming sword—but not before it dug its glistening fangs into his wrist. The black lines of its venom have crawled nearly up to his elbow now, which has Edwin nearly ready to call for a retreat.

But it could be worse. Anyone weaker would already be dead.

“Why do you get the cool one?” Charles grouses, but he does not protest. Probably because he is no fool, and knows that his head—the one that breathes fire—is almost certainly the more dangerous of the two.

“What’s the phrase?” says Edwin. “Ah, yes. ‘Dibs.’”

From there, the fight goes relatively quickly. This is a well-worn rhythm between the two of them; Charles drawing the worst of the fire, Edwin sniping off spells while its back is turned, and baiting the beast with illusions when Charles becomes overwhelmed.

He gets his opportunity to strike first, flickering invisible and grazing his fingers against the underside of the lion’s jaw.

His blighting spell sets in at once, manifesting first as a canker—then mold, sprouting from the open wound. The lion roars, biting at empty air, and promptly goes through thirty years of decay in the span of fifteen seconds, until it is so heavy and weak with rot that it simply falls to the ground with a splat. 

In reply, the final goat head shrieks and charges blindly, belching flame all the way. It’s nearly funny, but the pillar that it knocks over wipes the smile off Edwin’s face pretty quickly. If this place collapses, which is looking increasingly likely, he wants to be out of here with time to spare.

“Bloody hell,” says Charles, and Edwin can’t help but feel a flicker of pride, the same that he always does whenever Charles seems impressed by something he’s done. “Just waiting on me, then, are we?”

He dismisses his bat and recalls Caliburn again to his hands, the longsword’s blade glowing nearly white with deadly promise. “Come on, then!” he shouts.

The goat’s white head rolls as it, mounted directly atop the torso as it is, moves nearly upside down to observe the human shouting for its attention. 

It blinks those yellow eyes, bloodied beard dripping down into strangely human teeth, and runs. 

Right into Charles’ sword, of course. He beheads it, one clean stroke. And when it hits the ground, he calls the Gandiva and puts an arrow through its eye, just to be sure.

“And that’s done!” Charles declares cheerily. “A job well jobbed.”

But Edwin can’t stop staring. Not the way that he usually does, though that’s admittedly how he noticed in the first place.

It’s really almost the barest hesitation, more a hitch of breath than anything else, as Charles pulls the bowstring to full extension. And, once Edwin sees that, it’s impossible to miss the wince as Charles lowers the bow back to his side.

“What,” he seethes, and he must sound even angrier than he thinks, because Charles startles and edges back a step, “is that?”

“Um,” says Charles, with the diffidence of a child who can tell they’re in trouble but has no notion as to which crime, specifically, they’ve been caught out on. “What’s what?”

“You’re injured!”

“Yeah? I mean, my arm’s bust, but the poison’s slowing down…should be fine til we get back to the office.”

“Your ribs,” Edwin corrects, though that is an important reminder indeed. He stalks over, summoning what little healing magic he knows to his hands. “You did not injure them here. What happened?”

“Nothing,” Charles uncurls his hand from around the Gandiva; before it can even begin to fall, it vanishes with a twisting of light. He lets Edwin take his wounded arm, though he turns his bad side away as if that will hide it from notice. “Nothing happened.”

The worst of the damage will have to wait until they get back to the office. None of the potions in the bag of tricks will suffice for this sort of venom, and Edwin’s attempt at a reversal spell only seems to slow the progression.

“Let me have a look, then.” Edwin gestures for Charles to turn back to him. 

“Edwin,” says Charles, clearly exasperated, but after a moment’s consideration, he apparently decides it isn’t worth the fight and lifts his polo up by the hem.

Nothing was definitely a concerted understatement on Charles’ part, but nor is the injury as bad as Edwin feared. There is certainly a broken rib or perhaps two, but it is the sort of wound that Charles, with his physiology, can readily heal in two or three days. Judging by the yellowing edges of the otherwise black and purple bruise, Edwin is inclined to say they’re at least a day into that process.

They spent almost all yesterday doing client interviews, trying to get a sense of where they ought to begin their search for the chimera. They were together the entire time. Until that evening, when…

“You said you were going back to your flat last night,” Edwin says, tetchily. “I was under the impression that we did not lie to each other.”

“I did go back to my flat.” Charles matches Edwin’s tone readily, yanking his hand back to his side. “Didn’t realize I had to tell you where I was at all times. You’re not my mum.”

And he is talking around it; the way that Edwin learned to. The way that faeries do. He can hear the absence like a physical thing, and he recoils from it. He can’t help it.

“No,” he agrees. His chest is so cold that it burns, an ache that crawls up his throat and sets his hands shaking. “No, I supposed I wouldn’t be, given that I actually give a damn whether you live or die.”

Charles’ jaw slackens, then it sets in a firm sort of way that tells Edwin two very important things:

First, that Charles is grinding his teeth, which he’s been trying to stop doing because it gives him headaches, and it’s bad for his enamel.

Second, that this is dangerously close to tipping over the line between heated disagreement and proper argument.  

“Don’t say that,” Charles bites out. “You don’t know her, okay? It’s not like her situation is easy!”

It seems terribly easy to Edwin. It seems like there is only one reasonable answer, as certain and consistent as the thrum of his heart, but Charles won’t want to hear it. 

This conversation is slowly but surely spiraling out of Edwin’s control.

“I don’t understand what you want me to say, then,” Edwin finally says, settling for honesty. Perhaps he might lead by example. “I’m simply trying to ascertain whether you are well.”

For a moment, Charles looks like he might retort. But a muscle in his jaw ticks as he stares down at the severed goat's head, tongue lolling out onto the floor.

“I’m fine,” he says, then drives his heel into the throat of that giant head to send it rolling out of his path. “Let’s go.”

Charles makes himself scarce around the agency for the next few days, the way he always does after they’ve had a fight.

Of course, scarce is a relative term. He lingers at the office, but usually in a different room, and departs early in the evenings. He takes a single “day off”—virtually unheard of and almost certainly symbolic, given that they’re the owners of the agency and therefore set their own schedules—but even then he drops by a few times to pick up things he’s forgotten.

This, even when they are angry with each other, is a vital part of their routine. Too many people want one or both of them dead, and they’ve been separated under perilous circumstances far too often for them to abide not seeing each other for more than a few hours, much less a day or longer.

They both start to panic, if they haven’t had eyes on each other in too long.

It is still painful to be at such odds with Charles, especially when Edwin’s instincts continue to scream that his partner is in danger. Luckily, he knows just the way back into Charles’ good graces.

A compelling case always does wonders to help put their troubles aside. Usually, that can be chalked up to the pressure of life-or-death situations and the mutual frustration of stubborn (sometimes murderous) suspects getting in the way.

But this time, Edwin thinks that even suggesting this case might be enough to make Charles forget his frustration. Never in his life has he seen a job that better suits Charles’ idea of fun—it’s nearly something out of one of those action films that he so enjoys.

First thing’s first, however. If this case is to be a conciliatory gift, then it is of course incumbent upon Edwin to ensure that it is up to snuff. 

And for that, Edwin is going to have to poke around a little.

Underground fight club is a bit of a misnomer, it seems. This locale is neither underground, nor is it a club, though perhaps there is some sort of membership that he is unaware of. But then again, in their defense—not that they need it—Edwin has only heard it called an underground fight club by others. There is no official name that Edwin can find.

There isn’t even a sign. 

It’s a warehouse, tucked between a sprawling pawn shop on one side and a family-owned launderette on the other. Neither of those has filed any noise complaints . Unfortunately, the same cannot be said about the businesses on the other side of the road. 

The police, of course, never can seem to find the raucous crowds in question. A clever glamour, but not especially powerful. Not that you need all that much power to pull one over on the Met, which is just fine in Edwin’s book. More business for the agency, and the last thing London needs is a bunch of trigger-happy idiots trying to fix a pixie infestation with a hail of bullets.

A thorough scour of the building’s exterior reveals nothing. Some people are meandering their way inside, but judging by the occasional rumble of the floor under Edwin’s feet, he’s guessing that the event has already begun. 

Unfortunately, he can’t be sure. There are almost no windows, and the ones that do exist are all tinted. 

He’ll have to go in to gather more information, and in retrospect, he probably should have worn literally anything other than a suit—even if it isn’t one of his nicer ones—and a silk tie. Normally, he’d resolve that with a glamour of his own, but there’s almost certainly at least one person in this building who’d be able to see through it, and nothing screams not supposed to be here like draping yourself in an illusion.

Thank god that Charles is on one of his mysterious evening outings tonight. It is one thing for Edwin to scout the outside of a suspicious location solo, but they have a rule about not going in alone. 

Edwin would feel guilty if Charles hadn’t broken that rule himself a dozen times this past year. He’s half starting to think that the policy only exists so they can argue about it after the fact, but they probably won’t be getting rid of it anytime soon. At least the promise of a lecture holds Charles back every once in a while.

Not a frequent every once in a while. But Edwin will take what he can get, where Charles is concerned.

After a moment’s consideration, he undoes his suit jacket so it hangs open and loosens his tie a touch. He dares not remove either—a bare throat is far too vulnerable for comfort, and his coat is lined with a variety of valuable spell components—but hopefully those small adjustments will make him look a bit less like he doesn’t belong.

He winces almost as soon as he thinks it. If he’d said that out loud, Crystal would never let it go.

But she isn’t here, and right now Edwin has a potential case to investigate and a disagreement with Charles to diffuse. It’s that simple.

A few quick words in Aramaic bring down the building’s wards—better safe than sorry, he has no idea what’s been enchanted into those—and after that, all he has to do is walk in and pretend he belongs.

That turns out to be surprisingly easy. The lobby of the building is already overwhelmingly crowded. A woman with a bird’s beak sits in a glass-paneled box, accepting bets from a clamoring audience. There’s a big screen behind her, with what must be a list of matches for the evening. Even with his height, Edwin can only make out the top three before other people’s heads start to block off his view. 

It doesn’t matter, quite frankly. The fighters very well could be involved, but if Edwin had to make a guess, he’d wager that the illicit activity he’s been hearing about is happening among the audience. He’s not especially bothered by the drug trade, mortal or magical, but the Tears of Dionysus can induce temporary, violent madness in high doses and a fugue that increases susceptibility to outside influence in low ones.

That makes it a matter for the agency.

The crowd inside is dense, almost certainly in violation of some sort of fire code, packed in so tightly that Edwin has someone touching him on at least two sides at all times. And they are rowdy—screaming, jumping, shoving against each other. Christ. Perhaps coming here without Charles was a mistake after all. 

There is some sort of match occurring already. Two distant figures brawling it out in the ring. 

How any sort of deal could unfold in all this chaos, Edwin has absolutely no idea. Regardless, his aim tonight should not be to stop any deal that occurs, only to identify whether such dealings are actually happening or if this has been a false lead all along.

Getting to a higher vantage point is his priority. The club is apparently standing room only, but there is a staircase across the room that leads to an open second floor, people clinging to the railing to watch the fight.

Unfortunately, getting there requires pushing his way through the crowd. 

“Pardon,” Edwin says quietly, for at least the fifth time, and he’s not even halfway to the stairs. 

“Pardon yourself,” snarls a man with the musculature of a bodybuilder and two extra sets of eyes. Edwin sidesteps a firm attempt at a push, which instead knocks over a fairly human looking woman in the crowd behind him. 

The look on her face when she picks herself back up is nothing short of murderous—though she hasn’t seen Edwin at all, thankfully. Either way, that’s a brawl brewing. 

He keeps walking.

Well, walking might be a bit too generous. He is making his way slowly through the crowd, but in reality it’s more of a guided jostling than anything. No one is even really trying to push him, except for that one fellow who missed, but the press of bodies against each other makes it almost impossible to avoid. All Edwin’s really doing is trying to make a few steps of progress at a time and not let anyone bump him in the opposite direction of where he’s trying to go—to varying degrees of success.

His entire body is prickling. On a worse day, he’d be well on his way to a panic attack by now, but today he is on a mission. And as much as he despises noise, the raucous shouts of the crowd are a keen reminder that he is here. In the real and mortal world, and nowhere else.

In the end, Edwin doesn’t even make it to the stairs. There is a definitive sound of a fist colliding with flesh, and such a collective gasp of admiration from the crowd that even Edwin starts to glance up toward the ring. Unfortunately, the people in front of him are doing all sorts of undignified things, like jumping in excitement and standing up on their toes to see better, and therefore obstructing the view.

But what he does see is this: a small rounded vial, pressed from one person’s hand into another, then tucked surreptitiously into a pocket in nearly the same motion, at the very front of the crowd. 

It’s impossible to tell at this distance whether it’s Tears or something else entirely, but Edwin knows quite well the importance of listening to his instincts. 

He only means to get closer, really. Unfortunately, the crowd seems to have other ideas. He’s pinned practically between two gentlemen for nearly thirty seconds, and then a gravelly voice says from behind him: “You’re blocking the fucking view. Move!”

“I’m blocking—” Edwin starts, indignant, but he doesn’t get any further than that before someone shoves him so hard between the shoulderblades that he falls right to the front of the crowd and would probably brain himself against the elevated edge of the fighting platform if it weren’t for a polite-looking dryad catching him by the elbow. 

“You alright?” they ask, in a dreamy sort of voice. 

“Yes, quite,” Edwin replies, glancing around. “Thank you.” He has no idea where the people he saw before might’ve gone. It’s as if they’ve vanished into thin air. He tugs his arm free from the dryad’s grip and cranes his head forward; if they’ve only just left, he might be able to follow. Most people are focused on the fighters, and the crowd has become especially excited as the fight reaches what seems to be a conclusion. Surely they could not have gotten far.

One of the fighters slams into the side of the cage nearest Edwin, loud enough that his heartrate jumps. 

This close, Edwin can see that they’re far more lithe than he’d ever expect from someone participating in unsanctioned pit matches, the knobs of their spine visible as they push themselves upright again. Of course, lithe is not fundamentally incompatible with muscular, and this fighter is clearly strong. Not bulky, perhaps, but the flex of muscle under brown skin conceals the potential for deadly force. Edwin knows that quite well.

His mind catches up to him only a moment later.

He does know that quite well. He also knows the fighter. It’s frankly shameful that it took him this long to recognize them, even with only the arch of their spine and the color of their hair as a point of reference.

Because the fighter is Charles.

Edwin can’t do anything other than stand there, agog, for far too long. 

“What the fuck are you doing, asshole?” mutters someone beside him, and he turns around with a glare that makes them raise their hands and retreat back into the crowd.

Charles is hurt. Of course he’s hurt. His opponent is humanoid, but well over a foot taller and built—as Crystal would say—like a brick shithouse. Blood trickles from Charles’ hairline down his face. He’s blinking hard, trying to clear his vision, and the way he shakes his head as he readies himself to throw another punch could well be a sign of a concussion. What Edwin ought to do is stop the match in its tracks and haul Charles back to the office. Or, better yet, to the hospital. But he doesn’t do that. He doesn’t do that because—

Because Charles is also winning. 

His opponent throws another punch. Sloppy form, even Edwin can do better than that, but this is a person who is clearly used to their brute strength solving most problems. It leaves them dead open, and Charles drops to a knee with deceptive speed for how dazed he looked only a moment ago and throws a kick directly into their exposed stomach.

He follows it with a nasty right hook to their jaw as soon as they double over. Their attempt to recoup is valiant, a grab that would probably stop Charles in place and end the match if it actually held. But Charles twists his wrist delicately out of his opponent’s hold and skirts behind them with deadly speed. He kicks their knees out from the back to bring them down to height with him, and then promptly snakes his arms around their throat in a headlock that would probably be fatal, if this weren’t a betting game.

Are these matches to the death? They can’t be. Charles would never—yet Edwin still can’t shake the terrifying thought of Charles here, in mortal danger every Monday and Thursday night, while Edwin kicks his feet and studies spellbooks in the office. 

Charles’ opponent lifts a hand and taps his arm twice, and Charles releases them at once. They crumple for a moment as the crowd begins to cheer, catching their breath, but once they are recovered, they take Charles’ hand and let him help them back to their feet.

Charles pats them a few times on the back companionably, unworried by the volume or his injuries or the possibility that his opposition might take the loss personally and clobber him round the back of the head as soon as he turns his back.

He is glowing. Mostly metaphorically, the sheen of sweat on his body and the excitement on his face making him utterly radiant. But also a touch literally—Charles is mythological in aspect a dozen times over, and it shines off him even when he insists that he’s no one special, really, that there is nothing notable or worthwhile about him at all. 

The sight of him makes Edwin’s stomach twist, warmth and love and just a touch of anguish coiling in his belly, rising into his chest and flushing his face like a fever. 

He is going to absolutely kill Charles for this one.

Another fight starts up soon after, with two completely different competitors. Edwin couldn’t care less about them. He trails after Charles as he leaves the ring, but there is security guarding the back hallway, and he loses some time casting a charm to distract them so he can walk past.

Charles is gone by the time that he actually gets in, but it’s not especially difficult to figure out where he must be, since about halfway down the hall there is a giant door labeled: FIGHTERS.

He spends some time deciding how to arrange himself. Behind the door, perhaps? So that when it swings shut, Charles will find Edwin waiting behind him? Except Edwin isn’t certain which direction the door opens or how far it swings, and his presence will be a great deal less striking if Charles accidentally bloodies his nose. 

Perhaps he ought to stand directly across from the door, so that he’s the first thing Charles sees when he steps out. Except that seems too confrontational, and it gives Edwin little time to school his own reaction in the moment.

In the end he settles for leaning on the wall beside the door, closer to the exit rather than in the direction the door opens. He waits, with the inhuman sort of patience that makes him excellent at stakeouts.

The door opens, and Edwin doesn’t even need to look up to know that it’s not Charles. Their gait is too heavy. The person coming up behind them, though. That’s him.

“Hey there,” says the newcomer. “You need help?”

It’s the same individual that Charles fought in the cage. Edwin has to look up, then up some more to meet their eyes.

“No,” he says crisply. “I’m alright.”

“Right,” they falter, uncertainty creasing their broad forehead. “Are you sure you aren’t lost, man? I don’t think you’re technically supposed to be back here.”

“Taz,” calls Charles’ voice, light and teasing. “Everything alright? I’m off. Gotta get back, or the missus will start worrying.”

That should be distressing for a whole host of reasons, from the fact that he and Charles aren’t dating to the fact that “old ball and chain” jokes are overdone to the equally unsettling, if unlikely, possibility that he isn’t talking about Edwin at all.

And yet Charles sounds so overwhelmingly fond that Edwin couldn’t possibly be hurt—at least not by that. No matter how many arguments they have and eventually make up about, it is still a relief to discover that Charles does not secretly hate him.

“All good, someone just got lost,” Taz calls back.

“Aces,” says Charles, stepping out into the hall. “I can show you out, if you need.”

There must be some sort of medic on-site, because while Charles is still injured, his bruises now look days old rather than brand new, and the cut in his hairline is down to a dry scab. 

His hair is damp as if he’s just taken a shower, and he’s wearing a white vest with a dark canvas jacket, his favorite sporting bag hooked over one shoulder. He looks like a cage fighter, casually confident and utterly in his element. 

Or he does, until he follows Taz’s gaze and his eyes finally land on Edwin.

“Or I can do it,” says Taz, tone a great deal less friendly.

“Taz,” says Charles at once, tapping the back of his hand hard against their shoulder. “He’s a friend.”

“What?” Taz’s entire expression warms. “Oh geez, I’m sorry. It’s lovely to meet you. I’m Taz.”

“I’m ‘the missus,’” Edwin replies smoothly. “Unless that’s Crystal?

“Christ,” Charles mutters. “Taz, this is Edwin.”

“The famous Edwin!” Taz beams and doesn’t offer Edwin a handshake so much as they simply grab one of his hands between both of theirs and move it around a bit. “I’ve heard so much about you.”

“Hm.” Edwin smiles. “It’s a pleasure. Now I hate to do this, but could I have a word with my…business partner? Alone.”

Taz gasps. “Oh, of course. I have to clean my locker anyway. I’ll give you both some privacy.”

They nudge Charles with their large hip before going back inside. 

Edwin waits for the door to close before arching an eyebrow. “I don’t know which I should be more offended by, that you did not tell me about this endeavor or that you’ve been talking about me behind my back.”

“Only good things,” says Charles. Edwin had been joking, but Charles sounds truly stricken. “Obviously. You know I wouldn’t.”

Edwin takes pity on him. “I do,” he assures, gentling his voice for a moment. That much, at least, is worth clarifying. He admittedly is less patient when he adds: “What I don’t know is why you didn’t see fit to inform me of your illicit evening activities! Or, for that matter, why on earth you would choose to spend your evenings in this…this den of profligacy!”

“Shh!” Charles cuts him off, getting one hand on his shoulder and pulling him inside the locker room. 

Taz has stripped down to their pants. “Um,” they say.

“Sorry,” says Charles. “I’m gonna steal Jenny’s office for a mo, can you make sure that no one interrupts us?”

Taz looks confused for a moment before their expression clears. They raise a single eyebrow.  “She’s going to be barking mad when she finds out, man.”

“We won’t make a mess,” Charles says. “She doesn’t have to know.”

Taz considers this for a moment, before rolling their eyes and shrugging. “Fine. But you break anything, I’m telling her the truth.”

“You’re absolutely brills, Taz!”

Charles then pulls Edwin out another door, down a hallway, and into a small corner office, which he locks behind them. 

“You’re aware that they think we’re…” Edwin trails off. He takes in the office around them—a collection of knives and swords are mounted on one wall. The desk is covered in mountains of paperwork, and leaving rings on one of the tax forms is a nearly-empty coffee mug with half a cigarette floating around inside. 

“They think we’re what?” asks Charles, apparently completely oblivious.

Edwin does not say fucking against the wall because if he did, he would likely find himself imagining it too, and this is neither the time nor the place.

“I suppose it doesn’t matter,” he says finally. “Is there any particular reason we couldn’t have this discussion in the hall?”

“Yeah,” says Charles. “You shouting about this being a den of…whatever it was you said isn’t exactly going to endear you to the other fighters.”

“Profligacy.”

“Yeah, that.”

Edwin crosses his arms over his chest. “You realize that you are proving my point.”

“Christ. Edwin, no one likes coming into their place of work and hearing it talked down on. What if someone said that about the agency?”

Hm. With a grimace, Edwin inclines his head in Charles’ direction, conceding the point.

“Yes, well,” he says, “you haven’t answered my other question yet.”

“What? About why I didn’t tell you?”

“Precisely.”

Charles throws his hands up in exasperation. “Because I knew you’d react like this!”

“Like what?”

“All,” Charles makes a vague gesture. “You know!”

“Apparently I do not,” Edwin returns crisply. “Because I think this is an entirely reasonable reaction to discovering that you have been endangering yourself on a…hm, what is it? Twice-weekly basis? For months now!”

“Endangering myself?”

“What else would you call it?”

“Boxing! You know, that thing I’ve been trying to teach you for years now?”

Edwin’s face has gone hot, his jaw aching from how tightly it's clenched. “This is because I won’t box with you?”

“I…” Charles falters. “No. Course not. Fuck. I’m sorry.” He sounds so deeply apologetic that it puts Edwin on guard immediately. 

They’ve done this little song and dance before, and the idea that Charles feels the urge to appease him is so much worse than the idea of Charles being angry. 

Edwin shies away from Charles’ outstretched hand, disgusted. With himself, with this place, with the phantom sensation of bodies pressing against his.

“You don’t need to be sorry, Charles.”

Charles’ expression is stricken. He lowers his arm slowly back down to his side. “I know,” he says. “I know I don’t, honest. Can I touch you?”

After a moment, Edwin nods. Charles sighs in audible relief and closes the distance between them. He presses a hand to Edwin’s shoulder, then moves it almost immediately to cup the side of his face, tilting their foreheads against each other for the span of a single breath before he leans back to regard him again. 

“I’m sorry,” he says earnestly, “cause I phrased myself fucking terribly. And I’m sorry that I didn’t tell you about any of this. I honestly didn’t think you’d notice.”

Edwin’s shoulders tense. “You didn’t think I’d notice when you were injured?”

“I mean,” says Charles with a grimace. “It’s not like I don’t get into more than my fair share of scuffles, you know?”

“Charles, I’m a detective.”

“Yeah, no, in retrospect I’m seeing why it was a bad idea.”

Edwin frowns and brings his hand to Charles’ chin. This close, his already-healing injuries are as stark as day. He tilts Charles’ head to the right so he can examine the cut on his brow with a critical eye. “I don’t like this.”

Charles’ sigh could move mountains. “Edwin,” he begins, exasperated.

That’s as far as he gets before someone outside starts shouting. Multiple someones, actually.  Edwin ignores it, politely waiting for the crowd to pass before he makes his case.

The door rattles.

“Shit,” says Charles. 

“Charles fucking Rowland,” spits a female voice. “I swear to God! If there is anything gross left on my desk, I am having this room professionally cleaned and making you pay for it.”

“What?” Charles startles away from Edwin and goes to unlock the door, opening it just as the rattling reaches a violent height. He raises his hands in surrender. “All good here.”

The woman who steps through the door has black hair and cold eyes. An array of impressive tattoos crawl up her neck and down her arms, some vibrant and new while others are fading with age. She glances between the two of them, then casts her gaze around the office, suspicion writ clearly across her features. 

When she finds nothing out of place, she sighs. “Honestly, I can’t tell if I’m relieved or disappointed.” 

“Edwin,” says Charles hastily. “This is Jenny, she runs this place. Jenny, this is Edwin.” 

“Hello.” Edwin pretends not to notice the fact that she’s sizing him up. “You founded this establishment?”

“Bought it,” Jenny corrects. “Made a few tweaks to the business model.”

“Ah. I have to admit, I was not aware that there was such a public appetite for bread and circuses out here.”

Jenny’s eyebrows rise up into her bangs. Charles scrubs a hand over his face, sighing.

“Get out,” Jenny tells them after a moment, standing back and gesturing toward the door. 

Charles frowns, and it occurs to Edwin with true dismay that he may genuinely care what this woman thinks. “Jenny, he didn’t—”

Jenny groans and puts a hand on Charles’ shoulder. “I could not give less of a fuck. Get out. The cops are here, go home. Party’s over, I will see you on Thursday.”

“What?” says Charles. “How’d they get past the wards?”

“No goddamn idea,” Jenny shuffles past Charles, gets to her desk, and clicks the button on an intercom. “Hey, everyone,” she says. “Get the fuck out, like, now.” Then she turns it off and continues: “But when I find out what or who knocked them out, heads are going to roll.”

Oops.

Charles gives Edwin a sidelong look, then grimaces. Which is odd because Edwin looks perfectly innocent, thank you. 

“Right,” Charles says. “Can we take the back exit?”

Jenny considers it for a moment, tapping her black-painted nails on the desk as she scrutinizes them both. “Fine. You’re lucky I like you.” She fishes a key out of her jeans pocket and tosses it underhand to Charles, who catches it with ease. “I want that back.”

There is surprisingly little panic, given that there may or may not be a mortal police raid going on right at this moment. But then, they’re in the staffing areas. Edwin can imagine the animal press of the crowd outside quite well and is profoundly glad that he’s nowhere near it. 

One particularly large group of people rushes by, clearly making a hasty exit. Charles doesn’t miss a beat, stepping out into the throng just long enough to accept a fist bump from some sort of felid-looking individually, walking backwards for a moment as he offers a goodbye, then dropping back in to stand on Edwin’s other side, a quiet buffer against anyone who might collide with him accidentally or intentionally.

They leave through a series of maintenance corridors, exiting via a double-locking door that funnels them out into an alley. The first thing Edwin notices as soon as the door closes behind them is that they’ve stepped right into a puddle so deep that the water immediately seeps up over his ankles, right into his favorite pair of oxfords. 

The next thing that Edwin notices is that it is pouring rain. 

In fact, in the literal second between him processing that his socks have just gotten wet and realizing that the water is still coming down, his shirt and jacket get halfway to soaked.

“Oh fuck me,” he mutters.

Charles tilts his head back into the downpour and laughs. “Well, now I know you’re really cross.”

“Charles Rowland, I swear.”

“Not often. S’why I was so surprised.”

“Charles!”

Still, it is as difficult as always to hold onto his irritation in the face of Charles’ smile, which is sunlight warm even such foul weather as this. 

Edwin allows himself to seethe for a moment longer before suggesting, at last: “Perhaps we can continue this in the office? Our office, I mean.”

“Yeah.” Charles’ eyes flicker up just in time for a flash of lightning to streak through the dark clouds overhead. A roar of thunder follows soon after. “Probably a good idea.” A pause. “By the way,” he adds. “Did you break Jenny’s wards?”

Oh for Christ’s sake. Edwin brushes his sopping hair back from his face. “The wards, yes. But that should not have had any effect on the glamor!”

“What’s the difference?” Charles says cheekily.

“What’s the—” Edwin glares, though the effect is considerably lessened by the water running into his face. “You know the difference. They ought to be two different spell arrays! Who on earth doesn’t separate them?”

“Unbelievable,” agrees Charles, as they slosh their way over to the nearest Tube station. “Absolute madness.”

Back in the office, they towel off and change into dry clothes. Edwin does not especially fancy having this discussion in a sweatshirt and pyjama pants, but even he cannot muster the energy to put on another suit at this hour, not to mention the fact that Charles would tease him relentlessly if he did.

Edwin pours himself two fingers of gin, because it is the only hard liquor he can tolerate and he needs something to chase the chill off. Then he settles himself on the sofa, ankles crossed.

Charles emerges from the bathroom only a few moments later, joggers hitched low around his waist. 

“Alright, mate,” he says. He hops up on the desk and starts drumming his fingers on the mahogany paneling. “Lay it on me, then.”

There is so much that Edwin could say about this endeavor. That it’s stupid, reckless, ill-conceived, dangerous to life and limb. It’s all true, even. For now, he takes a sip of his drink and carefully avoids looking at the exposed sliver of Charles’ waist. “I didn’t know you were so…passionate about boxing.”

Charles crinkles his nose. “Dunno if passionate is the right word, but it’s fun. And it’s good practice.”

That throws Edwin for a loop. “Practice for what?”

“Come on.” When Edwin only arches an eyebrow, Charles throws his hands up. “Edwin, we fight for our lives once a week when business is slow.”

“Yes, we do.” Edwin can agree with that much. “And I cannot remember the last time I saw you fight without your weapons. You haven’t resorted to fisticuffs since…what was it? The Case of the Sybaritic Satyrs, I believe.” 

Charles jabs a finger in Edwin’s direction. “Exactly.”

“Sorry,” says Edwin, utterly exasperated. “What?”

“I’m out of shape,” Charles glances down at himself. Out of shape is the last phrase Edwin would choose to describe him, good lord. “Last time I lost access to my weapons, I was bloody useless.”

“So take a class!”

Charles looks disgusted. “Nah mate. I know how to throw a punch. What I need is real combat practice.”

Edwin forces himself to take a deep breath in through his nose. This is all making a disturbing amount of sense now, in that he can see how Charles’ perpetual desire to be helpful might, in its own contrived way, lead him to volunteer for getting the shit beaten out of him on a regular basis. But… 

“You could have told me.”

“Honestly, I wanted to,” Charles says, without any hint of deceit. “But I thought you’d worry, and I…” he shrugs. “I dunno. The point was to make you safer, not give you something else to stress about. Oh, I swear, don’t give me that look. You would have stressed, and you know it.”

“Charles, of course I would have worried,” says Edwin. He gestures to the cut on Charles’ hairline. “I have been worrying, in fact. Look at the state of you! I thought—I thought—”

Something catches in his throat, and he shuts his mouth, unwilling to say any more. But Charles understands. Of course he does.

“Shit,” Charles’ expression creases into a frown. “Did you really?”

“What would you have thought?”

After a brief stretch of quiet, Charles grimaces. “Right, s’pose I would’ve thought there was someone out there I needed to kill.” He pushes off the desk and meanders over, plucking the glass from Edwin’s hand and setting it on the table as he sits down at the very, very edge of the sofa, thigh warm where it rests against Edwin’s side. He tangles their fingers together, and muses, “Makes more sense, now, what you said about my mum.”

Edwin presses his eyes shut for a few seconds. “An ill-conceived remark. I should not have done that.”

Charles’ laugh is short and not especially happy. “True, innit.”

“It did not bear saying.”

“Yeah, well,” Charles squeezes his hand. “I can forgive you for that if you can forgive me for accidentally making you think I was an ABH victim, yeah?”

A short study of Charles’ face reveals nothing but patience and affection. The offer is legitimate, not just an attempt to diffuse conflict. “The bargain is struck.”

“Brills,” says Charles. Then he brightens—a full body thing. “Did you follow me because you were worried?”

“Ah.”

“What’s that tone supposed to mean? Come on, now you’ve got to tell me.”

Edwin sits up. The couch is perilously narrow, so it is difficult to pull his legs down without knocking one or both of them to the floor. “Well,” he says. “I did attempt to follow you on more than one occasion.” Charles looks, as expected, delighted to hear that. “But tonight I was, actually…” Might as well just pull the bandage off. “Investigating a few reports I received about drugs being distributed among the crowd. Only to verify their accuracy, of course.”

Charles stares. “What? Without me?”

Saying this was supposed to be an apology gift for some reason feels a bit mad. “It was all hearsay,” he reasons. “You know how I feel about rumors. I had no intentions to engage, simply to determine the authenticity of the claims—”

“Edwin, that is so bloody dangerous.” Charles has gone wan. “What if something happened?”

“Charles, you were there, and you seemed comfortable enough. Unless there’s something you aren’t telling me?”

“Yeah, as a boxer! Not to investigate drug trafficking. And you didn’t know anything about the place, did you? What if you’d walked into a trap?”

It is difficult to think his way around those questions, because they are the exact ones he’d ask if their roles were reversed. 

“That is precisely why I disabled the wards in the first place. And my only intention was to observe, I assure you,” Edwin soothes, before adding: “Well, until I saw you there.”

“What if you had been killed?” Charles’ voice rises, and Edwin heaves a sigh.

“Charles,” he says firmly, which does the trick as always. Charles turns to look at him again with big, worried eyes. He softens his tone. “I am entirely alright. But if it makes you feel any better, I will…avoid doing such a thing again, as long as you promise to do the same.” 

They’ll see how long that lasts. But for now, it seems to pacify Charles, who sighs in relief and then topples forward onto Edwin’s chest with such force that it knocks him back down again. Resigned to the likelihood that they won’t be getting up any time soon, Edwin kicks his feet back onto the armrest so that he is in the very same position he was before—just minus one cup of gin and plus a Charles, lying on top of him, legs tangled together, and damp curls pressing against the underside of Edwin’s chin.

“I’ll quit,” says Charles, eventually. His voice is somewhat muffled against Edwin’s shoulder.

That would be nice. Edwin would certainly prefer it. “You don’t have to,” he says, instead of that. “If you enjoy it. But please do not continue out of any sense of obligation. You protect me better than I could ever ask for.” Better than anyone else has ever done, though Edwin is canny enough not to say so. That might only motivate Charles more. 

Quiet, for a bit. Edwin savors Charles’ warmth. Then he tries to savor it a little less. He’d rather not have to explain away any untoward physical reactions. 

“I do think it’s fun,” says Charles. “And Jenny’s good people. If something’s going down, I don’t want her taking the fall.”

“Then we shall take the case, and I shall avoid investigating on my own.”

“Safe,” Charles replies, before craning his neck to look up at Edwin with curiosity. “Do you want to come to my next match? For the case, I mean. So you can investigate.”

Edwin can’t help but smile. 

“I would,” he says. “For the case, and…for you as well.”

“You really don’t have to.” Charles’s response is sheepish. He turns his face away sharply, and it does not take a detective to guess that he’s attempting to hide a blush.

“I want to,” Edwin corrects. “If you’ll have me there.”

“I’ll get you a nice table,” Charles says immediately. “Make Jenny rope the area off so no one’s in your space. She’ll do it, even if she complains the whole time. Just don’t mention you broke the wards. And maybe fix them.”

“I’ll do them properly, even,” Edwin says.

Good wards are rather difficult to do, the complexity scaling exponentially based on the size of the space being warded. In retrospect, that’s probably why the club’s arrays were doubled in the first place. Most amateur spellcasters would struggle with something half as complex.

Edwin is hardly an amateur, but it will still be a few hours’ work and several very tedious mathematical equations.

Worth it, entirely, if it makes Charles happy for even a moment.

Edwin does end up fixing the wards—and improving them considerably. And Charles is right. Jenny makes a few smart comments, but there is a small cordoned off space on the balcony for the fighters’ friends and families next time. 

Taz, who is apparently not fighting that evening, lingers by the makeshift barrier and glares meanly at anyone who tries to shove their way past.

Unfortunately, Edwin does not ultimately do much scouting. At least not while Charles is in the cage. And afterward, he finds it difficult to focus on anything but the thought of lean muscle and sweat and the way that Charles had caught Edwin’s eye and winked as he was stepping down from the mat. 

“It’s alright,” Charles says, when Edwin omits all those details and simply mentions that he’s had no luck, yet, with spotting any suspicious figures in the crowd. He is very patiently letting Edwin fuss over his split lip with a damp washcloth. “There’s always next time.”

“I suppose that’s true.” Edwin says faintly. “Next time.” 

He swallows hard as soon as Charles leaves the room, burying his face shamefully in a hand. 

This is going to be an extremely trying investigation indeed.