#as if i haven't written that already

[fiercynn]

just imagining pat coming back from a tense family dinner and immediately snuggling up to pran for comfort, and when pran pretends to be annoyed at him for being clingy he mumbles "actually can you be nice to me right now?" and pran's entire demeanor changes in an INSTANT and he goes all soft and starts telling pat how good he is, and after a while pat starts getting flustered and says "okay you can be mean again now" and pran shakes his head and says "sorry sweetheart you asked for this, now you have to take it"

[hestzhyen]

Sunken Ships and SoRiku

Hi internet void. I went feral and maybe you'll read the result.

KH has made a lot of choices around SoRiku from a narrative perspective that, in isolation, wouldn't amount to much. A heart-to-heart here, a questionable line there, and so on. The usual things that one would do to court a queer shipping audience in an otherwise het or unromantic work. And SoRiku circles have painstakingly documented every instance to show something that looks more like a consistent and intentional effort rather than a few dollops here and there to keep shippers engaged. There's... a lot. But one stupid, insignificant thing really shook me up and made me a believer in SoRiku Endgame, Actually.

Silly as it is, it's Nomura's reaction to people shipping RikuNami that gets me the most.

Generally speaking a writer doesn't want to interact with fandom shipping unless it's to urgently course correct. As in it would be catastrophic to the narrative if the fandom had the wrong idea. Otherwise it's best to just take note of how people are interpreting things and adjust the next installment accordingly, or live and let live. Keep distant and don't risk accusations of retconning/bad writing/queerbaiting in bad faith. So the normal reaction from Nomura seeing people get excited over RikuNami would have been to just do nothing. But instead, the scene was patched to downplay the smile, and Nomura went on the record to clarify that it's not a setup for a romantic relationship between Riku and Namine.

That's insane.

Why is it so important that Riku remain romantically uninterested in a girl he'd have a natural connection to, huh? What about accidentally implying RikuNami was so detrimental to the story that it was changed and explicitly addressed like that? Even if it wasn't meant to be, surely letting it play out like AkuRoku did would be enough. Just gently clarify and move on with the story (which pretty much sunk the ship on it's own anyway). You don't wade into fandom shipping and launch nuclear warheads like Nomura did against RikuNami unless you want to leave no room for doubt.

Torpedoing RikuNami also doesn't help them keep up appearances in terms of straightness at this point. Leaving it intact would only help the case of Riku and Sora being bffs with the strongest bond 5ever- a huge boon for the writing team if they wanted to avoid things looking too gay. Nomura et. al. are absolutely aware of the impressions and jokes about how gay KH is. And KH definitely would not be the first series to play in to queer ship teasing for the lols until it's time to pair everyone up at the end.

But they did the one thing you're not supposed to do if you're just aiming to queerbait: undermining the plausible straight ship. You don't eliminate the only straight option for your character like that for the sake of "he so gay" jokes! Having a straight option available is vital to make the bait; they don't have to be compelling or important to the story, they just have to exist. Yet at this point, Riku's only option is Sora. They went out of their way to ensure we wouldn't think anything else makes sense for him.

Holy. Shit.

[smile-files]

nickel and balloon stuff from spring on the breakfast!!! i'm keeping in mind that in the previous episode, both of them were under the impression that their friendship wasn't real...

in a way, ii3 balloon is a lot like late ii3 cabby. of course, balloon did something indisputably immoral (manipulate and exploit others), and cabby only did something thought to be immoral (keep and use files about her fellow contestants) -- but both did something wrong and had to subsequently undergo a disproportionate amount of abuse and malignment for it, ending up with them being apologetic and submissive to avoid any chance of being framed as bad again. the biggest difference is that cabby has internalized the guilt others have attributed to her, while balloon largely hasn't -- he understands the concept of rolling with the punches for the sake of keeping good connections, but he doesn't believe he deserves it.

nickel brushes off ii2 a LOT this episode. to rid himself of his guilt regarding that time, he necessarily has to delegitimize the hatred he felt towards balloon then, thus also ridding balloon of his guilt. he expresses this all vaguely, choosing to remember ii2 fondly and saying off-hand that its baggage should be laughed off -- implying that balloon has been forgiven. reasonably, balloon is happy that nickel seems to actually believe he's changed for the better, so initially this makes him happy.

of course, though, it becomes clear that nickel just wants to shove his own actions under the rug, and balloon reasonably gets pissed off. nickel treated balloon and suitcase like complete garbage in ii2, and balloon clearly hasn't forgotten that.

"it keeps things easy." it keeps things easy to roll with the punches, to endure nickel's abuse and accept his sudden friendship. note, also, that nickel is still placing the blame on balloon: he's saying that balloon didn't want to "make things better", as if nickel and balloon ever having a rift was entirely balloon's fault, and his problem to fix.

and as we can see, nickel still hasn't fully forgiven balloon for ii1. as i've discussed before, nickel seems to secretly feel incredible guilt about how he treated balloon in ii2 (which is why he goes to such lengths to repress the whole memory of it) -- but that guilt is about the way in which he expressed his disdain and distrust of balloon, not those opinions themselves, nor the motivations for them. this is all very interesting, then -- if he still believes balloon can't change from his old, bad self, why did nickel start being friends with him at all?

i think a large part of it is his projection onto balloon. nickel sees himself in balloon: someone who screwed up big-time and isn't able to become a better person after that (according to nickel). we tend to gravitate to people similar to us, after all. i wouldn't be surprised if nickel was also trying to overcompensate for his hostility towards balloon in ii2 by being very friendly with him in ii3, thereby helping him forget that he was ever hostile to him at all.

the most fascinating thing to me about balloon and nickel's relationship is how impersonal it is for balloon. he seems to value what nickel's affection represents rather than nickel himself -- and it represents that he's been forgiven. anyone who saw balloon and nickel's conflict in ii2, which was a product of balloon's nastiness in ii1 and nickel's subsequent inability to forgive that nastiness, would likely come to accept balloon and forgive him themselves if they then saw nickel being friendly with him -- because nickel is the epitome of the ii contestants' anger at him, and nickel of all people (seemingly) forgiving him would imply that he's really changed. the relationship is almost entirely a symbol in that regard. i don't think balloon has much residual guilt about is actions in ii1 -- he feels like he's adequately addressed them and changed -- but nickel having a positive relationship would be helpful in affirming that stance and proving to himself that he really has changed.

i wouldn't say it's cruel of balloon to keep this relationship going on under that pretense, but it is backhanded, and it helps explain why he was ever willing to accept nickel's friendliness unchallenged. he wanted his crimes to finally be laid to rest once and for all, and keeping nickel on good terms with him would let that happen. people would finally shut up about it. up until now, nickel wasn't explicitly denying his past cruelty towards balloon anyway, so balloon would be able to ignore that he neglected to ever bring it up; now, though, nickel is denying not only what he did to balloon but also to suitcase, which balloon is not able to tolerate. now that he's confronted nickel about that though, nickel snaps back with his condemnation of what balloon did in ii1, thereby uprooting the social stasis balloon had been able to maintain precisely because nickel refused to bring anything up before. in a way, then, balloon is purposefully shoving the past under the rug, just like nickel is.

we can't forget, though, that nickel has his own complex about fearing that he's incapable of change and incapable of forming positive, genuine relationships with people. balloon is essentially revealing that, in a way, he wasn't really friends with nickel -- at least not in the way nickel wished and fooled himself into thinking they were. if balloon truly were friends with nickel like that, then that would mean that balloon had forgiven him for his cruelty in ii2, and perhaps that he really has changed... but no. balloon hasn't forgiven him. why should he? nickel never apologized -- and given how he never apologized, it's impossible that he could've changed anyway: nickel doesn't want to apologize because that means addressing his guilt and allowing himself to feel it. he wants the forgiveness to be handed to him on a silver platter, without him having to do all of the painful work, and he's incredibly upset when it isn't. he wants to not be a bad person, but in order to do that, he has to feel like one, and he really doesn't want to. he hates who he was and doesn't want to associate with it at all.

(note how it's the suitcase robot who says "you can say sorry" when nickel says that nothing can be done about making things better...)

there's clearly an immeasurable amount of resentment these two have been harboring for each other throughout this season, which they'd only been hiding for the sake of fooling themselves into thinking they've changed (nickel) or thinking that others think they've changed (balloon). and now that they've let themselves explode with anger, partly related to the lies they'd been telling themselves falling apart, they yell at each other and balloon drops nickel down a hole!

ah, balloon and nickel's relationship... it's bizarre, it's toxic, it's convoluted, it's shady, and it's incredibly sad. i'm glad i'm revisiting ii3, especially this episode -- i used to be utterly baffled by nickel's writing, particularly in spring on the breakfast, but now it makes complete sense to me. also, i used to think balloon was entirely the victim in this relationship, while now i know that he has his own faults and own baggage in that regard. it's weird -- they hate each other, but at the same time they're dying to be liked by one another. god i love these freaks...

[freshfrenchtoast]

i wanna read a cheesy christmas kghn fic where kageyama hates christmas because his birthday is only a few days apart so people usually forgot about him and also maybe kazuyo died around that time so he just can't see why everyone else is happy about it and then for some reason he has to go back to his hometown and he meets hinata who shows him the magic off christmas and then they fall in love etc etc

[rhinocio]

NOW WITH PODFIC ACCOMPANIMENT!

[pickleddandelions]

This took way longer to make than I expected and/or wanted it to.

I've collected some stray thoughts and ideas I had into what I've been calling Shape!Caz AU. The name might be subject to change because I'm terrible at naming things. To be honest I haven't completely fleshed out the AU yet and I have no idea what I'm gonna do with it.

The basic premise is that after destroying the Shape, Caz becomes the eldritch horror instead. He doesn't know about that part. What he knows is that all of the sudden he's back on an oil rig that should have been destroyed, surrounded by people who died horrible deaths at best but are suddenly alive and well and there's creepy shit happening around him that gets worse the more he panics.

It’s December 27th. None of the crew remember the 26th happening, but the people calling from the outside insist on that. They say the Beira D was completely unreachable for a whole day.

Caz just appeared at the derrick at some point. He didn’t walk in or anything, all of the sudden he just stood there, screaming. Gibbo was the first one to get to him, but then he started freaking out and yelling about not wanting to do something and ran away. It’s impossible to get him to stop crying for long enough to explain anything. It’s even harder to get any explanation from Caz. The guy just keeps rambling about people dying and monsters. Looking at him for too long hurts.

Apparently Rennick tried to fire Caz. No idea what made him change his mind, but his office has been destroyed and the guys from Administration say that he called some random guy just to threaten him. They also said that Caz is now banned from using any form of long-range communication. This was not elaborated on.One of the first things Caz did after getting to Accommodations was punching Addair. Nobody thought anything of it at the time but now Addair’s wandering around Engineering muttering something about the engine and calling his kids. He’s not responding to anyone trying to talk to him. It’s really bad for the crew’s morale.

There’s something big moving on the deck that you can only see when looking out of the windows. Some of the deckhands keep insisting that it’s Muir, but none of them have any idea how they know that. Muir himself is currently trapped in their cabin where Innes locked him in after Caz mentioned his name. Innes went missing a few hours ago. Muir is starting to get pissed. Caz seems really upset by this.

The hallways are alive when Caz is upset.

[districtunrest]

I shot myself in the foot by reading so many Haymitch's Games fics for years bc I truly am satisfied with that part of the canon, to the point where I've never wanted to write it in full myself and I don't even want it now from the actual author

if Sunrise is a Haymitch POV that begins the morning of the reaping, I worry it'll read like another fanfiction - we learn the names of his mother and brother and girlfriend and get a bit of their personality and their lives before he's reaped, and then he goes to the Capitol, and from there it's fun to see how different fics fill out the summary Katniss gave us and maybe even subvert some things. after that, a confrontation with Snow that Snow wins, and the terrible thing we all know was going to happen that our beloved boy didn't (how to take '2 weeks after crowned?' some portray it as they were killed while he was away, others as soon as the cameras left; there's a fire, there's spread out one-by-one accidents, etc etc), and the hard-to-write/painful-to-read portrait of grief that follows. and then *the* crackdown, the fraying community ties, the isolation, the tension with his friends we met briefly before the reaping. and then maybe... a bit of hope... a hint of the future rebellion to come: Haymitch meets intern Plutarch, meets [whichever named victor] on his Tour (where he'll surely come across that room in the D11 Justice Building) and knows things aren't done here, not like Snow wants him to believe...

like. I'll only be comparing it to all those other Haymitch POV fics that did the same exact thing. unless SC completely surprises us - a time skip? a revelation that blows all our interpretations out of the water? something??

but! I'm not entitled to have the story as I want it. I don't even think I'm the target audience anymore. I just wish, if she's going this direction, that she'd written it a little sooner, before I read almost every fan version of it since 2009 lol

[turtles-allthewaydown]

Some things that are implied by Hazbin Hotel canon and Vivsie extras:

Angel was named Anthony, came from a mob family, and speaks Italian

Angel has a New York accent and died in 1947

therefore Angel was an Italian-American who lived through WWII

SO, like, what was that like? How recently did his family come from Italy? Were they considered enemy aliens? Did he enlist? Could he enlist?

and, because shipping brainrot is inescapable:

Husk died in the 1970s in his 60s/70s

So he was born in the 1900s or 10s

He was reaching adulthood in the 20s or 30s, he would be 30-40 in the 1940s

Some people headcanon that Husk served in Vietnam but actually the war he's most likely to have served in is WWII

so, like... did he? Have they talked about it? Throw in the common headcanon that human!Husk was Black and... you know, I can actually see a lot of reasons why he might end up jaded and closed-off even before he got to Hell.

I just want to know so much about what their living lives were like. And what they think about them now. I know we'll never get it in the show because that's not what it's about but man.

[selineram3421]

I can't get this out of my head so all of you get to deal with it too.

Every time I hear Hozier-Too Sweet, all I can think of is Alastor singing it to the reader.

[carolperkinsexgirlfriend]

Steddie Upside-Down AU Part 115

Part 1 Part 114

Will could tell they were coming well before his bedroom door opened, both their presences shining like a beacon, brighter and brighter the closer they came.

It’s still a surprise to see their faces. Eddie looks excited enough to be verging on manic, the same way he does when there’s a particularly juicy twist in a campaign he’s been planning out. In contrast, Steve looks almost grave. Not worried, but something serious in the slant of his mouth as Eddie tugs him inside and shuts the door.

“What’s going on?” Will asks, looking between the pair for clues, and finding none.

“Nothing serious,” Steve replies. He commandeers Will’s desk chair while Eddie flops into the bed beside Will, wriggling around until he’s stollen all the covers and wrapped them around himself like a human burrito.

“We’ve just got something to tell ya,” Eddie continues, beaming up at Will.

Neither of them continues, so Will looks back and forth between them. Eddie’s eyes are downright twinkling, while Steve stares at the side of Eddie’s head, glaring.

“Fine,” Steve grumbles, finally turning to meet Will’s eyes. “Eddie and I are dating.”

Will nods, maintaining eye contact as he waits for Steve to keep talking. He doesn’t. “That’s it?”

Eddie squawks,  slithering up in bed, still so swaddled in blankets that he looks formless. “What do you mean, that’s it?” he demands, elbowing Will in the ribs, but it’s through all the blankets so Will barely feels it.

“Weren’t you guys already dating?”

Eddie’s mouth is hanging open, formless consonants leaking out of him. Steve steeples his fingers and leans forward, elbows on knees.

“It’s just, Eddie said—”

Eddie wriggles his arm free just in time to slap it over Will’s mouth with an awkward laugh. “Shut, up, Baby Byers,” he hisses, a faux smile on his face.

Steve leans back in the chair, lets his hands land loosely on the armrests. He’s smirking like there’s a canary in his mouth, and for the first time, Will can almost see the cool guy everyone acts like Steve is.

Not the real kind of cool that Steve actually is, but the kind who’d throw parties, and sit on a high school throne he hadn’t even built himself.

“What did you say, Eddie?” he asks, still smirking, and oh, is this flirting?

Will contorts his body until he’s free of Eddie’s silencing hand. “He said he was in love with you,” Will says.

Eddie sags into himself with a groan, burying his face into the blanket he’s still wrapped in. He looks like a pill bug, the only flesh visible a little bit of one of his ankles. Will pokes it and Eddie jerks, raising his head just enough to pout at Will.

“Is that so,” Steve says, but it’s not phrased like a question. Will answers it anyway.

“He said you looked like an angel in the Upside-Down, when we saw all those lights at my house for the first time?” Will feels his own face blushing as he remembers the way the lights had shone down on Steve, painted him in gold like it was his birthright.

Steve’s not smirking anymore, he’s gone all weird and gooey in the face. It only gets worse when Eddie makes a whining noise.

“Is that where the nickname came from?” he mutters quietly enough that it barely carries to Will’s ears. When Steve starts speaking again, it’s at his normal volume. “Wait, where was I for this?”

Eddie sits up at that, uncocooning himself enough to free his arms but keeping it over his head like an extremely unfashionable cloak.

“Uh…” he starts, shifting forward to stare into Steve’s eyes. “You were possessed?”

Steve grimaces, and all Kingly posturing falls away as he slumps back into the chair, crossing his arms in a way that looks more like a hug. Eddie must think so, too, because he latches onto Steve’s pantleg with grabby fingers and pulls until Steve settles onto Will’s bed with them.

“Were there any witnesses to this little declaration?” Steve asks, not meeting anyone’s eyes.

“Just Mom and Uncle Wayne,” Will replies.

Steve nods, slow as he meets Will’s gaze. “…and your Mom was.”

“She doesn’t care,” Will cuts in. Steve lets out a relieved breath that Will feels in his bones. He’d felt that worry when she’d let out a shocked gasp at Eddie’s declaration, had felt it wither away when he’d seen her hopeful face. “She just wanted you back.”

“We all did,” Eddie cuts in, throwing his stolen blanket over Steve’s shoulders, Will nestled between them both. “And we thought maybe trying to reach you in there would work?”

Steve laughs, but it’s all wet and choked up in itself. “And you said you were in love with me?” Steve asks. He reaches around Will to smooth down Eddie’s mussed bangs, the one cheek Will can see from his angle turning a light pink. “That’s so embarrassing for you.”

Eddie grumbles but leans into Steve’s touch all the time. “Well, it worked, didn’t it?” he asks. “We could feel you in there. You must’ve heard us.”

Will cranes himself away to look at Steve’s face, compromising the integrity of their ramshackle blanket fort enough that he tears it off Eddie and Steve entirely.

Steve doesn’t seem to have even noticed. His eyes are distant, glazed over like he’s looking at something else entirely.

Will never wants to see that distance on Steve Harrington’s face ever again, not after black smoke and a Steve that isn’t, so he tugs on their connection, and he comes back alive.

“I think I heard some of it?” he says, holding the palm of his hand to his ear like he’s listening to the ocean. He goes distant again, but Will’s pretty sure he’s just trying to remember, so he resists the temptation to pull him free. “What did everyone else say?”

Eddie reaches out and links his pinkie with Steve’s. “Oh, the same sappy shit we’ve all said to your face,” Eddie replies, but he’s smiling. “Baby Byers acted like it was his job to save you, and fawned over you like you’re some goddamn action hero.”

“Hey!” Will cries, but Steve’s laughing, so he doesn’t mind, especially not when Steve tugs on him this time, beaming at him like he’s a revelation.

“Uncle Wayne, the cantankerous old man that he is, said you were like a son to him.”

“Mom just asked you to come home,” Will cuts in. Steve’s eyes are shining.

“And I declared my undying love to you in front of all and sundry,” Eddie finishes, rearranging their linked pinkies so he can tangle the rest of their fingers together as well.

“You’re all so embarrassing,” Steve says, but he reaches out and bully’s Will into his arms. Eddie, never one to turn down a hug, worms his way into the situation immediately and applies enough pressure to make both their ribs creak.

They stay like that for a long time, until Mom calls, “boys, breakfast!” from somewhere in the house.

Eddie’s the first to let go with a contented sigh, scrabbling up off Will’s. He’s skipped halfway out the door before either of them has even stood up.  

“Has Mama Byers learned to cook since the last time we were here?” Eddie asks, leaning back in to grin cheekily at Will. “I don’t know if I’m in the mood for eggs that are somehow rubbery and watery at the same time.”

Part 116

[mechazushi]

Kafka Hibino

Kafka Hibino.... with visible salt and pepper side burns.

Kafka Hibino.... wearing glasses and has salt and pepper side burns.

Kafka HIbino.... in that black turtleneck and a dark brown leather jacket and also wearing glasses and has salt and pepper side burns.

Kafka Hibino.... wearing that outfit and is an Animal Biology Professor in an College Au.

Kafka Hibino..... asking out Hoshina who is an Advanced Mathematics Professor working at the same college, to have an after-work drink with him.

Slightly DRUNK Kafka Hibino... becoming very forward with an also slightly drunk Hoshina

Slightly Drunk Hoshina... immediately matching Kafka's freak tenfold and Kafka is very much fine with this.

[trensu]

Have an itty bitty tiny piece of stasis in darkness, just so you all have an idea of where the story is going after the godly reveal. and also have proof that i am, in fact, still toiling away at this (as well as hawkins halfway house.)

A week and a half later, Steve entered a town he’d never seen before. He wore simple traveling clothes and carried no weapons aside from a couple of carefully hidden knives. He’d left his armor and shield behind. His satchel held only the essentials one needed for travel and a single stone as large as his fist. The stone was wrapped in layers of cloth to keep it safe during the journey. 

I need you to find someone. 

He felt very bare but he hadn’t been given much of a choice. Speed was of the essence for his quest, and little no-name towns tended to be wary of strangers in plain clothes, even more so around strangers decked out for battle. Steve wasn’t sure this place could be called a town. It was so small it hadn’t been on any official map. It didn’t even have an inn. Hopefully, Steve wouldn’t be needing an inn once he found who he was looking for.

He’s too far from me to reach.

He asked around, laying on the charm generously. He explained he had been a friend of a friend and had been trusted to deliver something. Eventually, he was told where to go. The house he found far beyond the village’s boundary was small. It looked like it had once been well cared for but it was old and had fallen to disrepair. Steve took a deep breath and knocked on the door.

A sallow old man opened the door. He was bald but had some scruff on his face still. His shoulders, stooped from age, trembled. His eyes were bloodshot. He looked so tired.

He’s my very last worshiper in all the world.

“Wayne Munson?” Steve asked.

“Who wants to know?” The man’s voice was phlegmy and rough. He coughed into the crook of his elbow almost before he could finish speaking. 

“I’m Steve. Ser Steve Harrington, pledged to the Lord of Night.”

Wayne’s eyes widened. His grip on the open door weakened and slipped. Steve caught the door before it could hit Wayne.

“He sent me to you,” Steve explained. “May I come in?”

yep, that's it for now. i told you it was small. i'm not even gonna bother with a read-more here.

[hyohaehyuk]

This article was interesting bc Jacob mentioned the pressure he felt being naked on screen, how exercise affected his mood positively and how he asked Sam if he knew how vampires moved before deciding he wanted to be “reptilian” about it.

Source: Men’s Health - Jacob Anderson Always Wants More Chaos

[miraclesnail]

kk, I'll just start posting the work here. I have about 41-ish chapters already written

Title: (still working on one), chapter 1

chapter: 2 3 4, 5, 6, 7 8,9,10,11, 12,13,14,15,

When you think of Travis Stoll, what comes to mind?

Powerful? Important? A main character in the grand scheme of things?

No, right? 

Weak, insignificant, and a side character is more like it, right? 

That’s who he is. A minor character, someone who doesn’t get quests, whose contributions barely make a ripple, who barely did anything in both wars, and only remembered as that one guy who likes to prank. 

So why — why, why, why, why, why — is he being chased by a man in stupid black sweatpants and a stupid black turtleneck in a stupid black motorcycle helmet holding a stupid, blood-stained, 13 inch knife?

This is something Percy gets into. Or Nico. Or Jason.

But not him.

Never him. 

Travis leaps over rubble, feet catching on the granite, and tumbles forward. He curses loudly, but rights himself and continues running. He doesn’t dare look back (he heard the stories. You look back to see where the killer is and you end up tripping and dying and Travis very much would like to live), so he keeps his eyes trained up ahead to the not quite darkness, but close enough darkness that objects are just a dark fuzz. 

Rain is pouring thunderously outside, a drumming so loud it’s like a waterfall. The occasional lightning gives him a clear snapshot of his surroundings and those few milliseconds where he could see the rubble, he engraves in his mind. 

A fallen cabinet, a broken desk, shattered computers. He’s in an office. There’s a houseplant, a family portrait, cracked tile floors, a hole-ridden hand hanging over a toppled swivel chair— 

Nope! Nope, nope, nope, nope. He did not see that. That is not what he thinks it is. That has to be a doll or a mannequin. Something fake and plastic. Not real and made of flesh, because if it is then that means there’s something wrong! Something is killing people! (plague, monsters, aliens) And Travis don’t have time to think about that just yet. 

There’s a turn up ahead. Left? Right? Right is always right so right it is. 

He slows only a little bit, if only to make sure he doesn't crash into the wall, before running full speed again. He prays to his dad that there’s no rubble in his way. 

And like his prayer is answered, lightning flashes, thunder booms and Travis skids to a stop, sneakers barely gripping the wet tiles that otherwise would have sent him careening over the edge of the crumbled building wall. He clasps his shaking hands together and takes a deep breath, commanding his pounding heart to calm down, that no, you did not die. You almost died, but you didn’t. So stop beating so fast.  

He takes in the surroundings, noting the clouds first. They’re dark gray and expand as far as the broken, tilted buildings allow him to see. It blots out the sun and explains the darkness even though just a few minutes ago, it was as sunny as Camp Half Blood could be. His eyes lower to the horizon, to the rows of buildings, all with broken windows, missing sections of bodies, and most tilted too precariously to be considered stable. He lowers his eyes even further and gulps when he can't see the bottom. A heavy fog permeates a couple feet down that not even the heavy rain could dissipate. For all he knows, the fall could be 20 feet or 150 feet.

Is there a way to get to the floor below him? Maybe if he just clings to the wall and — nope, the moment his hand touches where the wall meets air, it crumbles. There’s no way he can descend to the floor below. 

This is a dead end. 

If he’s fast enough, maybe he can head the other way before the guy blocks him. He turns around, fumbling and tripping over his untied laces, but freezes. 

Someone is turning the corner. And the glint of that wicked knife in their hand tells him it’s not Chiron dressed as Santa Clause. 

Cheese sticks, he’s trapped. Maybe he could hide before the man sees him and wait till — the man turns to the aisle towards him and walks right in the middle towards him. 

Oh holy sandals. Travis takes a step back and his heel pushes the rubble off the ledge, a grim reminder that there’s no exit behind him. He glances behind him, a who-knows-how-high-drop into the abyss, then back to the front, a cynical man with a loose grip on his knife. 

Which is the better chance? Should he just jump? Does he even know if the man is dangerous? 

He has a knife and it’s stained with blood! Of course he’s dangerous! 

If Connor was here, he would know what to do. 

The man is drawing scarily close now, close enough for Travis to see the black, tight-fitting sport shirt with long sleeves and collar up to his chin. Close enough for him to see his belt ladles with all sorts of pointy objects. Close enough to see the brand of his black Adidas joggers. Close enough to see black, well-worn, hiking boots and definitely close enough to see the ocean blue of his eyes past the tinted shield of his motorcycle helmet.

They’re cold, terrifying cold. 

If Travis wasn’t so scared for his life, he would ask the man where he shops. He’s sure Nico would like to know. 

He glances over his shoulder to the abyss again and stiffens. He can’t survive a high fall. He’s not Percy or Jason. There’s no way he could buffer his fall either like how Nico does with the skeletons, but he’s a good talker. He’ll talk his way out of this like he always has with his pranks. So he snaps his eyes back forward and steels himself for the biggest debate of his life. 

“H-Hey!” 

AH NO his voice cracked! 

“Pal, buddy, amigo, friend, I don’t know if this is your idea of a joke or a prank or just a very elaborate plan to get me to pee my pants, but you did it! I’m terrified! So can you please stop?”

The man didn’t even falter, didn’t even miss a step. 

“Look, I applaud you. Your dedication to your role is amazing, like your costume is some A+ design.” 

Oh gods, he’s still coming. And he’s actually tightening his grip on his knife! 

Dad, Hermes, I’m begging you, if you really love me, then please bless me with some +1 charisma and speech skill right now. 

“Unless you really are here to kill me, to which I say, please don’t. I don’t even have a weapon to protect myself! That’s not fair, you know?! Don’t you care about making things fair?!” 

Crap. 

Nothing’s working. 

He’s going to have to fight his way out and Travis so does not want to do that. Not when he’s in this much of a disadvantage. 

But finally, finally, finally, the man stops walking towards him, only standing two arms length away. He raises his free hand and Travis jerks his body into a defensive position, but the rising hand only rubs the man’s neck. He raises his chin and talks, voice muffled through the helmet. “Are you done, Connor? I don’t have time for your jokes.” 

“I’m Travis.”

The response is automatic, years of being called the wrong name ingrained this reflex in him. It’s natural to him, something he doesn’t even think about.

The man falters and so did he. 

Most people have never heard their voice before, most probably can’t identify their voice. But Travis hears his voice every day and before he left for college, every second of his life. They all said he shares everything with Connor, even their voices are the same apparently. 

“You… have the same voice as me,” Travis says hesitantly. 

The man isn’t advancing, his wide eyes train on Travis. He could see shock, surprise in those eyes. Or maybe it’s mania. It’s hard to differentiate emotions when all you have is the eyes. He stares for a few more seconds, looking up and down his entire body although his stare linger most on his Camp Half Blood shirt. 

“You’re… not Connor?” he whispers.

There’s no mistaking it. That’s definitely his voice and there’s only one person Travis knows who shares the same voice as his. All tension, all fear and worry leaves his body and he sighs in relief. 

“Connor, this has got to be the least funniest prank you ever pulled. You really scared me!” The man — Connor — freezes at his words, but Travis doesn’t really pay much attention to that. More importantly, this is the last time he’s eating the last Goldfish crackers without buying a replacement pair. Lesson learned. A very hard lesson learned. 

Still though, isn’t this a bit too much? To go this far for some measly $3 snack that they can literally buy at any grocery store? Like, Travis knows Connor loves his snacks. But this is going way too far. He kicks the rubble which definitely seems real. 

“But I have to admit that the special effects are really cool. You went all out for this, huh? Who did you bribe to help you set this up? Hazel? Lou Ellen? Percy and Annabeth? This place is so realistic. You really outdid yourself. And your costume is so cool. Did you get it from Nico?” 

He walks in front of Connor with ease, but his grin falters. Something is off. Connor is backing away from him. Through the visor, he can see … trepidation? Confusion? Fear? But Connor fears nothing. 

“Connor?” Travis asks, worry creeping into his voice. He looks behind him. Maybe there’s a monster coming towards him. But there’s nothing outside other than the rain. “What’s wrong?”

Faster than a blink of an eye, Connor kicks Travis’s feet out from underneath him. There hadn’t even been time to react. Which is bizarre. Connor was never this fast. If anything he’s the faster one by a mere second or two.

Either way, Travis is falling backwards and he hits the ground hard on his back. And before he could process what the heck is happening, there’s a dagger in his face just inches from his eyes. That’s not celestial bronze, he thinks. 

The hand holding the dagger that’s looming dangerously over his face is shaking. Shaking rather badly actually. Like, shaking bad enough that it can drop. He wonders if he could ask Connor if he could just move that dagger out of the way a bit so it’s not over his eye in case it does slip. 

“What—” ‘Connor’ says in what is definitely Connor’s voice except it’s trembling even worse than the hand, “What game are you playing, Connor?” 

“...I’m Travis, not Connor,” he says meekly, still eyeing the dagger that’s now a bit closer than last time. Travis clenches the bracelet over his wrist. He can probably block it if need be. But this guy in front of him is… fast. A lot faster than any opponent he ever faced. What if he doesn’t? Gods, he hopes it doesn’t end up poking his eye out. Will can fix a lot of injuries including something as delicate an organ as the eye, but that doesn’t mean he wants to experience what a stab there feels like. 

Mr. Dark and Mysterious and maybe-not-Connor stays silent for a moment, hopefully not contemplating about poking his eye out. The face is entirely unreadable underneath that helmet. But after an eternity, the guy removes the dagger from his face and steps back. Travis gets to his feet uneasily and eyes the dagger still in the guy’s hand.

“So… are we—” Travis begins. 

But Mr. Helmet cuts him off sharply. “What were you doing before you got here?”

Before he got here in this weird, gray dystopia? He shrugs. “Nothing much. I was doing my usual morning jog around the camp perimeter.” 

Mr. Helmet’s hand squeezes the dagger. “Camp? As in Camp Half Blood?”

“The one and only,” Travis says with a smile and a finger gun. 

It did not lighten the mood like he hoped. 

“And Camp Half Blood is okay? It’s still standing? There’s people there? It’s not flooded at all?” 

Travis blinks at the weird barrage of questions. 

It makes no sense actually. Flooded? Still standing? Okay? At what point was Camp never okay? Sure it came close to being destroyed like a billion times, but it always pulled through with the power of teamwork and Percy Jackson. 

Mr. Helmet/Maybe-Connor must see the confusion in his eyes because he’s digging through a pouch on his belt. Travis stiffens and grabs his bracelet again at the sudden movement, but the guy just pulls out a large four leaf clover. 

With a flick of his finger, the clover twirls in a spiral down to the ground. The air ripples as it descends, shimmering and distorting the space. The gray boring disintegrating canvas that is the wall becomes a patch of beautiful healthy green grass and the familiar tree trunks bordering the camp’s main area and the forest. 

“This. You saw this and ran inside?” Mr Helmet says, pointing a gloved hand at the distortion in an disbelieving tone. It’s not said but Travis can practically hear the accusation. You saw a strange, portal-like thing and ran inside like a complete idiot without investigating it first?

He can just hear Annabeth’s sigh of immense disappointment. Which is really unfair. He would never do it on purpose. Like all things in his life, it was an accident. 

“To be fair,” he starts off because all situations need context, “I was in the zone and was trying to break my personal best.”

Mr. Maybe-Connor blinks at him and stays silent, as if waiting for more. 

So Travis provides some more context. “And I might have not been looking at where I was going.”

More silence.

And alright, more context. “I couldn’t sleep and running always helps me with my nerves.”

“So, you did run through. You came from the other side. Then… that means… are you really— ” 

The whistle of air.

Like an arrow piercing through the sky.

They both hear it at the same time. 

Travis takes a wild guess and steps back instinctively, turning his head towards the source. And so does Mr. Maybe-Connor, the same exact motion as him at the exact same time. 

A feathered arrow snags Mr. Maybe-Connor’s shoulder, the speed and force of it pushing him back.

Pushing him back into the portal with pretty grass and sunkissed trees. 

There’s only enough time for their eyes to meet before Mr. Helmet completely passes through the portal and the shimmering canvas disappears. The man is gone. Travis is all alone sans for the crunch, crunch of boots stepping on broken tile. 

He hears a click. That’s his only warning before another click and the whistle of air again. 

Travis ducks this time, the arrow zooming over his head. 

He doesn’t get time to think of the next step. A third arrow embeds itself into his khaki while he is still crouched and pins him to the tile. He yanks it out just in time to feel the cold press of metal against his crown. He freezes at the touch and it’s enough of a pause for the stranger to yank his arms behind his back and shoves his face into the dirty tile. A knee digs into his shoulder to keep him in place and the metal goes back to resting against his head. 

On one hand, this is a bad situation. He’s dead for sure. No way is he surviving an arrow to the head. On the other hand, holy cow. What amazing marksmanship! The best Travis has ever seen! It’s enough to rival a hunter of Artemis. Enough to rival even —

“That was surprisingly easy, Travis. The hell?” 

Travis’s thoughts grind to a halt. That voice.

“Who was that second person you were with?”

His blood runs cold. That voice. 

“And what are you wearing?”

That voice, it’s him. It’s definitely him. But it can’t be. He died years ago. There’s no way. He’s imagining it. He’s hallucinating. There’s no way it’s him. But curiosity is eating at him. He wants to look. There’s a voice in his head yelling at him to Don’t do it! Stop! You’re being reckless! You’re going to get yourself killed! 

But he has to know. He has to. 

So he looks, tilting his face just enough to peek over his shoulder. 

He looks past the metal arrow inches from his face.

Past the body of the handcrafted mahogany crossbow.

Past the sleeved arm holding the weapon.

To the scrunched up face that’s gut-piercingly familiar. 

Not much has changed at all. His hair is still the same shade of black. His eyes are still the same shade of brown. He’s still short. Still 4’6”.  He’s still scowling. His face is still scrunched up like he stared down the shaft of his arrow for too long. 

Michael.

Michael Yew. 

It’s the same. Everything about this Michael is the same as the Michael he knows, is exactly as he remembers before Michael had sacrificed himself on that bridge years ago. 

Almost the same. Nearly the same.

The only difference is that the Michael he knows preferred a traditional bow, not a crossbow.

And that Michael never —

Travis could hear his heart hammering in his chest as Michael’s knee — warm and solid and definitely real — grinds and pushes harder against his shoulder blade. 

That Michael never looked at him with such a cold and conflicted expression. 

xxxxx

The arrow hooks the threads of the fabric on his shoulder. Not enough to touch his skin and break the vow, but enough that the momentum pushes him backwards.

The preciseness of it all still amazes him even after all these years. Michael is simply incredible. Then it strikes him that the portal is behind him. That he’s going to fall through the portal.

[Ground your feet.]

He can’t. 

Twist, lunge, don’t fall in.

[I can’t.] 

Summon some — [There’s no time.]

[grab something.] Like what?

His eyes meet the boy’s with the painfully bright orange shirt and they’re wide, clueless. 

[Him. Grab him.]

He reaches out, praying, hoping that his fingers snag on his.

But it doesn’t. 

And he’s falling.

.

falling 

.

falling.

.

The ground comes faster than he expected as his back collides with dirt. He scrambles to his feet, maybe the portal is still there and he can hop through. But it’s gone. It’s gone. It’s gone. It’s gone. It’s gone. It’s— 

It’s dry. The air is dry. 

[It’s not raining.]

His breaths come faster and faster as he looks around him. 

Trees. Trees with leaves — actual green leaves — full and bustling and to the brim. 

His head tilts back and — something bright and painful blinds him and he hisses pulling his head back down. 

[The sun. That was the sun. And the sky, I can see the sky.]  

He stumbles forward on uneven legs. It’s too hot. It’s too warm. It’s suffocating. He rips the helmet off and tosses it aside. But it isn’t better. He can see more, hear more, smell more.  [The clouds, the wind, the birds, the chirping, the trees, the leaves, the soil] 

Someone’s breathing heavily and he spins around out of instinct, but only seeing more trees [pine trees, birch trees, willow trees]

It’s him. He’s breathing too loud and he stops gulping air, holding it in. And then letting it go. He can’t panic here. He needs to find a way back over. If Michael is there, then the others must surely be there too. He needs to get back now.

He fumbles with his thigh pouch [the ground, it’s so dry] his hands won’t stop shaking [The sky is so blue] he could see the inklings of the green clover among the black inside of his pouch [the sun feels so warm] and he grasps it in his gloved hand, pulling it out. 

Only for them to disintegrate into dust that the wind blows away. 

He stares at their remains, not comprehending, not understanding.

[Was that all of it?] That was all of it. 

[Then are we stuck here?] We’re stuck here. 

This is a dream. It has to be a dream. There’s no possible explanation.

His neck twinges, aches, burns and he rubs it. He digs his fingers in. He squeezes it until it hurts and the burning, screaming, aching dies down.

What… what should he do next? What is he supposed to do? [Let’s sit down and we can analyze the situation.]

He starts when a branch cracks behind him and before he could turn around, a man’s voice rings out,

“Travis! There you are!” 

A familiar voice. A not so familiar pitch. 

“Where have you been? We’ve been looking for you for over an hour.” 

A remnant of a memory from so long ago floats to the surface. 

“Come on, I have arts and crafts with your cabin. Tyson is stoked for it.” 

And he twirls around to see him. The one that haunts his dreams. That terrorizes his sleep and stalks his consciousness.  The one with black hair (caked with blood) that hangs over sea-green eyes (filled with bloodlust) and a grin (a glower) on his face with a 6 (6?) beaded necklace over a sickening bright, orange T-shirt.

Son of Poseidon, Perseus Jackson.

His blood freezes.

His heart stops. 

His throat closes. 

A hazy, belligerent red washes over him. 

I’m going to kill him. 

[Don’t. Don’t fight him. Not when we don’t know anything.] But he — 

[I know. But we need him and we can’t afford to lose another person.] But— 

[Don’t.] But—

“Travis? What’s the matter?” Perseus asks, his voice infuriatingly friendly, light-hearted.

Perseus takes one step towards him [don’t] and another and one more till he’s within arms reach.

[Don’t.]

[Stop it.]

[Just run away.]

[We need to figure out what’s happening.]

[Don’t do it. For gods’ sake, don’t—]

“Travis? You okay? You look like you’re out of it.” 

A hand touches his shoulder. 

He pulls the knife from his belt and lunges forward with every intention of stabbing Perseus’s face clean of skin, muscle, and bone. But his other hand grabs his wrist before he could get close.

[I said don’t!] 

Guilt roils in his gut but anger overrides that. 

Perseus leaps back a safe distance, yelling, “Hey! What are you doing?”

He shoots forward. The chest is just as good as the face. Probably more painful too. And the pain will last longer too. But his left ankle bumps into his right shin and he misses again. [Wait and listen to me for a second —]

“Travis! What the heck! What’s wrong? Hey!”

He doesn’t answer, to Perseus, to him. All that matters is getting his dagger into (unmarred?) flesh and twisting it free and thrusting it back in. Again and again and again. Till he’s dead as much as the others. 

And maybe Perseus sees that unreasonableness too. The son of Poseidon shoves him to the ground, turns tail, and runs. 

He follows, uncaring of anything else. 

“Crap, crap, crap!” 

He catches up in a minute, longer than he would have liked and only because he keeps tripping, but he manages to throw his dagger at the heel of Perseus’s foot so he’ll tumble to the ground. He’s on him the next second, pulling the flailing arm behind Perseus’s back and pushing the shoulder out of its joint. The hiss of pain that follows didn’t quench the red haze. He raises his knife. Perseus bucks and tries to throw him off and he nearly did, but he locks down more. A knife in the spine should stop his struggling. He tightens his hold on his handle, lift it higher and — 

someone rips it from his hand.

Another pulls him back by the shoulder till he’s off Perseus completely, pushing until he’s falling on his back. 

And a third is pinning his left arm down with a knee against his elbow and ordering the second person to get his right arm too.

He slips his dagger from behind his back and jabs the knife right above where the kneecap should be. He slices, digging the blade in and swiping out quickly. Blood splatters across his face and screams break out in multiple directions. One in pain. Several in terror. [Wait! That was a person you just stabbed! A real person! Not a zombie!] The knee retracts and he rolls out from under the restraint, spitting blood out of his mouth. 

Shit. Fuck. What did he do? 

[Are you done? Can we run away now and rethink?] Yeah. I’m sorry. I just— [It’s fine. It’s fine! Apologize later but right now, just get out of here.]

But a hand is already on his upper arm the next second. He grabs the owner’s arm and their ugly orange shirt, sweeps his leg out, and tugs down. The fourth person fell. 

But a fifth and sixth person already have hands on him and they shove his face into the dirt and pin his wrists behind his back. [This is bad.]

He struggles for all he’s worth, but there’s more hands and more force and more yelling. So he struggles harder. [This is so very bad.] 

“Shit. What the fuck is wrong with you, Travis!” 

He kicks a shin. [Should I—]

“Clarisse! Clarisse!! Oh my god. Oh my GOD!”

He bites a hand. [Do you want me to—]

“Get out of my way. I’m going to kick his teeth in!”

He headbutts someone in the balls. [I’m going to use—]

“Dude, calm down! Piper, charmspeak his ass or something!”

[Piper?] and he stops struggling. 

Hands are locking his wrists together. 

[Piper? But Piper—]

“Forget charmspeaking. Someone get Connor! Wait, I see him. Connor, get over here! Your brother lost his marbles.” 

“Travis.”

He raises his head an inch and stares at a monster. At the man. At the horse. A centaur. A familiar face. A face from before. What was his name? 

“Travis,” the man, horse, centaur begins with wary, uncertain eyes, “What is ailing you? Why are you attacking your fellow campers? Your friends?” 

What is his name? What is his name?

“Travis? Can you hear me?”

What was it? Chase? Chance? Camdyn? Caelan?  Charon? Chiron? 

“Do you understand what I’m asking, Travis? ”

Chiron. It was Chiron.

“Travis?”

Chiron Chiron Chiron Chiron Chiron. That’s Chiron. But Chiron abandoned them. Chiron sided with the gods and left them all. Chiron is dead so how, why, what?

“Tra… vis?”

And he traces the new voice to the source, eyes landing on the face he sees everyday. The ocean-blue eyes he has etched down to memory. The unruly, unbrushed brown hair he knows down to the last curl. But the orange shirt. The brown khakis. The 9 beaded necklace. That thin line of scarred tissue running across his left brow. The surprise, the worry, the unsureness, that’s all new. 

That isn’t his brother.

That can’t be his brother. 

The beads don’t match up. The scars don't add up. Something’s wrong. Everything’s wrong. 

Another man comes up beside Chiron. He looks familiar too. But he recalls his name in an instant. Dionysus. An Olympian. And alive too. 

He doesn’t get much chance to dwell on it before Dionysus waves a hand and his eyes fall shut without permission. 

[beanghostprincess]

I'm turning that Sanuso Modern AU (In which they meet because Zoro forgets to pay at the Baratie and Usopp and Waiter!Sanji end up flirting all night while they wait for him to come back with the money) into a whole fic called "The very first night" that will approximately have 9 chapters and it's actually about Sanji going on a quest trying to find Usopp again and failing miserably. Congratulations, y'all have convinced me to write a long fic when I usually write one-shots. Let's see how this turns out!

[dont-offend-the-bees]

Oh, Lonely Bones, Have You Forgotten? Chapter Two

Hello, beautiful people! Chapter two’s here!

Now, to be honest, I’ve been getting in my head about this one. The first chapter got so many compliments on its slow building suspense, and this chapter is more of a meandering slice of life/case fic, so I’m not gonna lie, slightly worried it won’t go down as well. So if you enjoy it, please do come tell me and put my mind at ease! It didn’t come together easy and I have been staring at it for WAY too long - but this week I’ve been self-isolating with covid so uh. A lot of writing time opened up.

WARNINGS: Annnngst. Death, loneliness, abandonment, touch starvation, sensory deprivation, along with morbid things like burials and bodies and bones are core themes of this fic. The ending will be happy eventually but we WILL have a sad ride to get there. So please be aware of that before reading.

Thank you everyone who read/commented on chapter one, hope you enjoy this instalment! Also thank you to justafandomfollower on tumblr who offered to beta this when I was getting paranoid - I ultimately did not take you up on the offer bc by the time I felt like this was ready to have other eyes on it I just wanted to post it and get it over with but I appreciate you!!! It was such a kind offer, unfortunately I physically can not edit this thing any more than I have or I will truly go insane 💛

Chapter two is 9.7k. Chapters 3/4 coming soon (hopefully). Also on Ao3 (need to be signed in to read)

~

"So. I kinda feel like I'm gonna wish I hadn't asked," said Crystal, arms crossed and feet shuffling. "But... screw it. What's in the box?"

Charles visibly winced. He stepped into the room behind the trunk he was helping to manoeuvre through the mirror, and staggered on entry. Distracted, no doubt, by the effort of searching for a way to answer her query without causing distress. "It's, uh. Well. It's..."

Edwin, having no such compunctions about stating the facts, set down his end of the trunk with haste. "Me," he said, putting a good arm's length between himself and the awful thing. It had already begun ramping up towards another outburst in the short time the container had been closed. Edwin could feel that insistent, vexatious drone reestablishing itself. Could feel the temperature in the office drop — for him, at least. Crystal seemed unaffected. Definitely spectral, then. "I'm in there. What's left of me, at any rate."

Under different, less harrowing conditions, he might've enjoyed the look on Crystal's face. A slow, dawning transformation from confusion to slack-jawed horror. It wasn't altogether unlike the face she'd made when they'd returned from the case of the disappearing chin with their reward: a mason jar full of assorted teeth.

But the circumstances were far from jovial. Engaging in some good-natured needling of his colleague was quite far down his list of priorities. The comfort of such a ritual — and even the comfort of the sanctuary in which they now stood — lay sullied by the aura leeching from the trunk.

Edwin found himself feeling... unappreciative, of the hallowed space. Of their shared artefacts and ephemera, of the four walls that had housed their agency from its inception. It all seemed so far out of his purview, at present. There was a numbness settling upon him. Different to the ever-present sensory deprivation of the ghostly condition. Different, and worse. His usual lack of feeling was just that; a lack. An absence of heat, of touch, of smell and taste and bodily sensation. It was a simple, neutral nothing. This was a something. This was the presence of an absence. For the first time in decades, as pins and needles bloomed about his person, he was granted a physical symptom of his own lack of physicality. It was troubling. He could feel; but only just enough to be reminded that he couldn't.

His hands twitched, and he tugged his gloves off in jerky motions, finger by finger. As he did so, he tripped headlong into a battle of wills; staring down the sealed trunk with bated breath. The sound of Charles' voice as he explained and Crystal's as she quizzed, they all seemed to fade to an insignificant hum behind that wheedling drone. It was like a whisper into the ear. So quiet and yet by sheer proximity, sheer intimacy it drove all other noise to the background. Drawing his ears, his eyes, his mind to the enclosed space. Urging him to step close, to open the lid. To look, look, look at me...

"Edwin? Edwin, you listening?"

"Hm?" He had not, in fact, been listening. Abashed, he turned his attention to Charles. "Yes. That is, ah... might you repeat that?"

Charles was watching him with open concern, eyes wide and a tension in his jaw. His gaze kept darting between Edwin and the trunk as if he could see the pull between them, following it like a string. "What are we gonna do?" he asked, voice pitched low. "With... with them?"

Edwin hadn't the faintest notion.

Still, he'd insisted on not involving the police, and this was his problem in most every possible sense. So he cleared his throat, and discarded his coat and gloves on the desk. "Well. Clearly, the matter merits further investigation. We are still on a case, after all." He strode over to the bookshelf and perused its titles, fingers dancing across the spines. "The school should be safe, now that the cause has been removed from the grounds."

"Bad new for our office, though," muttered Charles.

"Okay, have I like, missed something?" Crystal cut in, throwing her hands in the air. "This doesn't make any sense! I’m sorry, Edwin, but if these... if these are your bones —" her voice dropped, briefly, into a hiss. As if the harsh truth would soften if spoken in hushed tones. "Then how can they be doing this? They can't be haunted, right? How can they be haunted, when your spirit is —?"

"Otherwise engaged? I've no idea." He riffled through the pages of a volume on hexes, finding nothing of relevance at a glance. He'd already known that would be the case, but the need for familiar motions was... acute. "It's really quite fascinating," he said, in an attempt at airy detachment. He wasn't altogether convinced he pulled it off.

"Edwin," said Charles — much closer to Edwin's ear than he'd expected in his distraction. Edwin jumped a tad, wrong-footed. He cursed the impulse at once when Charles pulled away, apology writ large across his face. "Maybe, um," Charles forged on, hands held where Edwin could see them. "Maybe you should let us handle this one, mate. You're a bit... close to the situation. Yeah?"

Edwin offered a tight, strained smile. "Thank you, Charles. But I'm quite alright. And I'll be even better when this case is closed, so we'd best hop to it. Besides, chances are strong that this holds very little relevance to me, at all. It's possible the remains have been infested or claimed by another paranormal entity. This could all be unravelled with something as simple as a counter-jinx. Now, have you that grimoire — the one we acquired in ninety seven? I think it might be in your bag."

Charles sighed, and clapped Edwin on the shoulder. "I'll have a look."

He sloped off in search, and Edwin busied himself loading books onto his arm; any that could be even tangentially related. Educational texts, diaries, even certain storybooks could point them in the right direction. It was possible they were looking into something unlike anything they'd seen before. They may need to glean insights from unorthodox sources.

He'd amassed a stack of about a baker's dozen by the time Crystal replaced Charles at his shoulder.

"Gimme some of those," she said, hands palm up and fingers flapping.

"They're very dense volumes," said Edwin, barely sparing her a glance. "Spanning several languages, many of them dead —"

"Then gimme the ones in English. We all need to work together." Her hands did not lower, and nor did her gaze; it remained fixed upon him in a brazen manner that dared him to argue. Her eyes were hard, but her voice softened somewhat when she said: "Let's wrap this one up fast, okay?"

He sighed, and accepted defeat. He begrudgingly handed her his (replica, thoroughly de-hexed) edition of The Boneturner's Tale. "Thank you," he uttered.

"This the one, Edwin?" Charles called.

Edwin glanced over and found Charles with one arm in his bag of tricks, the other holding aloft a tattered book. "That's it exactly, Charles. Flick through and find the section on malicious enchantments — bones are a common component in numerous spells. See if you find any phenomena corresponding to what we've experienced tonight."

Books in hand, Edwin picked his way across the office, nigh on hugging the wall — giving the trunk a very wide berth. "Likewise to you, Crystal," he instructed. "We're looking for any mention of cold snaps, telepathic communication, or compulsions in relation to bones or remains. We need to ascertain what we're up against and, ideally, how to stop it. I daresay we have a long night ahead of us."

Crystal groaned, sinking like a stone into the sofa. "I'm gonna need some coffee or something," she muttered, tucking her feet under herself as she opened her book.

"Maybe we can sweet talk Charlie into putting the kettle on," Charles teased.

Crystal snorted. "Yeah, great. She'd like that almost as much as you calling her Charlie."

Edwin loosened his bowtie as he claimed his desk chair. He felt constricted, all of the sudden. As if the new not-awareness was expanding into a new cognizance of the clothing on his person. He looked, disquieted, at the box; and though it simply wasn't possible, he could feel it looking back. It was certainly talking back; on and on, that never ending litany, uttered without breath or pause, a rolling patter of desperation. Look at me look at me look at me please —

He slammed the first book down, decisively, and flipped to the index. "Onwards and upwards..."

Charles picked up another book from the stack — one that made him go a touch cross-eyed upon opening — and perched on the desk at Edwin's elbow. "Don't worry, mate," he said, delivering a companionable knock to Edwin's arm with his knee. "With all three of us on the job, the Dead Boy Detectives at full force? We'll have this sussed out by morning!"

~

Two Days Later…

"How's it feel, now?" asked Crystal, pen poised over Edwin's notebook.

Edwin, with gritted teeth, wrestled his jumbled thoughts into some kind of submission. It was so hard just to think — and it got harder with every step down the corridor. "Six," he bit out, resting his hands on his knees and catching his breath. He could scarcely hear himself over the racket in his head. "Definitely six."

Crystal jotted it down. Edwin wasn't exactly thrilled at the idea of adding her chicken scratch handwriting to his meticulous notes. But the way these tests had his own hands shaking, his writing was no better at present.

"It's getting worse," Crystal muttered, brow furrowed as she scanned the page.

"Obviously it's getting worse," he snapped. "I think we've quite thoroughly established that, Crystal."

"Oi! Leave off," Charles cut in, stern. He was wearing the same stormy expression that had followed Edwin on his slow, arduous odyssey down the hall. "She's only trying to help."

Edwin sighed, and dragged his hands down his face. Perhaps he could up and disappear into them. "Yes. Yes, I know." He risked a peek over his fingers, down at Charles. They were shoulder to shoulder, two abreast in the narrow corridor. But while Edwin was upright (just about) and forward-facing, Charles was hunkered down and reversed. A necessity while he unspooled the tape measure along the floor at the pace of Edwin's cautious feet. "Charles, how far?"

Charles checked the tape measure against the toe of Edwin's boot. "'Bout thirty feet."

"About?"

Charles rolled his eyes. "Alright, alright, you bloody pedant! Thirty point... three."

"It's not pedantic to record our findings with accuracy," Edwin grumbled. "Write it down, Crystal. Please," he appended, with haste.

She did so — but she frowned at Edwin like he was the one being tedious and unreasonable. "Is this really the best thing we could be doing?" she asked.

"Our research has been a dead end. We need more information to build off. We need to establish rules, parameters." He straightened up from his resting position, and adjusted his rumpled waistcoat. A vain attempt, with the garment unbuttoned and hanging limp from his torso. "This haunting must have a boundary to its area of affect. At the school I didn't feel it at all until the second floor. It'll get worse, and then better when I'm out of its range."

"Or," Crystal contended. "You triggered a trap when you opened the box, and now it's not gonna let you go."

Edwin scowled. "If that proves to be the case, then I shall gladly add it to the information we hold. But logic and due process dictates we gather every available piece of evidence before leaping to conclusions. Now, if there are no more objections, let's get on with it, shall we?"

"You should take a breather, mate," said Charles, eyeing Edwin with disarming intensity. "You're looking a bit peaky."

Edwin sniffed, steepling his fingers. "We've had two fruitless days already," he said. "I'll not tolerate a third."

He took a bold stride before either could respond — and hissed through his teeth as the clamour in his head roared to the fore. It was rather like radio static, scratching upon his frayed nerves. And that was to say nothing of the cold, which was creeping back and making him regret stripping so many layers.

It was like there was a thread, pulled taut between him and the object in the office. With every step he stretched it tighter, felt the pressure more keenly. With every inch of distance, it pulled back harder — like one of Charles' rubber band slingshots. He wondered at what point it might snap him back by force.

He exhaled, and watched the phantom breath condense in the air before him. He channelled the discomfort and pain into his hands; clenching the fingers, grinding his fists.

"You alright?" asked Charles, eyes narrowed.

"Quite," Edwin rasped. A graceless recovery; and it only worsened on his next step, when he was unable to suppress a pathetic whimper.

“Sounds legit," Crystal muttered.

The thread was pulling tighter, tighter, the cry more insistent. Begging him to turn around, to come back — come and see, come and see, come and see...

"Mate..." said Charles, a note of warning in his voice.

Edwin took a breath; and then another step. And the thread drew tight, white hot and razor sharp; so sharp as to slice through his very mind like a wire through soft clay.

He gasped, his knee buckled. His ankle disappeared into the floor as he lost his concentration on the material plain.

Crystal winced. "How'd that one feel?"

He closed his eyes, rubbed his temples. "Six... and a half."

"Right," said Charles, matter-of-factly. "That's enough of that."

He hit the retract button on the tape measure, sending it spiralling back into its casing.

"Charles, really —" Edwin protested.

"No! I'm not having it!" said Charles, straightening from his crouch and taking Edwin by the shoulders. "Not gonna stand here and watch you hurt yourself for some stupid bloody experiment. C'mon." He spun Edwin around and began near-frogmarching him towards the office. "Back you go."

"Charles," Edwin snapped, struggling against the undignified manhandling. But when he really did feel measurably better with every step, it was hard to muster the enthusiasm to fight. "I survived seventy years in hell. I think I know my own limits!"

Crystal snorted, falling into step behind Charles. "Kinda sounds like the reason you don't know your limits, honestly."

"Yeah! Yeah, exactly," Charles agreed, emboldened. "You've been ripped to shreds in that place. God only knows what else you'll put yourself through. If this is a six —"

"And a half," Edwin corrected, miffed.

"If this is a six and a half," said Charles. "I don't even wanna know what a ten is."

The racket in Edwin's head subsided somewhat — and flustered ire filled the void it left behind. He brushed off Charles' hands and turned on him, quick as a whip, burning with indignation. "I do not need to be mollycoddled. Perhaps, Charles, for once, you might take a rest from your ceaseless fixation on safeguarding my feelings in order to actually solve this case!"

He regretted the words before they were even out. But his pride was wounded, and so he turned on his heel and stalked away; before he could see the matching hurt on Charles' face.

Some things, like cursed skeletons in trunks, were liable to drive a man to madness if looked at directly.

~

The office, of course, was just about the last place Edwin wanted to be. But with the invisible bond tethering him, it was the only place to which he could retreat in solitude. Almost solitude, that is. It was hard to feel truly alone, with that thing so close at hand. With the way it seemed to burrow into his consciousness, whisper its wretched pleas in his mind. Look at me look at me see me please see me —

Edwin pounced upon the bottom desk drawer — the 'stuff drawer', as Charles so descriptively dubbed it — and rummaged around. He uttered a soft 'a-ha!' of triumph when his fingers closed around a large, weathered brass padlock. Another donation from a satisfied customer. It was enchanted to open only for the person who'd closed it.

He hastened over and, with shaking hands, threaded the shackle of the padlock through the staple of the trunk. He felt the answering hum of the enchantment flaring to life as the mechanism clicked shut. Spells, at least, were tangible even to a ghost.

The pleading magnified, sharp and anguished. Then it subsided instead into a quiet hum of dismay, and a further drop in the temperature of the room.

Edwin collapsed like a de-strung puppet, sagging down upon the trunk and breathing raggedly. He closed his eyes, leaned forward, hands on his head, head practically between his knees. He sat, and breathed, and waited for the room to stop spinning.

It wasn't Charles who found him in such a state, but Crystal. A fact he was at once disappointed and relieved by. He didn't care for Crystal seeing him this way, depleted and vulnerable. But considering his last words to Charles, he had no immediate desire to be confronted by him, either.

"Edwin," Crystal greeted, in that uncharacteristically formal manner that she reserved for him alone. Usually, she applied it in jest, as a running joke. Rarely had he seen her deliver it with a face so grave.

He collected himself on a slow inhale, straightening his back. "Crystal," he answered in kind, standing and marching to his desk.

She followed. He was careful not to look at her, but her platform boots on the old wood floors telegraphed her location. "So," she said, coming to halt on the opposite side of the desk. "You ready to apologise to Charles, yet?"

Her confrontational manner rankled, made it all too tempting to deny any wrongdoing. But try as he might, he couldn't deny the evidence.

He sighed, folding into his desk chair and massaging his temples. "Soon." He risked a glance, found her looking at him not with anger, but with concern. It unsettled him. Crystal's anger, he knew what to do with. Generally they sniped back and forth until the tension broke or someone stormed off. Anger and pettiness was their shared dialect. He wasn't so well-versed in the vocabulary of her earnest worriment. "I am... sorry that you had to see that," he offered.

"I've, like, never seen you like that," she said, sitting down in the chair generally reserved for clientele. She was watching him like she was studying him, reading him. He half expected her eyes to go white as she went in for a closer look. "You guys bicker all the time, but. I've never seen you actually mad at him." She leaned back and crossed her arms. "He's pretty cut up about it."

Guilt curdled in Edwin's stomach. "Is he...?"

"He's okay. I left him bugging Jenny with his angst." She shrugged. "She kind of always knows exactly what blunt shit to say to snap you out of it."

"Ah. Yes, good. Very good."

She watched him. She had a very stubborn stare. It had served them well on occasion, usually in the acquisition of information from a tight-lipped witness.

He fidgeted, tugging at his shirtsleeve. "It was... unkind. What I said to him. Not to mention unfair. Disingenuous of me, to complain about his protective tendencies. Considering how greatly I've come to... value them."

She raised her eyebrow.

He returned the gesture. "... Depend upon them, even."

"Yeah. Yeah, it was pretty messed up, what you said to him." She leaned on the desk, arms folded. "But... I guess you're pretty messed up right now, huh?"

Edwin scowled. "That is... one way to put it."

"What's with the scratching?"

"Hm?"

"The scratching." She pointed at his hand, and he looked to find he'd abandoned his sleeve in favour of itching the wrist beneath. "That's not one of your things, your twitchy, gesture-y... things. You only started doing that when..."

Her eyes darted over her shoulder. "When you brought them in."

Edwin didn't follow her glance. He was trying not to look at the object in question any more than he had to. "I hadn't noticed."

She tilted her head as she regarded him. "You can still feel them, can't you?"

"Truthfully, I'm not altogether sure what it is I feel," he said. "Only that I am feeling considerably more than usual."

Crystal toyed with the sleeve of her ratty cardigan. "Must be super weird. Not being able to feel. I never really asked, but like... how do you even, like, ground yourself? How do you get a sense of where you are in the world?"

Edwin hummed, considering. "There is... an awareness, I suppose. Broad peripherals, so to speak. In lieu of other sensory input, one becomes quite keen of eye and ear. Sometimes that translates into the illusion of pressure from objects we know are at hand."

"Is there anything you can feel?"

"Pain," he said, bitterly. "Only from particular sources, I grant you. But yes, we're quite familiar with pain."

"That sucks."

He huffed. "It does, indeed, suck."

"There's seriously nothing else?"

He hesitated. "Well. I suppose, in a manner or speaking, we can feel ourselves."

She leaned in closer, inquisitive. Edwin didn't much care to dwell on this subject — but he did wish to encourage her scientific curiosity. She was a detective in training, after all.

With a beleaguered sigh, he propped his elbow neatly upon the desk, hand pointed to the ceiling. He folded his sleeve down, neatly, exposing his wrist. Pale skin, sparse hair, blue veins that remained only as a faded shadow of the blood that once pumped through them. With an attention-summoning flourish he lifted his other hand. Slowly, he scratched his fingernail down the length of his wrist. He felt the scraping drag of his nail edge against skin and hair — at least he could imagine he did, quite vividly.

"I theorise that it's once again a matter of awareness. Amplified, in this case. Awareness from visual input; plus that from conscious and subconscious intention and expectation; equals sensation. Or at least a convincing enough replica." He spread his fingers and swept his palms out, embellishing the point. "I know that I intend to scratch my arm; ergo, my arm is scratched."

"Just your intentions?" she asked, gaze turning from his arm to his eyes. "Not other ghosts? You guys can't feel each other?"

He gave a sad smile, dropping his hands to the table. "No. No, we're not mind readers. Without being attuned to the intention, even other ghosts may as well be far apart on the mortal plain."

"Guess I always figured you guys must feel something," she said, rubbing her arms. Despite the gloomy subject, she managed a small, teasing smile. "With the way Charles is always hanging off of you."

He smiled, ducking his head. "Well. There is something to be said for the comfort of a gesture. Wishful thinking can go a long way, in our circumstances." He watched her hands, wondering what the texture under her palms felt like. It looked like a soft cardigan, well-worn, well-loved. His own hands clenched into fists on the desk. "After decades of the same, one learns to take what one can get."

She puffed out her cheeks. "Well that's. Depressing."

"Yes, quite."

"But you're feeling stuff now. Aren't you?"

"Yes." His jaw twitched. "Unfortunately, not a pleasant experience, in this case."

"Look." She clasped her hands on the desk, leaning towards him like a co-conspirator. "I get wanting to figure this out, I really do." She lowered her voice, as if they were sharing a secret. "I know how much it royally sucks to have a voice in your head you can't shake."

Edwin flinched, guiltily. The comparison hadn't even occurred to him.

"And I'm gonna help you," she continue, eyebrow twitching like she knew what he'd just thought and was choosing to move past it. "But let's... let's take the pain experiments down a notch, okay? Because if you keep hurting yourself, Charles is gonna give me the sad puppy eyes and I can not deal."

Edwin gave a soft snort of laughter. "He is rather compelling, isn't he?" Fondness crept into his tone, unbidden.

She seemed to pick up on that unspoken thought, also, her lips pursing against a smile. "Yeah, yeah, he's adorable. So. Back to work? No more weird, fucked up self-torture shit?"

Edwin may be stubborn, but he knew when he was outvoted. He sighed. "Very well."

"Cool. let's do it." She cut off his agreement with a raised finger. "After you apologise to Charles."

He raised his eyebrow. "You're quite the canny negotiator. Have you been practising?"

"We got a deal?"

Edwin sniffed, haughtily rolling his sleeve back into place. "Well. As it happens, I was about to do that, anyway."

She smirked. "Sure you were."

~

Of course, Edwin was not currently able to make the short trip to Jenny's new establishment, where Charles was offloading his woes. He could've tried, but he imagined the wilful endangerment of himself would undermine his apology for... well, for wilful endangerment of himself. So he sent Crystal with word to Charles, and waited.

Edwin found waiting around to be a fretful exercise at the best of times. The presence of the object only made matters worse.

He paced along the breadth of the wide window, listening to the drizzling London rain. Usually, he found the sound of the droplets on the window pane calming. It was marred on this occasion by the more insistent sound in the back of his mind, buzzing for attention. The temperature in the room dropped with each lap of the window; every time he turned on his heel to retrace his steps, and refused to acknowledge the trunk in the slightest. He wanted to don a coat or jumper, but refused to give it the satisfaction.

Soon, another sound broke through the drone. Footsteps down the corridor. The door opened, and in walked Charles.

"Alright?" he greeted. He was eyeing Edwin with wariness — but, thankfully, not with distress.

Edwin let out a breath he hadn't know he was holding. He'd been afraid... well. He often feared that one of these days, he'd finally exhaust the bottomless well of Charles' patience, his kindness. "Charles," he breathed, steepling his fingers to keep them from twitching at his sides. "I owe you an apology."

Charles' tense shoulders dropped, infinitesimally; like a weight had fallen from them. His entire countenance softened in turn, and he smiled at Edwin with fondness as he closed the door behind him.

"Already forgotten, mate." He said. He advanced in long, even strides across the office, sparing a vigilant glance for the trunk on his way. He rounded the desk to stand before Edwin, planting both hands upon his shoulders and addressing him directly. "You're pretty stressed out, yeah?"

Edwin exhaled on a breathy laugh. "To say the least." He looked down at Charles' hand, the thumb tracing circles on Edwin's shirt. Perhaps it was a result of his discussion with Crystal, but he was above-averagely aware of the absence of weight, of feeling. Of warmth. He swallowed, tightly, and placed his hand over Charles'. "But I should not have taken it out on you."

"No. You bloody shouldn't've." He gave a self-effacing little grin. "Lucky for you, I'm a hardy sort of bloke."

What a ridiculous boy he was. A steadfast, self-sacrificing fool, always to quick to forgive Edwin his trespasses. Affection bloomed in Edwin's chest, bright and effervescent. The cold, the noise; for an instant it all melted like ice dropped into hot tea.

Charles' grip tightened; Edwin saw him squeeze his arms."But seriously, yeah?" said Charles, sober. "No more torturing yourself for this bloody case. Else I'll have Jenny come up here, give you a right telling off. And she's proper good at it."

Edwin smiled down at his feet. "Well, then. I suppose I have no choice."

"Too right."

Charles hesitated, gaze raking Edwin's face, taking him in from his eyes to his lips. Edwin cocked his head, questioning; if only to mask how tender and raw he felt under the close, gentle scrutiny.

Wordlessly, Charles pulled him close. He wrapped his arms tight around Edwin's shoulders in a fierce embrace; slotting them together like two puzzle pieces.

"Thank you," he mumbled into Edwin's neck.

Edwin's breath hitched, as it so often did when Charles held him so. No matter how common the occurrence, or how absent the physical sensation. The very gesture was bound to leave him gently thunderstruck nonetheless.

He returned it in his usual manner; with the stiff, cautious awkwardness of inexperience. Grateful, in some small, bitter way, that Charles couldn't possibly feel it. Couldn't bear witness to his bungling attempts at expressing affection.

Though he'd accept that humiliation. He'd take it with gratitude. If only for the chance to feel the soft gust of Charles' breath against his throat; to know the warm weight of him in his arms.

Soon, far too soon, Charles sniffed and pulled back. His hands never left Edwin's shoulders as he regarded him with squinted eyes and a wrinkled nose. A small, mischievous smile tugged his lips. "So," he said. "Back to the books, then?"

Edwin sighed. "Too the books," he agreed, without enthusiasm.

Charles chuckled. "How's this for a role reversal, eh?"

~

One Day Later…

Despite the obstructions of Charles and his mother-henning, they had made some progress in their studies. Edwin's notes on the object and its effects read thus:

Physical properties of the object (as observed by Charles): Faint, blue glow. Slight visible movement — agitation, vibration. No visible runes or enchantments. All bones assumed to be present and correct — Charles unwilling to 'rummage'.

Sense of cold: spectral only, no material plain adjustment. Affects Charles, not Crystal. Worse with distance/when box is closed.

Phantom sensations: a slight grounding effect, connection to material plain. Irritation, itches, pins and needles. Affects neither Crystal nor Charles. Intensifies in close proximity.

Whispering/speech: inaudible to Charles, Crystal. Sometimes unintelligible. Notable phrases: look at me, see me, don't leave me. Other sounds include a slight rattling, at times increasing in frequency to a buzz. Worse with distance/when box is closed.

It was hardly a treasure trove of information to work from, and he did manage to persuade Charles that further experimentation was needed. But he was under quite strict orders to withdraw should the pain top a four on his 'bloody mental' pain scale. A promise he kept to the letter.

Headaches, as it happened, were quite possible to achieve at a three or lower.

"I'm a ghost," Edwin complained, from his repose on the sofa. "I cannot get headaches."

"Well, then you're a scientific marvel, aren't you?" said Charles, patting his shoulder. He was perched on the edge of the couch, looking down at Edwin with pity. "Looks like you can get 'em just fine, mate. What you can't get is any paracetamol." He winced. "Bit rough, that."

Edwin sighed, rubbing his eyes. "I miss hemp."

"You what?"

"Indian hemp — you've never tried it? My nanny used to give me a pinch when I was feeling out of sorts," said Edwin, nostalgic. "Always used to perk me up."

Charles laughed. "Fuck me. You telling me you was toddling round, stoned off your tits at, what, six?"

Edwin rolled his eyes — wishing he hadn't when the motion exacerbated the pain in his skull. "I hardly overindulged."

"Perish the thought," teased Charles, in his tiresome facsimile of Edwin's cadence.

Edwin swatted at his arm, half-heartedly. Charles dodged it with laughter and ease, standing up and cracking his knuckles.

"Now, I can't offer you any drugs, but," said Charles, circling round to the end of the sofa. He blew on his hands and rubbed them together briskly. "I can do this."

Edwin frowned. "What are you doing?"

Charles, now standing behind Edwin's head, leaned over it to grin down at him and wiggle his fingers. "My mum used to do this," he said. "Head massage. You'll like it."

Edwin regarded him, unimpressed. "Charles, I cannot feel."

"C'mon — give it a go!"

He remained unconvinced. But, as he'd told Crystal only yesterday, a comforting gesture wasn't to be sniffed at. "Very well," he said. "Carry on."

"Brills. Here we go, then!"

Charles, showed Edwin his hands and made sure he was watching them. Then he pulled them back to just above Edwin's eyebrows and, presumably, began to rub the skin there. Edwin couldn't have said for sure that's what was happening, of course. Charles could be drawing lewd images on his forehead, for all he knew. But the look of concentration was there on Charles' face and so perhaps, if Edwin closed his eyes and used his imagination, he could fill in the gaps. He could imagine the motions of Charles' confident fingers. Picture them against his own skin, carefully working out the tension stroke by stroke.

Charles always seemed to know exactly what to do with his hands. How to swing a bat, how to catch a ball, how to hold Edwin together. Even when he demonstrably did not know what he was doing at all, his moments of utmost impulsivity. Even then, he committed to the act with such decisiveness, such single-minded intent. It boggled Edwin's mind to think that he could have such confidence of bearing, and yet such limited material impact on the world. Charles Rowland's hands could have shaped the universe, were they as substantial in matter as they were in resolve. He'd already managed miracles with nought but air and ectoplasm.

Edwin’s belief, it seemed, was well-founded. Despite his misgivings, he did feel the ache receding. He sighed. Even such a minor relief, after days of such heightened pressure, had him all but melting under Charles' hands. He indulged in a slow, languid stretch of his body, his back arching off the sofa as a soft groan escape him.

"Alright down there?"

Charles sounded ever so slightly out of breath. Edwin smiled. Trust him to put all his effort and then some into a gesture that Edwin couldn't even fully appreciate. "Yes. That's wonderful, Charles." His eyes fluttered open and he craned his head back against the armrest, catching Charles' eye. "Thank you."

He was surprised to find Charles looking even more breathless than he sounded. His mouth hung slightly open, and his hooded eyes appeared to be a touch glazed.

Charles blinked back into startled clarity when he felt Edwin's eyes upon him, and snapped his mouth shut. He pulled his hands away to give Edwin a brusque, chummy pat on the shoulders.

"Anytime, mate," he mumbled. "Anytime."

~

Three More Days Later…

The case dragged on in its plodding, unsatisfactory manner. Edwin felt himself clinging to his composure by the skin of his teeth. He was a raw, frazzled nerve, stripped to his shirtsleeves and the barest trappings of dignity. For nearly a week he'd been enduring this ceaseless psychic bombardment with precious little to show for it, and his patience had worn thin.

So when Crystal barrelled into the room, slamming the door against the wall in her haste, he nearly bit her head off.

"Do you mind?" Edwin exclaimed, smacking his hand down on the desk and sending a small ream of papers flying.

Over on the sofa, Charles snorted into alertness. Though he couldn't doze off, he'd been staring at the same page in his book for so long that he appeared to have drifted into a semi-conscious state. Edwin hadn't had the heart to rouse him — they were hardly making progress either way.

"We're idiots," was Crystal's response to Edwin's rhetorical outburst. She looked about as stretched thin as Edwin felt; hair pulled back into a tangled, frizzy knot atop her head, shadows under her eyes. She'd been wearing the same scruffy jeans and faded t-shirt for at least forty-eight hours. She planted both hands on the desk and leaned in close, staring Edwin down. "The mirror."

He blinked. "Excuse me?"

"The mirror." She threw her hands up. "We never tried the mirror!"

"Never tried what with the mirror?" asked Charles, groggy, sitting up and dragging a hand down his face.

"We never tried sending Edwin through it," she explained, slowly, as if they were small children. "All that time we spent fucking around, trying to see how far he could walk away — did any of us ever fucking stop and think if he could teleport away?"

Silence. Deafening silence. Edwin and Charles shared a look.

"Bloody hell," Charles muttered. "Maybe we are stupid."

Edwin didn't reply. He had more pressing matters to attend to; he near vaulted the desk in his haste to get around it.

He marched with single-minded purpose towards the large mirror they'd yet to relegate back to storage. If it meant passing closer to the trunk than he had in days, he paid it no mind. Though the object in question noticed, and he felt its psychic fingers clawing at his ankles as he passed. Its whispers followed him like a curse; don't don't don't —

"Woah — alright, mate, let's take it easy, yeah?" Charles rushed out, springing up from the sofa and darting to Edwin's side. His hand circled Edwin's wrist, a comfort and a restraint all in one. "Think it through — you know what happens when you don't look before you leap, yeah?"

Edwin closed his eyes and exhaled, hands clenching into fists. Charles was right, of course. But with potential freedom so close at hand he scarcely wished to admit it. "I need a location," he said. "A target."

"Jenny's shop," Crystal quickly suggested, coming to stand at his other shoulder. "It's safe, and she knows you guys. It's only her working there today."

"Perfect." Edwin held his hand out to the mirror and visualised Jenny's new London workplace. And very old butcher's shop, established not long after Edwin's time. Owned in the modern era by the founder's great, great grandaughter, and her charming civil partner. Despite the transatlantic culture shock, Jenny had rather fallen among thieves. In his mind's eye, Edwin pictured the rustic mirror on the wall, nailed to sturdy old brickwork. Mounted between taxidermy animal heads and antique butchery implements. "I have it," he said, and opened his eyes to find that answering ripple on the mirror's surface.

Charles' grip tightened when Edwin tried to take a step. "You sure about this?" he asked. "You said that mirror hop right before you found 'em felt off..."

That was true enough. But an unpleasant experience was well worth the modicum of freedom it might afford him. "I'll be quite alright, Charles. We know that I can still go through mirrors, it’s how we got the box here, after all. It’s a question of whether it will let me go without it," he said, breaking Charles' hold on his wrist to take him by the hand instead. "But I must try."

Charles' eyes were wide with worry, but he nodded. Though his fretting over Edwin won above all else, this case had been arduous on him, as well. They all needed a breakthrough. "Alright," he said. "But give us a second."

Edwin watched, bemused, as Charles dashed for his bag and rummaged inside. He resurfaced with a large coil of rope. Charles was a blur of frenetic motion as he fastened it in a sturdy sailor's knot around the leg of the desk (he’d picked up some useful skills during the case of the drowned diver).

"Hold this, yeah, Crystal?" said Charles, dumping the slack length of remaining rope into her arms.

"Smart," she said — though a confused frown followed. "Wait, me hold it? What are you doing?"

"Going with him. You feel two tugs, drag us out, yeah?"

"Charles," said Edwin. "I've mirror hopped a thousand times. There's no need for you to —"

"What's the matter?" said Charles, rejoining Edwin and tying the rope around his waist. Despite the nervous tension suffusing him from head to toe, he still found the wherewithal to give a cheeky grin. "Can't wait to get rid of me?"

Edwin's heart, if the spectre of such a thing still existed within him, skipped a beat. "Quite the opposite," he said, gesturing for Charles to hand him the remaining slack when he was finished. "But someone has to spare a thought for your safety — and I think we all know it won't be you."

"In't that what I've been telling you?" Charles teased, lifting his arms for Edwin to loop the rope around him.

Edwin rolled his eyes, and secured the lifeline with a sharp tug. "Evidently, we're a terrible influence on one another."

"Guys," Crystal interjected.

They both whipped their heads round to look at her.

"I have been awake," she said, slow and just a touch dangerous. "For fifty two hours."

Edwin cleared his throat. "Yes, yes. Quite right. Time is of the essence." He met Charles' eyes. "Are you ready?"

Charles nodded, slipping his hand into Edwin's once more; a more tangible tether than any rope or chain. "Ready."

"Good luck," said Crystal, bracing her hands on the rope and her feet on the floor. "Don't die. Again."

"Reckon we've been here before," Charles joked. "You tryna make that a running gag?"

She grimaced. "Well, maybe if you two quit risking your afterlives so much, I'd have to say it less."

"Yeah, alright, fair cop." Charles squeezed Edwin's hand. "On three, then?"

Despite his trepidation, Edwin smiled. "We've been here before, too," he said. "Yes. On three. One..."

Charles gripped him tight and pressed up against him, shoulder to incorporeal shoulder. "Two..."

The whispering filled Edwin's skull, dense and cloying. Don't leave don't leave don't —

He looked once more to Charles' face; it was all the courage he required.

"Three!"

~

The space behind the mirror welcomed them, as it had welcomed Edwin back at St. Hilarion's. That is to say, it did not welcome them in the slightest. A journey which should have taken an instant seemed to stretch behind and before them, ad infinitum; thick as syrup, fast as a locomotive. They tumbled headlong through the roiling vortex of here, there and everywhere. Had they the ability to bruise, Edwin was sure their snapping lifeline would have whipped welts across their ankles. He fell endlessly, uncontrollably.

But it was a significant improvement on the last time. Now, at least, he had Charles to fall alongside. His one constant companion besides that damnable whispering — though as they fell it grew fainter, fainter, fainter...

Then they were through to the other side, expelled once more into the world they knew — collapsing together in an ungainly pile of limbs. And Edwin gasped, violently, as that thread which tethered him to the voice snapped behind him.

"Ugh, fuck, I'm gonna be sick," Charles groaned. It was an empty threat; he was by Edwin's side in moments, clear-voiced and intent. "Edwin?" His warm brown eyes swam into view. His hand — the one not currently tangled in Edwin's fingers — cupped Edwin's face. "Edwin, you alright?"

Edwin laughed, breathless and elated, his hand covering Charles'. "It stopped," he breathed. "Charles, it stopped, I can't hear it!"

Charles' grin could've lit the night. "Yes, Edwin!" he crowed, bumping their foreheads together. "You did it, mate — you're out!"

Edwin felt boundless, in that moment. Unrestrained. Unashamed of holding Charles close and sharing his laughter, sharing his breath. For the first time in what felt like a small lifetime, it was all gone. The cold, the itch, the whispers and pleas. All of it lay somewhere else, out of sight and mind, and for a moment he could simply be. Be with his best friend, the love of his life, with his smile and his laughter; no distractions, no compulsions. So surrounded by Charles and nothing but Charles that he could almost imagine how his fingers felt upon his face. How his laughter felt upon his lips...

"What. The fuck?"

And just like that, the moment shattered.

They both startled, landing soundly on their backsides on the butcher shop floor. They looked up to find Jenny staring at them, bug-eyed and incredulous, from behind the meat counter.

"Um. Hullo, Jenny," Charles greeted her, with a sheepish grin. He threw in a wave for good measure — forgetting that his right hand was currently engaged in holding Edwin's. Edwin had never been an unwilling participant in someone else's wave before. He rather hoped he never would be again.

"Miss Green," Edwin added, fumbling to extract himself from the wave. He scrambled to his feet and dusted himself off. Now that his head wasn't full of ceaseless psychic badgering, he had the presence of mind to feel self-conscious about his shabby state of... un-dress. He should have put his waistcoat back on, at the very least. Here he was, standing before a lady in a public establishment, and he was bordering on the semi-classical. "Our apologies for, ah. Barging in."

"Yeah, sorry. Should've knocked!" said Charles.

"Yes. Quite."

Jenny narrowed her eyes, staring at the rope that had them quite literally joined at the hip. She gestured between the two of them with her cleaver. "So. I guess you two made up."

Edwin cleared his throat. "Ah. Yes, all water under the bridge."

"Yeah, yeah, all sorted," Charles agreed.

She gave Edwin a look, then turned to Charles and raised a razor-sharp eyebrow. "He stop being a dick?"

"Yeah, he did," said Charles, grinning, as he cut off Edwin's indignant protest with an arm around his shoulder. "Can't stay mad at me for long, can he?"

Edwin rolled his eyes — his smile, alas, was irrepressible.

"Great! Happy for you!" Her tone was dry, her smile tight-lipped. "Never jump out of my mirror while I'm holding a fucking meat cleaver again."

She punctuated her edict with a sharp, decisive swing; severing the pork joint on her chopping block with an executioner's resolve.

Edwin grimaced, and adjusted his bedraggled collar. "Duly noted."

Charles opened his mouth, no doubt to come out with another cheeky rejoinder. He was interrupted, however, by the tightening of the rope, forcing both he and Edwin to lurch back a step. They both looked down in alarm at the slack trailing into the mirror as it went taut, repeatedly. An insistent tug, urging them to follow.

"Oh," said Edwin, weakly. "I can't imagine that bodes well."

There was no time to dwell on the implications. In seconds Charles' hands were at Edwin's waist, attacking the knotted rope. "Charles, what are you doing?" Edwin enquired.

"You stay here for a bit, yeah?" said Charles — followed by a muttered curse as he was foiled by his own stellar rope-tying technique. "Take a breather — I'll go back, check on Crystal."

"You kids do know this isn't a clubhouse?" came Jenny's weary interjection.

Edwin gathered his courage, and stilled Charles' hands. "No," he said. "Thank you, Charles. But if there's a problem with... with the case, well. I should be present to handle it."

"You've been handling it for days, mate," said Charles; levelling him with his infamous 'sad puppy eyes'.

To paraphrase Crystal, Edwin could not deal. But, bravely, he held his ground nonetheless. Even forced a small smile. "I've handled worse for seventy years," he said.

Charles scowled. "Yeah, that's not gonna make me —"

"Spit-spot, now, Charles," said Edwin primly, seizing Charles' hand and about-turning to the mirror. "We've been summoned."

"Edwin —!"

But his argument, like Jenny's final bewildered comments, were lost to the currents of the in-between as they slipped once more into the vortex.

~

Yet again, another unpleasant journey through the mirror. Unfortunately, Edwin was growing rather used to it.

What he was not prepared for was what awaited them on the other side.

"Oh, fuck," said Charles — though it was barely coherent as a swear past the chatter of his teeth.

Edwin agreed, whole-heartedly. Though truth be told, he could barely hear Charles over the sudden and vicious return of the cries in his head. He pressed his palms to his ears — though it was futile with the noise seeming to ring out from within himself — and took in the awful scene.

The office that awaited them was barely recognisable as the one they’d left. In part due to the mess of toppled furniture, scattered books and broken memorabilia that littered the place, as if a hurricane had torn through the building during their short absence.

But mostly, due to the snow.

Edwin stared, aghast, at the dense white blanket that now lay across anything and everything. Flakes drifted through the air, but at far too sedate a pace for this kind of coverage. To have cloaked every surface so thickly and thoroughly suggested a veritable blizzard had beset the room behind them. And standing in the middle of it all was Crystal. Untouched, it seemed, by the snow, which must be spectral in nature — but not unaffected. She was shivering, visibly, and her breath escaped in soft puffs of glistening vapour.

"About t-t-time," she bit out, with difficulty. She abandoned the rope in favour of rubbing her upper arms through the meagre defence of her threadbare cardigan.

"Crystal!" Charles bolted to her, hands joining hers, for all the good it would do her. "What the b-loody hell happened?"

"Soon as you guys w-went, it just —" she mimed an explosion, puffing air from her cheeks. "Everything starting s-shaking, and snowing, and — and then this French chick just like, b-burst outta the wall and started yelling —"

"That’s just our landlady," said Charles. "She’s harmless."

"Yes. She’s not even French," said Edwin, turning a slow circle, regarding the chaos with dismay. "If Madame Seine felt the disturbance, then it must have fanned out beyond this room. Quite far beyond — she tends to haunt the attic…"

"I can feel it," said Crystal, shoving her hands under her armpits in an attempt to warm them. "Not — not as bad as it looks, I guess, or I’d be freezing, but I can feel it. I haven’t felt it before."

"It must be getting stronger," Edwin muttered. "Reaching beyond the spectral and out to your psychic awareness." He turned on them. "Can either of you hear it, now?"

"Like a whisper," said Charles, shaking his head as if dislodging water from his ears. "Or a — a buzzing? I dunno." Crystal nodded her agreement.

Edwin’s jaw clenched. "Right. Definitely stronger, then." He closed his eyes. "It is… considerably louder than a whisper, for me."

DON’T LEAVE ME DON’T LEAVE ME LOOK AT ME SEE ME LOOK AT ME LOOK AT ME

"That is enough!"

Charles and Crystal both jumped. Edwin could hardly blame them — it was a sudden outburst, and one he wasn’t proud of. But he could scarcely think with that miserable clamour. He felt browbeaten, harried — hounded mercilessly even in the safety of his own mind. He’d put it off for too long.

He turned, slowly, and he looked at the trunk.

Immediately upon doing so, the air changed. The last of the snow ceased to fall and a chorus of slow drips took its place, as that which had settled begun to melt. The cold did not lift entirely, but it did somewhat. The voice did not cease or quiet, but it did soften in tone — from cries of anguish to cajoling, coercive murmurs. Like it knew it had his attention; like it wanted him to close the distance.

Nothing else for it.

"Edwin," said Charles. "You sure about this?"

"Not in the slightest," he said, as he hunkered down beside the trunk. His fingers closed around the enchanted padlock; it warmed under his touch and clicked open obediently. "But we’re running out of options."

Before he could even slip the padlock free, Charles was at his side — and Crystal followed suit. Their hands joined his upon the lid of the trunk; their eyes found his in silent question.

He exhaled, slowly. "Just a quick peek," he promised them. Promised himself. "Just to… mollify it."

Crystal gave him a look he didn’t much care to interpret. He had no doubt she’d confront him with whatever thought she’d just had, soon enough. For now, they had more pressing matters to attend to.

"Just a look," Charles agreed — though he was focusing far more intently on Edwin’s face than on the box. "See what’s what."

"Yes," he breathed. "What’s what…"

They shared a look — Charles to Edwin, Edwin to Crystal, back again — and slowly, as one, lifted the lid.

The first thing that came into view was the glow. Blue, and cold, and rippling over the surface of the grim contents like a sheen. Underneath, as Edwin’s eyes adjusted, shapes began to consolidate. A queasiness overtook him as, unbidden, the scientific names he'd learned presented themselves like annotations in a textbook. Annotating the withered remains of his own pitiful skeleton.

A cold droplet landed upon his cheek. He startled. Sensation was uncommon — sensations of damp even moreso. He glanced up to find that the snow upon the ceiling light was melting, a steady drip drip drip that happened to align with him. Carving his face like falling tears.

"It’s doing somethin’," Charles muttered, rolling his shoulders. "Warming up in here…"

"I can’t hear it anymore," said Crystal. "Can you guys?"

Charles shook his head. "No. Edwin?"

He nodded. "It’s faint." He frowned. "I think… I think it’s saying something else, now…"

…ay wi… me…

"What’s it saying?" asked Crystal.

"I… I’m not altogether sure. It’s so quiet." He cocked his head. "It sounds scared."

"He," said Crystal.

Edwin stared at her. "What?"

She raised her brows and looked between him and the miserable pile of bones. "He sounds scared," she said, gentle. "Edwin, it’s you."

He bristled. "We don’t know that for —"

"Fuck's sake, Edwin," said Charles. "What else d’you need? It’s in your bones, it talks to you, it went bonkers when you left. What else could we be dealing with here?"

"Any number of things!" he said. "Anything could have… imprinted on my remains. A parasite, a demon, some kind of carrion feeder — perhaps even an infestation of dandelion sprites, it’s certainly attention-seeking enough —"

"They only go for living hosts, Edwin, you bloody know that," said Charles.

"There’s no it, Edwin," Crystal pressed. "There’s no ‘the case’, ‘the object’, it’s — it’s you. We all know that, we’ve known that since the start."

"And I don’t think pretending not to know is helping us any," Charles added.

Edwin opened his mouth to argue — but there were no words left. No more logic that could save him.

Charles watched him, and took his hand. "Edwin," he said. "What’s he saying to you?"

Edwin looked at the bones. At his bones. Met his gaze, eye to empty eye socket.

Sta… ith me…

He exhaled a hoarse, rattling breath.

"He…" Edwin swallowed. "He wishes for me… to stay with him."

"Just you?" asked Crystal.

He shook his head. "I… cannot say."

"Right." Charles gave a short, sharp nod, and pushed the lid back, until it swung open enough to stay upright on its own. "Let’s have a sit down for a bit then, eh?"

"Good idea," said Crystal. She sounded weary beyond her years; aged by the psychic onslaught. "Let’s all just… sit. Fuck, I’m fucking tired…"

"Edwin? Turn around, yeah? C’mon."

Edwin allowed himself to be guided by Charles’ hand on his back, Crystal’s on his elbow. Allowed himself to be propped, his back against the trunk, his knees tucked to his chest. Allowed his head to be pulled to Charles’ shoulder, and laid to rest there.

"This alright?" asked Charles. "I mean, is it — is he happy, with you not looking at 'im?"

Edwin nodded. He had very little energy to expend with the motion. "Yes. Yes, for now it — he seems to be… content."

"Good. That’s good." Charles exhaled, a slow, overwrought thing. Edwin could see a stray strand of his own hair lift and fall in the slight gust from Charles’ breath — his hair had fallen into some disarray, of late. Shameful, really. "Let’s all just… just take a second, yeah?"

Edwin had no strength left to argue. He closed his eyes, tucking his head closer into Charles’ collarbone. Wishing he could feel the rise of his chest, his soft exhalations in his hair. But even a shadow of an embrace was better than nothing. Charles didn’t need a physical presence to be Edwin’s anchor in this world. On his other side, Crystal settled herself, arm tucked through Edwin’s, an ankle flung across his, and for just now he didn’t care to shy away. Her breathing slowed. She muttered something that sounded like 'wake me when the next ice age hits'.

It was almost… peaceful. Here on the floor. No words, no actions, all tumbled together with scandalous disregard for propriety. Edwin hadn't had the ability or the desire to sleep in decades, but were that not the case, he thought he could have here. With Charles his pillow, and Crystal his blanket. He wished he could sleep. Just for a few stolen hours, a brief escape from his own mind and the thoughts lurking there. The theories turning over, and over. No, not theories. Nothing so useful as a theory. A theory would imply that he had any information to form the building blocks of a solution; and he was as tragically, hopelessly lost at sea as he had been days ago. Not theories. Something far more ominous.

Implications.

“Charles,” he said, softly.

“Yeah, mate?”

“How long…” Edwin licked his lips. His mouth felt dry, chapped. He felt uncomfortably, uncommonly real at that moment; so close to his bones they could have merged back into one being. “How long will I have to stay with him,” he said, barely above a whisper. “In order to make him… happy? Do you think?”

And will it be less than forever?

Charles, slow and steady, wrapped an arm around Edwin’s shoulder.

“We'll sort it,” he said, low, unwavering. "I promise, Edwin, we'll sort it."

Edwin released a ragged breath into Charles' shoulder. He watched the spectral thaw seep sluggishly into their shoes.

"D'you believe me?" asked Charles, voice tender, flayed open; like he couldn't bear it if the answer was no.

Edwin took one of Charles' hands in both of his, and clutched it like a talisman.

"I believe you."

~~

Yaaaaay pain!!!!! Hope you liked! I love love LOVE all your comments and seeing you so engaged in the story has genuinely been so incredible and if you keep it up I will be a very happy boy and you will get me through my last days of covid isolation! (I have been stuck in one room for 5 days so far to keep distance from my folks, it’s bad guys, luckily my room is very pretty but I pretty much wrote Edwin’s mental breakdown from first-hand experience lmao) Commentary! Yes, Boneturner’s Tale is a TMA reference. No, Edwin did not hand his friend an actual dangerous evil book. It’s like a cheap and nasty paperback replica or something lmao. Hex or no hex, she’s not gonna enjoy reading it much :/ Honestly, writing Edwin and Charles falling out physically hurt. It didn’t last long in part bc my heart couldn’t take it dkjsfbdsnfagdgf Try as I might this fic keeps turning into Charles-and-Edwin, so there’s still not as much Crystal screentime as she deserves, but I truly enjoyed writing her heart-to-heart with Edwin! I love the ways they’re different and the same and I love it when they’re bitches who care for each other 💛 I am NEVER getting this complex about ghost touch again. For all future fics unless stated otherwise just assume ghosts can’t feel humans/the world but can feel each other to some extent, I’m making myself so sad writing Edwin and Charles in a universe where they’re utterly lost in space! It’ll be worth it in the very end I promise xD Yes I fully ground the fic plot to a halt for tender hugs and horny head massage. My house my rules. Yes, Indian hemp was indeed a headache remedy! I was sort of hoping I could google ‘Edwardian headache remedies’ and found out they used, like, cocaine, so I could have Edwin sigh and say ‘I miss cocaine’, but alas, we take what we can get. Pray for my girl Crystal, she works with these gay losers who flirt nonstop and Do Not Realise they are married. She’s getting so many premature grey hairs. Semi-classical = semi-nude. Been reading up on some Edwardian slang lmao. Don’t expect Jenny to come back in this fic but it was so nice to say hello to her! I don’t know what the deal is with the office - like, if the boys leave money for an actual human landlord who doesn’t ask questions or what - but my personal headcanon is that it’s an empty building that no one can sell or do anything with due to persistent hauntings, and it’s haunted by a friendly former brothel madame who once ran her business out of there. The boys first case they solved together was hers, and she adores them, thinks they’re lovely boys, and she lets them have the office and is basically their eccentric pretending-to-be-French Mrs Hudson counterpart. I don’t know why this is my headcanon except that I find it fun and whimsical and I think Madame Seine and the Night Nurse would be a hilarious MILF double act. Maybe I will write fic about her one day. I know this is a bit of an odd one, story progression wise. I hope no one feels put out by the fact that the story hasn’t exactly progressed much - but as I was drafting the rest of the fic I sort of realised that I wanted, amongst other aspects of Edwin’s journey, for him to have some denial to overcome. Which, in my classic carried-away way, became basically an entire chapter of obfuscating rounded off with a cold splash of reality. He needed to find that connection to the bones and accept it before they can get to the next stage of figuring out how to make them happy and end the haunting. Fun Fact! When writing the very last scene/conversation, the Power of Love by Frankie Goes To Hollywood came on shuffle. This would have been posted an hour earlier but I need to wail into my pillow in anguish. Anyway, that’s it for now! No idea when the next chapter’s up - I think it’ll be easier to write than this one but I’ve also sunk waaaay too much time into this one this week, so I should take a break for the sake of my hands and my other projects! It WILL be up though, probs in a few weeks. Until next time! 💛