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dont-offend-the-bees · 1 month

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The Kind of Light That Means Just Love (When My Baby Smiles at Me)

Had a prompt in writing group today and felt moved to write a sweet little Charles/Edwin fic! 1.4k, no warnings ^_^

Also readable on Ao3 (for registered users only - sorry, it's a last-ditch flimsy anti-AI scraping measure!)

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Edwin blinked, partly in surprise – partly to dislodge the blots in his vision left behind by the sudden, rapid flash of white light that had danced across the pages of his book. He looked up to find the culprit grinning at him from across the room.

“Charles,” Edwin admonished, gently closing his book with a finger tucked between the pages to hold his place. “I have asked you to stop fooling around with that contraption and get some work done.”

“I have been!” Charles defended, gesturing broadly at the higgledy-piggledy array of items around him. Evidently, taking stock of the contents of his bag of tricks was an expansive task. “Taking a break.” He snatched the small square of paper from the Polaroid camera and began to shake it with abandon.

Edwin rolled his eyes. Ever since they’d acquired that camera as payment for a job ‘well jobbed’, Charles had scarcely put it down. Edwin, admittedly, had been intrigued by it at the start – it was certainly a testament to how far photographic technology had advanced since his own life and subsequent death. It was quite fascinating; seeing the slow, hulking monstrosities he’d been forced to sit rigidly still in front of for aeons in his youth, compressed into such a portable and efficient form. But after a few days of study, digging around in its component parts, comparing its output to that of sepia-tinted newspaper clippings from his day – as well as the baffling digital displays on Niko’s portable telephone – the novelty had worn off, and he’d turned his attention to more pressing matters.

But Charles remained enamoured. He’d had the thing slung round his neck for at least a week, and showed no signs of taking it off anytime soon.

The amateur photographer in question grinned infectiously, as the chemicals on the paper settled. “Ah, yeah. That’s a good one, that.”

He held it up proudly, and Edwin was treated to a lovingly framed image of the chair in which he sat, with an open book floating above it.

“I hardly see why you bother,” said Edwin, crossing his legs the other way and letting the book fall open on his knee. “Neither of us show up in photographs. I highly doubt that’s going to change with repeated exposures.” And a good thing, too, as Edwin hadn’t consented to be photographed in just his rolled-up shirtsleeves. His states of improper dress were quite strictly reserved for quiet, studious evenings in the privacy of their rooms; unlike Charles, he had standards with regard to flashing every dip and plane God gave him in mixed company.

“Well. Thought that counts, innit?” Charles bounced to his feet and over to the secondary cork board that had recently been added to the office. Unlike the first, which was full of case notes and theories, this one was exclusively populated by Charles’ photographic whims. The only faces that appeared were those of their living friends – Crystal, Niko, even one snap of Jenny wearing stiff shoulders and a reluctant grimace while Niko hugged her from the side.

Charles and Edwin featured only in the notable absences. Empty chairs, floating objects, the spaces between their friends in the group shots. The only one in which they were ‘visible’, by a loose definition of the word, was the one where Charles had insisted they cut eye holes out of white sheets and drape them over their heads. “Like Beetlejuice!” He’d said; and he’d sounded so excited that Edwin hadn’t even asked him why on earth one would juice a beetle, or what it had to do with playing dress-up.

The new photo found its home amongst a cluster of similar absent Edwins – a floating magnifying glass, an empty desk, a hand of Cluedo cards with no holder. “Brills,” Charles grinned, stepping back and crossing his arms to admire his collection.

“I really don’t see the point of this exercise,” said Edwin. “Who’d even know that’s a picture of someone?”

“I know, don’t I? I can look at these and be like –“ he pointed at the floating magnifying glass image – “That’s the time Edwin got all fussy about Niko’s rent contract ‘cause he thought her landlord was pulling a fast one. And this –“ his finger moved to the Cluedo cards – “This is the time Edwin knew what the answer was for forty bloody minutes, but he held off on making his accusation because he wanted to watch me go round and round in circles, like a knob. See what I mean?”

“Is your point that you keep these as evidence for blackmail?” Edwin asked.

“No, point is, I remember.” Charles tapped his forehead. “Got it all in here. Don’t need a bloody photo to remind me what you look like, do I? Seen you every day for the last thirty years.” He cast Edwin a flippant smile, soft round the edges like the warm browns of his hooded eyes. “Know your face better than I know my own.”

Edwin ducked his head, tamping down on the peculiar feeling in his face and stomach. Like an abrupt upset of the humours – an anomaly of the ectoplasm. At least, that’s how he would’ve characterised it some months or years ago. Now, he was more than painfully aware that it was probably more akin to the spectral equivalent of… blushing. Lord help him.

“Then why take the photographs at all?” Edwin pressed, setting his book aside and giving Charles his full attention. He winced at the sharp tone of his own voice. It was quite unintentional – he had no desire to judge, only to understand.

Fortunately, Charles knew his voice as well as his face. He shrugged, unoffended, eyes roving over his collection. “We’re still here, ain’t we? Not alive, but… we should have memories too, yeah?” He reached out, twitching the corner of a photo. One of Edwin – or the absence of him. Him and Niko, that is. Edwin remembered it well; remembered Niko perching birdlike on the arm of his chair, hugging his arm, nudging her head against his and beaming for the camera. She’d insisted he pose his fingers alongside hers, although in the end result of course only hers were visible. One half of a broken heart.

“Shouldn’t just be for the living, should it?” said Charles, smiling that strange, sad little smile of his at the picture. The one he was so careful not to let people see. “Making new memories to keep.”

Edwin rose, stepping carefully over Charles’ assorted chaos to join him at the board; and Charles watched his advance with that easy, open curiosity on his face. When Edwin’s hands clasped around the camera strap, Charles bowed his head and let him take the device without a fight.

Sometimes, his trust felt as real and visceral in Edwin’s hands as a living, beating heart. But now wasn’t the time for poetics.

Quickly reacquainting himself with the various switches, Edwin held the viewfinder to his eye, framed his shot, and took the snap. Charles did a remarkably good job at not flinching with the flash – but Edwin supposed this style of photography had been more commonplace in his lifetime. He just stood and watched, bemused, as Edwin retrieved the photograph and gave it three short, sharp shakes.

When the image of their photo board revealed itself, not a Charles to be seen despite the fact the camera had been pointed squarely at him, Edwin cocked his head and contemplated it. He had to concede that Charles had a point; though there was no Charles in the photo, Edwin could easily fill in the gaps himself. How could he not? He’d watched the white light paint Charles’ familiar, beloved features; highlighting the amused twitch of his lip, the fond warmth in his eyes. The glint of his gold chain against his white vest, cutting stark across the warm tones of his skin. The confused acceptance with which he’d stood perfectly calmly, waiting for Edwin’s motives to reveal themselves.

Edwin stepped up to the board and held out his hand. Wordlessly, Charles dropped a drawing pin into his palm.

“This,” said Edwin, glancing sidelong at Charles as he carefully pinned the photo up beside the silly shot of the two of them in their butchered bedsheets. “Is the time Charles made a surprising amount of sense; whilst talking utter nonsense.”

Charles smiled, brighter than a camera flash; the after-image of which Edwin would be carrying on the backs of his eyes for days to come.

Hope you liked it! Comments and reblogs are super duper appreciated! ^_^ 💛

I have no idea if I'm gonna write/post more fic for these guys, tbh my interest is relatively casual atm and my time/concentration is limited, plus at any given moment I may be lured in by the siren call of horror movie fic on my alt account. But they're very sweet and I have the odd plot bunny so we'll see!

#dead boy detectives #payneland #charles rowland #edwin payne #my fanfic #this goes out to the DGHDA folks I've seen dipping their toes in the Dead Boys fandom I see you and I love you and miss you #also if any of you want my horror alt you can DM me and promise not to reveal my secret identity to a living soul lmao #I wanted to come up with a more whimsical title but my whimsical title muscles are rusty #been a long time since the Dirk days!#and this song is Perf frankly because have you SEEN the way Charles smiles? Fucking adorable. Absolutely blinding.#I get you Edwin I would have fallen like a tonne of bricks too

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