Work Text:
“Nice knitting there, mate.”
Charles looks admiringly over the first square Edwin's created. It's a swirl of red and black yarn, deep colors contrasting off each other with an old-time, yet still edgy vibe Charles particularly likes.
“It’s not knitting, Charles. It’s crochet, taken from the French word for hook,” he explains, holding up said instrument. “It’s usually employed for creating lace with thread but I’ve noticed that it’s also being used with thicker fibers in modern times.” He pulls another length of black yarn from a neatly wound ball and starts a new square.
“Brills. So, what’s it gonna be?” asks Charles, taking the impromptu fiber arts lecture in stride. “Table cloth?”
Edwin huffs. “Honestly, Charles, what use would we have for a tablecloth?” He holds up the single finished square and examines it, brushing his hand softly over the center swirl. “It will be a blanket and I will use each square to practice technique.”
“Sounds great,” Charles grins, although he’s not sure what use they’d have for a blanket over a table cloth as neither of those things are tangible to them, but it doesn’t matter. What does matter is that Edwin is happily ensconced in a soothing hobby, one that doesn’t drive him to pained distraction like difficult cases or the alchemy books he usually attaches himself to in-between those difficult cases.
Charles appreciates how at-peace Edwin is while he works and besides, it’s fun to watch Edwin’s slim and nimble fingers fly, looping the yarn over the wooden hook, waving it through the air like a magician's wand. He can’t imagine how he got so good at it, but if anything, Edwin is a quick learner when he feels inspired.
And it’s obvious this blanket has inspired him.
Sometime later, Charles tweaks Edwin’s disguise so that his first crochet project - a slightly lopsided scarf made of multi-color squares - is part of it. Even puts an extra hook in his handbag - and a pair of knitting needles, partly just in case and partly just to tease.
Edwin really hates when people call it knitting.
Over time, red and black squares pile up, some of them striped, some of them with black and red roses in their centers. “How many do you have to do?” Charles says, rifling through the once neat pile of soft fabric, chuckling as Edwin shoos his hands away. “These aren’t enough?”
“I need sixty of them. What you see here is twenty seven,” Edwin says primly, going back to counting the stitches he needs for a row. “16, 17, 18…”
“28, 41,12…” Charles interjects, laughing at the terrible scowl that crosses Edwin’s face.
“I will hurt you,” Edwin growls, only half-kidding. “Nineteen…”
Charles knows better than to keep teasing, not unless he wants a hook in the ribs. “Guess I’ll go practice with my bag.”
“Twenty…” Edwin continues through grit teeth.
—
More months pass and the neat piles accumulate until Charles sees six piles of the same height. “Sixty?” he asks, excited for Edwin’s accomplishment, just as much as if it were his own.
The sparkle in Edwin’s eyes is the answer. “Sixty.”
“Aces, mate!” They exchange high fives clumsily as Edwin is still awkward at it. “Now do you pin it all together?”
“No, you sew it together.” Edwin holds up two squares, back to back. “See these stitches on top? That’s where you join them.”
Charles squints and sees at least a few dozen stitches curling along the edges. “Wait, all those? “ He waves a hand over the piles of squares. “All these too? That’s crazy!”
“We don’t do things because they are hard, but because sometimes hard things are worth it,” Edwin says, pinching the yarn end to a point before threading a tapestry needle with it. He goes to work, stitching and Charles watches him for a few minutes, wondering at his concentration… determination.
All for something Charles doesn’t quite understand. But that’s all right, he barely understands things about himself, let alone Edwin who has suffered and been through more than Charles active imagination can supply. Whatever he gets from his hobby, it’s a good thing.
Edwin's happiness is a rare and beautiful thing and Charles will gladly choose it over all else.
Eventually, the blanket starts to take shape, coming to life over the lounger, square by square and Charles is amazed. Once joined, the squares coalesce into a piece of art, of well-placed red and black roses, curves and lines in alternating colors, the negative space of the black creating optical illusions throughout.
When the last loose end is tucked away, Charles can’t help but compliment Edwin. “Mate, this is one of the most amazing things I’ve ever seen. You’ve done a great job on it.”
“Thank you, Charles,” is all Edwin says and the blanket is folded and put away somewhere, not mentioned again, at least, not for a while.
Charles is a little surprised by this but Edwin has his quirks and he supposes he should be glad to have seen the final product at all. They don’t talk about it again, at least not until the night Charles is thrown into a pond while on a case, triggering tangible memories of his death, leaving him wet and shivering even as they climb out of the mirror back into the office.
“Fuck,” Charles curses, sitting on the edge of lounger, afraid to get it wet. Miserably, he hugs himself through bitter chills, his hair dripping down his soaked back creating rivulets over the office's dusty wood floors. This unwelcome facsimile of his death has happened a few times while investigating a case - what’s with bad guys tossing him into water anyway - but sometimes it happens for no reason at all except that it’s raining particularly hard outside the office windows and Charles' mind turns to things best left alone.
It’s so bloody stupid, Charles thinks as his body trembles. Stupid to be dead and unable to shake off what killed you, stupid to die at sixteen at the hands of a bunch of wankers and his irritation only makes things worse as the water rolls off his nose, making him sneeze.
“Charles, if you please,…”
He looks up to see Edwin standing before him, holding up the red and black crocheted blanket. “Mate, I don’t think ...” he starts, but Edwin firmly shakes his head.
“This is precisely what I made it for. It was created with a spell deliberately woven into it to combat this occasional affliction of yours." Without waiting, Edwin wraps the blanket around Charles' shaking shoulders, tucking it in close around his chest. "Do you remember the wand we received as payment for the Case of The Yelling Conductor? I carved it into a crochet hook and was able to use it to make the blanket.”
To Charles’ astonishment, he can feel it. Not only can he feel it, warmth is emanating from it, actual heat surrounding him, warming and drying him. He can barely register this miracle when another realization hits him. “Wait, you made this for me?”
Edwin sits besides him, rubbing his shoulder. “Of course. I have no plans on allowing you to suffer while there's a method to alleviate it.” He shrugs, looking slightly sheepish. “Besides, I enjoyed it.”
His best friend has never looked more beautiful, Charles thinks, pulling the soft blanket more tightly around him, leaning into Edwin’s gentle touch. No one has ever done something so kind for him, without fanfare or expectations, the entire project one of love and care. He struggles to find his voice as “Thank you,” comes out as a croak, tears in eyes, his tongue feeling thick in his mouth.
“You’re very welcome,” Edwin says gently, pulling the corners of the blanket closer to Charles' neck. He touches a patch of Charles' skin that was bluish and freezing just a moment before but now looks mostly normal. “Better, but not one hundred percent. Perhaps if you would slide a little …”
Charles doesn’t wait for him to finish the sentence. Instead, he lies down on Edwin’s lap and curls as close as he can, eyes closed and his entire being feeling as though he's floating atop the softest and best clouds. “Thank you,” Charles repeats, as Edwin soothes his arm and they stay like this until the morning sun rises, beams of light slipping through the office blinds.
The blanket is folded and put away again, but the light of what it represents stays in Charles’ heart front and center for a very long time after.
--
In fact, it lasts until and beyond the day he and Edwin find themselves wrapped around each other, having figured out exactly what all the rest means, for eternity. The bed they lie in is the place they share on days like these, a day without cases or cares, nothing to do except hold each other and listen to the rain outside the windows.
Charles is older now, his ghost form stronger and he’s no longer afraid of the rain, but that doesn’t matter. Edwin gets up and pulls the blanket out anyway from the drawer chest they share, holding all the different parts of their souls. He climbs back into the bed and carefully drapes it over Charles, making sure to tuck it in against all the spots where he would be the coldest.
“Thank you,” Charles whispers, reaching out to touch Edwin’s cheek. “But I need something else.”
Edwin kisses his palm, humming. “What else do you need?”
“You under here with me,” Charles replies, pulling the blanket back, the invitation clear. “Seems like it will work even better that way.”
“Oh,” Edwin smiles. “Of course.”
He slips underneath and Charles discovers he’s right. It's so much better this way. Add in a few kisses, then a few more and he discovers there’s nothing in this universe better than making love under a perfectly warm blanket as it rains, Edwin in his arms.
"See now, I've discovered something," he whispers into Edwin's ear, their bodies bare and flush and rocking together at a slow, deliberate pace. "This ..." He draws the blanket closer around them, trapping their spectral beings together. "This isn't just for me. It never was. It's for us ... it is us." He slides himself against Edwin until they are both gasping with broken moans, until they are lying boneless and ghostly against each other and melting, just a little bit, into each others' souls.
Edwin wants to put the blanket away immediately - seems he's gotten superstitious about it at some point in their forty years together and thinks if he leaves it lying about he's only asking for trouble - but with a little coaxing, Charles encourages Edwin to stay there with him for the rest of the day, past the night into the morning.
As the sun rises, Charles helps Edwin fold the blanket and put it away, as they’ve done for years before and will again, he thinks, until the very atoms of it become a sweet, bright memory, as warm as the sun itself.