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“You cannot be serious.”
The Cat King glances side-long at the ghost standing primly to his right. Edwin looks not unlike a very pretty fish out of water in the sea of crimson and gold that flows around them, with his ramrod-straight spine and his perpetual frown. Football fans of all ages pass through both of the entities unaware as they enter the stadium, shouting to be heard over the marching band’s spirited opening number. The Cat King can't quite surpress a shiver as they do so, unused to the temporary incorporeality Edwin has bestowed upon him for the case.
While he may once have fretted about the possibility of his ghost’s displeasure, the Cat King has honed his Edwin-senses well enough to see the underlying curiosity glimmering in those emerald eyes. “Would I ever jest with you, sweetheart?” he purrs, saccharine and ornery at his core.
The corner of Edwin’s lips twitches up before he schools his expression into something more serious — another one of the little clues his whip-smart detective gives away, now that the Cat King knows how to look for them. “Yes,” Edwin retorts. “From the very moment I made your acquaintance, in fact.”
The Cat King would hardly say he had been jesting when the little shit first sashayed into his cannery nearly half a year ago and upended his nine lives forever, but he graciously holds his tongue.
“Well, you know me, ghostie. Serious to the bone.” If Edwin had bothered to acquaint himself with modern slang half as much as he apparently chooses to indulge feline royalty, he probably would have rolled his eyes at that. “But I assure you, this is the place! Cross my heart and hope to die.”
This line earns the Cat King a quiet huff that sounds a smidge more fond than irritate, which he decides to take as a win.
Steepling his hands in front of him, Edwin declares, “I should hope not. But if we do not get to the bottom of this disappearing act soon, I'm afraid someone else just might.”
It's hot, the way Edwin gets all righteous and focused in the middle of a case. And while this is hardly the first time the Dead Boy Detectives have consulted the Cat King on one of their investigations, the thrill that accompanies the coveted invitation has yet to subside.
The Cat King could note that Edwin is the first thing to hold his attention in literal centuries, but he'd really rather not.
Now, reports of college students going missing in the Midwestern United States normally would not fall under the purview of an agency so ghostly. (“You are the singular living being who could inspire me to cross the pond of my own free will,” Edwin had once told him, which he hopes is Edwardian-speak for, “I want you so bad it makes me look stupid.”) But Edwin had heard through the supernatural grapevine that these kids are returning…different, including the star of the university’s football team.
And who better to sniff out potential doppelgangers than a ridiculously-sexy shape-shifting cat man?
That's what the Cat King tells himself, at least, lest he have to acknowledge the fact that Edwin has been making the trek through the looking-glass with more and more frequency as of late, which makes the feline feel so hopeful he wants to chew his own arm off.
Edwin regards their surroundings, looking distinctly less than impressed. “I thought you said you believed this to be the work of changelings,” he sniffs. “That we’d be going where the veil between realms is especially thin.”
“Aw, Edwin!” the Cat King coos. “You do listen to me! And you didn't even have to look in that handy-dandy notebook.”
“Of course I listen to my consultant. I am a professional, after all.” In contrast to his stern words, Edwin grants him one of those soft, knowing smiles — the kind that makes the Cat King feel like they're both in on the same joke.
The monarch hopes he doesn't wind up being the butt of the joke, in the end.
“Oh, a professional, huh?” the Cat King drawls with a faux sense of nonchalance, stuffing his hands into the pockets of his leather jacket. “Well, any professional worth their salt would know that religious ceremonies are, like, prime veil-thinning territory.”
Edwin scoffs haughtily, gesturing to the pair of college-aged students decked out in their university’s colors using one another to support their mutual staggering into the stadium in front of them. “I would hardly consider this inebriated rabble-rousing to be spiritual.”
“Is that so?” The Cat King extends his hand with a flourish. “Let's see about that.”
Edwin’s assessing emerald gaze flickers from the Cat King’s outstretched hand up to his face, a handsome blush warming those phantom cheeks. “Well, then.”
The Cat King isn't sure about Edwin, but the way the leather of the detective’s glove cools the skin of his palm feels pretty fucking spiritual indeed.
For his part, Edwin doesn't seem to know where to look first — at the blinding stadium lights or the rowdy, chanting crowd or the cheerleaders flipping through the air or the gaggle of athletes in tight little pants standing on the sidelines. His gaze eventually snags on the Jumbotron, where the competing teams’ mascots can be seen doing push-ups in all of their campy, costumed glory.
“Hm,” is all Edwin says as they take their place near the home team’s bench, watching intently as the players line up for their next play.
The Cat King spots their mark already on the field, a tall, broad-chested guy with a dreads poking out from under his decorated helmet and, according to the middle-aged man painted head-to-toe in gold that passed them earlier, “an arm like a fucking rocket.”
As the quarterback shouts a command to his scrambling team, Edwin quirks his head to the side thoughtfully. “How is this game played?”
The question startles a laugh out of the Cat King. “You're barking up the wrong tree here, sweetheart, and you know how much I hate trees. I'm an expert in many, many things, but sportsball isn’t one of them.”
Edwin scoffs dismissively. “Surely you know more than me. The only ‘sport’ I ever took to at St. Hilarion’s was fencing, and this whole ordeal is…something else entirely.”
That's how the Cat King winds up spending the vast majority of the game relaying an approximation of the finer details of American football to his endlessly curious little ghostie, who absorbs his every word like a damn sponge. The feline might be more annoyed by all the “shop talk” if it weren't for the way Edwin forgoes his usual note-taking to continue holding his hand all the while.
As for the game, it's a real nail-biter — the bright lights of the scoreboard boast a set of scores that rise tit-for-tat, the teams apparently well-matched on all fronts. To the Cat King’s intrigue, as the clock ticks down, Edwin only seems to grow more and more enraptured.
“That was clearly an illegal maneuver!” Edwin declares sometime during the fourth quarter, his haughty indignation nearly drowned out by the jeering crowd more or less expressing the same sentiment. “These officials are woefully inept!”
Needless to say, when the tied game goes into overtime, Edwin and the masses alike watch on with bated breath.
The Cat King doesn't know shit about the technicalities, but after some back-and-forth between the teams, it's clear from the tension in the air that the upcoming kick is about to decide the game. A hush falls over the crowd, like they’re all waiting for one oracle-kick to seal their collective fate. The kicker’s foot aims true, and despite the way the ball seems to hang in the air on the way up, it soars resoundingly through the goalposts.
“Ha!” Edwin shouts, joining the cacophony of cheers and drums and confetti and fireworks all around them. Then the ghost whirls on the Cat King with a smile that makes his eyes crinkle in the corners, and suddenly he can't hear anything but his own thrice-stopped heart thudding in his ears.
For a wild moment, the Cat King thinks Edwin might just kiss him right here where they stand, haunting this lively football game. Instead, Edwin’s gaze catches on something over Thomas’ shoulder.
Despite everyone else in the stadium either celebrating or mourning, the quarterback of the winning team is watching them of all people — a fact almost as unnerving as the faint red glow of his eyes.
Edwin clears his throat. “Regrettably, I'm afraid there is a case to be cracked.” The detective’s tongue darts out to wet his lips, and the Cat King is almost certain Edwin's attention flits to his mouth in kind. “But after…”
The Cat King’s answering grin is nothing short of Cheshire. “After?”
A thrill licks up the Cat King's spine when Edwin coyly suggests, “Perhaps then we can discuss your finder's fee.”