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The first few times it was entirely platonic. He and Mabel would leave Oliver's apartment, taking the elevator together to their respective floors after a hard day's work of solving a murder.
He'd start getting ready for bed, maybe do a crossword puzzle to unwind, or listen to an old podcast to get a few ideas.
And then there'd be a knock at the door.
Oliver couldn't sleep. He'd be wracked with worry over Winnie, or agonizing over trying to get the edit just right, or asking for help deciphering the tone in Mabel's most recent text.
"It's just a pair of eyeballs?"
"Exactly!"
So they'd open a couple of bottles of Gut Milk, stream an old true crime show in the background, and talk. Charles knew he wasn't a comforting presence, but he could be a good listener. And Oliver was one talkative son of a bitch.
He talked about his successes, his failures, his family. People around the Arconia that he'd befriended over the years, and to Charles' dismay, had been calling the wrong name.
"Are you sure it's not Frank?"
"What person under 70 is named Frank?"
"Well…"
The next time might start differently- at Charles' apartment, going over the evidence one more time, or at Oliver's, finishing up recording- before Oliver mentions something about being hungry, and Charles suggests they go out to eat, since Oliver’s apartment never contained anything edible.
It's nice not to have to ask for a table for one, and the novelty of Oliver eating three appetizers makes up for being stuck with the check. And he’d feel himself loosening up after splitting, 70/30 at least, a bottle of wine.
"Do you have any stories that don't start with 'and I'd had a few cocktails'?"
"None worth telling."
And they'd walk back to the Arconia together, maybe a little closer together to brace against the cold January wind. If Oliver was in one of his moods, they might stop for a soft pretzel.
"Come on, you have to try it. Honey mustard makes regular mustard taste like rat poison."
"You would know, you fucking rodent. I'm not eating a pretzel you've already chewed on!"
By then it would be late, and dark, and easy to go back to Oliver's, under the pretense of checking the sound mix before uploading the next episode.
It wasn't that he didn't want to be alone- because he had been for years, and enjoyed it very much, thank you. But with a murderer loose in the building, it seemed safe to pair up. At least, it sounded like a good excuse.
“What about Mabel?”
Charles hesitated. “She seems pretty good at taking care of herself.”
“And I don’t?”
He pushed the door open with two determined fingers and a frown. “Well for one thing, your door is still unlocked.”
“I’m just being neighborly. I’ll teach you about it some time.”
Oliver always thought he had something to teach Charles. It was a director’s job to bring out the best in his talent, and Charles would be the first to admit that Brazzos wasn't any sort of thespian cornerstone. But despite the nagging and notes and retakes, he was enjoying the podcasting process.
He was happy. It was the simplest explanation, and naturally the easiest one to overlook. He was smiling and greeting his neighbors, and politely not commenting when they looked at him with surprise and confusion. When he mentioned it to Oliver later, the producer likened it to Scrooge on Christmas morning.
"I am not the most miserable man in western literature!"
Oliver paused in thought. "Well, not anymore."
They tolerated each other's eccentricities. Oliver kept hand sanitizer on the table whenever Charles stopped by, and Charles found himself stocking hummus in his fridge, precisely two inches away from the eggs.
This was actual happiness, not the fake smile he plastered on for the Brazzos set, listening to story after story about how great Pataki was at the wrap party, the wrap party he was conveniently not invited to.
Now he was invited to everything, always meeting up with Oliver and Mabel, feeling included, if not spearheading the investigation at times. He had a team now, which is more than Brazzos ever had- not counting that Jake and the Fatman sweeps week crossover.
"Great. Let's do it again, and this time try to sound like you're not in a coma."
"Excuse me?"
"This is right before the act break. You can't underplay this and then come in all hot and heavy about chicken wraps."
He finally tried one of the damn wraps the previous night. Teddy sent over a care package after the Fallon incident, and he and Mabel split the non-spread options. It was good chicken. Definitely worth sharing a podcast title with.
He was wondering whether they'd make for good leftovers when a knock at the door interrupted his thoughts. It wouldn’t interrupt Oliver’s precious sleep. He waved vaguely in the direction of the door, not even dignifying his request with words. Charles made sure to remember this one time he caught Oliver without a smart remark.
Bunny was waiting on the other side of the door, completely unfazed by Charles opening it in his pyjamas.
“Tell your boyfriend to knock it off. I’m getting complaints about the noise.” She grunted in disgust. “Recording all hours of the night like some kind of pervert.”
Charles was still processing the first half. “You mean Oliver?”
“Well done, Detective Briscoe.”
“It’s Brazzos, actually.”
“Whatever."
His heart sank as he shut the door, firmly locking it. In a building where everyone seemed to have a secret, why did his have to become public knowledge?
Unless Bunny was just fucking with him, and employing a bit of harmless homophobic joshing. Most of his neighbors seemed to dislike him- it wasn't unreasonable that they'd be as rude as possible to keep conversations to a minimum.
The worst part was he had to figure it out alone. For the past month, he had gotten so used to bouncing theories and ideas off of both Mabel and Oliver- especially Oliver, who was more invested in the idea of a good podcast finale than simply solving the mystery.
"Wouldn't it be great if there were two killers?"
"I don't think more murderers in the building is a great idea, no."
"Well you're just no fun."
That line of thinking brought a sickening chill to his stomach.
His personal and professional lives were often intertwined- that is, when one was doing poorly, so was the other one. His agent emailed him after getting his name mentioned on Fallon, but as a punchline by the biggest name in the podcasting game, it wasn’t exactly something to get his hopes up over.
He had friends in the building again, something that hadn't happened since Lucy was around.
But it all came back to the podcast. The three of them never would have spoken if it wasn't for Tim Kono's murder. His own happiness was the end result of Mabel's friend being brutally slaughtered in his own home.
Everything he had come to enjoy was steeped in misery, so it stood to reason this did too.
"What did that miserable bag want now?" Oliver asked, blinking owlishly at the midmorning light.
"Is this for the podcast?"
"This?"
"Yes, this! This this! Us this!" He groaned at his own incoherence. "This isn't some scheme to get more listeners, is it? A fake relationship to drum up publicity?"
"I can't believe I'm the one saying this, but I think you're drastically overestimating our combined sex appeal."
Always a joke to lighten the mood, never able to take things seriously, never able to face facts in the bright light of day. He'd learned Oliver's defense mechanisms (point in favor of a real relationship), but Oliver was derailing the conversation with a defense mechanism (point in favor of a showmance).
They left things awkwardly, primarily because they still saw each other every day. Strictly professional of course, always on podcast business, almost always with Mabel or Oscar around as a counterbalance. Young patient love contrasting against elderly neurotic dysfunction.
Investigating kept him busy, and fulfilled, but something was still missing. It wasn't as rewarding as before. He was off his game, he wasn't as sharp, he couldn't remember where he left that cat's leg. His joy had faded into something less all-consuming, a pleasant feeling that dimmed at meals, at night time.
Another few days passed and he still couldn't put his finger on it. Until late one night he hears a knock at his door.
Oliver.
"You know, I was thinking about something I said to Fosse once, about staging. We met at a party and I’d had a few cocktails-"
"Get to the point."
"Can I stay here tonight? This Teddy Dimas stuff has me worried." He dropped to a stage whisper. "He knows where I live."
"Won't he figure out where I live? It’s only 4 floors from yours."
"Ah, but he'll have to look it up. It might buy us enough time."
The logic was flawed but it sounded nice. Charles suddenly understood how Oliver had found financial backers for decades.
There was no more talk of Teddy Dimas or Tim Kono that night, and Charles felt more relaxed than he had in a week.