Chapter Text
Charles kicks at the gravestone in front of him, scuffing a bit of dirt away from the name at the bottom. The name revealed to him isn’t the one they’re looking for, so he moves to the next. It’s a tiny rock, barely even cresting the grass, and he groans in frustration and he has to bend down and wipe away layers of mud before he can even begin to read it.
The client hadn’t even been able to give them a description of the grave marker, much less where in this bloody massive graveyard it might be. All she knew was that the place kept getting grave robbed, and her friend that was buried there had gone missing after one such robbery. She’d promised to pay them with trinkets from her own grave, which, though dangerous if unethically procured, were useful in monetary value and apparently some spellcrafting. So he and his partner had taken the case, and had spent the last hour scouring the massive plot of land for a Jenna Wilson.
Having examined the last grave in this little plant-surrounded cove, he starts to push through the thorny bushes back to the main yard. His bag catches on a thicket, and he swears. Graveyard plants always seemed more solid than other plants, but he didn’t think he’d need to bother to phase through. He moves to disentangle it, but the twisting further entwines it with the sharp branches. He moves to pull again, but pauses, hearing a voice coming from the crypt that Edwin had been investigating while he checked the cove.
It’s clearly Edwin talking, at first, but then there’s a female voice he doesn’t recognize. It sounds angry, but he can’t make the words out, and isn’t sure if he should interfere. When she says something sharp, though, and Edwin cries out, he immediately makes his decision. He whips out his cricket bat and drops the rest of the bag, pushing his way through the bushes and sprinting towards the crypt. He slips down the stairs, quiet as possible while still rushing, but barely gets a step into the main room before the female figure whips towards him.
The first thing his mind tells him is witch. She’s old, but not crone-like, more like someone who’d just retired from 50 years of an office job. She’s covered in trinkets, most of them old and dirty, sewn or tied all over her pastel grandma clothes. Her eyes glow gently, inhumanly. Charles notices Edwin on the floor, uninjured but still and eyes closed, and without hesitating raises his cricket bat. The witch immediately shrieks out a word he doesn’t recognize, and he feels a spell seize his limbs, but she’s a little too late and the wood gives a satisfying WHACK across her cheek.
That’s all he’s able to do, though, as the paralysis sets in and the momentum of the swing flings him to the side, falling to the ground in a heap. He opens his mouth to yell out, but the witch mumbles another spell, and a lethargy he hasn’t felt in a decade sweeps over him. He finds himself falling unconscious, something he didn’t even know ghosts could do, and curses internally as he feels his hand release the cricket bat, the curtain of darkness closing.
****
The first thing Charles registers is the pain in his wrists. It brings him to consciousness rudely, dragging him up from the unusual dredges of sleep, and when he blinks his eyes open, he finds the source. His hands are clapped in manacles, clearly iron from the burning sensation, and are tight enough that they don’t slip around when he gives them a quick shake. He notices a chain, and follows it to where it’s bolted to the ceiling, high above where he could hope to reach.
He pushes himself to a sitting position, wincing a bit as the iron rubs against his ghostly skin. He can feel the grit of the floor under his palms, his hands much more solid than normal due to their proximity to the iron. His eyes sweep the room. It’s large and empty, with concrete walls and flooring, though obviously dirty and unused. No windows to be found, and only a single door that lets only the barest amount of light in underneath. It’s dark enough that it takes a few minutes of his eyes adjusting to the dark before he recognizes Edwin slumped by the far wall, similarly chained. He breathes out a sigh of relief.
“Edwin, mate, you awake?” He whisper-yells. He’s not sure where the witch went off to, but he isn’t keen to let her know either of them are awake. He doesn’t respond, and Charles lets out a quiet curse. He stands, careful not to rattle anything, and after a moment’s hesitation gently touches the chain with his pinky finger. He pulls it back with a hiss. Yep, definitely iron too.
He moves towards the opposite wall, but quickly finds that even pulling against the chain and lifting his hands up won’t even get him halfway across. When he gives a solid jerk, and subsequently swears a little louder than he meant to, he sees Edwin stir.
“Thank god.” Charles sighs as Edwin blearily lifts his head. The other ghosts’ arms instinctively jerk, trying to pull away from the source of pain, but quickly stop as he snaps awake and realizes the situation.
“Charles?” He mutters, quickly sitting up. “What’s happened?”
“Witch found us in the crypt.” Charles whispers back. “Got you with some kind of sleeping spell. I gave her a good whack, but didn’t stop her from hitting me with the same thing.”
“Did she do anything while I was unconscious?”
“I woke up just now, same as you. I don’t think she’s done anything other than lock us up, though.”
“Splendid.” Edwin mutters, examining his hands.
“Did you find anything? Before, y’know. She found you.” Charles asks.
Edwin nods. “Yes, one of the crypt residents was very helpful, and talkative. She’s been stealing precious objects from the graves for a while now, and seems to know with startling accuracy which ones are tightly bound to spirits. That is to say, she’s been taking the weaker ghosts home with her, and they haven’t been coming back.”
“Did your friend know why?”
“No, unfortunately, but considering how easily she incapacitated us, and how these restraints are clearly designed to hold beings of our nature, it’s imperative that we get out of here as soon as possible.” He brings his wrists closer to his face, and even dark as it is, Charles can see the gears turning in his mind.
“You scheming something in that big brain of yours?” Charles smirks, and Edwin tilts his head in consideration.
“Perhaps, but…”
Charles watches as he twists his wrists in the manacles, small plumes of smoke rising from the points of contact as he tests the restraints. He slips one finger in the small gap between skin and iron, seemingly testing how much space there is.
“Do you still have your bag?” He asks, and Charles shakes his head.
“Left it outside the crypt when I ran in to get my ass kicked.”
“Any lockpicking materials?” Edwin tries again, and Charles nods at that.
“Well, yeah, I’ve got some emergency ones in my sock. But with the angle my hands are locked in at, I don’t think I’ll be able to pick ‘em.”
“Get them out, if you please.”
“Alright.” He’s not sure what Edwin’s scheming, but he sits down and pulls a shoe off nonetheless, slipping the small packet of tools out. Edwin considers the manacles once more, shifting himself to give a slight pull against them. Charles winces in empathy as more smoke fizzles up. After a moment, Edwin asks softly, voice calm as ever,
“Charles, if I get myself out, would you be able to guide me through lockpicking your manacles?”
“Yeah, probably, mate, but how are you…” He starts to ask, but trails off as Edwin suddenly grips his left thumb in his right hand. With a quick jerk and a dry pop, he dislocates the joint towards his palm and pulls the now compressed hand through the manacle. He tugs it back into place once out, and without hesitation, does the same to the other wrist, the empty restraints soon clanging against the wall. It takes a few tugs to get the second thumb to return to its original spot, but once it’s done, he stands and dusts himself off, walking over to Charles’ side of the room. He crouches down to be level with his partner’s restraints, and Charles hands him the tools without a word.
Edwin gently maneuvers his hands to a suitable position, hunched over the manacles. Charles can feel the touch, reminded once more how solid he is from the iron. If he can feel the gentle sensations of grit on the floor and of his partner’s soft hands, he wonders briefly, how sharp is the sensation of a bone dislocating for a ghost that hasn’t been solid for ten years?
“Charles?” He snaps back to awareness, Edwin’s face inches from his. “I’ll need your help doing this.” Charles swallows thickly, and starts to guide him through picking the relatively simple lock.
It takes several minutes, far longer than if Charles was doing it himself, but eventually, the manacles unlock with a satisfying click. Edwin reaches towards the manacles, and before Charles can move, he pulls them off and tosses them a few feet away. Edwin stands back up, beginning to offer a hand to assist his partner, but quickly tucks it away. Charles catches a glimpse of the burned, distorted mess before it’s neatly folded behind his back.
Charles pushes himself to his feet, giving Edwin a sideways glance, and opens his mouth to ask if he’s okay. Edwin cuts him off, spinning towards the door, moving his hands to his front as he does so Charles can’t even assess them.
“I suppose we better get out of this room, then.” Edwin chirps. He places a hand on the wall, pushing gently. “Mixed with an iron compound. Not enough to burn, but enough to prevent phasing. Hopefully the door isn’t locked, too.” He rattles the handle. “No such luck. Suppose you better take this lock, seeing as you’re far more dexterous than I. At least it isn’t iron.” Charles approaches him at the door, and Edwin tries to fold his hands away behind his back again.
“Mate, let me take a look at those burns real quick.” Charles pleads, and Edwin gives a slight frown.
“That’s hardly our first priority.” He scoffs.
Charles tilts his head slightly, his eyes hardening, and Edwin sighs. He reluctantly raises his hands, and Charles takes them gently in his, finally getting a good look at them. The wrists are burned, obviously, slightly worse than Charles’ own, but not terribly so. The joints of his thumbs are swollen and oddly discolored, almost like a bruise but a grayer, bluer shade. There’s no warmth to it, as there’s no blood like there would be for a human injury, but injuring himself so close to the iron must have made it react similarly. The palm of his hands are also slightly burned from tossing Charles’ irons, but that’s beginning to heal even now. It looks obscene, for such normally delicate and beautiful hands to be so mangled, but it doesn’t seem anything worse than painful.
“It doesn’t look permanent.” He finally admits, and Edwin takes his hands back.
“See? Nothing to worry about.” He hands the lockpicks back to Charles. “Your turn.”
“Let me know if it hurts, yeah?” Charles reluctantly accepts the tools. “Like, in a way that’s not normal for healing iron burns. I’ve never seen a ghost with a dislocated joint before.”
“Of course.” Edwin replies softly, and Charles bends over to pick the door.
He knows Edwin wouldn’t lie to him about anything important, but he’s starting to realize that Edwin doesn’t really consider his own pain to be that important. The fact he was able to do that at all, with so little hesitation, is honestly a bit frightening to Charles. He sneaks a glance back at his partner, and sees him gently rubbing one palm with the other. A few moments later, the lock clicks open, and Charles carefully pushes the door open.