Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

There is nothing on this continent that compares to the sensation of waking up to hands putting your body back together piece by piece. 

At least not in Jrusar, and Ashton’s certainly fucking looked. Once Ashton realized they weren’t going to find their missing parts at the bottom of a tankard, he started hitting up the most discreet clubs he could find and afford. Clubs that Ashton went to before, when coin was plentiful and the mood was right, but never quite like this. After the fall, outings of this nature meant blindfolds and gloves, bodies fully clothed, ropes to bind and suspend. Anything Ashton could find to try and scratch that itch that lived somewhere inside them now, under the rock and gold and glass. 

And none of it fucking helped. 

Ashton didn’t have high expectations of success, to be fair. What with the way his luck was going lately, of course he wouldn’t be able to shake this. Won’t be able to forget what it felt like to wake up over and over again, no concept of time or place, just of the hands on them, piecing them back together. To this day Ashton doesn’t quite know how long it took Milo to fix him. Never bothered to ask. Not important, really, not when Ashton was still trying to forget the feelings of ropes binding him to the table. Was that the third time they woke up or the fourth? And what the fuck had they done to Milo to require that? What the fuck was up with that?

So, Ashton just doesn’t do touch. He’s lost too much of himself to give away any more pieces so casually. 

There’s a robot in the mines. 

There’s a robot in the mines, and it—they?—they look like absolute shit. 

They’re covered in what looks like blood, which wouldn’t make any sense except for the fact that they’re also surrounded by corpses. How many corpses, Ashton isn’t entirely sure, due to, you know, both the massive amount of blood covering the scene and these weird colorful clumps of metal scattered amongst the corpses. 

No, not just metal—more robots. Various sizes and numbers of limbs, but definitely robots. And this little yellow one the only one standing. If Ashton turns his good ear towards the yellow one they can hear some sort of internal mechanism humming. So, still standing, and seemingly functional, but nothing on their body looks capable of inflicting the kind of carnage Ashton sees here. Carnage, that, quite frankly, Ashton does not care to find the source of. He’ll probably still get some pay for telling the owners of the mine that the party they sent is thoroughly fucked, and they don’t quite think that whatever took out these four-five?-people and however many robots is something that Ashton can handle with his hammer alone. 

Well, if they aren’t going to get their full payout from this job, might as well see what these poor fuckers have on them. Leave the copper, naturally. 

They’ve just started to rummage through the pockets of the corpse farthest from the standing robot when a sudden beam of light nearly blinds the one good eye they’ve got left. 

“Ah! Fuckin, shitballs, what-?”

When his eyes adjust, Ashton’s able to see that the yellow robot is now very much awake, the places where they would have eyes now shining out with two brilliant beams of light. They flick up and down over Ashton before suddenly shutting off, leaving an ambient light blue glow.

“Smiley day friend! How can I assist you?”

The words are so at odds with the scene around them that Ashton’s mind totally blanks. “Uh-well-I’m checking their pockets for identification-fuck, that sounds stupid.” Standing upright and shoving their hands into their pockets, Ashton sees the robot finish taking him in and beginning scanning the many bodies that surround them. And fuck, Ashton’s sure as shit never seen a robot emote before, but they could swear this fella is on the verge of tears. 

“Fuck. Hey, listen, I know of a place you can stay, if you want.”

It’s not actually a problem until they’re almost back at the Krook house. Okay, sure, Ashton isn’t really sure what the fuck he’s doing here. Go to the mines, done. Find out why the other team didn’t return, check. Return to Jrusar with an impossibly cheerful robot was nowhere in the job description. 

And now, Ashton has to find a way to get said robot up several ladders and across a rope bridge, which actually might be easier than explaining to Milo and Anni why they suddenly have a new roommate.

“Don’t suppose you took any legs from your friends back there?”

“Unfortunately not; none of my acquaintances have-had legs. Although Pussy did have this one attachment that-“

FCG’s rambling is interrupted by a cart nearly running them over, and yeah, they are kind of in the middle of an intersection here as Ashton debates on how the fuck to get this robot back to their place. Eventually, he realizes there’s no avoiding it, and he crouches in front of the robot, his back to them. 

“Alright, well, I hope you have a strong grip because there’s no other way to get you back to the Krook house. Climb on.”

“Oh, that’s awfully nice of you Ashton, thank you so much!” With more grace than Ashton expects, Fresh Cut Grass loops their arms around Ashton’s neck and angles his wheel 90 degrees so their wheel isn’t jabbing into the genasi’s back. Straightening back up, Ashton starts climbing the first ladder leading to the Krook house. 

It’s…..weird. It’s fucking weird, to be sure. FCG is lighter than he looks, which is helpful, and the sensation of their body moving against Ashton’s is alien enough that the novelty overpowers Ashton’s instinctive discomfort at the contact. They’re not sure what they expected, but Fresh Cut Grass is vibrating, somehow? And sure, Ashton doesn’t know shit about robots but they also didn’t expect their body to be warm . FCG’s forearm—is that still the right word when it’s metal instead of flesh?—presses right against Ashton’s shattered shoulder, and it should be painful, like most contact is in that area. But it’s not. Instead of piercing pain, the vibrations from the warm metal seem to resonate with something deep within Ashton, and as he carries the robot to his-their?-home, something within them shifts carefully back into place.

Chapter Text

The remains of the last shade creepers  are still smoldering when Ashton sees Orym stagger in place and list to the side. They call out without thinking, “Anyone who needs to take a second should probably take a second.”

As he comes out of his rage, the noise of the Hells chattering slowly presses its way into Ashton’s awareness, but his eyes are still on Orym. The fighter is still staring off down the tunnel where the last creepers fled. “Well, what’s a second?”

“A second is however long it takes to make sure you’re fine.”

Whatever response Orym might have to that is lost to Ashton as they see the halfling stagger once more and instinctively stretch out a hand to brace his shoulder, and suddenly Ashton’s not in the mines anymore. 

This happens, sometimes, ever since the fall. Some phrase or movement or place will trigger a memory and all of a sudden it’s like Ashton’s right back in whatever moment his fucked up brain decided to recall. They’ve gotten pretty good at shrugging it off, staying in the present—there aren’t too many memories he really wants to revisit—but this one catches Ashton off guard.

In this memory Ashton’s still in pain, but the sting is that of fists instead of claw gashes, and it’s also fading, because standing in front of him is Dorian. Dorian, his hands on Ashton’s shoulders, in the middle of casting a healing spell. They’re back on the dueling ground at the masquerade ball. Dorian’s pretending to be a stranger in this moment, putting on this persona for the sake of the group’s cover but his touch is still so, so gentle. No matter the confident presentation, under the surface is that Dorian-typical anxiety of “Is this okay?”, and fuck if this isn’t the gentlest he’s been handled since Milo had him on their workbench. Not gentle like Dorian’s intimidated or afraid, but gentle like he cares. 

Almost as soon as Ashton has that thought for the second time, they’re snapped back out of it by the impact of a small body slumping against him.

Fuck, right, Orym is still bleeding out in front of them. Steadying the man with both hands now, Ashton casts a glance around the tunnel, taking stock of the rest of the group. Everyone else is still up, thankfully, some worse for wear than others. Laudna’s helping Chetney to his feet, her bony fingers fussing at his fur, Letters is telling Imogen what magic he has left for healing, and Fearne is—well, Ashton can’t actually see Fearne at this moment, but that’s pretty on brand for the faun, so they turn their attention back to Orym. 

Not for the first time since his departure, Ashton mentally curses out Cyrus for taking Dorian from the group. Dorian would be able to heal Orym, would be able to make some little joke that got Orym to chuckle despite the pain. He can hear Letters healing Chetney and Orym is still bleeding, and fuck , Ashton doesn’t know how to fix people

Alright Greymoore, what the fuck can you do for these people?

Gods, that voice in the back of his head is everyone and no one. Every asshole warden at the state home, every bit of self doubt, every judgmental employer. They fucking hate that voice. 

“M fine, just gotta—just let me lay down, just for a sec. Just give me a hot toddy, I’ll be fine. Go on over with the others.”

Well, that’s not fucking happening. Ashton doesn’t know how to fix people, but he does know that none of this shit works if they don’t stick together. 

Orym’s starting to lay down on the packed dirt of the tunnel floor when Ashton snaps to, once more grabbing Orym by the shoulder, more gently this time. “Nope, c’mon, you’re going over to Letters. You look like one hit’ll take you down and we’re not doing that. We need you.” With those last words Ashton crouches to get on Orym’s level, tapping the fighter’s cheek with the hand not supporting his weight. His gaze is more distant than usual, eyes slightly unfocused, but after a few seconds they lock onto Ashton’s. “We’re sticking together, alright? This shit doesn’t work any other way.”

Orym’s eyes flick to the hand still on his shoulder and back to Ashton’s face. “Alright. Lead the way.”

Hand still guiding Orym, Ashton leads them over to where the group stands to wait for F.C.G. The phantom warmth of Dorian’s hands on his shoulders and the brush of their fingers against Orym’s cheek follows Ashton deep down into the bowels of the mines.

Chapter Text

They’re all plenty weird, these Bells Hells people-and that name is fine, it’s good, because it doesn’t have any baggage with it, not like the New Nobodies would, because there are no Nobodies anymore, just Ashton, and they’re alone and that’s fine they would’ve done the same cut their losses save who you can you have to protect the crew but he was part of the crew wasn’t he why wasn’t he worth keeping around—

So. Bells Hells it is. 

It’s their second night in the jungle and Ashton is bored to shit. They’ve walked the perimeter of camp a few times, checked on the horses—shockingly all still alive—and there’s still way too many hours left on his watch. 

Ashton scratches at the bare spot in their hair as he settles back into his spot in front of the fire, resigning themselves to a boring as fuck watch, when something jabs him in the ass. 

They’re on their feet in an instant, one hand on his hammer before Ashton’s brain catches up with his body to realize that no, there’s not an assassin with a weirdly blunt dagger buried in the ground—Ashton just sat on all the shit that’s in their back pocket. 

Fuck, he’d fully forgotten. Earlier that day Ashton had finally lucked out on pickpocketing Fearne. Didn’t even check what they got, just scooped a handful of stuff from one of Fearne’s many pockets while the group took a break for lunch. 

Well, no time like the present. 

Setting back down in front of the fire, Ashton lays out his loot on the mossy ground before them. 

“Alright, let’s see what we got. Couple coins, some noble fucker’s ring, some seashells?—where the hell did those even come from—and….fuck.”

The last of Fearne’s loot are some crystals. Some small, vibrant purple crystals. 

The itch on his scalp increases. He remembers the ball, the fistfight, Ratanish scraping their head across the gravel, feeling some of his hair dislodge. They hadn’t seen Fearne poking around afterwards, but he wasn’t exactly firing on all cylinders. And they know she can’t resist something shiny. 

Sometimes Fearne looks at them like she’s trying to figure out which of her pockets he’d fit into. Sometimes Ashton thinks they’d let her if it meant that he kept not having to ask. 

Mind still on the crystals in front of them, he chucks the copper coins into his pack, in the pouch Ashton reserves for whatever scrap metal they find for Letters to snack on. They stuff the seashells in their pockets, slide the ring onto his right pinkie, the only place it’ll fit. Ashton knows full well that Fearne will likely steal it all back within the next few days. Fingers fucking crossed she’s still down to play this game. 

Ashton thinks about Fearne. Thinks about lying beaten and bruised on the ground in front of Ratanish. Very intently does not think about lying broken on the ground anywhere else. 

Before he can talk himself out of it, Ashton gets to his feet, walking as quietly as they can over to where the rest of the party still sleeps. Fearne and Laudna are back to back, both in turn half wrapped around Orym and Imogen respectively. Ashton’s grateful for how slight the fighter is, because it means he has plenty of room to reach over him and slip the crystals into one of Fearne’s many pockets. 

As they walk back to their spot by the fire, justifications for what he just did run through Ashton’s mind. Fearne has so many pockets, it’ll be fucking forever until she finds them again. She didn’t notice me taking them, so even if she notices they’re in the wrong pocket, she won’t think anything of it. Hell, she’ll probably check all her pockets to see what else I’ve rearranged. It’s fine. It’s fine. What Ashton purposefully does not think, as he tags in Chetney for the next watch, is that it just felt right . 

When Ashton wakes the next morning, the itch on his scalp is gone.