Critical Role: Bell’s Hells. Ashton and Imogen take a watch after the events of episodes 33–38. Written for @feather-aesthetic for the Squealing Santa 2k22 fic exchange. Prompt: playful/bonding situations. Words: 1,500
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“I just…” Imogen’s voice hitches with a tiny, incredulous laugh that lilts and wilts into something almost sad. “Just can’t believe she’s back.”
Ashton stares into the fire for another moment before dropping their eyes to the twig they’ve been fiddling with between their knees.
“Crazy, huh?” they say, for lack of anything more intelligent to add.
Imogen twists her fingers into a loose fold of her skirt. The fabric tightens across her hands, a smart pair to the tension still visibly lingering in her body.
“It’s not supposed to happen. Bringin’ someone back from the dead. Though, I guess, for Laudna… maybe it’s not so strange. I don’t know.”
“No, it’s weird,” Ashton assures her. The nubby end of one toothpick-thin branch snaps under their thumb. They roll the broken bit between their fingers. The tiny splintered end is sharp.
“I never… never would’ve thought I’d see somethin’ like that. That I’d be part of that. Y’know? Heck, I just thought I’d be spending the rest of my life staring at fields and feeling alone. It’s just… a lot,” she finishes quietly.
“Being alone isn’t so bad.” Saying it is almost habit. It’s true enough.
The firelight catches in the glance Imogen darts their way. “Feeling alone, though. It’s different when you don’t really have a choice.”
Ashton shrugs. “Not much different, in my experience.”
There’s a gentle scoff in Imogen’s voice when she says, “Then why’re you stickin’ around with us, huh?”
“Because Letters needs people.” It’s just as quick to surface, just as habitual.
“But you don’t.”
Ashton knows a jab, even in the dark. The retort is already in their throat, clambering on the back of their tongue. But they swallow it, because Imogen isn’t coming after them, not really. They don’t have a ready-made alternative response, though, so they focus on the splintered nub, trying to crush it between their fingertips. It’s too small and just digs in, a tiny hard granule of dead wood.
A soft glow leans toward their mind but doesn’t quite enter. Ashton braces internally anyway.
“They’re pretty important to you,” Imogen says aloud, instead.
Having someone important is dangerous. That’s how stupid decisions get made. Case in point: letting a complete stranger put them all under so they can go fight the spirit of a necromancer in order to yank a not-quite-living, not-quite-not woman out of a tree-shaped manifestation of her trauma, or some shit.
But then Ashton is caught completely off-kilter when Imogen continues: “What the fuck is up with that?”
Ah, fuck them, but it works. They crack a laugh.
Imogen laughs quietly along, too. It’s something shared, and it evaporates the murk that’s been crowding Ashton’s throat.
“Somebody’s gotta look out for ‘em,” they say with half a smile. “Otherwise Letters would end up trusting some pack of fools hell-bent on getting dead for each other out of some poorly-advised sense of integrity.”
“Out of all of us, I think FCG is the only one with integrity, sometimes.” Imogen’s grin has seemed to soften her, as well. “They take good care of us. So do you, y’know. You both make a good team.”
Ashton does their best to skirt the compliment, but there’s still some warmth that surges up unattributable to the campfire. Riposte. “Can’t talk about a ‘team’ without looking at you two.” They tip their chin toward the sleeping form that is Laudna, with an empty gap at her side for only as long as Imogen’s on watch. “Closest I’ve ever seen two folks who aren’t in each other’s pants.”
Imogen huffs softly. She rubs her forearm with one distracted hand. “Lotta people don’t get it. That’s fine, I guess. But she just… she saw me when nobody else really did. She knew what it was like. Keeping away from people, feeling like connections were impossible. Laudna was the first new person I got physically close enough to touch in… god, in years. That kinda messes you up after a while, doesn’t it?”
It’s said rhetorically, but her tone clearly expects agreement, and Ashton isn’t inclined to agree. Being messed up: sure. One hundred percent, all day every day. Being messed up because nobody’s holding your hand, or lying close while you sleep, or filling some sort of sappy hug quota: nah.
They settle for responding with a noncommittal grunt.
“It was the simplest thing,” Imogen continues, smiling wistfully down at her hands. “Just touching my elbow to draw my attention to a flower. Handing me an acorn cap or a dead worm or whatever she was decorating her next little doll with. Her hands were always a bit cold but it was still soothing when she’d hum to me, like this.”
Imogen side-leans in just a bit, and it’s a testament to how far Ashton has relaxed with this group – for good or for ill – that they don’t duck away from her approaching hand. Her fingers alight on the back of their neck, gentle as a songbird, as she begins to hum a folksy, unhurried tune.
The touch on their nape drifts back and forth with the cadence of the song. Ashton doesn’t recognize the melody, but it’s easy to imagine it tells a story of land remembered or beauty witnessed. Imogen’s fingertips are… fine. Ashton wouldn’t call them soothing. Wouldn’t really call them anything. Their skin doesn’t register much of anything duller than a slap, so the fire-heated warmth and pressure of her hand is barely notable. But, they suppose, it could be nice – for a person whose body is not constantly, quietly ringing with the ache of pain. It’s yet one more luxury that Ashton is not permitted to experience. It would feel unfair, if they weren’t just used to it.
Imogen’s humming trots up and down in scale as she reaches some chorus line. Her fingers shift, tapping nails in staccato on the back of Ashton’s neck with the time.
Ashton’s shoulders pull slightly inward. Okay, they can feel that a bit more than the softness of fingertips. Kind of itchy.
Doesn’t seem like Imogen is paying any close mind, though. She’s gazing into the campfire again, her head canted gently in unseeing reminiscence. The chorus ends and her fingers fall back into drifting touches with the next wordless verse.
This is so foreign.
Not hanging out with a group, or even having a low conversation in the night; it’s this kind of interaction, this connection, with someone who’s sharing something beyond job-related banter or a clipped story. Apparently Ashton is going to be treated to a full song with tactile accompaniment for no reason except Imogen wanting to give it.
The second verse ends. The chorus picks up again.
Shit, that really does itch when she does that with her fingernails. But, like, a shivery itchiness. It makes Ashton’s belly clench up a little. Especially when the nail tips drag short little lines in a wave pattern up and down their nape. An involuntary shudder trembles through Ashton’s neck and shoulders, but what’s so remarkable is that they don’t want it to stop.
Imogen must notice, because her humming bobs with a light chuckle. But she doesn’t stop the song. She carries into a third verse, this time keeping her nails gliding.
Ashton would feel teased, except for that glow leaning against their mind again. It still doesn’t push in. Rather, it rests against the doorframe, watching kindly from just outside; a sentinel, careful and attentive.
This is so, so foreign.
But fuck it feels… good. And that’s a revelation as much as everything else about this interplay. Ashton’s not thinking about the ever-present, spine-deep ache in their body. Not thinking about when the enjoyment might be soured. Just listening to a friend’s gentle music while fingernails dust sparks of static across their skin.
The hummed song dances off its by-now predictable path into a melodic bridge. Imogen’s nails skitter up and down with the notes, out in wider arcs and spirals, tapping and scraping along Ashton’s scarred, calloused skin, and it’s just– fucking hell, it tickles.
Ashton can’t help the way they hunch even further at that realization. They’re fracturing into laughter before they have any hope of getting a grip on themself.
Imogen’s mental glow warms. It’s okay. It’s okay to sit here and snicker, to crane up one shoulder and then the other in conflicted attempts at protection, to grin and squint and squeeze their fists between their knees and just feel something good for once.
It’s okay.
The tune winds its way back to the notes Ashton now knows by heart, turning reflective and peaceful. Imogen’s humming slows, as do her fingers. She caresses long, gentle lines with the edges of her nails. Ashton’s eyes fall closed, though they still chuckle and shiver through their sighs.
