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Theoretically, Ashton knows that crying, feeling emotions, all that bullshit that Letters likes to dish but not take—that’s good, and they should do it sometimes. It’s not that they don’t want to process their emotions—well, actually, that’s exactly what it is, but—it’s not that they don’t know they should, it’s just that saying that out loud and actually following through are two different things. And crying in front of people? That’s bad. Unequivocally bad.
They are aware of the hypocrisy of being annoyed that Letters never asks for help, and also that Letters not asking for help is why they’re here in the first place. This awareness makes nothing better.
Ashton really wants to cry the day Letters snaps. Like, really bad. But everyone else is there, and there’s only one room in the stupid fucking doomsday bunker Fearne’s stupid fucking parents dug to hide themselves from their daughter and the world, because why wouldn’t there be. (Even if there were more rooms Ashton isn’t sure they’d be able to leave and deal with their shit, just leaving Fresh Cut Grass in there.) And just—Ashton hasn’t really wanted to cry in so long. A long, long time. Rage isn’t really a cry-y emotion for them. Most of their emotions are distant anyways. Battle rage is the most they get in terms of engaging with their embroiling, excitable feelings, as well as their deeply withered and ugly ones.
But something about seeing F.C.G. strung up on the ceiling is just… striking him to his core. It makes him sick to look up at his little robot friend, battered and tarnished from Laudna’s creepy shadow bullshit spell and half completely bent out of shape from Fearne’s reforging. It’s cutting deep, for whatever reason. He isn’t sure why.
Maybe it’s that seeing Letters strike out at Chetney in barely restrained fury scared the everloving shit out of them, so hard it jumpstarted the weird chaos bullshit in their head. They’ve felt fear in rages before, definitely (the most recent of those experiences being in the fight to save that deceitful fey bitch from those stupid bandits and then again trying to get them and Birdie to chill the fuck out, so, thanks, Yu), but they’re not sure they’ve ever started a rage from sheer terror like that, and it wasn’t even adrenaline-fueled, not really. It wasn’t the exciting edge of a fight, wasn’t the anticipation of a blow, it was just a deep, cold dread. Not terror or fright. Horror. Slow-building anxiety bubbling in their chest at seeing Letters slumped over, limp. At seeing Letters snap upright like that, all lithe and driven and everything the chaotic, messy, chipped automaton isn’t. At seeing Chetney recoil, his shoulder a bloody mess, and stagger backwards only to be pierced through the sternum with a glowing red chisel.
It was a rage that didn’t make them want to fight, which they’ve definitely never done before. Ashton always wants to fight; it’s notoriously his favorite hobby, actually, the times he’s gotten the shit kicked out of him might be more frequent than the times he’s drank water over his lifespan. The only thing they could think to do, barely even processing as the small pebbles on the dirt floor of the room lifted and trailed behind their feet in the wake of their gravitational pull like small ants as they leapt towards their little friend, was hold F.C.G., try and calm them down.
“That’s enough, buddy,” Ashton had said, their voice almost shaking. He grabbed their arms, gently pulling them back, trying to keep them from striking out at anyone again as their buzzsaw continued spinning, as those horrible red eyes continued to glare off into the distance. “That’s enough, Grass, come on.”
F.C.G. wasn’t listening, which had freaked them out even more, honestly. Even with the gravity holding him in place and Ashton’s arms wrapped around his arms, the little robot continued to squirm, his buzzsaw still whirring. His entire body seemed to vibrate with rage; Ashton could hear something clicking in his chest, like a gear thrown out of place, and a faint hum, not unlike the charge of one of Imogen’s lightning spells. And then Laudna had leaned in, eyes wide and frightened like a spooked animal, and she’d placed her hands on their faceplate, and then Ashton had watched, still holding F.C.G. as she growled at them to wake up, as their joints had locked up and rusted over, as the smell of acrid metal filled their nostrils and settled beneath their tongue. It made them sick to their stomach, but F.C.G. was still fighting after that, even as his body creaked and cracked dangerously, like bones snapping and scraping each other beneath the skin, under the weight of Laudna’s spell.
Then Fearne had approached, confused and uncharacteristically at a loss, and Ashton had been so preoccupied with making sure Letters didn’t snap himself in half fighting against their arms with his newly brittle body that they hadn’t noticed what Fearne was preparing to cast, even as Letters shouted venomously at her, leaving them no time to brace as the metal they were clutching close to their chest, arms, and face suddenly began to glow white-hot. Ashton sucked in a gasp behind their teeth as the metal seared their skin and they instinctively pulled back. They caught F.C.G. as he fell to the ground, laying him down gently even as their palms smarted with the still-present heatwave.
Imogen’s characteristic lilac light show started up after that, dispelling Ashton’s gravity field and burying their rage and terror under a thick layer of enchantment, but even so, Ashton felt something bitter coil in their chest as Orym tied Letters up and strung them from the rafters.
His jaw set to keep his lip from quivering, Ashton shook out his burned arms and prowled over to his robotic companion, wary even through Imogen’s sedative of his current company. They wouldn’t—he wanted to think they wouldn’t do anything to hurt himself or Letters, but they’d just done some real damage, and he—whatever had just happened, there was an explanation—there was no need to hurt them like that, not really.
And now, standing, staring out at the rest of his group, Ashton feels shaky, wobbly, and strange. They try to set their face in their usual passive scowl as the vestiges of Imogen’s spell leave them. They cross their arms, pulling on the scorched skin of their forearms, watching the group like a hawk. There’s got to be an explanation for this, and Letters—Letters is the one good thing in their life, the first kindness the universe ever gave them. They’re not going to let anything happen to him, not even at the hands of the second kindnesses.
Swallowing sand, Ashton watches as Letters wakes up, their blue eyes blinking on in that strangely human way they do when they shake off a stasis.