#stringswork

Images with handwritten text representing two speakers, with dialogue as follows: 

No.

You’re sure?

Mm-hm. Mmm-hhmm...

You’re really not going to tell me.

...nnf... no. 

What if I just… 

Ah!

...keep tickling this spot? 

Nnn–nah! ahaa...

Awfully ticklish right there, isn’t it?

...Mmf, fffah...

You wanna tell me yet?

Aheh!

How about… now?

Yah ahah! ah ah aaah... I won’t tell you! *hic* nngguuhh... please please, eee-

Oh, is this the spot? 

-eeehe! neh- no! nahaha...

Tell me, or else.

Ah! Hahaha-aah! stop stopstopstop no no no no no...

Tickle tickle...

“Yes, you, with the fancy coat.” Ed keeps the narration going while the man slips down front through the crowd. The coat does look like a period piece, nicely cut with a matching waistcoat beneath. “That is a very fine garment you’ve got there. Too fine, I think. Where’d you get it?”

The man stutters over an explanation, something about a gift– Ed largely ignores it, instead focusing on guiding the man’s momentum cleanly into the seat of the stocks. 

“Mhmm, likely story. Say, what’s your name, scallywag?”

“Scallywag?” The incredulous pitch of the scallywag’s voice nearly makes Ed snort as he lifts an unresisting ankle into the open stocks. “I’m a– a respectable gentleman!” Second ankle. “But, ah, my name is, um. Steve.”

Ed raises an eyebrow while he closes the stocks. “Steve? You sure about that?”

“Of course I’m sure about my own n– oh, what… what are you doing?” He’s pretty cute when flustered, this Steve.

“Taking your shoes. You won’t need ‘em.” Ed sets each one carefully to the side. The stockinged feet left behind wiggle uncertainly. “Most folks don’t stumble when asked about their name, see. Makes me think we’re not really on the level with each other. And I’m really having a hard time believing that a jumpy fellow like yourself came by all this finery legitimate-like.”

Ed straightens, and puts on his projection voice for the crowd. “What say you? Is this man innocent, or guilty?”

A smattering of responses sprinkle in, but the girl near the front excitedly shrieks, “Guilty!”

“The people have spoken.” Ed pivots back to face the unwitting defendant, and he really can’t help the smirk. “Are you prepared to confess to your thieving crimes?”

“I haven’t stolen anything!”

“Your funeral,” Ed says with a shrug. He cracks his knuckles (the fingerless leather gloves of his costume lend to the intimidating vibe, he’s found), laces his fingers together and pushes them out in a stretch, then drops one wiggling finger onto the center of one vulnerable sole. 

“Wait, wai-haait!”

Ed keeps it going and begins his spiel on typical town square “corrective” behavior, while a verse and chorus of giggly protests pours from the seat behind him. He keeps an ear out for genuine distress, like always, but everything sounds bright and bubbly back there. 

“…even throwing rocks, but often the punishment of choice is tickling the feet. Harmless, but persuasive. Isn’t that right, Steve? Why don’t you tell me who you robbed blind for that fine outfit of yours?”

“Please, oh it tickles, you scoundrel–!”

It’s Ed’s turn for incredulity. “Scoundrel? Mate, you’ve got this sorely backwards. You’ll address me as Captain Blackbeard, Sir and you’ll speak the truth when I ask you a question.” 

It’s time for the first little ramp-up of the demonstration. One tickling finger can only entertain the crowd for so long, after all.

“Fang, would you come give me a hand, please? This deviant needs a little more convincing.”

There are eyelets installed at the top of the tall backrest, with shackles dangling from them. Not quite historically accurate ones, but what here is? (Fang’s choice of headwear is particularly egregious – but the studded pleather does give him a junkyard dog look, and since he’s the assistant muscle instead of the main presenter today, it works.) Ed abandons the foot he’s been gently tormenting and moves to crouch by well-dressed-Steve’s side as Fang lifts the man’s wrists to the shackles. The audience is starting to titter with sympathy.

“I’ll ask you again, Steve. Where did you steal this coat from?”

“I, I didn’t, I promise! It was a very nice present from, from a friend– oh god, ahah!”

Ed’s got a hand slipped inside that fancy coat, tickling now at a helpless armpit. It’s very warm up in there; the autumn hasn’t cooled quite enough to make this many layers necessary yet, and Steve’s body heat has been trapped inside. Ed bets it just feels that much more intense, so he makes sure to keep his touch lightly teasing – even though there’s an urge coiling inside him to really make this man scream.

“Only the guilty laugh when confronted with their crimes, mate.” He addresses the crowd again. “As you can see, we’ve got more than just feet to work with. Everything from legs to stomach, ribs to armpits can help extract a confession. In fact…”

Ramp-up number two. He reaches behind the backrest where his favorite theatrical aids have been hidden, and nods for Fang to do the same. 

In tandem, they both reveal large ostrich feathers with a flourish. The crowd laughs and cheers in surprise.

“Usually these are reserved for the damsels and wenches, but you look soft and sensitive enough, my friend. They’re torture for the neck and ears, I’m told. What say you? And address me respectfully, if you please.”

Ed dusts his plume at the crook of Steve’s neck. Fang mirrors on the other side, and oh it’s adorable how their victim erupts with pitchy, snorting giggles while he tries to retract his head like a turtle. His wrists swing in the shackles, fists balling, biceps straining. 

“I have nothing to confess!” the accused cries out. “Please, Captain, plee-hee-heese!”

The third and final ramp approaches. Ed guns it. 

He drops down on his good knee, keeps the feather dancing, and lobster-claws down the meat of Steve’s thigh. He spiders wickedly around the kneecap before delving beneath to the unprotected, stretched-in-midair knee pit below and, mm, there it is, the scrumptious sound of a scream-laugh. Ed pushes its pitch by continuing down Steve’s leg to his foot once again, where there’s no single-fingertip teasing this time; he rakes the open sole with scrabbling, ruthless fingers while the feather fluff-fluff-fluffs across ear and jaw.

“NO! No, no, nooo-ho! It’s the truth! Please, Ed, stah-haaahp!”

And just like that, everything stops. 

Ed creaks his way to standing – feels like it gets harder every season – and regards the sagging, panting man with resignation. 

“Maintaining your innocence even in the face the worst torture, eh? Perhaps you’re not a liar after all.” He sighs. “Welp. Disappointing, if you ask me.”

—

It’s barely four minutes after the crowd has dispersed and Ed’s plopped himself into a breakroom chair when Stede barges in to find him.

“You.”

Ed takes a glug from his water bottle, swallows it down. “Hey, Steve.”

“Steve nearly died today, I’ll have you know. Bastard.” 

Somehow it sounds like a term of endearment, even as Stede collapses dramatically into the chair next to him. Ed grins. 

“Not my fault Steve is so ticklish. Pick a different character next time. I quite liked Reed, though he seemed to have the same problem.”

Anybody else would probably flip Ed off, but Stede just waves a hand like Ed’s a buzzing fly. 

“You, just– just shut up.”

“Don’t worry, babe, I’ll make it up to you,” Ed promises. “When the last bus heads out, you and I can hang back to close the torture museum.” He leans toward Stede expectantly and waits for him to sigh and tip his head close enough for Ed to kiss it. “I promise nobody will be around to hear you beg me to tickle your tummy while you’re on the rack.”

Stede swipes the water bottle from Ed’s hand and drains it before settling back with closed eyes and a tiny, tired smile.

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.