Chapter Text
Camp that night’s brutal. Karlach and Fringe end up carrying Wyll between themselves; Gale’s about dead, Fangs is bitching everyone’s ears off with himself scared to the narrow bone from getting dragged off by shadows until Wyll charged in and saved him and paid badly for it; Chanterelle’s in front with Lae’zel hanging off her shoulder, trailing blood. Dolly flits in and over Wyll’s horns. Only he can ever understand her, or maybe Karlach’s head is too mudgy from the bloodyfucking hit she took on the bridge to catch any of the poor girl’s tiny sparkling voice.
Usually she and Wyll would banter stupid bits back and forth to keep each other moving through the cleanup; tonight she sits with him while Shadowheart coaxes him back from Death’s door, and grips his sweet fool hand in hers, and prays to anyone who’s listening.
“I can’t work on him with you hanging around,” Shadowheart says at last. Alright. Fangs is going on in Gale’s ear and doesn’t want to make himself friendly. Gale doesn’t seem to know he’s being talked to. The druid’s praying.
It’s not too much, is it, to sit down with a friendly ear, to have someone who— to—
Karlach tromps down the row of tents to the shadow-gnawed edge of camp, sits there with Fringe’s bandages and a headache. Feels too much like Avernus. Patching herself up in the dark. Hells, what she’d do for a drink.
“Karlach.” Lae’zel’s voice— crisp as any hellish commander— Karlach smartens up on reflex. She watches Lae’zel appear out of the dark behind the row of tents, bandaged and bruised, moving stiffly. Chanterelle is plunking along behind with her shirt hanging tits-open and a Lae-shaped bite on her neck.
“You alright, soldier?”
“Flesh wounds,” Lae’zel dismisses. “You seek solitude.”
“Not really,” she admits. “Can’t be underfoot.”
“Wyll is alright,” Chanterelle says. Karlach could kiss her. She smiles like she knows what Karlach’s thinking. Her eyes flash with her oath.
“None of that,” Karlach protests, half-hearted. Chanterelle’s so good when you want someone for mending; she kisses Karlach’s forehead and gods, a rush of green living voices, clean air, the smell of her ma’s old shawl, a cold river running through her veins. The engine rests.
“What do you require,” says Lae’zel.
“Catnap before I swing my axe around again.”
“A kiss,” Chanterelle smiles.
“A… aw, soldier, that’s…”
Chanterelle roots her hand in Lae’zel’s hair and kisses her deep and slowly without preamble; Lae’zel’s sulfur-bright eyes watch Karlach over Chanterelle’s burly shoulder, with her tongue a league somewhere down Chanterelle’s throat.
“Do not deny yourself,” she says when Chanterelle pulls away. “We do not fear these hells.”
“Not fear, just machinery. Seeing you lot is enough, alright?”
“Ice,” Chanterelle says. Lae’zel rolls her eyes.
“The wizard is useless at present.”
“Then go lightly.”
“Show me,” Lae’zel commands.
Chanterelle smiles at her. She steps in close and kisses Karlach softly on the lips.
The engine thunders in her ribcage. But hells, no smell of singed flesh. She shuts her eyes and Chanterelle’s mouth brushes the bridge of her nose, each eyelid, down her cheek to the hinge of her jaw. Her hand falls gently over Karlach’s hair, to her shoulder, and the roaring exhaust.
Lae’zel takes Karlach’s hip in hand; rubs a thumb at the base of her tail. “Kiss her throat.”
The engine steams. Chanterelle smiles— Karlach can feel her smiling— kissing down the length of Karlach’s neck, long and breathless; too long for safety, one of them long enough to leave a mark. A hot spark snaps in Chanterelle’s teeth and the mad bastard goes on smiling.
“Don’t roast yourself,” Karlach rasps. A last kiss brands itself at the nape of her neck. When she opens her eyes Lae’zel has come up on tiptoe to kiss her on the mouth. The strong hand she’s got around Karlach’s hip pulls her forward into sharp teeth and tongue. “Lae…”
“Hush.”
Chanterelle presses in close and safe behind her, big hands at her back, then her waist. A light kiss pressed between her shoulder blades. Lae’zel’s teeth along her lip. The hellfire’s high. She rips her mouth free before Lae’zel can burn and her heart’s ghost begins to cry in her chest.
“You alright?” She grabs Lae’zel by the chin, turning her face left and right to check for blisters. Lae’zel’s eyes flash hot. She doesn’t protest the handling.
“She’s alright.” Chanterelle settles her chin on Karlach’s shoulder. The heat doesn’t get to her there; by a small miracle Karlach’s still wrapped loosely in her arms. If the world were any sort of fair she’d lean back and get another kiss.
“Gods, I’d have you both if I could.”
“Show some initiative,” Lae’zel barks.
“Come on, Lae. You know I can’t.”
Chanterelle’s mouth drags down her scarred shoulder, light as a whisper. “Kiss her hand,” she murmurs. Karlach’s breath catches.
Lae’zel brings Karlach’s hand crisply to her mouth to kiss her bruised knuckles. “Ch’k. These are sore.”
“Karlach.” Chanterelle, kissing her shoulder still.
“Just a ding. I’ll be right as rain tomorrow.”
Chanterelle has both her hands clasped around Karlach’s belly, where her belt is thick against the heat; she pulls one hand loose so Lae’zel can lay Karlach’s to rest in it, and a thread of gold-green fizzes from her fingers to Karlach’s skin. Halls of endless trees whisper through a door of faith. Twinge in her hand fades off.
“Ah, hells,” Karlach sighs. Chanterelle hums against her skin. Another breath-light kiss.
“I must take watch,” Lae’zel says, adjusting her scabbard. Her hair’s still half tangled from where Chanterelle ran her hand through it. Karlach’s blood stirs comfortably as coals. She could live off a sight like that, for a little while. For another century-long day of getting the shit kicked out of her in the shadows.
Lae’zel never looks back. Watching her cross the camp, the Reithwin night is almost cold.