Chapter Text
Astarion will loudly declaim that it's her fault, something about how it had been her choice, originally, to paint the porch green.
It's not her fault the grass of their yard, the trees beyond, are green, thinks Karlach. Who knew there were so many different shades of the color? And it's certainly not her fault that Petras wants every last one of them inside of his house.
She's just this side of color-blind, and even she can tell this isn't exactly the epitome of taste. She doesn't want to imagine the headache Astarion must be having.
As she steps through the open doorway, she ducks slightly out of habit, though she hardly needs to: Petras's new house isn't some cramped makeshift shelter, but a sturdy little place built to actually live in. Thanks to their help—everyone's, really—it's almost nice.
Right now, though, it looks more like a battlefield.
Astarion and Petras are supposed to be painting the walls. Technically, they are. There is paint getting on the walls. But there's just as much spilled on the floor, splattered across their clothes, streaked on their faces, drying in their hair.
"This is absolutely the wrong shade of green," Astarion declares, regarding his brush with a curled lip.
From where he's standing on the opposite side of the half-painted wall, Petras rolls his eyes, dragging his own brush in an entirely directionless line. Grumbles, "Karlach said I could pick."
"Yes, well, you picked wrong. I hate it."
"You hate everything," Petras retorts.
"Not everything," Astarion says, eyes glittering. "Just this. And you. And—painting." He gestures broadly, and his loaded paintbrush flicks green droplets across Petras's cheek.
Petras freezes. Wipes a hand across his face.
Karlach watches as realization dawns in the silence: it might not have been entirely accidental.
Then Petras lunges. Astarion dodges easily, sending a streak of paint across the room. Petras aims a flick of his brush at Astarion's ribs, but Astarion is faster, sidestepping just in time.
Karlach folds her arms, leans against the doorframe. "You two do know you're supposed to be painting this place, right? Not each other?"
Neither of them acknowledge her. They're fully committed now, simply two blurs of darting hands and flinging paint.
Petras, grinning wickedly, dips his fingers right into the paint bucket. Astarion's eyes barely have time to widen before Petras takes aim, and a splotch of green appears on his shoulder.
"Oh, that is war!" Astarion snarls, grabbing the nearest rag and sending it flying straight at Petras's face.
Petras stumbles back—too quickly.
"Ah—shit!"
He just barely manages to avoid Karlach, and the motion leaves him completely off-balance, arms pinwheeling.
And Astarion seizes the opportunity: a glob of paint lands directly on Petras's forehead with a distinct splat.
At the sight of Petras standing there, frozen, green paint dripping down his nose, Karlach can't help it—she barks out a belly laugh.
"Unfair," Petras groans, wiping at his face.
Astarion tilts his head back against the wall, smirking triumphantly. "Now we're civilized?"
Petras only scowls, though without heat.
Returning her attention to the task at hand, Karlach tilts her head, surveying the mess they've made of the place. "Y'know, boys..." she muses, flexing her fingers, "maybe I should help. I bet I could—"
"No."
Both Astarion and Petras say it in unison, with the exact same sharp finality.
Karlach raises an eyebrow. "Wow. Okay. That was fast."
"You shouldn't be inhaling paint fumes." Petras gestures vaguely, as if to say, even I know that.
Astarion is blunter, pointing to the porch. "Out."
"Guys—" she begins, but already they are herding her gently toward the door, maneuvering her outside. She lets them sit her down in a sturdy chair, and before she can protest, Astarion has pulled over a footrest, and Petras is handing her a drink.
She sighs but sinks into the chair with a contented groan, takes a sip of juice. "Alright, alright. You win. Go finish painting."
They do. She smiles as she listens to their renewed bickering about technique or color theory or what have you, as she picks up the sound of the occasional splatter of paint that definitely isn't going on the walls, but she does not worry about the house.
There's something about the expanse of wild, unkempt lawn that brings to mind Arabella: that scrappy, brilliant girl who had wormed her way into their hearts. Karlach had always known the kid was something special, but she'd nearly wept when Arabella had come to them, holding out the unassuming little silver ring she had crafted, explaining the enchantments with the tinge of pomposity that reminded her a little too much of Gale. "Sunlight resistance," she had said, "It won't make you immune, but it'll let you walk in the sun. For a while. Without, y'know. Catching fire."
A gift beyond price. And it had taken a turn Karlach never would have expected.
It is sunset by the time Astarion and Petras finally emerge, both speckled in fresh paint but looking rather pleased with themselves. The summer air is warm and humming with the sounds of evening: distant birdsong, the rustling of leaves, and the scrape and shuffle of wood as Astarion and Petras pull up chairs of their own, shift to make themselves comfortable.
Karlach's eyes catch Petras, sprawled in his own chair, the ricketiest of the three and yet he's looking more relaxed than she's seen him in... perhaps ever. Eyes cast out toward the setting sun, fingers absently turning something over between them.
The ring had been Astarion's most prized possession in a long while. Years and years of crafting things to meet other people's specifications, and finally he had held in his hands something made for him. Something irreplaceable.
Karlach had never expected him to part with it. This small trinket, which gave him back just a little part of what had been taken from him.
But then.
One thing had happened, and then another, and then, and then, and then.
She hadn't even been there to see it, and yet she smiles, the imaginary picture of it playing out before her as vividly as any memory. Astarion holding the ring out airily, perhaps even tossing it to Petras with a flick of his wrist, a smirk that's just a tad too much in the mouth and too little in the eyes.
"Try not to lose it immediately, would you?" he might say. And Petras would refuse—of course he would—only for Astarion to counter with something to downplay it, brush it aside, keep a little pride tucked away for himself.
"Twilight suits my complexion better anyway," he'd insist, or perhaps, eyes glittering, "I'm a man of mystery—I've a reputation to uphold."
And then—then, only then the careful turn away, just to be sure Petras doesn't catch a glimpse of anything too sincere in his face.
Not said: Thank you for taking over Karlach.
Not said: I'm proud of you for stepping up.
Not said: I'm nervous, I'm excited, I'm terrified, I'm thrilled.
All of which she knows to be true.
"Earth to Karlach," Astarion's voice breaks into her thoughts then—light, with just the faintest note of concern. "You looked miles away, my love."
"Just thinking." She blinks, refocuses, smiles. "How weird it's gonna be, not running missions for the Harpers anymore."
Petras glances up from the ring, meeting her gaze. Turns to Astarion, then back to her. "I won't screw it up," he says solemnly.
"I know you won't," Karlach replies, firm. "Jaheira has every confidence in you, and I do too. We all do."
She reaches out, but Astarion's already moving to sit by her, on the floor, head coming to rest by the side of her chair. His slim fingers trail up her thigh, graze her hip, and come to rest at last—gentle and steady—on the curve of her belly.
Her large, distended belly, rising in a dome to stretch her tunic. Pulsing with weight, with life, with a little heartbeat thrumming beneath her skin.
Leaning back in her chair, she lets out a slow breath. Wiggles her toes, flexes her tail. The motions of Astarion's thumb, stroking the smallest idle caresses across her stomach—his gaze, soft and adoring—makes her feel so warm and so full inside she feels fit to burst with the joy of it.
She looks to the sky and sees the sentiment painted across it: the sunset is a riot of color, spilling gold and crimson, streaks of purple bleeding into deepening blue. And beneath it the world is sprawling, endless, before them. The grass, the trees, the rolling hills in the distance all a million magnificent shades of green, shifting with the hues of the sunset—so vibrant, so alive.
In the background, the quiet murmur of Astarion and Petras talking beside her draws her into a contented stupor, their voices soft and familiar and full of lazy, easy comfort. The words blur together, not quite registering. It's not important. They're here, they're safe, they're good.
Karlach lets her eyes drift closed. Light washes over everything, the warmth on her skin, the rhythm of her own breathing. The last thing she's aware of is a movement in her belly, a kick, a tightening of Astaron's other hand around her own.
She's not sure when exactly she drifts off—only that, for once, she does so completely at peace.