Archive of Our Own

“And this is my fault, how, exactly?” Nhakari snorted at the condescending tone, chin propped on her palm and pointedly looking away from the man cleaning her wounds.

“You're all…vulnerable-like, with your exposed neck an’ all those fancy clothes ,” she glared at the offending fabric in question, soft and worn and thin . She was a great appreciator of how Enver's clothes hugged his form on any day except that particular one, since their skimpiness had been the cause of a much too close brush with death. “Makes a throat look damn cuttable.”

She wondered why Enver hadn't yet taken a leaf out of his adepts’ book and invested in some decent armour. They'd all be thankful for it, herself first. Not that she wasn't ready to protect him anytime, but with her busy schedule she could only jump in front of so many bombs before something happened in a moment she wasn't there. Her blood was still too hot to run cold at the thought, but it did simmer down slightly.

“Please, I am not a lamb waiting for slaughter,” Gortash said, taking out another bloodied piece of shrapnel from between Nhakari's ribs. The explosive had been coated in poison, because of course it had, so that magic couldn't heal it fully. Anyone less sturdy would've received lasting damage and be bedridden for days in a best case scenario, he had to thank the Black Lord it hadn't been him. He owed the Chosen of Bhaal a fucking favour.

He put too much force with the pliers, staring at the crude splitting of grey-blue flesh like it had personally offended him. No damned cleric had been able to do a thing about it beside stop the bleeding, and Nhakari had kept repeating she was fine and that it didn’t hurt. So now here he was, painstakingly picking away each debris, hunched over her bare frame as if the bloody Scion of Bhaal was one of his own machines, tlack-tlack-tlack of fragmented metal coming away to join its brethren on the flat plate beside them.

“Ack! Be careful, will you?” Nhakari barked over her shoulder, calloused hand catching Gortash’s wrist. He batted her away, wiping sweat from his forehead – Bhaalspawn blood thus taking its place – and applied soothing ointment before bandaging in hopes it’d encourage healing. Rinse and repeat, they’d been at it for the better part of an hour.

“It’s those Irohand dissidents. They didn’t learn their lesson, made this about legitimacy and resistance and all their bloody delusions. They spit in the face of progress. I can’t believe they got away!” Gortash snarled, eyes focused on the job but mind so far away. Thinking, scheming. He would gather intel on how they could’ve possibly smuggled such an explosive into a highly guarded public demonstration of a Steel Watcher prototype, find their hideout and root them out from the source. An insider must’ve helped. But was it the Iron Fist? The City Watch? Or one of those wretched mercenaries he’d been ill-advised to hire? He still had loose ends with the Guild, after all, so what if–

Nhakari growled, turned around to bodily shove Gortash back into his chair. “I’m not getting any healthier if you stab me with your tools,” she showed her teeth to him, like the wounded predator she was. “Either do it well, or I’ll have a better time asking Orin .” It was meant as a jab, of course, it was likely she’d either power through it or ask that rickety butler of hers. Unbelievable.

A flash of something in Gortash’s eyes as he looked her over, and Nhakari finally realised it was anger . “What, I’m taking the brunt because I let those blasted gnomes get away? I was too busy saving your ungrateful ass, in case you hadn’t noticed,” she turned back, looking at her mangled skin with the hatred reserved for a particularly annoying dead weight.

I didn’t ask for any of that, did I? You irritating woman .

They were used to bickering, this was familiar territory, but the words died on Enver’s tongue when Nhakari tried to extract a piece stuck in her bicep with her nails , only causing the welt to open further and her to hiss through her teeth.

“What do you think you’re doing?!” Gortash said with far more alarm than he’d permitted himself, forcing her hand still and pressing a cloth to it to stop the bleeding. “You’ve lost enough blood as is, you fool!”

He met Nhakari’s gaze, something they had both avoided for a while, saw her demonic blue flames widen in surprise. He’d be damned, his neck burned like he was once again a stammering teen. Cruel as she usually was, Nhakari took pity on his outburst and slumped back without adding a word, offering her bicep for him to bind. Her tail, which had been standing up straighter and straighter as her voice raised, now curled itself around Gortash’s shin. A moment of total stillness went by, and Gortash stared at the freckle right next to Nhakari’s shoulder blade.

“I can handle myself. Anyone who ever dares try lay a finger on you again, I’ll bash their fucking skull in,” her usual rasp was quiet, intense. She closed her fist and flexed, eyes promising danger. Gortash huffed the smallest laugh. “What’s so funny?”

“Nothing,” he said, shaking his head, breath ghosting hot over skin that still smelled of blood and smoke. “You reminded me of someone, for a moment.”

“Hm, met a lot of Bhaalspawns in your ti–” Enver’s hands reached for her waist, and as if pulled by gravity he let his lips meet a spot over her spine, open and wet. He allowed it only for a moment, before he ended the contact to focus on her bleeding arm. Never indulge too much, like cigars, or the occasional glass of wine. To show he was stronger than his vices, that they did not affect him.

That’s what he did with this , whatever this was, too. What he expected, and what he gave. It’d been a push and pull, both of them busy and focused on their own goals. Hardly the time to let everything go to the wolves, especially this close to the top.

He watched with unfocused eyes her back muscles tense. Nhakari turned around, grabbed the front of his tattered work shirt so tightly it knocked his breath out and sealed her lips over his. There was teeth, and Enver tasted blood in his mouth, for Nhakari knew nothing but what concerned the body, and pain. He made a sound, deep in his throat. She was warm, and kissed him desperately and forcefully, as if she’d never kissed before. 

All the fight left him at once. She felt his hands around her neck, hands leaving smears of her own blood in her hair. She whined at their scents mixing between them, grabbing the back of Enver’s skull to slither her tongue in his mouth.

“You are insatiable,” Gortash said when she motioned to kiss him again after he’d pulled away. He held her cheek for a moment, thumb tracing the corner of her mouth and her chin. Dirt and blood had dried on their skin. Despite Nhakari having been the one to take most of the explosion’s impact, Gortash had been thrown off the wooden stage, hurting his shoulder in the process. Nothing a quick potion couldn’t fix, but he was still sore all over. “Come, I am in dire need of a bath. You as well, I’ll wager.”

Nhakari grumbled under her breath, stood up and took the rest of her clothes off to join her battered shirt. Her movements hinted at practicality rather than any desire to put on a show, though Gortash appraised the motion nonetheless. It wasn’t the first time she was naked in front of him, but the first she did so in the light of day, or, well, dying light. Nonetheless, he took the time to look at what his subpar human vision hadn’t caught before. Her physique was impressive, a show of a disciplined regimen. He’d never been the type to value brawns, people had so many other ways to show power other than raw physical force, but the daughter of Bhaal had much to show for her strength, indeed.

“Well? You’re the one who knows how to work this thing,” Nhakari shook him out of his daze, tilting her head at the bathtub, and he smirked, his usual nonchalance coming out from somewhere under the weariness.

“Just admiring the view, that’s all,” the words were familiar in his mouth, and he busied himself with the runes on the side of the bathtub he’d personally engineered, conjuring water and warming it up to the perfect temperature. He was sure she was blushing, and a quick look over his shoulder confirmed it. The Lord of Murder’s terrifying Chosen, everyone.

Nhakari rolled her eyes and stepped in the tub, splashing water on the carpet like the godless creature she was. “You joining or not?” She opened her legs and motioned for him to sit between them, ignoring his disapproving look. It took a moment for Gortash to shed his own clothes and sit with his back to her front, Nhakari’s tail enveloping the both of them.

Silent as the grave, Nhakari nuzzled the back of Gortash’s head, where his tar-like hair tickled his neck. She kissed him there, nipped the meat of his shoulder, limply letting him clean their bodies as the water grew murky. No one had touched her since she could remember, not like this, anyways. She exhaled and tilted her head back.

Enver held onto her knuckles, tracing the scars and calluses that made up their violent history. The bandages were growing soggy, pink in the water, newborn scars waiting to close. Hurting what was his. He’d find whoever was responsible for this, and make them pay.

For some reason, he couldn’t bring himself to say it out loud.