Chapter Text
The day that Prince Steven Harrington turns twenty is the first sunny spring day after a seemingly endless spell of heavy rain that left the castle grounds drowning in mud and its inhabitants freezing and miserable in the inescapable dampness of everything.
But that is not why he will remember it so vividly for the rest of his life.
It is also the day that his father, King Richard, chooses to ride off into war with great fanfare, to strengthen the glory of Hawkins and expand its wealth and territory.
But this also isn’t why the day will be forever ingrained in his memory.
No, the actual reason Steve knows that he will not forget his twentieth birthday until the moment his heart stops beating and his eyes close forever is an entirely different one.
It is the day he finds the dragon.
*
Steve is long used to neither of his parents giving a damn about his birthday. Similar to the King's and Queen's marriage, their sole son and heir was born out of necessity rather than love. He is but another pawn in the grand scheme of things, expected to follow his father onto the throne and continue the royal bloodline. He has learned from a very young age that it is not who he is what counts, but what he is.
This year, however, his Lord Father has truly outdone himself. Because Steve does not even get to sneak out of his stuffy chambers and spend the day with Robin like he initially planned, oh no. Instead, he is forced to stand in the courtyard next to his Lady Mother for hours, crown too heavy and too tight on his head, and has to smile emptily while the endless ceremonies and well-wishes drag on. Robin catches his eye from where she is standing with the rest of the court, winces sympathetically at him and rolls her eyes theatrically whenever the speeches about the glory of the kingdom and the heroic deeds of their king get a little too pompous. Steve wishes he’d be able to see her later - but looking at the tight-lipped frown on his mother’s face, he can already tell that his chances are as slim as they have always been lately. It is, even by his standards, shaping up to be a pretty piss-poor excuse for a birthday.
When the last farewell has finally been said and the last god finally been called upon to aid the king in his endeavors, when the last knight in his father’s entourage has ridden out the castle gates, Steve and his mother retreat to their private chambers. Queen Clarissa dismisses the servants with an impatient clap of her hands and, once the room has emptied in a flurry of hurried bows and curtsies, turns on Steve with her mouth drawn in a tight line.
“Do not think that I did not notice what was going on out there. You were making eyes at that lowborn wench again,” she says. “At least try to be discreet about it. You have an image to uphold. We can’t have you siring bastards before you’re even married.”
He should just keep standing here and nod along to whatever she says. He knows this. But Steve has never been good at keeping his emotions in check, especially not when it is not he who is being attacked but those he cares about.
“It’s not like that,” he bristles. “Robin is my friend, that is all. And she’s not lowborn, her father was a knight-”
“Without any fame or estate to claim,” his mother sneers. “Call her what you will, she is beneath your station. Your Lord Father may be gone for a while, but he will not be this patient with you forever. You are a grown man. It is high time you abandoned your childish notions of friendship with the smallfolk and prepared yourself for your future role as king. There’s countless noble girls who would be glad for a scrap of your attention.”
Each more empty-headed and shallow than the other, Steve knows. This time, he wisely holds his tongue though. His mother regards him coldly for a few moments longer, before she sinks down into a lusciously upholstered chair and pours herself a cup of wine from the goblet standing at the ready.
“We are done here,” she declares. “Go to your chambers and see to your studies. And don’t even think about sneaking out and seeing that hussy again, or there will be consequences.”
*
The second he is alone in his chambers, Steve yanks off his crown and carelessly throws it on top of the enormous four-poster bed that occupies the center of the room. The heavy golden chain around his neck is next, followed by the rings on his fingers and the velvet cloak with the ornate embroidery. Left in only his breeches and tunic, he steps out onto the spacious balcony of the tower room. He pillows his arms on the high wall and rests his chin on top of them morosely. The stones are still wet and cold from last night’s heavy rain, but now the sky has finally cleared. He can see far beyond the walls of the castle from this far up, all the way to the sun-kissed hills and valleys that form the kingdom of Hawkins, little settlements speckled between vast forests just awakening with the spring’s first crisp greens. In the far distance, the mountains loom blue and foggy. There’s always a light breeze up here. It ruffles his hair, upsetting the carefully styled waves that the servants spent ages arranging this morning. For a second, Steve closes his eyes and gives himself to the illusion of being able to just float away on that breeze, far away from the castle and his parents and his duties, to all those places he has never been.
He straightens back up with a sigh and casts a look back into his dark chambers. There’s a pile of books and scrolls on his desk that he’s supposed to be working through, something on the consti- conspir- what’s the word? The way the government works, anyway. He never seems to be able to concentrate on these things, needing forever to draw even the most basic of information out of the imposing walls of text. He’ll have to see if he can find Dustin and get him to explain it to him later …
He broods over what to do with his time for a few moments longer. The sun has just barely reached its highest point, the weather is nice for the first time in weeks, and it is his birthday. Seeking out Robin is out of the question. He can’t risk anybody seeing them together and word getting to his mother. Her threat of consequences is still hanging over him. Consequences for himself, he can handle - but it's not himself he is worried about. Steve huffs a frustrated breath. He’ll just have to spend the day on his own and make the best of it.
In a few quick movements, he has scaled the wall of the balcony and is on his way down. Robin will have his head for climbing the tower wall again. She thinks he’ll plummet to his death some day, but he has been doing this since he was a little boy and found out that this was the most effective way of evading the guards. The ivy has been here long before the reign of his father or grandfather; it is thick and sturdy, making for a perfect handhold. Plus, if he had to pick a way to die, he’d much rather break his neck than perish of boredom locked in his chambers.
He reaches solid ground only a short time later and takes a moment to straighten his clothes and pick some stray leaves and twigs out of his hair. It is now, he notices with a surge of satisfaction, thoroughly ruined. He is just combing his fingers through the thick locks to achieve that disheveled look he likes when someone clears their throat behind him.
Steve whips around, fearing for a moment that he’s been caught. There’s nobody to be seen - but the wooden door at the base of the tower has swung open with a little creak. He feels his mouth tug into a grin and warmth spread in his chest. With one last careful look over his shoulder to make sure he isn’t being watched, he ducks through the doorway and into the castle kitchens.
He barely has time to get used to the dim half-light in the vaulted cellar before he is pulled into a firm hug and enveloped in the familiar, comforting scent of flour and freshly baked bread.
“Happy birthday, my sweet boy,” says a voice right next to his ear. “I was hoping you’d show up.”
Steve pulls out of the embrace just enough to hold the woman at arm’s length and smiles exasperatedly at the way she still calls him her sweet boy. As if he’s still the lonely, snot-nosed child that first wandered into her kitchen more than ten winters ago rather than a young man who towers over her by almost a full head.
“Thanks for remembering, Joyce.”
She swipes a thumb over his cheek in a motherly gesture before stepping out of the hug to tend to the kettle hanging over the fireplace - something is always cooking or brewing down here and keeping her busy.
“Well, someone has to. Your high parents certainly didn’t from the looks of it.” Her tone is carefully neutral, but there’s an unmistakable, disdainful twist to her mouth. “Are you going to see Robin and celebrate?”
Steve pulls out one of the chairs from the large table that forms the center of the room before plopping down on it with a sigh. “I wish I could, but my mother is on to me again. It'll be just me today, I guess. I’ll go for a walk in the forest or something, enjoy the weather … How's Will doing, by the way? Still not feeling better?”
Joyce wipes her hands on her apron, satisfied with the kettle for now, and instead busies herself by arranging the contents of a basket she has sitting on the counter next to her. “The fever has gone down, but he still has that nasty cough. I told him to stay in bed for another day and have some tea.”
“Thyme and peppermint, right?”
“Exactly. If you weren’t a prince, I’d make a decent healer of you yet.” She smiles at him proudly and Steve can feel himself flush under the praise. “I’ll tell Will you asked after him, he’ll be happy to hear it. Now, here you go.”
With that, she sets the basket down on the table in front of him and folds back the tablecloth that covers it. It’s filled to the brim with food. A whole roast turkey leg, fresh bread, some butter and cheese, a large bottle of ale. On top of everything sits a steaming pie. Steve catches a delicious whiff of apples and cinnamon.
“Joyce-” he hears himself mutter, and his voice suddenly sounds choked.
“Used the rest of the dried apples from last year’s harvest because I know it’s your favorite. It’s a shame that Robin won’t be able to help you eat it, but you’ll just have to have her portion as well.”
Before he knows it, his chair is tumbling to the floor with a clatter and Steve is pulling the tiny cook into another bone crushing hug. “Thank you, Joyce. You’re the best.”
She laughs lightly, voice a little muffled from where she’s pressed against his chest, and pats his arms. “You’re very welcome. Happy birthday!”
“You really shouldn’t ha-” Steve starts to say, but the moment is abruptly broken when the door slams open and the room fills with movement and agitated shouts.
“You know what? Fuck you both! I know what I saw!” Mike yells, storming into the kitchen and throwing himself into a chair dramatically without so much as acknowledging Steve or Joyce. Lucas and Dustin at least have the decency to nod at them in greeting as they trail after him and pull out chairs of their own. From the sweat and mud on their clothes, they’ve all come here straight from weapons practice in the courtyard.
Lucas raises his hands in a placating gesture, ever the reasonable one. “Look, all we are saying is that it was in the middle of the night and it was dark and raining. It could’ve been anything really.”
“Yeah,” Dustin chimes in, helping himself to a jug of water from the pitcher on the table. “Plus, you’re the same guy who got wasted on apple cider at last year’s summer solstice and mistook Sir Jason’s horse for a unicorn while puking your guts out in the stables.”
Mike is already drawing a breath to launch into his next round of indignant shouting when Joyce clears her throat. All three go silent and face her with confused expressions.
“Boys, may I ask what this is about?”
Lucas shrugs, unimpressed. “Mike thinks he saw a dragon.”
“While half asleep and taking a piss outside,” Dustin provides helpfully.
“Shut up, why am I even talking to you about this?” Mike grouses. “Where’s Will? He’d believe me!”
“Still sick, I’m afraid,” shrugs Joyce. Mike manages to look even more upset at this, if at all possible.
“Alright, look,” Dustin concedes. “I know you think it’s what you saw, but what’s the actual likelihood? A dragon? In these parts? Everyone knows they’re as good as extinct, have been for ages. Ask Steve, his grandfather was the one who vanquished the last ones, right?”
Dustin turns an expectant look on Steve, but Mike just scoffs. “Steve can hardly remember his own birthday on the best of days, you honestly expect him to know history?”
Joyce crosses her arms and gives the boys a look.
“Oh shit, wait!” Dustin blurts. “That was today, wasn’t it?”
One moment later, he’s already out of his chair and pulling Steve into a hug. “Happy birthday, man!”
“Thank you,” Steve mumbles a bit embarrassed, returning Dustin’s manly shoulder clap stiffly.
"What, really?” Lucas wrinkles his brow. Beside him, Mike actually looks a tiny bit ashamed at his previous joke. “Nobody said anything about that earlier …”
“Yeah, well …” Steve shrugs, uncomfortable with how he has become the center of attention all of a sudden. “Father is going to war, there were more important things to think of.”
Dustin is already opening his mouth to protest, but Joyce comes swooping in to save Steve from further awkwardness. She quickly pushes the basket of food into his hands and gently steers him towards the door. “Don’t pester him about this now, he was just on his way out. Enjoy your day, my dear, and this basket better be empty when you return it.”
Steve gives her another grateful smile and a small hug on his way out. The last thing he hears as he shuts the door behind him is Mike’s voice. “But I’m telling you, it was flying right above me, and it was massive!”
“Your mother is massive,” Dustin says.
And just like that, they are back to their argument, Steve and his birthday already forgotten.
*
With his father’s entourage having left just this morning, the castle grounds are unusually empty and quiet. Steve is glad for it - it means that he has an easy time remaining unseen as he makes his way behind the stables to find the little gate in the castle wall that is always left unlocked. Once he has ducked through, it is only a few strides to the outskirts of the forest.
He breathes easier once he enters the shade of the trees, almost as if a load is taken off his shoulders. He never strays far from the castle grounds, but still - if his parents ever found out about his little walks, there’d be hell to pay. He is, after all, a valuable commodity.
Steve shakes his head to rid himself of the negative thoughts and readjusts the weight of the basket in his hand as the underbrush grows thicker. He stops in his tracks for a few moments, pondering where to go, before he finally decides to make for the clearing with the old outpost. It’s one of his favorite spots. Hardly anyone ever goes there, the ancient tower long abandoned and reclaimed by the forest. There’s a small pond nearby that’s perfect for taking a dip on hot summer days. Today, it’s still way too chilly for that, but maybe he’ll put his feet in the water while enjoying his pie and skip some stones later. Have a little nap under the canopy of the trees if he can find a spot that’s not too muddy from the rain.
Steve is so preoccupied with his plans for the afternoon that he is already several steps into the clearing, humming a tune under his breath, when the sight in front of him finally registers. His steps falter, his humming ceases.
The tops of the pine trees that form the border of the clearing have been snapped off like twigs, some missing completely, some still hanging on by a few loose threads of bark. The weathered roof of the old tower has suffered a similar fate. What remains of it is scattered all across the floor of the clearing in a mess of wood, shingles and stones.
Right in the middle of the chaos lies a giant, hulking beast.
At first, the only thing he can process is the color black. Every inch of the creature is a dark, inky black, so intense that it seems to cleanly swallow the sunlight filtering through the trees. Then, he notices the scales. The horns. The dangerously sharp spikes along the creature’s spine, all the way from its head to its long, pointed tail. Wings, giant and bat-like.
“Holy shit,” Steve hears himself whisper.
Because there, lying in front of him in a heap of debris and snapped branches, is a dragon.
He doesn’t even notice the basket slipping from his limp hand until it hits the ground with a thud and its contents scatter all across the grass.
The dragon’s head, which was lying limply on the ground only a moment before, jerks up. Its eyes snap open and Steve finds himself pinned under a gaze the color of molten gold as the creature’s pupils focus in on him, turning to thin slits. Black lips peel back to reveal a row of sharp fangs, each easily the size of his own hand and ending in a wicked point. A snarl tears free from the creature's throat, so low and gravelly that Steve swears he can feel it rattle his bones.
“Woah, easy!” he says.
Easy? Seriously? This is a fucking dragon, not a spooked horse! What the fuck is wrong with him?
The dragon seems to be thinking along the same lines because it stops mid-snarl. It cocks its head to the side and blinks at him in confusion. Only for a moment, though. Then, it shakes its head violently, bears its teeth again and lurches to its feet to lunge at Steve.
Or tries to. The moment it is upright, its legs give out from under it and it crashes back to the ground in a rather undignified heap, hitting its head on a wooden beam from the tower roof, which breaks in half with a crack. A lone plume of smoke curls out of one nostril and disappears into the crisp spring air. The dragon’s flanks heave with rapid, labored breaths.
Each and every one of his instincts is practically screaming at Steve to run, get away while he still has the chance, but his brain somehow seems unable to catch up, because he is still standing rooted to the spot and staring.
And that is when he spots the dark red puddle of blood forming in the grass by the dragon’s hind legs.
“You’re hurt …” he hears himself mumble, and suddenly the situation makes a lot more sense. “You … you crashed.”
The dragon’s golden eyes are half-hooded and foggy with pain, but Steve could swear it just rolled them at him.
He must admit that he feels a bit insulted. People tell him that he’s stupid all the time, but the fact that even an overgrown flying lizard seems to think so? That’s a new low.
Then again, there probably is something not quite right with his head after all. Because fate is presenting him the unlikely opportunity to save himself and run on a silver platter here, but what does he do? He finds himself slowly walking towards the dragon.
The creature narrows its eyes at him and growls lowly, but it makes no attempt at attacking again - doesn’t even lift its head off the ground. The puddle of blood is slowly growing larger.
“Shhh,” says Steve and raises his hands in a gesture that he prays looks soothing. “Let me- I just wanna see, alright?”
He rounds the dragon’s body at an agonizingly low speed, the gaze from those unsettling eyes following him all the time.
It’s only when he steps closer that the sheer size of the dragon registers. Its body alone is easily the size of a large destrier - and that is not counting its long neck, the enormous wings and the tail.
There’s only a few short paces between them now and Steve is acutely aware that one swift movement of the tail or sharp claws, one quick bite from those fangs, could tear his skin like parchment and snap his bones like twigs. The dragon does nothing of the sort, however, just continues to rumble at him from deep in its throat and to watch him distrustfully. Its eyes are droopy and blinking sluggishly, like it is keeping them open by sheer force of will alone.
Momentarily satisfied that he is not about to be mauled, Steve finally tears his gaze away from the dragon’s eyes long enough to take stock of its injuries. There’s a few deep, bloody scrapes all along the scaled body, probably from where it crashed into the tower, and the wing closest to him has a nasty-looking tear in its membrane.
The source of all the blood, however, seems to be a wound in the tail, an arm’s length or so from where it joins the body. It isn’t wide, but long and deep-looking - as if someone or something made a good attempt at hacking the tail clean off. There’s more blood in the grass, already turning brown and clotted.
“You tore that back open when you tried to attack me just now,” Steve murmurs, more to himself than to the dragon. He gets a low huff in return, but there isn’t much vitriol behind it, those golden eyes rapidly clouding over as the creature struggles to stay awake.
When asked about his reasons for what he does next, Steve will never be quite able to give a good answer. What he should do is turn around and go, leave the dragon to its fate - alert some of the castle guards and order them to make a swift end of it if he’s feeling merciful. But that is not what he does. Maybe it is because he is an idiot, like his mother likes to point out. Maybe it is because he is too soft, like his father always says.
He stays where he is, staring at the blood oozing from the wound.
Six or seven winters ago, on a day much like this one, he was bored out of his mind and snuck out of his chambers to loiter around in the castle smithy. He was just pestering Hopper, their blacksmith, with some question or other about the right temperature for molding iron or how to keep the fire going, and it was probably all his fault for distracting the man. Anyway, Hop’s fingers slipped on one of the swords he was mending, and from one moment to the next, there was a large cut gaping open at the base of his thumb, blood soaking the sleeve of his shirt.
While Hop started to swear profusely and Steve was still working himself into a panic, trying to not be sick or pass out at the sight of all that blood, Hop’s little daughter El wandered into the smithy. She took one look at the whole mess, turned around on her heel without saying a word and ran off in the direction of the kitchen. After what seemed like an eternity, but couldn’t have been more than a few moments, she returned with Joyce right behind her, both carrying an array of hastily grabbed supplies. Before anything else, Joyce tore a long, thin strip of cloth from her apron and tied that firmly around Hop’s wrist.
Right.
Steve flies into action, unlooping his belt from around his waist in one swift movement. It’s long and made of thick, sturdy leather, it should serve the purpose fine. The dragon’s eyes swim back into focus at the sudden commotion and it snarls weakly as he steps closer.
“Easy,” Steve says again. He holds up the belt demonstratively and gestures towards the wound. “I just wanna-”
The moment he touches a tentative hand to the base of the dragon’s tail, it snaps its head in his direction and roars . The sound sends a cloud of birds flying up from the nearby trees with terrified screams and Steve is treated to a full view of the complete set of teeth.
“Hey, asshole, I’m trying to help!”
The words tumble out of his mouth before he can think better of it. For a second, they both stare at each other in disbelief. The dragon snaps its maw shut and looks just about as shocked as Steve is feeling - it probably doesn’t get people screaming back at it very often. Or calling it an asshole. Steve scoffs and puts his hands on his hips, deciding that he may as well make the best of the situation.
“I mean, I get why you wouldn’t trust me, but I don’t exactly see any other dragons around. So if you don’t wanna … y’know, bleed out and die here, you’ll just have to make do with me. Your decision, though.”
A strand of hair has fallen in front of his face and he blows it away impatiently, not quite ready to make any unnecessary movements. The dragon keeps staring at him and Steve imagines he sees an array of different emotions flick across its face in rapid succession. Disbelief and fury. Then thoughtfulness, then fury again, and finally a grim resignation. It huffs again and lets his head loll back to the ground, giving him a look that can’t be described as anything other than a glower. Like it’s daring him to do anything stupid. When he still doesn’t move, it jerks its snout in the direction of the tail wound in an impatient gesture.
“Alright, alright,” Steve feels the corners of his mouth twitch up in a cheeky grin. “I’m getting to it. Aren’t you a sweetheart?”
The dragon rumbles, but doesn’t do anything to stop him as he wraps the belt around its tail just below the wound and pulls tight.
“So,” Steve repeats what Joyce told him all those winters ago. “This is called a tuni- … tourna- … we tie this real tight to cut off the blood flow and that gives us time to tend to the wound properly. I need you to wait here and hold real still, while I get some herbs. Joyce uses yarrow against bleeding. I’m not sure if that also works on dragons, but it’s our best shot. I’ll be back as fast as I can, so don’t go anywhere.”
The dragon gives him a look, like it’s trying to ask where the hell he thinks it would be going in its state. He doesn’t grace it with an answer though, because that would be silly. It can’t even speak. Instead, he just shrugs and takes off into the forest to get what he needs.
It doesn’t take long for him to return with as much yarrow as he can carry. The dragon is large, so he figures he’s going to need a lot of it. He realizes with a surge of satisfaction that it hasn’t moved from its spot and that the puddle of blood has not grown significantly since he left. The dragon seems mildly surprised to actually see him return and watches with doubtful, half-lidded eyes as he begins to rip the flowers and stems into little shreds.
Steve just keeps talking, figures that this is probably the best way to distract it from the pain. Also, he’s better at remembering things when he says them out loud. “It would be better if we could grind this into an actual pulp, but I don’t have a mortar on me, so we’ll just shred it real good. Then we’ll put it on the wound as a … as a compress. What do I use as a compress?”
He wrinkles his brow in thought for a brief moment, then shrugs out of his tunic, leaving him bare-chested in the crisp spring air. The dragon makes a weird kind of noise. It sounds … surprised, for the lack of a better word, ticking up at the end like a question. When he looks over at it, its eyes have gone almost comically wide.
“Don’t worry, it’s clean,” he assures as he stuffs the shredded plant parts into the tunic, giving it a good squeeze to coax out the juices. “I put it on only this morning.”
This time, the dragon does not kick up a fuss as he steps up to the wound and applies the makeshift compress. It does watch his every movement with rapt attention, however - even though it is obviously struggling to keep its eyes open for longer stretches of time, now.
“Looking good,” Steve grins encouragingly once he’s done tending to the wound. He flops down on the wet grass and tries his best to make himself look non-threatening. “The bleeding has slowed down already. I’ll leave it tied for a while longer and let the herbs do their thing, though. You can get some rest, if you want to, I’ll stay around.”
The dragon briefly looks as if it is struggling with itself, but exhaustion quickly wins out. Its eyes flutter open a few more times - probably to make sure that Steve is not actually going to try and kill it while it sleeps, but finally they stay closed and the rapid heaving of its flanks turns into more even, measured breaths.
Steve stays seated where he is and watches it for a long while. He never thought that he’d get to see an actual dragon one day. All the stories make them out to be vile, hideous beasts - mindless killing machines that massacre whole castles and villages to carry off their riches and hoard them in their lair. This one doesn’t seem so vile, just pretty grumpy - who wouldn’t be grumpy with injuries like that, though? It also isn’t hideous at all. It’s actually quite beautiful, in a dangerous and impressive sort of way. All long, graceful limbs and muscle, inky black scales reflecting only the tiniest bit of sunlight. Now that he has a few moments to look at it without having to worry about having his head snapped off, he notices that the horns and the undersides of the wings aren’t actually black, but a very deep, dark red.
His stomach rumbles and Steve remembers that it has been a while since he’s had anything to eat. His birthday meal is still strewn all over the grass from where he dropped it and he instantly feels guilty towards Joyce for letting it lie in the dirt like that. He quickly walks over and gathers everything back into the basket before returning to his original spot by the dragon’s side, where he hastily devours one half of his now cold apple pie and empties the bottle of ale. With his stomach filled, he instantly feels better, but now exhaustion is starting to creep up on him as well. Coming within an inch of getting mauled by a fire breathing beast will do that to a guy, he guesses. He lies down on his back with a sigh and enjoys the way the grass and the breeze tickle the bare skin of his torso. The sun is standing high and warm overhead and he needs to close his eyes against its glare. Before he knows it, the sounds of the forest and the deep, steady breathing of the creature beside him have lulled him to sleep.
*
When his eyes blink back open, the sun has dipped behind the trees, casting the clearing in long shadows, and the sky is turning dark with the first streaks of dusk. Steve’s entire body feels heavy with sleep. The air has turned more chilly, now that the day is fading, and the grass is cold under him, but he still is feeling pleasantly warm.
He is also pinned under a massive black paw.
Steve lets out a strangled shout as his brain switches from sleep straight to alarm mode. He tries to sit up, but the weight of the paw is like lead. The gleaming claws make sharp pricks of pain explode all over his chest at the first movement, so all he manages is an uncoordinated flail of his arms.
A warning rumble right by his ear makes him freeze.
When he slowly turns his head, heart hammering in his throat, two golden eyes are staring back at him, barely an arm’s length from his face. There’s a strange glint in them that looks a lot like smug amusement.
“Oh, hey …” Steve says breathlessly. “You’re, um … you’re awake.”
The dragon gives a huge yawn, then rests its head on the ground beside him and keeps regarding him with lazy interest. Its breath puffs over Steve’s face in warm clouds, blowing some strands of sleep-mussed hair out of his face. Steve squirms under its gaze - and the paw that’s still keeping him pinned with careless ease - and the corners of its mouth twitch up. That’s another thing he never thought he’d get to see, a dragon grinning.
“Could you … y’know … let me go? I didn’t actually plan on sleeping so long, I need to look at your wound again.”
The dragon seems to think this over for a moment, just long enough that Steve starts to wonder what to do if it refuses. Then, with a reluctant grumble, it shifts a bit and the weight of the paw retracts. Careful to not nick himself on the claws, he shuffles out from under it.
The cold air immediately makes his skin break out in goosebumps and he swears, rubbing his hands up and down his arms. The dragon gives an amused rumble from deep in its throat and Steve turns to it, understanding slowly dawning.
“Oh, wait … were you keeping me warm? Um- thanks, I guess.”
It just blinks at him lazily. Those eerily intelligent eyes are still making him feel a bit squeamish, so he quickly turns to have another look at the tail. He is surprised to see that the wound is actually looking pretty good. The bleeding has stopped and it already seems like it’s starting to close slowly. Do dragons heal faster than humans? He has no idea …
“Doing pretty well,” is what he says, because he feels like he needs to say something. “I’m going to untie the belt and remove the compress, and then we can bandage it for the night, alright?”
The dragon gives him a minute nod and Steve can feel from how tense it goes that it is trying not to flinch as he unloops the belt and peels his ruined tunic off the wound, careful to not reopen anything. Evidently, it has come to the conclusion that it doesn’t need to try and tear any of his limbs off for touching it - he is glad for that, it makes his task a lot easier.
The tablecloth Joyce packed for him is large and perfectly clean. He briefly sends a mental apology in her direction before he tears it into a few broad strips. He will have to think up some story about where it went, but that is a problem for later.
He wraps the wound as gently as he can and as firmly as he must. The dragon screws its eyes shut and holds admirably still all the while, even though it must still hurt a lot. By the time he is finished, he actually has worked up a bit of a sweat. A particularly crisp gust of wind against the light sheen on his skin makes him shiver again.
The dragon makes an inquisitive sound and lifts its wing slightly, points its head at the free space by its flank.
“Oh, um …” says Steve and feels himself flush under the attention. “Thank you, but I should probably head back before-”
An impatient rumble cuts him off and then the tip of the tail nudges him from behind, making him stumble a step forward. Steve slaps it away reflexively.
“Hey, careful there, you're upsetting the wound! Did I say you could move that?”
This gets him an amused eye roll from the dragon - like it finds him hilarious for trying to boss it around. Steve huffs and sticks his bottom lip out in a little pout. To be fair, it did have him trapped under its paw like a rag doll while he was sleeping. The tail tip twitches against the bare skin of his shoulder blades again.
“Alright, alright. A bit won’t hurt, I guess.”
The dragon’s skin is surprisingly soft and pleasantly warm when he sinks down against its flank. It is a bit like crawling under a cozy blanket on a freezing winter day, and Steve can’t stop himself from giving a content little sigh. The dragon brings its wing around him like a tent, blocking off the cold evening breeze, and rests its head on its front paws to look at him, satisfaction swimming in those beautiful golden eyes. Steve finds that he needs to avert his gaze.
“You probably should eat something to get your strength up,” he mutters, pulling the basket into his lap and rifling through it, just to have something to do with his hands. “I fear the only thing I can offer you is this, though-”
He means to set the turkey leg down in the grass for the dragon to take, a safe distance away. He has barely taken it out of the basket when he catches movement out of the corner of his eye, and then the dragon’s snout is suddenly right in front of his face. Steve doesn’t dare move as a pink, pointy tongue darts out, skillfully wraps around the turkey leg and tugs it out of his grasp. It disappears between the sharp teeth and is gone in one quick swallow.
“Alright, um-” says Steve.
A long black snout shoves its way into the basket and in an instant, the bread, cheese and the remaining half of the pie are gone as well. The dragon gives a content sigh as it swallows. Then, it unceremoniously knocks the now empty basket out of Steve’s lap and plops its head down in its place. Then it burps.
Steve makes a face. “Ew. We definitely need to work on your table manners. That was my birthday meal, y’know?”
Unimpressed golden eyes look up at him. It probably doesn’t even know what a birthday is. Steve sighs and tries to move, but to no avail. The dragon’s head alone is roughly the size of a very large dog - and about twice as heavy.
“Are you planning on staying there, or what?”
It doesn’t react and that is answer enough, really.
He huffs. “Well … we should probably introduce ourselves then, since you seem to have decided that we’re friends now, or whatever.” He is feeling a bit silly talking to a dragon like that, but not much. It appears to understand every single word he says, after all. So much for mindless killing machine. He gestures to himself. “My name is Steve.”
The corners of the dragon’s mouth quirk up again and its eyes glint. It makes a new sound. Sort of like a long rumble that rises and falls slowly, coming from deep within its throat. Almost like a purr.
Steve frowns thoughtfully. “What am I supposed to call you, though? I can’t keep saying 'hey, you' all the time, huh?”
It just continues to watch him from its position in his lap, its gaze weirdly intense.
“Well, help me out here!” Steve says, a little impatiently. “Give me something to work with. Are you a girl dragon?”
He gets an indignant snort as an answer and grins. “Okay, you’re a guy then. What kind of name would you like? Y’know, earlier today, I would have said something badass and dangerous sounding, but … you’re actually nothing like the dragons in the stories. You act all gruff, but deep down, you’re just a big old sweetheart, aren’t you? Would you like me to call you that? Sweetheart?”
He means it as a joke, is already bracing himself for an insulted snarl, so what the dragon does next takes him completely by surprise. Because what it does is nuzzle its giant snout into Steve’s lap, eyes falling half shut in pleasure so that only two small slivers of gold remain visible. The low rumbling gets more intense. Steve can feel it vibrate all the way through his own body, and yes, that is definitely a purr now. He gawks down at the dragon.
“What, seriously?”
It blinks lazily, a slow and deliberate closing and opening of its eyes. Like a sleepy, content cat. Steve shrugs and can’t help but grin.
“Alright, if you insist. Sweetheart it is.”
The dragon - no, Steve mentally corrects himself - Sweetheart returns his grin, closes its eyes and continues to purr. It- No, he actually looks ready to go back to sleep like that, head still resting heavily in Steve’s lap. Steve doesn’t do anything to stop him, figuring that plenty of rest will probably help with the healing process. Just as he is starting to relax against the warm skin, the slow rise and fall of Sweetheart’s breathing lulling him into a little doze of his own, the faint sound of a bell carries through the air. Steve jerks upright and Sweetheart makes an irritated, sleepy sound.
“Shit, that’s the dinner bell. I need to go.”
Sweetheart actually groans at that. He opens his eyes and gives Steve a look that perfectly conveys an unspoken Are you serious?
Steve makes an apologetic face. “I’m sorry, I didn’t even know it was that late. I’ll be lucky if they aren’t looking for me already. Just … Let me go, please? I’ll be back tomorrow, I promise.”
Sweetheart gives an annoyed rumble, but graciously shifts his head to the ground.
“Thank you,” says Steve, getting up and stretching his legs. Now that he is no longer cuddled up to the warm body beside him, the cold air immediately makes him shiver. “Get some more rest and try not to move around too much with that wound. I’ll bring more food and bandages for you tomorrow.”
Tired golden eyes flutter close and the dragon gives a little yawn. It almost looks cute.
“Good night,” Steve mutters and finds that he doesn’t want to leave for the loneliness of his chambers and yet another dinner with his mother that will be filled with either icy silence or endless reproaches. He walks backwards until his shins hit the beginning of the underbrush and he needs to turn around to see where he is going.
By some miracle, he makes it all the way back to the castle grounds and up to his tower without anyone spotting him in his tousled and half-naked state. He hurriedly pulls on a clean tunic along with a heavy overcoat and cloak for dinner, dons the cold chain and crown still lying on his bed, and winces a bit at the weight.
Then, he makes his way to the dining hall, looking every bit the picture-perfect prince - but his steps are just a bit lighter than they were this morning. In his head, he is already making plans for the next day, when he will slip away again and sneak out to the clearing, where someone will actually be happy to see him. It is the first time in a long while that he is looking forward to tomorrow.