Work Text:
There is a famous poster, ubiquitous throughout the land. If you don't own a copy, you've surely seen it hanging in a friend's dormitory, a lover's flat, a gallery in the high street. Your dentist or GP may have the framed black and white version up in their surgery to soothe or distract you. Perhaps your mother still keeps the glossy colour print in her studio for inspiration, or your cousin keeps a cheap reproduction of it hidden in a textbook, sneaks peeks at it before he…
Well. At any rate, this is the tale of how Man and Dragon came to be.
Arthur was at his wits' end. He'd already had to scramble a new location for the shoot as the Tintagel Lofts were being fumigated for woodworm, of all the things, and now none of the models the agency had sent were working out. He was meant to be capturing "masculine tenderness" AKA wholesome dad vibes, but the kind of dad their client's target audience would really like to wine, maybe even dine, then take home for decidedly unwholesome purposes.
Yet all morning Arthur had been either trying to coax some semblance of emotion from very dense, yet fetching, slabs of professional gym meat or driving his assistants spare trying to find some detail—be it props, lighting or makeup—that would enhance the visual appeal of the parade of earnest everymen who'd answered the open call. And that was not even getting into the excruciating hell of working with babies. (They were all adorable, of course. Their parents and nannies and agents? Not so much.)
Arthur called for a break at half past noon, grabbed a sandwich carton off the pile that Leon—bless him!—had thought to send over when he'd offered the use of his vacant townhouse, and escaped out a side door. It led down to a narrow lane, clogged with skips and fruit crates from the juice bar on the corner and therefore, thankfully, deserted. He set off uphill, away from the main road. He didn't know this part of the city well, but he'd visited Leon before when he was in residence and recalled seeing a square nearby. And in the moment, what he craved above all else—even lunch—was a scrap of lawn and a few trees. Birdsong. Insects. The scents of earth and green, growing things.
It had been this way all his life. He couldn't entirely explain it, as he was never a country boy, had always lived and worked in cities, yet whenever he was upset or needed to make a big decision, he headed for the nearest green space. Parks, woodlands, public gardens—even a balcony or rooftop crowded with potted plants would do in a pinch. The seaside, with all that air and sky, he saved for heavy existential or romantic woes. Lakes he avoided. They were lovely, but they made him uneasy.
Arthur located the square without too much trouble, and it was ideal. Through the wrought iron rails he spied a nice mix of evergreen and flowering shrubs, ornamental planters, shade trees, and sun-dappled paths. Better yet, there wasn't a soul in sight; the benches were all invitingly empty.
When he arrived at the entry gate, however, Arthur found it closed and locked. With a growl of frustration he grabbed hold and gave it a shake, but it wouldn't budge. He looked around, glaring accusingly up at the windows of the buildings across the street. No doubt only certain local residents had keys, ensuring their commons didn't become too common. He remembered hotly debating the issue at school, but in the moment, Arthur cared little for the ideology or history behind private squares. He just found it ludicrous that he, an honest working man suffering an honest working man's crisis, wasn't allowed to go inside, sit on one of those nice empty—vacant, unused, completely unoccupied!—benches, and eat his bloody sandwich.
He paced outside the gate, hoping a key holder might pass by and take pity on him. His accent was posh enough for the neighbourhood, and—he sniffed an armpit—his deodorant was still winning the war against an honest working man's sweat. But the pavements remained deserted, the windows across the way firmly closed.
After a few minutes, he continued on, walking the perimeter. Occasionally he peered between the rails, willing someone to appear from the inner recesses of the square and let him in. All he found—along with more empty benches, more tempting views—was a vexed robin and a couple of startled rabbits.
"The hell with it," he muttered, put the edge of the sandwich carton between his teeth, and launched himself at the fence. He snagged his belt, nearly losing his trousers in the attempt to free himself, and landed awkwardly in a clump of rhododendron. He also suffered an inexplicable bout of déjà vu. He was not, to his knowledge, in the habit of trespassing or wrestling shrubbery, and no one had ever got the jump on him in the debagging wars at school.
However, seeing as he'd made it inside, limbs and sandwich carton intact, he marked his efforts a success. He disentangled himself, brushed himself off, and made for the nearest path. He passed up the first bench he found, a modest concrete slab, as he knew there was a pair of wood and cast iron ones with proper backs nearer the main gate. He settled onto the first one he encountered with a happy sigh, taking a moment to close his eyes and just breathe.
He knew he shouldn't dally, had probably wasted enough time just in coming here; he should eat his sandwich, readjust his expectations for the afternoon—perhaps he could get one of the gym rats to gaze adoringly at a tub of protein powder, then edit a sweetly sleeping infant in later?—and text his beleaguered assistants to let them know the plan. But there was something about this place, more than the thrill of finding a way in, or the soothing effect of so many shades of green. It was mad, as he'd never been here before, but he belonged here, he could feel it, and—
Arthur opened his eyes at an outburst of noise. It was a squirrel, a sleek, tufty-eared one scolding him from its perch on the armrest.
"Oh, put a sock in it, you." He opened his sandwich carton—herbed chicken salad, he was delighted to note—which only seemed to make the creature more agitated. "I've worked very hard for this, you know."
It stamped its paws and flicked its glossy tail, staring at him with fierce eyes and keeping up a constant stream of chatter as he took a bite. The filling was a little heavy on the dill, but otherwise the sandwich was perfect; if only he could have enjoyed it in silence. He chewed, swallowed, then got to his feet. There were other benches, he knew, hopefully ones without noisy guardians.
"Very well," he said, gesturing towards the bench. "I cede the throne." He had that odd sense of déjà vu again—had he been here before, perhaps played here as a child and since forgotten? Or was it to do with talking to animals?
He chose a path that led deeper into the heart of the square, munching as he walked. The box hedges, potted flowers and ornamental shrubs gave way to proper trees and lush ferns. There were mossy boulders, big enough to sit on, surrounded by patches of wildflowers and colourful toadstools. Enough light filtered in to keep it from being gloomy while the trees kept the air fresh and cool.
Arthur could hardly believe he was still in the city. He thought the square would make an excellent spot for a shoot, made a mental note to ask Leon who to speak to about getting official access. He took a few quick snaps with his phone then, noticing the time, continued on. He'd just see what was at the centre of the square—he was betting on a water feature of some sort, or else a sundial—and pass out the other side; he'd already walked the perimeter, so he knew there couldn't be much farther to go.
Except there was.
Arthur decided that it was a trick of perspective. Someone had layered the plantings and other features for the illusion of depth, created meandering pathways that increased the distance between points A and B. The area of a square was fixed by the length of its sides; bigger-on-the-inside was a trope reserved for bad sci-fi and genre fiction.
Spying a clearing up ahead, Arthur stepped off the path and hastened towards it, cutting a more direct route through the trees and ferns. Eventually they thinned out, giving way to a sunny glade. It was carpeted with vibrant green grasses and dotted with delicate blue and white flowers. And there, on the far side…
Arthur froze in his tracks, pulse racing. He blinked, eyes adjusting to the light, but they weren't playing tricks on him. There, resting with his legs stretched out before him and his back against a tree, was the very man Arthur had been looking for.
His hair was dark, cropped close to his skull except where it was trying for curls round his ears and at the nape of his neck. His eyes were closed, but even so his face was striking: strong bones combined with a sensual mouth and thick lashes; pale skin pinking up in the sun. He could, Arthur thought, be called either handsome or beautiful without insult, nor telling a lie. Unlike most of the men Arthur was used to dealing with, he wasn't gym-fit, but as he was shirtless Arthur could see that he was fit, a shapely arrangement of lean muscle and long limbs. His chest was solid but not intimidating, adorned with tender-looking nipples and a nice smattering of hair. Even his hands were perfect: broad, capable-looking palms paired with elegant fingers, curled loosely on his thighs. What Arthur could see of his clothing—fitted brown trousers, homespun socks and slouchy, buckle-strapped boots—might have been trendy if they hadn't been so well-worn. Overall, he gave off the impression of a man who didn't often get to rest like this, and Arthur hated to disturb him, really, but he simply had to know—
With a piercing cry, a bird erupted from the top of the tree and swooped down, alighting on the man's lap. A very large white pigeon or—Arthur blinked again—no, more like a cockatoo, except what was the deal with that tail?
"What the hell is that?!" The man startled, staring at Arthur with wide, frightened eyes. They, too, were striking, Arthur noted. Blue, like his own, only darker. Arthur held his hands up to show he wasn't a threat, feeling silly when he realised he was still holding the sandwich container. Hopefully the man didn't think he was about to pelt him with the remains of his lunch. "Easy there, mate, I only—"
"Arthur?" the man croaked.
"Do I know you?" Arthur didn't; he couldn't possibly. If he'd ever met such an alluring man before, surely he would have remembered. And yet…
He stepped into the clearing, lowering his hands. He watched as the man's expression morphed from outright shock to something more guarded, eyes tracking Arthur's every move.
The creature seemed untroubled though. It bobbed its head towards Arthur with a chirrup, then circled the man's lap, nosing at his belly and hands, emitting a steady stream of noises that—oddly enough—resembled the cooing and babble of the human babies Arthur had been surrounded by all morning.
"You…" The man cleared his throat, gentling the creature with his hands. "Apologies. You remind me of someone. A friend. Arthur."
"I am called Arthur," Arthur admitted, watching in fascination as the creature made a game of trying to squeeze itself completely within the dome of the man's hands only for a wing or claw to pop free, its snakelike tail unfurling and twining around the man's wrist. "Sorry, but what on earth is that thing? It's no bird."
"Oh!" The startled look was back, this time accompanied by a pretty blush that ran all down his chest. "Oh dear, I forgot about—" He muttered something in a foreign language, one Arthur couldn't place. Then a sunbeam caught Arthur in the eyes, temporarily blinding him. He grew dizzy, stumbled to his knees, reaching out for…
* * *
"Arthur?"
Arthur opened his eyes. He was sprawled on his belly in a clearing and—he turned his head—a small white terrier was licking his cheek. Merlin was crouched beside him, hand outstretched.
"Merlin!"
Merlin pulled the terrier off, smiling, and cupped Arthur's cheek. "Ah, so you do know me."
Arthur took a moment to simply enjoy the touch, to watch Merlin watching him back with such obvious joy. He couldn't remember the last time this had happened, couldn't be certain how long it would last or if he would remember the next time around, but he was determined to try. Then he made his move, surging up to take Merlin by the arms and wrestle him down into the grass.
"As if you'd let me forget," he murmured, planting a chaste kiss on Merlin's forehead, then another, not so chaste, on one ear. Merlin squirmed beneath him, making the little noises that Arthur so loved. He nuzzled at Merlin's neck, breathing in his familiar scent, then allowed himself to be tumbled onto his back and thoroughly kissed. Oh, how he had missed this!
They were only saved from public indecency by the terrier, who insisted on worming its way between them, adding its pungent breath and wet tongue to the mix. Merlin grumbled as he righted himself, but Arthur couldn't help laughing. He sat up and rubbed the dog's head, then scratched the spot between its shoulder blades. It yipped, tail wagging at a furious pace, and wriggled so it lay half on Merlin's lap and half on Arthur's.
"What on earth have you done to Aithusa?"
Merlin clucked his tongue. "Did you forget the ban on dragons in the city?"
"Because of the fire? That was long ago, surely. And I thought we proved Aithusa wasn't to blame."
"Yes, well, the statute's yet to be repealed." Merlin patted the dog's rump. "Don't worry, it's just a glamour. It'll wear off. I thought it would be less conspicuous with strangers about."
"I'm hardly a stranger, Merlin," Arthur murmured.
"Ah, but you thought you were for a minute there."
"True." Arthur sighed. He left off scratching Aithusa and slid his hand down over Merlin's. "How long this time?"
"Arthur, it doesn't really—"
"You promised, Merlin. No more lies."
"Very well." Merlin took a deep breath. "I haven't seen you in nearly twenty-three—no, I guess it's twenty-four—years now. Couldn't erase 2020 no matter how hard I tried, and believe me, I tried, but alas." He interlaced their fingers and squeezed gently. "Dragonlord, not Timelord."
Arthur smiled, despite Merlin's dire tone, and squeezed back. "Why, that's not long at all! Much better than our last go round. At this rate I'll stop disappearing on you two altogether."
"Perhaps."
"You'll see, Merlin. Soon you'll be right back to calling me an insufferable prat and a cabbage-head, letting Aithusa singe my knickers, and plotting ways to sneak off down to the tavern without me." That earned him an amused snort.
"No doubt," Merlin said, though it had been centuries since any of these things happened other than in jest and they both knew it. "So, I see you're still fond of chicken."
"Hm?"
Merlin nodded towards the remains of Arthur's lunch, fallen on the grass. "Also flinging your mess about for others to pick up. I guess some things never change."
"I did not 'fling' anything, Merlin. I passed out. Again."
"Poor, poor Arthur." Merlin's tone was mocking, but he squeezed Arthur's hand again and planted a sweet kiss on his temple.
Aithusa hopped off their laps and went to investigate the mangled carton. The sight of it jogged Arthur's memory, guilt flooding in as he recalled how he'd left things back at the shoot. He tugged at Merlin's hand.
"Say, do you fancy a job?"
"Oh no, no." Merlin shook his head. "Never again. This is the twenty-first century, Arthur, remember? We're allowed to shack up together as equals. I'm not being your bloody valet or trainer or personal assistant this time around."
"Tch! Not asking you to be my valet, Merlin, nor any of those other things. I'm a photographer now, and it seems I'm in need of a model. How do you feel about babies, by the way?"
"What?!"
"Not having them, of course. Just holding them. Well, holding one—perhaps two, depending on how long it takes. They've strict rules regarding working hours. It's very inconvenient."
"Babies?"
"Yes, Merlin. Do keep up." Arthur helped him to his feet and retrieved his sandwich carton, which by now had been thoroughly licked clean. He crumpled it up and shoved it in a pocket. "I really do need to get back to a shoot, and I could use your help. After that, I'm all yours, I swear. For as long as I'm here."
"Hm." Merlin looked him up and down, lips pursed. "All mine, you say."
"Every inch, er…centimetre. See, I can change."
Merlin rolled his eyes. "How could I possibly refuse?"
"Brilliant!" Arthur clapped his hands, startling Aithusa, who barked and pranced at their feet. He texted his assistants, informing them he was on his way and instructing them to clear out everyone except the babies. Then he scooped up the terrier in one arm and slung the other around Merlin's shoulders, knowing for the first time in this life exactly who he was and where he was meant to be. "Absolutely brilliant. Off we go."
The babies, naturally, wanted nothing to do with us. Or rather, I am told that I upset them, even in the guise of a terrier. Plus it was plain from the contact sheets that there wasn't a single one of them Merlin could believably gaze at in adoration. Only I—well, I or Arthur, but if he'd tried perching on Merlin's thigh it would have been a very different sort of photo—can truly capture the Dragonlord's heart.
In the end, Arthur sent his assistants home. I resumed my natural form and it was just us three, just as it should be.
So now you know the truth. And I hope that, next time you see that picture of me and Dad Who Named Me, you can tell whichever insufferable pedant is insisting on it that no, I'm not a puppet or a digital effect. Nor am I a chihuahua or albino lizard in costume. I am Aithusa, last dragon of Albion, and whether you like it or not, both my dads and I will be looking out for you and your kin for centuries to come.