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Arthur had never been in the Peak District of England before, and he hadn't realized that it would be so...mountainous, despite the name. He could probably blame American media for his default mental image of England as either London-esque cityscapes or gently rolling green hills, dotted with sheep. But Hope Valley, with its unexpectedly steep and craggy slopes, ruined stone castle, and villages full of ancient buildings had caught him by surprise.
He shook his head wryly as he made his way down one of the narrow lanes. It was charming and picturesque and full of tourists, and not at all a place he'd have thought Eames would choose. But there it was, the last of Eames' safe-houses that Arthur had been able to discover, at the edge of the village and tucked right against a steep and towering slope.
The neatly kept stone cottage, nearly indistinguishable from all the other stone buildings in the village, showed no lights at all in the evening gloom. Shutters were closed over all the windows. The front gate was locked, as was the front door, but Arthur had come well-prepared and the growing darkness gave him cover as he slipped inside quickly and quietly.
He hadn't heard from Eames in awhile, and he'd gotten concerned enough to start searching for him. He was mostly refusing to admit to himself that he missed the annoying bastard. It was just that none of the jobs coming up looked even slightly promising without Eames. Without Eames’ particular skills. His experience and competence. Nothing to do with Eames himself. At all.
After all, when they were doing semi-regular jobs together Arthur managed, by sheer force of will if nothing else, to sustain enough irritation to persuade himself that Eames was always more trouble than he was worth. It wasn’t like he was in denial about anything, because there absolutely wasn’t anything to be in denial about. Nothing in the slightest. It was only Eames' capabilities and competence that gave Arthur the confidence to be calm even in the face of disaster. They simply worked better together, as a team. Complimentary talent. Yes.
It had nothing to do with the heated looks Eames would give him that sent shivers up his spine. Nothing to do with the occasional caressing touches, the way Eames would lean in, just a little too close, his breath stirring the small hairs on Arthur's skin. Nothing to do with the occasional petnames, occasionally sprinkled in when Eames seemed to be least paying attention to the conversation. Nothing at all to do with the way Eames would growl his name when he was aggravated. And absolutely nothing to do with the way he and Eames ended up in bed together, more often than not, lately.
Arthur had long known that getting involved with any dreamsharer, much less Eames, was a terrible idea. Too many opportunities for confusion or betrayal. And besides, Eames was a charmer, a consummate con man, a master of the friendly fuck, the easy and fun no-strings-attached one-night stand. Eames had slept his way through dreamshare with an easy roguish charm, and Arthur had always known it would be a bad idea to give in. And yet, give in he had, far too many times.
Yes, the sex was amazing. Eames was inventive and adventurous, a bit rough and dangerous in the best ways, but mostly just fun in a way that Arthur’d never encountered before.
But afterwards, they went their separate ways. And every time it bothered Arthur a little more. He really didn’t want to admit to himself that Eames was becoming more and more significant to him. He was fighting a losing battle, mostly by lying to himself.
The last time they'd shared a bed on a job Arthur had woken with Eames wrapped around him from behind, one thigh tucked between Arthur's, and his very obvious interest pressed to Arthur's backside. He’d lain there, deliberately breathing evenly and trying to nerve himself to get up.
He’d thought he had his desires under control until Eames had stirred and whispered something against Arthur's shoulder, too softly for Arthur to understand, and pulled him closer.
And Arthur had wanted to turn over to meet Eames' wickedly talented mouth more than almost anything. But he was also beginning to admit that he wanted more than just sex. He wanted this intimacy, this comfort of waking up with Eames. Of being held with Eames' strong hand curled over the front of his hip, Eames’ familiar scent on the bedsheets.
Arthur had taken a deep breath, feeling the urge rising to tell Eames how he felt, what he wanted. Surely it would be better to have everything clear, laid out so they could make a joint decision…
There was a sudden cheerful pounding on the door, followed by "That's not our room, idiot, down here!" and "Oops! Sorry!"...
In the startled pause, his second thoughts burst back into the forefront, waving little warning flags.
"Arthur?" Eames had whispered, his fingertips caressing along the top of Arthur's thigh.
Arthur had inhaled sharply at his powerful response to the sensation and shoved his reservations back down, starting to turn.
But Eames must have mistaken his reaction, because he'd made a tiny, almost hurt, sound and let him go, rolling out of bed towards the bathroom. "No, you're right as always, Arthur," he'd said, his voice clipped, "Don't know what I was thinking, very unprofessional of me, sorry, won't happen again." And he’d slammed the bathroom door shut.
Arthur had laid on the bed for a moment, telling himself he wasn’t hurt, and wondering if it’d been anger or frustration he’d heard in Eames’ voice. Then he got dressed and left, ready to pretend nothing had ever happened. Perhaps it was best this way, after all.
And he’d accepted that Eames was suddenly busy with other jobs after that. He’d told himself he understood when, a few months later, Eames more or less disappeared. He’d felt that desire himself, but knew in his case that it would be better to work and distract himself.
But as the months stretched on, Arthur had gotten more and more on edge, missing Eames, regretting leaving the situation unresolved, until he’d finally told himself he needed to see him just one more time, if only to verify he was still alive. And possibly confirm how infuriating the forger really was and that he'd made a good choice in running away.
Not that he’d run away, no, far from it. He'd simply been sensible about the whole thing. Kept his self-respect intact. Protected his valuable mental and emotional resources.
He‘s been doing his damndest to ignore how thin an excuse that really was.
Once inside the cottage, Arthur turned on his flashlight. The interior was covered in a discouragingly thick layer of dust. But then he caught the gleam of the gold tank-style wristwatch that Eames preferred to wear, in a elegant wooden valet tray near the door, and he blew out a relieved breath.
A quick search of the ground floor revealed nothing, and there was no one upstairs either, only the same layer of dust. Frowning, he returned to the first floor, this time surveying everything carefully, from the sparse furniture and almost bare walls to the empty cupboards and cabinets.
It was finally an absence that triggered his suspicion —wherever Eames spent significant time he surrounded himself with art, either carefully chosen or created himself, and he scattered small treasures here and there, little precious objets d’art. All of that was missing. The only art on the walls was bland and commercial-looking.
But now that he was looking, there was a single exception: one piece of art, hanging on the back wall by the fireplace, that didn't look like it came from a hotel bankruptcy sale.
He examined the watercolor carefully, taking in the thick non-glare glass and elegantly carved wooden frame. The subject was a long red dragon lying curled around a pile of gold in a large cavern. It looked hauntingly familiar, and then he saw the words on the scroll painted in at the bottom right. Conversation with Smaug. Arthur blinked and wondered if this was a Tolkien original or one of Eames' master forgeries.
A barely detectable distortion on the glass caught his eye as he moved the flashlight over the details. He peered closer. In the upper left corner, directly over the part of the painted cavern with a grey stone staircase that led up and away from the hoard and its guardian, there was a tiny smudge that looked just like fingerprints left on the surface of a tablet.
Arthur chewed his lip for a moment. If the glass covering the painting was a capacitative touchscreen, it might be keyed to a very specific touch or sequence. Who knew what might be triggered of he got it wrong? Did he miss Eames badly enough to risk it?
He sighed and reached out to tap the glass once, right over the depiction of the stairs. Soundlessly, the wall in front of him swung open to reveal a short tunnel with a rough-hewn stone stairway twisting up. Arthur blinked. Whatever he had expected, it hadn't been a secret entrance from the cottage directly into the mountain behind it. He took an experimental sniff of the cool air —it was dry, with a faint scent like a fire recently put out, and a strange, tantalizingly familiar, animal smell. It reminded him of Eames' usual cologne, which Eames had always refused to identify. (If pressed, he'd claim it was a custom blend made just for him. It was only one of about sixteen things that never failed to inspire lust in Arthur, not that he was counting.)
He took a couple of cautious steps towards the narrow curving stairs, and jumped when the secret door swung shut behind him. The flashlight revealed a simple handle on this side, which did indeed open the door when he tried it. He let the door close again and set his shoulders, heading up the tight stairs into the darkness.
About thirty steps up there was a short and narrow landing and then the stairs headed down, reversing the twist it made. It reminded him of something he'd read about — the spiral staircases in medieval castles had supposedly been made so one person could block them, swinging a weapon in their right hand. The attackers would find their right-handed swings blocked by the walls and central pillar of the stairs. Arthur frowned to himself as he headed down into the depths of the earth. Who would build defensive stairs, suitable mainly for close combat, into a mountainside? What would they be defending?
After a much longer descent, the staircase opened into a vast cavern, so big that his flashlight couldn't illuminate the far side.
Smaller caves and tunnels were scattered around the periphery of the cavern, and each was blocked off with thick clear panels. There were dozens, maybe hundreds, of them stretching back into the darkness. Arthur touched one of the panels thoughtfully. A tiny etched logo in one corner identified it as high-end fireproof glass.
Arrayed behind the glass panels were extravagant piles of treasures, rows of paintings, racks of fine fabric and clothing, and neat displays of weapons, both ancient and modern. There were statues and sculptures and reliefs, there were libraries of books and scrolls. And, most chilling, there were scattered pieces of armor, accompanied by dark scorch marks and the dull white of bone.
Arthur turned in a circle, his flashlight glinting back from glass walls in every direction that it could reach. This was a hoard. He fought back a sense of baffled alarm and narrowed his eyes at the closest skeletal remains. It was all very dramatic, even theatrical. He walked toward the remains, wondering if they were real, and stopped dead at the sudden sound of air moving like a gigantic inhalation.
"HMMMMMMMM." It was a basso profundo rumble that started under Arthur's feet and swelled, making the air quiver around him. He clapped his hands over his ears to muffle it and took a step back. Before the sound died away, he felt his insides just begin to resonate with a gut-churning vibration. He panted into the sudden silence. Whatever it was could probably turn him to jelly with its voice alone.
"Well. I haven't had a visitor in ages. Come now, don't be shy... step closer." There was a dangerously mocking note in the deep voice, and Arthur took a prudent step backward, toward the stairs, then another and another.
In the far depths of the cave, there was a scraping rattle and Arthur swung his flashlight towards it. Something huge shifted there, but Arthur could only make out fugitive details in the darkness. There was a sudden pair of glimmers like distant candlelight and then Arthur swallowed as he realized that the tiny lights were, in fact, immense glowing eyes that only seemed small because the creature was at the far end of the vast cavern.
He shuffled backwards again, wanting badly to glance behind himself to make sure he was headed for the stairs, but he was afraid to move his gaze away from whatever it was that was pacing towards him.
"No, no, don't bother to run, it's far too late," the beast purred, the growl underneath belying the friendly tone.
Arthur kept backing away, holding the flashlight steady on the approaching threat although the beam was still too weak to show details. He felt the creature's steps in the ground under his feet and the mammal part of his brain wanted to break and flee.
"I. Said. STOP!" it roared. The eyes glowed like torches, its open mouth a fiery portal to hell.
Arthur froze. Dragon, a tiny voice babbled in the back of his mind.
"Better," it growled, the angry light in its eyes subsiding somewhat as it padded closer.
His flashlight showed glimpses of a scaly hide the color of leather burnished with copper and old silver, and the beast's (dragon's, hissed the little voice again) eyes were a hypnotic mixture of steel and verdigris. It was beautiful. It was terrifying. His fingers twitched in a desperate desire for a gun, but he didn't have one, and he didn't think it would have done him any good anyway.
"Mmmmm," the dragon (dragon!) rumbled. "I'm not fond of your torch flaring in my eyes like that. Do us a favor and flip on the light switch just there by your left hand." It chuckled, wickedly cheerful. "I'd reach past you and do it myself but I can hear your little heart beating like a rabbit. It'd be a pity to have you snuff it from fright before we've had a proper chat."
Arthur took a shaky breath and scrabbled behind himself for the switch without looking away from the looming threat.
The lights were bright enough to make his dark-adapted eyes water and he blinked frantically to clear them even as he pressed himself backwards into the wall. The looming dragon was huge.
"There now, that's better, isn't...Arthur?"
He floundered for a moment. "...yes?"
"What the actual fuck..."
There was an impossible eye-twisting movement and suddenly a human man was standing there, bearded, tattooed, naked, reaching out to steady him as Arthur's knees went a little wobbly.
"...Eames?"
He blinked up a textured plaster ceiling. He was laying on one of the upstairs beds, the dusty counterpane tossed into a corner. Eames was reading nearby, sprawled across a faded brocade chair and wearing a velvet dressing gown that was, of course, gaping open, revealing portions of familiar tattoos and that ever-so-distracting trail of hair down his stomach. He was absentmindedly rubbing one end of the matching tasseled belt along his bearded jawline. The other end was tied around Arthur's ankle.
When Arthur made as if to sit up, Eames tossed aside the dog-eared paperback novel, the spaceship on the cover seeming to take flight only to crash land on the floor in an puff of dust. "Arthur! Don't get up yet, I'm not sure you're all the way back with me..."
"I don't faint," Arthur said, a little uncertain.
Eames gave him a reassuring smile. "You didn't faint."
"I don't remember getting here from the cavern."
"Ah well, you did decide to take a break from reality for just a little bit. Quite understandable, really."
Arthur scowled at him and then at the belt. "How is that not fainting? And why did you put a leash on me?"
"You weren't really unconscious, if that helps? Just...processing...rather hard."
"Processing that you're a dragon."
Eames winced. "Perhaps you were hallucinating that?"
Arthur sat up, pulling his knee up and reaching for the knot at his ankle.
"No, not yet," Eames said quickly with a little yank on the belt, tugging Arthur's ankle out of his own hands. "Not until I'm sure you won't run or try to attack me, anyway."
Arthur glared at him. "You think I’d attack a dragon?"
Eames gave him a charming grin. "Well, I'm not a dragon right now, am I?"
"So I could attack you right now?"
"I'm as vulnerable in human form as any other person...ack!"
Arthur launched himself off the bed, tackling Eames right out of the chair and pinning him against the floor, face-down in the dust.
Eames wheezed at the cloud of fine particles and then sneezed explosively.
Arthur winced, feeling the urge to apologize, and then yelped as Eames flipped them over. He sucked in a breath as Eames wickedly nudged his thighs apart to settle between them, very much at home. Arthur really wanted to be put out about the presumptuousness and especially the full-on smirk, but honestly, it felt a little too good at the moment. And Eames, warm and heavy and smelling as tantalizing as he always did, was all but naked against him except for the velvety robe...
Arthur sighed to himself and gave in. "The bed," he demanded, shoving at Eames. He was rewarded with the Eames-grin that he loved best - a split second of incredulous delight with Arthur's surrender that quickly morphed to a wicked and plotting leer.
"Yes, yes," Arthur said, giving him another push. "I am overwhelmed with lust at your mere presence, but I'm still not fucking you on this dusty floor."
Eames laughed and pushed up to his feet, reaching down to haul Arthur up as well. Arthur got a quick thrill from the casual show of strength, as always, and the way Eames' fingers tightened around Arthur's told him that Eames knew it. He did his best to scowl fiercely.
"That look's not fooling me,” Eames said fondly. He pulled Arthur right up against him, their mutual arousal obvious. "I'm glad you came looking for me, Arthur," Eames whispered, voice caressing his name. "Let me make up for all this, mmm?"
Arthur leaned away, carefully ignoring how he failed to really separate their hips. "'All this?' Does 'all this' include you disappearing without a word?”
“Well, I could hardly…”
“Does it include the whole dragon thing?"
"Darling, I…”
Arthur did push him away at that. “Don’t ‘darling’ me, Eames. Don’t try to charm me when we need to really talk.”
Eames gave him a hurt look and let him go. “Do you think I try to charm you?”
Arthur took a deep breath and reminded himself that he was more relieved Eames was alive than anything else. He crossed his arms and scowled theatrically. “All the goddamn time, Eames. You’re the very archetype of the fucking charming bastard.”
Eames blinked and then grinned, delight twinkling in his eyes. “Is that so?”
“That wasn’t a compliment!”
“Ah, but it was. It was one of the rare and incredibly valuable Arthur actual-compliments, sought the world over.”
“…you are so full of shit.”
Eames pulled him close again, and Arthur went with only a token resistance, tucking his face against Eames’ shoulder.
“Arthur.” Eames’ murmur against his ear made him shiver.
“You left,” Arthur murmured against his collarbone, breathing in the scent of Eames’ skin.
“You left first.”
He lifted his head with a frown to meet Eames’ carefully neutral expression. “I was going to tell you I wanted more from us, from our relationship, than just sex. And you slammed off into the bathroom. Was I supposed to hang around and beg?”
“I was going to tell you that we should consider something more lasting and I thought you were preparing to tell me off.” Eames chuckled ruefully. “And since you were gone when I got out… Well, anyway, shortly after that I had to come here. But that’s a bit of a long story.”
“Tell me.”
“Now?” Eames teased. “When we could be having mad make up sex?”
Arthur gave that a moment’s thought, then nodded. “After.” He reached for his belt only for Eames to take his hands and stop him.
“Let me,” Eames murmured. Arthur felt a thrill run up his spine at the intent and focus in Eames’ eyes as he traced his fingers down the cabling on Arthur’s sweater. “I like the casual look on you.”
“You prefer my suits.”
“I prefer you naked,” Eames growled.
“Well then get to it, Mr Eames,” Arthur growled back.
Arthur stretched across the bed, savoring Eames’ light caresses along his spine as the sweat cooled on them both. “It doesn’t surprise me in the slightest that someone in your family pissed off a sorcerer enough to get a multi-generational curse, you know.”
“Sod off,” Eames replied lazily, with an affectionate nibble to Arthur’s shoulder.
“So what do you do? I mean, as a dragon?”
“You mean, besides set things on fire and fly?”
“…you can fly?”
Eames grinned. “Arthur, I propose a date.”
“A date.”
Eames pushed up off the bed and started collecting items of clothing. “Yes, you unromantic tosser. A date. Get dressed.”
“What kind of date?” Arthur asked, not moving from the comfortable bed.
Eames turned to look at him, his eyes beginning to glow like fire. “A date with a dragon.”
Down in the cavern, Eames flicked on the lights again, and Arthur was mesmerized by the veins of blue john ore that rippled overhead like purple and indigo rivers. The treasure alcoves glowed: jewel-toned luminance, the gleam of precious metals, the cool sheen of marble and alabaster, and the rich textures of expensive fabrics. The libraries made Arthur’s fingers twitch at the thought of what information, what stories, might be hidden there.
“How did you have time to accumulate all this?” he asked, shaking his head in disbelief.
“Oh, none of this lot is mine. The family’s been collecting for some time. Dragons and hoards, you know.”
“But you guard it?”
“Well, the spells keep most people away, Arthur.” Eames grinned at him as if Arthur had done a particularly clever trick.
“I didn’t notice any spells?”
“Exactly! Anyway,” Eames tossed aside his robe and stretched, scratching his belly. “Might want to look away.”
Arthur remembered the brain-twisting bizarreness of the shift and squeezed his eyes shut.
“Ahhhh, there we go. Behold! The glory of dragonkind! The magnificence! The power! The bestial splendor!”
Arthur blinked up at him, taken aback again with how big Eames was as a dragon. Under the lights, his hide was the warm brown of vintage leather, burnished with metallic hints of both copper and silver.
Eames grinned toothily down at him and struck a noble pose clearly intended to induce admiration.
“You have feathers,” Arthur said with surprise.
There was a crest of long feathers from his head all the way down his back and the length of his tail. They were a brown so deep it was almost black, and the edges of each feather were gilded with the same subtle copper and silver.
His massive wings were entirely feathered as well, and these looked black in the lights, at least on top. Underneath they were flecked with faint silvery dots and patterns like the night sky. When Eames spread them with a flourish, they were almost perfectly silent even in the still cavern air.
“You’re probably almost as quiet as an owl, even at your size, aren’t you?” Arthur asked thoughtfully. “And your coloration would make you hard to see on a dark night. Which answers my question of whether someone would see you.”
“Come flying with me, darling. You’re a not-so-secret adrenaline junkie, you’ll love it. One quick flight before dawn starts brightening the sky,” Eames coaxed.
Arthur couldn’t honestly deny his desire to do it. “Am I supposed to ride on you?”
Eames tilted his great head thoughtfully. “I could carry you. Come here, let’s try this.” He sat on his haunches and held out a gigantic paw, claws held carefully apart.
Arthur gingerly stepped forward and let Eames scoop him up and hold him tucked up against his chest, the hide silky against Arthur’s skin. Dragon-Eames gave off a startling amount of warmth, though perhaps it shouldn’t be so surprising given that he was a fire-breathing mythological creature.
He peered out through Eames’ crossed claws. “No,” he said firmly. “First of all, it feels like a weird goth prison. Second, if there’s an emergency, you’ll squish me like a grape.”
Eames boomed a laugh. “Okay, fair. Then you’ll ride on top and hold on to the feathers there.”
“I won’t pull them out accidentally?”
“Not bloody likely, little human,” Eames leered, winking and poking him gently with an immense claw.
Arthur fought the urge to smack at him for just a second and then gave in, flat-handing the surface of the claw with a loud thwack. Eames chuckled and ducked his shoulder to let Arthur climb on to settled where Eames’ long neck sloped into his shoulders, ahead of the wings. He hooked his legs around some of the thick feathers close to Eames’ hide and held onto other feather shafts with his hands. “Ready, I guess?”
“Keep your head down, I’ll be moving fast and I don’t want to knock you off.”
“On what…?” Arthur started to say, and then Eames was racing toward a dark hole at the back of the cavern.
He eeled his way upward through the long and twisting hole, climbing with blistering speed and keeping his wings close to his body, partially shielding Arthur.
“Hold tight,” he growled and then leaped into the air, wings sweeping out and down in a powerful beat that left Arthur feeling like his insides had been left behind. Eames swung around on a wingtip and flung them over the crest of a ridge and then they were soaring down over the mountainside to skim fast and low through the rocky edges of the valley.
Arthur gasped and clutched hard onto the feather shafts. It felt like freefall and it looked like the ground was blurring past only inches away, but Arthur could tell that this was a controlled, if dangerously reckless, flight. And it was glorious.
He laughed with delight and pounded Eames’ shoulder under him, feeling Eames’ answering chuckle under his legs. He’d never felt such speed without the inevitable noises of machinery, but this flight was almost silent, and more exhilarating than any thrill ride he’d experienced.
They flew for what was probably only a couple of hours, but Arthur was as exhausted at the end of it as if he’d been free-climbing all night. Eames brought them back to the cavern and curled up in his dragon-sized pit, settling Arthur between his front paws.
“Sleep,” he murmured. “It’s safe here, and anyway, I’m keeping you.” He grinned fondly down at Arthur.
“You don’t get to keep me,” Arthur yawned.
“Sorry, not sorry.”
“I’m not part of your hoard.”
“Ahhh, but now that I’ve fondled you whilst in dragon form, I realize it’s inevitable. You are a treasure and I must hoard you.”
Arthur snorted. “I don’t think I’d take well to being hoarded.”
“Oh, did I give the impression there was a choice about it? Can’t fight the dragon instinct,” Eames said blithely, curling a wing forward to cover Arthur against the chill of the cavern air.
“Hmmm.” Arthur settled more comfortably under the warm feathers and considered that. “Would we have to stay in this very picturesque, tourist-filled village?”
Eames laughed. “No, though I’ll need to come back occasionally.”
“What about the rest of your hoard?”
“Oh, that’s not my hoard, like I said. No real personal attachment. The spells will keep it safe when I’m not here.”
Arthur yawned again, letting his eyes close. “Mmmm. Still not a treasure.”
Eames nuzzled him ever so gently with his snout. “Ahhh, but you are,” he whispered. “And you’re mine. Now go to sleep, Arthur.”
