Chapter Text
On the edge of the town, across from a bakery and a blacksmith and centered at the front of a large forest, is a little shop owned by a witch.
It’s tall and large, with big windows and shiny red bricks half-hidden behind a magnificent garden. Inside, there are hundreds of things to catch someone’s eye— trinkets and gadgets and useless lovely things. Feathers and unlucky rabbits’ feet and dire wolf fangs, there’s seeds and hand-crafted jewelry and beautiful glass windchimes.
There’s enchanted weapons and clothes and funky little hats in every shape and size.
There’s a box of sphinx feathers, a tube of pixie dust glowing from an empty basket, and pictures of stray, mystic creatures. Griffins and satyrs and little green faes. Books on imps and talking serpents and a mix match of wild things. Charms, crystals, and rocks bundled together; herbs like cypress and lavender line the shelves next to the mushrooms and across from the line of staffs and grimoires.
Spells and wards and bottled luck at the back. A library full of everything from history books to fanatical theories on ancient gods hidden by a door of beads.
It’s everything a witch, human, or other could possibly need.
Tommy, though— he doesn’t want any of it.
The books that dance in place and the rocks that shine are nice and the rosemary and mint that lines the walls smell good, but they won’t help him survive.
What Tommy wants is in the chest behind the counter in the form of dried meat and tightly packaged berries. There’s small containers of water next to it and a first aid kit on top that seems to always be freshly packed.
Tommy isn’t really sure why the witch who owns this shop doesn’t have any wards up against thieves.
There’s a good number for things like protection and sturdiness— things to keep those with ill-intentions away and to keep the building standing tall, the insides pristine— but none for people with nimble fingers and quick feet.
Even back when he could sneak in on two legs instead of four, he’d be able to grab enough food to live off of for a couple days every other month or so without getting caught. The hatchling doesn’t understand it, because every other shop has some type of ward up to prevent their wares from falling into the wrong hands, but he is grateful for it.
Being able to steal from the witch’s store has saved his life multiple times.
With the condition he’s in now and the way winter has been far from kind, Tommy’s never had been so appreciative of someone else being an idiot before.
His front leg has been rendered useless— the consequence of escaping a far too small cage rigged with corrosive magic— and with it having healed wrong and painfully, he can’t shift back into his human form.
So here Tommy is, stuck as a useless baby dragon.
It’s not too bad, for the most part.
People don’t notice him as much, he can slink around without the weight of eyes keeping him down, and when they do see him they’re too surprised to do anything but gape or scream which lets him get away.
He might be smaller, maybe the size of a big kitten if he’s being generous, but it’s easier to survive.
His scales protect him better than his skin does from the cold— as long as he doesn’t get too cold, then it’s painful the way they grate together— and his claws let him dig up or catch food a lot easier than his clumsy human hands do.
It’s easier to be a dragon for survival purposes, easier to hide, easier to get around, easier to keep warm.
Easier to hurt.
He has to stay away from people as much as he possibly can. Not everyone sees beings like him as people and not everyone agrees that they have a right to exist without a collar around their throats.
He’s lived through the proof that being a dragon isn’t a good thing.
Being young— and he is young despite how much he hates being called out on it— he hasn’t developed enough of his heartfire to keep himself safe. He’s barely a teenager on two legs but on four, he knows that no matter how much life experience he’s fit into twelve measly years, he’s still a baby.
Dragons live for a long, long time and they can get, if they’re lucky, to be as tall as trees and as big as a small house. Their hoards take centuries to perfect and as adults, their scales are hard enough that even diamond swords won’t pierce them and arrows bounce right off. Their hearthfires can create enough flames that they can spit them out, their claws sharp enough to break through chest plates and snap shields, their wings large enough to fly for hours at a time and roars loud enough to hear for miles.
But he doesn’t have centuries, he doesn’t have long claws or impenetrable scales or a large heartfire to defend himself with, to keep himself warm.
Dragons are powerful— why they’re so feared, so wanted, so used— and the familiars who’ve allied themselves to witches have created a reputation of unstoppable magical prowess for the rest of them.
So many people, now, want a piece of that power.
But Tommy’s not powerful, he doesn’t know how to use his magic.
If he did, he wouldn’t be on the streets, he wouldn’t be so scared all the time. He wouldn’t have these scars and he wouldn’t have those nightmares.
The hatchling doesn’t even know how to survive, really. He doesn’t know how to protect himself.
Most nights, he goes to bed holding back whimpers as he wishes that there was someone there to keep him company.
Someone to soothe his unruly magic, someone to keep him warm, someone to teach him how to hunt properly, and to fly with to show him how to avoid the large gusts of wind that send him spiraling towards the ground.
Someone to love him.
But when he wakes him, there’s never anyone there, so Tommy has to fend for himself.
Which is why he has to steal from the witch’s shop even though guilt likes to curl heavily into his gut even when he does it. Dying is worse than guilt, though, so although he feels bad it’s never enough to make him stop.
Perched on top of a little ledge— the farthest corner inside of the shop— sits the little dragon, snout barely over the edge as he stares out into the darkness. His golden, white scales stand out against the shadows but he knows he won’t be seen.
The shop’s quiet and Tommy’s done this hundreds of times before but his heart still pounds heavy in his chest.
There’s always a fear of getting caught, a fear that the witch and his two familiars are going to get him and not let him go. A fear of cages and chains and burning ropes, of cold and dark places that are far too empty. A fear of being used like so many of his ancestors have, like he has too.
But surviving is scary and he’s lived through worse so he has to do what he must.
Besides, he knows that the witch isn’t even here right now.
Even with the storm raging outside, Tommy had seen him leave with both of his familiars following right at his heel. He’s a tall man, a brunet with curly hair and a silver tongue. A weird man; known for being kind for the sake of kindness and nothing more.
The little dragon doesn’t understand it and he doesn’t trust it.
He trusts the other’s familiars even less.
One, at first glance, is a crow— a man older than the witch but shorter with blond hair and a laugh almost always ready on his lips— but at the second, after spotting the sparks at the edge of feathers and the flaming blue eyes, is a phoenix with a potent air around him.
Death and resurrection; creation magic is a little less rare than dragons like him are.
The second, and by far the one who scares the hatchling the most, is a man taller than his own witch and built like a warrior. Strong, fast, with sharp red eyes and always a frown marring his face. Long pink hair, almost always braided, and covered in jewels.
The little dragon doesn’t know what type of familiar he is, but whatever he is, he’s powerful.
While the phoenix has creation magic and the witch they serve seems to have a strong connection to nature and light, this familiar has thick and clingy magic— protection and healing and, oddly enough, smelling of iron.
Tommy doesn’t know what to make of it, what kind of magic they could have, but if there’s one thing that makes him hesitate to steal, it’s this man. Unknown but lethal.
After the hesitation, though, there’s the desperation and that pushes him forward.
The witch and his familiars are out, Tommy thinks he heard them talking about finding someone right before he crawled through the unlocked window (which is right next to his little corner), and it provides the perfect opportunity to steal some food.
With his white scales, he blended in perfectly with the raging storm and snow-dotted land that surrounded the shop. It makes it easy to sneak into.
Past the erratic sound of his heartbeat, all that can be heard is the roaring sound of the rain pelting against the roof and the wispy way the floors above him—where he believes the tiny coven actually lives—creak with every gust of wind.
Shaking the water off his wings as Tommy glides down from the little ledge, he tries not to focus on the way his whole body shivers. The rain was not only harsh but it’s cold, too cold.
His scales can only protect him so much; his heartfire isn't enough to keep him warm.
Stumbling to a stop on top of a shelf, he rights himself onto three legs. His hurt one gets held up to his chest, away from the dangers of putting too much weight on it—he’s not sure it isn’t still broken, there’s an almost constant ache to it even after months of not using it.
But he can’t focus on that now.
Can’t focus on the way his instincts cry for somewhere warm and for someone to protect him from the scariness of the world. Somewhere away from the pain of an injured limb and from the chill of damp scales.
The little dragon has a job to do, and he begins the journey to do it.
Climbing down the shelf is always a bit tricky. With wings that can hook onto the edges, he’s able to drag himself from level to level even with a lame leg, but his tail and small horns often catch onto something.
He has to get them unstuck and has to do it slowly because otherwise he risks knocking something— or himself— off and he’s not looking to get caught or injured further.
On a level parallel to the shop’s counter, Tommy drags himself to stand on the edge. He’s always been grateful that this shelf has little trinkets pushed to the back, they’re easy to maneuver and they rarely make loud noises when he does knock into them on accident.
It makes this next move—which he had to relearn after two legs became four and four became three— of jumping from the shelf to the top of the cash register much easier.
Easier but still a bit hard.
The little dragon barely catches himself from toppling right over the edge, a small squeal escaping from between his teeth as he pulls himself onto the counter.
He huffs at it as soon as he’s up, tail lashing behind him as he gives a small growl to the register. Stupid metal hunk of caged coins, it’s too slippery. But he bested it!
After the hatchling caught his breath and his scales stopped hurting from trading out the freezing storm for the warmth of the shop, he made his way over to the chest. Opening it was always a pain in the tail, his paws might be like little hands but his claws aren’t nearly as useful as human fingers are, so it takes multiple tries.
It takes a couple minutes to get the damned thing unlatched and open and by the end of it, Tommy’s puffing out big breaths of air. But it is, nonetheless, open.
With wings spread behind him as he wobbles into the small opening, he uses his tail to drag out a small bag of dried meat and puts it in between his jaws. With a sharp jerk of his head, he flings it onto the counter where it hits with a thunk! Returning to face the chest after giving a small squeak from the success, he brings up a small thing of berries and repeats the process.
Once he’s done, as he always does, he puts some little rocks that he collected in their place. It’d be rude to leave the witch with nothing, after all, and this witch already has plenty of rocks in his hoard.
Tommy’s sure he’ll appreciate these rocks, too. They’re shiny and small enough to play with!
Jumping on top of the chest, it snaps closed and Tommy delights in the sharp sound that it makes. He’s rarely able to be loud, to be present, to exist outside of precautions.
It’s nice to be able to hear something other than his own heartbeat.
Then the door is slamming open and all that joy disappears in a blink.
Tommy throws himself under the counter just as a large body stumbles through, clunky feet scraping against the stone floor—the witch. It’s the witch coming in through the door and Tommy’s underneath the counter.
The witch is right there and Tommy’s underneath the counter. The counter can't protect him.
The counter is a horrible hiding spot.
His heart is pounding so hard, so fast, inside his chest that it hurts.
He doesn’t notice as his wings flare out before it’s too late. The edge sends a flare of pain through him and quickly snaps them shut, barely stopping the whimper from sounding out loud.
He has to be silent, he has to be still and silent.
The witch is here, grumbling to himself as he stamps his boots onto the rug, and Tommy can see him from the gap at the bottom of the counter.
He looks angry.
The hatchling doesn’t like angry people and angry people don’t like him.
He’s not supposed to be here, he has to stay hidden and silent, he’s trapped but they don’t know he’s trapped.
The witch is angry. He can’t get caught by another angry witch.
The shaking that’s taken over the little dragon’s body is almost violent. He’d rather be freezing again, he'd rather be shivery and out in the rain and the snow— he’d rather be anywhere but this.
The door’s still open, the storm still raging, but if it wasn’t Tommy’s certain that the way his claws are digging into the floor below him and the harsh way his heart’s thudding in his chest would be audible even to the dull hearing that witches have.
But it’s not just the witch.
It's not just the witch because there’s his familiars coming in through to door, there they are— the phoenix and the mystery— they’re not even damp from the rain—
The witch wasn’t grumbling to himself, he was talking to them—
Tommy struggles to breath but all that leaves his chest is pathetic little wheezes. In his ears they’re too loud past the rushing of blood. He holds his breath.
He’d rather not be breathing than be caught.
He can’t go through that again, he can’t.
“We should’ve stayed out longer,” the witch complains as soon as the scary familiar closes the door. His hair is all over, curling in front of his wet glasses and sticking up from under his beanie. “We didn’t see him once.” The witch rips off his hat and Tommy wants to cry as it’s whipped to the side, a frustrated hand dragging through brown hair. “Not a single fucking time and we searched everywhere!”
Tommy’s been on the other side of a witch’s frustration before, of their violent outbursts. He has the scars from it and he doesn’t want more; he can’t handle getting more.
He doesn’t know the boundaries, the rules, how far is far enough for this witch.
The last one barely had limits. Would this one be the same?
“Calm down, Wil,” the phoenix orders and isn’t that strange? A familiar having the gulls to order his witch around? “We don’t need to see him to know that he’s okay.”
“Just because he isn’t hurt yet doesn’t mean he won’t be!” The witch— Wil— sneers as he cups the back of his neck with shaky hands. He looks somewhere between furious and scared.
The hatchling hates it, hates how the sight of a furrowed brow can make him feel like he’s dying all over again.
“He could be stuck out there, Phil,” Wil whispers. “It’s too cold for him to, to…”
“Hey, it’s okay.” The phoenix, Phil apparently, places a hand on Wil’s shoulder as the other familiar stands there, silent but watching. “He’ll make it. The little guy’s tough.”
His hand squeezes twice but the witch doesn’t seem to be in any distress from it.
That’s always been such a curious thing to the little dragon, how their touch doesn’t seem to hurt one another. He wonders, even now as fear shakes him down to his bones, if it’s magic— maybe a spell they use to make the sharp stings of contact hurt less.
Could he get the same magic? Could he find touch that doesn’t hurt?
“Wilbur.” The scary one sighs out and Tommy has to force down the whine that wants to slip from his throat. His claws dig into the floor harder, his bad leg throbbing with pain as it takes the brunt of his weight.
This familiar sends his instincts into a frenzy and he doesn’t know why.
“None of us had a premonition of him bein’ hurt and we found nothin’ that suggested that he failed to find a good shelter for the night.”
“Techno.” The witch faces the familiar— Techno, what an odd name— with an unreadable look in his eyes. “We don’t even know what he is, just that he’s a clever little fucker and a sweetheart, always leaving things for what he takes. What if he’s not… what if he’s not the type that can stand this kind of weather?”
Who are they talking about? Tommy wonders.
Did he miss another familiar, another witch? Is there a fourth to their coven?
“Like you said,” Techno replied. “He’s clever. Hardy type or not, he’ll make it.”
“The best we can do tonight is wait it out,” the phoenix joins back into the conversation. “We can’t risk one of us getting hurt searching for him, not in a storm this bad.”
The witch tugs at his hair and hangs his head. “But—”
“Tomorrow,” the scary familiar says, nodding solemnly.
He looks angry but Tommy knows, despite what his screaming anxiety is telling him, that he always kinda looks like that. It mustn’t be fun, having a face that says I’m mad.
“Tomorrow?” Wil sniffles as Phil takes his glasses off to clean them. It’s weird how they interact with one another. They’re treating each other the same, like they’re equals.
Tommy knows they’re not.
Familiars are never on the same level, never allowed the same things, as witches.
It’s why he’s under the counter, it’s why he’s hiding. It’s why he needs to stay hidden because he’s not only a familiar but he’s a dragon. He’s young and powerless.
These are the worst things to be and he’s all of them.
There’s ugliness in the world, he had been told. And you’re most of it, Tommy.
“We’ll go searchin’ for him tomorrow, just to be sure,” Techno promises. The tense way he’s holding his shoulders relaxes just a smidge as his witch nods and leans against the phoenix. “Tonight, we rest.”
The way they seem to be calming down foolishly gives the little dragon hope.
Maybe he’ll be able to escape, maybe they’ll go upstairs and fall asleep and he’ll go. Maybe they won’t catch him, maybe they won’t even see him. He’ll have to abandon the food he snatched to get out quickly but surviving another night, avoiding another cage, is worth going hungry for another day.
An empty stomach is better than a grave.
As the small coven devolves into another conversation, Tommy creeps out of his hiding place and slowly rounds the edge of the counter while they make their way through the start of the shop.
The scary familiar is looking around and the little dragon doesn’t dare to take another step as red eyes sweep the shelves and even the door to see outside, but never onto him.
Once he focuses back onto his witch, a dip in his brow that wasn’t there before but with the scary familiar’s back is to where Tommy’s pressed into the wood, he quickly skitters across the floor to hide again.
The phoenix laughs— it sounds a bit like cawing— and the little dragon uses the opportunity to climb up the shelf he’s now against. Going up is always easier than coming down and the adrenaline helps him ignore the aching in his limbs.
Being tense for so long always leaves him shaky and weak.
He can’t be weak, though, he needs to get out, he needs to leave.
Tommy can’t go back to the cold metal bars, the cage, the taunting and the rough magic scratching against his scales like knives. He refuses to.
As he’s trying to pull himself onto the top of the shelf, the phoenix asks: “Which one of you left the food out? I told you to pick up after yourselves, mates.”
“Neither of us,” the witch answers, sounding confused. “It wasn’t there when we left.”
“Check the chest,” the scary familiar commands. A pause, the sound of the latch opening, a sharp breath in. “Rocks.”
Tommy’s frozen in place, half hanging over the edge of the aisle, muscles and wings straining with the effort to keep him in place. The coven isn’t in view but they’re only a couple feet away from him; it would be easy for one of them to round the corner, to grab him—
Footsteps, the flick of a switch, light eating out the darkness of the shop—
The hatchling heaves himself to the top as a boom of thunder shatters the silence, a sharp fear tearing through his heart as he squints through the brightness traveling down to him. The darkness was better, kinder. It hid him, it allowed him hope.
There’s nothing hopeful about the light, about how it shows every ugly truth.
And the truth is— as the little dragon peers over the ledge and sees red eyes peering up at him— that he’s not getting out of this one.
Tommy’s too scared to move, paralyzed by an instinctual need to stay still.
He’s looking into the eyes of a predator and although he’s one himself, this one is so much bigger. A coyote pup staring into the eyes of a wolf. One move and he’s dead. The pupils turn into pinpricks as they stare at him and the little dragon lets out a long, drawn out whine. He’s scared. He’s so scared.
There’s more eyes on him and if he were in his skin instead of scales, he’d probably be sobbing.
The witch and the phoenix are there, flanking Techno on either side. Wolves travel in packs and this hunter isn’t without one.
Tommy’s alone, though. There’s no one who’s going to help him.
He’s trapped in their den, trapped by eyes as sharp as claws. He’s staring and Tommy doesn’t know where to go.
He doesn’t know what to do, where to run— does he run? Does he try to make it to that corner before they can make it to him?
What if he fails? What if they catch him? If he gets caught—
Will they lock him up, chain him, choke him? They’ll hurt him, they’ll hurt him just like he got hurt before— like how he hurt Tommy.
Stupid baby dragon, stupid worthless boy, thinking that they wouldn’t, thinking it was safe to take, take, take and never give. Thinking they won’t break bones, create more wounds.
The hatchling has to get out, he has to run and escape before they give him more scars.
Another lightning strike, a loud clap of thunder following that makes the little dragon twists around. Running but limping as he flings himself off the edge, he whimpers as surprised— angry, he can’t tell with the blood rushing in his ears— shouts follow his move.
With a single wobbly flap, he’s boosted towards the edge.
It hurts, especially with how he hit the edge of his wing earlier, but he makes it. He’s only a small leap away from his little corner, from safety.
He crashes into the other shelf, the one right below it, and doesn’t bother to register the pain in his leg or the buzzing ache traveling up his side before he’s moving to get up there.
The little dragon bends his back legs and jumps—
Only to be caught by strong, gentle hands.
Tommy cries out and they wrap around his torso, holding tight but being mindful of his frantically flapping wings. He’s dragged backwards, off the shelf that he desperately clings to, it hurts with how he uses his lame leg to latch on.
Being hurt is better than being caught.
The hatchling cries out again and again— scared, scared, scared— and forces his claws to dig in harder and harder into the wood but the wards are too strong, they won’t fail, they won’t give—
Help! The baby dragon screeches, a pained whimper spilling out of his jaw as the fingers brush against his broken leg, detaching it from the shelf. Hurt, scared-scared, help!
“Shh, sh, little one.” A rumble of safe-safe-safe catches his attention and makes the sharp whines grow a little quieter. It makes the anxiety smaller but he knows better, he knows he should be scared.
He knows better than to let go of the terror.
“It’s okay, hatchling, it’s alright.” A short but firm huff, let go. “You’re alright.”
Scared! Tommy wails as he’s forced fully off of the shelf, his squirming not making a single difference in the hold they have on him. Help, help! Scared-hurt-scared, help!
Safe, a chuff answers, deep and certain. Safe-safe, protected.
The hands shift on him, a thumb brushing against his neck, against the thick scar twisting up his scales. His instincts scream, memories crashing against his mind.
Sorry-sorry-sorry, the little dragon whimpers, flattening his wings to hide his head as the hands draw him towards a chest that’s, somehow, warmer than they are. Sorry-sorry, hurt, scared-sorry. Sorry!
Calm down, runt. A hand settles over the hatchling’s wings, gently stroking down his spine as his claws hook into their shirt— they’re too dull to break the fabric. Calm, safe-safe-safe.
The rumble switches, then, to something smoother.
It’s almost like a purr, echoing chuffs that fill his ears, and it settles the raging panic that encases his system, pulling stuttering breaths from his unworking lungs.
He hears a heart underneath his ear, steady and strong.
“That’s it, little one.” The chuffs shake with the voice and Tommy wails again, softer than before but no less terrified. “You’re alright, hatchling, I’m not going to let anythin’ hurt you.”
Scared, a hiccupped breath shakes his already trembling frame. Hurt-hurt, scared. Sorry, sorry, sorry.
It’s alright. You’re protected, a short growl answered. Safe-safe-safe.
His head leans unwillingly against the other’s chest, instincts desperate for the noises telling him he’s safe but mind unyielding in the belief that he’s not.
He can’t be safe, not when he’s just been caught.
The stupid baby dragon doesn’t know that, though, and Tommy struggles to fight against the way he clings to the person’s shirt, the rumbly purr telling him to settle. Telling him there’s no danger, telling him that nothing can hurt him.
It’s not true but slowly, his breath starts to even out.
The panic eases and air fills his lungs in something more than little gasps. The trembling hasn’t let up but his spikes have flattened down, tail curled around the hand that holds up his bottom half.
They’re so much bigger than him.
The hatchling never stood a chance.
He digs his nails into their shirt tighter, wings wrapped as tightly around himself as he can get them— they’re the only barrier between himself and the giant hand that’s cupping his upper body.
The hand is warm and the hold is protective but Tommy’s still terrified.
He doesn’t understand what’s going on. He doesn’t know what will happen.
His body aches, it hurts, but he can’t figure out if it hurts the same way as before or if the one holding him has a touch that hurts. They aren’t holding him tightly, it’s not even restrictive, just enough that he won’t be able to escape.
Scared, the hatchling whines, choking back the pathetic squeaks that want to get out.
He can’t give them reasons to get angry, he can’t make noise. Be silent, be still, be good.
That’s how he survives.
“Shh, sh, young one.” The chest vibrates underneath him as they speak and shakes further as a rumble soothes, safe-safe, protected. Hurt?
Hurt, scared-scared, the little dragon answers before he can think about it. Hurt-hurt, sorry, sorry, sorry!
A chuff starts up and the hand strokes a small course down his wings, reassuring him that it’s okay— but it’s not okay! Tommy’s been bad and he knows what happens to bad dragons.
Sorry! The wail is quieter than he wanted it to be. Sorry!
Safe, a growl promises, deeper than he’s ever heard. Safe, protected, nothing will hurt you. Safe-calm-safe. As he starts to panic again, heart fluttering rapidly in his chest, the hands press down a little more, flattening out against him.
They’re warm, almost burning as they press into the little dragon’s scales but it seems to be what he needed to settle down.
After a couple moments with nothing more than his heartbeat and a chuff in his ears, the silence and fragile calm that’s gathered around them breaks.
“Is he okay?” Someone asks— the witch, he thinks it's the witch— and Tommy flinches, burrowing himself closer to the warmth. “Fucking hell… he sounded terrified.”
The words run like water through the baby dragon’s mind, instincts diluting his thoughts until they don’t make sense. He’s hearing it but he doesn't understand.
He does, however, understand the rumble underneath his chest.
The constant promise of safe-safe-safe and the warmth makes the exhaustion that’s seeping in during his adrenaline crash seem like a good thing. He knows he can’t sleep, though.
“He is,” the one holding him answers, thumbs brushing down his spikes. “I think he got overwhelmed and the hatchling’s hurt, Wilbur.”
“Hatchling?” The phoenix, he thinks, asks. He sounds funny. Surprised, scared almost.
“Hatchling, a baby,” the scary familiar— because if the witch and phoenix weren’t the ones holding him, that only left the mystery— reaffirms as he gives another short growl of protection. “He’s barely old enough to be out of the nest, let alone livin’ on his own. Just a younglin'.”
Two sharp intakes of breaths makes Tommy jerk, his wings hooking onto the shirt now too. The witch steps closer and he freezes.
Predator! He whines, hiding his head further against the chest, little horns butting the other’s collar bone. Scared-scared-scared, predator!
“Back up,” the familiar snarls, hands shielding him further as his body twists to hide the little dragon from view. “He doesn’t understand, you’re just scarin’ him more. Right now, you 'n Phil are just predators.”
Scared-scared, the little dragon whines.
Safe, you’re okay, runt, is answered as soon as the predator steps away. Safe-safe.
“He’s hurt,” Wilbur replies after a pause, voice strained. “We need to heal him.”
“Let ‘im calm down further,” Techno says, patting his wing gently. “He’s tired himself out, I think. It’ll be easier to take care of any injuries when he’s asleep.”
“Will your instincts allow us near him?” Phil questions, the phoenix sounding a weird mix between amused and concerned. “You’re all keyed up, mate.”
“I’m fine,” the scary familiar huffs. “He’s just so… he’s so little, man.”
“He’s the size of a kitten,” the witch muses. “I think, anyway. Hard to see the baby when you’re smothering him.”
“Heat helps,” Techno informs, the chuffing rolling his words as the man stands. Tommy trembles harder with the movement but doesn’t peek out. “The runt was far too cold. Hatchlings aren’t supposed to be away from warmth for long periods of time.”
They’re swaying from side to side now, the voices moving as if they’re getting further away. The little dragon’s too tired to try and figure out what’s happening. With drooping eyes, he pulls himself closer to the chest.
“Yeah,” the phoenix sighs. “Being cold is never good for young ones.”
“You think he’ll be alright, Tech?” The witch asks, the creak of a door opening following the words. “Looked like he was limping, earlier.”
“His leg’s hurt.” The scary familiar agrees, humming softly as his voice goes quieter. “We’ll know more when he get the chance to look at ‘im.” A pause. “I think the hatchling is fallin’ asleep.”
“Good,” Phil hummed, too. Tommy barely heard it. “Little one probably needs it.”
“Mm. Probably been a while since he got good sleep.”
It’s the last thing that— even when fighting against it— the hatchling hears before he’s falling asleep.
An ancient dragon with gleaming red scales is curled into the corner of a big room— twice the size of a large horse and an infinite times more deadly. Sharp talons, spikes that can impale, long fangs and powerful wings. A heartfire strong enough to burn down a whole forest.
He lays in the middle of a nest made out of soft, warm things. He’s curled around something precious, guarding it from the world.
A hatchling rests between his front legs, the little thing is white and gold, though his scales don’t gleam. The poor thing is absolutely covered in scars, from the tip of his tail to the edge of his snout, horrible gray scales mark the injuries of his past.
His front leg, broken but now wrapped up properly, is held to the youngling’s chest with white bandages.
The edge of one of his wings which had been scrapped raw now has a healing ointment on it, the soft webbing between the fingers of the wing going from a reddish bruise to its proper light gold.
It’s a sad sight— something so small, so young, hurt so much.
Technoblade grumbled softly, the steady chuff still not letting up even as the baby was safe and calm now. He stared at the other, mind whirling.
Dragons like them are rare. Finding a young one, especially like this…
He could feel Phil’s worry and Wilbur’s lack of patience eating away at the witch's anxiety in the back of his mind.
He didn’t like it but he couldn’t focus on that right now.
He was anxious too, instincts roaring at him to bundle up the little one until he was truly hidden and guard him. The room they were in was safe, their side of it was one that his witch and covenmate weren’t welcome in even though they were part of his hoard.
They weren’t dragons, though, and his overprotective hindbrain insists that they’re predators.
They were sitting at the edge of the room on one of the couches, both reading but Technoblade knew their focus would occasionally come back to the two dragons.
The house was much bigger than it looked, thanks to their magic, and accommodated to his sheer size and he’s never been more thankful before that he’s able to build a nest inside and one that’s so warm.
Younglings needed constant attention; warmth and care and a steady source of food.
They were hard to come by with so few of their species left and the ones that do exist are treated as the most rewarding of treasures. They aren’t abandoned and they certainly aren’t hurt by those in their den.
This hatchling must have been taken from his clutch, must’ve been stolen.
For nothing good, Technoblade knew. The sight of the scars made his scales itch, fury and protectiveness raging through him like a storm.
If he ever found those who left even a single mark on this young one…
As the baby whined softly in his sleep, little wings fluttering just a bit, the ancient dragon leaned down and blew little sparks against the other’s scales. The heat made the youngling sink further into the blankets, a pleased hiss coming from tiny jaws.
Content, Techno scooted closer, curling further around him, tail over his paws.
He rested his head next to the hatchling, simply watching them.
When he wakes, they might be able to get more answers— he hopes the little one will be able to communicate further than the instinctual fear responses from earlier. If not, he hopes the little one will at least eat.
If they won’t be able to understand what led the baby dragon here, they can at least take care of the small one.
Hatchlings deserve someone to care for them, to love them. Technoblade, despite what a lot of people think, has a lot of love to give.
He’d happily welcome the hatchling into his hoard, happily be his protector.
The baby, though, might not be so happy with that. Especially after being forced to fend for himself for so along— and after what created those scars.
Trust won’t come easy.
For the first time in a long, long time, Tommy wakes up without pain forcing him into awareness, without a loud noise jolting him, and without the chill of winter frosting over his scales.
He’s warm, which probably shouldn’t make him uneasy the way it does, and the ache that typically encased his broken leg wasn’t there.
But he’s warm and he’s not in pain. What’s there to complain about?
The hatchling sticks his snout into the fuzzy thing before him, little huffs leaving his chest as he buries himself into it. It’s soft, softer than anything he thinks he’s ever touched before, and he wants to hide away in it forever.
He sinks his claws into it, tail twisting into the folds of the fabric, and he realizes that something weird is keeping his lame leg attached to his chest.
A confused squeak leaves his jaws and he twists onto his back. The soft thing clumps around and above him but whatever it is, it lets the light through and lets him see the white thing keeping his leg in place.
Tommy baps it, trying to tug the thing but it’s just… staying?
How is it stuck on him? It’s too weirdly wrapped around him to be clothes and it doesn’t seem to have an end. Just a bunch of starts overlapping.
Accidentally hitting it too hard makes a dull throb shake his leg, the little dragon grumbles softly and rolls back onto his stomach— only for his wings to catch on the stupidly soft fabric and pin him in place.
The little dragon hisses his complaint, thrashing as he fights the soft thing.
He hates being trapped onto his back.
Eventually, after maybe half a minute of struggling, he defeats the fuzzy beast and shuffles himself out from underneath it.
Sitting up, surrounded by the soft fabric that— now that Tommy sees it, knows it’s a blanket—had almost succeeded in trapping him, the hatchling snuffles unhappily at it.
Then, on his next breath, he sneezes.
The force of it sends him toppling over, right back into the pile of warmth. He likes the blankets, especially now that he knows there’s just so many of them, and he likes how soft they are but he does not like being stuck under there alone.
Letting himself roll, the little dragon immediately got right back to his feet.
And proceeded to come face to face with a wall of… red?
It was tall and not like a regular wall, it had different edges, smooth and kinda round. Tommy followed it as it got smaller, a lump to the side that disappeared under the blankets and then a longer trail behind the rest of the wall, tall pokey looking things coming out from the top.
It was confusing, he couldn’t really make out what the wall was supposed to be.
Tommy tilts his head, eyes going in the other direction. There were two really tall peaks with big hook things at the top. He shuffles his wings, squinting at them. They were oddly familiar but he couldn’t figure out how. The wall seemed to surround him entirely. Past the peaks, there were those pokey things again but they were smaller and smoother.
They let to another lump, ones with horns, pointed ears and—
And two big, red eyes staring right at him.
Tommy let out a scared squeak as he skittered backwards, wings flaring out on either side of him as he bared his fangs at the… the— dragon?
The hatchling froze as their head rose to face him, eyes widening as he watched what the other would do. He’s never seen another dragon before, let alone one so big. He had no idea if they were mean like people or territorial like other familiars can be.
And he’s in their nest, or at least somewhere with a lot of nice things, and it’s not somewhere he should be.
The little dragon knows that unwelcome visitors to nests are treated as attackers and attackers, well, they get attacked back. He doesn’t want to be attacked, he isn’t even sure why he’s in this nest and he wants to leave, leave, leave.
The giant dragon scooted closer, a rumble moving their throat as they slowly blinked at him.
Sorry, sorry, sorry, Tommy dipped his head down, mantling his wings. Intrusion-accident-sorry. Sorry!
Forgiven, a low snort followed the older as he closed in tighter around the little dragon. The pokey things are spikes, the peaks wings, and Tommy realized that they looked a lot alike. If he were red, they’d practically matched.
Do they all match? Do all dragons look alike?
Why is he red when the hatchling is tinted with gold?
Runt? The dragon called and the little one tensed. Relax, calm-calm. No intrusion.
Sorry, he replied anyway and couldn’t stop the slip of a sharp whine from following— scared, sorry-sorry, scared. Accident, didn’t mean to.
Their mouths fell open just a bit and Tommy immediately flinched back, shrinking into himself. He’s going to get bitten or eaten whole, he’s going to be torn apart and—
Fire that’s— not fire? Baby fire? Little flicky bits?
It licks soothingly at his wings, spreading over where he’s hidden behind them in fear.
He doesn’t know how, or why, but from this one action alone, the hatchling knows that although this isn’t his nest, it is a nest he is welcome in. The other dragon won’t hurt him.
Or, Tommy really hopes he won’t be hurt.
He hopes he can trust his instincts, no matter how pathetic they make him when they whine and scratch at his mind for someone to take care of him and somewhere warm.
Slowly uncurling from his scared little ball, the hatchling peeks out at the big dragon.
Hesitatingly, Tommy squeaks out, safe? Nest is safe?
Safe-safe-safe , the other growls lowly at him, resting his head right in front of the little dragon. Nest for you, runt. Safe here, protected.
Protected? He questions, pushing back his wings to be able to sit down. Nest isn’t safe?
Safe, they nose at the blankets next to Tommy. My territory, my hoard. Mine and mine is safe. Runt is new and new hatchling is scared. Protected but still scared.
The little dragon huddled down until he could rest laying in his stomach— his legs were oddly sore, almost like he had run a lot— and just stared openly at the giant dragon.
They weren’t scary, exactly, but they were a lot bigger than him and it was intimidating.
But they were also laying in the nest, on the soft things, and seemed content just to watch him back. They weren’t even mean about it! No angry hisses or snarls, no glares, just looking.
He wonders if they’ve ever seen another dragon before, or if this is their first time too.
Not noticing his tail was swaying tiredly from side to side, the hatchling accidentally brushes it against the big dragon’s. He jolts, standing as he steps away from the other, peeking up at them to make sure he hadn’t angered them.
Not a lot of people are okay with touching something like Tommy.
The big dragon doesn’t seem to mind, though, as he blows a small burst of smoke at the little dragon.
Tommy squeaks quietly as it brushes his face— he doesn’t know how loud he’s allowed to be— and happily unfolds his wings to flap at the smoke to make it twist and turn. His hearthfires not enough to even make smoke yet but one time, he accidentally fell into someone’s chimney and got to play with the smoke and fire until they noticed him.
The big dragon huffs in amusement and the hatchling stops what he’s doing to turn back to them. Was he allowed to play with the smoke?
Are they laughing because he’s doing something stupid again?
Sorry-sorry? The little dragon questioned with a shrug of his wings.
The big dragon chuffed soothingly at him and blew more smoke, this time with a few sparks, and Tommy wasted no time in trying to catch them.
They were pretty but they were also warm and he’d gotten a bit cold after he escaped the soft things— but he needed to escape because he really didn’t like being trapped.
Being cold is better than being trapped. Twice as better. Maybe even three times!
Pouncing a bit too far, Tommy ends up sprawled over the big dragon’s paw and he can’t find the energy to panic because they’re so warm and their scales are soft, too! Not soft like how the blankets are, but soft like how flowers are soft.
They don’t look like their scales would be soft.
Tommy wonders, briefly, if he’s soft too and if he looks soft— but then he’s being scooped up into that paw and put back into the middle of the nest, the big dragon’s body curling closer around him.
The little dragon isn’t sure but it almost looks like the other is frowning at him.
Confusion-uncertainty, he growls at them. Safe?
Safe-safe-safe, they growl back. You were cold, runt.
This confuses Tommy.
He’s cold a lot of the time, he doesn’t like it but he is. Why is this time different?
Cold is… bad-bad? The hatchling tries to remember the words, but feelings are so much easier to express. Drakonian is innate but he still struggles, even when all he had was himself to talk to. Cold a lot. Cold scares-hurt but not hurt. Cold bad?
Runt being cold is bad, the big dragon patiently replies, not seeming to mind the young one’s stammering. Runt should not be cold. Ever. Nest is warm.
The little dragon looks at the soft things below him, debating.
The nest is warm but going underneath the blankets would mean he can’t see the other. He’d be trapped, alone. But if the big dragon was under there with him, he wouldn’t be alone or trapped.
It’d be like they’re just visiting a small den! Company instead of a cage.
Tommy nods to himself, tail flicking behind him as he starts moving. Grabbing the closest soft thing to himself— a big pink blanket with… pigs on them?— he pulls it away from the top of the nest and to where the other’s head is.
Confusion? The big dragon hisses softly.
Tommy turns around and butts his little horns into the side of their jaw, squeaking out safe-safe, nest is warm! before getting back to work.
With the blanket loose, and certainly large enough, the hatchling puts it back into his mouth and pounces at the others snout— which is admittedly a bit difficult with only three legs— before the big dragon could stop him.
Pausing at the top, the little dragon huffs reassuringly at the bewildered way the other is looking at him.
Continuing his journey, he drags the fabric behind him until it’s covering half of their face. Once he determines it’s good enough, the hatchling lets himself fall back into the pile of soft things, drifting to the edge of the pig blanket.
Careful, the big dragon scolds him.
Safe, Tommy easily returns as he wiggles into the little den he created.
The big dragon’s whole snout and half his head under here with him, a red eye watching him carefully. It’s already warmer inside of the blanket cocoon he’s made and the little dragon burrows into the comfy layer of soft stuff below him.
Together now, Tommy explains, resting his little head onto his tail and letting his wings slump on either side of him. Nest is warm. Better together!
Rumbling something that’s a mixture of pride and happiness at him makes the hatchling hide his head underneath his paw. He’s not used to anything so... positive and it’s weird.
Weird but good, so he guesses it’s not too bad.
Giving a sleepy little chirp, the hatchling tucks himself into a neat ball and lets his eyes closed. He doesn’t know this big dragon but he knows he’s safe— or, at least, safe in the nest— and he’s tired.
A bubbly chuff echoes from the giant dragon’s chest, little sparks blowing down at Tommy, encouraging him to relax.
For the first time in a long, long while, the little dragon falls asleep without fear making his heart pound and without the chill of winter making his whole body shiver.
The warmth is a luxury and he’s going to be thankful for it while he still can.