Archive of Our Own

Once upon a time, the Earth was a cold, dead, dark, and empty rock.  From nearly nothing, life sprang forth.

And from that life, there arose dragons.

“Dragons used to be a lot bigger,” Maria Stark said, holding her two-year-old son on her lap, a picture-book between them.  There was no writing whatsoever, but Maria drew upon her own knowledge to articulate each image.  In stunning panorama, two huge, blue-gray dragons wandered through an ancient forest, their snouts level with the treetops.  “They never stopped growing.  They still don’t.”

She turned to the next page, unveiling a tundra framed by a distant mountain range, three shadowy dragons silhouetted near the peaks.  “How many dragons are there, darling?” she asked him.  Tony dragged his hand across the page, indicating the three silhouettes carefully.  His mother smiled secretively, then guided his small hand across the page towards three more snow-white dragons, lurking below their companions.  “Dragons are smart and well-camouflaged,” she informed him.

Tony shivered with delight.  Dragons are smart and well-camouflaged.

She turned the next page, revealing another large dragon, this time curled up in a sea of sand.  A tiny caravan of people on camel back approached the sleeping beast, revealing its massive scale.  “For a very long time,” his mother explained, turning the page to reveal the bones of the same curled-up dragon at a dig site, organized by the same caravan, “our knowledge of dragons came from bones.”

“Like dinosaurs,” Tony whispered, tracing the bones.  Tony had always liked dinosaurs; one of his favorite memories was holding Dad’s hand as they walked through the Dinosaur Hall.  It was one of the few things a two-year-old prodigy and a fifty-year-old genius could have in common: awe at the primordial.

“Yes,” his mother agreed, the odd duckling of the family.  “Like dinosaurs.”  She turned the page.  Tony flattened his palm against it automatically, mesmerized.  “But unlike dinosaurs, dragons did not go extinct,” she said, as Tony stared at the encounter.  A medium-sized red dragon, about the size of an elk, stood at the mouth of a cave, while five of Tony’s ancestors watched it from the depths, mesmerized.  Six—counting the mother’s baby.

His own mother let him linger on the page, absorbing every detail.  The jewel red dragon was striking in its lifelike detail, but it was the cave that riveted Tony.  The hand paintings on the wall, the fire that reflected in the red dragon’s black eyes, the mother and child near the back of the cave.  The baby was sleeping.  Tony asked, “Will the dragon eat them?”  He looked up at his own mother.

“No,” his mother said.  “He's eaten,” she said, indicating the rounded belly.  “Only hungry dragons cause problems,” she went on, as Tony moved his hand aside so she could turn the page. 

Tony flinched at the sight that greeted them: a very hungry-looking dragon was reaching for the bones left in a dead campfire.  She had speckled black spots along her green hide to camouflage her, but her ribs were still visible.  One of her horns was broken off.  “Some dragons suffer,” his mother explained quietly.

“They shouldn’t have to,” Tony replied, turning the page for her.  He did not want to linger on the starving moss-green dragon.  He had a very bad feeling that she did not survive her ordeal.

Even as they flipped through the rest of the book, Tony could not escape the imagery of the starving dragon.  He still enjoyed the pictures of the dragons in the city, the dog-sized dragons that scampered across rooftops and chewed mischievously on wires, the fireplace dragons that slept near the hearth like the family pet, a hint of a smile on their reptilian faces.

It felt like connecting with Radon’s family, to read about his ancestors.  Tony liked Radon very much.  He loved learning about dragons.

But the green-black dragon still troubled him.

That night, as his mother slept beside his father, who had not spoken even a word to him in days, Tony retrieved the dragon book, poked her in the side, and whispered, “Mom?”

She turned over.  “Tony?  What is it?”

“I don’t like this book,” Tony said, because it troubled him.

“Oh, Tony,” his mother sighed, sitting up and flicking on a light.  Dad slept on; Dad slept very deeply, most nights.  “Come here, love,” she said, pulling him into her lap again.

Tony went to her, warbling, “Dragons shouldn’t die.”  He flipped to the right page, smearing and crumpling the other pages along the way, hands clumsy.  With practice, they would be steady, his mother assured him.  He showed her the hungry dragon, sniffling, “I don’t want Radon to die, Mom.”

“No,” his mother sighed.  “No, sweetheart, Radon won’t die.”

Tony showed her the desert dragon’s bones.  “He died.”

His mother held him close, her beating heart a comfort to him.  “Dragons can’t live forever, sweetheart,” she said at last.  “That’s what makes them so special.”

. o .

Present.

Marker blew bubbles into the lake.  Honest-to-God bubbles.  “Steve, help, my dragon’s defective,” Tony deadpanned, as Marker lifted his head and uttered a guttural sound suspiciously close to a laugh.  “He’s lost it.”

“Hasn’t been outside much, has he?” Steve asked, as Marker plunged his head back into the lake joyfully.

Tony—sighed.  “Uh, no, we try to avoid—this.”  He gestured at the woods.  “Frankly, I thought we’d pushed it all to extinction years ago,” Tony sniffed.  “The Great Outdoors was starting to feel—outdated.”

“That’s a damn shame,” Steve said, stripping off his shirt.  Tony perked up.

“Happy birthday to me,” Tony said.

Steve ignored him, stepping into the lake.  Marker lifted his head out of the water.  Steve rubbed Marker’s head in passing—he was damn comfortable around Tony’s dragon, which was fine, given their own relationship, but bewildering, given the apparently singular bond between tame dragons and humans—before venturing waist-deep into the cool blue water.  “That’s brisk,” Steve announced.

“Mm-hm, that’s why I am here,” Tony said, standing on shore.  Marker nudged his wet face against Tony’s side.  Tony stumbled over the pebbles, grimacing as Marker's heavy golden head landed square on his bruised ribs.  “Ow,” Tony complained.

Steve chastised, “Marker,” and the dragon clicked back at him, trampling into the water, kicking up waves with each step.  “Good boy,” Steve said, wading farther into the lake.  Marker made an odd sound, almost a trumpet, as he tilted his chin up and followed, claws scrabbling pebbles.  “That’s a good boy,” Steve repeated, as Marker drew nearer, trumpeting again.

Tony sensed disaster in the air.  “Uh, no, bad idea,” Tony said, but the dragon and his pet human were not paying him much mind.  “He can’t swim—”

With a last trumpet, Marker lost whatever fragile rhythm he had held onto and disappeared abruptly below the surface.  “Shit,” Tony cursed.  Marker bobbed back to the top of the water a moment later, uttering a high-pitched cry Tony had never heard from him before.  It was pure panic.

Before Tony could figure out what to do, never mind how to help, Steve had ducked under Marker’s head and shoulders, heaving him towards the surface.  Steve huffed, “C’mon, you’re fine, you’re fine.”  Marker trumpeted again.

Tony shouted, “Are you out of your mind?”  He could not make himself articulate anything else, frozen with fear as Marker thrashed in panic, wings starting to unfold.

“C’mon,” Steve insisted.  “Stick with me.”  Even his super-strength had to be straining.  On dry land, Marker weighed 3,182 pounds. 

Tony often likened his father’s former donkey to a full-grown draft horse, a gigantic, gold-skinned Pegasus, but with his armored hide and metric-breaking heft, Marker hit more like a rhino than a horse.  “You can swim, I know you can,” Steve insisted, with such firmness that Tony thought he had lost his mind or forgotten that it was Tony’s dragon he was dealing with.  “Stick with me, Radon.”

It was like flipping a switch.  Marker’s trumpets stuttered, then ceased.  The kicking feet pedaled in unison.  At last, Steve got the dragon to support his own weight.  The claw marks on Steve’s bare shoulders looked mean, but Steve kicked farther out into the lake.  Marker followed, paddling harder than he needed to and kicking up water but—swimming.

Swimming.

. o .

You ever seen a dragon swim?

Can’t say I have.

You’re in for a real treat, my friend, Howard Stark said.  These animals were built for every environment on Earth.  Caves, forests, deserts, mountains, marshes, you name it.  And how do you think they got around to the islands, huh?  Howard gesticulated at the broad river.

Steve watched as Radon, sun-yellow and about the size of a small donkey, bobbed his head a few times before trampling into the water, crocodilian tail sweeping behind him.

Most animals are trapped in one very small niche, Howard went on, reveling in his own revelations.  Not us.  Not dragons.  We’re utterly wasting them as pets when we could be using them as partners.

Imagine, you treat this intelligence, as an intelligence, Howard told him, rubbing Radon’s neck while the dragon rolled his head like an owl, clicking with satisfaction.  Think of what we could do.  What we could achieve in this world with domesticated dragons.

. o .

Tony clapped.  “Free Willy!” he called.  “I’m not asking again—come!”

Marker ignored him, slinking under the surface again.

“You’ve corrupted my dragon,” Tony told Steve, who stepped out of the lake, soaked to his trousers and pale as an Irishman.  “Look at him, he’s broken.”

Steve reclaimed his discarded shirt and used it to dry himself off.  “Call him,” Steve said simply.

Tony scowled.  “No.”

“Then let him be,” Steve said, tossing his shirt over one shoulder.  “He’s having fun.”

“I swear to God, Steve Rogers—”  Tony whistled.  A golden head appeared at the surface, black eyes watching him curiously.  “That’s nightmare fuel,” Tony told Steve.  Tony raised both eyebrows expectantly.  Despite being halfway across the pond, Marker dutifully lifted his snout above the water and paddled over, using his huge tail as a rudder.  “That’s better,” Tony praised.

Marker slunk out of the water, then shook his head fervently, scattering ice-cold water everywhere.  Tony yelled.  Marker ignored him as he shook out his whole hide, including his wings, before satisfying himself.  Golden flakes littered the shore.  Steve picked one up, musing, “How much you think this is worth?”

“Oh, ha-ha,” Tony scowled, snatching Steve’s towel and smacking him with it.  “You have a dragon.  Get lost.”

Steve caught the end of the towel on the second swing, reeling Tony in, hugging him loosely.  Tony grimaced deeply.  “You’re all wet.”

“Wanna take a hike?” Steve asked.

“No,” Tony replied.  “I want a computer with Wi-Fi.”

Steve grinned as he stepped back, bare-chested and flushed with cold but still stupidly beautiful.  Goddamn iceman.  “We’re going on a hike,” Steve said.  Marker shook off one last time for good measure, then warbled at Tony as if to say, Bye-bye, before following Steve down the shore.

“Hey,” Tony called, disgruntled.  “Whose dragon are you, huh?”

Marker clicked back at him.

“That’s what I thought,” Tony huffed, turning and yelping when he came face-to-face with Snow.  “Oh-God.”  Tony would bet good money she was at least half again Marker’s size, a full head taller.  She also had two extraordinarily lethal horns perched on her brow, perfect for skewering other dragons.  Tony did not like to imagine what they could do to mere mortals like himself.

Snow's huge black eyes pinned Tony down, ready to snatch him up as a bite-sized snack.

Then Steve whistled from the distance.  Snow lifted her head to look in his direction.  Tony bowed, told her, “I’ll be going,” and scampered after them before Snow could decide he was an obstacle to be removed from the equation.

. o .

“Your dragon is terrifying,” Tony announced, huffing as he caught up to Marker and Steve.  Marker clicked at him, then shoved his head against Tony’s side warmly, ignoring Tony’s grimace.  “Hi,” he said, patting Marker on the head.  His ribs felt like they would never heal, but at least Marker was happy.  “Good boy,” he added.

“She’s not so bad, once you get past the horns,” Steve dismissed, leading their little expeditionary force along the trail.  At least he was moving away from the water, Tony thought, even if he was moving towards the peaks.  “Even the horns ain’t that bad.”

“You can’t be intending to climb that,” Tony said, indicating the peak and ignoring the stupidity of bond-driven remarks.

(And Steve complained Tony was reckless around his dragon.  At least Marker’s flatter, softer brow could only serve as a battering ram—useful in jousts with other males, rather useless when confronting females of his kind.)

“Why not?” Steve replied, which was all the explanation Tony coaxed for him for the next two hours.

. o .

As the sun began to set, the temperature plunged.  Steve mused, “Bit brisk.”

Tony, whose teeth had been chattering nonstop for an hour and a half, could only scowl at him, huddling as near to Marker as he could while walking.  Steve strode ahead of them, his shirt iced over but his gait confident, warm.

Had Steve crashed anywhere but the coldest damned icebox on the planet, Tony thought, leaning against Marker’s shoulder as they paused at a narrow turn in the path, there was no way Steve Rogers would have been kept down by the ice.  Steve seemed to embrace the challenge of it, thriving only when life was hard.

Utah was hardly Tony’s first choice as a place of adventure—it was mostly sand—but it also had mountains.  Sharp-peaked, Tolkienian masterpieces, framing landscapes so pretty even Tony could not gripe about them.  Mountains with an absolutely killer grade.

“All right, tough guy,” Tony huffed, crashing into Marker as they stopped.  Marker nosed at him, testing his liveliness, before looking ahead, dismissing him as a cause for concern.  Tony winced under the tender ministrations, refusing to budge when Marker ambled forward.  Tony slid to the snowy ground and announced, “I quit.”

Steve said brightly, “Can’t quit.”

Groaning, Tony stayed where he was, watching the two adventurers begin to climb.  Marker seemed to delight in it, following unquestioningly, like he had nothing to say.  Tony sat and watched them, happy to hold down the fort.

He might have actually passed out—between one blink and the next, Tony found himself flat on his back, looking up at a starry sky and wheezing, “That’s really pretty.”

Footsteps clicked over stone.  Then Steve was there.  Tony flapped a hand, huffing, “Go on without me, Togo.”

“Togo?”  Steve leaned down and caught Tony’s hand.  Then, to Tony’s surprise and mild dismay, Steve hoisted him into his arms, bridal-style.  Bridal-style.  Tony could not remember the last time he had been so affronted, except maybe when J.A.R.V.I.S. had informed him he had peed in front of a couple hundred people to demonstrate the technological capacities of his suit.

That had not been a fun hangover.  Few hangovers were fun, Tony thought, dizzy and exhausted and admittedly a tiny bit pleased with himself to be swept off his feet by a beautiful man.  But that was a particularly bad hangover.

This was going to be a bad hangover, Tony thought.  He had a moment to deliriously wonder if Steve would toss him over the slope and resume his climb with Marker, a promise to retrieve him later met with a weary, You do you, honey.

Steve was still ice-cold, but he did not seem to mind, was not even shivering, the bastard.  Tony was about to slur a remark about it when Steve said, “You gonna be good for me?”

I’m always good, Tony thought, but Steve was not talking to him.

“You’re a good boy,” Steve told him.  Tony thought, Nice to be noticed, before Steve slid him across Marker’s back.

Up close, Tony could hear every warbling click and mutter and intonation, a brilliant overlay of sound that almost subsumed the fact that he was sitting astride a dragon. 

There were subvocal intonations, less like sound and more like a foot tapping rhythmically against the floor, underlying the audible clicks and hums.  Tony could not hear the music, but Tony could hear his dragon.  Underneath the vocalizations, Tony heard the huge heart pumping, each whispery breath that thrived at altitude, slow in, slow out, gentle as a blizzard.

The humming rose and fell like waves, some longer, some shallower.  It was beautiful.  “Steve,” Tony managed wonderingly, hugging Marker’s neck as Marker clicked and clicked and clicked.  “I can hear him.”  It reminded him of orcas; there was a communication below the surface that Tony could not hear in the audible.  Tony reveled in the taste of it, in the intelligence lurking below his understanding.

“He’s very talkative,” Steve said agreeably, his voice very far away.  “I think he likes you.”

Tony was sure he responded, but he was too focused on Marker’s sounds to pay attention to his own words.  Tony may have drifted off again—must have—as he noticed their surroundings changing, from the high-altitude peaks to the lower, forested surroundings.  “He likes you, too,” Tony said nonsensically.

Like human like dragon, Tony thought, amused, as at some indeterminate hour Marker bowed his head, making a noise that could only be whining, until Tony took the hint and rolled off.  Tony laid on the hard-packed dirt, sore and tired and almost euphoric, until Steve back-walked to him, offered a hand, and tugged Tony to his feet. 

Marker had taken the opportunity to canter ahead, brisk for an animal of his size.  Tony could only laugh at the sight, sore ribs protesting as he said, “Look at him.  He’s an idiot.”  And Tony loved him, and loved him, and loved him.

. o .

Tony was sure he would sleep like the dead, but he was up before dawn, leaping off the hardwood floor and zipping outside to tackle the impossible new mission in front of him.

The actual record might reflect more limping, groaning, whining, and struggling to peel himself off the floor and join his magnificent beast in the Great Outdoors, but let it never be said Tony Stark was not ready to go.

As Marker filled his snout with pond water, Tony debated the best way to communicate his wishes—including diagrams, pantomime, and the classic, surprise approach—before at last articulating, “We should go flying.”

Marker clicked at him and prompted leaped into the air.  That was a good start, Tony thought, proud of himself, before realizing he was still planted firmly on the ground.

“Together,” he told Marker, who clicked back at him, in apparent agreement.

Tony sighed.  Marker beat his wings and flew higher.  Tony yelled after him, “Don’t forget to write!”

. o .

“One day, you will inherit the Earth,” Tony’s father told him, in a rare moment of jocularity.

“You will never be worthy of that dragon,” his father howled, in an all-too-common rage, as Tony stood before him, heart pounding with conviction.  “That dragon is mine!  He will never love you!”

. o .

Present.

Days passed without a Steve or Snow sighting.  Tony began to worry.

Alone, he ventured into the mountains.  He dressed warmly and paused often enough to know he would not make it down the mountain before nightfall.  He pressed on anyway, unafraid, hungry for answers.

In due time, he found them.

It was an impulse that led him well off the beaten path, into the glacial valley.  That pushed him through the trees, aware that danger could lurk in them.  Wild dragons inhabited nearly every corner of the Earth.  And even small ones could kill a man.  But he was not afraid as he ventured deeper into the heart of the woods.

Great words accompanied great moments.  Yet, observing one of the rarest moments in history, Tony found himself totally speechless.  He could only stare, thunderstruck, at the pyre and the clutch of dragon eggs resting inside it.  All of the shells were jet-black, to protect their unhatched dragons from the blinding light. 

Their mother looked on, utterly transfixed, noticeably leaner than Tony remembered her.  She seemed very tired, her huge eyes drooping.  A deer carcass lay untouched near her.  As he looked on, she leaned forward, nosing an egg further into the flames.  He counted twelve eggs, head spinning at the thought.

“Three were broken,” Steve said, jostling him from his thoughts.  Tony looked at him—unshaven and full of worry, but proud, too.  “She rejected two.”  Steve indicated a second, less compelling light in the short distance.  “I’ve been keeping them,” he said, smiling wearily.  “Who knows.”

“Who knows,” Tony echoed.  His head was very quiet.  “Fourteen,” he mused.

“Seventeen,” Steve corrected.

“Seventeen,” Tony replied.

Steve showed him the broken eggs.  Tony did not ask what became of the missing hatchlings.

He followed Steve to his little separate fire.  Anxiety radiated from Steve as he explained, “I would have told you.”

“I know,” Tony said, staring at the eggs.  There was a crack in the middle of one egg; the other seemed small, the runt of the litter.

“She didn’t want me to,” Steve went on.  The admission seemed to hurt him, like he hated dishonoring her wishes.

“Well,” Tony said, “she does have twelve to look after.”  Steve smiled halfheartedly, then indicated the cracked egg.

“I worry about that one,” Steve admitted.

“Well, I’ll worry about that one,” Tony said, pointing to the runt.  Steve’s smile touched his eyes.  Tony took the victory for what it was.  “How did you—”  He indicated the flames.

“I lit a branch from her fire,” Steve said with a shrug.  “It’s very hot,” he added self-evidently, pulling up his sleeve to reveal the healing burns on his hand.  “Don’t get burned.”

“I’ll try not to.”  Looking over the small clutch, Tony mused, “Does this make us parents?”

Steve actually rolled his eyes.  “Wet nurses,” he replied.

Tony scrunched up his nose.  “How about badass uncles?”

“Caretakers,” Steve said firmly.

“Guardians?”

“. . . Guardians.”

Tony nudged his shoulder.  “Go lie down.  I’ll keep second watch.”  He winked.

Steve looked at him solemnly.  “Don’t let it burn out,” he said.

Tony crossed his heart.  Steve watched him, then shook his head in silent amusement, like he would never understand Tony Stark and did not care to.

Tony got as close to the fire as he dared, plopped down, and told the eggs, “Okay, kids, repeat after me: Uncle Tony is the best Uncle.”

. o .

Steve, bless him, only slept for about four hours.  Tony was about to yawn his way through the entirety of Moby Dick, recited from memory, in an attempt to keep himself awake when a firm hand settled on his shoulder.  “All right, soldier,” Steve said, warm and more like himself.  “Scram.”

Tony yawned, “Nope, you’re stuck with me,” and flopped over, pillowing his head on his arms.  “Don’t you dare undo my hard work,” he added.

Steve draped his coat over Tony and assured, “I wouldn’t dare.”  He carefully turned the eggs, and Tony could not help but admit:

“I’m gonna level with you, I’m not a chef.”

“Yeah, I hadn’t noticed,” Steve said dryly.

“That deer was raw, Ramsey,” Tony grumbled back.

Steve said, “You’re a weird guy, Tony,” and padded off before Tony could think of a suitably witty retort.

. o .

“I think he knows I’m gone,” Tony admitted on the second day, as Steve squinted at him, his face pained.

“What gave it away?” Steve asked.

“You’ve got that put me out of my misery look you get when he’s crying,” Tony explained.  Steve’s grimace deepened.  “You know, it’s times like these, I’m glad I’m not a super-soldier,” Tony said perkily, standing up and immediately falling back down.  “Whoopsie.”

“God, Tony,” Steve said, sounding more exasperated than concerned.

“In my defense, those are dragon eggs,” Tony said, pointing at the dragon eggs.  “And that is a damn iron-clad defense.”

It was pathetic how newborn-deer-helpless Tony was, but in his iron-clad defense, after three days without a proper meal, Tony could be forgiven for Bambi legs.  At least Steve had kept his canteen on hand; the snow melt kept them from going totally dry.  He sat Tony against a tree, ordered him to stay put, and disappeared for—several hours, maybe?  Time went sideways, but before he could miss Steve, Steve came back, holding a dead rabbit.

“Oh,” Tony said sadly.  Steve did not look at him, skinning it out of sight, which was kind of him.  “You know, I used to make weapons.  That killed people,” Tony said, not moving from his tree.

“Your father did, too,” Steve agreed.  “He could skin a rabbit in three cuts.”

Tony shuddered.  The more he knew about his dear old Dad, the less he liked him.  “Acta non verba,” he murmured.

“Wassup?” Steve propped the skinned rabbit bits into the dragon fire.  Tony’s life was bizarre.

“‘Deeds, not words,’” Tony explained.  “Big—man of action,” he summarized, waving a hand.  “Why tell people about it when you can do it?”

Steve was silent for a while, the grimace on his face apparently permanent.  “War wasn’t kind to him,” he said at last.

“Is it kind to anyone?” Tony replied.

Steve said nothing.

. o .

Even Snow was frankly kind of pissed at Marker.

“Go,” Steve insisted.  “He needs you.”

Tony was about to put up an argument—a very defensible one, at that—but Steve was busy shooing him forcefully out of the little encampment, leaving him to his own devices with a final bid to take care of his own dragon.

Grumbling to himself, Tony clapped his hands, whistled, and exclaimed, “Marker!” like he was calling a puppy.  “Here, Marky Mark!”

Marker did not respond, but Snow growled audibly in the distance.  Tony decided to hightail it out of range before she changed her mind about guarding her eggs.

. o .

“Marky Mark!”  Tony clapped limply, hoping against hope his dragon would hear him and meet him halfway.  He did not care if Marker wailed to kingdom come at a pitch he could not hear, but he cared about Steve, and Snow, and dammit if the thought of his big, dumb, beautiful dragon wailing in a field like a bereft bull did not make him feel like a shitty human companion.

“Marker!” Tony hollered, for the umpteenth time.  “I need you!”  He whistled, well aware that there was too much damn mountain between them to be heard, wondering how the hell he had made it to Steve and Snow’s site in the first place.  He kept whistling—Yankee Doodle kept him entertained, at least—but Marker refused to meet him. 

Stupid house-dragon, Tony thought affectionately, climbing another switchback that was trying to twist both his ankles.  “MARKER!” Tony roared, impatient and annoyed that he was missing out on the dragon-egg-rearing process because his big, dumb, beautiful dragon could not be motivated to abandon home without hand-holding.

He really needed a better call, Tony thought.

. o .

“I love you,” seventeen-year-old Tony told Radon, teary-eyed and furious at himself for it.  “I love you more than he ever could.”

Radon curled around Howard Stark’s headstone, silent as the rock.  “I’m not leaving,” Tony insisted, sitting on the cold, middle-of-December-dead grass.  “Try me.  I won’t.”

Radon did not even look at him.  “He never loved you,” Tony told the dragon, cold and sincere.  “You get that?  You big, stupid dragon, he never loved you.”  Tony picked up a rock and threw it at him.  Radon did not even flinch.

Tony managed, “Sometimes, I hate you, too, but I’m not leaving.  Which side did you wanna be on, huh?  You wanna be a grave-marker for the rest of your life?  Or you wanna come home?”  Swallowing down emotion—he would not weep for Howard Stark—Tony begged, “Come on.  Come home with me, marker.”

The dragon unfurled in inches.  If Tony had not been watching so closely, he might have missed it.  “That’s it.  You’re loyal, aren’t you?  That’s it, marker, let’s go home.  This is not a man to cry over,” Tony said, crying anyway.

Marker unwrapped himself from the headstone.  Tony wept until his tears ran dry.  Then Tony got up and took the stupid grave-marker—his big, beautiful, terrible inheritance—home.

Radon and Howard died on the same day.  It was almost fitting, Tony thought, as he scrubbed his pain off of Marker’s ungroomed hide, cleaning him up so Tony could have the proof of something good in front of him.

. o .

Present.

“There’s my big, beautiful boy,” present-day Tony greeted tiredly, his ire forgotten as soon as Marker trotted towards him.  Tony caught Marker’s head in a hard hug that hurt his ribs and his heart, for different reasons.  “I’m here,” Tony assured.  Marker warbled happily.  “We have got to work on your separation anxiety,” Tony sighed, but he rubbed Marker’s neck, indulging, “Good boy.”

Tony only meant to rest for a few minutes, but as soon as he flopped down on the bed, he was out for the count.

. o .

At dawn, Tony looked Marker in the eye and said, “I need you to work with me, buddy.”

It was dangerous to look into a dragon’s eyes for too long.  Some said they were soul-stealers; others knew that they were predators who outmatched humans and always had and always would.  And they knew it.  The danger was real.  Tony could hear his father’s laughter in those soulless black eyes.  “You’re gonna take me to them,” Tony said, like there was no other option.  “You know exactly where they are.”

It was not a matter of pre-knowledge, of understanding exactly: it was simple conviction, in Marker’s abilities, in Tony’s intelligence, in the vice-versa of it all.

“I trust you,” Tony said, close enough to be swept under those black eyes, devoured by that killing maw that had already taken the life of a dragon.  “I need you to trust me, too.”

Marker clicked back at him.

. o .

The rope was meant for climbing, but it slipped around Marker’s big chest, under his forearms, around his neck, until Tony could hold it from his back without strangling him.  Not that Tony possessed the power to do so, of course—he just did not want Marker to be uncomfortable.

One wrong move could lead to a catastrophic death, but Tony trusted Marker and Marker trusted him.

“All right, pal,” Tony said.  “Very easy, now.”  He did the same whistle he used to call Marker.  Marker shuffled for a moment, and Tony thought about being dumped aside, maybe eaten for his arrogance.

Then Marker crouched low and launched himself into the sky.

Even prepared for it, Tony was still impressed by the wall of air that hit him.  Each wing beat drew them higher, vertiginous jumps that Tony had no control over.  It was not like climbing or swimming or any other force known to man.  It was not known to man, a sensation of free-flight that felt desperately like falling upward, over and over and over.

And yet, I trust you and you trust me, Tony thought, as each stroke put long strides between them and the mighty, killing earth, far below.  I trust you and you trust me, he thought, gripping Marker so tightly with knees and arms and rope he was impressed the dragon tolerated it for even a second, let alone with the beneficence to fly higher and higher and higher.  Tony never offered instruction, never encouraged him to slow down or speed up or lunge here or there.

Flying was Marker’s specialty, after all, long before Tony ever made the Mark I.  Even the rolling waves of each wing beat surprised him, a machine that humans had never seen before, in motion.  Tony thought, If da Vinci could have seen a dragon in flight for even a moment, he would have wept.

Maybe he had, Tony thought, holding on and gasping as they leveled out.  At last, he was flying the way he flew in his dreams, without anything on his skin but the stunningly cold air and the dragon beneath him.

Tony had lived a lifetime in doubt, convinced that dragons would never tolerate human riders, and yet, Steve had convinced him to try.  Steve had not grown up with same myths surrounding dragons. 

And here, on high, Tony thought, You missed everything, Old Man.  Because this—this was what it meant to be with a dragon.  The antics on the ground were a mere precursor to the silence on wing.

It was beautiful.  It was everything.

. o .

Man was once beast, Howard Stark informed Steve Rogers, passing a wartime ration to Radon.  We rose above our roots.  This is the next evolution.  This is the next battlegrounds.  You either have a dragon, or you don’t.

Steve replied, Seems like a lot of trouble.

You got no idea, my friend.  Howard grinned as Radon nudged his head against Howard, demanding.  Howard shoved him back.  They’ll walk all over you, if they think they can.  And they can, make no mistake.

So, why bother?

Easy.  Nothing else has the star-power.  You got one of these?  You’re made.

. o .

Present.

Marker landed, then nearly somersaulted, not used to the weight on his back or the slope of the mountain.  Tony leaned back hard.  They held their ground.  Marker huffed.  Tony breathed out hard, then slid off his side, rubbing his scaly neck in appreciation.  “Good boy,” he said, untying the knot with trembling hands, pulling the rope free.  “Come with me.”

I trust you; you trust me.

Marker followed him, bobbing his head and clicking.  Gauging his surroundings, Tony mused, as he picked up on a familiar, louder click ahead.  He trotted ahead without meaning to, anxious to see the eggs.  Marker increased his own clip, not wanting to be left behind.  He warbled again, but Tony ignored him.  “Steve?” he called.  “Snow?”

In the cold light of day, the fires did not stand out against the white snow.  Neither did Snow, herself.  Tony drew in a sharp inward breath as he nearly walked right into her, scrambling back as she lowered her horned head with a loud hiss.

“Tony?” Steve said, crunching through icy turf nearby as Tony landed flat on his ass, holding up his hands automatically to defend himself from—retaliation that was not coming.

Snow turned to look at Steve, who came running, holding two of the smallest dragons Tony had ever seen, one in each arm.  Tony blinked at him, then pointed, then rested a hand on the snow and managed, “They hatched.”

Steve stared at him, piling the dragons into one arm—they cheeped in response, squirming against each other—and hoisting Tony firmly to his feet with his free hand.  “You’re lucky,” he said, looking like he meant it, leading them away from Snow.  “Geez, be careful,” he muttered, dusting Tony off forcefully with one hand, still holding his dragons in the other.

Tony caught his arm, then asked with surely starry-eyed desperation, “Can I hold them?”

Steve frowned at him and, without warning, dumped the twin rejects into his arm.  Tony nearly fumbled them, diving to ensure they did not touch the snow, huddling them against his chest as they cheeped like baby birds, then purred like happy cats as he folded his coat around them, holding them to his chest.  “This is amazing,” he managed.

“Miracle of life,” Steve agreed, sounding beleaguered and warning as he looked over Tony’s shoulder.  “I see you brought Marker.”

Marker sniffed at the air curiously, meeting Tony’s eyes as Tony swung around.  He reflexively tugged the coat shut, hiding the twin lumps inside it, which squeaked indignantly.  “I mean,” he began, “I had to.”  Two tiny heads poked out of his collar, wriggling in an attempt to get free, whining at a pitch meant to drive him crazy, he was sure.  He shoved them both back into his coat, then swung around to Steve, who had not taken his eyes off Marker.  “He’s fine,” Tony assured.  “Right?”

Marker clicked at him, then approached.  Steve stepped between Snow and Marker.  Marker lowered his head.  Steve said seriously, “You have to be good.”

A little head poked out of Tony’s jacket collar again as Tony reached for Steve’s arm and tugged it.  “He will,” he promised.

Steve stepped aside.  Tony felt hatchling number two poke his head underneath his sibling, cheeping.  “Quiet,” Tony said.  Marker sniffed his way forward, then paused when Snow growled at him, like he had just noticed her.  He warbled inquisitively, then came at her from the side, a slow gait that bespoke curiosity.

Tony still held his breath, well aware of the squirming hatchlings in his coat as Marker approached, nosing at a wing.  Snow snapped at him.  Tony lowered his head but held his ground, nudging the same wing until she lifted it, unveiling—

Tony’s heart sank.  Eight little dragons huddled underneath her, curled into a sleeping pile.  Marker sniffed near the hatchlings, grumbling and vocalizing his interest, occasionally flinching when Snow snapped her teeth at him.  Then he lunged forward, snatching a hatchling in his jaws, and lumbered off.  Snow did not make a sound.  Tony could not.  Even Steve seemed shell-shocked into silence.

For one horrified moment, Tony could not breathe.  Then he watched Marker settle near a tree, dropping the unharmed hatchling down in front of him.  “He’s gonna hurt him,” Steve muttered anyway, darting forward.  Steve ignored Marker’s growl as he shoved the squirming hatchling up against the dragon’s chest.  “You’re smart,” Steve told Marker, cuffing him on the chin.  “Act like it.”

Snow stood abruptly.  Tony saw four little hatchlings huddled on the other side of the Snow-shaped indent, heart pounding with relief.  Snow scooped up three from the bigger pile, padded over to Marker, and dumped the hatchlings in front of him.  Marker flattened them with his snout, prompting concerned cheeps, before using his chin to drag them forward, piling them against his chest, too.

Snow returned to her spot, curving both wings around her hatchlings with an audible sigh.

Marker rumbled contentedly.  Tony turned to Steve, still holding the pair in his coat.  “See?  Told you so.”

Steve looked heavenward for support, then looked back down at Tony.  At last, he looked at the hatchlings in Tony’s coat.  His expression softened.  “I have no idea what I’m doing,” Steve admitted.

“Neither do I,” Tony replied.  He looked at Marker, who was purring, he was so self-satisfied.  “Sometimes, you just gotta follow their lead,” he advised.

Steve followed his gaze, looking tempted to snatch up the hatchlings and bundle them against his chest, before he nodded, then gestured for the hatchlings in Tony’s coat.  Tony shook his head, hugging the hatchlings and insisting cheerfully, “Not a chance, you’re never getting these back.”

Head on the ground, Snow huffed at him.  “Never,” Tony told her, pointing to the babies in his coat.  “These are mine, now.”

Snow did not respond, shutting her eyes.  Steve looked troubled.  Even Tony felt the sobriety of the moment as he asked, “She good?  She looks good.”

“She won’t eat,” Steve replied, sounding like he had had this argument several times already and lost.  “Maybe we could. . . .”  Steve looked dubiously at Marker, who seemed to have his paws full with his quartet.  “She’s gotta eat,” Steve insisted, worried.

Tony reminded, “Gotta follow their lead, Steve.  That's how it works.”

Steve looked away from him.  “Think you can hold down the fort?”

Tony said, “If I have to.”  Steve looked at him seriously.  Tony assured, “We’ll be fine.”

Steve nodded, then turned to leave.  “I wish we hadn’t left,” Steve said, in a rare moment of regret.

“Why?”

Shaking his head, Steve said, “Not enough food.  The hatchlings eat it all.”

Tony said, “I can probably airdrop supplies, if you’re worried.”

Steve looked at him like he was that worried, but he reined himself in, shaking his head and saying, “No, I’ll—”  He gestured vaguely.  “Be back.”

And then he was gone.

Turning to Marker, hugging his own bounty, Tony mouthed, “Babies,” and received an answering, rumbling purr.

Sitting next to Marker’s shoulder, Tony mused, “Who woulda thought, huh?”

. o .

Steve was nearly beside himself, trying to get Snow to eat. 

He even made the mistake of trying to separate her from her hatchlings, an honor only Marker was apparently privy to.  Her side-swipe would have done a lot worse than knock him clean off his feet if she had wanted it to.

Marker, like the hatchlings, delighted in the fruits of Steve’s labors.  Tony wanted to prod his dragon to hunt more, but Marker had been a family dragon for most of his life.  He relied almost exclusively on Tony for food.

Snow was beginning to thin.

. o .

The attack came in the middle of the night.

Tony awoke with a start to Marker seething.  He lurched to his feet.  The desolation was near complete, interrupted only by Snow’s heavy breathing and the occasional chirps from her hatchlings, tucked under one wing.  Steve stood, alert, one hand gripping a knife.  Less than ten paces away, a big, night-blue male bobbed his head once.

Marker shuffled to his feet, displacing the six hatchlings huddled near him.  The big blue male bobbed his head again.

Even Snow growled.  With obvious effort, she started to lift her head. 

The blue male pounced.

Hungry claws dug into her back.  Snow tried to arch her neck around, wings drawing tight to her body as the big male sank his teeth into her neck.  Tony felt like he was living a nightmare as Marker, without hesitation, charged, trampling over her wing and ramming the other male in the side, hard enough to knock him off.

Tony sprinted around Snow as the wild dragon scraped bloody claws across Marker’s armored underbelly, unable to get a purchase as Marker shoved him into a tree with an audible crack.  The violence of each blow was astonishing, the noise unbearable.  Then the wild dragon reared and Marker met him fearlessly, the muffled collision doing damage on both sides.  Marker backed away, shaking his head back and forth, while the wild dragon writhed on his back.

Tony thought, C’mon, Marker, now or never, but Marker missed his window, swiping his tail as the big male leaped at him.  Marker hissed and thrashed, pinned badly.  With a strength only desperation could give, Marker rolled, bellowing in pain as he landed on his left wing. 

The big blue male snapped from his newly disadvantaged position, freeing himself with an effort.  He trampled off, vanishing into the night almost as silently as he came.

Marker huffed and rocked his head back and forth, embracing his victory.  His left wing drooped at the shoulder.  He growled when Tony approached.  Tony held his ground.  Marker shook his head again, then ran away, clicking.  He ignored Tony’s call, “Marker!”

He wanted to give chase, but he knew, in his heart, that he would lose Marker if he tried.  He forced himself to turn around, recoiling from the blood in the snow.

“Fuck,” Steve said emphatically, boiling mad, pacing like he wanted to go near his dragon but could not.  “Fuck,” he repeated.

“It’s superficial,” Tony found himself saying.  Dragons fought, and the stakes were always high, but they were durable, too.  Cautiously, Tony approached Snow’s neck.  He offered the comforting lie: “She’ll heal.  It’s fine.  Look.”

Steve did not look, pacing, pacing.  The abandoned hatchlings huddled into a pile, bereft.  Tony’s heart dropped as he neared Snow’s wing, telling her, “You know me.”  Steve was Snow’s companion, and she had nearly skewered him.  By some miracle, she did not move as Tony lifted her wing.

His breath caught.  Two of the hatchlings were definitely dead.  He picked up another one, squirming with life, and set it aside.  Two more, this time, relieved that they were also alive.  One of the hatchlings skittered away from him, cheeping in distress as it found itself alone in the cold.  One more.  He picked it up and held it to his chest.

“Two dead,” he told Steve, who did not seem to hear him, pacing, pacing.  “That’s—”  He swallowed, could not force the words out, holding the squirmy hatchling against him.  That’s not bad.  That’s not bad.  “I’m sorry.”

Steve halted, facing away from Tony.  For a terrible moment, Tony thought he saw another dragon.  Then Steve announced, “We can’t stay here.”  His voice was as dull as the dead.

Tony nodded, even though Steve could not see it.  Tony set one of the hatchlings with Marker’s pile, repeating the process with the others.  On a whim, he pulled off his coat and draped it around them.  They promptly clawed it to pieces.  He sighed.  Then he tensed when Steve offered him his own coat.

“You’ll catch your death out here,” Steve explained.

“And you won’t?” Tony replied, meaning to sound light but not quite managing it.  He tugged Steve’s coat around his shoulders.  If another dragon came while Marker was gone. . . .  Tony shuddered.  “I’ll go down the mountain,” Tony offered.  “I’ll get help.”

Steve looked at him for a long moment, considering.  Then he looked at Snow, beleaguered, barely moving.  “I’m faster,” was all he said.

. o .

Breathless with altitude and exertion, Tony announced, “I think we’ve done it.”

It had only taken several hours to ignite the fire and move the dragon hatchling pile in front of it.  They kept skittering away, loathe to be alone in the cold.  They weighed about twenty pounds each—double their hatch weights—and possessed both tooth and claw, making them fun packages to carry.

Still, Tony's efforts were rewarded.

Tony had assumed the hatchlings had all taken after their mother, scales a soft, grayish white, but as he placed them near the fire, they opalesced, shining blues, greens, bronzes, maroons.  One was purple; another was jet-black.

Tony was sure his own eyes glowed as he beheld his colorful menagerie for the first time.  He could not help but pick out the straw-yellow hatchling, holding it aloft, a reminder of a time gone by.  It honked, squirming to rejoin its siblings, but he held onto it, looking at its eyes. 

“You look like him,” Tony told it, heart swelling.  “You look like him.”  He replaced the hatchling on the pile, which squirmed to get closer to the warmth at the center.  It was not his place to name them, but he could not help but think, Radon, as the yellow dragon relaxed with a sigh.

. o .

Tony did not notice the dragon sniffing at his back immediately. 

Not until a silvery snout appeared over one shoulder, sniffing at him, did he go very still.  Then one of the hatchlings cheeped.  The silver dragon pushed him aside.

Tony reclaimed his bearings right as its silver maw snatched up the little straw-yellow hatchling.  Lunging, Tony grabbed it as the silver dragon captured it in its maw.  The silver dragon shook its head.

Marker thundered forward.

The silver dragon let go, scampering off into the forest. 

Were it not for the blood running down his left arm, Tony almost would not have believed the encounter had happened.  He swallowed the nauseating prickle of pain from shoulder to wrist as he set the hatchling down on the ground.

The hatchling did not move.  Tony felt his stomach drop, felt the horrible sense of déjà vu, but then it cheeped, once.  Tony gathered it close to his chest, eyes closed in relief.  It’s okay, Tony promised the cheeping little dragon.  You’re safe.  I’ve got you.

Marker sniffed at him and the hatchling, checking in, before returning to Snow’s side, rumbling in satisfaction.

. o .

The pain was settling in when Steve returned.

“Took you long enough,” Tony sighed.

“Came as fast as I could,” Steve replied, not even out of breath as he approached Snow and Marker.  Marker growled at him, but Steve ignored the golden dragon.  “Snow?”

She did not respond.  Steve turned to Tony, then looked at the hatchling pile.  Confusion furrowed his brow.  Tony shrugged, grimacing as it pulled at his tender arm.  “Trying to be Dad of the Year, here,” Tony explained.

Tony was not sure he did not dream the next part.  One moment, Tony was alone with the dragons; the next, he was watching Steve spin cloth around his arm, telling him important things that were not processing.

Marker growled at Steve, then rammed him when he got too close to the golden dragon’s damaged wing.  Steve took the impact standing.  Marker hissed.  “Let me,” Steve ordered.

Marker knocked his head against Steve’s chest again in response, not hard enough to kill but hard enough to mean it.  “Fine,” Steve muttered.  Tony thought that was the end of it. 

Then Steve ducked under the dragon’s wing.  He ignored Marker’s seething, shoving the shoulder back into its socket.  Marker swung his head around, knocking Steve aside, flapping both wings furiously.

Steve righted himself carefully.  Marker continued to flap both wings, buffeting them with a cold current, setting off the cheeping hatchlings.  Snow growled at him.  Marker charged a second time, knocking Steve down with a violent toss of his head.  Then he stalked back over to Snow.

Tony set the yellow hatchling aside and scrambled to his feet to check on Steve, who pushed himself to a seated position with a grimace.  “That doesn’t get old,” Steve managed.

“Perks of dealing with dragons,” Tony agreed, offering a hand up.  “You’re out of your mind, you know that, right?”

Steve nodded wearily, straightening his jacket.  “Comes with the territory,” he said tightly.

. o .

Convincing Marker to go up and over the mountain was easy.  He would follow Tony through literal Hell if he had to.

Convincing Snow to go up and over the mountain was heartbreaking. 

As Tony and Marker disembarked, Snow called out, a strange cry that almost had Tony about-facing and returning.  Tony held his ground; Marker warbled back uncertainly.  Soon enough, Tony was focused so much on simply climbing that he could almost ignore the heartbreaking calls.  Marker followed him.

It was not Marker who Snow mourned, per se; it was the hatchlings.  Tony had one tucked in his jacket, another in a small backpack.  Marker refused to carry them on his back, but he had scooped up two in his mouth like it was the expected course of action before following Tony on his way.  Tony could only trust him not to grip too tightly as they moved farther from the nesting site.

. o .

Steve had persuaded four hatchlings to curl up in his backpack.  That left four more.

Snow picked up just one.

After a moment, she let it go, laying her head down again.

Steve tucked two of the hatchlings into his jacket.  Then he scooped up the remainder under one arm.  That was everyone.

Steve began to walk.  Snow clicked urgently after him.  “Come on,” Steve said, not looking back.  She clicked louder, then, in some desperation, trumpeted.  “Come on,” Steve insisted.  The hatchlings were heavy enough; he almost could not walk for how heavy his heart was.  “Come on, Snow.  You can do it.”

Snow called out again, lower, mournful.  For maybe ten seconds, Steve thought he was abandoning his dragon.

Then, with a spark of hope, Steve heard it: scraping on snow, claws, shambling.  Steve did not dare turn around as she claimed her feet.  He heard her limp after him and kept on at the same steady pace.  Snow fell and trumpeted after him.  Steve hated to press on, but he needed her to keep going.  After a longer pause, Steve heard her padding after him, wings flapping.  The wing beats slowed too soon.  Snow fell a second time.

She did not get up again.

. o .

At least Happy was always happy to see Tony.  Whether he was as happy to see Tony with a bristly dragon and handful of whiny dragonlings in tow was another thing.

“You’re hurt,” Happy acknowledged.

Tony said, “No, I’m not.”  Tony shrugged the backpack off, handing it to Happy, who held it at arm’s length.  “I’m fucking exhausted.”  His legs decided that was an opportune moment to give out.  Happy dove, catching him under the shoulders.  “Parenthood is a bitch,” Tony acknowledged.

“Where the hell did you find these?” Happy demanded, still holding the hatchling, now sniffing at his arm, as far from himself as he could.

“The old-fashioned way,” Tony said, trying to plant his feet and failing.  “Lemme down, this isn’t happening.”  Happy lowered Tony to the dirt.  Marker growled in warning.  Happy drew his gun.  Tony said, “You shoot him, you’re just gonna piss him off.”

“He’s pissing me off,” Happy said tersely, but he holstered his weapon anyway.  “Don’t bite,” he told Marker.

Tony could not help but laugh.  “How the hell did you get here?”

“The old-fashioned way,” Happy deadpanned.  Then he indicated a vehicle down the road.  After a moment, he set the backpack next to Tony gingerly.  “I’ll be back.  Don’t eat him,” he told Marker sternly.  “You eat him, I’ll shoot you.”

“He’s quaking, Happy, have pity,” Tony said, honestly happy to have him there.  “You can’t shoot him in front of the babies,” he added, indicating his little brood.

Happy huffed, “Like hell I can’t,” and took off at a light jog.  Marker calmly deposited his hatchlings at Tony’s side, warbled something that apparently meant be right back and pursued at a light trot.

“He’s playing!” Tony shouted, when Happy turned, shrieked, and fell over his own two feet when he saw his golden shadow.  “Don’t you dare shoot my dragon!”

Happy yelled something back, but at least he did not shoot Marker, who did not shake him like a dog toy for his transgression.

Tony thought of it as a win-win.

. o .

Steve was farther behind than Tony expected him.  To be sure, Steve was the one coaxing Snow up the mountainside, but he was also a super-soldier. 

Minutes became hours.  Tony had half a mind to give chase.  Marker, at least, would appreciate the exercise, flicking his tail in dissatisfaction as they sat at the edge of the path and waited.  The hatchlings were unhappy, too, cheeping despite being bundled up in the well-heated car with a very unhappy Happy.

Happy asked, “You sure he’s coming this way?”

As if on cue, Steve crested the hill.  Tony tried to stand, fell flat on his ass, and instead whistled once in triumph.  Steve could probably hear him, but Steve did not respond, disappearing in a switchback for a time.  Tony split his attention between Steve and the very top of the hill, where he waited for a snow-white dragon to reappear.

Dragons are smart and well-camouflaged, Tony thought as he stared at the spot, eyes burning with cold.  Marker lost patience, crouching and leaping into the sky.  If his wing pained him, he gave no sign, gaining altitude with a quickness Tony could only envy.

Tony was still watching his golden dragon disappear when a familiar, weary voice greeted, “Hogan.”

“Rogers.”

Steve loosened his hold on a pair of hatchlings which dropped to the snow with twin cheeps.  “Tony,” Steve said softly.

“Overachiever,” Tony said affectionately, pushing to his feet and unzipping Steve’s coat, freeing two more hatchlings.  “What was it, two-for-one special?”

Shrugging loosely, Steve dropped the backpack.  It, too, cheeped.

Happy demanded, “How many of these—things are there?”

“Twelve.  Hopefully,” Tony said, looking at Steve, who nodded.

“That’s too many,” Happy replied at once.

“Tough,” Tony replied.  “Get them in the car and I’ll double your salary.”

“You already doubled my salary,” Happy grumbled, reaching for a hatchling, anyway.  “I don’t need a damn bribe.”

Tony gripped Steve’s arms, asking, “Where’s Snow?”

Steve sighed.  Tony’s stomach sank.  “Couldn’t make it?”  Steve nodded.  “We’ll get her.  She just needs a—”

They all looked up as Marker reappeared near the peak, head bent low.  He was dragging something.  It only took Tony a delighted, terrified moment to realize what it was.  Steve was off like a shot, bolting up the path, whistling for his girl.  Snow did not respond.  Marker carefully dragged her along.

. o .

It took two hours to get Snow down the mountain.  Tony was not even sure she was alive until Marker set her down and nudged her with his snout, eliciting a low growl.

Marker bobbed his head a couple times in triumph, then trampled over to Tony, warbling proudly.  “Good boy,” Tony told him, grunting as Marker ground his forehead against Tony’s side.  “Ow,” he said, shoving the dragon aside.  “Good boy.  Go—eat.” 

Happy was unhappily standing outside their cabin, distributing several cows’ worth of raw meat to the babies.  He cursed when Marker showed up, shoved a squeaking baby away, and gulped down a huge hank of cow meat for himself.  “Goddamn dragons.”

. o .

“We’re missing something,” Steve was saying, kneeling beside his dragon’s head.  “We gotta be missing something.”

“This can’t be normal,” Tony agreed.  Steve did not look away from Snow, but he frowned.  “Dragons live for centuries,” he went on.  “We have proof—they never stopped growing.  So, there’s gotta be something.”  He was tired and woozy and eager to get drunk so he did not have to feel anything anymore, but it would not stop nagging at him, you’re missing something, you’re missing something.  “She’s too young, she—dragons, they were the size of mountains, they—”  It hit him like a snowball to the face, nearly knocked him off his feet.  Horror sizzled through him.  “Something went wrong with the pregnancy.”

Steve’s expression was both solemn and fearful.  “The eggs are fine.”

“She hasn’t eaten, she—”  He frowned.  “How many eggs?”

“Seventeen.”

“Right.”  Tony stepped close.  Snow was already lying on her side, bony, eaten away by the ordeal.  The ordeal—something was wrong, something—they knew so damned little about female dragons, wild or tame, dangerous as they were—

“Was that always there?” Tony asked, indicating a bump near her hipbone.

Steve stood up, then frowned at it.  Steve advised, “Step back.”  Tony did.  Steve crouched and touched the bump.  Snow growled.  “Hell,” Steve said.  “It’s—”

“Egg number eighteen?” Tony guessed grimly.  Tony felt sick with guilt; he could not imagine how Steve felt.  Eggbound.

Steve traced her flat abdomen, lingering over another spot.  “Nineteen.”  Snow reared suddenly, her horns barely missing Steve’s head, and roared at him.  Even from a distance, Tony winced and covered his ears, jostling his injured arm.  Snow collapsed, breathing shallowly.

Marker trotted over, head bobbing, clicking in concern, but Snow did not acknowledge him.  Steve just stayed where he was, a permanent frown on his face.

“What the hell do we do?” Steve asked Tony.

Tony stared at him.  “Do I look like I know?”  The answer was obvious, Get them out, but like hell was he a qualified practitioner.  “I’m gonna ask Google,” he said, disguising hysterics with nonchalance.

“Please hurry,” Steve replied, refocusing his attention on Snow as Marker huffed and moved on, splashing into the river with a trumpet of triumph.

. o .

Turned out, Marker had the right idea.  Well—his heart was in the right place.  The ice-cold lake water would probably have done more harm than good, but heated towels seemed to help. 

Everything Tony read about egg-bound chickens only made him want to hand off the phone to Steve, wish him luck, and get sloshed, but he tried to be supportive and helpful and a genius, not necessarily in that order.  It helped to imagine it purely as a technical problem, even if Snow’s horns added an exciting and unduplicable element of danger to the whole affair.

Steve got stabbed twice, the second time so close to his heart that Tony only half-jokingly suggested that maybe Snow’s sincerest aspiration was to die in childbirth.  Steve gripped his bleeding shoulder and glared at Tony in a way that suggested he make fewer suggestions. 

Tony took it to heart, toasting him with a bottle as he sat on the gravel and refrained from unsolicited advice by drinking his fill.  He was about thirty seconds away from an inappropriate joke when Clint, of all people, showed up.

“Oh, good, you’re just in time,” Tony said.  He was kidding but Snow and Steve were not, as egg number eighteen deigned to make an appearance.

Clint said, “That’s one ugly chicken,” and had the balls to walk over and offer his apparently sincere assistance.

Steve, the only person on Planet Earth having a longer day than Tony, told Clint to get fucked.

. o .

Clint and Tony were still laughing when egg number twenty arrived unexpectedly at two in the morning, hooting their approval.  Tony hated sharing his booze—Clint could get fucked if he thought Tony’s stash was his stash—but he was more than a little tipsy and therefore generous enough to want at least one drunk friend.

Honestly, Clint made a great drunk friend.  Clint made a great pal, a real guy’s guy—not like Steve, the coward—and Tony could not understand why he had not brought Clint out here in the first place.  “Make it a real family outing,” Tony was telling Steve, who gingerly felt around Snow’s abdomen, “bring out the kids, the farm, whole deal.”

“Whole deal,” Clint agreed, drinking deeply.  “This is good shit.”

“That’s what I keep saying,” Tony said, nodding.  Tony offered the bottle to Marker, who sniffed at it, then bit the bottle with a horrible sound, gulping beer and glass down.  “Well, fuck you, too,” Tony said, bonking him on the nose with a closed fist.  “That is not how we share.”  Marker hummed and padded off, apparently no worse for the wear. 

“Steve!” Tony hollered, as the dragon tamer stood and claimed the last egg, carrying it over to the little ditch Happy had unhappily dug for the failed eggs.  “Give it to us straight, Steve.”

Steve ignored him, dumping the broken egg in the ditch before covering the lot in dirt.

“He’s a real stick in the mud,” Clint acknowledged.

“That’s what I keep saying,” Tony said emphatically, gesturing at him.  “Stick in the mud, Steve!” he hollered.  “You got to live a little.”

Steve padded down the dirt, then returned to Snow’s side, told her, “Good girl,” and gathered his towels with great dignity.  Snow growled at him.  Steve growled back.

Tony and Clint laughed him all the way to the cabin.

. o .

“Morning, chief.”

Tony whined quietly, head buried under a pillow.  “Don’t speak.”

“Sun’s up,” Steve continued, speaking far too brightly as he slid open the curtain.  Tony moaned; seven little hatchlings chittered back at him, scattered around his bed.  “Rise and shine.”  Steve stole his pillow.  “You want breakfast?”

“No,” Tony whined.  “Go away.”

“I’ll make you breakfast,” Steve said, not as a favor.  “How about some coffee?  Decaf, right?”

Tony removed the arm flung over his arms to say ominously, “I’ll castrate you.”

“That’s cute.”

“I hate you.”

Steve tugged on his pant leg.  “Up and at ‘em, Tony.”

Groaning, Tony rolled over, telling the mattress, “Absolutely not.”

. o .

“Hey, it’s my new best friend,” Clint greeted cheerfully at breakfast.

Tony scowled as he shuffled into the little kitchen area.  “How the hell are you—”

Clint shrugged.  “Some of us are professionals,” he said sagely.  “Gotta hold your booze.”

Tony grumbled back, holding the little yellow dragon against his chest defensively.  He did not like leaving it out of his sight, not after the scare in the woods.  “You know, I could end you,” Tony grumbled.  “I have a dragon.  A big one.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yes,” Tony said stubbornly.  “Watch.  Marker!”

They waited—even Steve paused to give the moment its due—before the big golden head appeared at the ajar door, nudging it completely open.  “Eat him,” Tony commanded, pointing at Clint.

Marker clicked at Tony.  After a beat, he pulled his head back and let the door shut behind him.

Tony said, “See?”

Clint said with faux sobriety, “Terrifying.”

“Yes, it is,” Tony said stubbornly.

. o .

While Marker enjoyed a hearty breakfast of meat cuts, Snow hissed loudly at Steve, who brought her a fresh deer.  Tony did not know where he had found the energy to find it, but Steve presented it to her with a hopefulness that seemed to occlude all mortal needs.

Please.

It had been over a week since the first hatching.  Snow was beginning to look skeletal.  The biggest dragons could go months without eating, but their younger, livelier counterparts needed regular feedings.  Like people, Tony mused, as Steve backed away from the deer.

The huge snow-white dragon growled a moment longer, then outstretched her neck and snatched off a piece of its hide.  Snow gulped down her mouthful, then shakily stood, and devoured the rest in seconds.  When she was done, she folded back down, licking her chops.

Steve very nearly collapsed, shoulders hunching inward in gratitude.

. o .

Marker brought home a dead bear.  Happy said, “Oh, no,” and even Tony turned green.  Clint whistled in appreciation.  Between Marker and Snow, only meaty bones were left for the hatchlings to gnaw on.

All twelve of them.  Tony could already see clear front runners, larger hatchlings that would only extend their survival-of-the-fittest lead as they drove off their smaller companions from the kill.

His yellow favorite still wedged his way into the feeding frenzy, but he was unsteady, back legs dragging more than helping.  Tony had a feeling "shaken hatchling syndrome" was real, would have been named already if anyone was able to study wild dragons and their young. 

Clint confirmed it: “A lot of predators, they shake their prey to death.  When they’re a certain size, it doesn’t take much.”  At Tony’s look, Steve shrugged and elaborated, “I grew up on a farm.”

Tony fed the yellow hatchling a few meat cuts, telling himself it was not favoritism, it was compensation.  Of a twenty-egg clutch, only twelve had survived; they could not afford to lose more.

Each one, a part of Tony irrepressibly knew, was worth big money.  Prospective buyers would know what to look for—the early bronze would likely mature into an earthy brown, while the yellow hatchling could mature into a gold like Marker—and would have no trouble forging a pseudo-bond through food alone.  It was a market unheard of, only dreamt of: Want to bond with a dragon?  This is your window.

Shuddering, Tony turned at the sound of a splash, watching Marker venture into the water, a couple brave hatchlings watching him from the shore, bobbing their heads and shaking.  The rest had congregated around Snow, who sat with them huddled between her front paws, her horns a prominent reminder that trespassers would be prosecuted. 

Even Steve kept his distance from her, discussing something with Clint.  Idling over, Tony asked, “Tell me you’re not thinking of going back to New York with fourteen dragons?”

“No,” Steve assured, on the same page.  “But we can’t stay here.  We’ll lose half the clutch.”

Money was no object to Tony Stark, but he could not bear the thought of losing any more hatchlings.  He nodded in agreement, then said thoughtfully, “Malibu’s pretty, this time of year.”

. o .

Malibu was exceptionally pretty this time of year, Tony thought, tired and sore and unexpectedly happy to be back on the warm, tropical coast.

It had taken well over half a day of gentle negotiation and forceful persuasion to rally the troops.  At least Marker had been easy to persuade—he went where Tony did.  Snow oscillated between fury and trust.  One moment, she allowed them to load the hatchlings into Happy’s car.  The next, she rammed the glass window, warbling in discontent.  They hurriedly unloaded the hatchlings, then tried, tried again.  It was nearly dark before she stopped growling and allowed the decision to stick.

Tony’s arms were sore, his back a sheet of icy pain, but at least they had made it.  He would have driven the little gremlins himself, but Happy had dourly pointed out that he had a dragon, too, and so, Tony had hopped into Clint’s truck and blitzed down the road, Marker in hot pursuit.  Lovable house-dragon that he was, Marker loved chasing things, especially Tony, which made it very easy to keep him in line, even on long journeys.  Pop the hood, wave tally-ho, and be on your merry way.

Tony had barely given a thought to how Snow and the others were doing as he rode shotgun and drank himself agreeable, occasionally looking up at the golden streak far above them.  They had driven straight through the night, Marker occasionally calling to them from on high.  Tony had thought, We will sleep like kings tonight.

But he had not fallen into a sleepy coma upon arrival.  Instead, he had been energized, greeting Marker warmly.  He had barely acknowledged Clint’s plea for the house key, rubbing Marker’s head and cooing, “That’s my good boy, my good smart boy.”  On the right side of innovative, he had almost—almost—convinced himself a flight would be the most refreshing, spectacular way to start his day, when Clint’s demands had won out and he had reluctantly given him entry.

Snow and company had not arrived until mid-afternoon.  An exhausted Happy had parked the car, opened the door, and watched with grim expectation as the hatchlings had tumbled out of it, cheeping and shaking their wings.  Snow had landed seconds later with a palpable thump, folding her huge wings inward.  Steve had slid off her back carefully, one hand covered in dried blood.  Like Clint, Steve had seemed more intent on getting inside the mansion than exploring the grounds, which was disappointing to Tony.

To each their own, Tony mused, looking out over the water, Marker curled up on the deck nearby.  “None of you are getting invited to my next house-party,” Tony proclaimed.  Marker breathed deeply, not quite snoring.  “None of you,” Tony insisted triumphantly, closing his eyes and basking in the sunshine.

. o .

It would be hours before Tony would notice the text message, buried under a pile from various parties, ranging from business to pleasure.

I’d be there in a heartbeat, Tiberius Stone had written, skirting the line.  What Obadiah had been to his father, Tony had once hoped Ty would be for him: more than a business partner, a pair of adventurers who were as thick as thieves.  They had always played well off each other.  Ty’s departure had always felt premature, a timeline splitting off from a success story unmatched.

Tony had succeeded, of course, but hearing from Ty again was an unexpected pleasure.  Tony scrolled back through the conversation, wincing at his own remarks.  His heart sank when he realized exactly what he had written: Got a nest of dragon eggs.  You in?

Ty was a friend, he told himself firmly.  Obadiah had been a one-off, a fluke.  There were good people in the world.  He could trust Tiberius.

He wrote back: Russian Stout sponsored pipe dream.  No-go.

Ty responded unexpectedly quickly: Too damn bad.  Can you imagine?

Tony could, in fact, imagine, but he did not need to.  The real deal was curled up on his lawn.  His heart ached with pride and longing and worry at what would happen if the world got its hands on them.

You can’t keep them, an insidious little voice whispered.

Tony pushed the little voice aside and flinched when Steve said, “Didn’t think I’d see you for a while.”

“I live to surprise,” Tony muttered.  He tensed when Steve slid his arms around his waist, stepping out of his grip.  “I need a shower,” Tony explained.  “I smell like dragon.”  He grimaced.

“You okay?” Steve pressed, resting a gentle hand on his wrist.  “How’s the bite?”

“The bite?  What bite?”  Tony shimmied back his own sleeve, then sighed at the inflamed skin.  “Uh.  Really good.  Really, really—”

“Awh, God, Tony,” Steve sighed.

“It wasn’t my fault,” Tony protested.  “I was just—”

“You gotta be careful.”

“I was attacked,” Tony retorted, affronted.  “What was I supposed to do, let them get eaten?”

Somberly, Steve held his gaze.  It was hard to look at Steve—bright and earnest and so damn concerned—but Tony forced himself not to flinch.

“If it’s you or them, Tony,” Steve said at last, very softly.  “Please.”

Humbled, Tony said, “Yeah.  Yeup.”  Tony rucked down the sleeve again, assuring, “I’ll wash it off, I promise.”  His head was beginning to throb.  “I’ll be back.”

Steve caught him by the back of his shirt before he could stagger off, reeling him in for a hug.  Everything hurt—his torso, his legs, his head—but Steve was warm and solid and grounding.  Tony went limp, pressing his forehead against Steve’s shoulder.  “Being an uncle is exhausting,” he muttered, barely audible.

“You do good, Tony,” Steve assured, which made his heart twist.  “C’mon.  Let’s get you cleaned up.”

And if that was not an offer Tony could not refuse, he did not know what was.