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Percival blinks. "I'm surprised they did not raid the treasury," he says. Which is not what he should be surprised about, right now. Really.
He should be more concerned about the fact that the amassed wealth of the de Rolo family - and whatever horrible taxation and theft the Briarwoods exerted on Whitestone - is currently hidden by the sinuous bulk of a dragon.
Cold shame spreads in Vex's gut. More pressing is the feel of gold and gems and precious, precious things against her belly scales. It's good and right and - not hers, she has to remind herself. Not hers. His.
She opens her mouth. Nothing comes out but fumes of a hiss.
Percival immediately raises his hands in surrender (his dragonslayer's longsword is not in hand, not at the hip, not here. Good. Not in her hoard. Inexcusable.) and takes a step back. "I apologize for interrupting. I'll leave you to it."
The shame sinks chilled teeth into her insides, sharp gouges of it rooting around for an excuse. For anything of value in her.
"Percy -"
She hates how his name sounds in her jaws. In her mouth - blunt-toothed, with plush lips and a flat tongue - it's a lovely thing. Punchy and sweet. His name was made for those sorts of mouths. Dragons can't taste sweetness (she'd read it in a book, made herself sick on berries to test it, because of course something like this had no care for sugar). Percy, pulled through a deep chest and a snaking neck and slipping past fangs, sounded less like a name and more like a threat.
He does not flinch. He should flinch - but no, his face creases, inscrutable. Of its own accord her tongue flicks the air. On it alight the flavor of dried blood and gold and silver and gold and sweat and gold. And smoke - yes, he had been quite threatening recently, hadn't he?
She tastes the air again - in, out. The smoke is not coming from him anymore.
Vex tries again, like it will be any different: "Percy - I'm sorry. I didn't mean…"
To what? To slink away as soon as the Briarwoods were dealt with to sit her ass down on what's rightfully his gold?
Of course she fucking meant to. The promise of it had been heavy in the air as soon as they reached the castle. It made her a little sick - at least the Palace of the Sovereign had its treasury buried far and deep (or else Brimscythe, worm he was, would have already looted it).
Now she's the monster splayed over the royal family's wealth.
"Oh, by all means," Percy says. "I was just going to give it a once-over before inviting you." Pausing, he adds, "Do you think your brother -"
"No."
Now that's a word well-suited to fangs and forked tongue. She could fall on the excuse that no, Vax steals, loots, plunders - she's the hoarder, the greedy beast. He'd have no interest. Though he might. And if he did - if he stole from her - she's not sure what she'd do. She definitely does not want to find out (it's not her he'd be stealing from).
The thing in her gut takes a bite, leaves a cold and lurching wound. She soothes the feeling by letting her weight sink into the coins. They rasp, a delicate cascade she's compelled to watch. And then her head jerks back to the - to Percival, watching, hands in his pockets (what does he have in his pockets) (nothing, he would never) (it's his) (it should be hers).
Percy cocks his head. He's - smiling?
"I've never seen you like this -" because she's never let anyone see her like this, because she's never had this much, because it's wrong, "- and I have to say… if I had known a treasury would make you this happy, I'd have attempted to reclaim this one sooner."
Before she can protest: "Mind if I join you?"
Reflexively, Vex presses her teeth together to - to… find she does not mind. Not really. It makes sense. This is his, after all. It's not sharing. It's… (a potent curl of instinct, a bared throat, a purr; she snuffs it out) (it makes sense)
Her hum must echo her surprise, because Percy's smile twitches broader, baring his own teeth. Blunt and lovely. Vex folds her wings back - the gold ripples away. Carefully, she angles herself so the worst of her spines are far from him; for her talons all she can do is curl them close to her mass. With her snout she noses an elegant tapestry out from under a chest. Something nicer for him to sit on.
She huffs a gout of cinders when Percy stumbles on the pile of treasure, his boots slipping on the precious metals. A taste: his sweat on the gold.
He settles against the broad side of her neck; like this she cannot turn to better look at him, or tickle him with tongue flicks. She's forced to rely on one eye to watch him relax.
Through her scales, through his coat she feels the chill of his flesh warm; the wool is marred with scraps of undead flesh and dried blood, torn here. He's getting the treasure dirty. He looks lovely against her scales.
(her blood, too-hot and heavy, weighing her down, is red) (she should be red, too, by all rights) (a red dragon the color of kindling - who has ever heard of that)
When Vex swallows heavily, the gold sighs. So does Percy, adjusting where he rests against her bulk.
"… Don't you have things to do, darling?" She keeps her rumble low, a weak bid to avoid disturbing him again. Her hoard rustles in fear - he does not. (his, not hers) "Whitestone's only just been freed." (and it does not need another tyrant)
"Plenty," he agrees. "I was going to fetch you to invite you to the treasury. With that off my schedule, I think I can make time to… assess the city's financial state."
His eyes are closed. Exhausted, after what he has endured today.
Greedy, greedy thing she is, she wishes he'd open them. Look at her - gaze upon her. So she could privately claim two more gems for her hoard; those things must be sapphires. She could be wrong, though - they could be topaz, or polished silver, or diamonds. She's never stared quite long enough to figure it out. (she's tried)
(right. he's never seen her like this) (and yet he beheld a dragon, in all its jealous glory) (and he did not flee)
Vex finds herself saying, "Rest. I'll wake you if anyone comes looking."
"They will," he warns her lazily. She hears, they'll see their young Lord in the clutches of a mythical beast, in the very heart of their castle. It won't go well.
Her heart - slow, just as lazy when she's like this - picks up to a more human beat. Right. She should probably return to herself, before long.
It would be easier if she turned back - somehow the massive, monstrous heart is easier to manage in a soft body. Like without the force of a giant flying lizard behind it, the thing's all bark and no bite (dragons do not bark - they roar). With dulled senses she could ignore the jealous hunger for what he has, for what he only shares because he's him and she's usually her - Vex'ahlia, half-elven ranger.
But Percy is smiling, with an ease she hasn't seen since… since the Underdark, maybe. Since before he heard the Briarwoods' names again.
Discreetly, she checks: no more fear, no more stress. Just Percy. (there's no such thing as just Percy - he carries with him so many scents) (but they're his and that matters)
(this really was the worst fucking day to realize she's attracted to him)
(him - Percy, curious and kinder than he thinks and arrogant and bold and with a stupid little slant to his grin and an obnoxious tuft of hair she'd love nothing more than to run her fingers in) (him - freshly-minted Lord Percival de Rolo, and all the wealth and status to go with it, everything a vagabond dragon could want to posses) (thing is, she can't tell those wants apart) (if they're all that different at all - a bastard half-elf certainly wouldn't say no to this either.)
(greedy.)
(and then there's something to be said for how he was at his worst - still not as monstrous as her, of course... but someone who understands what it's like to choke on your own fumes, to be a weapon pointed at what's good in the world)
His back flexes regularly against her neck; his breaths are stale and heavy. Vex exhales white smoke.
Red dragons aren't supposed to feel warm - not even if they're actually brown. She is fire incarnate, Tiamat's wrath and malice set upon the world. Existence is an everlasting chill, always too cold, always ripe to be improved by flame.
She thinks this is what warm feels like: curled up around the wealth of Whitestone, watching the greatest prize she can never have sleep.
(hers) (only in her furnace of a heart) (hers)