Chapter Text
(If you are reading this on any PAY site this is a STOLEN WORK, the author has NOT Given Permission for it to be here. If you're paying to read it, you're being cheated too because you can read it on Archiveofourown for FREE.)
It's too dark to go on. Even Clint's sharp eyes can't make out the path any longer, so he decides to spend the night where he is, on this bare rocky slope. It feels like basalt, and is still radiating sun-warmth which is a good thing as the mountain has been dragon cleared of all vegetation larger than a shrub. Not that he'd be stupid enough to set a fire. He's been dragon hunting since he was a boy; he knows how quickly bright things draw their attention. He sits with his back to a conveniently smooth rise of stone and checks his bow over by feel before unstringing it to let it rest for the night. He doesn't bother with any other preparations for sleep. His pack is light; a few bundles of venison jerky, an empty water pouch, an official dragon-hunter seal, now tattered and scorched around the edges. He doesn't really know why he bothered to save it from the innkeeper's fire. It's not as if that's an honorable profession any longer, now that the eco-magicians have declared dragons not merely endangered, but a vital link in the ecosystem.
But it's all he knows. The dragon hunter had taken him in, first just as someone to polish his armor, care for his horse, and be kicked around whenever drink got the best of the man-- which was most days. And then later, when he'd seen the gifts Clint had been born to, he'd laughed and swept Clint's hair back from the pointed tips of his ears before beating him stupid and accusing him of holding back. So Clint had worked hard with bow and knife, and... feelings...things he didn't understand. By the time the dragon hunter had managed to get himself killed by a small and stupid wyvern, Clint had learned that he was one of the light-elves. Only, as it turned out, when he found a tribe of them, no, he was half-human. They tried to accept him, but he always felt rough and uncouth, and an embarrassment that one of those graceful creatures had, under whatever circumstances, been intimate with a human. It had been easier to return to dragon-slaying. People had praised him, slapped him on the back, cheered his name when he'd bring in the head for the bounty. The heads had been getting smaller, and they'd been harder to find, but he hadn't thought anything about that, dragons were always shy creatures. He had noticed there were more monsters, the ones who actively sought out people, but he wasn't a monster-slayer, so it hadn't been any of his business.
It wasn't his business until the criers went through the land and suddenly dragon-hunting was more than illegal, it was immoral, and everyone spit on him and blamed him for... pretty much everything. It wasn't fair, but hey, Clint was used to things not being fair. But the one thing he knew was still dragons, so maybe he could go out and find a young dragon and... well, tame it and keep it safe until it grew big enough to hunt and then he could hire it out to go after monsters. Young dragons were very stupid. Maybe he could set up a dragon-breeding farm.
So, here he is on a dragon-cleared mountain, hoping there's a hidden clutch of eggs, or a young lizard hiding under a bush somewhere. It's a small hope. He sighs.
The warm basalt beneath him sighs and shifts. Clint grabs his bow and has it strung, drawn and his best arrow aimed at the huge golden eyes of what must be the biggest dragon he's ever encountered, a dragon bigger than he thought possible. "I don't want to hurt you!" Clint shouts (understatement of the year, IF he could kill it, the locals would probably execute him). A dragon this old should be able to understand him. Whether or not it believes him, or even cares about his intentions, is another thing.
The dragon blinks, gold winking out in the dark and then back again. "You're kidding, right? You just go around pointing arrows at sleeping dragons for fun? That's pretty kinky." For such a huge creature, the dragon has a light voice with an odd, old-fashioned accent.
Clint hears the dragon shift, and sees the eye-shine rise high. Higher. Oh, man. "I thought you were a rock."
"Huh. Well, now you know better, so why don't you take your little toys and go away." The dragon shifts further away from Clint and there's rustling noises, probably vast wings settling along its back.
"I... I was actually looking for a dragon."
"You just weren't expecting to find one that could fight back?" There's a huffing sound, and then the mountainside is lit up by a stream of blue flame coming from the dragon's mouth. It's sitting back on its haunches, wings spread for balance. It speaks around the flame. "Really, not to put too fine a point on it, I've been working on this armor for a long time. You haven't got anything that can get through it. So I'm not actually concerned about you hurting me. Boring me, now that is an actual threat. So say something interesting, or leave."
"The country is overrun with monsters. Dragons are our only hope."
"Fine, go find some patriotic dragons."
"People are dying!"
"They have a tendency to do that, yes." The dragon yawns. "Sorry. I've just woke up after digging myself out of a cave. Got any coffee on you?"
"You drink coffee?"
"When I can get it." The dragon yawns again. "Omnivore here. I eat anything I want. But not people. I've sworn off them. Bad for the digestion."
"So, you don't kill people?"
"I didn't say that." Dragon teeth glitter in the reflections of blue flame. "I usually give treasure hunters and dragon slayers a choice of cremation or burial at sea." The vast wings sweep idly. "Which do you prefer, little dragon hunter?"
"Neither." Clint is beginning to get the idea that the dragon is...well lonely? After all, there are very few dragons that could speak, and probably even fewer people who would sit down to converse with something that could swallow them in one gulp. "How long were you in that cave? I just wondered if you knew that things have changed. People don't hunt dragons any more."
"Yeah, right." The dragon holds out one foreleg, showing five long claws, as flexible and dextrous as a human hand. "Pull the other one, it's got bells on. People aren't interested in gold or gems or tacking up a dragon's head over their hearth these days. Suuuure."
Clint doesn't understand the joke, but he does understand the intent. "Really. It's against the law."
"And that stops people?" The dragon huffs again. "I've lived long enough to know better."
"Yeah, well..." Clint lowers his bow and lets it slacken. "Sure, there's some people who always want what's rare." Thinking on it, Clint realizes that this dragon would be worth a fortune. He knows a wealthy man who would pay anything to have that head over his mantel even if he could only show it to a few people. And... while the dragon's armor looks impenetrable, the inside of his mouth is pink and soft. It would be so simple to send an explosive arrow in past the thin flame and then... Clint would be so rich he'd never have to work again. He unstrings his bow and puts the arrow back in his quiver. "You know, you're big and strong, but you have to sleep sometime. You could use someone to watch your back."
He'd never heard a dragon laugh before.
"What's your name, o mighty protector of weak and helpless dragons?"
"Clint Barton. Do you have a name?"
The dragon huffs another puff of smoky blue flame. "Several. You can call me Ton'i." Ton'i's eyes blink again. "Tell you what, if you can get me coffee, Clint, you can hang onto my tail for a while." Ton'i lowers his head until his eyes are level with Clint's. "Black. With a lot of sugar."
"Right." Clint waits until the dragon is settled on the ground again, before he leans back against that warm, not-stone and goes to sleep. It's relaxing knowing that there's only one thing nearby that might kill him. And at least he won't be eaten, which is sorta a comfort.