and stubborness issues
occupational hazards (1/?)
rating: pg-13
characters: Toothless, Hiccup, Clint Barton, Natasha Romanoff, Tony Stark
warnings: none
summary: They tell stories of a dragon in the islands by a sea. When a mission brings Clint and Natasha there, they learn the legends are true. Or, "It followed us back to the Tower. I'd ask if we could keep it, but I think it's going to be keeping us instead."
author's note: Dedicated to crazy4orcas, whose initial suggestion of "Clint and Natasha and a friendly dragon" turned into a whole series on its own. (With the added help of a request every time I asked for prompts.) <3
"So the good news is, the dragon’s on our side," Clint says into the SHIELD sat phone, staring. "The other news is, there’s a dragon."
.
centuries earlier, more than a decade after HTTYD
"We can protect them!"
"No, we can’t," Hiccup says, and there is a wealth of resignation in his face, of grief in his voice. The hand upon your snout is warm and comforting, and already beginning to feel like goodbye. "Look at those sailors. We can explain about the dragons, we can keep them from going back, we could even kill them - but more ships are going to keep coming, and next time it could be Meatlug, or Hookfang, or Toothless."
On the dock below the slumped body of the Nadder is a gruesome and silent testament to his words, white bone and blue scales that glitter in the sun with a deceptive liveliness. It is not Stormfly, not a named dragon, but the tears and fury in Astrid’s face are the visible proof its death has hit too close to home.
As one, the villagers are shunning the foreigners who do not understand their demand that the body be returned to the sea, that the mutilated dragon be at peace. Instead the sailors continue to strip the spikes away, chattering in their lilting language with an excitement that makes dragon and human stomachs alike turn. The gulls cry, the waves roll onwards, and a dragon killed for hide and hype lies rotting on the deck.
"We can’t keep them from coming, but we can keep them from hurting our friends." And you know what his decision is, what he will pronounce, this scrawny boy turned chieftain who will not kill his own kind - and will not kill yours, either.
"I think you’ll have to go, buddy," your human tells you, his heart breaking and yet hidden by the softness of his voice. "You’re not safe here anymore."
There is an outcry from the riders, a roaring from the dragons, a protest physical and verbal and guttural against the idea, and you sit quietly in the storm because you know what your response will be.
The dragons will stay through three more winters, until the slaughter is too much and the portal takes them away. The villagers will be left broken, quiet, mourning a life that once was unimaginable and now cannot be reclaimed. Berk will go on without the dragons - but Hiccup will never go without you.
You are a Night Fury, with claws and wings and fire that would split the skies and heavens, and you will hold onto this world with all you have.
(There are no humans, no Berk, no Hiccup on any other.)
.
an unknown amount of time later
They have left. They have all left, in their own ways: through portals, through pyres, through bones long turned to dust in the ground of these islands. But the trees that scraped a life from the poor soil feasted on those nutrients, prospered despite fire, and still to this day send shoots and leaves of brilliant green upwards to the sun. They are ancient and gnarled and shelters against the wind, protectors of this wild place; the last and contented witnesses to the ages that have passed before.
You settle in their midst, hidden but for your eyes, and begin another vigil.
They have left, but you remain, and these islands are guarded even now.
.
now
They come by ships, sleek and silent in the ocean spray, and there is a predatory grace to them that is reminiscent of your own. You watch from the mountains as they enter, as they walk on the craggy heights and slip into caves that once held bones and dragons there. You watch the tight-sealed boxes, the sour sailors with curling beards, the dark shapes and hidden fires.
And you remember when men walked these islands, many years ago, with treasure and beards and fires of their own.
They come, and go, and you watch from the pines and the night sky, for the lives of men were precious to your rider, and you need not stop them yet.
Then two come, with swift steps and quiet hands, with guns in their hands and a light in their eyes, and although you do not believe in ghosts you cannot help but stare when they slide across the hillside, murmur to each other. Here is a fire you recognize, here is a power not trapped in gold or powder, and their speech is soft but audible to draconian ears.
You know the look of agony, on faces long remembered, and there is a fury in the woman’s face to chill the hearts of Timberjacks and Thunderdrums alike. There is a gun against the archer’s head, a gun in the redhead’s hands, and their speech of stolen goods (the blood you smelled on some night winds, the rot of half-dead creatures) recalls docks and dragons, and a day passed long ago.
The lives of men are precious, but the time to fight has come.
You crouch, and breathe, and leap off - and the wind is crisp and cutting, the scent of a new day dawning.
.
occupational hazards
"So the good news is, the dragon’s on our side," Clint says into the SHIELD sat phone, staring. "The other news is, there’s a dragon."
"For once, I actually can’t tell if you’re fucking with me, Barton. Are you fucking with me?" Tony asks on the other end, but his tone tells them both that he knows Clint is, in fact, telling the absolute truth. "This isn't some SHIELD code for something else entirely, we're talking about a living, fire-breathing, scaly monstrosity kind of dragon."
"Kinda," he replies, because the black creature is currently romping around Natasha like an overly friendly kitty - a kitty that could squash, rend, or fry them in the drop of a hat. He can still feel the blast of heat from a blue fireball not ten minutes ago, the one that roasted the Swede holding a pistol to his head. Natasha hasn’t made any subtle comments about eyebrows yet, so he could still have both of them; then again, she has been slightly distracted. Because, you know, dragon.
It’s gonna be an action report for SHIELD’s ‘Fact or Fiction’ wall, if nothing else. The dragon had come out of the snow-laden spruces like a silent death, a shadow that swept across the field and brought down four of the smugglers in its initial glide. They had all gawked at it, Clint from his position as hostage and Natasha a hundred feet away and the criminals they had been sent to ferret out; just, there really were no words when a dragon appeared. It had struck the ground in a spray of white before turning to look at them with piercing, unquestionably intelligent green eyes; then its mouth had opened, fangs gleaming in the gray light, and spit fire -
Clint tucks the phone against his shoulder and brushes his fingers over his forehead, gaze still trained on the massive and decidedly not mythological animal now letting Natasha examine its wings.
Yeah, no, Stark is never going to let him forget being eyebrow-less. Or finding a dragon but hey, priorities.
"I think it likes Natasha," he tells the billionaire. There’s a pause, an inhalation, and a noise that’s so close to a groan that Clint grins. Point to him.
"We’re so screwed," Tony says succinctly.
"You’re screwed," Clint replies cheerfully. "It likes me too."
"If it has any sense, only so it will stay in Natasha’s good graces. Pictures, Barton, I need pictures, or you are a lying liar who lies," Stark says, coming up swinging as usual, and Clint watches the dragon flick its mismatched tail with contentment while Natasha strokes its head.
Its gaze, when it turns those brilliant slit eyes on him, is alien, ancient, and knowing.
When Thor returns to the Tower, he nods without surprise upon listening to their recounting.
"Aye, there was a race of dragons on Midgard long ago, when I was but a babe. They were few in number but many in form, and lived in secret places for most of their days. When men beyond the islands began to find them out they feared they would be slaughtered, and so did my father bring them all to another realm. He did tell me stories, though," the Asgardian says thoughtfully, regarding the dragon lying uncontested and seemingly asleep on the couch, "of one who lived with a Viking tribe, and chose not to undertake the migration. For what reasons, he could not say."
The cat-like creature cracks an eye open, looking back at the demigod and the other Avengers beside him, and in its silent regard is the weight of snow-filled eons.
rating: pg-13
characters: Toothless, Hiccup, Clint Barton, Natasha Romanoff, Tony Stark
warnings: none
summary: They tell stories of a dragon in the islands by a sea. When a mission brings Clint and Natasha there, they learn the legends are true. Or, "It followed us back to the Tower. I'd ask if we could keep it, but I think it's going to be keeping us instead."
author's note: Dedicated to crazy4orcas, whose initial suggestion of "Clint and Natasha and a friendly dragon" turned into a whole series on its own. (With the added help of a request every time I asked for prompts.) <3
"So the good news is, the dragon’s on our side," Clint says into the SHIELD sat phone, staring. "The other news is, there’s a dragon."
.
centuries earlier, more than a decade after HTTYD
"We can protect them!"
"No, we can’t," Hiccup says, and there is a wealth of resignation in his face, of grief in his voice. The hand upon your snout is warm and comforting, and already beginning to feel like goodbye. "Look at those sailors. We can explain about the dragons, we can keep them from going back, we could even kill them - but more ships are going to keep coming, and next time it could be Meatlug, or Hookfang, or Toothless."
On the dock below the slumped body of the Nadder is a gruesome and silent testament to his words, white bone and blue scales that glitter in the sun with a deceptive liveliness. It is not Stormfly, not a named dragon, but the tears and fury in Astrid’s face are the visible proof its death has hit too close to home.
As one, the villagers are shunning the foreigners who do not understand their demand that the body be returned to the sea, that the mutilated dragon be at peace. Instead the sailors continue to strip the spikes away, chattering in their lilting language with an excitement that makes dragon and human stomachs alike turn. The gulls cry, the waves roll onwards, and a dragon killed for hide and hype lies rotting on the deck.
"We can’t keep them from coming, but we can keep them from hurting our friends." And you know what his decision is, what he will pronounce, this scrawny boy turned chieftain who will not kill his own kind - and will not kill yours, either.
"I think you’ll have to go, buddy," your human tells you, his heart breaking and yet hidden by the softness of his voice. "You’re not safe here anymore."
There is an outcry from the riders, a roaring from the dragons, a protest physical and verbal and guttural against the idea, and you sit quietly in the storm because you know what your response will be.
The dragons will stay through three more winters, until the slaughter is too much and the portal takes them away. The villagers will be left broken, quiet, mourning a life that once was unimaginable and now cannot be reclaimed. Berk will go on without the dragons - but Hiccup will never go without you.
You are a Night Fury, with claws and wings and fire that would split the skies and heavens, and you will hold onto this world with all you have.
(There are no humans, no Berk, no Hiccup on any other.)
.
an unknown amount of time later
They have left. They have all left, in their own ways: through portals, through pyres, through bones long turned to dust in the ground of these islands. But the trees that scraped a life from the poor soil feasted on those nutrients, prospered despite fire, and still to this day send shoots and leaves of brilliant green upwards to the sun. They are ancient and gnarled and shelters against the wind, protectors of this wild place; the last and contented witnesses to the ages that have passed before.
You settle in their midst, hidden but for your eyes, and begin another vigil.
They have left, but you remain, and these islands are guarded even now.
.
now
They come by ships, sleek and silent in the ocean spray, and there is a predatory grace to them that is reminiscent of your own. You watch from the mountains as they enter, as they walk on the craggy heights and slip into caves that once held bones and dragons there. You watch the tight-sealed boxes, the sour sailors with curling beards, the dark shapes and hidden fires.
And you remember when men walked these islands, many years ago, with treasure and beards and fires of their own.
They come, and go, and you watch from the pines and the night sky, for the lives of men were precious to your rider, and you need not stop them yet.
Then two come, with swift steps and quiet hands, with guns in their hands and a light in their eyes, and although you do not believe in ghosts you cannot help but stare when they slide across the hillside, murmur to each other. Here is a fire you recognize, here is a power not trapped in gold or powder, and their speech is soft but audible to draconian ears.
You know the look of agony, on faces long remembered, and there is a fury in the woman’s face to chill the hearts of Timberjacks and Thunderdrums alike. There is a gun against the archer’s head, a gun in the redhead’s hands, and their speech of stolen goods (the blood you smelled on some night winds, the rot of half-dead creatures) recalls docks and dragons, and a day passed long ago.
The lives of men are precious, but the time to fight has come.
You crouch, and breathe, and leap off - and the wind is crisp and cutting, the scent of a new day dawning.
.
occupational hazards
"So the good news is, the dragon’s on our side," Clint says into the SHIELD sat phone, staring. "The other news is, there’s a dragon."
"For once, I actually can’t tell if you’re fucking with me, Barton. Are you fucking with me?" Tony asks on the other end, but his tone tells them both that he knows Clint is, in fact, telling the absolute truth. "This isn't some SHIELD code for something else entirely, we're talking about a living, fire-breathing, scaly monstrosity kind of dragon."
"Kinda," he replies, because the black creature is currently romping around Natasha like an overly friendly kitty - a kitty that could squash, rend, or fry them in the drop of a hat. He can still feel the blast of heat from a blue fireball not ten minutes ago, the one that roasted the Swede holding a pistol to his head. Natasha hasn’t made any subtle comments about eyebrows yet, so he could still have both of them; then again, she has been slightly distracted. Because, you know, dragon.
It’s gonna be an action report for SHIELD’s ‘Fact or Fiction’ wall, if nothing else. The dragon had come out of the snow-laden spruces like a silent death, a shadow that swept across the field and brought down four of the smugglers in its initial glide. They had all gawked at it, Clint from his position as hostage and Natasha a hundred feet away and the criminals they had been sent to ferret out; just, there really were no words when a dragon appeared. It had struck the ground in a spray of white before turning to look at them with piercing, unquestionably intelligent green eyes; then its mouth had opened, fangs gleaming in the gray light, and spit fire -
Clint tucks the phone against his shoulder and brushes his fingers over his forehead, gaze still trained on the massive and decidedly not mythological animal now letting Natasha examine its wings.
Yeah, no, Stark is never going to let him forget being eyebrow-less. Or finding a dragon but hey, priorities.
"I think it likes Natasha," he tells the billionaire. There’s a pause, an inhalation, and a noise that’s so close to a groan that Clint grins. Point to him.
"We’re so screwed," Tony says succinctly.
"You’re screwed," Clint replies cheerfully. "It likes me too."
"If it has any sense, only so it will stay in Natasha’s good graces. Pictures, Barton, I need pictures, or you are a lying liar who lies," Stark says, coming up swinging as usual, and Clint watches the dragon flick its mismatched tail with contentment while Natasha strokes its head.
Its gaze, when it turns those brilliant slit eyes on him, is alien, ancient, and knowing.
When Thor returns to the Tower, he nods without surprise upon listening to their recounting.
"Aye, there was a race of dragons on Midgard long ago, when I was but a babe. They were few in number but many in form, and lived in secret places for most of their days. When men beyond the islands began to find them out they feared they would be slaughtered, and so did my father bring them all to another realm. He did tell me stories, though," the Asgardian says thoughtfully, regarding the dragon lying uncontested and seemingly asleep on the couch, "of one who lived with a Viking tribe, and chose not to undertake the migration. For what reasons, he could not say."
The cat-like creature cracks an eye open, looking back at the demigod and the other Avengers beside him, and in its silent regard is the weight of snow-filled eons.