Archive of Our Own

“You can’t keep fighting Jackson for me, you know,” Scott says carefully, hovering as Master Deaton daubs redwort on the cut over Stiles’ eyebrow, following it up with a smear of numbweed. “It’s not worth it.”

Stiles shoots him an angry look, one that doesn’t quite hit its mark. It’s got shades of a wince in it, which isn’t the slightest bit intimidating.

“I don’t fight Jackson for you,” Stiles grumbles, jerking away with a pained grunt as Deaton’s hands drop to his ribs, pressing at them gently. Lie, Scott thinks, seeing right through it. “I fight him because he’s a spoiled brat.”

“Hold still, Stiles,” Deaton say, his patience obviously starting to wear thin. “I’ll need to put some numbweed here, too - you’re lucky none of your ribs are broken.”

Scott stays quiet, watching the struggle to stay in place play out over Stiles’ features. He’s not good at stillness at the best of times, Scott knows, let alone when the Hold’s resident tyrannical fosterling has just beaten the snot out of him.

Deaton finally steps back with a sigh. “Let’s try to make it at least a sevenday before I see you back in here,” he says. Stiles mumbles a garbled thank you, then slides off the table and strides purposefully toward the door.

“You know,” Deaton says mildly, once Stiles has disappeared around the corner. Scott freezes, halfway to the door. That particular tone is the closest Deaton ever comes to rebuking him. “I hardly think my Lord Martin would approve of Jackson terrorizing the collective youth of his Hold. Of course, someone would first have to tell him about it.”

“We’re handling it,” Scott says, then makes a quick escape, not willing to stay there and bear the full brunt of Deaton’s disappointed gaze.

They’re not handling it, is the thing. Scott’s been taking Jackson’s abuse for what feels like an eternity, ever since Jackson arrived to be fostered four Turns ago. Scott had been an easy target - small for his age, quiet, always losing his breath in the middle of games, the sudden onslaught of wheezing inevitably sending him to his knees, gasping for air.

Stiles is relatively new to the Hold, having come here with his father after his mother had passed away, but he’d been odd and prickly back then - completely drawn in on himself one day, then full-to-the-brim with energy the next. He and Scott had been fast friends, but if that hadn’t been enough to put him on Jackson’s bad side, his personality probably would have taken care of it all by itself.

On their own, Scott’s fairly certain he and Stiles could take Jackson. The problem is that Jackson’s never alone. He’s always with Matt and Greenberg, his self-appointed lackeys, who take great joy in holding Stiles down while Jackson attacks. (Interestingly, it’s rarely Scott who ends up with bruises. He bears the brunt of the teasing, of the cruel words and pointed insults, but it’s always, always Stiles who snaps first, who yells and shoves at Jackson, who then takes that as an opportunity to launch his own assault. Scott only gets hurt when he gets in the way, trying to pull the three boys off of Stiles.)

Stiles must have dropped his furious stride as soon as he got outside, because Scott catches up to him easily, just on the edge of the courtyard. It’s cold considering it’s the middle of the afternoon, the sunlight falsely bright, giving just an illusion of warmth. Scott can detect a faint tremble off of Stiles when he falls into place beside him, but he can’t tell if it’s from the cold or frustration.

“My mom made stew,” Scott offers. “Are you hungry?”

“Not really,” Stiles says, which Scott is sure is another lie. Stiles is always hungry.

“Come on,” Scott says, giving the gentlest nudge he possibly can with his shoulder. “You’ll feel better after you get something to eat. You know you always - ”

He breaks off, because Stiles goes suddenly rigid beside him. Before Scott can ask what’s wrong, Stiles sucks in a sharp breath.

“Dragons,” he breathes, and Scott’s head immediately snaps up, his mouth falling open.

Wheeling in the air high above them are two dragons, a brilliant blue and an enormous bronze, descending in lazy, ever-shrinking circles until they finally land on the opposite side of the courtyard, kicking up soft whirls of dust with their wings.

The dragonriders vault off - from Beacon Weyr, by their insignias - tall and imposing in their wherhide and leathers. They’re immediately set upon by a group of people - a few young children, a messenger or two, and - yes, the Steward, striding over to speak with the riders.

Scott’s too far away to hear exactly what’s being said, but after a moment he can almost feel the tension in the air ratchet up a few notches, and he leans in close to Stiles.

“On Search, d’you think?” he murmurs, and Stiles nods, his eyes large and bright and never leaving the dragons.

“Beacon Weyr has a clutch,” Stiles says. “I heard from Harley they’d be Hatching soon.”

“How would Harley know something like that?” Scott asks, too excited at the prospect to be skeptical.

“Don’t you remember?” Stiles says. “Her older sister Impressed a bronze two Turns ago - it was right after my dad and I came here.”

He’s right, and now that he mentions it, Scott can’t believe he’d forgotten. He knows Harley’s sister is a dragonrider, of course, but Beacon doesn’t often come this far north to search, and he hadn’t remembered which Weyr, precisely, she called home now.

The Steward shepherds the riders toward the main caverns, where the kitchen is, probably to get them each a cup of klah.

“Come on,” Stiles says, grabbing Scott by the forearm. “Let’s go see the dragons.”

Scott resists for a moment, digging his heels in as Stiles tries to tug him forward. “Is that a good idea?” he asks. “We don’t know them...”

For an answer, Stiles gives an almighty yank, at which point Scott gives up protesting and follows him over to where the dragons have settled down in the center of the courtyard.

There’s still a crowd of people milling around them, though no one gets close enough to touch - not without the riders there to give permission. Still, the dragons are near preening under all the attention, stretching their wings and scrabbling their claws against the ground.

“Have you ever seen a bronze this big?” Stiles asks wonderingly, placing his foot close to the dragon’s foreleg, marveling at the difference in size.

Scott shakes his head, then trots around to the other side of the blue, crouching down to get a better look at its coloring.

When he straightens back up, he nearly yells; the dragon’s head is mere inches from his own, its eyes fixed on him, whirling a contented mix of blue and green.

“Hi there,” Scott whispers, and the dragon tilts its head, regarding Scott interestedly. It makes a noise low in its throat, almost like a purr, and swings its head even closer to Scott.

“Is it - could I?” Scott asks, reaching out a tentative hand. The dragon gives a rumble that could only be described as pleased, and so Scott settles his fingers just behind the eye ridge, giving a gentle scratch.

It’s not that Scott’s never touched a dragon before, but each and every time he has the opportunity he’s blown away by how amazing the creatures are up close, how soft their hides are, how their eyes have so many colors all swirled together.

“The riders are coming back!” a little girl to Scott’s left squeaks, and he hurriedly removes his hand, circling back around to meet up with Stiles. In unspoken agreement, they head to their previous spot, on the other side of the courtyard.

“It’d be nice, wouldn’t it,” Scott says wistfully, looking back over his shoulder at the blue, “to be a dragonrider?”

“Yeah,” Stiles agrees. Scott can hear a thickness in his throat, a note that’s not quite how his voice normally sounds. “Yeah, it’d be nice. Having a dragon, living in the Weyr - and can you imagine Jackson’s face when he saw us astride a dragon?”

Scott snorts quietly, and the two of them settle down to watch the dragonriders hold court, uncaring of the dirt that will no doubt end up all over their trousers.

The riders only stay an hour, keeping mostly to the courtyard, while those who are the right age circle through to meet them. The blue rider spends a long time talking with Danny, and after their conversation, Danny tears off, looking positively joyous. The next time Scott sees him, he expects, he’ll be carrying a bag of his belongings ready to head back to Beacon Weyr.

Scott stays with Stiles, watching from a distance, a bit too intimidated to approach either of the riders. To say Stiles has gone fidgety beside him would be an extreme understatement. He’s downright twitchy, his feet scuffing in the dirt, fingertips tapping against his knees. He’s still shivering, though this time Scott can’t figure out whether to put it down to the cold or simple restlessness. It’s probably a combination of both.

“Will you stop that,” Scott finally hisses, when Stiles starts chewing at a thumbnail. “Look, why don’t we just go over and introduce ourselves?”

“Because I don’t actually enjoy setting myself up for disappointment,” Stiles says. “Besides, my dad would never - I couldn’t - ”

He breaks off, doesn’t finish, but Scott knows him well enough to read between the lines. Stiles wouldn’t want to leave his dad, but Scott has a feeling that Stiles’ dad would be more than happy to come to Beacon Weyr with them, if Stiles managed to Impress a dragon.

Not that either one of them has a real shot at Impressing, Scott thinks. It’s no surprise that Danny got picked, but Scott’s scrawny and small, even if his breathing has gotten a little better, and Stiles has trouble focusing, can't ever stay on task for very long. Neither one of them is really Weyr material. It’s a glum thought, but Scott would rather be a realist than get his hopes up, all for nothing.

“Oh, look,” Stiles says softly, as the blue dragon lowers his head and nudges gently at his rider’s shoulder. It’s a strikingly tender scene; it’s hard to believe a creature so large can be so careful with a human. The two almost look like they’re conferring - which, Scott thinks suddenly, they probably are. The dragons and their riders are linked, he knows. It’d be like having a friend in your head all the time.

It’s a wistful sort of thought, one that makes Scott feel some serious longing, and he drifts along on a daydream where he has a dragon of his very own, only to be pulled out of it by Stiles’ sudden, panicked, “They’re coming over here!”

Scott comes back to himself in a rush, eyes widening as he realizes the two riders are indeed approaching, their strides long and sure.

Beside him, Stiles’ hands have curled into white-knuckled fists and for the first time since the dragons landed, he’s gone completely still. Scott can hear the way his breaths have gone shallow - the same way Scott’s have, like the sudden crush of possibility has rendered them unable to inhale properly - and when he glances over at him, Stiles' eyes are bright with badly-concealed longing.

They scramble to their feet as the riders draw near. The blue’s rider greets them with a friendly smile when he reaches their corner. “Hello, lads,” he says, giving them each a nod. He’s not too old, maybe around the same age as Scott’s mom. The other rider is much younger, Scott realizes with a jolt. He's broad and handsome, an ideal portrait of a dashing dragonrider, but he looks as if he only has a handful of Turns on Scott, for all his bronze looks fully grown. He must have Impressed young.

“Hello,” Scott manages to croak, while Stiles just makes a garbled, nervous sound.

“I’m Peter,” the blue rider says then gestures to his partner, “and this is Derek.” His gaze settles then, fixed decidedly on Scott. “Would you mind if we spoke for a moment?”

Scott stares at him in shock, but doesn't hesitate to follow as Peter leads him away, out of earshot of Stiles and Derek.

“My Fenrith has a nose for those suited to dragons,” Peter says nicely, smiling warmly down at Scott. “Ever thought of being a dragonrider?”

Scott gapes at him for long moments, then jerks his head in a confused cross between a nod and a shake. Peter laughs richly, amused.

“He says you’re as likely a rider as he’s ever come across,” Peter says, "and he hasn't been wrong yet. We’ve been waiting for you to come introduce yourself, but it didn’t look like that was going to happen.”

“Well, no,” Scott agrees, stumbling a little over his words. “I didn’t - I never thought - ” He feels a bit like he’s about to hyperventilate, and he forces himself to slow down, to breathe deep.

“What's your name?” Peter asks.

"Scott."

"And how old are you?"

“Twelve Turns, sir.”

“Hmmm, a bit young,” Peter says, “but it’s always a good idea to stagger the ages a bit. Well? What do you think? Would you like to come back with us to Beacon Weyr?”

“Yes,” Scott says immediately, unhesitatingly. “Yes, please.” There’s a sudden smile on his face, so wide it’s almost painful, and he turns to catch Stiles’ eye, expecting to find a similar joyous expression there.

His stomach drops when he realizes Stiles and Derek aren’t speaking, that Derek’s clearly just waiting for Peter to come back, not making a similar offer to Stiles. Stiles’ face is tight and drawn, his eyes positively dull compared to how hope-filled they were just moments ago. He forces a smile at Scott, offers him a quick thumbs up, but he looks... empty. Wrung out.

Even from here, Scott can see the shadows of new bruises, the red gash of the cut Deaton had tended.

“Just me?” Scott asks, turning back to Peter, who’s watching him almost shrewdly. “I - my friend - ”

Peter’s gaze flickers back to Stiles, and his eyebrows pull together, a frown forming. “Are those bruises? Fighting has no place in the Weyr.”

“No,” Scott says hurriedly. “No, no, it wasn’t - he was looking out for me. I - we look out for each other. He’s my best friend. I couldn’t - I can’t leave him here.” It’d kill him, Scott thinks, but doesn’t say. He knows he’s looking at Peter with the most pleading expression in his repertoire, but he can’t abandon Stiles, not even if it means giving up his chance to Impress a dragon.

“Hmm,” Peter hums, and his eyes go unfocused for a moment, prompting Scott to sneak a look at Fenrith, who’s peering in their direction.

“Right,” Peter says abruptly, the word crisp and sudden enough to recapture Scott’s attention. “Send your friend over to me, while you go pack your bags.”

“Really?” Scott exclaims, throat gone suddenly tight with joy. “You mean it?”

“Go,” Peter says, a smile tugging at his mouth. “I’d like to get back to the Weyr in time for dinner.”

Scott breaks into a wide, beaming smile, and he doesn’t wait to be told a third time before he takes off, racing back to Stiles.

“Peter wants to speak to you,” he says breathlessly, and he watches as Stiles’ face goes from shuttered to cautiously optimistic. Scott gives him a quick thump on the shoulder, then darts off into the Hold, towards his mother’s quarters, his heart in his throat and his pulse pounding loudly in his ears.