Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Getting into Titans Tower was easy.

The flight from Gotham to San Francisco was nothing to a dragon, and the old access hatch at the roof of the Tower was still in place.  Jason shifted back to human form after he landed, and grinned when his codes still worked on the door.

Poor design.  Jason was going to take great pleasure in pointing out every security flaw.  Every way the Replacement failed at protecting his hoard.  Every way the Replacement was a failure, period.

For example, the poor situational awareness.  Jason got all the way to the common area—the place was empty, how sad, how pathetic was a dragon that was all alone—completely undetected.  The Replacement didn’t even smell him coming and Jason’s outrage built as Drake squawked and flailed out of the way of Jason’s first strike.

Jason saw the R decorating his chest, and burned in vicious fury.  Mine, the dragon in him howled, and Jason moved to take it from his unworthy successor.

At least Drake adapted quickly.  He didn’t waste any time on switching gears, the bo staff was extended and outstretched in seconds, and he wasn’t half bad at fighting.

For a human.

The next time Jason blocked a strike from the bo staff, he held onto it, his hands warming up.  The staff warped and cracked under the heat.  The Replacement stared at him, wide-eyed, as his weapon splintered.

Jason grinned with a mouth full of sharp teeth.  “You took my hoard,” Jason hissed, “You should’ve been prepared to defend it when I came to take it back.”

“Wait, what—” Drake’s spluttering was cut off as Jason swiped at him, claws just missing smooth, pale skin.  He was clearly not trained enough to transition between forms, he remained stubbornly human-like as he fended off Jason’s blows.  In retaliation, Jason let more and more of his dragon traits to the surface, lazily blocking the Replacement’s attacks.

A pathetic little weakling of a dragon.  He wouldn’t be much of a threat even in dragon form, and Jason magnanimously decided to give Drake an out.

Sure, he’d stolen Jason’s hoard, but Jason had been gone for years.  His hoard left unattended.  If Drake surrendered now, Jason could be merciful.

“Leave my hoard.  Leave Gotham.  Leave the name you stole, and I won’t hunt you down.”

Drake stopped gaping at him, and narrowed his eyes.  “No,” he said firmly.

Sticking to his guns.  That was a big fucking mistake.  Fury rose inside of him, curling around him with all of a dragon’s greed, all of a dragon’s bloodlust, all of a dragon’s righteous rage over defending what was theirs.

His hoard was his.  And no one was going to stand in his way.  Especially not a whelp of a dragon too puny to put up a real fight.

Jason didn’t bother holding back any more.

Blue eyes widened as Jason moved faster, twisted quicker, hit harder, the Replacement stumbling as he tried to compensate for the increased attack, barely preventing himself from being overwhelmed.  He was tiring—quickly, too quickly, the dragon truly was pathetic—and all Jason had to do was wait for a mistake.

Drake tried to twist out of a strike but he wasn’t evenly distributing his weight, and his left ankle slid sideways.  He fumbled, immediately easing weight off that ankle, but before he could recover, Jason’s kick slammed into his thigh and he crumpled all the way down.

“Leave my hoard,” Jason snarled, stalking over to the Replacement, who was trying to get up.  “You can’t even protect them.  You’re a failure.”

“I don’t—what are you talking about—”

Jason slammed Drake back down with another kick, and swiftly crouched to straddle him, pinning him to the ground.

“They’re not yours!” Jason hissed, staying in place as the Replacement struggled.  He wasn’t shifting to dragon form, probably presuming that he had a better chance of fighting Jason in human form.

His mistake.  Jason had trained both forms, and every transition in between, and it took a matter of seconds to pin Drake’s elbows under his knees.

“You’ve lost,” Jason snapped, “Surrender.”

“Fuck you,” Drake seethed, still struggling.

“They’re my hoard!  You can’t have them, and I will claw your wings to shreds if that’s what it takes.”

“I don’t know what you’re—what wings—”

“They’re mine,” Jason snarled, hands closing around Drake’s throat and tightening in warning, “They’re mine and I’m taking them back.”

Drake kept fighting and Jason hissed but he wouldn’t stop and the dragon seethed at the continual disrespect—Jason had won, he was superior, the Replacement refused to surrender and fury swelled, burning ever higher as his hands constricted, as he listened to the Replacement cough and splutter and choke.

He’d won this fight.  He was going to ensure this dragon never came near his hoard or his city ever again.  He would take great pleasure to banishing the stupid, cocky weakling to the midst of Siberia—

Screaming.  The Replacement was screaming.

Jason jerked back in surprise, loosening his grip, burning-hot fingers recoiling—and there were bright, swollen red fingerprints on Drake’s neck, vivid against his pale skin as he writhed on the floor, gasping out broken screams.

No.  No, that—that didn’t make any sense.  Those couldn’t be real.  Jason reached out to poke one of the shiny red marks and Drake nearly slammed his head against the floor as he fought to get away.  That couldn’t—dragons couldn’t burn—

Jason grabbed the Replacement’s jaw to force him still—another guttural cry, and Jason hastily extinguished the flame-hot warmth coiling under his fingers, shifting his grip before he could burn the kid again.

Because those were definitely burns.  Red and searing and tremors wracked the kid’s body as he struggled, trying to get away from Jason.  Tears slid down blotchy cheeks as the kid sobbed, and his voice was too hoarse to make out words, but Jason could hear fragments of ‘please’, ‘sorry’, and ‘stop’.

The churning nausea in his stomach grew higher.

The kid had gotten burned.  He’d gotten burned, so he couldn’t be a dragon.  But that didn’t make any sense—Jason bent down to sniff at the kid’s hair, hunting for a scent, for any trace that would tell him what the kid actually was.

The struggles were getting weaker.  The sobs were getting louder.  Jason found no trace of a supernatural scent.  Nothing but pure human.

Jason drew back, letting go of the kid in horror.  He scrambled up, but the kid barely seemed to notice, half-curling up as he cried, tears streaming down his face.

Human.  Human.  The kid was human and Jason had just—had attacked him at full power, had accused him of hoard-stealing, had strangled him with burning-hot fingers.

“No,” Jason said, because it wasn’t possible.  It couldn’t be possible.  Jason hadn’t just—he hadn’t— “You—your name is Drake, how the fuck are you human?”

The kid didn’t answer.  The kid didn’t even seem to be listening.  Jason caught sight of the gleaming R on Robin’s chest, and the dragon howled.

MINE.

His.  His.  His hoard, his treasure, all his and—and those were tears and low, choked sobs and they were in pain.

Jason shifted all the way to dragon.  Pain was easy to scent, misery-agony-hurt leaking from the kid’s eyes, and the sick-wrong-bad heat emanating from bright red marks on the kid’s neck.

Jason leaned forward, careful to keep his claws away from delicate human skin, and extended his tongue, licking over the wounds.  The kid jerked back with a pained cry, and twisted to look up at him.

And screamed again.

He was trying to scrabble up, fingers scraping against the floor and legs quivering, eyes wide and breaths shallow, and Jason flicked his tail around to stop him from sliding back and injuring himself.

The kid went stock-still when his movements were blocked, staring up at Jason with an expression drained of all color.  He seemed to have stopped breathing altogether.

Jason fought the urge to lash his tail in displeasure, and licked over the wounds again.  Dragon saliva helped burns, but it was slow, and the kid flinched back, letting out a ragged sob.  Wounded-pain-terror dripped out, drop by drop, and Jason hated it.

The kid was upset.  The kid wasn’t safe.  This place was cold and sterile and abandoned, no warmth of presence and life, and it was prickling at Jason.

Mine, shrieked the back of his mind, mine mine mine mine mine—

Hoard needed to be safe.  Needed to be protected.  And Jason’s nest was where hoard belonged.

The kid didn’t try to scrabble back again, shuddering in minute tremors as Jason curved careful claws around him—one set beneath his shoulder blades, the other around his knees—and terror spiked as Jason lifted.

Soon, he would be safe.  Soon.

Jason awkwardly clambered over the railing with legs and wings, and launched himself into empty space.

They were going home.

The return flight was shorter, Jason not daring to risk the human kid by delaying, and he flew swift and true, carrying his limp cargo.  His personal tunnels were still where he’d left them, and Jason could feel the tension leech out of his scales as he made his way through familiar passageways carved through stone.

They emerged in the ceiling of a truly massive cave, and Jason winged his way down, to a rock outcropping that served as a mini island in the middle of a giant pit.  His nest was right where he left it, cold and dusty but serviceable.  He gently laid the kid—Tim Drake, and Jason was going to have words about that misleading last name—in the center, unable to restrain himself from fussing over the nest.

He could feel the warmth in his chest, growing higher and higher until he was afraid it would burst.  He wanted to roar his happiness, hear it echo around him, paint the air in fire as relief and hope battled inside of him.

Tim wasn’t a dragon.  He hadn’t stolen Jason’s hoard.  His hoard was still his.

His home was still his.

Jason remembered the human in the middle of his nest and clambered back to him.  Tim was limp and it took a panicked couple of seconds before Jason could track down his heartbeat.  Still alive.  Merely…asleep?

Jason gave another couple of licks to the sharp red burns around the kid’s throat, encouraging it to heal faster, and curled around him, resting his head on his forelimb.

Tim had the right idea.  Sleep it was.

Jason was rudely dragged back to consciousness by the feeling of something wriggling against his scales.  He grumbled and curled tighter around whoever was trying to escape the nest at too early in the morning.

“Oh, god,” a hoarse voice croaked out, “Are we in the Cave?”

Silly kid.  Where else would they be?  Jason balefully cracked open an eye as Tim kept struggling, and raised his head to bare his teeth in a mock threat.

The kid froze.

Jason grumbled in huffs—at least the burns were healing, they were pinker than they’d been yesterday, and Jason leaned forward to lick them again.

The kid jerked back, raising his hands, but Jason ignored him, swiping over the burns and withdrawing as the kid crossed trembling arms over his face.  Like Jason was going to eat him or something.

The thought was immensely amusing, and Jason chuffed a warm breath over Tim before resting his head and curling around him again.  He had his hoard and he had his nest and he was home again.

It felt so nice.

It was almost perfect.

Jason woke to yelling.  His brain took a second to come online—nest, Tim, home—before registering the threat.  They weren’t safe.  There were intruders and—

Jason had extended himself all the way up, bellowing out a gust of flames, before he recognized the two dark-haired figures at the edge of the closest rock outcropping, a good thirty feet from his island nest.

His hoard was finally back.

Jason launched himself forward without waiting, clearing the empty space with a few powerful bursts of his wings.  He almost tackled the two figures, scooping each up in a clawed hand and winging back to his nest.

They were deposited on either side of Tim, and Jason didn’t hesitate before he curled around all three of them.  Dick and Tim and Bruce.  His hoard.

Mine, purred a part of his mind in happy contentment.

“What the hell,” Dick whispered, “How did a dragon get down here?”

“I don’t know,” Bruce murmured, trying to extricate himself from Jason’s tail.  Jason kept his tail pressed down, and mentally snickered.  “At least we know where Tim is now.”

“We’ve been searching for you for almost a day, baby bird,” Dick said, worried, “What happened—what happened to your neck?”

Dick’s voice rose to shrill concern and Jason felt the pang of guilt twisting inside of him.  In his defense, he’d thought Tim was a dragon.

But Dick was reaching for the burns and he couldn’t do that, Tim was hurt, and Jason lashed out with a claw, pinning Dick in place and preventing him from reaching Tim.

Unfortunately, this did not make Dick back off.  He struggled harder against Jason’s grip, gasping as he nearly choked himself against the cage of claws, one arm outstretched to Tim.  Jason bared his teeth, trying to get Dick to stop, Tim was injured, but all he accomplished was adding the sour scent of fear to Dick’s frenzy.

Bruce manage to slip free of Jason’s tail and his attention was diverted—if Bruce reached for Tim too—

But Bruce merely regarded him, eyes narrowed, for a long, stretching moment.  And then he tipped his head back, baring his throat.

Jason stared at him, surprised.  He could feel the prickling spread through his body—home, nest, hoard, but this was Bruce, making an offer Jason hadn’t asked for, hadn’t dared to ask for because he’d already proved himself a substandard protector, he’d died, and he didn’t deserve this.

Jason reached out and licked Bruce.  Again and again until the slightly empty human scent was replaced by possessive dragon, marking Bruce as a part of his hoard.  “Dick,” Bruce said, wiping off his cheeks when Jason retreated, “Stop fighting.”

“Are you crazy?” Dick snarled, “He kidnapped Tim!  Tim’s hurt and you want me to—”

“None of us have our weapons, and we’re facing a dragon.  If you keep fighting, he’s going to take you as a threat.  Stop.”

Jason wanted to curl into a ball at the corner of his nest.  He wasn’t—he wouldn’t—he caught sight of Tim’s burns and winced again.  He’d done that.  Bruce was entirely right to be wary of him.

Dick hissed something sibilant, and Jason fought the urge to cover his ears.  Dick wouldn’t—wouldn’t use his song on him.  He wouldn’t.  Dick finally slumped in his hold and glared at Jason before slowly tipping his head back, his whole body tense.

Jason tentatively licked him, hesitant and slow, and by the time Dick smelled like hoard, the tension had been replaced with the sleepy scent of resignation.  When Jason let him up, Dick crawled over to the other two, fitting next to Tim and drawing the younger boy close, careful to avoid his wounds.

Jason observed his hoard all together in one place, and curled tightly around them.

Home.

He was supposed to be the dragon.  The protector.  Supposed to keep them safe, and he needed to be a dragon to keep them safe, and it was stupid to shift back into human form just because he watched Bruce card a hand through Tim’s hair and burned with desperate want.

But he’d spent years alone.  Away from his hoard.  Sad and bereft and lost.  And as much as he missed his hoard, he missed his family too.

He wanted his dad.

Jason made a low, mournful huff, and shifted back to human.

His dad and brothers were all mostly asleep, and no one stirred as Jason crawled closer, slumping across all three of them, with his head pillowed on Bruce’s stomach, his hand curled over Tim, and his legs tucked up against Dick.

A hand slowly dragged up to his hair and began softly combing through it, repetitive, near-unconscious motions.  Jason let the warmth diffuse through him, heating up—but not too hot, just enough to be pleasant, his eyes fluttering shut as the gentle strokes continued.

Mine, the dragon purred in satisfaction.

“Jason?!”

Chapter Text

Damian had been raised his entire life as the Heir to the Demon’s Head and the Heir to the Bat.  Future ruler of the League of Assassins and Gotham.  His hoard would be legendary, his army limitless, he would tame the world—

But Father already had two dragon children.  The Bats were already part of a hoard, and it wasn’t Damian’s.

Not yet, anyway.

Damian had studied both of his potential challengers.  Todd lazed around all day, was abominably needy in dragon form, and emulated an overly affectionate cat.

Drake was never in dragon form, was Robin, and was clearly Father’s chosen successor.

It was obvious who Damian had to steal the hoard from.

But Drake wouldn’t let him—he ignored every one of Damian’s challenges, dismissing his posturing and not reacting to Damian’s jibes.  It was infuriating.  Damian had to escalate—if Grandfather himself considered Drake a worthy successor, Damian needed to fight for his place.

One day, the whole world would be his hoard, and Timothy Drake would be nothing but a failure.

Damian snuck into the Cave after patrol—he knew that Drake liked to stay late and finish up his reports, and the others had all retreated upstairs.  The Cave would be empty.  And if Drake refused to accept his attempts at a challenge, then Damian would just attack him anyway.

The only unfair fight was the one you didn’t win.

Drake managed to scramble out of the Batcomputer seconds before Damian’s katana swiped through the air where he was sitting.  “You’ve got to be kidding me,” Drake groaned, backing away—but his eyes were sharp, and he’d snapped out his bo staff.

“You are unworthy of being Father’s successor,” Damian said, stalking forward, “You are unworthy of ruling Gotham.”

Drake rolled his eyes.  “No, let’s not listen to the very rational caution about having an assassin child in the house, let’s just wait until he makes an attempt on someone’s life—”

“It’s not your life I want,” Damian seethed, “It’s your surrender.”

Drake’s eyes flashed.  “Take it,” he said, low and quiet, “If you can.”

Damian bared his teeth, and attacked.

Drake was good.  Drake was very good—he was well trained with the bo staff, and it had more reach than Damian’s katana.  And he was infuriatingly good at keeping control—twice Damian had to force his claws back down as they clicked on the hilt of his sword, but Drake didn’t betray a single hint of a scale.

No wonder Grandfather was interested in him.

Damian was struggling to keep up, though he was careful not to show it.  Drake was better, and it was a slow death knell tolling away in his head.  Drake was going to win.  Drake was going to banish him, and Damian would have to return to Nanda Parbat in disgrace.

Drake definitely registered Damian’s frustration, Damian could see the small quirk to his lips, Drake was enjoying this and fury burned in Damian’s stomach.

Damian had to catch him off guard.  Claws clacked against his hilt again, and Damian stopped trying to suppress his dragon form—Drake was in full human form, if Damian could leverage the split second it would take him to shift—

He shifted all the way to dragon, and spat out fire.

Damian banked on the rush of flames catching Drake off guard and obscuring his vision enough for Damian to leap, claws out, attacking from above.  If he got in one good hit—

The flames died to show Drake on the ground.  Not moving.  He was curled up, arms crossing his face, his hair smoldering—

His hair.  Smoldering.

Dragons couldn’t catch on fire.

“N—not—dra—dragon,” a hoarse voice wheezed, “St—op, plea—se.”

Damian shifted back to human—this was a trick.  Something—Drake had done something, he was—he wasn’t really—it was an illusion, the shivers wracking his frame, the near-silent cries choked out from a hoarse throat, the red, inflamed skin that stretched across his arms and down one side where his shirt had burned away.

Drake was—this wasn’t—dragons couldn’t catch on fire, and Damian turned in a swift circle, waiting for the attack, his heart pounding in his ears because Drake kept making those strangled screams but he couldn’t be burned, and this was a trick, and what was his plan.

Footsteps stomped down the stairs and Damian shifted back another step—he couldn’t—he had to defeat Drake before they were interrupted, but the boy sobbing on the ground couldn’t be Drake, and something heavy was settling into his stomach.

“Tim!” the siren shrieked, tone almost painful, and Damian watched, rooted to the spot, as Grayson sprinted across the Cave to half-collapse at Drake’s side and pat at the remaining sparks.  His hands wavered, trembling, and the flutter of wings heralded the dragon’s presence.

A low, rumbling growl—possessive and furious—and Todd gently licked over the shiny red burns.  Drake twitched and gasped with every stroke—the rough tongue could be acutely painful against sensitive skin, and before Todd was finished, the boy gave a violent flinch and went utterly limp.

“What did you do?” Grayson breathed out, horrified, staring at Damian.

“I—” it was a challenge, Damian had every right—sure, he was supposed to announce one formally, but a dragon had to be ready to protect their hoard at any time.

A dragon.

If Drake wasn’t a dragon—

“I didn’t know—”

“Come on,” Todd shifted back to human and gently picked up Drake, “We need to get the shirt off of him and treat the rest of the burns.”

Grayson shot one last bewildered, upset glance at Damian, before hurrying after Todd.

Drake wasn’t a dragon.  Drake was human—completely, utterly human.  Not a single trace of supernatural ancestry.

Drake was human, and Damian had nearly burned him alive.  There had been no reason to attack Drake.  He couldn’t—Damian would’ve won nothing by defeating him.

And now he’d lost everything.

Father’s face had gone tight when Grayson explained the scene he’d stumbled on to, Todd rarely left Drake’s side, and everyone was avoiding him.  Damian had fumbled his way through an explanation but the moment he’d mentioned challenging Drake, Father’s face had closed off completely.

No one had discussed his fate with him.  No one mentioned when he’d have to return to Nanda Parbat.  Damian had packed up all his stuff, waiting for the order, but until it came, he could do nothing but wander through the Manor’s halls like a ghost.

Mother would not be pleased.  Grandfather would not be pleased.  And when Damian weighed his half-formed plan against their likely displeasure, the plan won out.  Damian would do almost anything to avoid returning to the League of Assassins.

Unfortunately, he had few options, and none were very palatable.

It was one of the few times Todd left Drake’s side, and Damian ran into him near the den.  The dragon didn’t look up at Damian’s approach, didn’t make any sign of noticing him until Damian was three steps away.  “Here for a challenge, demon brat?” Todd asked, turning electric green eyes on him.

Drake wasn’t the dragon.  Todd was.  Which meant that Damian had attacked Todd’s hoard under his own roof.  He was honestly surprised Todd hadn’t come after him yet.

If Damian couldn’t beat Drake, a human, there was no way he could beat Todd.  And if he wanted to stay with Father, he needed to win Todd’s approval.

Two dragons couldn’t be in close proximity without causing flare-ups—unless the hierarchy was rigidly controlled.  Being part of a hoard instead of having a hoard was shameful, but it was the only option left.

“No,” Damian said quietly, dropping to his knees and tilting his head.  The dragon part of him seethed at allowing such weakness.  At being claimed like he was an object, tucked away in someone else’s possession.  “I’ve come to—to surrender to being a part of your hoard.”

Damian waited.  The moment stretched.  One beat, two beat, three—

Todd laughed.  And walked past Damian, still laughing.  “What makes you think I want you in my hoard?” he snapped, walking away and leaving Damian kneeling on the hardwood floor, stomach twisting in dread and horror.

He was going to be sent away soon.  Damian tensed every time someone neared him, waiting for the words.  Or maybe Todd would challenge him and defeat him, just to make his humiliation complete.  Either way, Damian didn’t have long left.

Mother was not going to be happy.  Grandfather—he had claimed Mother as hoard, but Damian was supposed to strike out and find his own hoard.  If he came back, defeated…he didn’t know whether Grandfather would take him back.

He blinked furiously, willing his eyes to stop prickling.  He was a warrior, heir to—he was a warrior.  He wouldn’t cry.  He would accept his defeat with grace.

The only reason that Damian could think of for delaying his banishment was making restitution to Drake.  They most likely wanted him to submit to Drake too, before kicking him out.  He would have to admit that he lost the fight.  Lost, to a human.

Grandfather wasn’t going to take him back, was he.

Damian crept into the room quietly—he’d staked out the door for a day and a half, waiting for a moment when no one was in the room—and stalked to the bed on silent feet.  Drake was resting on it, apparently asleep.

The burns extended down both arms, and down his right side, red splotches curving inwards.  They were pinker than when Damian last saw them, but dry.  Todd had not been back in a while.

Damian swallowed.  If Drake wanted restitution, then—then Damian could help.  He hadn’t meant to burn the older boy, and certainly not that badly.  He cautiously shifted all the way to dragon, and gingerly leaned out.

He licked carefully over the burns, make sure to be as precise and gentle as he could, tracking as more and more of the pink, swollen skin glistened wetly.  He couldn’t reach all the burns—he suspected they extended along Drake’s back, but he covered as much as he could and eased back, glancing up at Drake’s face.

Drake was staring straight at him, blue eyes half-lidded but sharp.

Damian shifted back to human, startled, and backed away a couple of steps.  Drake didn’t say anything, just continued staring, and Damian screwed up his remaining courage.  “I apologize,” he said formally, “I was not aware that you were human when challenging you.”  He stopped, curled his hands into fists, and waited.

Drake didn’t respond.  Damian wasn’t sure what to do.  Did he have to kneel?  Did humans have a different way of showing deference?

“How many teeth did you pull saying that?” Drake finally snarked, lifting an eyebrow, “Let me guess—Dick put you up to this.”

“I—no.  No one—I didn’t—”

“Really,” Drake rolled his eyes, “You just came here to apologize of your own volition.”

“I am aware,” Damian said quietly, “That my stay here is drawing to a close.  I merely—”

“Wait, what?” Drake pushed himself upright, hissing in pain.  The narrow-eyed suspicion had been replaced with concern.  “You’re leaving?”

“Whenever Todd decides to go through with the banishment—”

“Jason is not going to banish you,” Drake said flatly.

Damian kept his expression blank and his tone level.  “Todd will not want another dragon in his territory, near his hoard.  As he has already made it clear that he sees no value in adding me to his hoard, my banishment is only a matter of time.”

Drake was gaping at him now.  He took a deep, shuddering breath before muttering something too low for Damian to hear.  “Get up here,” Drake said finally, beckoning him on the bed.

Damian hesitated—but this was a direct order, and he didn’t dare disobey.

“You’re not leaving,” Drake said firmly once Damian had gotten closer, “I don’t care what Jason says.”

“It—it’s his territory, and—”

“Fuck his territory,” Drake said simply, and tugged Damian closer, until he was practically curled against the older boy’s side.

“He’s a dragon,” Damian said softly.  Damian could not disobey.  Todd would win any challenge Damian attempted.

“And I’m a Drake,” Drake said, “And I’m claiming you as part of my hoard.”

The word sent a jolt through him—belonging, pack, mine—before suspicion drowned it out.

Damian frowned at him.  “That’s not how it works,” Damian pointed out, “You have to be a dragon to have a hoard.”

“Apparently it was enough for two separate dragons to challenge me, so I might as well use my name for something,” Drake said, nudging Damian down until his head was resting in Drake’s lap.  “You’re not leaving.  I accept your apology, and I won’t let Jason banish you.”

Damian wasn’t sure how Drake was going to stop him—Todd was a dragon, and Drake was already injured—but there were fingers feathering through his hair and it was getting harder to ignore the dragon part of himself.

Mine, the dragon rumbled possessively, and Damian sleepily agreed, curling up further around Drake.

“—I’m sorry, since when was it acceptable to fail to communicate to an eleven-year-old—”

“He hurt you!”

“Do you happen to remember how we met, Jason?  Hmm?  I’ll give you a hint, it started with a dragon attacking me out of nowhere, and then kidnapping me—”

“I didn’t know you were human!”

“And neither did he.”

“He was ready to challenge you, to hoard-steal, and you just want me to—”

“He’s a child, Jason.  He just wants to belong.  Yeah, he found a fucked-up way of going about it, that doesn’t mean you kick him out—”

“Ugh, fine.  Fine.”  The bed shifted under a suddenly heavy weight, and something rough swiped across Damian’s face, drawing him further into alertness.  “Happy now?”

“Ecstatic,” Drake replied dryly, before yelping, “Jason, you just—I don’t need—Jason!”  A huff of warm breath.  “This is disgusting, by the way.”

The heavy weight reduced, and the next huff sounded human.  “Well, maybe if you just changed your fucking name—”