Archive of Our Own ^beta

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In a world where dragons are an everyday sight and finding that the mist has decided to be purple because it’s feeling frisky, Charlie knows that keeping his head up and eyes open is imperative. The woods are thick and the terrain slow going but he makes it to the village before nightfall, another imperative. 

Stepping into the warmth of the tavern he scans the room, habit and safety precaution in one, and stops. 

He doesn’t come this way often, the beautiful man too much of a distraction.

Hi’s exchanged, physical hunger satisfied, the tavern empties and carnal hunger reigns.

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They barely make it to the room before garments are rended and mouths are everywhere. It’s been some time since Charlie has been in the area, by design, and the need is insatiable. 

“How have you been?”

“Seriously, that’s what you’re asking?”

“What did you want me to ask?”

“‘How do you want it?’ or ‘What first?’ are two suggestions.”

“Oh, I know the answers to those. You’re going to let me taste, then you’re going to take me.”

“I am, am I?”

“You know you want to.”

“Get over here, take your taste. You know me far too well.”

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“Shower, now.” Nick almost groans, patience is overrated, but warranted. 

The warm spray hits their skin. Bathing is swift yet thorough, and soon they’re crashing back to the bed. 

Charlie moans under his tongue and Nick relishes the sound. There is much to catch up on but words can wait. Words can always wait. 

Nick laps at the tip, holding Charlie's hips down on the mattress so he can control the pace. Enveloping his length, the weight heavy on his tongue, setting up a rhythm that will drive Charlie to the brink. 

His own neglected cock twitches and he groans.

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“Too much, Nick. If you want me to take you, you must stop.”

Nick whimpers, his pupils wide, as if this hadn't been his own idea. 

“Come here, I'll make it up to you.” 

They kiss, slow and deep, and bodies slide together. 

Then there is only the slick of lubrication and the heated friction of skin on skin as they grind their bodies together. Charlie takes his time softening and opening Nick before sliding inside. Their eyes lock and neither falters as their hips move in concert. Gasps and moans decorate the room as the heat and tension builds.

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There are no words after that, not intelligible ones at any rate. Skin sliding against skin, the sharp slaps as friction is sought, and found. Both men are gasping for breath, heated and panting as the tempo escalates and their tongues explore the recesses of each other’s mouths. 

Moans and a series of guttural grunts mark the acquisition of a climax for each of them, as they collapse, sated, to the sheets. 

Charlie rolls onto his back, only for the larger man to pull him back against his side.

“You’re a mess!” Charlie protests.

“Whose fault is that?” Nick grins.

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A bath sees to the end of Charlie’s travel weary aches, along with the new ones born out of much more pleasurable activity. He leans back against Nick’s broad furry chest and sighs. 

“Where does your journey take you next?” Nick asks. 

Charlie is ignoring the hints of emotion in his voice that he is not prepared to address. “I must head back into the forests. There is an imbalance that must be addressed. The mists are acting out of character and I am needed. You know I can’t stay.”

Nick does know, and Charlie feels him resist the urge.

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“Tell me more about what you’ve found.”

“I have a friend of mine keeping some notes for me, she’s documenting the shifts that she’s seeing. She runs this little teashop and I could swear that it’s like a magical barometer. If everything’s as it should be the croissants croissant as they should, but if anything is out of sorts they dance on the counter.”

“That sounds like a fun place to be.”

“Sure, on good days. With things as they are, I’m not sure what I’ll be walking into.”

What you’ll be walking away from either, Nick muses to himself.

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Charlie would ask him to come, would ask what this is, would delve a little deeper, but none of that feels fair. He’s got his life, this place, folks who depend on him. He can’t just leave on a whim for some hairbrained mission. 

Maybe if Charlie can find out a bit more, get a few more answers, maybe he’ll have something more to offer. 

For now it feels like the most he can have was this night, and if that is the case then he isn’t wasting it. He buries his nose in Nick’s neck, storing up the memory.

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Nick knows he must make the most of their time, that it is never long enough. So he cuddles Charlie to him all night, ensuring that they have time for another round in the morning before the sun rises to break their spell. 

“I will return,” Charlie assures him as he dons his cloak again at the door. 

“I will be here.”

He makes a show of wiping down the bar, not watching as the man leaves his establishment. 

I shall have to make decisions. To stay means watching him leave. What if he doesn’t want the company? He might.

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Charlie leaves, as he always must. Each time is a little more complicated and his life is complicated enough. 

He heads into the early morning mist, which has transitioned overnight into a rather sour green. 

“What is your problem?” Charlie asks it, to no avail. “These mood swings are a bit much, no?”

He continues onwards to the clearing where he knows he’ll find one person who will at least have the same questions as him.

After several detours born out of the mists leading him astray, disguising his route and taunting him with illusion, he arrives at his destination.

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“Hello there, friend! It is a pleasure. Take a seat, oh not there. The pixies seem to think that stool *must* levitate and it’s not very stable. Can I get you a drink? The tea blends have been arguing again and the teapot is having a bit of a steam over tea bags, so loose leaf it is. Edna has missed you so that does mean that she’s going to likely stick rather close, hope you don’t mind.”

“Imogen, breathe” Charlie laughs. “Also, hi Edna, can you get your wings out of my face? No? Got it.”

“Cup of tea?”

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“So, Imogen, how has Edna’s scale rot been since I was last here?” 

“For a dragon, she’s not letting on too much that it’s bothering her.” 

“Did you keep that list of the colours you have observed in the mists as I asked?”

“I did, but more importantly, did you stop by The Wandering Sprig on your way here?” 

“What do you mean?” 

“That you would have had to pass by there, and it’s a logical place to stop for a rejuvenating … break in your journey.”

“Are the pixies messing with your tea leaves again?”

“They’re behaving perfectly… mostly.”

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“I mean, they tend to cause the sugar cubes to levitate if I don’t wish them good morning, and they may have decided that the cake needed to sparkle … and they may have tried to set up the cutlery draw as a choir. That was not pretty.”

“Oh yes, they’re behaving perfectly. Where’s Edna?”

Looking around they see the little dragon curling up under a chair.

“Has she been doing that a lot?”

“Some. She’s still not herself, and while her scales are better she still clearly doesn’t feel quite right.”

“Hmm. Let me see that list of colours.”

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“So, predominant colour is still this iridescent purple, but you’re also seeing the same acid green I saw earlier, as I was leaving.”

“Leaving where?”

“Enough. Yes, I stopped the night with Nick.”

“Hmm. When *are* you going to ask that man to walk with you?”

“Imogen! He has a business, a very fixed one. Enough. Now, about these colours. You saw this friendly blue about two weeks ago. Tell me more about this day.”

“It was bedlam in here, the broom was in a mood and wouldn’t talk to the dustpan, it became a thing.”

“But you remember it?”

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“Of course I do, it was mayhem. The spoons kept levitating and the only thing in the place behaving herself was Edna, which should tell you something.”

“Interesting. Has there been another day like it since then?”

“No, that one was particularly … particular.” Imogen laughs as she remembers.

“And the only time you’ve seen the friendly blue since you started jotting it down for me. Curiouser and curiouser.”

“Generating any theories in that recently sated brain of yours?”

“Ims! Rude. And no, not yet.”

“Don’t suppose you have any? You’re seeing the same things I am.”

“Not as yet.”

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“You really think I should ask him, don't you?”

“You don't?”

Charlie huffs and let's her continue

“You can't keep making his decisions for him. Protective of his existing life and of your heart, sure, but presumptuous. You might be surprised. The possibilities are wider than you think and I'm just not convinced you're giving him enough credit. Does he make you happy?”

“Every time, and the sex…”

“I know, and not that I don’t love the dish, I don't need the details.”

“Alright alright, still, it is a factor.”

“Are the mists reading you?”

Charlie scoffs, and then pauses.

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The place is always a little less - colourful - after Charlie leaves.  Nick serves his customers, goes about his daily repairs and touch ups and generally keeps his dear little inn running smoothly. 

They’d discussed Charlie’s need to keep exploring, his determination to learn more about the mists and find out why the dragons are all in hiding. Knowing how crucial his vocation is and actually watching him leave are two different things, though. 

If all this went on much longer, finding a staff he trusted might become more critical to him too. 

“Are you with us, Nicholas?” Tara asks him.

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“So, he stopped by last night, I take it?”

“Who? Charlie? What do you mean?” 

“Sure, we can go with that. Absolutely nothing happening with a certain wandering purveyor of magical insight and general Protector of the Dragons.”

“When are you going to make a move on your sweetly scattered -”

“Argh, excuse me, talking about you at the moment!”

“No, we’re not. Are you here to work or are you here to interrogate me?”

“I’m a woman, Nick, I can multi-task.”

“Well go and multi-task over there, I have work to do.”

“Rude, but okay fine, dropping it for now.”

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“Seriously though, are you not going to talk about your fascination with a particular custodian of Celestial Gardens?”

Tara scowls. “Should I? Nothing’s happened… nothing’s happening.”

“Of course not, if you won’t actually talk to them.”

“Argh, that’s a bit rich isn’t it?” She mimes her two hands talking to each other, “Hi pot, my name’s kettle.”

“Rude squared!” Nick retorts. “Charlie at least knows I exist.”

“Alright, that hurts, but it’s fair. You do have me there.”

“So, what are you going to do about it?”

“Oh go polish an ale pump!” Tara exclaims. “I’ll go buy a plant.”

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“Iz, you back here?” 

“I am not.”

“But someone must be, because someone said “I am not.”

“Darce, it’s me. You have slipped into Winnie the Pooh and must come back to me.”

“Oh, not again.”

“How can I help?”

“There are a few more folks in the greenhouse and I just need you on standby.”

“Consider me standing by.”

Darcy turns, grateful their friend is so happy to fill in. Their eyes scan the space, mentally running through the watering scheduling, and wishing the pesky pink mists would stop creating strange shade patterns.

They turn, almost colliding. 

“Hi.”

“Hi.”

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“I’m so sorry,” Tara splutters. “I wasn’t paying attention.” Who am I kidding, I was paying too much attention to the way the pink mist flushes your cheeks and wishing the flytraps would swallow me whole. Tara muses until she realises that she’s not listening. “Now I’m sorry for a second time, can you repeat that?”

“I was simply saying that there is no need for apologies. Can I help you find anything? My name’s Darcy, welcome to my oasis in the chaos.”

“It is all rather uncertain at the moment, isn’t it?” Tara asks, determined to restore her reputation.”

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“Uncertain. Yes, let’s go with that.” Darcy is amused at the understatement and grins. “You’re sharp.”

The blush under the deep skin is delicious and Darcy vows to find additional ways to bring it out. 

“That aside, to answer your earlier question, I don’t know exactly what I’m looking for, just that I need to find balance.”

“You’ve come to the right place,” Darcy is in their element. “Might I suggest this? It will filter the air and fill your home with the scent of orange blossom. No one is sure why.”

“That is intriguing. I’m Tara by the way.”

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“Well, Tara-by-the-way, come this way and I’ll check you out.” 

Tara is convinced that she must be reading too much into that. Checking out is a natural part of the transaction of making a purchase. The implied innuendo though. 

Shake it off! You don’t know that there is an innuendo. Oh, but those eyes, they’re not staying on your face, are they?

“You can check me out anytime,” Tara says, feeling uncharacteristically bold.

“Well, that’s a relief.”

“It is?”

“I had rather presumptuously started, so yes. Here, take this iris too, symbolising new beginnings. See you again soon, I hope.”

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“Iz, going to need you up front for a bit. I have to help a customer out with their things.”

“Sure thing, be right there.” 

He’s too trusting and Darcy flinches as she fibs to her best friend, but there’s something happening that she can’t quite pin down and it’s telling her that she mustn't just let Tara walk away. 

“You don’t have to help me, I can carry these two. I live closeby.” 

“Oh, but this is heavy. I don’t mind at all. Are you new around here?”

“Yes and no. I work along the way at the inn.”

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Are you new around here? Tara muses on the implications of such a question as she allows Darcy the chivalry of picking up the plants and indicating that Tara should lead. 

“Oh, so you know Nick?” 

“Yes, he’s been a friend a long time. I help him out around the inn, and attempt to council him on his love life.”

“Ah, Charlie’s stopped by, I take it?”

“You know?”

“Everyone does, seemingly with the exception of the twits themselves.”

“Do you have a theory, it sounds like you do.”

“I don’t. Iz does.”

“Who is Iz?”

“Keeper-of-Records. He knows all.”

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Darcy shifts the plants in her arms, not sure why she’s sharing this much about Isaac. It isn’t as though he’s a secret, nor that his role in the world isn’t public knowledge, ha - public record. It’s just that when he’s Iz, he’s just her friend, and sharing him with this stranger should feel like too much. It doesn’t, and that in itself is going to require a cup of tea and a long chat to unravel. 

“Keeper-of-Records, that sounds important.”

“His role is to record the histories, to ensure the story is told. But outside that, he’s my friend.”

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Recording histories, oh that sounded so vital. Tara shifts a little on her toes. 

“I don’t really have a history yet, nothing’s happened to me that would be worth recording.” She pauses, inhales, and lets out the words that will give her away. “At least, nothing had happened to me.”

Darcy halts, turning to look Tara more directly in the eye. “Hadn’t happened? Until when?”

“Until I collided with someone who, and I cannot explain this, I’m convinced is going to be important to me. A few minutes ago.”

“Oh, victory is mine,” Darcy exhales. “I am so relieved you noticed!”

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Charlie wakes and checks the window. There are tendrils of the pale blue mist Imogen described in the trees. 

Descending the stairs he’s therefore unsurprised to see the tearoom in disarray. The fairies are holding some sort of ceremony near the ceiling and the kettle is whistling away on the Aga. Imogen is giving off a frenetic energy, a far cry from her typical calm. 

“Oh good, you’re up,” she greeted him. “At least now you can see this! The Earl Gray has taken on airs and is refusing to steep, and the scones are debating the jam-clotted cream sequence.”

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These sorts of mornings are something else altogether. This place is always a little quirky. Catering to the entire magical community means that expecting the unexpected is just prudent. 

Imogen watches Charlie take in the enhanced layers of quirky on this morning, feeling vindicated in her observations. 

“I definitely see what you mean,” Charlie acknowledges. 

She looks at her friend, something isn’t right. His usual quick wit and intuition are missing, replaced by acquiescence. 

She determines to explore her suspicions the next time Sahar is available. She’s ready for a restock trip to Celestial Gardens and a chat with Darcy.

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Charlie takes in the room. A dwarf is grumbling about his tea, the broom is sulking in one corner and for some reason the cake stand is sporting a lemon-blueberry cake that is gently sparkling in the soft lights. 

What intrigues him isn’t the sparkling cake or anthropomorphised sweepery, it’s the gentle, unthreatening air that continues to indicate that the motives aren’t directly menacing. This thought has occurred to him before but he finds it more frustrating now. Menaces are easier to manage. This feels, underhanded somehow, as if there’s an alternate motivation. 

He hates a false sense of security.

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The morning is proving to collate a few of my thoughts, and now Imogen is more convinced than ever that she needs to consult with Darcy and Isaac. They must be seeing the same patterns that she is. She’s got to find a way to get him to do what will not come naturally. 

There are too many coincidences, too many ways in which the chaos and colours and Edna’s symptoms lineup with times that she knows there has been distance, or the lack of it. 

Question is though, to be subtle and nudge him, or use the sledgehammer approach?

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Imogen is giving him her ‘I can therapise you over tea’ look and he doesn’t know if he’s ready to feel this ‘seen’ so early in the morning. 

“You’re feeling burnt out, yes?”

Charlie rolls his eyes and she continues to polish a stonewear mug with her very best mushroom tea towel. 

“I suppose,” Charlie acknowledges, reluctantly. 

“You know you have had delegation suggested before, and that you are actually in a position to seek support without that being seen as a failure on your part, yes?”

“Yeh, yeh, got any suggestions?” Charlie pauses then looks up. “Don’t answer that!”

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Don’t answer that, he says. Don’t continue to be so obtuse in my presence then, you eejit!

To Charlie she says, “my work here is done.”

“Imogen, and I mean this with the uttmost affection, go make another sparkly cake or see if you can control the bouncing sugar cubes because they’re not supposed to do that.”

“Love you too, Charlie,” Imogen smiles. “I trust that you’re going to do the right thing, even if you insist that you’re going to do all this alone for a while longer before you cave and reach out to him.”

Silly silly boys!

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Stepping out of the deceptive peace of the tea room, Charlie takes in the forest around him. He’s left Imogen with a restock of the tincture for Edna’s scales and a promise that she’ll be in touch if anything worsens. 

As it stands, Edna is one of the only dragons he’s seen in far too long, and even she is likely only staying put because Bergamot and Grey is where she’s decided she’s safe. How is he to find the others if they’ve all acted similarly and taken themselves away? 

The mists disagree, but the skies are empty without dragons.

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The dragons have been in hiding for too long. Something’s keeping Charlie Spring from being able to decipher the patterns and, even more insulting, his histories are not helping him to determine what that is. There is a mystery in the air, and Isaac does not approve of mysteries. 

The stories are unsettling. Isaac reviews his correspondence. His network has been active and the reports are coming in from all the four corners. What’s intriguing is that the mists don’t appear to be universal, and the colours are a code he hasn’t cracked. 

He settles in to collate the reports.

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Imogen woke up early, set Sahar the task of trying to get the fairies down out of the candelabra and back to their own home, and to follow up with Edna’s medicine. She makes the journey quickly, baking a bee line for Celestial Gardens and the wisdom she seeks. 

Along the way, the acid green mists seem to mock her. 

He didn’t listen then. Typical. 

She’ll deal with Charlie the next time he comes by, and once she has confirmed her suspicions with Isaac. 

Isaac has to have put it all together by now, surely. It's all in the colours.

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Imogen’s coming, that has to mean that she’s seen something. Sure she comes when she needs to restock her supplies, but when that is all it is she’d send someone with a list. She’s coming herself, that means she has something to share. 

Isaac prepares a tea blend that will be appropriate for a longer talk. He settles his papers on the table for her to review, this way they can compare notes. She won’t have notes. Much to his dismay her ideas are stored in her head. 

He wishes she’d write things down. He tries to shake it off.

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Isaac has been collecting the stories, the reports are coming in from further afield. He’s worked up the patterns too, and they’re convinced. There’s malice in the mists. The deception is established and they’re keeping Charlie from seeking support, without which he can’t be successful. 

“The blue mists create havoc at my tea room but the acid green ones show up whenever Charlie is moving away from assistance.”

“I agree that he needs it, that his insistence on being solo for everyone’s safety is foolhardy.” 

“It’s fool something!” she exclaims, not inclined to be as generous as Isaac. Silly boys!

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Imogen isn’t wrong, there’s room in the theory for a world in which Charlie Spring need not be alone. He’s alone out of habit. 

Self-protection born out of history and tradition. The role has always been seen as one done in isolation. 

“Traditions are only really tolerable, though, if they don’t allow for the world to become untidy, and without the dragons, the world is becoming untidy. The balance is shifting and soon it won’t shift back.” Isaac knows he doesn’t need to convince Imogen. He does, however, need to state this so that they can plan. “What is next?”

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“That’s easy. We figure out how to manipulate Nick into reaching out to Charlie. Charlie’s too stubborn to bend without being provoked. He may have decided that he won’t ask Nick, so the idea needs to come the other way around.”

“How precisely do you plan to pull that off?”

“Easy, trick him into thinking it’s his idea. Alternatively, we engage a surrogate. All I know is it can’t come directly from you or I. He’ll baulk.”

“I may have just the someone from whom the idea needs to come. Darcy made a new friend recently.”

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I know that my tone when I’d used the word friend to describe Darcy’s new companion had been skeptical. There is more brewing there than a simple acquaintance and, for what it is worth, it is about bloody time. Imogen picks up on the implied air quotes and crooks an eyebrow at me. 

“Yes, that kind of friend. Anyway, she works at the Inn with Nick, and seems to know him. Worth finding out if she’s seen any interactions between him and Charlie that could be leveraged.”

“That would be perfect. Is Darcy around, I absolutely meant to say hi.”

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The idea that they have an inside woman who can maybe support them in getting Nick to reach out to Charlie is exciting. The idea that Darcy has found someone is a sugary bonus that will lend sprinkles to what is promising to be a really great day. 

“I say we reach out to Darcy, see what they have to say for themselves and whether we can get an introduction to their new friend.”

Isaac nods, checking his notes. “They’ve been walking around with a goofy grin since they met, I’d say that there are already plans we can crash.”