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“I call him Marker. Dad called him Radon.”
“I remember,” Steve said, looking at Howard Stark’s dragon while Tony Stark paced the lab. Radon was about the size of a draft horse—twice as big as he had been half a century ago. Radon’s scales had darkened with age, from the luminescent yellow of youth to a deeper, golden hue. “Radon?”
“Eighty-sixth element,” Tony replied.
Steve was not talking to him. The dragon flicked one black eye open to regard him. Some saw dragons as soulless. They weren’t; they were soul-stealers. Steve stepped towards him.
Tony advised dryly, “I wouldn’t.”
Steve ignored him. “You got big,” Steve told the dragon, unblinking, mesmerized.
A low, aquatic rumble, issued from Radon’s throat, followed by a warning series of clicks. With a single flowing movement, Radon stood, looking down at Steve. Now, remember, pal—don’t look in their eyes too long. Steve could see the shadow of Howard Stark in the corner of his eye, a ghost gesticulating at the curled-up dragonling in the corner, articulating, They’re soul-stealers.
A high-pitched noise made Steve and Radon flinch. Tony set a whistle down and said with his back to them, “Dragon etiquette 101—new names only.”
Steve saw Radon from the corner of his eye, both of them looking at Tony. “You survived,” Steve told Radon.
The fact was not advertised—nobody knew exactly how to handle the rare dragons in their midst, which were strangely ephemeral, sticking with a family line for a few centuries before moving on without warning and rebuffing any attempts for previous kin to get near them. It could be heartbreaking for those who became attached.
“Of course I did,” Tony said, once again misinterpreting the recipient of Steve’s statement. “He doesn’t really speak to me anymore,” Tony added. “Frankly, I’d be kind of pissed if my meat source disappeared for three months, too.” Tony tugged open a door and pulled out a slab of fresh meat. “Watch your step,” Tony warned Steve, chucking the meat at Radon.
Radon snatched it out of midair with breathtaking speed. “That’s my boy,” Tony deadpanned, grimacing at the wet residue on his hands. “Ugh. Couldn’t have gotten a parrot.” Another series of clicks, fast, agitated. “Parrots have their flaws, too,” Tony assured. “Crows eat meat, too.” Another, deeper rumble. “Oh, whatever. You know what I meant.”
Steve turned to address the dragon. “Marker,” Steve repeated, surprised at how Radon tilted his head around, almost like an owl, looking at him intently. “Why—”
“Because,” Tony said simply, shaking off sink water. “We good? Everyone friends now?” He looked at Ra—Marker, who rolled his head back around to a more upright position. “Thank you.” Another slow round of clicks, which Steve could only interpret as friendly. Tony sighed: “He wants to fly. I have to work. Fine,” he told Marker, who repeated the slow clicking noise. “It’s like living with a bat,” Tony told Steve, which immediately increased the frequency of the clicks. “I said it, I meant it,” Tony growled at him. Tony said, “Absolutely unbearable. Never get a dragon.”
It was like a shot to the heart, but Steve made himself say, “Never planned to.”
Steve let them go.
Made his way back to the balcony room, his mission forgotten. Only the dust caked on his uniform reminded him that Steve had meant to take a shower before the impulse had carried him off to Tony’s lab.
He wished he had taken the shower.
. o .
“No, I don’t—own her,” Bruce Banner said, wincing at the implication. Bruce sat in a chair across from two news anchors, glancing nervously at the camera. “She’s just—she hangs out, it’s fine, it’s nice, even. Right?” The bluish-black dragon looked up at Bruce, black eyes unreadable. “No, don’t do that, don’t—sorry,” Bruce said, standing up and looking at the two news anchors, “we have to go, she’s hungry, I—”
“Terrific to have you, Dr. Banner,” the woman assured, looking at the dragon, entranced. “We’d love to have you back.”
“Absolutely,” the man agreed. “Feel free to bring your friend with you.”
Eight years later, Terror left for good.
Two months after Terror’s disappearance, Bruce Banner became the Hulk.
. o .
“It didn’t help,” Bruce admitted, as Steve sat with him over tea at two in the morning in Tony’s Tower. “Losing your dragon, it—I mean, I always thought I’d be happy, you know, once she left. No more looking over your shoulder, no more—I’m a vegetarian,” Bruce added plaintively, “I never wanted a snake or a reptile and I got a dragon, I probably killed a cow every month just to keep her fed every month. And you have to keep them fed,” he added seriously.
Steve nodded knowingly.
“She always knew when things would go bad,” Bruce went on. “Towards the end, she—well, I think she knew, I wasn’t in the right space, I was—I lost sight of who I was, who I wanted to be. I put the ideas first, the man second. Everything suffered. And then I. . . .” Bruce flexed both fists demonstratively. “I’m glad she wasn’t there,” he added softly. “I don’t know what . . . he would’ve done to her.”
. o .
Some people did not like dragons. “Oh yeah,” Clint said, sitting outside, sharpening his arrows. “I’ve killed a few. Mean bastards.” Clint shuddered, then said, “Even if they’d wanted to bond, I would’ve run the other way. Snow-white. Just looked like trouble.” Musingly, he said, “They can smell it, you know. Dragon-killers.”
. o .
Natasha did not need to say it. Steve knew.
. o .
Some nights, Steve dreamed about a snow-white dragon pinning him to the snow, black eyes and wet maw dripping on him, a bloody arrow in his hand. There were only two options.
As huge teeth dipped towards him, Steve awoke with a start.
. o .
Grooming a dragon was not like grooming a horse. There was an air of profound danger to every action. But it was expected. Like feeding.
You have to keep them fed.
Watching Tony groom Ra—Marker was almost soothing. While Steve stood by, Tony approached his dragon, a stiff brush in hand, and set about scrubbing dead scales and other grime from Marker’s skin.
Marker stood for him, warbling frequently, ranging from high-pitched clicks to contented rumbles that descended into a register even Steve could not hear. Only once did Tony pause and warn Marker, “Don’t even think about it,” as Marker’s tail curled around Tony’s legs before retreating to lie flat behind him again.
“They’ll eat you if they think they can,” Tony told Steve, like Steve did not already know. Putting his back to Marker, Tony shucked up his pant leg, revealed gouging scars. “We’re still friends,” Tony added cheekily, scrubbing Marker’s hide like a washboard.
“Still friends,” Tony insisted, dragging a stool over and letting Marker put a paw on his knee so Tony could shine his killing claws. “He brings me a deer once a month. That’s pretty something. Doesn’t share,” he added pointedly. “Just brings it.”
. o .
Nobody knew exactly why dragons wanted to be around humans. It just seemed to happen. As cities industrialized, formerly reclusive wild dragons suddenly seized an opportunity. They were like woodland creatures venturing into suburban areas and discovering readily available food and shelter. Why toil in trees and dirt when one could shelter in the well-insulated attic of an unsuspecting host?
In a way, their relationship often amounted to purely industrial: feed, groom, home. Name.
Naming dragons was important.
. o .
“Isn’t he special?” Howard asked Steve, throwing an arm around Radon’s head and kissing the scaly brow above one black eye theatrically. “Big puppy-dog.”
Radon purred loudly. Howard laughed. He was very drunk.
“What I gotta know, what I’ll take to my grave, is why doesn’t everyone have a dragon?” Howard went on, speaking more to himself than Steve. “All you need is two of them. You could make a killing out of it.”
Radon continued to purr, a low sound, reminding Steve inescapably of his pseudo radar-based namesake.
It’s Radon, my friend—like the element, Howard had corrected Steve. Not radar. Not radio. Radon.
“I’m tellin’ ya, give me a year, give me another dragon, we’ll make an empire,” Howard proclaimed.
. o .
Fate never gave Howard Stark another dragon.
. o .
“You work too hard,” Tony critiqued as Steve limped into the Tower’s great room. Steve had been digging through the city rubble again, unearthing bodies. He did not like the thought of leaving them behind, so he had gone out to do what even the most ambitious rescuers could not. Some called him crazy, risking life and limb for the dead; others called him heroic. He did not care, either way. He just wanted to go home, wash up, and sleep for a few hours before the sun rose.
Tony was never in the great room, let alone Marker, yet the dragon had curled up in front of the fireplace, his scales flushed bright red with the heat. The gold and red scales juxtaposed Marker unexpectedly with his human counterpart.
You were made for this dragon, Steve thought at his human counterpart. He did not voice it, absolutely certain the thought had occurred to Tony before.
“Lotta work,” Steve said at last.
“Always is,” Tony replied, sipping coffee. He drank coffee at every hour. His hands shook, just like his father’s.
Steve said, “You should get some sleep.”
Tony arched both eyebrows. “Like you?”
. o .
Steve did not like to sleep.
There were far too many demons under the surface of his dreams. Lately, they’d all followed the same pattern.
Heavy footfalls on snow, a distant warbling growl. Then there were clicks approaching, alien and divine. A huge white snout shoved into the snow, carving out metal, shearing away ice. Blood and ice-cold water dripped from a wet, toothy maw. The noise was incredible. Then—he awoke in a S.H.I.E.L.D. facility.
It had to be a dream, a nightmare conjured by a mind awakening for the first time in seventy years—but the black, soul-stealing eyes were seared on his soul, the hunger, the knowing.
I found you.
. o .
Radon—Marker. Often brooded.
Dragons could live for thousands of years; their pace of life reflected it. They were not frenetic like humans. They simply bided their time, wandering the Earth. The tame among them had human servants. The feral had dragon-killers.
Tony tinkered with cars and suits and the golden scales on Radon’s back. “Your dad loved him,” Steve volunteered one day, while Tony was scrubbing the brush against Marker’s neck.
“My dad didn’t love anyone,” Tony replied, perfectly flippant, while Radon-Marker click-click-clicked, in approval, in disinterest, in agreement.
. o .
Bruce looked for his dragon.
Steve knew he did, despite Bruce's assurances that he was happier without her, because Bruce stood on the porch at times, cupping his hands around his mouth and whistling a long, low note.
It was a sound that would never carry over the city lights and traffic. It did not matter—dragons did not respond to calls, did not answer to names. Names were a contract. Once the dragon moved on, it was dead to them.
Bruce whistled again, the same low call. Terror did not respond.
. o .
Steve asked Tony, “What’s your call?”
Without pausing to think if he wanted to answer the question, Tony bit down on his lower lip and whistled once, sharp and carrying. Marker, who had been sleeping in the corner, lurched upright, sauntering over and butting his head against Tony’s chest with an audible thunk. Tony wheezed, “Next question?” as he gripped Marker’s head in both hands, growling back at him as he used his whole body to shake the huge head back and forth. “Don’t test me, I’ll fight you.” Marker growled deeper, his scales flushing darker. Tony laughed, shoving the dragon back as hard as he could. Marker moved to shove him again, but Tony braced and held on, insisting breathlessly, “Think you’re so tough? You’re not tough.”
With a final growl, Marker backed off, head toggling back and forth, like a dog shaking off. “Pansy,” Tony said affectionately, straightening his shirt, the arc reactor glowing blue underneath it. Turning to Steve, Tony eyed him up and down, acknowledging, “I dread the dragon that tangos with you,” and shook his head to himself as he stepped over to his bench, pulling up a file without so much as a by-your-leave.
. o .
Howard used nearly the same call, but he stuck two fingers in his mouth to do it, a piercing sound that could shatter even the steadiest peace in an instant. Mid-conversation, Howard would call on Radon, who would side-eye him, occasionally trample over for an affectionate head-butt, nudging his snout against Howard’s torso.
It always looked painful, and Howard had the bruises to prove it. It was easier to get knocked over, roll with the hit, but it was ingrained in the general consciousness that dragons killed those they conquered. It was not true—Steve knew it was not true—but it was hard to break that kind of myth. And Stark seemed to delight in his own strength, into challenging the dragon to a duel and winning.
The killing claws, the flaming maw, never came into play. The dragon had already won.
But it made for a nice show.
. o .
Marker did not sleep in Tony’s room. He slept by the door, blinking once at Steve, an inquiry.
Steve had come for Tony, but he approached Marker instead, deliberately holding his gaze.
Step right up, folks, and meet the best thing since sliced bread, Howard had once encouraged, letting people do the forbidden, handle his dragon. Radon had only been the size of a small donkey. Impossible to force, but relatively easy to manhandle. It had always been Radon’s choice, how much he would tolerate, but Radon had seemed more intrigued by humans than annoyed by them. Like Howard himself, Radon had been a people-person.
Marker was a different beast. His scales darkened. Steve thought, Back away.
Instead, Steve held out a hand.
For a moment, Steve saw a snow-white face, black eyes, a gaping maw slowly dripping shut. He thought, You’re so big.
Marker stood suddenly. The sound of claws on floorboard preceded footsteps from the bedroom. A moment later—bedraggled, clearly pulled from a deep sleep, but attentive to the situation, Tony appeared.
“What the hell are you doing?” Tony asked, not even recognizing Steve. Tony put an arm around Marker, claiming him, a side. His back was to Steve, Marker’s eyes fixed on him.
Do you think they love people?
No, Peggy had said, her own forest-brown dragon lying on the floor near the tent flap. They eat people.
“Sorry,” Steve said, running his hand through his hair. “I—”
Marker clicked at him, unreadable. Steve took it for what it was and walked away without another word.
. o .
Her name was Snow, because he was unoriginal, noncommittal, and desperate not to be happy with her.
Every story Steve had ever heard about dragons had paled in comparison to the moment when the tiny creature had actually stumbled out of the tree line. She had had two straight horns on her head, unlike her male counterparts, which had only short stubs, and intelligent black eyes that locked instantly onto him, a predator in a prey animal's tiny body. Even in her diminution—her whole body barely the length of his arm—those spikes were sharp enough to impale anyone foolish enough to get too close.
Naturally, Steve got as close as she let him.
In response, she chewed on his hand and struck bone. Even with tears stinging his eyes, he had crooned at her, “Aren’t you a good girl? Strong girl.” He had offered her every scrap of meat from his ration; she had hungrily scarfed them all down. Then she had bitten his wrist, and he had needed to set his own teeth around her little skull until she had gotten the message and let go. His hand had been a bloody mess, but he had wrapped it and her in his coat and run back to camp.
“Are you out of your bloody mind?” Peggy Carter had asked him, when Steve had finally shown her the dragon he had found in the woods.
“Probably,” Steve had admitted, heart pounding with delight. “Isn’t she beautiful?”
Peggy had sighed.
. o .
“He should be bigger by now,” Steve remarked off-handedly one day, sleepless and stupid with it, not wanting to see the snow-white dragon again. “Shouldn’t he?”
Still tinkering with his holograms, Tony did not even pause to look at him. “Let’s see your dragon,” Tony replied, something very warning in his tone. Marker, observing from a distance, uttered a guttural sound.
“No,” Steve pressed, “I mean—”
“I know what you mean.” Tony banished his screen, spun on his chair to face Steve. His expression was stiff, cold. “You think I don’t take care of him?”
Absolutely not. Steve had seen how much food Tony dedicated to his dragon, how fastidiously Tony groomed Marker’s scales, how immediately Tony dropped everything to go out so Marker could fly. It was not even necessary for Tony to be there—dragon-rider was a fantasy—but Marker seemed to insist on being within a certain distance of him.
Maybe dragons feared abandonment, too, Steve thought, with a wrenching pain in his chest.
“Never mind,” Steve said.
“Tell me,” Tony insisted, not blinking, his dragon very watchful. They had him pinned—Marker’s subvocal intonations were palpable. Steve knew a threat when he saw it. If Marker attacked, he could probably survive.
Would Marker attack on behalf of Tony Stark?
“I just thought—the girls,” Steve said lamely, getting to the point. “They—shouldn’t he be bigger?”
Tony’s expression remained blank, but Steve could almost hear the clock ticking in his mind, pacing out an answer. “They’re like raptors,” Tony said at last. “Of course they—” Drawing in a breath, somewhere between aborted anger and weary relief, Tony finished, “The girls are bigger. He’s fine.”
Realizing he would tread on Tony’s feelings, Steve offered, “I didn’t mean to—” but Tony had already spun back to his work, done with him.
Marker continued to stare him down. Steve pressed gently, “I’m sorry. He’s beautiful.”
Tony’s shoulders tensed. If Steve had not been watching so closely, he might not have noticed.
Steve took a step closer, intending to talk to him. Marker rammed into him, astonishingly quickly.
Calm and collected, Tony whistled once. Marker screeched, an ear-splitting sound, before rumbling over, shoving his soft-horned head against Tony’s side. Tony’s chair spun, but Tony grasped Marker’s head firmly, steadying them.
Peeling himself off the floor, surprised he was not spitting blood from the force of fire that swept over his chest, Steve rasped, “I think I’ll leave, now.”
“I think you should,” Tony deadpanned, still holding Marker’s head, not restraining him, but reaffirming. “Tally-ho.”
Steve limped off, hunched over his own torso.
. o .
“Ouch,” Bruce said eloquently.
“Yeah,” Steve sighed. “Got any ice?”
“What did you do?” Bruce asked, more awed than alarmed, as Steve wrapped a bag of frozen peas in a towel.
“Pissed off a dragon,” Steve replied grimly, pressing the bag to his chest and hissing. “Think’m all right,” he acknowledged. “Got kicked by a mule, once. That hurt more.”
“Really?”
Nodding grimly, Steve indicated his crotch. “Location, location, location,” he deadpanned.
Bruce flinched, then returned to his seat, cupping himself briefly, protectively. “Remind me never to work with hoofed animals.”
“I don’t get it,” Steve admitted, shifting the improvised ice pack to a darker area and hissing between his teeth. “Dragons are—”
“Terrifying?” Bruce offered a weak smile. “Unpredictable?” Shrugging, Bruce sipped his tea and added, “We’re prey to them. Sometimes, they just . . . snap.” Bruce snapped his fingers, making himself flinch. "Or lose interest."
Steve reached out across the table with his free hand, squeezing Bruce’s firmly. Bruce stared at him, surprised. Steve insisted, “She remembers you.”
Bruce’s expression was painfully hopeful. Then he shook his head, trying to lock-and-key any emotion: “No. No, no, she—she’s—”
“I know it,” Steve insisted, voice fierce, barely above a whisper. “We don’t know everything about dragons, Bruce.”
Bruce was silent. Steve let go of his hand but held his gaze.
“How do you know?” Bruce asked.
Steve said, “I just do.”
. o .
“I liked the idea, as a kid,” Clint admitted to him one night, sharpening his arrows again. “What kid doesn’t? Dragon-rider. That’s pretty damn cool.” He replaced an arrow, retrieved another. They looked pretty damn sharp to Steve, but Clint kept at it, patient, methodical. “But I wasn’t dragon-material. It’s, what, one in a thousand? One in a million? Could’ve been one in ten trillion, and it wouldn’t have been me.”
Laughing at himself, Clint paused so he would not cut himself, then went on, “So, I joined the circus. They had dragons. Juveniles, just a couple decades, each. Small enough to pony around, big enough to get the wow. And they were social. They liked everyone.”
Clint went back to sharpening his arrow. “'Til they didn’t. You ever seen a dragon attack? It’s ugly. There’s no get the gun, it’s just get the kids out of here. There was never any danger to the paying public, of course. No, just the sorry fucks who were in striking distance when they snapped. You’d think,” Clint went on, replacing his arrow, retrieving another, “we’d have fucking learned a thing or two by now about commercializing dangerous animals. But Jurassic Park was a hit for a reason. People get a kick out of it. Maybe the danger has to be part of it.”
Clint sheathed his arrows, set the bundle aside, looked out at the night. Steve did not interrupt him with a question. Steve waited. Clint went on: “They’re animals. Nobody gets that. They see a bond, they see an opportunity, they’re all in. I sure as shit was.” Clint chuckled grimly.
Then Clint indicated his ears. “You know how I lost these, soldier? It wasn’t an IED. When they scream—” Clint pulled out one of the devices in his ears, showing it off. “This, this helps me pretend. That I never knew dragons.” Clint replaced the hearing aid, then clasped his hands in his lap. “I never wanted to kill dragons. But in my line of work? You do what you gotta do.
“I don’t think a dragon would ever come near me again. And I’m okay with that.”
. o .
“They’re drawn to outliers,” Fury told him, once, his own stone-gray dragon, Collider, lounging in front of his desk like an oversized lion, chewing on a raw bone, a warning to intruders. “Chance encounters. They can smell fear,” Fury added.
Fury never mentioned how he lost an eye, but Steve did not miss the single claw mark rent down the middle.
. o .
“You shouldn’t be here,” Tony greeted, gaze flicking up from his workbench.
The bruises on his torso had yellowed, the cracked bones underneath healed, but the tension in the air remained unresolved. Steve looked at Marker and gritted out, “I know you.”
Radon growled. “You were Howard Stark’s,” Steve said. Marker stood, bristling, a wave of darkness spilling across his golden chest. “You were Radon.”
Tony whistled. Marker ignored him, staring at Steve. Inching closer, slow as a real raptor, a dinosaur. Some people, originally, thought they were dinosaurs, reborn.
But they were different. They were more.
Tony said, “Well. Shit,” in a perfectly placid tone. “You really should go.”
“No.” Steve did not need to know exactly what Radon was thinking to know giving ground would be an ending, of sorts. Steve would not be able to get near Tony Stark if he could not get through his dragon. And Steve refused to lose Tony—refused to lose Radon.
“I know you,” Steve insisted. “Do you remember me?”
Black eyes. Gaping maw. Hot breath. Then a hand grasped a pointed fang.
Marker bristled, a low hiss rising from his throat. Then he swung his head to face Tony and closed his maw.
Tony used the grip on his fang to steady himself, leaning up and kissing the bowed scaly brow, just above an eye. “Thank you,” Tony said blandly. Shaking his hand, he asked dryly, “Can I have this back?”
Marker rumbled, then, gaped his jaw enough for Tony to free his hand. “Thanks,” Tony said, rubbing it off on his pant leg. Steve just stood there, well aware of Clint’s story, and all the stories of dragons, and the dragon known as Radon, as dead as Snow.
“You love him,” Steve told Tony. It was a surprise. Steve honestly had not thought, watching the early footage of Tony Stark, that he was a man capable of deep love. Tony certainly put on a good show of not loving anything, including his dragon.
Tony said, “Of course I do,” like the moon was silver and the sun was gold. “He’s my dragon. I’m his person. It’s very symbiotic.” Tony bumped his forehead against Marker’s snout, briefly, eyes shut. “He came for me,” Tony added, leaning back, letting Marker return to his own nest-like corner. “Even Rhodes couldn’t find me.”
Steve could not breathe, a longing like cancer in his throat, robbing him of life. “That’s a good dragon,” he managed.
Tony looked Steve over, then said without wonder or surprise, “You lost yours.”
Steve said, “I don’t know.”
Tony’s brow furrowed.
“I don’t know where she is,” Steve said, and the mere admission was more than he had offered anyone else in the twenty-first century.
. o .
In a lifeless, nearly soulless world, she was light. Pure, radiant warmth, curled up on his chest, stealing his warmth, offering her comfort. She wanted food and affection. Steve offered as much of both as he could, marveling at her sharp little horns, at her shining snow-white coat. Her black eyes seemed very inquisitive, asking him questions he could only answer with human words. There’s a war going on. There’s no home here. But there will be. We’ll make a home.
Clint was right: every kid dreamed of owning a dragon, someday. But that was a kid’s dream: ownership. It was symbiosis. Steve fed her; she fed him, light and warmth and a sense of a real future. Steve did not know about the rest—the outcome of the war, the future of his loved ones scattered in the woods, the perennial question of a family unit—but he had her. She had chosen him. As long as he was worthy of her, she would be there.
Dragons could not love. But humans could. And he loved his dragon.
Steve got good at reading her clicks, her warbles, her raggedy cries in the night that threatened to get him in trouble. She was hungry all the time and gnawed on his arm frequently. He was not sure, some cranky hours, that she would not just make a meal out of him while he slept trustingly under her, like the world’s biggest fool.
But Steve trusted her. She had chosen him. She could kill him—and Steve remembered that, always, that she could—but she didn’t.
She was a light in the night, a comfort in the coldest hours of his life.
And Steve left her to chase a plane into the arctic.
. o .
“That was your mistake,” Tony said flippantly, as they sat on the floor within striking distance of Marker, sharing a bottle. “She coulda dug you right out.”
“She was tiny,” Steve said dully, holding his arm around his invisible dragon. “About the size of a calf, when I found her. Barely a dog, when I left her.”
“You’d be surprised,” Tony said, but let the silence drag between them, leaning back against the bean bags in his lab. “He was puny,” Tony said, using the bottle to point at Marker. Marker clicked back. “Think Dad kind of—let things go,” Tony said, taking a long sip from the bottle. He set it aside. “Why feed the dragon when the dragon can feed itself? But Marker was loyal. He’s always been loyal.” Tony whistled. Marker slid his head across the floor to look at Tony, black eyes huge and unimpressed. “Yeah, I see you,” Tony added. He looked right at Marker, then shook his head and covered his eyes with a hand. “The years were good,” he went on, voice strangled, struggling to hold something back. “He remembers. You know?”
Steve nodded. He could remember the good years. Few men had ever been more enthusiastic about their dragons than Howard Stark, an up-and-coming tech genius who just wanted to make an oyster of the whole world. The dragon was the clincher, but he had had the momentum to get him that far. Radon had wanted to be part of the journey, not the spark that forged the fire of Howard Stark.
“But good things never last,” Tony said, shaking his head. Marker looked at them intently for another long moment. Steve could almost hear the echo of shouting in those eyes, a smashed bottle. “I think he was jealous,” Tony confided, leaning into Steve’s shoulder to share the secret and then staying there, weary, light. “He knew he was dying. The alcohol. He wasn’t so steady.” Tony lifted a hand. It trembled. Then Tony gripped his own knee, self-comforting. Steve said nothing, listening.
“He got mean. There were days—I wanted him to die.” Tony barked a mirthless laugh. “What kind of son wishes for his own father’s death, huh? And this bastard stays,” Tony added, waving at Marker. “Mom—it, it broke her heart,” Tony went on, sounding younger, more vulnerable than Steve had ever heard him. Tony reached for the bottle; Steve gently intercepted it, setting it on his other side. Marker clicked at him warningly, but Tony merely went on, voice warbling, “So goddamn stupid, she died because of him. He crashed his car into a tree and she died of a broken heart.”
“I’m sorry, Tony,” Steve said, unsure where to go, nearer or farther, putting distance or huddling for warmth. Slowly, undecided, Steve put an arm around Tony’s back. Tony sagged further against him, careless, exhausted. Tony let out a long sigh, like he had already given up on a happy ending to the story.
“So, I’m left with stupid.” Tony gestured limply at Marker, who had curled his head in again, tucked around like a cat. “And I wanted to go, I just—I’d done what I was going to do, and Mom and Dad were gone, and what was the point in pleasing people that didn’t matter, anyway? What was the goddamn point?” Tony sniffed, but there were no tears, only emotion as he said: “I had to feed the fucking dragon, or he’d eat me. Isn’t that awful? I could hang myself, and he’d eat me.” Tony laughed. It kept on and on until Steve wrapped his other arm around him. Tony warbled, “I don’t even think he would, isn’t that the worst part? It’s like eating your pet dog. I’m his pet.”
Resting his cheek against the top of Tony’s head, Steve said nothing. Marker ignored them, sleeping. “I’m not crying, I have allergies,” Tony sniffed, pulling out of Steve’s loose grip, rubbing his reddened eyes. “I’m allergic to dragons.” Steve let him sort himself out, offering no words, no comfort, no reproach. “You should find your dragon,” Tony said suddenly, looking at Steve with determination in his eyes. “He didn’t leave me, and I didn’t leave him, and you goddamn better not leave her.”
The ache in his chest would kill him if he did not try. Steve understood death by heartbreak as he swallowed and said, “She would’ve come back, if she wanted to.”
“Oh, bullshit,” Tony said fiercely, pulling away, standing and wobbling. “Get up.”
“Why?” Steve asked. He would not let Tony drive, he would not let Tony get in a fight on his behalf.
“Because,” Tony said, and he did not look like a man with a suicidal idea. Steve stood.
Marker flicked an eye open. Tony marched over to him, mustering up his sobriety to point at the dragon and say, “You. Fucking stay here. I will be back in less than three days.” Tony staggered to a fridge, tugged it open, and hauled out what seemed to be a whole lamb carcass. With a grunt, Tony carried it over to Marker, dumped it in front of him. “Bruce will feed you,” Tony added. “Bon voyage.”
Marker snapped up the lamb in three bites and blew out a smoky breath through his nose.
“Don’t you fucking dare set my lab on fire,” Tony warned in parting. Then Tony led the way.
. o .
Tony was not sober enough to fly and Steve did not want to, but autopilot was a gift. “J.A.R.V.I.S. will take care of it,” Tony assured, waving off Steve's evidently concerned look. Leaning back in a cushy seat, Tony gestured with a bottle and demanded, “Tell me about her.”
Steve held up his left hand. There were no scars. “She tried to take my hand off,” Steve said.
“Good,” Tony hiccupped, nodding in approval. “That’s a good girl.”
Steve did not have the excuse of alcohol loosening his tongue, but Tony’s demeanor was strangely inviting. Steve found himself telling him: “She was mean.”
“Good,” Tony repeated, like he meant it. “The girls are mean. Ask Marker.” Waving a hand, Tony added, “Keep going.”
Steve did. He talked for what felt like five minutes and five hours, sketching out life in the Army, before and after Snow walked into his life. He skipped over the gore and the worst of the suffering, offering tales of the Commandos and the three dragons among them, Steve’s own small enough to carry under an arm and mean enough to deter Dum Dum’s velvet-blue Oddity and Falsworth’s sand-colored Airborne.
Tony nearly nodded off twice, but he pulled himself back from the brink of sleep to listen with furrowed brow, soaking in the information while Steve spoke and second-guessed the plan and hoped with every fiber of his being that it was not a fool’s mission. Steve wondered where Oddity and Airborne were, what names they’d assumed under new partners. The thought that the dragons lived on had been disheartening in their youth, imagining lonely beasts without companions for decades, but Tony Stark was proof of a golden reality: after.
. o .
They landed after midnight in Kangerlussuaq, Greenland.
Tony roused himself enough to shoo Steve off the plane, groggily greeting the surprised airport security, and demanding to see the memorial. Tony did not need to specify. They were directed promptly to the Captain America memorial.
Steve spent a few frigid moments staring at it, trying to chase away the sensation of ice freezing over him, of encroaching clicks and black eyes and the snow-white maw dripping over him.
And then, from a great distance, Steve heard it. Click . . . click . . . click.
Steve turned in a semi-circle, sounding it out, heart pounding in excitement. There was a dragon out there. It almost did not matter if it was his: there was a dragon out there, he thought giddily. He barely turned to Tony to say, “I gotta go,” before taking off. Tony yelled after him, calling him a crazy sonuvabitch, but Steve kept running.
Steve had never taught her a call, never thought to, she had always clung to him, huddled in his clothes. Steve shouted, making as much noise as he could across the obliterating sound of the tundra. “Snow!” he roared. “Snow!”
The clicking halted. Steve kept whistling, well aware that a juvenile dragon could kill an adult human. An adult dragon could kill a tank.
Steve heard the flapping overhead and slowed, looking up as the dragon dove. Crashing to his belly on the snow to avoid eviscerating claws, Steve heard the monumental thump of a multi-ton animal landing mere feet behind him, digging its claws in to secure purchase. Ice crackled loudly around huge claws; a low, warning rumble issued from the dragon’s chest, spreading for miles.
Steve struggled upright, heart pounding as he turned to face the snow-white dragon. Huffing, he held up a hand in surrender. The dragon released the ice and turned to face him, entire posture bristling in warning.
“I know,” Steve said, surprised at how steady his voice was, scraped raw from the cold. “I know, I know, I left.” She watched him with black eyes, relentless in her reproach, spines arched along her back. Her horns were the length of his arm; she could skewer him with them. He was well aware of the dangers she presented as he stepped closer, crooning, “I know you, I know you.” She stared at him, close-jawed and deadly.
One pounce would be enough. There would be no second chances. “Snow,” Steve insisted. “Snow, it’s me.”
One-by-one, the spines on her back lowered. Steve staggered closer, stretching out his arms. Snow lowered her head, horns pointed towards him. “Hey,” Steve said, on the edge of breathless laughter. One jab, and he was dead. He did not care. He got closer. “That’s my girl.” Snow rumbled at him, touching the point of a horn to his shoulder. Steve smoothed his hand around it fearlessly. “You’re so big.”
Snow lifted her head out of his hold, then rested her chin on his shoulder. Seventy years of growth and she was big enough to bully an elephant. Her head alone nearly buckled his knees; he winced as she let off a series of ear-snapping clicks, tapering off into an inaudible rumble.
“That’s my girl,” Steve murmured, rubbing the frozen scales along her snow-white maw. “I missed you. I missed you,” he insisted, pressing his cheek against her, aching for the lost years. He wondered with a sharp pain in his chest how long she had looked for him, sniffing across the arctic.
“You kill any polar bears?” Steve asked her. He laughed when she clicked back at him, decidedly less ear-splitting. “Yeah? Good girl.” He laughed at the absurdity of it, his tiny, furious dragon out in the arctic terrorizing everything she came across. “Good girl,” he insisted, wrapping one steadying hand around a horn, the other around her neck, pressing his forehead against her cheek. “I’m here. I didn’t forget you.”
Snow rumbled back at him, somehow unimpressed and pleased. Steve squeezed her horn, wishing he could speak her language to exult, I missed you, I love you.
Instead, Steve stood with her, freezing but not alone, while she clicked back, making their presence known.
. o .
Clearly a special kind of hungover, Tony stomped across the ice, leaving a black Snow Cat in his wake. He strode right up to Steve and his dragon. Snow did not so much as twitch, only clicking twice in quick succession. Tony grimaced, reaching up like he would cover his ears before giving up.
Steve sat against Snow’s side, as warm as he could hope to be with a campfire at his back. “Tony, you—”
“Shut up,” Tony whispered, visibly struggling. “Get over here,” he ordered, keeping a very respectable distance between him and the dragon. “Now.”
Steve lingered, relishing the contact. “Tony,” Steve introduced. “This is Snow.”
“Yes, I know what it—you’re actually stupid,” Tony said, interrupting himself as he cottoned on, shaking his head with a grimace. “You named her Snow?”
Steve grinned, stood up, and stepped towards him. “Sand would’ve been misleading.”
“I hate you,” Tony grumbled, bristling as Steve stepped up and hugged him firmly. “I’m never doing this again, I am—”
Steve kissed his forehead on a whim. Tony shut up. Steve half-expected him to reach up and wipe it off, then slug Steve across the jaw. Snow would eat him, but Tony was just hungover enough to—
Grab him by the back of the neck and kiss him firmly.
Then clock him on the back of the head.
Snow hissed loudly. Tony hissed back. Steve laughed like Christmas had come early.
. o .
“I’m sorry, I didn’t—I’m sorry,” Bruce said, as Tony scowled at the pile of wrappers scattered around the great room, a soundly sleeping Marker curled up on Tony’s bed, belly visibly bulging. “He looked hungry, I didn’t want—”
“To be eaten,” Tony finished in a deadpan. “To be eaten,” he repeated, to emphasize how stupid it was, evidently, to imagine a dragon eating a person. Bruce cowered from the reprisal, wringing his hands.
Steve gentled the critique: “I’m sure he’s very happy.”
“He is,” Bruce assured, relieved for the assist. “I gave him—”
“Out,” Tony ordered. Bruce skittered around him and fled.
Tony sighed. Steve mused, “Should we wake—”
“No,” Tony said firmly. “Hope you like our new furniture.”
They did not need to worry about waking Marker. As soon as Snow deigned to explore the upper level, Marker growled in his sleep. Snow growled back, which promptly woke the dozing dragon. Steve said, “I’m not worried.”
Tony made an ambivalent noise. “Your dragon has horns. My dragon has a full belly.”
Marker merely blinked at Snow, who had leaned her head in the doorway—about a foot too short, even ducked, but she solved the problem by shouldering in. Tony made a series of very disgruntled noises that amounted to a deep sigh and a hand wave.
Snow sniffed around, seemed disappointed, and spat at Marker, who twitched and steamed back at her. “Don’t even think about it,” Tony snapped at Marker, who ignored him and the intruder, flopping his head back on the blankets, helpfully wiping the spit on it. “I quit,” Tony grumbled, storming off.
Steve supervised as his dragon unself-consciously wrecked Tony’s room, tipping over dressers, shaking a pillow to death, and even putting a few holes in the wall for good measure. When she was satisfied, she climbed over the bed, claws leaving dents in Marker’s armor, and shouldered out into the hallway, barely regarding Steve, who stepped back to give her room.
Steve told Marker, “Good to see you,” while the dragon made an ambivalent noise that might have been, Fuck off or I’ll eat you, too.
Steve’s room was helpfully located at the end of the hall. Tony sighed as Snow appeared in the doorway, staring at him with a curiosity that boded ill. “What,” Tony snapped at her, not a question, lounging carelessly on Steve’s bed.
There were far fewer toys to wreck in Steve’s room, but Snow still did a number on the door, growing impatient enough to bite a chunk out of it, shaking it and tossing it behind her. Tony rolled his eyes like he was used to dragons wrecking his personal property, refusing to budge until Snow opened her mouth, revealing pointed fangs.
“Don’t spit on me,” Tony snapped. Steve could only lift his eyebrows in genuine surprise as Tony chucked a pillow moodily at her as he stalked off, unafraid of retaliation.
She killed that pillow, too, then sniffed Steve’s bed, clambering onto it and curling up into a neat ball. Tony growled at her from the broken doorway, saying, “We have rules in this house,” before yanking Steve’s shirt and tugging him out into the hall. “Your dragon corrupted my dragon,” he complained.
“Pretty sure he was sleeping in your bed first,” Steve replied.
Tony rolled his eyes, then kissed Steve and said, “You owe me dinner.”
Steve grinned. He still felt giddy, but settled, like a problem he had not even realized he had had was finally resolved. “Do I?”
“I’ll spit on you,” Tony warned. Steve watched him spin on his heel and stalk off, flipping Marker off in the process.
Turning back to Snow, Steve looked at unapologetic black eyes, soul-stealing eyes, and told her sincerely, “You’re a good girl.”
She flicked her tail once, knocking over his dresser. Steve was very sure it was intentional. Grinning, he followed Tony to make good on his dinner promise, deciding he might be a fool, but he was the luckiest damn fool on Earth.
. o .
“Kids,” Tony muttered, as they sat in his open-air Audi and watched Snow and Marker chase each other high above. It was surprisingly relaxing—there was no sound except for the occasional growl, usually from Snow, who took any encroachment on her flight territory very seriously.
She had already torn Marker’s wing once in an overenthusiastic grab, but Marker did not seem to hold it against her. He still got a taste of her horns whenever he tried to grab her in return, but he was not afraid of her.
“Steven, control your child,” Tony ordered, as Snow drove Marker off, disappearing into a cloud bank.
“They’re fine,” Steve dismissed, arms behind his head. “Let ‘em play.”
“Easy for you to say, she’s got horns,” Tony said, propping his feet up on the dashboard. Steve pushed them off. Tony replaced them. “My car,” he grumbled. “My rules.”
“Old rules,” Steve replied.
“Old man,” Tony retorted.
Steve waited a beat, then, slowly, put his own feet up on the dash. Tony tried to keep his face neutral, but a grin slowly spread across it.
“Old dog, new tricks,” Tony acknowledged, folding his arms over his chest in a vain attempt to stifle his own self-amusement.
“You’re a very strange man, Tony,” Steve said.
“My favorite person is a dragon,” Tony replied dryly. “You’re my . . . third favorite.”
“Aw,” Steve said. “I didn’t know you liked her that much.”
Tony rolled his eyes. “I was talking about Jimmy.”
“Oh.”
“You’re my fourth favorite person,” Tony assured, reaching across the dash and taking his hand, squeezing warmly. “Hang in there, champ. Aspirations keep us young.”
“Cute, Tony,” Steve said, but he squeezed Tony’s hand back lazily, basking in the summer. “I’m really glad we don’t live in Greenland,” he said. “I can’t stand the snow.”
There was a long beat. “Really,” Tony said at last, voice pointedly flat. “That’s funny. I could’ve sworn—”
“She’s snowy, Tony, what else was I—”
“See, Radon, that’s just—arrogance,” Tony dismissed, waving his free hand. “People thought radioactivity was the thing. Like Vita rays.” He smirked. “Now, Marker. That’s a good name.”
“Why?”
Tony frowned at him, like he was being deliberately obtuse. “You know. Marker.” He released Steve’s hand to hike up his pant leg, revealing the scars. “Marker,” he finished triumphantly.
“Yeah, and Snow’s unsophisticated,” Steve deadpanned.
Tony punched his shoulder, then turned on the radio. “Quiet. I was seventeen, it made sense in my head.”
“It makes perfect sense,” Steve agreed. “Marker. Like the crayon.”
“No. No. Like—a thing that marks. Shoulda called her ‘Marker II.’”
Steve laughed at that, unexpected and warm. “Yeah, she’d like that,” Steve said. “Wouldn’t get confusing at all.”
“No, of course not,” Tony said, sighing contentedly as he leaned back in his seat again. “Marker,” he insisted, as a bluesy tune came from the radio. “Like—Placer. He found me. No. He grounds me. Maybe.”
“You don’t have to explain, Tony.”
“No, I do, it’s my dragon,” Tony said. Tony let the music drift over them, content to bask in the sun, then asked, “Why snow?”
“Because she’s—”
“Snowy.”
“Not gonna let me live it down, huh?” Steve asked, looking up as Snow herself appeared, Marker’s more visible yellow-gold floating a safe distance away.
“Absolutely not,” Tony said cheerfully, setting a hand on his and squeezing.
Steve squeezed back. “I can live with that.”