A Boy and His Dragon (12 page)

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He made the offer without thinking, but there was no trace of Bertie’s supposed demanding, possessive nature on his face at the mention of his unfinished book. He blinked and then closed the volume of poetry to study Arthur from his toes to his head. Arthur realized he still had his jacket on, and that he must have turned his phone to silent mode, not off, because it buzzed in his pocket.

“Did I interrupt a call as you came in?” Bertie huffed, which was odd, but Arthur had never seen Bertie fired up about his work before. Maybe he was always like that when he was excited. It must be something to see him looking over relics or in old libraries, drawing every eye with that brilliant spark, calling everyone he met

“darling” and “pet.” He waved the Neruda in the air to get Arthur’s attention. “You can take calls, Arthur, in your free moments.”

“I… this wasn’t a free moment.” Arthur decided that answer was the safest. Bertie glared at Arthur’s pocket anyway, his words coming out so slowly they might have been the last things he felt like saying.

“Work and school, being here, must cut into your social life. A morsel like you must be wanted from all corners, even if most would be too intimidated to approach you, with that warrior’s determined glint in your eye.” He ignored Arthur’s small jump and quick swallow as he growled the words. “I wouldn’t want to deny you your fun.”

“All corners?” Arthur repeated faintly, though he hadn’t intended to. That was getting close to what Bertie had hinted before, that Arthur was the type to attract some Beings.

“Bold of purpose, pure of heart, fair of face,” Bertie elaborated, then sniffed. Arthur belatedly noticed that Bertie was barefoot again, and despite complaining about the cold had unbuttoned the top buttons of his white dress shirt to expose his throat. “Those in your past haven’t been good for you if they never told you that. Though I wish you’d smile more. It makes me want to hunt for dimples when you frown so.”

Arthur wasn’t frowning at the moment. He knew he wasn’t.

He was hot and frozen at the same time, but he wasn’t frowning.

“I don’t,” he got out, in a wheeze if he were being honest.

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“What, have dimples?”

“Have people in my past. I mean,” Arthur sat up and put out a hand when he realized what he just said. What he admitted to.

Bertie’s mouth snapped closed like it was too late, but Arthur had to try. “Clematis—”

“Clematis is a flower name.” Damn, Bertie was fast. Too fast.

“Was that the fairy you spoke of before?” Arthur couldn’t smell herbs, but the air seemed to be getting hotter, smokier, like Bertie’s voice as he put together Arthur’s words in the way that Arthur had been afraid of. “Arthur when you said you don’t have people in your past… do you mean that despite the fairy….” He twitched, like he had to stop himself from moving. The very air around him grew hot, and Arthur thought of earthquakes again, something earth shattering just beneath the surface that had Bertie excited. “Arthur, are you
pure of body
as well?”

It took everything Arthur had to shake his head, though sometimes he thought everything with Clematis had been a dream.

When he considered it, they’d only been together, really together, for one night, and everything else had been random and hurried, kisses and messing around like he’d done in high school, nothing more.

“This isn’t….” His mouth was dry. Bertie looked like he was moments from crawling onto Arthur’s lap, his heavy-lidded eyes doing nothing to disguise his wide pupils. They sparkled with interest. Arthur did his best to remind himself that if there was interest there, it was probably just curiosity, and probably amusement as well since Arthur had basically admitted to being almost a virgin. Technically, he wasn’t, but one night wasn’t much experience, and Clematis hadn’t been the kind to bend him over a table. “This isn’t appropriate.” It was a weak argument, but it was an argument. Arthur had a feeling he might not have done too badly with a shield if he were in one of those old stories, though he still couldn’t imagine himself using a sword, not even the way he pretended to as a child.

“I could fire you and then be inappropriate,” Bertie immediately suggested, and even knowing that it was a joke, or hoping it was a joke, Arthur jerked his head up and inhaled loudly.

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“Arthur.” Alarm was rich in Bertie’s voice for a moment and then he stepped closer and leaned in to put a hand on Arthur’s shoulder.

When Arthur looked up he could only see his eyelashes, but his tone was serious. “I’m not getting rid of you.” He took another moment, his hand hot even through Arthur’s jacket, and then he smiled and met Arthur’s wide-eyed stare. “Humans.” He was so quiet that Arthur blinked.

“What? We do okay.” He was quiet, too, but then Bertie was leaning over him, emanating heat and touching him with gentle concern. It was mesmerizing. Arthur didn’t want to move.

“Yes, but think of what you
could
do.” Arthur had to fight not to close his eyes he was suddenly so warm, wisps of Bertie’s breath brushing across his cheeks.

“And dragons are so much better?” He thought it would make Bertie take offense and stand up straight, but he didn’t.

“Have you even read my books about Beings? Never mind, you haven’t had time yet, have you? Very well, I won’t pretend I’m not hurt,” Bertie paused, Arthur assumed to wait for his interruption, which wasn’t long in coming.

“Neither of the books the library had was about dragons,” he protested. “I’m reading the others.”

“Hmm, then if you like, Arthur, I can give you a brief history of dragons… share what I know with you.” It was almost illicit the way Bertie made the offer: all knowing, shining eyes and heavy breathing. Arthur felt himself staring and drew his eyebrows together into a frown at how obvious he was being.

“Okay,” he agreed, his face burning up in a way that only got worse at Bertie’s slow, curving smile. Arthur glanced down at the hint of shining skin visible at Bertie’s collar. “What… what about the Welsh dragons?”

“I have my theories. European dragons in particular have a culture rich with romantic stories… romantic to us, that is, though most consider them old-fashioned now. How humans interpreted things is another matter.” Bertie clucked thoughtfully and licked his mouth before abruptly pulling back and moving around.

“Nonetheless, it is—or
was
, you would say—a culture that views R. Cooper

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things in a larger context, a view of the world as connected and as something… beautiful. The dragons of early Europe for the most part believe in eternity through the accumulation of beauty and knowledge, and this allows them to go, shall I say, over the top sometimes.”

Arthur didn’t think Bertie was aware that he paced slowly back and forth as he lectured. He was like a strangely intense professor. The subject must mean a lot to him. Arthur sat up to follow his every movement. Bertie was talking about history in the present tense again, as if he was reliving it in his mind, but at least he wasn’t laughing at Arthur’s lack of a sex life anymore.

“That demands, well”—he waved as he talked—“big gestures.

Like the courtly love stories that were written later about Camelot and knights, with people being worshipped from afar and served unto death without even so much as a kiss in return, and don’t dare think that concept wasn’t draconian in origin and stolen by some human troubadours. That idea of romance continues to influence us, often to our detriment.” He stopped and peered at Arthur for a moment before striding back over and dropping down on the couch next to him. “It’s humans, you see. You also strive, but you’re so…

you’re just… I don’t wish to say shortsighted. Blind to some things perhaps, but courageous in how you press on. There’s something innately fascinating about….” He trailed off. “We can’t simply let you struggle.”

He wasn’t making sense. Not really. Though maybe when Arthur read his books on dragons it would all click.

“I thought it was about gathering and keeping treasure.” Arthur turned in time to catch how lost Bertie looked, as though Arthur had cut him off midthought.

“What?” He actually scowled for a moment and then light seemed to dawn and he grinned. “Treasure? Oh, Arthur.” The glimpse of teeth made Arthur pull back, though it wasn’t in fear, not with Bertie mocking him for being shortsighted, or blind, or whatever it was he’d been trying to say.

“Cheshire cat.” Arthur couldn’t help snapping back his reply, especially when saying it out loud made Bertie stop and stare at him A Boy and His Dragon

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as if Arthur was the one speaking another language now. It made Arthur want to keep going and he did, not entirely suppressing his smile. “From
Alice in Wonderland
. You move like a cat too sometimes.”

Bertie opened and then closed his mouth. Arthur got the faintest hint of smoke before Bertie grinned again.

“Then the question, Arthur, is… do you like cats?” He didn’t seem to care for Arthur’s silence, though Arthur couldn’t think of how to answer. He made a scolding noise. “So serious, Arthur. What shall I do with you?”

That, Arthur could answer at least. “Set me to work.” Anything rather than continuing to discuss his sex life with a hot dragon breathing all over him. He got a sigh, but Bertie leaned back against the other arm of the couch and then nodded as well.

“What will you do when this room is cleared?”

“Move on to the next room. And then the next.” Arthur didn’t have to think about it. Bertie nodded again while regarding him intently.

“Until the house is yours. I see.” He lazily reached up for a cigarette, but he didn’t light it, just kept it grasped in his fingers.

“Keep that up and I won’t be able to live without you.”

“That wasn’t my intention,” Arthur rushed to answer. He didn’t want Bertie to think he was pushing for a permanent position.

It would be amazing, but he couldn’t ask for more as it was.

“There is your education to consider however,” Bertie rolled on in a rumbling whisper. He stared at his cigarette and then licked the tip before letting it rest between his lips. “Do you think I might read your thesis, Arthur?”

“Yes.” Arthur had no idea what he’d agreed to for a moment, until he blinked and looked away from Bertie’s mouth. “If you really want to.” He’d thought Bertie would have before he’d hired him actually.

“Good.” The grin returned. “I already asked Gibson for it.” Bertie angled his head to the side as he said it, the strong line of his throat visible, muscle and warm skin and gleaming scales.

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Arthur could only guess what those scales felt like in their real form and if, when they were like that, they were warm, too, or sleek, or hard and cool to the touch. That was what Arthur found innately fascinating, and it had nothing to do with the magic supposedly in them. It made it so much worse to realize that he had ever thought of them as something to be sold. He remembered them as being beautiful, even before he thought of them as a part of Bertie, who was crazy but kind and one of the most interesting men he ever met.

Arthur swallowed and jerked his gaze away, staring at the bookshelves that he’d already been through and emptied.

“Once again you are right, Arthur.” Bertie leapt to his feet, his cigarette flaring brightly as though he’d lit it when Arthur hadn’t been looking. “The grindstone awaits. I’m behind schedule as it is.” He left the book behind on the couch, apparently no longer in desperate need of it. Because Arthur had done his job well, Arthur reminded himself, and pulled the book closer.

“I can look up more quotes for you,” he ventured, aware that he was frowning harder as Bertie moved away and the offer didn’t call him back. He could get used to Bertie sitting close to him. That probably wasn’t a good idea. For a second he glared down at the book as if the poems had created this problem and not his body, his imagination, and everything that came out of Bertie’s mouth.

“First get us a late lunch, would you?” Bertie stepped around one of Arthur’s temporary stack of books and pulled a book from the middle of a small pile. He let out a guilty-sounding gulp when the top of the stack fell over and quickly bent down to straighten it before glancing back at Arthur as though Arthur was going read him the riot act or point out that he was putting the books back in the wrong order.

Arthur didn’t get a chance to say anything. His stomach growled before he could, right on cue at the mention of lunch. Bertie was too busy with the books to grin, but Arthur imagined one anyway.

“There’s some things in the kitchen, or if you prefer, money and take-out menus in the envelope on the fridge, but we need A Boy and His Dragon

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something to keep us from fainting away, don’t we? While we do all this hard work.”

He stood up again, not even looking close to fainting away.

Arthur tried to stay serious, even if he was being teased or tricked again.

“I really don’t expect you to feed me.”

“Arthur.” He got another sigh for his efforts, a longer, louder one. “I am certain any other assistant would not have done at all.

You’re… you’re a very good boy.” He cleared his throat and moved quickly on. “Look at what you’re already doing for me, putting my house in order.”

Arthur hadn’t thought of it in quite those terms. It made him feel a bit like a hausfrau, but Bertie didn’t give him time to reflect on it or protest.

“I’d like to keep you as long as possible, and I can’t do that if you’re dead or in a hospital because you won’t feed yourself.” There were counterarguments, Arthur was sure, but he couldn’t seem to think of any. Maybe that touch had scrambled his brain. He glared at the book of love poems again.

“Okay,” he agreed in the same soft tone as before, glancing carefully over in time to see Bertie’s shoulders drop. Arthur wondered if he’d been expecting another argument, but he didn’t say anything. Just waved again to indicate that he didn’t care what the food was when Arthur tried to get his preference.

He simply took his new book and curled up on the floor in front of the fireplace, where Arthur had a feeling a roaring fire would be crackling soon enough.