Just thinking about those two men in the coffee shop made him blindingly angry even now. They could have hurt her. If he hadnāt come in...he growled to himself and smoke started to come out his nostrils. And her! What had she been thinking? Not only had she put herself at risk by not giving them what they wanted right away, sheād then gone and tried to get run over by one of the metal monstrosities that the humans seemed to adore! He felt his skin start to warm and he took a deep breath, willing himself to calm down. It wouldnāt do him any good to accidentally set fire to the sofa.
Again.
He groaned loudly and burrowed down deeper into the leather. One year ago to the day, heād woken up to the gaping stares of an entire construction crew of hard-hat wearing humans underneath a street in what he now understood to be a place called āChelseaā, with no recent memories and no idea how heād gotten there. He had been too surprised and confused to do much of anything besides run away from the equally-shocked humans, which had been lucky for both them and for him, probably. Heād emerged in the middle of a busy paved road, with people shouting and strange metal boxes honking, and tall, impossible structures of steel and glass surrounding him. He had ran and ran and ran until heād collapsed against the blue door of the abandoned factory that he now called home, confused and hungry and completely and utterly alone.
Heād raged and heād cried and heād melted practically everything inside the building and then, once heād finally calmed down, heād assessed his situation. As far as he had been able to piece together, several hundred (thousand?) years had passed while he had been...asleep? Unconscious? ...Dead? and this confusing mess of primates and pollution was the world now. He couldnāt find any of his people and, except for passing (and usually completely inaccurate) references to them in fairy tales, it was as if theyād never even existed. Humans were the dominant species now (wasnāt that an odd surprise?) and it was as if his entire world, magic and all, had simply vanished. He had been searching for months but he very rarely ever found any other magical creatures (and the ones he had run into hadnāt been keen to see him at all, most of them either running or attacking straight away before he could even say hello).
Over the past year, heād taught himself the primary language of the humans in this area (mostly by sitting in shops and listening to people argue - and then by telly), heād figured out their system of bartering (which had become much simpler once heād discovered their great interest in the carbon-based gems that he could easily manufacture using his particular talents), and heād managed to create a living for himself, all the while searching, without luck, for any sign at all of the life heād once known. The humans had made some amazing advancements (electricity! He could go on and on about electricity! - And about indoor plumbing) and heād devoured every book on engineering and mechanics that he could find, once heād taught himself how to read their language. His people had a natural affinity with metals and machines and he often amused himself by making new creations, particularly those that secured his lair - his flat.
He really needed to get used to calling it that.
Heād been doing just fine, thank you very much, when heād stumbled into that coffee shop about eight months ago. Heād been attracted by the faint smell of magic, unable to resist the possibility that something of the old world (besides him, anyway) had survived. And now that heād met the proprietor, it was not longer a mystery as to why it had smelled so wonderful! It was owned by a fae! A real, live, honest-to-goodness fae! Who, granted, had not been pleased to see him. Not that he could blame her. Their kinds had never exactly seen eye to eye. He wondered how many of the fae had survived...and if they would know anything about his people. Perhaps this woman, Donna, had Rose called her? would be able to tell him what had happened in the last few...centuries. He hadnāt been around her long enough to determine precisely what type of fae she was, but it was clear she had an immense amount of magical potential. He wondered why she was running a coffee shop in modern London and why sheād seemed so very irritated to see him and why sheād been so very protective of his Rose.
He sighed, remembering the sight of Rose that first time. It had been the smell of magic in the shop that had drawn him in, but then heād glanced behind the counter and his fate had been sealed in a toss of golden hair and a tongue-touched smile.
The Elders used to tell them what it might be like, to be in thrall, but heād always scoffed, cynical youngster that heād been. Yes, of course, dragons engaged in personal relationships (although dragon relations were completely different than what heād gleaned of human ones). And yes, of course, dragons had often taken lovers from lower species. Human sexuality, in particular, was exciting and intoxicating and so very different from the cold, rather clinical mating that dragons participated in for the furtherment of their bloodlines. Just because he hadnāt yet engaged in a physical relationship with anyone back when, well, back then, didnāt mean that it didnāt happen. Having a human lover, or several, had been normal, commonplace, expected, even. As a race, dragons had always been fascinated by humans; in fact, according to the ancient legends, thatās why they had developed this additional, humanoid form in the first place.
But thrall...thrall was different.
Heād never understood how any dragon could ever be so daft as to live up to the ridiculous tales that were sometimes told about them (and that the mortals seemed to obsess over). An infatuation so overwhelming, that it made one want to carry some beautiful young thing off, to protect and keep and love him or her, forever? To center oneās entire existence around some other creature, to the exclusion of all others? To reject their peopleās way of life, to renounce their raceās responsibilities, even to occasionally give up all connection to their species, all for one transient little mortal who might not even return the feeling or understand the immensity of the sentiment? No, thank you. He had jeered at the warnings of madness and he had laughed at the notion that anyone, especially a human, could ever have that much power over something like him.
And then heād met Rose Tyler.
He let himself fall into the vivid, white-hot memory of their first meeting. It had, quite shockingly, been practically instantaneous. Heād followed his nose to the shop where, although the smell of the magic was cleverly obscured by the overwhelming odor of the bizarre hot liquid that the humans seemed to love, he could still feel some pulsing connection to the old world. Pushing the door open and rolling his eyes at the annoying little bell overhead, he charged in, determined to find the source of the magic as hope and trepidation played tug-of-war with his hearts. Once inside, after practically barrelling into the counter, he swung his eyes down to look at the human in front of him and promptly forgot how to breathe.
She was ordinary (but she was exquisite). She was bottle-blonde (but she was golden). She was human (but she was...not. Not quite.).
She was his (but not. Yet, anyway. But she would be. She had to be. He had to make her his.).
She was also speaking to him, far too fast for his still-tenuous grasp of the language and his surprised stupor to allow him understanding. At the end of the her torrent of words and sounds, her voice went up, indicating that she was asking him a question.
Bollocks. (Heād picked up that word quite quickly and liked it a lot)
She repeated the chiming sentence again, more slowly, and with a furrowed brow.
Ah, an order. She was asking him for an order.
Oh, an order he could do. He would like to order her to drop that stupid quill-thing in her hand and come away with him, immediately. He would like grab her hand and order her to run, run as fast as they could, and hole up together far, far away where no one would ever find them again. He would like to clasp her to his chest and soar up into the heavens, feeling her warm body against his. He would like to order her toā¦
Oh, a beverage.
She wanted him to order a beverage.
He panicked, looking up at the brightly-coloured writing above her head where swirly, curly-cued words that he could barely make out advertised wares and potions, the likes of which heād never even heard. He considered bolting back out the door, but that would take him away from both the shop and from her and he didnāt want that. He wanted to know about the magic and he wanted to know about her.
Then he thought of the crime drama that he was currently watching every evening, since heād finally figured out telly. The grumpy man on the show always drank copious amounts of something called coffee (and, heād later figured out - after an old lady on the Underground had smacked him, apparently cursed abundantly).
He crossed his arms over his chest like the man on the show always did, just in case it was some sort of cultural practice that he didnāt understand. āCoffee, black,ā he barked, mimicking the way that the DI formed his words. That seemed to satisfy her, because she turned away and began pouring something into a cup. He watched her closely, aware that she was still talking at him, but he was unable to make out her meaning, partly because she was turned away from him and speaking very quickly, and partly because she was blindingly entrancing.
When she turned back to him, grinning widely, with her tongue between her teeth, he was punched in the gut with that same overwhelming, intoxicating needthat had engulfed him the first time heād laid eyes on her. He panicked once again and snatched the hot cup from her to flee the shop, completely bewildered.
He stumbled home in a daze where he paced and paced, muttering to himself and trying desperately to keep his mind off the girl and the shop and the astonishingly disgusting liquid that heād tried and then immediately dumped out on the ground by his flat, killing the weeds on the sidewalk. But the rinsed-out paper cup by the sink taunted him all day and, in the end, he only made it seven and a half hours before practically running back to the shop, which was quite easy to find this time. He didnāt even need to follow the scent of the magic because he could now follow the scent of her. Anywhere. To the end of the world and back, if necessary.
She had still been at the shop, thank the stars, (he really didnāt fancy explaining away showing up at her flat when sheād only ever seen him once before) and heād still felt an undeniable, inexplicable pull drawing them together, making him want to do very ridiculous things, things that he knew the other humans here wouldnāt interpret well. However, he was a neophyte in this culture and a novice at relationships in general, so he was at a loss as to how to function in front of her. Barely able to make eye contact, he simply repeated the ritual from the morning and sheād seemed just as delighted as before, chattering at him, smiling and entrancing, and then heād run away once again, hoping that one day heād remember other words in front of her.
He snorted to himself, a new plume of smoke rising around his face at the action. Well, heād finally figured out how to say something else to her. And it had only taken two near-death experiences and seven and a half months.
He groaned again and burrowed even deeper into the couch. Maybe things would look better in the morning.
