Chapter Text
The application form had said "Wildlife Rehabilitation Internship - Government Subsidized Housing Included."
Oliver Bearman had imagined fluffy rabbits with broken legs. He had imagined baby foxes learning to hunt again. He had imagined, at the very worst, a grumpy owl that needed its wing bandaged.
He had not imagined this.
"This is a dragon," Oliver said flatly, staring at the massive creature sprawled across what was supposed to be his living room. The dragon was currently using Oliver's new sofa as a nest, its scales shimmering an iridescent blue-green in the afternoon light filtering through the dusty windows. Its tail, easily six feet long, hung off the edge and occasionally twitched, knocking over a lamp that Oliver had specifically purchased because it matched the curtains.
"Observant," said the government official standing next to him. She was a short woman with glasses that kept sliding down her nose and a clipboard that she consulted every thirty seconds. "His name is Kimi. He's been classified as a Class Three Territorial Dragon, which means he requires specialized care and handling. You passed the aptitude test."
"I applied to work with rabbits."
"The test doesn't distinguish between species. It just measures patience and tolerance for unreasonable behavior." The woman, whose nametag read "Agent Chen," shrugged. "You scored remarkably high. Congratulations."
Oliver turned to look at the dragon again. The dragon, who was apparently named Kimi, lifted one enormous eyelid and stared back at him with an expression that could only be described as profound disdain. Then it yawned, revealing teeth the size of Oliver's forearm, and went back to sleep.
"He doesn't seem dangerous," Oliver said weakly.
"He's not. He's territorial. There's a difference." Agent Chen flipped a page on her clipboard. "He won't attack you unless you touch his hoard or try to move his furniture. Don't do either of those things and you'll be fine."
"His hoard?"
Agent Chen pointed toward the corner of the living room, where Oliver now noticed a pile of items stacked nearly to the ceiling. Upon closer inspection, it appeared to be a collection of vintage motorcycle magazines, several oil-stained leather jackets, and what looked like an actual Ducati engine block sitting on top of a stack of racing helmets.
"That's... specific."
"He has interests. You should encourage them. It keeps him calm." Agent Chen handed Oliver a thick binder labeled "Care Instructions For Class Three Territorial Dragons (Revised Edition)." "Read this. Follow it exactly. I'll check in next month."
And then she left.
Oliver stood alone in his new government-provided cottage, clutching a binder that weighed approximately eight pounds, while a dragon snored on his sofa. The dragon's tail twitched again, and this time it knocked over a framed photograph that Oliver hadn't even had a chance to unpack yet.
"Great," Oliver muttered. "This is great. This is exactly what I signed up for."
The dragon opened one eye again. "You talk too much."
Oliver dropped the binder.
The dragon's voice was surprisingly human, if slightly rumbling, like thunder rolling across distant hills. It sounded annoyed, which Oliver was beginning to suspect was the dragon's default emotional state.
"You can talk," Oliver said, stating the obvious because his brain had apparently stopped functioning.
"You can state the obvious," the dragon replied. "We both have useless talents."
Oliver bent down to pick up the binder, trying to compose himself. "I'm Oliver. I'm your new caretaker."
"I know who you are. They sent me your file." The dragon shifted, coils of smoke rising from his nostrils. "Twenty-two years old. Recent graduate in veterinary science. No prior experience with magical creatures. Your references mentioned you're 'enthusiastic' and 'eager to learn.'"
"Is that bad?"
"It means you're going to be annoying."
Oliver felt his temper flare, which was unusual for him. He was generally considered patient, easygoing, the kind of person who could de-escalate arguments and soothe anxious animals. But something about this dragon's tone made him want to argue.
"I'm going to be the best caretaker you've ever had," Oliver said firmly.
"You're the first one who's lasted more than three days."
That gave Oliver pause. "How many caretakers have you had?"
The dragon closed his eyes again, signaling that the conversation was over. "Read your binder. Feed me at seven. Don't touch my magazines."
And then he was asleep again, leaving Oliver standing in the middle of his new living room with more questions than answers.
The binder was, as promised, extremely thorough. Oliver spent the rest of the afternoon reading through it, making notes in the margins, and trying to memorize the dos and don'ts of Class Three Territorial Dragon care.
Class Three dragons were, according to the binder, the most common type found in populated areas. They were intelligent, capable of speech, and formed strong attachments to specific territories and objects. Unlike Class One dragons, which were essentially wild animals, or Class Two dragons, which could be trained but not reasoned with, Class Three dragons required a more nuanced approach.
"They need stimulation," Oliver read aloud, highlighting the passage. "They need social interaction. They need a structured routine that respects their autonomy while providing necessary care."
In simpler terms, Kimi was basically a cat. A very large, very opinionated, fire-breathing cat.
At precisely seven o'clock, Oliver prepared the meal specified in the binder: a pound of prime beef, cooked medium-rare, served on a special heat-resistant platter. He carried it into the living room, where Kimi was now awake and watching him with those unsettling golden eyes.
"Dinner," Oliver announced, setting the platter down on the coffee table. He had learned from the binder that dragons preferred to eat at ground level.
Kimi sniffed the meat, then looked up at Oliver with clear disappointment. "This is supermarket beef."
"Yes? That's what the binder recommended."
"The binder is wrong." Kimi pushed the platter away with his snout. "I only eat Wagyu. A5 grade. From Hyogo Prefecture."
Oliver stared at him. "You're joking."
"I don't joke."
"My entire monthly budget for your food is four hundred dollars. A single serving of A5 Wagyu costs more than that."
Kimi's tail lashed once, twice, knocking over a vase that Oliver hadn't noticed was there. "Then increase your budget."
"I can't increase my budget. The government sets it. You're a government-funded rehabilitation program."
"I'm a dragon."
"And I'm your caretaker, which means I have to follow the guidelines." Oliver picked up the platter, trying to hide how much his hands were shaking. "You'll eat this tonight. Tomorrow I'll see what I can do about getting better quality meat."
Kimi's eyes narrowed. His scales seemed to darken, shifting from blue-green to a deep, angry purple. "I will not eat inferior food."
"Then you'll go hungry."
There was a long, tense silence. Oliver could feel heat radiating from the dragon's body, could smell the faint scent of sulfur in the air. He remembered the section in the binder about aggressive posturing and wondered if he was about to become the shortest-tenured caretaker in the program's history.
But then Kimi let out a huff of breath, sending a small cloud of smoke toward the ceiling. "Fine. But I'm logging a complaint."
"You can do that?"
"I can do whatever I want. I'm a dragon."
Oliver set the platter back down. Kimi eyed it with disgust, then began eating with the slow, deliberate movements of someone performing a deeply unpleasant chore. Oliver watched for a moment, then retreated to the kitchen to make his own dinner.
He was chopping vegetables when he heard a knock at the door.
Oliver wiped his hands on his apron and went to answer it. Standing on his doorstep was a tall man with sharp features and an expression that suggested he had already decided he didn't like Oliver.
"Hello," Oliver said cautiously.
"Alexander Albon," the man said, extending his hand. "I live two territories over. I heard we got a new neighbor."
Oliver shook his hand, noting the firm grip. "Oliver Bearman. I just arrived today."
"Yes, I know. News travels fast around here." Alexander glanced past Oliver into the cottage, his eyes landing on the dragon-shaped lump on the sofa. "Ah. You got Kimi."
"You know him?"
"Everyone knows Kimi. He's famous for being difficult." Alexander's lips quirked into something that might have been a smile. "My partner George tried to work with him once. Lasted four days."
"Your partner?"
"George Russell. He's a Class Four handler. We share a territory." Alexander's expression softened slightly when he mentioned George's name. "He'll probably come by later to introduce himself. He likes to welcome new people."
"That sounds nice."
"It's nosy, but well-intentioned." Alexander nodded toward the cottage. "How's it going so far?"
"He hates me."
"He hates everyone. Give it time."
Oliver wasn't sure if that was reassuring or not. He leaned against the doorframe, suddenly exhausted. "Is it always like this? The first day?"
"For some people. For others, it's easier." Alexander shrugged. "It depends on the dragon. And the handler. Some pairings work naturally. Others take work."
"What pairing do you have?"
"Alex is a Class Two," came a voice from behind Alexander. Another man appeared, slightly shorter, with dark curls and an amused glint in his eyes. He slipped an arm around Alexander's waist with practiced ease. "Which means he's technically not supposed to be territorial at all. But he's convinced he owns half the forest."
"I do own half the forest," Alexander said, but he was smiling now, his earlier sternness melting away.
"I'm George Russell," the newcomer said, extending his hand to Oliver. "Ignore Alex. He's cranky because he hasn't had his evening tea yet."
"I'm not cranky."
"You're always cranky before tea."
Oliver shook George's hand, feeling some of the tension leave his shoulders. "It's nice to meet you both. I was starting to think I'd be isolated out here."
"Oh no, we're very social," George said cheerfully. "Every Friday night, we have dinner at Charles and Max's place. You should come."
"Charles and Max?"
"Another pairing. Charles is a Class Five, which is rare. Max is his handler." George's smile widened. "They're... interesting. You'll see."
Oliver wanted to ask more questions, but a crash from inside the cottage made him spin around. He rushed back inside to find Kimi standing in the middle of the living room, looking pleased with himself, while the remains of the coffee table lay scattered across the floor.
"What did you do?" Oliver demanded.
"It was poorly constructed."
"It was perfectly fine until you broke it!"
"It wobbled. I improved it."
Oliver took a deep breath, counting to ten in his head. When he turned back to the doorway, George and Alexander were watching with expressions of barely concealed amusement.
"We'll leave you to it," George said. "Friday at seven. Bring wine."
And then they were gone, leaving Oliver alone with a broken coffee table and a dragon who was now examining the wreckage with apparent satisfaction.
"I hate this," Oliver muttered.
Kimi looked up, his golden eyes glinting. "Good. Hatred is honest. I prefer honesty to fake enthusiasm."
"Nothing about you makes me want to be enthusiastic."
"See? Honest." Kimi settled back onto the sofa, which had somehow survived the destruction of the coffee table. "Maybe you'll last longer than the others after all."
It wasn't quite a compliment, but Oliver decided to take it as one anyway.
The first week was a series of disasters.
On Tuesday, Oliver discovered that Kimi refused to bathe in any water that wasn't specifically heated to ninety-eight degrees Fahrenheit. The cottage's water heater couldn't maintain that temperature, which meant Oliver had to boil pots of water on the stove and carry them to the bathroom bucket by bucket. By the end of it, he was soaked, exhausted, and Kimi still complained that the water was "tepid."
On Wednesday, Kimi decided that the designated sleeping area Oliver had prepared in the spare bedroom was unacceptable. Instead, he dragged his entire hoard into Oliver's bedroom and arranged it around Oliver's bed like a fortress.
"I need my things nearby," Kimi explained when Oliver protested.
"You have an entire room for your things."
"That room is too far away."
"It's literally across the hall."
"It's too far."
Oliver slept on the sofa that night, surrounded by the lingering smell of smoke and the knowledge that he was losing a battle of wills against a creature who could incinerate him with a single breath.
On Thursday, Oliver received a letter from Agent Chen informing him that his request for increased food budget had been denied due to "budgetary constraints" and that he should "work within existing parameters."
Kimi's response to this news was to refuse to eat anything for the entire day. He sat in the corner, facing the wall, and would not respond to any of Oliver's attempts at communication.
"Please just eat something," Oliver begged, holding out a plate of premium sirloin that he had purchased with his own money.
"No."
"You haven't eaten in twenty-four hours."
"I am making a statement."
"You're making me crazy."
Kimi's tail flicked once, the only indication that he had heard. "Good."
On Friday morning, Oliver woke up determined to salvage the week. He had been invited to dinner at Charles and Max's place, and he was going to go, even if it meant leaving Kimi alone for a few hours. The binder said that Class Three dragons could be left unattended for up to six hours without issue, provided they had adequate food and entertainment.
Oliver prepared Kimi's breakfast, set out some magazines that he had borrowed from the local library (motorcycle enthusiast publications, since those seemed to be Kimi's preference), and wrote a note explaining where he was going and when he would be back.
"I'm going to dinner at Charles and Max's," Oliver announced, placing the note on the kitchen counter.
Kimi, who was flipping through a magazine with surprising delicacy for a creature with claws, looked up. "Charles Leclerc?"
"Yes. Do you know him?"
"He's a Class Five. We've met." Kimi's expression was unreadable. "Tell him I say hello."
Oliver blinked. "You want me to pass along a message?"
"I said tell him I say hello. Are you deaf as well as incompetent?"
"No, I just..." Oliver shook his head. "Never mind. I'll tell him."
"Don't be late. I need my evening feeding at nine."
"I'll be back by eight-thirty."
"You won't. You'll get distracted by conversation and lose track of time. Humans always do."
"I'll set an alarm."
Kimi snorted, returning his attention to the magazine. "We'll see."
Charles and Max's territory was a fifteen-minute walk through the woods that separated the various handler cottages. Oliver followed the directions George had given him, passing by a stream and a small clearing where someone had set up a target practice range. The arrows embedded in the straw dummies suggested that whoever used it was either very skilled or very angry.
The cottage at the end of the path was larger than Oliver's, with a wraparound porch and smoke curling from the chimney. Through the windows, Oliver could see warm light and moving shadows. He could hear laughter.
He knocked, and the door swung open almost immediately.
"You must be Oliver." The man standing in the doorway had bright green eyes and an energy that seemed to fill the entire space around him. He was grinning, genuinely happy, and Oliver felt himself relax despite his nervousness. "I'm Max. Come in, come in. Charles is in the kitchen, pretending he knows how to cook."
From somewhere inside, a voice called out, "I do know how to cook!"
"You burned rice last week!"
"It was supposed to be crispy!"
Max rolled his eyes, gesturing for Oliver to enter. The cottage was cozy, filled with mismatched furniture and bookshelves crammed with volumes in multiple languages. A fire crackled in the hearth, and the smell of garlic and herbs wafted from the kitchen.
"Wine?" Max asked, already heading toward a cabinet stocked with bottles.
"Please."
Max handed him a glass of red wine, then led him into the living room where George and Alexander were already seated on a worn leather couch. George raised his glass in greeting, while Alexander nodded from his position curled into George's side.
"Oliver made it through his first week," George announced. "Let's give him a round of applause."
"He looks traumatized," Alexander observed.
"I'm not traumatized. I'm... adjusting."
"That's what traumatized people say," Max said cheerfully, settling into an armchair. "So tell us everything. How's Kimi treating you?"
Oliver took a long sip of his wine before answering. "He's impossible. He refuses to eat anything except A5 Wagyu. He broke my coffee table because it 'wobbled.' He moved his hoard into my bedroom. He complains about the water temperature when I give him baths. He—"
"Sounds about right," Charles interrupted, emerging from the kitchen with a wooden spoon in hand. He was tall, lean, with dark hair that fell across his forehead and an accent that Oliver placed as Monégasque. "Kimi has always been particular."
"Particular is an understatement."
Charles laughed, a bright sound that seemed to fill the room. "When I first met him, he told me my scales were 'disgracefully maintained.' I was offended until I realized he was trying to give me grooming advice."
"He gives unsolicited advice constantly," Oliver agreed. "Yesterday he told me that my posture was 'embarrassing for a human.'"
"He told me I breathe too loudly," Max added.
"He told me my cooking lacks ambition," Charles said.
"He told me my taste in partners is questionable," Alexander said dryly, earning a laugh from George.
Oliver felt something loosen in his chest. "So he's like this with everyone?"
"Everyone," George confirmed. "It's his way of showing interest. If he ignores you completely, that's when you should worry."
Dinner was a chaotic affair, with Charles insisting on serving his "signature pasta" despite Max's protests that it was "just spaghetti with store-bought sauce." The conversation flowed easily, jumping from stories about their respective dragons to gossip about other handlers in the program to debates about the best way to remove scale buildup from Class Four dragons.
Oliver found himself laughing more than he had all week, the stress of the past seven days slowly draining away. These people understood. They knew what it was like to wake up to a dragon in your living room, to negotiate over meal preferences, to navigate the strange politics of interspecies cohabitation.
"So what's your secret?" Oliver asked eventually, turning to Charles. "How do you handle a Class Five? Aren't they supposed to be the most difficult?"
Charles and Max exchanged a glance, something passing between them that Oliver couldn't quite read.
"They can be," Charles admitted. "But Max and I have been together for three years now. We've learned to communicate."
"Communication is key," Max agreed. "Also bribery. Lots of bribery."
"Bribery with what?"
"Fresh fish. Vintage wine. The occasional poetry reading." Charles shrugged. "Class Fives appreciate the arts."
Oliver filed that information away for future reference. "What about Class Threes? What do they appreciate?"
"Motorcycles," George said immediately. "Kimi is obsessed with motorcycles. Did you know he used to be a mechanic before he was classified?"
Oliver nearly choked on his wine. "He was a mechanic?"
"He was human, originally. All Class Three dragons were. Something about the transformation process leaves them with residual memories and preferences." George leaned forward, lowering his voice conspiratorially. "If you really want to get on his good side, find out what he was like before. Learn about his past. It'll mean more to him than any amount of Wagyu beef."
Oliver thought about the pile of motorcycle magazines in his bedroom, the Ducati engine block, the leather jackets. Suddenly, they made more sense.
"Why didn't anyone tell me this before?"
"We assumed you'd figure it out," Alexander said. "Or that the binder would mention it."
"The binder doesn't mention anything about former humans."
"The binder is deliberately vague about certain things," Charles said. "They want handlers to discover these details organically. It builds better bonds."
Oliver mulled that over as he helped clear the dishes. By the time dessert arrived, he had formulated a plan.
He returned home at eight-fifteen, triumphant at having beaten Kimi's prediction. The cottage was quiet, lit only by the glow of the fireplace. Kimi was exactly where Oliver had left him, curled up on the sofa with a magazine draped over his face.
"I'm back," Oliver announced.
Kimi didn't move. "You're early."
"I told you I would be."
"You also told me you would get better meat. I see you failed at that too."
Oliver ignored the jab. He walked over to the sofa and sat down on the opposite end, maintaining a respectful distance. "Can I ask you something?"
Kimi lifted the magazine just enough to reveal one suspicious eye. "No."
"I'm going to ask anyway." Oliver took a breath. "Were you human? Before you became a dragon?"
The magazine lowered fully. Kimi's expression was unreadable, but his tail had stopped its usual restless movement.
"Who told you that?"
"George. At dinner."
"George talks too much."
"Is it true?"
A long silence stretched between them. Oliver could hear the crackling of the fire, the distant hoot of an owl outside. He was about to apologize, to change the subject, when Kimi finally spoke.
"Yes."
"What were you? Before?"
Kimi's gaze drifted to the pile of magazines in the corner, the engine block, the helmets. "I was a motorcycle racer. Not a famous one. Just a regional competitor. I was good, though. I could have been great."
"What happened?"
"An accident. A crash during a race. I woke up like this." Kimi gestured vaguely at his scaled body. "The government offered me a choice. Reclassification or termination. I chose reclassification."
Oliver didn't know what to say. He had never considered that the dragons might have lives before, that they might have lost something important when they transformed.
"Do you miss it?" he asked quietly.
Kimi's eyes met his, and for the first time, Oliver saw something other than irritation in them. Something vulnerable.
"Every day."
Oliver made a decision. "Tomorrow, I'm going to find a way to get you better meat. And I'm going to fix the Ducati engine in the corner. And I'm going to stop treating you like a project and start treating you like a person."
Kimi blinked. "You're strange."
"I'm determined. There's a difference."
"Hmm." Kimi settled back into the sofa, but his posture was less rigid than before. "The engine needs a new carburetor. I'll write down the specifications."
"I would appreciate that."
"And Oliver?"
"Yes?"
"Thank you."
It was the first nice thing Kimi had said to him all week. Oliver smiled, feeling warmth spread through his chest.
"You're welcome."
Saturday morning brought rain, drumming against the roof of the cottage in a steady rhythm. Oliver woke early, energized by the breakthrough of the previous night. He made coffee, reviewed Kimi's carburetor specifications, and started making phone calls.
By noon, he had located a specialty parts dealer willing to ship the necessary components within three business days. By two, he had negotiated a deal with a local butcher to supply higher-quality beef at a reduced rate in exchange for Oliver helping out at the shop on weekends.
"You're resourceful," Kimi observed as Oliver hung up the phone.
"I'm motivated."
"There's a difference?"
"Resourcefulness is a skill. Motivation is a choice." Oliver grabbed his jacket. "I'm going to the butcher shop now to finalize the arrangement. I'll be back in an hour."
"The rain is heavy."
"I won't melt."
Kimi made a sound that might have been concern or might have been derision. It was hard to tell. "Take an umbrella."
"I don't have one."
"Check the closet by the front door. Third shelf."
Oliver opened the closet and found a black umbrella, slightly battered but functional. He looked back at Kimi, surprised. "Is this yours?"
"I acquired it. From a previous caretaker. He left in a hurry."
"Did you chase him out?"
"I merely suggested that he leave. The suggestion was very persuasive."
Oliver laughed, the first genuine laugh he had produced since arriving. "I'll bring it back."
"See that you do. I'm attached to it."
The walk to the butcher shop was wet but pleasant, the rain washing away the last traces of Oliver's earlier frustration. He felt lighter, more hopeful. Maybe this arrangement could work after all.
The butcher, a burly man named Fred, was friendly and accommodating. They shook hands on the deal, and Oliver left with a package of prime rib that would serve as Kimi's dinner for the next three days.
He was walking back through the woods, umbrella held high, when he heard voices ahead. He slowed, recognizing one of them as George's.
"—can't keep avoiding it, Alex. You need to talk to him."
"I don't need to do anything."
"Alexander. Please."
Oliver hesitated, not wanting to intrude on a private conversation. But before he could turn and take a different path, George spotted him.
"Oliver! Perfect timing." George waved him over. "We were just talking about you."
"About me?"
"About the quarterly assessment. It's coming up in two weeks."
Oliver's stomach dropped. The binder had mentioned assessments, but he had assumed they were months away. "What happens during the assessment?"
"A government official comes to evaluate the handler-dragon relationship. They check bonding progress, behavioral compliance, overall welfare." George's expression was sympathetic. "If the assessment goes poorly, they can reassign the dragon to a different handler. Or worse."
"Worse?"
"They can terminate the program for that specific pairing."
Oliver felt cold despite the warmth of the day. "Terminate as in..."
"As in put the dragon down."
The package of meat suddenly felt very heavy in Oliver's hands. "I can't let that happen."
"Then you need to prove that you and Kimi have a functional relationship," Alexander said, his earlier reluctance replaced by practicality. "You need to show progress. Improvement."
"How do I do that?"
"Show them that Kimi trusts you. Show them that you understand his needs." George stepped closer, placing a hand on Oliver's shoulder. "And show them that you care about him. That's the most important part."
Oliver thought about the carburetor specifications in his pocket, the agreement with the butcher, the umbrella that Kimi had lent him. He thought about the brief moment of vulnerability he had witnessed the night before.
"I can do that," he said.
"I hope so," Alexander replied. "Because the last handler who failed Kimi's assessment didn't just lose the job. They lost the dragon."
Oliver walked home faster than he had ever walked before, the rain no longer pleasant but urgent, pressing him forward. When he burst through the cottage door, dripping water onto the floor, Kimi looked up from his magazine with raised eyebrows.
"You're back early."
"I need to talk to you."
Kimi's expression shifted, wariness creeping into his golden eyes. "About what?"
"About the assessment. About proving that we work together." Oliver set down the meat and crossed to stand in front of the sofa. "I need your help."
"My help?"
"I need you to cooperate. To show the assessors that we have a bond. That you trust me."
Kimi was silent for a long moment. Then he set aside his magazine and met Oliver's gaze directly.
"Why should I?"
"Because if I fail, they'll take you away. And I don't want that."
Something flickered in Kimi's eyes, there and gone before Oliver could identify it. "You don't want that?"
"No. I don't." Oliver sat down on the floor in front of the sofa, looking up at the dragon who had made his life miserable for an entire week. "I know we got off to a rough start. I know I've made mistakes. But I want to do better. I want to be the handler you deserve."
Kimi studied him for a long moment. The rain continued to fall outside, filling the silence with its steady drumming.
"Fine," Kimi said finally. "I'll help you."
"Really?"
"Don't make me repeat myself."
Oliver grinned, relief flooding through him. "Thank you. I promise I won't let you down."
"You will. But I'll forgive you." Kimi's lips curved into something that might have been a smile. "Eventually."