Scribbles and Drabbles

Notebook Drabble 33

"I keep my promises."

Percival's words echoed in Dustin's head like a steady beat of a drum. Most of the last few days had been fueled by the mess those words had left him in. In that meeting, he'd escaped the dragon's claws, but the ongoing chase continued. Excet now tiredness dragged him down like concrete tied around his neck. 

He wanted to go home and sleep, lurking wolves be damned. The city had calmed after the storm of new powers battling with old ones. That didn't mean going home would be safe. Percival knew where he lived. He'd broken in at least twice during the chaos. Chances he would be waiting for Dustin to return. Percival would view Dustion returning home as surrendering to him. Going home was as good as presenting his arse up for the dragon-like his bloodline hadn't killed as many dragons as they could find over the centuries. 

His parents decided to break the pattern and unwittingly doomed him to his state of affairs. Shame writhed in his throat.  Percival got what he wanted. Thirty years ago, it had been to put his parents in a situation where they'd give up the fate of their unborn child. Now it was for him to surrender.

His feet carried him home and up the flights of stairs. He should fucked with a stranger or found something to loosen him up. Percival would have fun breaking him open. Dustin bit his lip at the images in his mind. 

The door stood waiting for him, no signs of invasion on it, but a swipe of a burn rested above it. The swirl acted as a calling signal to any paranormal that something of brimstone and elder blood picked this as a place to den and rest. The handle burned to the touch. He pressed the door open and waited for a low growl with a hand to drag him into the den. 

Silence greeted him. He stumbled in and shut it. If he looked up, the dragon would be there, stalking him. Dustin didn't look. 

He didn't hide his limp either, making his way to the bathroom to clean up. He kicked the door shut and turned the water to scalding. His hands shook. He needed the shower. His legs didn't seem strong enough to hold him up, but he needed the hot water to warm him up and rid his body of the sweat and grime that covered him. 

When standing wasn't an opinion, sitting became one. He slid into the shower, clothes left in a dirty pile on the floor and let the water roll over him. The grime baked into his skin lifted, and heaven set into his bones as heat pumped against his shoulders and back. He didn't look at the water for the same reason he didn't look in the dark. He curled around his knees and counted slowly. The steam engulfed him, and his muscles cried gracefully from the hot water pounding on his back. Breathing got easier. 

Time blurred a touch. Not long, but long enough to get his hands rubbing soap over his skin and shampoo in his hair. He looked at the water. It was black. He scrubbed harder until it turned clear, and his skin turned red. His ankle twinged, but the pain loosened. Getting up was a struggle. He managed, reluctantly turning the water off and moving back into the bathroom. 

Confirming everything in the world to be the way he believed, his dirty clothes were gone. Instead, a clean pair of his boxer waited alongside a large shirt that was not his. He sniffed it tentatively before putting it on, enjoying the softness of the material against his sore bruises. Faint traces of oil and wax mixed with Percival's natural musk covered him. 

The time to fight passed after Percival saved him in a court fight. This was the moment to be quiet and obey. In the heat of conflict, Percival's temper flared brightly. Adjectives best to use included unreasonable and blazon. As time ticked on, the dragon cooled to a mild annoyance which didn't terrify the target of his rage. 

Had enough time passed that Percival would be calm? The answer lurked beyond the door.

Light spilt under the door. The hoard had stopped pretending that they weren't there. Hints of the children playing filtered through now. He hung his towel and crackled his knuckles.  Something soft pressed against his chest. If the hoard was here, Percival wasn't jumping him tonight. He wouldn't do that with the bitlets underfoot.