Disclaimer: I do not own any of the canon properties belonging to the creators of How to Train Your Dragon.
Astrid hates her job.
It's the worst experience she's ever had as a fully productive member of society.
Pay's about average, but she's steadily working her way up the ranks. It's the never—ending familial reunions that bother her—the particularly exuberant ones are the worst. Every day, she sees families, couples, long—lost relatives, hell, even dogs, reunite with their loved ones. Still, she manages to coax her features into a pleasant expression and repeat the same question she's been asking for nearly half a decade.
"Thank you for choosing American Airlines, I'm Astrid Hofferson. How may I help you today?"
Gods, five years. Five years since he kissed her goodbye, walked through the security checkpoint, and gave her a last wave before boarding the plane.
Nothing since, even though he said it was just a three—month trip. Just.
"You know money's tight; I can barely get food on the table."
"Ask Hiccup. Or Heather?"
"I can't. They're both starting out at that new law firm. Hiccup told me he barely made the rent with his last paycheck." She nudges her braid back over her shoulder. "I'll make it work."
"I didn't mean for this to turn into such a mess—"
"Right."
"Fine. I'm sorry. There, I said it," he huffs, drumming a hand against his bulky thigh.
"I get it. Besides, I know how attached you are to your stuff. And your pet."
"You're—you're not gonna tell anyone, right? If you do..."
She smirks at his embarrassment. "Get over there, you asshole. Don't miss the plane."
Her shift's finally over for the day. Grabbing her bag, she returns home to assuage her weariness with Netflix, hot cocoa, and Thai food (not all at once, of course).
At least the apartment is somewhat clean now. She's gotten rid of most of the boxes he dumped in the living room. 'It'll only be for a couple of months, Astrid. I'll take 'em back as soon as I get another place.' Yeah, right.
She sits on the couch with her legs propped up on the coffee table, half listening to the TV and half listening to Skullcrusher. Stupid guinea pig.
If it weren't his pet, she'd have stopped buying food for it long ago. Most twenty year old men don't have pets, let alone tiny, irritating rodents.
He claims it's for sentimental reasons.
She kicks the door open to her apartment. "Who names their pet 'Skullcrusher'?"
"Hey, to be fair, it wasn't my idea."
"Oh, that's right. It was your nonexistent siblings."
They carry in groceries from the car and set the plastic bags on Astrid's countertop.
"Fine. You win," he says. "I named him when I was younger. Fell out of his cage, landed straight on the ground."
They retrace their steps, ending up back outside the apartment."How'd he survive?"
"Dunno. Didn't even have a broken bone."
"Skullcrusher. I like it. It fits."
He doesn't respond, just hops into the front seat and slips his keys into the ignition.
"You're mocking me!" he yells as he pulls out of the driveway.
"You're the one with a guinea pig for a pet!"
"Gods, I even brought you food!"
She cracks up, giving him adequate time to return to his own apartment before sending him a text.
You win. I was so mocking you.
After the lame rom—com Heather insisted she watch finishes, Astrid locks Stormfly, her cat, into the garage for the night and plods upstairs. Her legs are aching from standing at the receptionist's desk all day.
She tosses around in bed for a while before retrieving the full size calendar stuffed between her bed and the wall. Despite her good intentions to keep it there permanently, she succumbs every night.
A red pen finds its ways into her hands; she traces an X across today's date. No news on the whereabouts of His Supreme Idiocy, who's either dead, stranded, kidnapped, or doesn't have enough of a brain to let her know that he's okay.
Damn you, Eret. You could've at least called.