A/N: The inspiration for this? That amazing drawing over at deviantART where Ruffnut's cleaning (or tending to, whatever) Tuff's black eye. Whoever you are, I give you props.
Disclaimer: You know the drill.
From the beginning of their existence, the Thorston twins have always stuck together. Sure, they would usually communicate in the form of bickering, but it wouldn't be the same if they were civil to each other. In fact, it would be downright fake—and boring, because obviously they fought out of love, not out of loathing. (Although neither of them would ever admit it, because Viking siblings just don't do that.)
Which was why the insults came hurtling at lightning speed every time Tuffnut got hurt.
Naturally, it all started when they were seven, back when wooden swords were still cool. Like most kids, Ruff and Tuff had their share of competitions—they still do. And when the weather permitted, the favorite always came down to sheep riding. They were forbidden to cause any sort of aggravation towards the sheep, of course, for, "A happy sheep makes for good meat!" (More like, "A happy sheep feeds your ungrateful mouths, so unless you want to starve, you better stay away." As if that ever stopped them.)
The best way to get the sheep going was to "accidentally" hold the branding iron too long on the wool; if you held on tight enough, it was a pretty exhilarating experience. On that day, though, Tuffnut reasoned that his sheep would go faster if he kicked it in a certain area, which only made the animal flail erratically and sent him flying across the field into possibly the worst patch of dirt on the face of Berk. He had skinned his forearm trying to ease the impact, which he learned wasn't very effective.
Being the big baby that he was, and has always been, he didn't want anyone else finding out his pain tolerance was very low for their kind, especially their parents. So being the girl, Ruffnut was expected to have some sort of training in first aid for emergencies like this. She had watched her mother countless times as she wrapped and bandaged her father's wounds; surely this wouldn't be any different.
At seven, though, it was hard to tell whether the blue jar or the green jar was for scrapes. She'd just have to sneak them all out and take this as an opportunity to use her brother as an experiment.
By the time they were in their teens, their mother started growing suspicious of why they were always short of medical supplies. In fear of getting caught for using up so much of the household stash, Ruffnut decided to keep her own. She learned from many years of practice which jars were for what maladies, and even accidentally whipped up more effective concoctions suitable to her brother's pain levels. She could be the village doctor of she wanted to, but we all know she's not that kind of girl.
Tuffnut, on the other hand, was still too stubborn to realize that he should have been less reckless—the boy had two left feet, and a poor sense of direction at that. In other words, he could really be a moron sometimes. Yes, Viking is an occupational hazard, but that doesn't mean you have to get hurt on a daily—hourly, more like it—basis.
Today, she doesn't even have to look up to know that he has a black eye. She can tell what it is from the sound of his body movements.
"What caused it this time, nimrod?" she asks, taking off the saddle on her side of the Zippleback.
He grunts in response, and seeing the opportunity to taunt him about the last time it happened, she snorts. "Did Snotlout make fun of your hair again? 'Cause sooner or later he's gonna start mixing you up with me, and that would be—"
"I was defending you," he mutters.
She pauses. "What?"
In an edgier tone, he says, "Are you deaf or something? I SAID, 'I-WAS-DEFENDING—'"
"I heard you, you dunderhead!" she retorts. "No one else wants to hear your stupid voice as much as you do."
He takes off his helmet and shakes out his hair, wincing at the forgotten pain that headlock brought him a few minutes ago. "Just know that I'm the only one who can make fun of your waste of space on this island, got it?"
It isn't the best way to tell your sister that your dimwitted brother actually loves you, but if she expresses her gratitude, it wouldn't feel right. They weren't the kind of siblings that had those sentimental moments…
"Gods, why don't you clean out all that gunk from your ears sometimes? I'm sure Mom would like a new candle for Harvest this year."
Oh, but remember, they are still Vikings.
Instead of smiling at her brother or hugging him, Ruffnut gives him a blow to the head with the saddle. He whimpers at the pain and clutches his head in his hands, and since she has the upper hand right now, she tightly grips him by the wrist and drags him along to her room.
"Idiot. Come on, I'll get the salve. And you better not cry this time."
Note: The change in verb tense was intentional. The explanation and the actual action of the fic wouldn't have been the same if they were written in one tense, so I decided to leave it how I wrote it. Reviews are appreciated.