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"But I've got this hinge problem, you know?" Hiccup babbles on, hands drawing in the air in front of his face as he keeps his pace purposefully slow. Astrid hobbles along beside him on her crutches, breathing far harder than he's used to hearing. "It's got this over-rotation that's going to throw his opposite shoulder off, and the motor can't seem to hold up to the extra pressure." Hiccup complains, wandering a little too fast down the road. Astrid clears her throat and he looks back at her, eyes still lost in whatever he's been mapping out. "Hmm?"
"Walking a little fast there?" She tries not to sound bitter, but everything about her slow, hopping gait is deeply, internally offensive.
"Oh! Sorry," he plants his feet pointedly and she catches up with three planted crutches, peering over his shoulder towards the house now fully visible at the top of the hill. "Can you make it the rest of the way, or do you want me to go get the car?"
"Of course I can make it," she snaps, hopping a bit on her good foot to adjust her stance. It's Monday after Hiccup finally got home from school, and she finally managed to win the fight for a longer walk. He's been talking her into these quarter mile strolls for the past couple of days, and eventually being sick of the coddling overcame the ache of her crutch-sore armpits.
She's sick of the coddling in every respec t. She's sick of feeling behind and under and everywhere but ahead. First it was the constant insistence on getting everything for her. She's sick of needing help with everything.
Just that morning, she had the bandages off of her brand new scar and she couldn't help but be a little less than pleased with the wide puckering groove. Scars are signs of battles won, and she gets that. Ruff was so thrilled a couple of years ago when she tackled an opponent into the bleachers and cut her shin through to the bone on a rough piece of sheet metal. Her team won and she bragged about that scar for months, it still comes up when she needs to prove how tough she is. It's a great scar too, flat and shiny, standing out just enough to look tough but not thick enough to tug at her skin and make a nuisance of itself.
Astrid's isn't a battle scar. It's a reminder of a single mistake, of a minute moment of clumsiness that turned into something permanent.
She almost misses last week, when all anyone expected of her was to lay around and keep swelling down. At her last doctor's appointment, she was too preoccupied by her physical therapist's utterly unsolicited social advice to really comprehend this next stage of healing. It's full of flexibility, and getting her knee motion back.
She should be excited, she should be absolutely eager to get that leg straight and put it on the ground. Everyone is making it sound like she's already behind, because most athletes have their leg straight by a week post-surgery, and it took everything within her to not remind everyone in the room that her PCL was damaged as well, and it's not like she could come out high-kicking.
Luckily, she had Hiccup to say that much for her.
High-kicking comments included .
Still, straightening a leg doesn't seem like anything. This morning she was absolutely sure that it would be a non-event. That she'd be so happy to take that brace off and stretch everything would snap straight of its own accord and she'd be on the fast lane to recovery.
In reality, it didn't straighten. She held a strap against the sole of her foot to push against, just like the therapist showed her only a few days ago and tried. It hadn't worked at the doctor's office, because she was cranky, and she wasn't trying, but honestly the bend doesn't look much different with all the effort in the world behind it.
"You ok?" Hiccup turns around and starts walking backwards, and Astrid hasn't wanted to punch him so much in years. He can walk backwards, uphill faster than she can limp along, and he doesn't even look like he feels bad about it.
She hates that she wants him to feel bad about it.
"I couldn't get my leg straight this morning," she admits, chewing on the inside of her cheek and staring at the ground, failing in her refusal to be embarrassed.
"I thought you'd want help," Hiccup frowns, missing her point entirely and she scowls.
"It doesn't matter. It wouldn't straighten," she snaps and he sighs, taking an absolutely audacious half step down the hill towards her and she scoffs, plodding forward with a click of her crutches. Her arms hurt, this is exhausting.
"What do you mean it wouldn't straighten?" He clarifies, and it's oddly gratifying that he spends a couple of long steps catching up to her.
"I mean that I tried to straighten it, and it wouldn't straighten all the way," she repeats, and it sounds impossibly worse this time.
"We can look at it when we get back, if you want."
"No thanks," Astrid snips, eyes fixed on the waning hill ahead of them. Spike and Toothless are waiting by the edge of the side yard fence, wagging excitedly, but it does nothing to improve Astrid's mood.
She tripped yesterday on Toothless, and it wasn't his fault, not really, but the fact is two three legged gimps in a hallway isn't exactly safe or elegant. The worst part was when Hiccup got all stern, and brought the wolf aside to lecture him in that fatherly way that only Hiccup would ever deem appropriate for talking to a dog.
"Maybe it'll be easier if I just help—" Hiccup pursues the offer and Astrid scowls at him before fixing her eyes back on the house.
"I don't exactly want to show it off."
Hiccup falters, glancing at her knee and back to the side of her always beautiful, determined expression. She adjusts her ill-placed arms on her crutches and continues forward, staring down at that well-worn running shoe that's practically mocking her.
"I'm assuming it is a scar," he hedges, and she stops in her tracks, almost stumbling and planting her crutches defiantly.
"They cut my knee open, it's a massive scar," she calls upon condescension that never quite draws to the surface entirely. "I love scars." She looks down past her running shorts towards the twin slashes ingrained in the outside of her good calf.
Worlds Trials was a pretty big meet for a novice mistake like getting spiked, but she still pulled through and won that race. One of the most oddly satisfying moments of her life was watching the biohazard team spray bleach on the track in a mad rush before the next race, trying to eliminate her blood trail.
"What? You aren't going to make me admire this one?" Hiccup asks, stepping up to her. "Because I very distinctly remember trying to hug you after you finished your race, and you shoved your bleeding calf into my hands, babbling about how great the scars would be."
"I don't babble."
"You do when you just qualified for an international meet with a personal best time."
"I was excited," she defends, leaning away from him. "And—and those scars came from winning something. It's a little different when you're all scarred up from losing everyth—"
She stops mid-syllable.
Back when everything was worse, wool-covered and secretive, she…she didn't…She ignored him and made him feel horrible about a scar he couldn't help. A scar that didn't perturb her in the slightest.
"Tell me more," Hiccup snarks through a gentle smile and Astrid's mouth flaps soundlessly.
"It's ugly, and I don't want you to see it," she starts and Hiccup nods. "And it's curved around my patella to avoid the swelling that was going on there, and it's…it makes my knee look asymmetrical." She blurts and he laughs at that assessment. "And I shouldn't care but…it's a scar that doesn't matter."
"Lucky for you, I only like asymmetrical legs."
"Birds of a feather."
"What do you mean that it doesn't matter?" He asks after a quiet moment, hand landing in a supportive way that she can't quite hate against her waist.
"It's a stupid scar. This whole thing is stupid. I fell for no reason and now I'm…ruined." It strikes through to her core in a way that all of her glaring into the mirror hasn't. She's ruined. The collection of Astrid-type victories scrawled all over her skin is marred by a line of absolute defeat digging into her knee.
It itches like crazy.
"You're not—"
"But I am!" She can't take the blind comfort that everyone else seems to be constantly spewing at her. Hiccup can't start. "I used to be something great, but now I can't even walk anymore. I can't even straighten my leg—I—" She frowns. "And I made you feel like this, didn't I? When I was—" silently falling apart. Putting dirty secrets before Hiccup. "Like a scar made you…less."
"Well, you made me feel like a scar meant you were wildly not attracted to me," he reiterates with a smile that's still slightly bitter four years later.
"This thing isn't exactly…attractive," Astrid forces herself to maintain eye contact, even as her clear voice reduces to a mumble. "It's not…"
"And I'm totally with you for your beautiful knees. That's the only reason," his other hand lands on her hip and she glares at him.
"Your sarcasm isn't comforting."
"I don't care about a scar. I know that you care about it, but you're probably the only one," he says earnestly. Spike barks from her place at the fence, frustrated by her girl's progress, resenting their separation when Astrid needs protection.
"It's not how it looks…I don't love how it looks, but it'll fade and shrink and that's…" she stops to breathe, focusing on the warm solid pressure of his hands on her sides. At least they're still the same, even when everything else is determined to be different. "It's…I'm never going to be back to how I was."
"Not with that attitude," Hiccup grins, stepping back and starting up the hill almost nonchalantly. He blatantly challenges her with searing green eyes, taking an even bigger backwards step towards the house. "Let's go straighten that knee."
00000
Astrid moans, wrapping her arms more tightly around the back of Hiccup's neck and dragging him down towards her, panting loosely against his lips. His hand is contorted down the front of her sweatpants, pressing so sweetly against her as her nerves melt into fire under overheated skin.
It's been too long, far far too long since she's felt like this, safe and writhing under Hiccup's comforting, wiry weight. She would have kissed him as soon as he walked through the door if she knew it would end up finally like this, and she regrets that hour at arm's length.
She groans, suddenly frustrated at the layers between them, keeping her from the warm length pressing against her good thigh through pleasurably rough denim and too thick sweatpants, fire pooling a few inches higher and driving her further insane.
She tugs at the hem of her shirt, trying to pull it over her head, but his chest is pressed too closely to hers to make that easy. His fingers glance expertly across her and she gasps, his lips sliding down and mouthing at the side of her neck. Her hand slides up from his ass and under his shirt, running her fingers over the notches of his spine and attempting to drag it over his head.
His thumb presses hard against her and rubs in a quick circle until she goes tense beneath him with a whimper, hand fisting in the stubbornly there cotton of his tee-shirt.
"Alright?" He asks, breath cool against the still moist side of her neck as his hand slides out of her pants. He braces it against the back of the couch and pulls himself off of her, carefully pushing back onto his knees. Her bad leg is elevated on the back of the couch and he readjusts it lovingly, trying to finagle his way back to his feet without disturbing her position.
Astrid sees her chance and her hand darts out, grabbing his hand still next to her ear and yanking him back down on top of her. She groans as weight falls onto her chest with a clumsy jolt, laughing and wrapping her other arm around the back of his neck.
"Better than alright," she purrs into his ear, good knee rubbing at the bulge in his jeans. He lurches upwards away from her, swinging his right foot onto the ground and trying to stand.
"Astrid!"
"What?" her elbow tightens around the back of his neck again, trying to coax him onto her again before giving up and flopping back onto the couch with a sigh. "It's been ten days and we haven't done anything."
"You're being dramatic," Hiccup sighs, pushing up the rest of the way and standing next to her. She props herself on her elbows and pouts more than she'd like to admit.
Ten days since surgery.
Ten long days of pain and itching that's worse than any pain ever threatened to be. Ten days of awkward, seated partial showers and newly minted insomnia. Ten days of almost attention.
She's probably only getting two hours of sleep a night, because seventy percent of her body is bored…and apparently reducing her to thinking like Fishlegs of all people. As if the increased sarcasm wasn't bad enough, now she's going to start relating everything to the world in terms of fractions.
Maybe she'll eventually lose everything that makes her Astrid and end up as a hectic amalgam of all the people close to her.
She just wants some sleep. She just wants Hiccup to treat her like she's normal.
"I'm not being dramatic," Astrid scowls. "We haven't done anything in days."
"That was nothing?" He laughs, not so subtly uncomfortable. Astrid's eyes flick to the obvious bulge in the front of his pants and she bites her lip. He tugs his shirt down and tries to cover himself, scratching nervously at the back of his neck. "Because my wrist is saying that was more than nothing."
"That was…slightly more than nothing," Astrid admits with a shrug, still flushed. "But I'm not done yet." She glances at his crotch and he looks at her knee just as pointedly.
"I shouldn't have let it get that far," Hiccup grumbles mostly to himself, regretting the lack of self-control.
It was just the first time they'd managed to get that close since her surgery without her flinching at some point and pulling away, and she was so warm and soft and wonderfully responsive beneath him that the kissing turned into more. And this shouldn't be what she's doing right now, no matter how tempting it is to worm his way back between her thighs, brace be damned.
He can still feel the hard line where it pressed against his side, digging into his ribs like a barrier that won't let him in.
Not that he should try any harder to get in right now.
He misses the closer to constant napping, when it was easier to leave the room for fifteen minutes without question and deal with the issues left behind by her unintentional seduction.
He knows it's not typical, or even rational, but something about the constant girlfriend on his couch has been driving him absolutely insane. It's not the uncharacteristic vulnerability, because honestly that just makes Astrid meaner than normal, but he's starting to have a sneaking suspicion that it's the baggy clothes. Something about the oversized tee-shirts, mostly his shirts, and those sweats that constantly fall down and reveal that sharp line of her hipbone, peeking out welcomingly through gaps in the blankets.
That generally saggy shape hints at so much room to roam against her skin, and every time she rolls over it reminds him that she's definitely naked immediately on the other side of that thin, thin shirt—
"You aren't letting it get anywhere," Astrid insists, frowning when he takes a step backwards, soft back of his knees bumping against the coffee table.
"You should try to sleep," he urges, and it's a broken record, echoing around Astrid's seemingly eternally bored head.
"I can't sleep," she admits with a snarl. "I haven't been able to sleep in days. I'm full of energy and I have nothing to do with it," she looks him up and down, appraising. "Care to help me with that?"
"I'll get you a Benadryl," he offers wryly and her gaze turns oddly pleading.
"Come on."
"Hey, you have no reason to complain," he frowns at her, stuffing his still drying fingers into his pocket and trying not to feel supremely awkward.
"Neither do you," Astrid arches her eyebrow at him, getting comfortable against the pillows and slowly working her shirt up over her stomach. "You're the one yanking on the emergency brake here."
"Please keep your clothes on," he looks towards the kitchen biting the inside of his cheek and trying not to watch as her hands hook in the sides of her sweatpants and push the waistband down over her hips, flirting with the line of those underwear he was just inside. And it was so welcoming and warm and…and he was already going on two weeks without his girlfriend visiting before her surgery happened.
Twenty four days. He doesn't think he's been twenty four days since he lasted eighteen years.
"I'm just saying…if you come over here," she toys with the hem of the shirt, bringing it up to her collarbone but somehow staying mostly covered by the baggy fabric that's suddenly frustrating and relieving all at once.
"You said you haven't been sleeping?" He asks, carefully looking only at her eyes, even while he imagines the rest of it.
"No," she scowls, letting go of the shirt and pressing her palms into her gritty, exhausted eyes. "I can't—You can't know how much exercise I'm used to getting," she laughs, enumerating on her fingers. "Every morning, I run at least two miles, then I walk around all day, then I go to practice and normally run around five more miles…" she trails off, staring at that same spot on the ceiling that ceased to be interesting a week ago.
The pockmarked plaster has looked like a dozen things carved into the shadows, but at this point she's sure that it looks like a face, generic as the man in the moon.
An unrecognizable face without true features, mocking and human, staring down at her and wondering when she's going to get up.
"You need to sleep," Hiccup repeats, distracted and far more comfortable as he focuses on something other than his second brain's raging determination.
"I can't, alright? I guess it's not my injury forte," she gripes.
"I thought coma jokes weren't funny."
"It's not a joke," she insists, a smile seeping through the cracks. "It's an insult, drowsy."
"Drowsy?" He laughs. "Not your best effort."
"Walks aren't cutting it, I need some exercise. I need…" she frowns and lets frustrated hands thump against her stomach. "And then you're over here flashing me all the time, and making it really hard to focus on sleeping—"
"Don't blame your lack of exercise on me," Hiccup cuts her off, holding his hands towards her in pseudo-surrender.
"It's your fault…" she grumbles to herself, before sighing and pulling her blanket up to her chin. "No it's not. It's…none of this is anyone's fault. I think I'm just…used to having sex with you whenever I'm this bored."
It sounds cheap and oddly belittling, but it's more in the vein of that natural comfort that spawns from years with someone.
"Glad to know that I'm boring."
"I didn't mean it like that," Astrid snaps, rolling her eyes. "I meant it like…I want you," she makes eye contact with him and shrugs, feigning nonchalance. "Because I am bored, and I can't really move anywhere, and honestly, what just happened was the best I've felt in a while. And wanting to feel good doesn't seem like a horrible reason to me."
That's a good point, and he sighs heavily, reaffirming his resolve.
"Astrid," Hiccup starts in that even voice that means there's no point in arguing if she doesn't want to end up feeling like a misbehaving child. "It's…I don't want to hurt you." And she sees every flinch on her part over the last ten days reflected in his eyes and she steels her expression.
"I'm not that fragile," she insists, too quiet. "And hey, maybe it's your turn to do all the work."
"I won't deny that you do most of the work," Hiccup laughs, hand brushing her bangs away from her forehead. "But you like it that way."
"Maybe I'm ready for a change," she raises her eyebrows at him, pushing the blanket back down to her waist and recommencing that horribly attractive fiddling with her too big shirt. "Come on, my leg will stay right here," she slides her hand under the waistband of her pants, patting her bad thigh above the brace. Her fingers wander back sideways and start rubbing in an even rhythm beneath the thick fabric. Hiccup swallows hard as her eyes fall shut and pearly white teeth bite down on her lower lip, unnaturally appealing. "You aren't going to hurt me, just go easy…"
"Astrid—"
"I really don't want to finish without you…again," she tempts, grinning up at him and pausing that infuriating motion just long enough to pull her shirt over her head and drop it onto the floor. Hiccup's mouth flaps wordlessly, and he blinks, telling himself that it's just his deprived libido imagining that her chest is even fuller than normal. "Seriously, I'll tell you to stop if it hurts."
The openness is stronger than any lewd temptation she could throw at him and his hands falter, hovering respectfully above her shoulders before resting against her waist as he kneels beside the couch, kissing her slowly. She laughs and pulls back, gasping throatily as his hand slides up and cups her flesh, kneading softly.
"As long as you'll actually tell me…" he warns, but it sounds mostly hollow as he kisses along the line of her jaw, sitting back briefly to tug his own shirt over his head and let it join hers on the floor.
"Yeah…yeah…" her eyes fall shut as his lips drift so invitingly down. "Just help me take off my pants."
"Impatient?" He asks with a laugh, kneeling and carefully peeling her sweatpants away from her hips, cringing when they catch on her brace. "Astrid—this is—"
"Just take them off the other leg," she huffs, bending that good knee and urging him to wiggle that good foot free. Her underwear follow the same winding path, halfway off, but leaving a clear path. "See, this works?"
"That…" his eyes sweep the path from her leg, across the swoop of her waist to her long arms stretched over her head. "This is bad. This isn't going to work."
"Hiccup—"
"You just had surgery!" He reaches for the blanket to cover her back up and she catches his wrist with stern fingers.
"Ten days ago," she snaps, yanking him down towards her by his arm and hooking an elbow around his neck. Her other hand slithers down his chest to unbuckle his belt, working on the button of his pants. "We'll just go slow, alright? Nice and slow and gentle…" She purrs in his ear, hand slipping past his loosened zipper and into his underwear. "My knee will stay right here," she kisses his neck, rocking her hips up against him as well as she can. "I promise."
"Urgh, ok," he groans, burying his face against her shoulder and puffing warm air over her skin. "Ok, ok. I'm convinced." His pants hit the floor with a jingle that's probably far too excited and he reaches down to unbuckle his leg before climbing on the couch to kneel carefully between her knees, leather squeaking against his skin.
"Thank you," she reaches down and grabs his shaft, lining him up and gasping at the contact against her. "Seriously, thank you, I—mph," he kisses her, jaw pressing earnestly into hers as he sinks into place.
"You're babbling," he warns her, pulling out slowly and sliding back into her, nervous green eyes locked on her face. "Ok?"
"Yeah, I'm great," she nods, good heel winding its way around his back and hooking on narrow hips. Another long, slow stroke sends curls her toes into his skin as her hands wrap around the back of his neck, pulling him down closer. "Doesn't hurt at…all," her voice catches in her throat and he grins.
"Alright, then."
00000
Both dogs greet Gerard at the door, and seeing Spike should be enough of a warning after she's spent the last week and a half glued tight to Astrid's side. It's strike two when they trot to lay on their bed near the patio door, slightly worried and curled into each other, panting and staring towards the living room.
Henry must be talking to his homework again, that always upsets the wolf. It's a habit that's only cropped up in the last couple of years, but it always makes the man feel like an absolute idiot. What is pi again? Three point something…
He walks into the kitchen, grabbing one of Astrid's preferred Oreos out of the jar and popping it into his mouth when she isn't here to glare daggers at him for eating what she considers to be too many. A bout of decidedly un-Astrid like laughter drifts into the kitchen from the living room and Gerard smiles, because it really is a wonderful sound.
For so many years the house was so uncomfortably silent, between his unfortunate hang-ups and expectations, and Henry's dodging quiet. Then in a few short, tumultuous weeks, Astrid whipped through, waking him up with her liveliness and giving Henry that much needed reason to open up.
A few of his colleagues have questioned his decision to let the pair live under the same roof, and thankfully it never leaked out to anyone who would care, in the same room, but some things seem inconsequential after everything they'd been through. It seemed downright cruel to take away comfort they'd just found, like snatching a new plush from a puppy. He did his job, made sure they were being safe, but at some point responsible parent falls away to nothing more than a man happy to have raised a good son, and being proud of that son for excelling at the age old adolescent sport of wooing beautiful women.
Then again, Henry does sort of seem like a one woman sort, and as much as it worries the stud he used to be, there's something about the young-love-surpassing devotion that Val really would have liked.
Not that Astrid isn't equally smitten. She might even be more obvious than Henry, but there's no one brave enough to let her know how plainly the truth rests across her features. It's probably for the best, as it would be a real shame if she tried to hide it.
Maybe Gerard's future grandkids have a shot at those athletic titles…he shakes off the thought, because as much as he'd be proud of the rascals, he'd love them just as much if they ran around looking at pond scum through a microscope. Not to mention that he's not exactly in a hurry to meet the munchkins. Astrid has her heart set on graduate school, and he's still excited to have another lawyer in the family.
But it would be nice to have those two out of the house eventually, provided they stay close enough to visit. Maybe he could even offer them that couch Astrid seems to like so much as a housewarming present, and get another recliner for the living room. It doesn't seem fair that he and Gobber always have to fight over the good seat, although it has gone better for Gerard since Gobber's missing foot defense stopped working at first mention.
Another near giggle permeates the wall, followed by Henry's deeper laugh before a couple of murmurs blend back into silence. It's probably time to let them know that he's home a day early, since he wouldn't want them walking into the kitchen and having a heart attack.
He flinches at the memory of coming home at two one winter morning and meeting Astrid's fist in the entryway when she was somehow sur e there was a burglar to be dealt wi th.
Astrid is not someone he plans to surprise again.
Gerard pushes away from the counter, taking a big step before faltering and turning back just enough to grab two more cookies, chewing and swallowing them quickly before running a crisp shirt sleeve over his mouth to brush away the crumbs. Now that he has his evening's sugar fix, he can pop in and greet them. Then he'll probably head upstairs, stay out of their way and let his son finish making Astrid laugh.
He steps around the corner and through the narrow doorway, stopping barely into the living room with his hand hovering over the apparently unnecessary light switch. It takes a minute to perceive what he's seeing, and he immediately flinches backwards from a far more in depth view of his son's rear end than he'd ever intended to see. Astrid's very bare, unbraced leg is hooked over his lower back as he rocks into her, heads close together.
"My foot is stuck in your pants," Henry complains and that giggle repeats, slightly huskier than a moment before.
"Ignore it…"
Gerard spins on a heel and walks back towards the kitchen, color blanching from his face until it must rival the color of his son's day-glow ass .
00000
So, right after I bring up the fact that there are no lemons because of surgery…they start. That was awkward. But I hope that the realism is still good, because everything is mentioned and accounted for. Except closed doors.
Also, poor Jerry. No man needs to see that much of his son.
