Hiccup was almost entirely sure the forge was spinning around him, and he was standing still. That was the only explanation that accounted for the fact that he couldn't take two steps without grabbing onto something to steady himself. He was wobbly like first mornings after he first woke up from The Great Battle. He'd jump out of bed, forgetting he was missing half his leg, forgetting that when he stood up, one half of him was supported by wood and metal, and he'd overcompensate and fall to the floor.

Now, he knew his prosthetic as intimately as he knew the rest of his body, possibly more because he spent so much time refining it, but crossing his workroom to get to his desk seemed impossible.

He could barely focus on anything, and couldn't remember what he'd been doing before he'd entered his workroom, before Astrid had followed him and before-

He grabbed the back of his chair and sat down, dropping his head to his desk for a moment to catch his breath. He'd taken three steps, maybe four, and he was exhausted.

It probably wasn't because of the walking.

Hiccup closed his eyes and counted slow. He knew his name. He knew where he was. He knew he had to go into the main room of the forge. He could hear Astrid putting things back, the drag of chains on the floor as she moved them to their barrel, the light ping of the arrowheads as she leaned them one by one back against the stone wall.

If anyone was going to be aware of perimeter and security, it was Astrid, he thought with a small laugh.

He never dreamed or thought.…

Well, that wasn't really true.

He'd wondered. But he never let himself fantasize what it would be like. All his fantasies had focused mostly on what he could do to her, what he could learn, what he could do correctly, then refine and do again. He'd never really indulged himself in what it would be like if she -

Even now, he wouldn't let himself think about it.

He sat up, opening his eyes, and only just stopped himself from rubbing his hands through his hair. They were still dirty, covered with soot and polish, and he needed to wash them immediately.

He'd done enough thinking for now. He was pretty sure he could remember how to walk. Possibly form complete sentences.

Hiccup stood, adjusted the cuff of his leg, loosening it slightly, and was about to open the door when a tiny flash of light caught his attention. The coin, Finn's coin, was on his desk.

He put it in his pocket.

Astrid was perched on the table, legs folded beneath her, the banner of Finn unfolded across her lap. For a moment, in the changing light of the forge, he'd though she'd changed her clothing, that she'd put on a long skirt of some sort, and the sight disoriented him again, sending his mind spinning in all directions.

"All cleaned up?" Astrid's voice was light, but there was a sharp curl of humor beneath it, and he felt his face turning red. He grabbed the bucket off the table and moved toward the side door and the barrel of water beside it.

"I- I have to, uh - to wash my hands."

"Uh huh." He could hear the smile on her face, but she didn't look up from the stitch she was making.

Until she muttered a curse and brought her finger to her mouth, frowning.

"Needles still sharp?"

Her answering growl followed him toward the door, but the gleam of her axe blade stopped him.

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing." He put the bucket down and picked up the axe. "Still need to sharpen this."

"You left your apron in the back."

Hiccup glanced at her. Her head was tilted to the side, her smile slight, but her eyes were dancing and crinkled at the corners, and he could tell she was holding in laughter.

"Thanks. You stay there," he added, nudging her with his elbow on his way past.

"Or you'll what?"

He didn't bother to reply. Reaching down to grab his apron from the floor by his desk, he put it on with careful movements and walked back toward her axe. Astrid had returned her attention to the fabric that covered her, and he stopped for a moment to look at her, allowing his eyes to lose focus slightly.

With the banner falling across her legs, the lightweight fabric sliding through the air currents of the forge, she looked like she was wearing a gown of green, red, and white, lit with gold by the fire.

The room spun a little, this time around Astrid.

"You're moving slowly," she said, still not looking up. He blinked and turned to her axe.

"Y- yeah. I, ah, I don't trust my, um, my hands near sharp things."

Her laugh was soft, barely audible. "A little unsteady, huh?"

"Yeah."

"That's good."

This time, he laughed, loud and a little embarrassed. Then he picked up her axe and started the sharpening stone.

Sparks shot from the edge as he honed it, leaning most of ihs weight onto the blade, watching carefully for any sign of a chip or bend in the metal. He wasn't making that mistake again. He wouldn't get away with swapping one axe for another so easily, either.

Hiccup tried not to glance up at Astrid, now partially concealed in the shadows and obscured by the tiny flares of light in front of him. But he did, twice, and both times the illusion of her in a gown caused his thoughts to stutter and spin, and he made himself look away, pay closer attention to the axe, and less to its owner.

After he'd sharpened the edge on both sides, he polished it one final time, running a soft piece of leather over the flat blade repeatedly until it gleamed, almost a light source on its own.

Then he once again grabbed the bucket, filled it with water and went outside.

When he returned, his hands were finally clean, scrubbed and a little red from the effort. Astrid was holding her axe, tossing it hand to hand, spinning it while watching the light bend over the blade and shatter into sparkles that flashed across the floor.

"It's incredible. Thank you."

Hiccup smiled at her, wiping the last of the water from his wrists with a clean cloth. "Any time."

He took off his apron, hung it on a peg, and reached up to a high a shelf for a stack of wooden bowls.

When he turned, Astrid was staring at him. Staring at his waist, specifically. Oh, Gods. Had his leggings shifted?

He looked down, shifting the bowls to one hand, but nothing seemed out of place or -

"What are those for?"

Was her voice higher pitched than normal? "Um, I -, uh." He swallowed. "Bread."

"What?"

"Bread. Bread making?"

"Seriously?"

"Uh - well, if you don't…"

"Oh, no. Thank Thor. I've been waiting for this." She moved in a flash of light and momentum toward the table she liked to sit on, pushed the banner fabric back into her bag in a messy bundle, and rested her axe handle on top. Then she turned to him.

"So, what do I do?"

He'd lost his train of thought again. "Do?"

A handful of steps brought her within arms reach, but he didn't move. She closed the remaining distance with one hand, sliding her palm around his side to rest on his back, fitting perfectly beside him.

She looked up at him, mischief and anticipation on her face.

"Teach me."

"You don't… you don't have anywhere you need to be? It kind of takes awhile." The line of skin across his back where her hand had slid across was on fire. Her touch was molten on his side and he couldn't move, not away, not towards it.

"Nope. I'm good. And like you said, a good lie is half true."

He nodded, putting the bowls in a line on the table.

"So tell me what to do."

"Um. Well, you, uh, you might get flour on your clothes. Want an apron?"

"Eh, I'm not worried," she said with a shrug and a wave of her hand.

He couldn't think of what to say next, so he gathered ingredients from the different containers he stored them in and set them on the table. Astrid pulled the metal jar of flour towards her and examined the lid.

"Iron for your flour?"

"Yeah. It's, uh, it's a fire hazard if it's in the air. I don't want it to blow around the forge if it's windy, so the lid has to be heavy. And the sides, too, to support the lid."

"And the decoration?"

He laughed, reaching into a cabinet to pull out a length of fabric. "I was practicing."

"This looks like the peg detail on the axe you made me."

He could feel his face begin to burn again, and shrugged with one shoulder. "Yeah. Like I said, practice."

He couldn't look from the table and meet her eyes when he returned to her side, placing the fabric and a second apron on the table next to the bowls. But he had to when she nudged him once, then twice, in the side.

Astrid grinned and pushed her hair away from her face as she looked up at him. He was never going to get used to being taller than she was, that he had to tilt his head down to see her.

Her smile grew. "Thank you."

He smiled in return, then set about trying to explain how he and Gobber figured out how to bake bread in the forge. Within a few minutes, they were up to their forearms in sticky dough, mixing and kneading by hand in large wooden bowls that Hiccup was pretty sure Gobber had carved long before Hiccup was born.

"So it's actually too hot in here, and you have to let it rise somewhere cooler?"

He nodded. "I have a shelf in my workroom…"

Astrid turned her head in a snap, a surprised and devilish expression on her face.

"Not that one."

"I would like to see this… other shelf." She spoke slowly, her tone thoughtful.

"Soon enough," he replied, shaking his head at her.

The wet, lumpy dough in his bowl slowly became more smooth and elastic, and he pulled the cloth closer and unrolled it.

"How's yours?"

Astrid grimaced. "Looks nothing like yours."

She was right. The ingredients in her bowl were only partially mixed, and the dough had covered her hands more than it had formed a cohesive ball.

"I think you're not kneading with enough force."

"More force? I can do that."

"No, no, not like that."

He moved to her side just as she shifted closer to the table edge and slid her body in front of his. She spoke over her shoulder, her tone brisk. "Show me."

"I'm- you." He sighed. "Alright."

He tried to move around her shoulder armor, but it was impossible to reach in front of her and not stab himself with one of the spikes.

"Oh, right - sorry about that. Can you take my armor off?"

Hiccup ignored the way his heart sped up and the momentary skip in his breath, unlaced her armor, and placed it onto the table beside her.

"Show me how to do this?"

He moved closer, directly behind her, and cursed himself for not putting a shirt on. It was too hot to wear one if he was working, what with the fire being so high, but he could feel the warmth of her through the thin layers of clothing that stood between them. He avoided her skirt, and the accompanying spikes, but his arms rested against her waist as he wound his hands under hers, and tried to demonstrate how to mix, then knead the dough she'd made.

His mind was struggling to function properly, to put the right words in the right order to explain. The curve of her breasts brushed against the sensitive skin on the inside of his arms, and he couldn't think past that small point of contact where his pulse beat against her skin, where every sharp point of his attention was focused on the fact that she didn't move away.

She moved closer.

She moved again, a possibly deliberate slide of her back across his belly, and his breathing stopped and restarted. It had been an hour, maybe less. He was still so sensitive, everywhere. Odin only knew how he'd managed to sharpen an axe. He could barely use his hands.

He could do this. Just say words, explain what to do.

He shouldn't move his arms, though, because that would bring her closer to him, press his body against her in a way she may not want, and… it would be better to stay still.

Then she moved again, and he could hear her speaking, but he didn't understand what she said.

He tried to cover her hands with his own, to move so she would stop shifting and sliding against him. Did she know what she was doing to him?

She glanced at him, and the gleam of her eyes and the smile on her face told him plenty. She knew. She knew what she was doing to him.

Oh, Gods.

She pressed back against him again, arching her back, and his mind erupted into a riot of hot sensation and impossible arousal that stopped his heart.

Using the strength of his arms and his legs, he pressed her body against his, holding her, his hands tight over hers, his forearms against her hips, trapping her between the edge of the table and the ridge of his body.

"Hold still," he said. His voice was darker than he wanted it to be, than he meant it to be. "Do not move."

She stiffened, any softness turning rigid beneath his touch. He opened his mouth to apologize when she turned her head to look at him.

Her eyes were wide, her pupils dilated. Her mouth had dropped open, and her breath slowed, then stuttered in a low gasp.

Astrid flexed her fingers, sliding them between this, then curled tightly, her nails digging into his skin for a moment, a bite that helped him focus.

Hiccup realized two things in rapid succession.

One, he needed to apologize and explain quickly and clearly before his entire body exploded into nothing.

And two… Astrid really liked being told what to do.

He flexed his arms again, holding her still, her body taut, pressed against his. The soft fabric of her shirt was warm, hot even, and when she leaned into him, arching her back further, he felt the gathered fabric of her bindings against his chest.

She was still looking up at him, watching his expression.

He shifted his weight, moving away from her skirt, and, pulling his fingers loose, wrapped one arm across her stomach, his hand in a fist to keep from scattering flour and dough on her clothing.

"Hold. Still." He spoke softly, none of the prior harshness in his voice. But he wouldn't allow her to move, to shift or even turn away from him.

She moistened her lips with the tip of her tongue, heat and desire increasing in the way she looked at him, eyes hooded, focus intent. Her head tilted slightly, but she didn't speak. She waited, listening for his next instruction.

Her eyes dropped to his lips, then to his chest, before she looked in his eyes again. The silence between them stretched like molten steel, hot and dangerous.

Astrid wet her lips again, then whispered. "Show me."

He started to move but stopped himself.

She frowned. "What?"

"Your skirt is, um, it's-"

"Ah." She reached for the waistband with one hand, then tried to pull her fingers free from his grasp, but he shook his head and wouldn't let her go.

"Gobber will be back soon. You can't."

She frowned, eyes narrowing, and tried to pull her hand free, though with not as much effort as before. "It's fine. We'd hear him."

Desire and worry battled in his mind, and probably in his expression. He wanted to press his body against hers, feel her arch against him, watch what changed on her face if he told her what to do, gave her specific instructions to follow, told her how to use her hands, her fingertips.

The last large piece of wood on the fire broke in half, sending sparks into the air, a burst of gold and red that lit them both before shadows took over and filled the room. The fire was dying. He didn't want to go add more fuel to it. He didn't want to move. But if he didn't… he wanted her to see him, and he wanted to be able to see her face. He'd learned so much reading the subtle shifts of her expression, how she responded to his voice, to what he said.

Astrid rose onto her toes and covered his mouth with hers. Her fingers gripped his tightly while her other hand slowly moved over his chest, over his heart. Her skin was sticky with dough, and she left some of it on his skin when she lifted her palm. He caught her right hand in his, and brought it to the table, holding her within the circle of his arms again.

"You don't follow directions well," he said when she moved away. He kept his voice soft, but his arms and hands were firm, holding her in place.

She shook her head.

Then she turned and licked away the traces of dough from his chest, her teeth scraping over his skin and making him gasp. "Nope."

"Watch." He turned her attention to the dough in front of them, and demonstrated how to mix the remaining flour in by folding and refolding the sticky mass onto itself, slowly incorporating more as the texture turned smoother, more elastic, and less sticky.

"How did you do that?"

He shrugged. "Practice."

She grunted in response, a low, frustrated sound, and watched his hands closely.

Hiccup glanced at her neck, and watched a red flush make its way from her collarbone to her face. She had to be overly warm in the forge, wearing wool, plus bindings, plus her skirt and, until a few minutes before, her armor. But he couldn't think of a way to reduce what she was wearing without putting her in a potentially disastrous situation.

He turned the dough over one more time, then placed it back in the bowl. Then he picked up his, and hers, to put them in his workroom.

In the moments he'd been working, his focus elsewhere, she'd subtly pressed him backwards, and when he shifted to move past her, she spun and faced him, grabbing the waistband of his leggings in her hands, stopping him in his tracks.

He froze, a bowl in each hand, her hands pulling the fabric of his leggings taut so he had no choice but to lean toward her.

Her smile was as wicked as her fingers, which she slid along his waist, teasing him. "So now what do we do?"

"Now?"

She nodded, but didn't release her grip.

"I have to put the bread in my work room to give it time to rise."

A knowing and wicked expression came over her face. "I see."

"Grab the cloth?"

She nodded, let go, then followed him. He moved slowly, partly because it was darker and he didn't want to miss a step and fall, and partly because his leggings were held up by his erection and a few stray pieces of dough.

Astrid passed in front of him and took one of the bowls from his hand. "Tell me where?"

"Shelf in the back corner by my desk."

She reached up, tipped the bowl onto the shelf, and took the other from his hand.

"So what's with the fabric?"

"Cover the tops of the bowls with it. Keeps the dough clean. Well, cleaner than it would be without it."

She laughed. "It is a forge."

"Yeah. It is."

She draped the waxed cloth over the bowls, then turned.

"Now what?"

She answered her own question by placing her hands against his stomach and pushing him back toward his desk.

His reply was a laugh and a gasp as he covered her hands with his again and pulled her closer. "Oh, no, you don't."

"I don't what?"

"You don't get to be in charge. That's what."

Astrid drew a deep breath and her body tilted toward him as if she were about to pounce, to spring forward off her toes and launch her body into his. He instinctively braced his weight against his prosthetic and prepared to shift into her momentum, but one faint clank of metal and wood stopped them both.

They waited. Hiccup held his breath. And then the sound came again, closer this time. Along with off-key singing about yaks and blue flowers.

"Gobber."

Hiccup nodded.

Astrid scowled.

He could understand her frustration. Before he could think twice, second guess himself and question his instincts, he pulled Astrid's hands and spun them both until Astrid stood in front of him again, her arms crossed in front of her, his hands tightly holding her against his body. He ignored the pressure of her skirt, the way the steel spikes pressed into his erection in a way that didn't hurt, but made the searing arousal more sharp.

His whisper was low, harsh and firm, just into her ear.

"I'm sorry I can't do to you what you did to me."

Astrid didn't respond. The rapid gasp of her breathing, the way her body nestled against his, seeking more contact, more sensation, was the answer he needed.

"I owe you - everything you did."

Her head dropped back to rest against his shoulder. Her eyes were closed, her mouth open slightly.

He lowered his whisper, though no one could hear him but her, as Gobber was still a few minutes away from entering the forge.

"I want you to… do everything. To yourself. Tonight."

She shuddered, a slight, intoxicating movement.

"You'll manage… on your own?"

Astrid nodded. She had to wet her lips twice before she spoke. "More fun with you."

"Next time. Promise."

He pressed a kiss to her temple, then whispered instructions, the rhythm of his speech similar to the somewhat harsh tone that had made her react before. "Go back into the forge, find your armor and put it on. There's a wet rag and bucket by the back door. Begin wiping the table. I'll be out shortly."

"What are you doing?"

"You'll see."

He released her, but held her hands until she was steady on her own feet, her balance restored from resting so firmly against him. She looked over her shoulder up at him, her eyes frustrated, her mouth tense.

Then she turned, reached one hand around his neck, and pulled him toward her into a hot, ferocious open mouthed kiss that nearly blew his mind apart. Her tongue slid over his, her hands hot on his skin, his neck, fisting the fabric of his leggings to pull him closer.

The loud clatter of wood against stone outside broke the intensity and they pulled apart.

Astrid turned and hurried into the main room, and he heard the sound of the bucket on the main table as she followed his instructions.

He dug until he found an old shirt in the storage box beneath his desk and pulled it on. Gobber would have a lot to say if he found Hiccup without his shirt on and Astrid present, none of it a conversation he wanted to have. Hiccup was pretty sure there was flour and dough on his chest and back, too.

He looked down at himself, and sighed. He needed an apron, too. For concealment.

But before he went back into the main room, he found a scrap of paper and some charcoal, and moved until he had just enough light.

Astrid was scrubbing the table as if her life depended on it when Gobber came in. The look on his face would have made her laugh if any amusement had been within her reach. She was hot, sweaty, tense, aroused and frustrated, and Gobber was the cause.

She straightened.

No, not the cause.

Gobber was the obstacle that prevented her from jumping on Hiccup the way she wanted to. She had memories of Hiccup's desk. She wanted to experience them again, and she couldn't.

Gobber glanced at her and smiled broadly, the waning firelight glinting off his rock tooth.

"Evening, Astrid. Where's Hiccup?"

"Back here, Gobber," Hiccup replied, coming through the door to his workroom. He'd put on a shirt and an apron, and was carrying a large metal tray in one hand.

She looked back at Gobber, evaluating his expression.

He was frowning. "Back there, eh? Working on the next piece?"

"Yeah, that and showing Astrid how to make bread."

Hiccup still hadn't crossed the room toward her. He was standing by the high table she usually sat on. Was he avoiding her?

Then she turned her head and stared. She could have sworn she heard Gobber mutter something like, "That's too bad."

Everyone was gone mad and no one made sense, she decided.

"Make all the deliveries?" Now Hiccup came near her, reaching past her to grab another rag to wipe down the table.

"Oh, aye. All weapons restored to their rightful owners, shiny and better than new. Which reminds me - Astrid, I saw Sigrid. She said you're to bring your axe home with you."

Astrid frowned, but nodded.

Later, in the warm and quiet darkness of her room, Astrid looked out the window above her bed and counted the stars. It didn't make her any more sleepy.

She wanted to be stubborn, to disobey out of a perverse sense of pride or determination, but she realized with a sigh she was being ridiculous.

She listened for any movement, any noise that indicated someone in the house was awake. Only silence greeted her, steady and safe.

She rolled to her side and reached beneath her bed, pulling out the small bundle of waxed cloth she'd found in her bag, tucked amid the folds of the banner she was repairing.

Hiccup had put it there, but she hadn't had time or opportunity to open the packet since she'd left the forge - not with Sigrid finding her on her way home, then her mother, both of them talking over one another the entire walk back to their house. Then there'd been a late meal, more talking, and apologies that came in the form of compliments and teasing. Both of them were sorry they'd upset her, and with the forceful way Sigrid was glancing at her mother, Astrid was pretty sure who had won the argument she'd run away from earlier.

When she'd climbed into bed, she hadn't wanted to look, to unwrap what he'd given her. She hadn't wanted to do what he'd told her to, either, to obey his instructions. But now she couldn't think of a reason why she shouldn't except for stubbornness, and that seemed pretty silly.

The weight of the tiny folded bundle was slight, but she recognized the pattern of the folds instantly. If she didn't open the sequence correctly, she might tear or break whatever was inside. He'd taught her ages ago, like a secret code of cloth and paper instead of words and signals.

Astrid curled onto her side, looking at the package in her hand. There was a faint dusting of flour in one corner, and seeing it filled her body with curls of heat that spread through her limbs and collected in her core.

Refusing to follow his instructions was just ridiculous, she decided. With careful, slow movements, she unfolded one corner, then a side, and then the other, until the waxed cloth opened to reveal a fold of paper, and a coin.

Her coin.

She almost laughed aloud, but caught herself in time, one hand over her mouth.

He gave her back the coin. He understood.

He owed her one.

Oh, and she was going to make sure he paid, too.

Then she unfolded the paper.

At first, she didn't understand it. It didn't make sense. It was just a bunch of curving lines, a series of dashes of charcoal across the page.

Did he sketch her a weapon? It wouldn't be the oddest thing for him to sketch for her, but why hide a drawing like that inside a tightly coded fold of cloth?

Then she turned the paper and couldn't stop herself from gasping aloud.

It was them.

It was a drawing of them.

She turned it again, tilting the paper toward the scant amount of light that shone through her window, her mouth open in awe.

It was the two of them, in the cave, her body straddling his, his hand, suggested by a shadow she could see he'd smudged deliberately into the paper… his hand over her hip.

The line of her back, another line for her hair, both curved over the shadow of his body, which arched toward her, pulling her closer.

One stroke of the charcoal was his arm, moving toward her in the moment before his fingertips brushed over her breast.

As she deciphered his drawing, another curve became her hands pushing his hair back, her mouth reaching for his.

Astrid tried to slow her breathing, but felt like she was being set on fire from the inside out. Her hand slipped beneath the light blanket that covered her, fingers pushing aside the light cotton shift she wore.

She held the drawing in one hand, following each line, decoding the illustration into movement and sensation, his skill capturing his desire and hesitation as he reached for her, hers as she slid her body over his.

She closed her eyes, and the drawing danced on her eyelids, flooding her imagination with images. The way he touched her skin, the way his fingers felt over hers, holding her tightly, then showing her how to work the bread dough, moving over and through it, changing the texture with pressure and touch.

Her fingers kneaded gently, shaping her arousal into an intense need, giving the thoughts and fantasies that tormented her a direction to go, a path to follow. The image of the drawing mixed in her mind, combined with the memory of his touch, his scent, the way he tasted, the way he'd felt when she'd pinned him against the wall, the way she wanted him to do the same to her.

Moments later, her body arched off her bed, her mouth tracing the shape of his name.