00000
Hiccup does not remember getting a new alarm clock. He squints his eyes, wondering how long he's been asleep. It feels like someone rubbed sand between his eyelashes.
He feels unbearably heavy, but can't discern Toothless' bony elbows poking him. Did he go to bed with extra blankets? The sheets are wrong too, he can feel the coarse thin comforter under his fingers. It's ridiculously hard to run his thumb across the fabric, and he gives up trying to wipe his eyes.
Did he take cold medicine? Is this a Nyquil hangover? It's worse than that, heavier. Even his eyelids feel like they're weighed down by ball bearings.
The beeping speeds up and he groans, the sound unfamiliar and raspy in his unbelievably dry throat. He almost coughs, choking on the unimpressive sound as the sound ratchets up another notch.
This alarm clock definitely wins the most annoying award.
His eyes feel stuck together and he wrinkles the bridge of his nose. Even his face feels heavy.
The world gets louder, beeping accelerating yet again as he coughs more mightily, his throat inhumanly sore. It doesn't sound like his voice, but that could be from traveling through the pounds of cotton that must be stuffed in his ear canals.
He feels like he's swimming upwards from the bottom of a very deep pool, light sifting through his eyelids until he knows it's too bright to be his bedroom. Why is he asleep with the lights on?
He hears a door open, but turning his head towards the noise is somehow too much effort. His fingers twitch reflexively against the blanket, and the skin on the inside of his wrist twinges sharply.
"Henry?" He doesn't recognize the voice, and his eyes slowly tug open, gritty and unfocused as the ceiling swims around. It's not his ceiling, the white checkerboard of industrial pocked foam jarring to his unbelievably groggy brain. "Henry?" The voice asks again, and he can't tell whether it's louder, or his ears are just working better. His head feels like someone smacked him with a hammer. "Can you hear me?" Someone shines an impossibly bright light in his eyes, their hands shockingly warm on his forehead as he flinches away.
"Ymph," he grunts, trying to say 'yeah,' but failing his shaky state. The light clicks off again, and he sluggishly struggles, trying to sit before the same kindly warm hands push down on his shoulders, and he lets them, inexplicably exhausted.
"Can you open your eyes?" He wants to blurt 'of course,' but the words escape him and he blinks slowly. His parched throat tickles, bringing on a second coughing attack, jolting him on the bed.
"Water?" He croaks, and the person breathes an audible sigh of relief, strangely comforting hands leaving his throat as they swish around his bed, pouring water and holding a cup to his lips. He sputters at the cool liquid in his mouth, swallowing carefully until the glass is empty.
"I'm going to be right back, alright? I need to go get a doctor." Woman. Hiccup identifies the voice as a woman, and immediately feels stupid for missing it initially. Doctor? Does he need a doctor?
Why does he need a doctor?
He grasps for the last thing he remembers, coming up startlingly confused as his brain starts to throb within his skull. Pumpkins and concrete? He can almost smell the strange combination in his mind, peppered over by the flowery smell of Astrid's shampoo.
Astrid?
A bolt of panic shoots through him and the beeping spikes as he thinks of the blonde girl. For some reason he can't quite place, he's incredibly concerned. He needs to see Astrid.
"Henry?" This is a man's voice, low and comforting, and warm hands touch his wrist. The inside of his elbow tugs disconcertingly at the contact and he opens his eyes, glancing as best as he can down his arm, eyes widening at the IV sticking out of his skin.
"Astrid?" he grunts, his voice less rough, but still unrecognizably raw.
"No, it's Doctor Johnson, your sister isn't here right now."
"Sister?" The world spins faster. He doesn't have a sister.
Does he?
Even if he does, Astrid definitely isn't his sister.
"Can you tell me your name?"
"Henry Haddock," it feels like one of those official situations, where they don't want nicknames. Like SAT's and dentists.
"How about your middle name?" The doctor asks, sounding considerably less grave than a moment before.
"Isn't that in your file?" He coughs, and someone offers him more water, which he gulps gratefully. "Plus, it's horrendous anyway." The water appears back at his mouth and he drains the cup again, stomach suddenly swishy and full. The feeling is spreading down his body as he returns to himself. He can feel his butt prickling to life with pins and needles as he relaxes back into the mattress, muscles tired from drinking.
It feels like he hasn't moved in weeks.
He could really use a nap.
His right foot starts to tingle fiercely, but his left stays dead to the world. He's almost glad about it, because the scratchy sheets feel awful against his awakening skin.
"What about your age? How old are you?" They ask, obviously relieved.
"I'm seventeen." They murmur amongst themselves, before turning back to him. Their faces swirl in the periphery of his vision like he's looking in a funhouse mirror and he closes his eyes.
A nap sounds really wonderful.
He should be wondering why they're asking him these stupid questions, but it's beyond him. That must be what doctors do. They must ask really daft questions for their files.
He doesn't need a doctor right now, that's crazy.
"What about your father's name?" They ask, and he musters the strength to glare at them.
"Gerard Haddock. Why, is this some campaign…nonsense…or something?" He trails off, words failing him as his eyes droop shut. "I'm tired." He complains, squinting his eyes shut and irritably squirming, trying to find a more comfortable position. His hipbones are sore from the same seat for so long, but it feels like he's turned to lead, and moving seems an impossible challenge.
"Go to sleep." He's not awake long enough to hear the whole suggestion.
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"…so glad that you're still here…" It sounds like his dad, but that's not right. His dad is mad at him, right?
He struggles to remember what exactly his dad is mad at him about, probably something stupid. Or something crazy.
"…Sorry, for everything…" His dad doesn't apologize, why would his dad be apologizing? What kind of weird dream is this? His eyes flutter open, and the room spins into focus. He musters the strength to turn his head, neck creaking like an old door as he finds his father sitting in an uncomfortable looking chair beside the bed.
"Henry?"
"Hi dad," he mutters back, voice closer to the one he remembers as he clears his throat, thirsty again. He wonders why people keep talking to him like he's an idiot.
He also wonders why he's having so much trouble putting anything together. He is smart, right? He remembers figuring things out and wonders if that's a dream.
"Are you…Well, you're not ok, but…" The man blubbers, eyes unfamiliar and wet in his flushed face as he grips his knees. Hiccup can't remember the last time he saw his dad wear sweatpants, and the sight doesn't make any sense.
"Are you going to the gym?" He blurts, and his father looks at him, obviously taken aback.
"What?"
"You're not wearing a suit, are you going to the gym?" He repeats, trying to sit up, but giving up with a frustrated oof. His father stands, fiddling with the controls at the side of his bed until it raises, pushing his shoulders into a reclining position. That's better, he feels less pathetic and he grins sleepily.
How is it already time for more sleep? That makes no sense at all.
He yawns, and it feels good to stretch the muscles in his face.
"I'm not going to the gym. I'm just comfortable." Hiccup's father insists in a gentle voice and he grimaces.
"Stop talking to me like…that." This entire situation is surreal. His dad doesn't wear sweatpants and apologize to him in hospital rooms.
Hospital. That's where he is, he's in a hospital. He grins, happy to have figured something out.
"Like what?"
"Like I'm stupid." Hiccup carefully lifts his hand in front of his face, not yet wanting to try moving his impossibly heavy head. "Why am I in the hospital?" He asks, voice light as he stares at his hands. He does feel awfully fuzzy, his feet are warm underneath the covers and he wiggles his toes. Some of them feel different, but it's too much thinking to figure out which ones.
Have his fingers always been this skinny? His hands shake slightly as his eyes trace the tubes from his arm to the IV bag hanging above his head.
"You got hurt—"
"Obviously," Hiccup corrects with a sleepy laugh, planning his next nap in the part of his brain not focused on his hands. They're heavier than he remembers, and it's exceptionally odd to try and remember the weight of his hands.
"You had an…accident." His father continues, and Hiccup lets his hands drop to his stomach with a hollow thud. He looks over at his dad, cuing off of the older man's serious expression.
"An accident?" Gerard's eyes flick to his forehead and a shaky hand lifts, grazing across his skin to a scar that he doesn't remember. A scar like that doesn't happen overnight, he can feel the subtle marks where stitches held the wound together before they were removed.
It's at least a couple weeks old, to be that well healed.
His confusion starts to make entirely too much sense as the beeping of his heart monitor accelerates.
"Son?—"
"How long have I been here?" He asks, trying harder to sit up, hands scrabbling against the sheets until his IV yanks in his arm, painful enough for him to temporarily give up, tentatively flopping against the reclined bed.
"Calm down," his father urges, hand landing on a shoulder that feels too extraordinarily bony, even for him.
"How long have I been here?" Hiccup repeats the question, clearing his throat for what feels like the millionth time. His dad gets the hint, offering him a cup of water.
"Almost…almost three weeks." The words knock the wind out of his chest as the room goes silent, spinning around him.
Three weeks?
He…That means that he missed his—
"Dammit, I sounded like a crazy person earlier when I said I was seventeen." He laments, wiping a hand slowly across his forehead. "Now they're really going to have me committed."
"No one thinks you're crazy."
"I…what kind of accident?" He asks, and his father sighs.
"There's something—well, you see, it's difficult to say…" Hiccup doesn't understand, his father keeps glancing towards his feet. He wiggles his toes again, the scratchy sheets shifting against his right foot.
Is his left foot not under the covers? Why isn't it cold?
"Just a second, my foot's uncovered," he lurches forward, too heavy head swinging laboriously around to look at his feet.
"No, wait," his father urges him a second too late as he settles back against the bed with a near silent groan.
At the bottom of the bed, he can see the outline of his right foot, predictably surrounded by shadows and shrouding sheets. He wiggles the toes, watches them move underneath the blankets. It's so incredibly normal, that it makes even less sense when his eyes scan to the left, fruitlessly searching the smooth expanse of bed.
He can see his knee, he can even bend it, although it feels impossibly heavy. He can see the too small muscles in his thigh flexing underneath the covers, the mountain of his knee rising and catching what must be bandages on the sheets.
It tapers off to nothing a hands length below his knee, the foot of the bed mockingly smooth.
His foot is gone. It's not there.
It's…gone. It's…he doesn't have a foot.
Hiccup gapes at the spot, turning to face his father wide eyed and open mouthed. His lips open and close silently a few times as he leans back onto the bed, controlled motion collapsing with his muscles' exhaustion.
"Son, it's—"
"I'm going to take another nap," Hiccup announces calmly. This is a joke. This is just some cruel joke, and if he goes to sleep, everything will be fine by the time that he wakes up.
It's just a dream.
His father is still talking, and the frantic baritone is oddly calming as his eyes shut, pillow too comfortable to be real as he relaxes, drifting away again.
It's just a really bad dream.
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Astrid runs through the parking garage, legs almost too sore for her speed as she tears around a corner, slowing to an awkward power walk through the automatic doors.
He's awake. He's awake.
The words echo in the back of her mind like a mantra, thrilling and terrifying her in equal parts.
She powerwalks down the tile hallway with her head down, hoping that no nurse notices her and reminds her of approved visiting hours. A hand shoots seemingly out of nowhere, grabbing her arm, and she whirls around, fist ready until she sees Hiccup's father.
He lets go of her arm and she steps back, unfurling her reflexive fist and staring at him with too wide eyes.
"He's…" She starts, trailing off with her the sheer magnitude of her thoughts.
"He's asleep right now," her eyes cloud with terror. He can't have gone back under? Without her seeing him? That's too terrible of a thought for her to contemplate, and her chest feels tight. "Just asleep. He's…it's been a big day."
"I should have been here," she snaps too loudly, forcing her voice to quiet down as she reaches up, cradling her head before she explodes.
"You've been here every day," he comforts her and she glares at him, "You won regionals, that's something to be excited about." He congratulates her, smiling and exhausted. She shakes off the praise, staring at her toes.
"I should have been here." She repeats, "I should have been her to explain everything, no one else was there."
"No one has explained anything yet," the man continues, a comforting hand landing on Astrid's shoulder. She doesn't shrug it off. "He's only been fully conscious twice, but he's been mumbling all day."
"Is he…" She starts, before running a hand back through her hectic ponytail, yanking frustrated. "Is he still him? Because I keep on hearing these horror stories where people wake up and they're different…and he—Just, is he still…?"
"Oh, he's…Hiccup alright." His dad mumbles the nickname with a hint of descriptive sarcasm, and Astrid can't help but smile.
"I'm going to go see him," she turns away, determined and inappropriately nervous as she turns to leave. Gerard says something to her back that she doesn't bother to listen to as she resumes her mad dash down the hallway, head down and determined.
Every vision flashing through her mind involves running up to the bed and grabbing him. She can see herself telling him how much she loves him, and kissing him until it hurts. But when she finally gets down the hallway she stops, feet unnaturally heavy as she opens the door, leaning on the doorframe.
The room feels different, despite the paralyzingly familiar whir and beep of machines. The bed is in a half reclined position and Hiccup's hand is flopped across his stomach, the pose wonderfully emotive. His face is still pale, but less waxy, his nostrils twitching unevenly as he snores.
She freezes, staring as her chest tightens to the point of pain.
It's been maybe a minute when he twitches, eyes opening terrifyingly slowly in the half-light of the room. Her heart beats insanely fast, rattling her ribcage like a drum as she watches his long eyelashes blink and flutter.
His chin rocks towards her, head moving stiffly on his skinny neck.
"Astrid?" He rasps, voice clouded and strange in his throat.
"Hi Hiccup," She answers quietly, eyes itching as embarrassing tears flood her vision. She blinks them away, face splitting into a grin. "You're awake," she mutters obviously, and he laughs, the sound painful and raw.
"Thanks for pointing that out," he jokes, and the tears flood forward with a horribly misplaced sob as Astrid's face crumples into happy, disgusting tears. She has the presence of mind to step fully inside, shutting the door behind her as she frantically wipes her face, glaring at her tears as she nearly chokes on a second wet sob.
Hiccup is entirely sure he's insane now. Astrid doesn't visit him in the middle of the night, and she definitely doesn't cry.
"Don't cry," he urges quietly and she glares at him, eyes wet and dripping.
"I'm just…I've been waiting forever."
"I'm sorry?" He blinks hard, shifting in his seat.
"It's not…it was just a long time." She admits, cautiously stepping forward and sitting in her chair, tantalizingly close to his wonderfully expressive face. He wrinkles his nose, quirks an eyebrow, mouth twitching to the side.
"Almost three weeks…right?" He asks, furrowing his eyebrows. She wants to kiss them, but she bites her lip at his uncertain tone.
"Yeah, I wanted…I wanted to be here," she mumbles, crossing her legs, "But, I mean, I—" She sobs again, a startled hiccough in her throat.
"It's…it's fine," she shouldn't be crying. He hates it more than he should, misery pooling in his chest along with the confusion. "I honestly don't really remember much from today." His voice is thick, rough, and she wants to fix it.
"Has anyone, erm…filled you in?" She asks, shrugging as she wraps her arms around herself. "They said you might be a little groggy…"
"Groggy is right," his hand curls on his stomach and she grabs her own wrist, preventing herself from reaching out and touching him.
"Do you remember anything from when you were under?" She doesn't know what she wants the answer to be. The bold half of her wants to tell him that she loves him to his face, confident and assured. The other half, the newly discovered half, is paralyzed by the thought.
What if it's too much?
"No," he shakes his head, neck trembling slightly. "I—it hurts to think about it." His hand lifts up, touching his forehead and rubbing lightly.
"Do you—what can I tell you?" She offers, glancing towards his foot. He hasn't mentioned it yet.
God, she hopes he knows. That'd be a cruel piece of luck to leave it to her to tell him.
"My foot is gone," he mutters, mostly to himself as his eyes squint shut, pained and confused.
"It is," she tries to remember what it felt like when his foot was the worst part of this.
"I—I can feel it…my big toe itches." He covers his face with his hands, wiping his cheeks slowly. "Sorry, I shouldn't be dumping this," he mutters and she shakes her head, urging him to keep talking.
"It's fine, really."
"My head isn't right," she can't tell whether he's continuing or making an excuse and she stays silent, "I…there are flashes of things, and…my foot is gone." He shakes his head, "It just doesn't seem real. But it…" He thinks hard, wiggles his left toes and dreams of the feeling of sheets. "And now you're here, and I can't tell if it's real, and if it is, I don't know why."
"We're…friends," she titles their relationship delicately, hands gripping the edge of his mattress and yearning for his fingers wrapped in hers, "Why wouldn't I be here?"
"Why do I remember pumpkins, and the shelter—the shelter. Did we get anyone adopted?" His expression is pained as he tries to think, brain throbbing angrily against the inside of his skull. Astrid sighs, biting her lip and reaching out, grabbing his hand and gently lacing her fingers through his.
He stares at her, confused and oddly grateful as she strokes a shaking thumb across the back of his fingers. The world whirls around the solidity in her grip and he focuses, small sight window endlessly easier to comprehend.
This feels…familiar. Or not dangerous anyway. He can still remember the shed on the back of his property and how forbidden her hand felt in his. Exciting, wonderfully exciting, but forbidden. He furrows his eyebrow, staring at her golden hand in his and speaking slowly.
"You…After the state meet, you broke up with Scott…and you came to my house—"
"And I kissed you. Is that a good place to start explaining?" She asks, shocked and pleased by her own gentle tone as she stares at their hands.
"You kissed me?" He asks, but he doesn't need to, with the way his lips tingle wildly at the memory. He feels his toes curl and flinches, frowning at the phantom sensations.
This is all so surreal, it makes him brave.
"Yes. Is that where I should start explaining?" She repeats her question, less gentle, but still far less hostile than she could be. She still considers it a success, scooting her chair slightly closer to the bed and resting her elbow on the edge of the mattress.
"Yeah," he nods, squeezing her hand and staring at her lack of response, confused and amazed. Flashes of sparking punches blur across his thoughts, inarticulate and mysterious.
"So, Friday night, I showed up at your house at around one, I think, and I kissed you." The words are still oddly thrilling and she squelches the feeling, refusing to be an unreliable narrator. "And you didn't kiss me back—"
"I thought you were deranged," he recalls, brows furrowed as he thinks too hard. She rubs his hand, shooting him a look.
"Let me tell this, stop thinking so hard. You look like your head is going to explode." He nods before letting his head rest back against the pillow, staring at her too intently. Something about the dim light of the room is absolutely disarming, and she sighs, wiping her face with her free hand and continuing. "Anyway, I left. The next morning I showed up after my run to go to the shelter, and of course you weren't awake yet."
"I'm oversleeping world champion now," he laughs lightly, and Astrid smiles at the sound, "three weeks has to be a record."
"You weren't particularly happy with me that morning, I think you were embarrassed. Then again, I wasn't too happy with you either."
"Is that why you're here? Because you were mad when the accident happened, and you felt bad?" He tries to tug his hand away, but the motion is shockingly feeble. She holds tight and frowns at him.
"Are you going to let me tell this?"
"Ok, ok," he coughs and she glances towards the full pitcher on the side table.
"Do you need water?" She asks and he nods, looking down. "Tell me these things." She stands, dropping his hand and pouring him a cup of water. When she tries to hold it up to his lips, glares at her, taking the cup and spilling a drip on his lap before he wrangles it to his mouth, chugging ravenously. He hands the cup back to her and she sets it on the table, handing him a napkin.
"Thanks." She takes the damp paper towel back when he's done with it, dropping it in the trash can and leaning forward, reclaiming his hand. He startles, staring at her, and she grins.
"So. The adoption event actually went really well," she tells him, "Fishlegs took home that ancient diabetic Rottweiler? Scruffy was it? And, well, we were brilliant. By the end of the day we had all but for adopted out…well, five I guess. I took Spike home."
"Good," Hiccup answers reflexively, coughing at his own emphatic tone.
"Well, it was, I scared the shit out of my dad, but that's later." He opens his mouth to keep talking and she reaches out, shushing him. "You're a horrible audience." He shrugs.
"I try."
"Ok. Back to the actual plot," she shakes her head, "So, Saturday, towards the end of the day, I asked you to help me get stuff for Spike. And well, we talked a bit, and I told you I was sorry for overreacting, and you told me that you had no idea what you were doing, and that was well…sealed."
"Sealed?" She can't decide whether it's pathetic to mention a hug in a story like this. Probably, but Hiccup might like to hear this. Anything to distract him.
"You hugged me," he grins stupidly, and she wonders why he's not dwelling on his leg. If her spinning this story can keep his mind off of it for even a few minutes, it's worth it. "And then, well, I decided that we should hang out after we got Spike's things, and you…you decided that we should carve pumpkins." She smiles at the memory, looking up at him. "And looking back, I'm pretty sure that it was a date, and you're just a cheater who didn't ask."
"You say cheater, I say smart."
"You're wrong." This is horribly sappy, and she hopes beyond hope that it stays that way. "Anyway, we ended up kissing again, and I fell asleep on you." She can see his face heat up even in the dark and his eyebrows twitch. "Do you remember that part?"
"When we woke up, my dad found Toothless…and then you came back and…" The gloom settles over them like a thick blanket and she sighs.
"I went for a run, and saw that the shelter was being demolished early." His pulse picks up in his hand as he frowns at their intertwined fingers. "And by the time I got back, Toothless was gone. We left your house to go to the shelter, because the four dogs, and Spike were still inside." She squeezes his hand back, continuing in a quiet methodical voice. It's like a bedtime horror story. "I ran inside to let them out, while you went to go get Toothless. I don't really know what happened on your end, but your dad might, if it doesn't…come back." She offers delicately, and he nods.
Her own heart rate is starting to pick up, talking about this, and she steels herself, leaning over and taking a sip of water out of the pitcher, wiping her chin dry with the sleeve of her sweatshirt.
Someone turns off a light above the hallway, and they both jump at the darkness.
Astrid gulps and continues, focusing on a speck on the sheets.
"You came in after me when I didn't come out, because I'd run into that dog fighting criminal." She gasps, there's suddenly not enough air in the room. She looks over her shoulder, triple checking for anyone in the hallway and leaning in closer. "You found me, and well, Toothless and Spike, took care of him."
It's too silent, completely stifling even, and Hiccup chews on his lower lip, melting into the mattress nearly bonelessly. Fatigue blooms in his still addled brain and he closes his eyes, tethered to reality by Astrid's small warm hand in his.
"Keep going."
"We can finish some other time—"
"It's fine. I know what's coming." His left foot tickles, and he wants to cry.
`We ran, but…but I left you behind," she admits, her hand going slack in his.
"I—I didn't get out. I remember…dark." He finishes, and she nods, sighing quietly.
"Now, we're at the part that you can't fill in." She lets herself detach from the situation, voice hollow. "You and I rode the ambulance to the hospital. Your dad took Toothless to the vet, and he's ok. They took off his numb leg, ironically." He grins sardonically, and she rests her forehead against the edge of his bed. "I've been taking care of him. He's…well, he misses you. He resents me sometimes, and is clingy the rest of the time. He and your dad don't know what to think of each other." No matter how awful this is, he's so wonderfully alive. "You were…unresponsive. They rushed you into surgery, and I didn't hear anything until hours later. And by then…it was done."
She mumbles through this part, head slipping forward on the mattress until her face is resting on their conjoined hands. He keeps his eyes on her head, even though this is when he's supposed to look at his leg.
He doesn't want to look at his leg. He doesn't want to focus on it, he's…
"What about you?" He asks, and she looks up at him, frowning.
"Why would we talk about that right now?"
"Because I'm asking," she sighs, standing and pouring him another cup of water, standing watch and thinking while he drinks it. She chugs her own glass and sits back down, reclaiming that now warm hand.
"I guess—God, this all feels like a million years ago." What if he's upset? What if he doesn't want her around? "They—I was—" She sighs, resting her chin on the edge of the mattress and clacking her teeth together, frustrated. "Short story, I'm legally in the foster care of your father." She finally blurts, and his hand twitches in hers, delightfully alive.
His hand glides up to his forehead, rubbing silently at the fading pink scar and she chews on her lower lip.
"I think I'm hearing things," he mumbles, and she sighs. He was feeling better, puzzle pieces tumbling together in his mind, but now he's overwhelmed, exhausted.
"This is all too much. Isn't it?"
"No?" He fights the heavy lull of his eyelids, blinking at her. This can't be real, no one looks that insanely beautiful when they've been crying.
"I should let you sleep." She stands up, his arm hanging limp from her hand even as his fingers clench down tighter, shaking at the effort.
"Right, because I haven't slept in minutes," he snaps, and the predictable anger swells into tenderness as she sets his hand gently on the bed, reverent of its wiry vitality.
"I'll come back in the morning, ok?" She offers, and his eyes open, staring at her like she's important. "If you promise to wake up." He's been napping all day, brain activity maintaining a steady, comforting vibration, but the terror of him slipping away silently in the night threatens to overcome her.
"Stay?" The word echoes softly and she exhales, breath shaky through the ball of emotions lulled in her throat.
"I can stay." She sits back down, reclaiming his hand, ignoring the clammy sweat between her fingers.
"I just…I don't want to wake up alone—"
"You don't have to explain. I'm staying, ok?" She mumbles, her chin finding the familiar edge of his bed. "I love you." The last three words escape as an unintended whisper, falling upon deaf sleeping ears.
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Ok, warning, long author's note, for those who are interested.
First, I'm sorry for not getting this up last Friday, but hey, it needed some work.
Second, I've been doing some research about amputation, and it's led me to take a different direction on this scene, and I thought I'd share the information:
Amputees frequently wake up in a state of disbelief, and there's a recurring theme of doing their best to ignore the situation. Frequently, the first response is amicable and accepting, the anger and embarrassment hitting later.
In massive studies of up to 60,000 amputees, there's a recurring theme in the psychology of the happiest and most functional group…people that rely on self-deprecating humor and exercise ingenuity in their everyday lives. No shit, I kid you not. Dreamworks has their shit together.
Anyway, I'm basing this scene, and the continuing information on quite a bit of research, so I promise, I'm tending as close to reality as possible, even if it's veering away from the classical fanfiction interpretation of amputation! This is also coming from a prosthetics engineer, who totally geeks out over this stuff…
Anyway, I really really hope that this lives up to expectations. A little happy, a little fluffy…a lot well, emotive, I hope. Please oh please tell me what you guys think. And I'm getting going on the next installment presently!