This chapter has Ruffnut. Again. And she's going to steal the show, again.
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Chapter 3: Click
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The parking lot is empty and quiet at seven in the morning on Saturday and Dr. Haddock meets her there at 7:01, stumbling out of his car and unlocking the front door with a jingling ring of keys. He holds the door for her and she leaves her gear in the waiting room, staring at her lacrosse stick for a moment before deciding it won't be stolen. She has another one at home, a better one that she got as a gift a couple of years ago, but she doesn't want to deal with asking her parents to ship it out.
Dr. Haddock looks exhausted, wearing an old soft tee-shirt instead of a button up, like he was every other time she's been in. It makes her more aware of how alone they are somehow, like a window to what he looks like on the weekends. They aren't even in the exam room yet and she's already biting her lip. He sets a travel mug down on the counter and the dregs of what smells like coffee swishes around in the bottom.
"Thanks again for this," she looks over her shoulder one last time before following him down the short hallway.
"It's just half an hour early," he shrugs and pulls his keychain back out of his pocket to unlock the door, struggling a bit. "That must suck for you, having practice at eight am on a Saturday. I never could have managed that in college."
"It's only every other weekend," she stares at the shallow motion of his shoulder blades under his shirt, chewing on the inside of her cheek. He looks even better when she's still tired and she wonders how far up his arms the smattering of freckles goes.
"Still, I couldn't have done it," he gives her a sleepy smile that's almost admiring and her hands itch with the urge to shove him up against the door.
She needs to get back to her full workout regimen soon, she's getting pent up in all directions and Dr. Haddock is about to suffer the worst of it. Not that she'd let him suffer. She's sure it would be a pleasurable experience all around.
"I'm used to it. I'm just glad I can practice again," she walks into the room after him and easily perches on the edge of the table, weighing the silence. It's oddly comfortable, without Kathy listening from the front room. "So thanks for trusting me."
"Hey, no heavy lifting, no tackles, if you want to go run around at the crack of dawn on a Saturday, I won't stop you." He opens her file, still on the counter from yesterday afternoon. "Right, I didn't like how your fourth thoracic…," he trails off before turning back to her. "This should only take a minute."
Maybe she'll have time to grab breakfast on the way to practice. Ruff would appreciate a breakfast burrito and maybe wouldn't be so damn snappish the whole way home. Dr. Haddock's hands land on her shoulders and her mind falls peacefully silent.
He's standing behind her and asks her to put her hands on opposite shoulders before reaching around her waist and grasping her elbows, rocking her slowly to the right before twisting left and coaxing two sharp pops out of her spine. She sighs and he lets go, palm clumsily glancing across her arm.
"Other elbow on top," he waits for her to make the adjustment before re-gripping her elbows and popping her back to the right. "I don't know why that wouldn't let go yesterday, but it looks good now," he traces either side of her spine down to the slightly bunched up waistband of her sweatpants. She sits up straighter. "You have excellent posture, by the way."
"Oh," she grins a little too wide at the compliment. "Thanks, I know."
"You know?" He shakes his head, amused, as he walks over to her file and shuts it, leaning back against the counter to face her. "So you don't mind early morning practices and you know about your perfect posture."
"I'm self-aware."
"Very," he looks at her for a moment and her face heats up. "You know, your back could have been a lot worse. If you'd flinched or tried to avoid the hit, it might have fractured a vertebrae or a couple of ribs."
"I don't flinch," she shrugs and he looks away. "What are you doing this weekend?" The question tumbles out before she can stop it and Astrid freezes.
Nothing she found online said that there is anything explicitly illegal about this, he's not her surgeon, but it's still an obviously blurry situation. She doesn't like blurry.
"Nothing fun," Dr. Haddock groans and shakes his head. His hair catches the fluorescent light and gleams red for a moment.
"What's not fun?"
"I'm driving home later, if it doesn't snow." He looks at the dark clouds outside almost hopefully and shakes his head.
"Where's home?"
"Berk?" He shrugs when she looks confused. "Small town. Really small. Small enough that the whole town comes around for everyone's birthday—"
"Is it your birthday this weekend?"
He rolls his eyes and turns to mess with her file, sticking a blank post it to its cover.
"And Miss Perceptive over here—"
"You aren't excited about your birthday? Not at all?" She glances at her watch and lets go of the idea of grabbing breakfast, because this is far more interesting.
"Ah, after a certain point, it's just a celebration of getting old." He tries to brush her off, glancing pointedly towards the door. She doesn't budge, heels bouncing off of the drawers of the padded table.
"Come on, you don't get to say stuff like that until you're at least forty."
He doesn't say anything and she backtracks, more intrigued than deflected. "You aren't forty, are you?"
"No," he's offended, running an irritated hand back through his hair. "I will be twenty seven. But honestly, I don't even have to celebrate it, thanks to my good friend the calendar skipping February 29th this year. Maybe it's a sign and I should take it."
"You were born on leap day? That's—so you're actually only six."
"Six and three quarters," he defends with a serious face before cracking that lopsided grin. "To my entire family, I'm the sole hope for grandkids, because my cousin is a little—well, I'm in for a weekend of the whole town trying to set me up on blind dates with Ethel from their book club."
"So you're hoping for a blizzard, I take it."
"Yes, I'm heartlessly hoping to leave Ethel dateless." He smiles, so at ease in his tee-shirt that some strange part of her brain imagines him in her apartment, drinking coffee out of a chipped mug in the kitchen. "So now that you know what a horrible jerk I am, you should probably get going."
Her watch is right, but five minutes slower than the clock on the wall that's creeping up on 7:20. Fifteen minutes seems like a rip off.
"It only takes twenty minutes to ride over there," she shrugs and almost lazily slides to her feet, shuffling towards the door and dragging out the whole process. "And happy birthday, I hope your family surprises you with someone you like more than Etheyl."
That's a lie. She wants to shut the door and give him a present.
But he should be with his family on his birthday, it's only right.
"Thank you, Ms. Hofferson. Kathy will call you about an appointment sometime next week."
And she almost hugs him, or invites him over in case it actually does snow. But something—everything about this stops her and she steps towards the door.
"See you then."
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Hiccup takes a sip of his beer, smiling at nothing in particular and feeling like an absolute idiot. The bar is mostly empty, because it's a Tuesday and most people don't need a tall draft to calm their nerves this early in the week.
Astrid asked him about his birthday and laughed when he told her that he left a broken-hearted Etheyl back in Berk. She's pretty when she laughs, less astonishing and more accessible and it's not fair. Ethel could have been a goddamn supermodel and he still wouldn't have cared.
Because he's so hell bent on endangering his career that he can't have a meaningful conversation with the imaginary woman in his head. And he hasn't been this happy in years.
"You look happier today, any progress with the lacrosse player?" Eret asks, arranging a rack of bottles behind the bar.
"What would make you think my happiness has anything to do with a particular patient?"
"Just a guess," the bartender pours himself a short glass of beer and takes a drink, leaning his elbows on the bar. "Has there been any progress?"
"She's my patient. And if by progress you mean alignment of her spine, then yes. Lots of progress."
"And I assume you're over here grinning because you won the lottery."
"That's…I told her about my weekend plans and she asked about it today. So it's just a completely normal, human conversation," Hiccup sits up straight and slaps his hands on the bar, drumming in an uneven tattoo and puffing out his cheeks. "A good conversation though."
"She's into you."
"She's not into me," Hiccup rolls his eyes. "That's ridiculous. She's just a friendly human being and it was a refreshing conversation."
"You're a horrible liar."
"She's a friendly human being," his smile falls and he takes a gulp of his beer. "I'm depraved. She's amazing, she has the cutest sacrum I've ever seen and she's brave and unflinching and I'm touching her all over on the context of work and…"
"You, my friend, need to get laid."
"Tell me about it." Hiccup sighs and crosses his arms. "And the worst part is, she's really fun to work with in an absolutely platonic way. Everything moves the way it's supposed to and there's nothing wrong with her, it's a problem that I can fix and she has the smoothest spine rotation—"
"Remind me never to come in." Eret cuts him off with a booming laugh that falls short when the door slams open and a beam of light cuts through the dusty air. "She's here, again? I'll be in the back."
"What do you mean you'll be—oh, you're not listening.. Of course," Hiccup sighs as the man disappears through the back door to the kitchen, looking at his mostly empty beer and mourning the fact that a refill is far away.
A young blonde woman comes in and sits down at the bar, two seats over from him. She looks like she's meeting someone, peering around the bar and searching behind the counter. She catches him staring and he looks away, hoping that's the end of it, but he's not so lucky and she stands, scooting down the bar to sit right next to him.
"You here for the show?" She nudges him with the point of her elbow.
"The show?"
"My name's Rebecca," she offers him a handshake and he takes it, regretting it almost immediately when she tries to break his fingers. "But my friends call me Ruffnut, so I might just back down if I were you, buddy."
"What are you talking about?" He curls his hand into a fist as soon as she lets it go, making sure that it still moves correctly.
"Oh come on, don't play dumb. You've got the perfectly messy hair, like you didn't style it but it probably took an hour. And your shirt perfectly brings out those big green eyes. You aren't fooling anyone with that glass closet door."
"What?"
"The bartender," she rolls her eyes and turns to face Hiccup entirely. "You're here for the bartender, right?"
"Uh no," he looks down at his shirt and tries to see what she's cuing on. It's the first time he's been accused of batting for the other team. Not the first time he's been mistaken for but…never mind. "He's not really my type."
"What? The top half of a fireman centaur, fresh from the dewy forest and covered in soot," her eyes drift off for a moment, "isn't your type?"
"Aren't those two things contradictory?" She glares at him and everything about the mannerism reminds him of Astrid and conversations flirting with the line of being inappropriate. "He's not my type as in I'm straight."
"Oh," she cocks her head at him, long blonde hair skimming the edge of the bar. "That is surprising. But hey, I have a roommate who needs someone a little more put together and a little less college locker room, I could set you two up, if you want."
"Thanks, but no thanks."
"Come on, she's really hot, I swear," the girl pulls out her phone and starts flicking through it. "I have a picture—"
"I'm not interested in being set up with your supposedly hot friend, strange forward girl I've never met before."
"Girlfriend back home?" She asks, glancing around the bar again, and if he had Eret's phone number, he'd tell him to run. "Wife? A charming illegitimate child, and you're spending your last few hours of freedom before the babysitter goes home?"
"None of the above. I'm just trying to enjoy my beer."
"Is that the IPA?" She nods before he does. "That's what I got last time, it's sort of our drink. Me and Eret, I mean."
"Does he know that?"
"Oh, he will," she looks underneath grubby fingernails and he can't help but notice that she must be an athlete, probably lacrosse or field hockey from the muscles around her thumb. It's something that he wouldn't normally pick up on, but he's so used to Astrid's hands in his peripheral vision, distinctive, callused and somehow charming.
"If he ever comes out of hiding."
"He's hiding?" She perks up slightly and stands, glancing towards the kitchen door. "Is he dumb enough to hide in the kitchen? His face is perfect, but he doesn't look like much of an Einstein."
Maybe he should ask again about her roommate. It must be some sort of girl to put up with this all the time. Maybe she could put up with his unfortunate crush.
"I wouldn't know."
"Because you're just a guy trying to enjoy your beer?" She raises her eyebrow at him and grins at his blank expression. "I like you, what's your name anyway?"
"Hey, I don't want to be the new object of your affection," he laughs and she shakes her head.
"Not quite enough arms," she bends backwards with a wolfish grin. "But the ass, that's something to work with. Are you sure you don't want my roommate's number? She's an ass girl."
"No thank you," he stands up, draining the rest of his beer in a long gulp. "I've got to get back home to that illegitimate child, also known as my cat."
"Drive safe," she chimes ironically and stares back at the kitchen door, ignoring Hiccup entirely as he makes his way out of the bar.
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Hiccup cracks his knuckles, remembering when his dad told him it'd give him arthritis, and from where he sat, bound by the ever convincing steel of his back brace, that didn't really seem so impactful. He's been dreading this day all week, because chances are his inappropriate affection for Astrid is going to seem more creepy than just misplaced as soon as he's done with his next appointment. Astrid's teammate Avery is here, at her referral, and her file is as typical as Astrid's.
Twenty- two, injured shoulder from a mountain bike accident a week ago. Typical.
His sense of déjà vu is absolutely overwhelming and he tries to envision someone more beautiful, more captivating, more infuriating than Astrid in the waiting room, just to prepare himself. It's impossible.
It's probably just a fascination with young, athletic women, and he'll have an awkward hour and be utterly over it by the time that Astrid comes in for her four o'clock appointment. This is a good thing, really.
Being a pervert is good.
He's not a pedophile, they're legal. By a long shot, four whole years.
He can't tell whose eye-roll is more insulting in his mind, Eret's or Toothless's.
The waiting room is nearly empty and he looks around for a minute, waiting for the hammer to his chest. There's an objectively pretty young woman sitting in the chair that Astrid favors, but his heart doesn't threaten to beat out of his chest, his palms don't sweat, he never loses that well-practiced doctor calm.
"Avery?" There's nothing strange about using her first name, nothing particularly magical when she smiles. She offers him her left hand to shake, holding her right shoulder close to her side, he shakes it and smiles too wide when his hand doesn't tingle. "I see that right shoulder is hurting you."
"Yeah, and Astrid," an unfortunate throb in his chest, "said you'd be able to help. Thanks for fitting me in on such short notice, I hate missing practice." He shrugs and beckons her back towards the exam room with a friendly hand.
He takes another minute to look at her when she's on the exam table, almost willing himself to feel slimy. She's looking around the room, reading the motivational posters, examining the diagrams about spines and hips and shoulders and he doesn't feel anything.
He smiles in spite of himself, horribly, self-destructively excited for Astrid's four o'clock appointment.
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Astrid curls up in a ball on the couch around her pint of ice cream and turns on the tv, curling her toes in her fluffiest socks and huddling down into her oversized sweatshirt. This is better than going out with Ruff anyway, it's snowing and icy and she doesn't want to put on tight clothes and go talk to men who can't hold themselves together, let alone hold a conversation.
Plus, she'll probably get to talk to one of those in the morning anyway, someone has to talk Ruff's hookup out of stealing their cereal. Would cereal be good mixed into ice cream?
Probably.
Maybe she should have gone out. Ruff is going to some new bar where the bartender is apparently ridiculously hot or something, and maybe that would have been fun. Watching Ruff make a fool of herself is its own entertainment, and maybe there'd be someone there who would enjoy it as much as she would.
That could be a different kind of fun, couldn't it?
She almost gets up and gets dressed, just to feel like it's possible, but something holds her back.
It just wouldn't really be fun. She wants to talk to someone funny and nice and mature, someone with more going on than some professor out to get them or some game that happened months ago.
Her back doesn't even hurt after her chiropractic appointment earlier and it's almost not fair, because she got all the enjoyment of those satisfying pops with none of the consequences, and she finds herself wishing that she'd had cause to ask Dr. Haddock for another Saturday morning appointment. And it'd be early, and Kathy wouldn't be there and the whole office would be empty and quiet.
And maybe he'd tell her about his weekend plans again and wear a tee-shirt that showed a delicious length of lean bicep. And she could tell him about her lack of plans and they could make plans together.
Hmm, maybe if she called and said her back catastrophically cracked, she could finagle herself into an appointment tomorrow. But that's cheap and cowardly and worse than going to a bar to talk to someone about what a nut Ruff is.
She should just talk to him.
It's not illegal, it's not. It's ill-advised, from his standpoint, but no one would ever figure it out. Maybe she could get a referral to another doctor in the area.
Maybe she should just ask.
But what if he doesn't want some college aged friends with benefits, and what if his ass isn't as good without his jeans? And what if he wouldn't tell his friend with benefits all about his weekend plans and hoping for snow?
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