Guard yo'selves.

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Chapter 6: Fizz

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"You're a good man," Eret shakes his head and overfills Hiccup's glass. "I'm completely prepared to comp your tab and call you a taxi."

"I don't need that," Hiccup waves the man off, staring at the amber liquid. "I just need…Doing the right thing feels really fucking shitty sometimes, no one ever tells you that."

"Hey, she's not your patient anymore—"

"It doesn't matter though, she was my patient. I met her when she was my patient, I know all sorts of intimate things about her that are completely unethical and—It's off of the table. And I just need to stop thinking about her and that kiss—" He scratches the top of his head. "Nope, I'm done. It's time to be done."

"The offer for the taxi is here if you need it."

"Thanks."

Hiccup stares at the bar, trying not to think about how Astrid felt pressed against him the day before. It's wrong and bad and he dealt with it, but it still feels dirty. Even though he's never going to see her again, and he chose the high road over all that business from State, he still has his memory, and he can't scrub that clean. He's never going to forget what it felt like when she asked about his weekend or how her shoulders felt under his hands.

He should have cut this off sooner, he should have cut it off instantly. He used to be smarter than this, he used to understand that he knew things about people that they didn't tell him, and that meant he was in a position of power. But somehow everyone else's secrets are locked in a doctor-patient confidentiality vault while Astrid's are nestled somewhere else. Somewhere private and inappropriate and downright painful.

He dealt with it. He dealt with it and he just needs to move on. He referred her, she's a smart girl and she'll call one of those other excellently recommended doctors and get her back addressed.

He hopes she won her game. He should drink more.

Eret comes back over to stand in front of him, like he's wondering if it's already time for a taxi. Hiccup picks up his glass and shakes it to indicate it's only half empty and the other man sighs, glancing down the bar at a gaggle of laughing young women.

"Not to be insensitive, but aside from the psycho, the rest of the girls over there are hot and normal, so far. And while I can't guarantee it…"

"Thanks, Eret, really. I just—I might go home, I just need to sleep this off. All weekend."

"With your cat and a bottle of wine?"

"I think you're the only person who truly understands me," he manages a wry smile and takes a sip of his drink. "And it's so messed up. I should have referred her the second I saw her, told her that I couldn't deal with her problem. I enjoyed touching her."

"It seems to me that you've just been making yourself—and by extension me—miserable with it."

"Maybe you don't know me. That's how I have fun," he laughs and doesn't bother looking at the girls along the bar. There's no point. He has to mourn a relationship that never could have happened. "Huge fan of pain."

"Give yourself a break, look at some beautiful women. Stop beating yourself up over all you didn't do," Eret leans closer and shrugs in a muted gesture towards the group of supposedly not-crazy girls. Hiccup glances over.

"Oh my God, she's here," He hisses, hiding his face towards the back of the bar and wondering immediately if he should just leave. Eret anchors him with a hand on his shoulder.

"Which one."

"Blonde—"

"Eugh, her? It can't be her, mate."

"What?" Hiccup looks again to see if there's something wrong with her. Nope, still perfect.

"The blonde one in the purple dress? The psycho? She was harassing us—mostly me-at the bar a couple of weeks ago?" Eret looks at him like he's had a stroke or something and Hiccup looks again. The girl from the bar is there, but he can't look at her without getting sidetracked.

"No, black dress." Skin tight black dress that barely goes halfway down pale, bare thighs. He has touched that ass, and his memory just doesn't do it justice. He wants to grab it properly. He should be ashamed of himself.

"Ah, I can tell you that she has an incredibly scary friend, and she's drinking fireball shots quickly." Eret leans a little closer, "And I haven't the slightest idea where her sacrum is, but she has one of the best asses I've ever seen."

Hiccup glares at him and stands up next to the bar, because he really is reprehensible and he really should leave. "Go talk to her."

"I can't. She's—she's out with her friends and her doctor, namely me, just dumped her via voicemal—look at her. She's perfect, already over it."

"I bet if you told her that it would work out in your favor."

"Again, I'm her doctor."

"Not anymore…Plus, women love doctors." Eret shakes his head. "Or you can sit there staring all night until she leaves."

"I'm—I'm going to finish my drink and then leave." He leans against the counter and watches her, laughing and tossing back a shot. She still seems stable, but looser, happier. He wants to get closer, it's magnetic, like an open plane door and a crisp new boarding pass.

He should leave. It's time for him to leave.

She's celebrating, she must have won. Her back is fine and she's fine and for some reason he was meant to have this long last glimpse of the impossible. He saw her, and now he should go.

The girl in purple says something and Astrid looks over her shoulder at him, making brief, scalding eye contact.

He should leave. He should leave now.

His feet don't respond like he wants them to.

Her shoulders ripple as she pounds back another shot, turning around with a beatific smile and stepping towards him.

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"Astrid, that guy I thought was gay is looking at you," Ruffnut bumps her friend's arm and peers over her shoulder. Astrid shrugs, uninterested. "No, he's cute, almost as cute as the bartender. You should look."

"I'm—" in love with my chiropractor? That's still a hyperbole she's not ready to get shit for and she shakes her head. She's supposed to be getting over that, helping her friend. "I'm here to have fun with my team, not run off with some guy."

"You won't even look? Window shopping is always free."

"Ruffnut," Astrid smacks her friend's arm and laughs before sneaking a look over her shoulder. There's Dr. Haddock, leaning against the bar and staring at her. "Oh my god—"

"He's hot, right?"

"That's Dr. Haddock."

"I knew it!" Ruffnut hoots, pumping at the air, and Astrid takes the opportunity to take another shot from the team tray on the bar behind them. Fireball. Not her favorite, and it burns into her nose. "I knew Dr. Haddock must be a real hottie from the way you kept ditching me!"

"Keep it down," Astrid grabs her friend's wrist as if she can drag the girl a few inches shorter, less noticeable.

"You like him," she whispers, laughing. "I've never seen you act this way about a guy. Come on, you're Astrid Hofferson, you kiss who you want, when you want—"

"That's the whole problem. I did kiss him," Astrid mutters before pounding back another shot. That's what? Six? Seven? She's not quite sure, and she's still nervous. "I was sitting on the table and he was right there talking about my lumbar spine and I just did it."

"You're weirder than I thought, Hofferson, getting turned on by lumbar spines."

"You should hear him say it. Lumbar Spine," she trills in a slightly deeper voice and Ruffnut laughs.

"Seriously, go get him. He's still looking—Op, yup, he's looking at your ass."

"He is not, he's not that kind of guy," Astrid rolls her eyes, but her drunken hips have a slightly different idea, shifting to one side. Ruffnut hoots.

"Yeah, he's looking. He likes it too," she leans around Astrid. "Mmm, if you don't go talk to him, I'm going to. Maybe that bartender gets jealous."

"If I do go talk to him, I—" She glances back over her shoulder again and takes another shot, just for good measure. Those are going to all hit at the same time, aren't they? "I'm going to break some HIPAA law or something."

"Some what law?"

"Some patient-doctor confidentiality law, or something." She spares him another glance and their eyes meet. Dr. Haddock looks away, shy and delicious, and she stomps an angry foot. "Dammit, he saw me."

"You have to go over there now," Ruff shoves at her shoulder. "You checked each other out, you have to. And you're drunk enough to blame it on the alcohol, no excuses."

"Fine!" Astrid throws her hands up to avoid another shove and turns around, strutting as confidently as she can towards the still shy man. He's staring at the floor and she almost runs into him, so determined to win that green gaze back.

"Fancy meeting you here, Dr. Haddock.,"

It's awkward, but he looks up, red-faced and looking oddly guilty. She almost blurts that he can stare at her ass all he wants.

He could cop a feel if he wanted to, that would be absolutely fantastic.

"Ms. Hofferson," he's too formal, and it's even more adorable through her drink-fogged mind. He has a scar on his chin that she suddenly wants to bite, and it's hard not to, what with how even she is with him in her heels. "I didn't realize this was a college bar, I should probably find a new spot."

"No, it's the only bar around here that's not a college bar, that's why we're here," she laughs, subliminally using the loud noise around them as an excuse to move forward. "We just won regionals, we wanted to celebrate without frat douches sticking their heads in."

"Congratulations!" He's a little too loud, even as she leans forward further, elbow resting along the bar. "And I'll keep my frat douche head out of your celebration." She punches his arm and lets her fingers linger there a second too long.

"Can I buy you a drink? It is your win too, we never could have done it with my back out of line."

"Oh no, I can't let you do that—"

"Come on, just one? What are you drinking?" She waves the bartender over before he can say anything else, her arm brushing against his shoulder.

"Really, Ms. Hofferso—"

"Call me Astrid, and if you don't say anything, I'm getting you a Jack and Coke."

"No," he shakes his head and stands up, leaning away from her and staring down at the ground for a moment.

"What?"

"No, you can't buy me a drink." His face screws up slightly as he looks away, back at the bar, shoulders hunched forward like he's protecting himself. "I tried—No, Ms. Hofferson. You need to go back to your friends."

"I thought we were sort of friends." She cocks her head and edges towards him and he glares at her, face impossibly stony.

"Because you don't seem to be getting it, I'm turning you down. I don't want to talk to you," he stares at the bar like she's already gone, sitting down one stool over like she was never even here. "Go back to your friends."

Astrid stands there for a second, uncomprehending. He doesn't look at her, and it starts to feel less and less like she's about to run away and more like he never actually noticed her. She turns and walks back to Ruff who's genuinely confused enough to be ignoring the bartender, who's also looking.

Astrid's face heats up as she grabs another shot off of the tray and pounds it back, shrugging Ruff's insistent question off with a glare and scanning the room. It feels like everyone is staring, but no one really is, her embarrassment is thankfully private aside from a pair of muddled brown eyes down the bar. She elbows Ruff and gestures towards the indiscriminate guy staring at her, boring and stocky.

"What do you think?"

"What about Dr. Hottie?" Ruffnut is staring at him and Astrid pinches her arm and points at the other, nameless guy, grinning at him.

"I struck out. What do you think of that guy?"

"Dr.—"

"Shut up. I'm going for it."

"Astrid—" And it's Ruffnut's rarely used gentle voice.

"Don't. I'll be home in the morning. Have fun with the rest of your shots."

And the guy doesn't turn her down. He lets her buy him a drink and he grabs her waist and invites her back to his apartment. She feels shockingly sober when she goes with him.

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Undergrad Athletes,

I know better than anyone that athletics can hurt, and that we often find ourselves complaining about hips and knees and backs right along with our much older relatives. But I have a suggestion, I would have brushed it off a month ago too, so just hear me out.

Have any of you ever tried a chiropractor? I expected it to be quack medicine, but we're lucky enough to have a really great doctor in our town community. Actually, he's too good, my back is so great now that I'm not going back, so I thought I'd try and drum up some business.

Dr. Haddock

100 Mulberry Rd.

Lacrosse team captain,

Astrid Hofferson

She hits send after double checking that she's selected the entire undergrad mailing list. It feels like the right thing to do, no matter how strange she still feels about their extra-office encounter that weekend. Whatever she should call it.

But no matter how much he confuses her as a man, he's a good doctor and well…she doesn't want to run him out of town. He deserves the business.

Her phone buzzes on the bed beside her and she picks it up, grimacing at the new text. It's from an unsaved number, local area code, and she wishes it would just disappear. That guy from last night—Dave? Dan? Something like that—won't stop trying to ask her out or something. She doesn't know.

She didn't even give him her number, he pulled it off of her phone after she fell asleep. Unfortunately, that was the guy's most memorable move.

She deletes the text without looking at it, already dreading another one, shifting against her stacked pillows and drumming her fingers on the back of her laptop screen.

What is she going to do if she sees Dr. Haddock again? Why does she still care?

The obvious decision is to try again. Her method hasn't failed yet, and it must be a fluke or she was too drunk and…he acted like he was interested, didn't he? He kissed her back. The only things saying he's not interested are his words.

It stings worse than it should that he had to shoo her, like a naughty dog. It's worse than a simple no, but she still doesn't know why she's hung up on it. He's just someone hot, right? That's Ruffnut's opinion on everything anyway.

And that's a solid way to think about it. She tried, she cleansed her palette, hooked up with someone else, but she doesn't feel any better. She came out on the other side of it with Dr. Haddock still nestled in her brain like an infestation.

The worst part is that she knows it's wrong, he was her doctor and that's…bad, obviously. But it doesn't feel wrong. It's cumbersome and confusing and oddly painful, but not wrong. She gets that kissing him in his office was wrong and will admit that approaching him when she was inebriated wasn't the best choice, but Dr. Haddock and her, as a concept, as a unit…it feels alright. Better than alright.

Warm and foreign and distracting.

And what she's learned through this whole ordeal, more than anything else, is that Dr. Haddock is a good man. Better than Dave or Dan or whoever, he wouldn't even entertain the idea of taking advantage of her. It unfortunately kept her from taking advantage of him but had the side effect of wedging him in her head, labelled as impossibly special and different.

She's never been interested in special before.

She sighs and checks the time, hedging her bets that Fishlegs will still be awake. She knows that he has mid-terms at some point this month and decides it's not too horrible to interrupt his studying. It's time to break out the big guns.

He picks up on the second ring with a chirping hello and she's relaxing already, staring at a blank search page on her laptop. If anyone can help her reason through this, it's Fishlegs Ingermann himself.

"Hey Fish."

"You're up later than normal," he assesses, and it would be strange if it were anyone but Fishlegs telling her about her sleep schedule. "You should really be sleeping an extra hour the week after a big game to facilitate muscle repair."

"Thanks dad, but I'm fine. Midterms this week?"

"Starting Wednesday," he doesn't sound nervous at all and she almost asks him how many times he's read this semester's text books already. "What's wrong? You're usually thirty seconds into your victory speech this far into a post-game congratulatory phone call. Congratulations, by the way."

"Did you watch the game?"

"Of course," he chuckles and it sounds like home. "What's wrong?"

"Can you help me figure something out?" She can hear him rummaging for a pencil on the other end. "It's not math homework or anything, it's…I might have a man problem."

"How many brothers do I need to bring with me?" His rummaging goes silent. "Big enough that you didn't take him out yourself, so I'll probably need at least Steven and Ralph—"

"I'm not hiring you as a henchman, Fish."

"Of course not. I wouldn't accept your money."

She laughs and bites her lip, trying to figure out how to explain this. If there's anyone more in love with the rule book than her, it's her best friend, and she can almost feel a cloud of judgment hanging on the horizon.

"I'm having a problem with a man that I like."

"Have you performed the Hofferson maneuver?" He's absolutely clinical and she laughs.

"Isn't that where I put you in a headlock and steal your glasses? Because no, I haven't tried that."

"That's the Hoffersonian. The Hofferson maneuver is when you walk up and kiss a guy without prelude. It was one hundred percent effective in high school."

"It worked twice."

"You only tried it twice, it was always successful."

"Well, my streak is over, I guess, because the Hofferson maneuver didn't work…and it's a bit more complicated than that. That's what I need to talk to you about."

"I'm probably not the best source of relationship advice, Astrid, you know that."

"But you're my facts and figures guy and it's an ethical question and my roommate makes me look like a softy. Just talk me through this." She sighs and he's silent for a worryingly long time.

"An ethical issue? Should I be worried?"

"No."

"Because the percentage of college aged women who take an inappropriate interest in their college professor is—"

"It's not my professor," she scowls at the wall. "Do you really trust me that little?"

"I just know that your parents are worried, and I guess that's rubbing off."

"They don't need to be worried," she snarls. "I've got a 4.0 gpa and my team is winning—"

"No one is denying that you're amazing, Astrid. I just said that your parents are worried."

She wonders if she should even tell him. She did call him up and announce a man problem, he won't let her shove it under the rug now.

"From a strictly ethical standpoint, is my chiropractor worse than a professor?"

He's silent again and her ears burn. "But he's not my chiropractor anymore, he's…I executed the Hofferson maneuver," she uses his term for it rather than delve back into the gory details, "and he dropped me as a patient immediately."

"Are you ok? Really?"

She snorts at the question. And her parents wonder why she spent the last two summers at school working in alternate internships. They get involved and it's all worry, and no one listens to her.

"I'm fine. It's not—he's just a good guy, Fish. He'd be a good guy if I met him anywhere else, it's just…bad luck."

"Why did you need a chiropractor, anyway?"

"Got tackled at a scrimmage," she shrugs it off and he makes a quiet noise of dismissal, like he buys her story. "But…it's not some messed up thing. He's smart and funny and…nice."

"You used to think Doug was funny," he warns and she almost hangs up.

"Doug was never a good guy. And when are you going to accept that everything I do can't be traced back to Doug? I haven't even thought about Doug since the last time you brought him up."

"Ok…Let's…let's figure this out, then. I'm looking and it doesn't necessarily say that chiropractors have to be members of the American Medical Association, but it's a good place to start…" he mutters to himself and she types to catch up, sifting through a plain government website. "And code of ethics…and the patient-physician relationship."

"How are you finding this so fast?"

"Right side of the screen," he helps her, and she knows his flat tone means he's already reading. This is the kind of help she wanted, with Fishlegs on the case there's going to be some sort of black and white, right and wrong line and all of this won't be so damn confusing anymore.

If it's wrong, she thinks she can let it go. That's stupid, and it doesn't feel wrong, but it might be. She'd be able to take black and white on a government website at face value. Some things are just impossible, and she'd be stupid not to acknowledge that.

"Finding anything?"

"Reading," he deflects the question and she can hear the quiet static of his lips moving along with the words as he reads them. "Ok, I think I found something, but I don't know if it helps you."

"Where?"

He directs her to the paragraph and she reads it twice to be sure. She smiles.

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Can I just say that I love longstanding Fishstrid bromance? Because I love it. It's my favorite thing ever.