"That Ragnar Lothbrok," Oswald said, as the credits rolled on screen, "is a total idiot."
He and Valdis were observing their Saturday night tradition of watching the telly before going to sleep. They had powered through that first season of Vikings on Netflix over the last few weeks, after finishing The Last Kingdom, which was set in the same time period. It was a good show, Oswald had to admit, but…
"How so?" she said, looking up at him. Valdis was curled close against him—very close in fact. That was a new development; in the early days of their courtship, whenever she'd invited him back to her flat to watch a movie, Valdis had always sat ramrod straight on the couch, one shoulder width apart from him.
She had told him she wanted to take things slow, which was to be expected considering how her last relationship had ended. The first time Valdis had asked him to spend the night, she'd added, almost miserably, "Just to sleep, I mean. I'm not ready—because of him, I tend to—"
Oswald was a sworn pacifist, but at those words he had been filled with the urge to find wherever that arsehole Rued had been rotting to slug him again. Instead, he had said, perhaps a bit too earnestly, "Valdis, it's fine, everything's fine, I just—I love being with you. Going on hikes, doing museum tours, playing board games—I've had a lovely time doing all of this with you, Valdis. The… the… sex thing…" Oh God, he had barely been able to say it out loud; it had seemed as if his brain had been superheating, making him even more incoherent than usual. "Well, that can wait. Indefinitely, if that's what you'd, erm, prefer. You, er, you deserve to feel safe. And comfortable. H-Happy, too. Anything else is… well, it's not as important, I think."
She'd said something in Danish, then, something that sounded like, "Hvordan kan en som dig være ægte?" Oswald had blinked, not quite understanding what she meant (she'd spoken as if going through a mouthful of mashed potatoes, and he was rusty on his Norwegian anyway), and he had asked, "Wh-what? What makes you say so?"
"Forget about it," Valdis had replied, resting her head in the crook of his shoulder. The tip of her nose had brushed on the bare skin of his neck, making his hair stand on end. "Let's just choose a movie for tonight, ja?"
"Okay," he'd squeaked in response.
(He also very much remembered that she had added, sotto voce, "…not indefinitely," which—well, it had been quite a bloody miracle that he'd been able to focus on the movie that had followed. By all means, he should have been left an incoherent mess of man after that comment.)
Tonight, she was half-asleep against Oswald, clad in one of his jumpers (though her pajamas shorts left her legs bare, which was puzzling; wouldn't she get cold, he wondered?). The wool was scratchy against his skin, and one of his arms was starting to go numb. Still, Oswald wouldn't have budged an inch even if he had been offered a million quids. She was warm, so warm. And frankly he couldn't quite imagine a better fate than becoming her favourite human-shaped pillow.
"Well, yeah," Oswald told her. "Cheating on Lagertha was the terrible decision of the year, really. What did he think would happen? He had the perfect life: a loving wife, a wonderful son, a thriving community… and he just throws it all away? As Eivor would say, he's a total tool."
"Oh, so Lagertha is perfect, is that how it is?"
What? was Oswald's first thought. That had been quite the leap she was making. Oh hell, he then realized, seeing how intently she was looking at him. You're on thin ice, mate.
…why had he just imagined these words as if Eivor had said them?
For some reason, Valdis kept biting her lower lip, as if to keep herself from smiling. Still, her eyes betrayed her amusement. Well, well, Oswald thought. Two could play at that game, he decided. Tongue firmly planted in cheek, he said, "Why, yes. I mean, have you seen her?"
"I have," she said, patting his chest; Oswald's heart sped up as he became minutely aware of the slight pressure of her fingers over the well-worn fabric of the old t-shirt he wore to sleep. She had long, pretty fingers, a musician's fingers. Valdis had once shyly admitted to him that she wanted to go back to school to get her license and teach music to secondary-aged students. Oswald had assured her that she would have his whole-hearted support in this endeavour, should she ever choose to take it.
"She is something all right," Valdis added, "and that pikansjos Ragnar doesn't deserve the likes of her. But she's not my favourite character."
Oswald managed enough presence of mind to utter, "Which one is it, then?"
Was that a faint blush upon her cheeks? No, surely Oswald was imagining things. "Athelstan," Valdis mumbled, finally.
"Athelstan? The English monk? He's your favourite character?" The doe-eyed, mild-mannered priest certainly had been given a compelling character arc throughout the season, Oswald supposed. Valdis mumbled something in Danish that sounded suspiciously like 'skuespilleren' and 'sød'. Oswald frowned as he puzzled out her words. "You think the actor is good-looking?"
"What of it?" she grumbled, in a light-hearted manner. Again, she muttered something in Danish ("Han har smukke øjne…") though this time Oswald understood her well enough. He has pretty eyes…
"It's just—I'm surprised, that's all. I thought you'd prefer someone like Ragnar. Or Rollo. They're certainly, well, handsome, by the usual standards."
Instead of answering, Valdis looked up at him and asked, "Growing up, who was your favourite character in—hva er navnet på Engelsk, that cartoon with the dragons—Sådan Træner Du Din Drage?"
"How to Train Your Dragon?" Oswald ventured.
"Yes!" She gave such a sweet, genuine smile that Oswald's cheeks sweltered if someone had lit a furnace under his skin. "Your favourite character must have been Astrid, I'm sure of it."
She'd pronounced it the Scandinavian way, the syllables as soft as silk—and that also made Oswald's heart give a pleasant flutter. Dammit all, he cursed inwardly. Get a grip, Oswald Elmham. Valdis continued to look up at him, coyly fluttering her eyelashes, which was wholly unlike her hardass self. Of course she enjoyed tormenting him. Of course.
"She was," Oswald managed. "I mean, she's smart, strong, capable—really, what's not to like? You know, I'd have thought she would have been your favourite too."
Eivor had certainly been fond of her character, back in those far-flung childhood days where they had all gathered in their grandparents' basement to watch movies while the adults mingled in the living room to talk of mundane matters. Sigurd had never joined them, of course; he had been a surly teenager then, a bit too old to watch kids' flicks with his baby cousins.
"Mine was Hikke," Valdis said, rather softly. She scrunched up her nose a bit, which—oh God, that expression made her look utterly adorable, Oswald thought with some despair, and he pressed his mouth into a thin line to keep himself from squealing like a boiling kettle. "Hiccup," she amended. "He was my favourite, growing up."
Oswald laughed. "Really? Well, I guess he is the main character, so—"
She touched the tip of his nose with one playful finger, and the whole of Oswald's face exploded with heat, any additional word turning to inelegant gurgles in his throat. Valdis chuckled, a delightful little sound indeed—and, yep, there went the rest of his brains, scrambled to tiny chunks just like the eggs he ate at breakfast this morning. Unfortunately, Valdis had a good grip on him, and thus Oswald could not make his escape in the hopes of chucking himself out the nearest window.
"For one so perceptive," Valdis said, relishing in those words as if they tasted like whipped cream, "you sure can be naïve sometimes."
"Er," was Oswald's eloquent response. "S-Sure. If… if you say so."
"Good." Valdis nuzzled closer to him, making herself comfortable, no doubt. "Do you want to start that second season of Vikings?"
For some reason, he sputtered, "We could, erm, watch Dragons instead? Just for, er, old times' sake?"
"Old times' sake." Valdis sighed contently. "Yeah. I like the sound of that."