ohh dagur has cold feet. cold cold feet. he torments hiccup with them until hiccup wears his prosthetic to bed and dagur learns what a REAL cold foot is
dagur learned to cook really well (from heather) but it's wasted on both of them. hiccup will shove anything in his mouth when he's distracted or just forget to eat, and dagur built the stomach of a raccoon in prison so he would (has) eaten boiled boot-leather.
(trans!hiccup) when hiccup's bleeding, dagur doesn't really know how to help him but is clumsily supportive anyway!
(one-sided) hiccup once taught dagur to draw to try and keep him off his back at a chief-meeting and when dagur's an enemy, he sometimes leaves sketches of toothless or hiccup for him to find
(angsty) during rtte, eaaarrrly dagur-redemption where they're not sure of him yet, he was training with hiccup. hiccup got him down and was trying to disarm him but dagur had a prison flashback of assault and freaked out on hiccup, hurting him kind of bad. it set their relationship back weeks
oswald always made dagur bring a present for hiccup, and for a while dagur brought pretty disturbing stuff (corpse, dung, bloody knife, etc) and then when he came to the edge to reconcile, he brought him a flower (that he stole from fishlegs' garden shhh)
dagur's facial hair is SO scratchy. hiccup says he hates it, but is horrified when dagur shaves
Abel loves watching gory horror movies. Peter doesn’t understand how he can enjoy watching someone get disemboweled but can’t handle lute insulting him. Abel says because that’s real life. This is a movie. Real life is much scarier. Now shh! You’re missing the best part.
Bunny: I think you got it backwards… Abel is the coward.
The lights are off. The TV is WAY too loud. Blood is absolutely everywhere on screen.
TV: wet, squelching sound effects that should not be possible
Abel: *curled into the far corner of the couch, blanket pulled up to his eyes* Peter. Peter. Why are we watching this.
St. Peter: *completely relaxed, popcorn in hand, leaning back* Because it’s a classic.
Abel: *peeking through his fingers for half a second, immediately recoiling* That man does not need that many knives inside him!!
St. Peter: *cheerfully* Oh, that’s nothing. Watch the lighting in this scene—very effective.
Abel: *horrified* You are ENJOYING this.
St. Peter: *shrugs* Mm-hmm.
Abel: *voice cracking just a bit* How— how can you enjoy watching such brutality?!
St. Peter: *tilts his head, thinking, then casually* Oh. Probably because of all the horrors I lived through on Earth.
Abel: *slowly lowers the blanket* …I’m sorry, what?
St. Peter: *still watching the screen* You know. Starvation. Persecution. Watching friends die. Traveling around with Jesus while people actively tried to kill us.
TV: *someone screams again*
Abel: *stares at him* Peter.
St. Peter: *adds, pleasantly* And then later I was crucified upside down.
Abel: *blank stare* …You said that like you were mentioning the weather.
St. Peter: *shrugs, grabs more popcorn* It’s a matter of perspective.
Abel: *gestures wildly at the TV* So THIS doesn’t bother you?!
St. Peter: *glances at the screen* Oh no, this is fake. Very theatrical.
TV: *monster roars*
St. Peter: Real life was much scarier.
Abel: *pulls the blanket completely over his head* I hate that sentence.
St. Peter: *leans over, whispering excitedly* Oh, shh— you’re missing the best part.
Abel: *muffled from under the blanket* THERE IS NO BEST PART.
St. Peter: *points at the screen* The monster design is excellent symbolism.
Abel: *peeks out again, immediately yelps* WHY DOES IT HAVE SO MANY TEETH.
St. Peter: *laughing softly* You’re adorable when you’re scared.
Abel: *offended, clutching the blanket tighter* I have been murdered. I am allowed to have limits.
St. Peter: *grinning* And I was crucified upside down. So I’m immune.
Abel: *long pause* Next movie night, we’re watching something nice.
St. Peter: *without looking away* Sure.
Abel: Like a musical.
St. Peter: *smiles serenely* After the sequel.
Abel: *horrified whisper* There’s a sequel?!
TV: *ominous music swells*
St. Peter: *cheerful* Two, actually.
Abel: *sinks back under the blanket* I am never leaving Heaven again.
The Zippleback Experience AU: After Hiccup is brutally tortured by Ryker, Dagur does something neither one of them expects.
OR
Dagur's shifting feelings towards Hiccup as he realizes that what he's wanted for so long - to see Hiccup suffer - doesn't at all feel like he thought it would. In fact, it might not be what he wants at all.
♡♡♡
Consciousness floated back to Hiccup like a petal in the wind: turbulent and fragile.
Fragmented memories scattered in the air around him, but even when he caught one, he couldn't make sense of it enough to understand it. Just flashes of light and color — suffocating darkness, the scratch of ropes, the rolling of a ship upon the waves. The stench of fear and sweat, cracks like thunder in a cloudless sky, screaming, sobbing, someone shouting. Laughter, dark, terrible laughter, pressing in on all sides. And pain. Lots of pain.
He felt it now, all over his body, gnawing his bones and digging into his joints and seeping into his muscles. Burning relentlessly into his left shoulder, arcing like molten blades down his back. His head ached like he'd overindulged in mead, and his stomach roiled with nausea at every surge of pain.
Gods… what had happened to him?
He couldn't bring himself to open his eyes — not yet, not with the way his head pounded in time with his heart — so he extended his other senses, tried to draw in as much information as he could through them.
He seemed to be lying on his stomach on something soft, maybe a bedroll? He could smell the the slight sweetness of grass, feel a cool breeze lift the hairs at the nape of his neck and coast over the skin of his upper back. Uneasiness spiked — where was his tunic? His armor? And his leg — he couldn't feel his prosthetic strapped to what remained of his calf. He had no memory of taking them off, and the alternative, that someone else had done it while he slept, made his skin crawl.
He heard the gentle crackle of a small fire. And footsteps, padding across soft grass, coming closer. And with those footsteps, a low, angry muttering. Even before he recognized the voice, Hiccup's body instinctively tensed, sending fear cascading through him and making the pain pulse louder, hotter.
"…I'm gonna kill him… no one messes with my stuff… I'll wear his skull as a helmet… I'll throw him into a volcano… I don't have a volcano… I'll find one and chuck him in it, gods-damnit!"
But as the mutterer drew closer, his voice came into sharp relief. And raw panic clawed at Hiccup's insides — Dagur.
The panic usurped everything, even the pain and sickness, and Hiccup's eyes snapped open, his breath coming in quick, short pants. And even the short breaths hurt, burned like someone had filled his lungs with lava, like his chest had been trampled by a herd of Gronkles.
Dagur stalked into view. In his arms he carried a bundle of kindling. Hiccup couldn't see much from his vantage point, belly-down on the ground with his head turned to the side, but he and Dagur appeared to be alone in a small clearing. The trees surrounding them looked half-dead, their sparse branches growing gnarled and stunted, what few leaves that remained glowing sickly green in the moonlight. A dying fire burned in the center of a ring of stones a few yards away from where Hiccup lay. Hiccup watched, his heart racing, terror coursing through him, pain suffocating him, as Dagur stomped up to the fire and tossed the kindling into the faltering flame; for a moment, the fire spluttered, then it roared back to merry life.
Hiccup could only see Dagur's boots from this angle, and the second he saw them start to shift in his direction, he slammed his eyes closed, struggling to keep his breath even. He didn't want to let Dagur know he'd woken up, not until he had time to think, to plan, to remember. He had no idea what Dagur had done to him to make him hurt this much, nor why he lay on a comfortable bedroll by a cozy fire. If Dagur had captured him, he would have expected to be bound, maybe gagged, tossed to the side until he woke up and could be of use. It actually scared him more to be treated like a guest rather than a prisoner; what the Hel could Dagur be playing at?
Hiccup tried not to stiffen as he heard Dagur's footsteps circle behind him. It was a wonder, he thought, that Dagur couldn't hear his frantically beating heart. He heard the squeak of leather as Dagur crouched at his back; his breath hitched in terror. But a moment later, fear fled in the face of unbearable agony as something was pressed against his burning shoulder.
He jerked away from the touch, unable to hold in a strangled cry of pain when the motion doubled the pain in his shoulder and back. It felt like his skin was being peeled from his body, like he was burning away into nothing. Over the high-pitched ringing in his ears, he thought he heard Dagur talking, but he couldn't understand it. He just knew the exquisite cacophony of pain, the overwhelming sensations of fire and ice and acid burning deep into his flesh.
He realized what was going to happen seconds before it did. He had no time to get his arms beneath him, to prop himself up, and he doubted he would have had the strength to do so anyway. His nausea turned sharp and sour, his stomach contracted, and he heaved, bile spilling out of his mouth and pooling around his face. A terrifying vision of drowning in a pool of his own vomit rose in his head as he choked and gagged, but then he felt hands — rough and calloused, surprisingly gentle — grip him under the armpits and haul him partially up, supporting him. He somehow managed to hold his head up until he'd finished, but the second his stomach offered an uneasy truce, exhaustion bled into every inch of his battered body, his mind white with agony as all of his injuries protested.
Slowly, the fog in his mind and the ringing in his ears diminished enough for him to hear Dagur, still holding him up, away from his own sick, murmuring, "…easy, brother. You're all right. You got this, Hiccup." His voice sounded odd, almost… soft but with a bitter, angry edge that told Hiccup he could snap at any moment.
"D-Dagur," Hiccup gasped between painful gulps of air (vomiting had filled his chest with acid instead of lava, and every breath ate away a little more of his body, his control). "Wh-wha—?" He couldn't believe the way his voice sounded: shredded, raw, weak.
"Okay, come on," Dagur said, "let's get you on your side."
Somehow, he managed to shift Hiccup off the bedroll and onto his right side in the short grass. The blades tickled his shoulder and arm but not his side; only now did he realize that something — bandages, most likely — had been wrapped tightly around his chest and abdomen. Even in the midst of his physical distress, the uneasiness returned. Who had bandaged him? Dagur? But why? Surely Dagur was the one who had done this to him in the first place? He racked his brain, but he couldn't… he just couldn't remember.
"Okay," Dagur said again, and Hiccup watched his boots as they moved back into his line of sight. "Be right back. Don't move."
Funny, Hiccup thought, because Dagur had to know as well as he did that Hiccup couldn't move at all right now. Even staying conscious took tremendous effort, but he refused to pass out, not before he got answers.
A few minutes later, Dagur returned, this time with a couple of threadbare blankets. He lay one on the ground next to Hiccup, then helped roll him back onto his stomach, then rolled the other one up and wedged it under Hiccup's head, propping him up. Then he sat down within Hiccup's line of sight, and Hiccup got his first good look at his captor.
Dagur looked awful. His face had a sickly pallor, his eyes bright and dancing blithely on the cusp of madness. His skin looked drawn tight over his cheekbones and around his mouth. The remnants of a dark fury lurked in his countenance, sending shivers down Hiccup's spine. He sincerely hoped that whoever Dagur had been plotting to throw into a volcano earlier, it wasn't him. Because someone had certainly incurred the Berserker's wrath, and Hiccup could do literally nothing to stop Dagur for chucking him into a volcano, or burying his axe in his chest, or… or…
The icy weight of horror settled itself over Hiccup like seawater. He'd seen the way Dagur looked at him, still had nightmares about that night on Dragon Island, the way Dagur had kept touching him, grabbing at him and shoving him and pulling him close. He'd suspected that Dagur's interest in him had been more than what it seemed on the surface for a while, but meeting Dagur again on The Reaper had solidified it in Hiccup's mind. The way Dagur had looked him up and down, his eyes roving unabashedly, almost hungrily, the admission that he'd thought about Hiccup every day in prison, the way he still hadn't been able to keep his hands to himself…
If Dagur chose to follow those desires now, Hiccup wouldn't be able to fight him off. Dagur could do anything he wanted to Hiccup, take anything he wanted, and there wasn't a damn thing Hiccup could do to stop him.
But right now, Dagur didn't look particularly interested in hurting Hiccup in that way or any other. He just sat there, sculpted forearms resting on bent knees. Leaning forward, staring at Hiccup with an intense kind of scrutiny. Waiting, Hiccup assumed, but for what, he didn't know. He'd never known the Berserker to be quiet for this long though, and that unnerved him even more.
When Hiccup could stand the charged silence no longer, he cleared his throat and asked, "Wh-what happened?"
Dagur threw his hands up explosively and cursed, and Hiccup jumped, jarring his injuries. He felt bile rise again, but he managed to quell the nausea with a couple of halted breaths through his nose. "You don't remember?" Dagur asked, rage flickering in his eyes. "You don't remember anything?"
"Uh," Hiccup stammered, "I — I remember… some things? Maybe? Just, just snatches. Nothing… nothing concrete." He stopped talking and focused on breathing; he felt like he'd just finished climbing a mountain. Though why he would climb a mountain instead of flying—
A thrill of alarm shot through him. "Where's Toothless?" he demanded, maneuvering his arms beneath him and struggling to push himself up; the pain in his back crescendoed and white spots popped in front of his eyes. "What — what did you do with him?"
"Hiccup, you need to — stop trying to — Hiccup, LIE DOWN!" Dagur screeched at the top of his lungs.
The screamed command had its intended effect: Hiccup froze, heart throwing itself desperately against his aching rib cage, then he slowly, painfully, lowered himself back down. Dagur had risen to his knees, but now he sat back, apparently satisfied. Hiccup glared up at him with all the vitriol he could summon. "Where's my dragon, Dagur?" he asked in a low, steady voice.
Dagur spread his arms wide. "Not here," he answered unhelpfully.
Hiccup scowled. "I didn't ask… ask you where he isn't," he snapped. Gods, he couldn't get his breath!
"Look, man, I genuinely have no idea. He wasn't with you when the Dragon Hunters grabbed you off your island."
Hiccup closed his eyes, thinking hard. Straining to remember anything. If Dagur was telling the truth — and somehow Hiccup could sense that he was — then why would Hiccup be without Toothless? He and Toothless were together most of the time. He must have been feeling really stressed or overwhelmed to need a break from even Toothless…
The memories meandered back slowly at first, and not in the right order: Barf and Belch in his hut, sparking an explosion; an avalanche, being snatched from the air and then tumbling to the earth, desperately trying to reconnect with Toothless; broken prosthetics; Snotlout punching him in the face; hanging upside down while Barf and Belch happily butted him between their heads…
And then the memories picked up speed and some semblance of order: Stalking through the woods, trying to think, to calm down; a bag being thrown over his head; hands yanking him back, wrestling his arms behind his back and binding him tightly; Dagur and Ryker and a handful of Hunters sneering down at him on a ship sailing away from the Edge—
"Oh, gods," Hiccup breathed. Something itched at the back of his mind, something sinister, something that begged him to pick at it, to allow it to bleed into his memories, but terror filled him at the very thought of what that something might hold. Everything he'd just remembered, he knew instinctively that it paled in comparison to what had come after, and he feared that if he allowed himself to remember, he might never be the same. So he pushed it aside, pretended it wasn't there, beckoning him, cajoling him. He didn't want it. Instead, he focused on the fact that Toothless truly hadn't been captured with him, that he was safe. And he asked Dagur, "Where's Ryker? What happened to the ship?"
Dagur studied him sullenly for a couple of seconds, then jumped to his feet with the suddenness and ferocity of a Whispering Death erupting from the earth. Again, Hiccup jumped, and the pain, which had receded in the onslaught of chaotic memories, flared. He barely managed to bite back a groan and instead tracked Dagur warily with his eyes as he paced and pulled at his ragged beard.
"I didn't plan to do it," Dagur muttered, more to himself than to Hiccup. "I allied with the Dragon Hunters for a reason! I lost everything when you got me thrown in prison — my tribe, my armada, my wealth! I needed to start over, and the Hunters are wealthy. I figured I'd work with them for a while, start saving up gold, work on building up my armada again, and then take my revenge on you and your Night Fury!"
Hiccup narrowed his eyes. He had no idea where Dagur was going with this and couldn't be sure that Dagur did either. With a huff, Dagur plopped back to the ground, deflated. "I thought I'd enjoy seeing you get what was coming to you. I mean, you destroyed my life, threw me in prison, and foiled me at every turn! And it was fun, at first! But Ryker… what he did, the way he did it. And then, when he — well, you don't remember, but it was the final straw. I said it three years ago, Hiccup. I said you were mine, that no one else gets to hurt you except me."
Hiccup's skin writhed at Dagur's words; the idea of being claimed, of Dagur wanting to possess him like an object… it sent chills of revulsion down his spine. And the thing in the back of Hiccup's mind twitched again, reached out inky tendrils, begging him to look, to take a peek, to remember…
Dagur had started talking again; probably he had never stopped. His voice had risen both in pitch and volume. "…so later, when everyone else was occupied, I sneaked to your cell, busted you out, and stole the rowboat."
Hiccup blinked, his brain mired in pain and fog. "So… you're saying… you rescued me?"
Dagur laughed, loud and high and long and discordant. Hiccup desperately wanted to back away but even the slightest hint of movement set his back, chest, and shoulder alight. Dagur cackled for a good minute or so before abruptly changing course; in an instant, no trace of mirth remained on his face. "Yeah," he said, almost self-consciously. Then, as if to himself, "Why the Hel did I do that?"
Hiccup didn't answer — mostly because he had no idea, either. The decision to free Hiccup from the Dragon Hunters, to sever his alliance with the people who could have aided his rise back to power, contradicted everything Hiccup knew of the man. "So…" Hiccup prompted, "thanks for, uh, saving me? C-can you… get me back to my… my friends now?"
Dagur snapped out of his daze, irritation sparking across his face. "Excuse me?" he growled. "I risked my life, put a target on my own freaking back, ruined my alliance with the Dragon Hunters to save you, and you think I'm just gonna let you go back to your friends? Come on, I may have saved you from the Hunters, but we both know I'm no hero."
Hiccup's heart sank, fear bubbled up once more, shortening his labored breaths even further. "What in Thor's name d-do you even want with me?"
Dagur eyed Hiccup in a manner that reminded him far too much of a Deathsong considering its trapped and terrified prey. "Dunno," he said. "But I thought about you every day for three years, brother. I'm not just gonna let you go."
Hiccup felt the sting of tears bite at the corners of his eyes, but he pushed them back. Lying here, entire body screaming in agony, with no idea of what had happened to cause said agony, too weak and injured to even sit up, let alone fight Dagur off or escape, no armor, no tunic, no prosthetic… Hiccup had never felt so vulnerable, unsure, exposed. And the myriad unknowns bore down on him, slashing their talons of doubt and dread deep into his flesh. Bad enough that he was still a prisoner. But having no idea what Dagur planned to do with him? Of whether his friends had noticed him missing yet? If they'd be able to track him to whatever uninhabited little island Dagur had dragged him to? His breath caught in his chest, sending stabs of pain through his ribs, and a small whine escaped from his throat.
To his surprise, Dagur's fierce expression softened the tiniest bit at his distress. "Hey, calm down, okay? First things first, we gotta get you well enough to move."
Hiccup's desperation curdled into anger. "I don't want your help. And I'm not going anywhere with you."
Dagur snorted. "So what you're saying is you'd rather die from infection than let me take care of you?"
Hiccup's fury blotted out reason. "That about sums it up, yes."
Dagur's face darkened. "Too bad. I didn't get you off that godsforsaken ship just to watch you die."
"Whatever you plan to do with me, I have a feeling death would be preferable!" Hiccup growled back. Gods, everything hurt! The nausea was steadily building again, and his head hurt so damn much, and he just wanted to close his eyes and sleep and pray that when he woke up, he'd be back at the Edge, with Toothless, with his friends.
Dagur's fists clenched and for a terrible moment, Hiccup thought his captor was about to hit him. But slowly, the tension eased, and Dagur's expression evened out. Hiccup found himself almost impressed — he hadn't known that Dagur possessed any measure of self-control. (But if that was what impressed him, then the bar was literally in Helheim.)
"I am not letting you die, Hiccup. So either you lie still and let me check your back and treat your burn, or I tie you down. Your choice."
Hiccup felt his own control slipping at Dagur's words; the idea of being tied down brewed a whirling tempest of panic inside him. And at the mention of a burn, Hiccup's grip on the present began to slip through his fingers and the something in the back of his mind grew bigger and darker and pulled him in, thrusting the memories he didn't want, the things he was terrified to remember, into his unwilling hands.
He slipped into the past, he remembered, the memories throwing themselves at him urgently, violently—
♡♡♡
Ryker didn't want to simply torture Hiccup. He wanted to make a spectacle of it, to humiliate him on top of the pain.
Hunters dragged him to his feet, sliced through the ropes around his arms and wrists, threw him to the deck at Ryker's feet. "Armor and tunic off," Ryker ordered, eyes glittering in malicious anticipation. Slightly behind him, Dagur grinned, eyes never leaving Hiccup. Watching. Waiting.
"What? No!"
"You undress, or we do it for you," Ryker growled. His dark, soulless eyes flickered to Dagur. "I can think of one person who will be eager to volunteer."
Hiccup's stomach churned at the implication. He had no desire to undress in front of anyone, especially his enemies, especially Dagur. But having his armor and tunic forcibly removed would be far worse. So with shaking hands, he worked the buckles of his armor. The second he'd removed it, a Hunter snatched it out of his hands and tossed it aside. Sickened, feeling a horrible sense of violation creeping like gooseflesh across his skin, Hiccup pulled his tunic up, over his head. He avoided Dagur's eyes, but he felt them on his bare chest anyway, and he crossed his arms over his front protectively. It did nothing to stave off the chilly night air and even less to protect him from all the eyes boring into him. By this point, more Hunters had gathered around, completely encircling Hiccup and his tormentors, jeering and catcalling and making lewd comments that made Hiccup's face burn.
Ryker asked him again about the Dragon Eye, what he had learned from it. Hiccup refused, even knowing what was coming. He couldn't — he wouldn't — put innocent dragons at risk to save himself a beating. Whatever Ryker dished out, he could take.
Ryker was as strong as he looked, and he possessed far more control than Hiccup gave him credit for. Every hit, every kick, was precise, controlled. He mostly stuck to Hiccup's torso, his ribs especially, but although he bruised and battered, he did not break, and Hiccup knew that was only because he didn't want to — yet. All the while, Dagur watched, arms crossed over his chest, a strange look blooming on his face. Hiccup kept expecting him to jump in, to demand a turn, but instead he just stood there rigidly and glared.
Finally, when Hiccup let loose a particularly nasty string of curses aimed at Ryker's mother, Ryker's control slipped. The crack of Hiccup's ribs breaking rent the air, silencing the laughter of the watching crowd for a single moment before spurring it on, even louder. Agony lanced through Hiccup's chest, so acute that it absorbed everything but itself, made Hiccup forget where he was or what had happened, only that he hurt and he couldn't breathe…
He slowly came back to himself, and his eyes landed first on Dagur. The Berserker's jaw was tight, his eyes blazing, his fists balled so tightly veins popped in his arms. Hiccup didn't understand, but he hurt too much to care. Hiccup had only just gotten some of his breath back when Ryker grabbed his hair, shoved his face into Hiccup's, asked him again about the Dragon Eye.
Hiccup spat in his face.
Everything happened too quickly after that — Ryker backhanded him so brutally across the face that Hiccup blacked out for a couple of seconds, and when he came to, Hunters were shoving him back to the mast. They spun him around to face it, pushed him to his knees. A couple men wrapped Hiccup's arms around it and clamped manacles around his wrists, securing him tightly. Hiccup's arms were barely long enough to reach, so he had no slack; his wrists ached and his arms screamed at the pull on his joints and muscles.
Ryker didn't ask him a question this time. Hiccup jolted as something cracked in the air close to his head; Hiccup only had this warning of what was to come a second before the whip sliced into his back. The sound it made against Hiccup's flesh was like thunder, and the pain like lightning. Hiccup threw his head back and screamed; he hadn't meant to, didn't want to give Ryker the satisfaction, but the pain burned like a line of Fireworms parading down his spine.
And Ryker wasn't done. He didn't ask any more questions, not until the whip had fallen again and again and again… Hiccup lost count of how many stripes the leather cut into his back. He felt the wounds weeping blood, felt it dripping down his back, soaking into the waist of his pants. He sobbed, he thrashed, he screamed. Ryker only stopped when Hiccup's shouts had dwindled into weak whimpers. His torturer's breath came shallow and ragged; the bastard had winded himself whipping Hiccup.
"Here, Dagur," the Dragon Hunter said, his voice sliding down Hiccup's blood-slicked back like sludge. Oh, gods, was it not over? "Want a turn?"
But to his surprise, Dagur's response came clipped, harsh, and filled with barely restrained rage. "No, thanks. I'm just happy to watch." But he didn't sound happy at all.
To Hiccup's relief, he heard the whip fall to the deck. He rested his forehead against the rough wood of the mast, tried to stem the tears flowing freely down his cheeks. His breath came in hitched, desperate sobs, and with each one, it felt like his ribs breaking all over again.
Then a hand found the hair at the top of his head, and Ryker wrenched his head back hard — Hiccup yelped at the sudden, sharp pain in his scalp. He felt Ryker's hot breath on his ear as the man leaned in close. "Are you sure," he whispered, "you don't want to tell me about that Dragon Eye?"
"Go to Helheim," Hiccup snapped.
Ryker just chuckled and wrenched Hiccup's head to the side, eliciting another cry of pain. "Are you sure?" he asked again, and he held something up for Hiccup to see, lit from behind by the guttering light of an enormous torch. Hiccup's blood turned to ice, his heart pounded a frantic tattoo against his broken ribs. His breath came short and shallow, his vision narrowed to the horrible glowing thing in Ryker's hand.
Terror surged through his bloodstream in a drowning cataract, and he renewed his struggles against the manacles, feeling splinters digging into his bare chest. Oh gods, oh gods, oh no, please, gods, no —
He couldn't give them any information. He couldn't. But if he didn't, then Ryker would do something unspeakable to him, take his identity and freedom and personhood, ravage his future, destroy him with one little sigil.
If he didn't tell them what they wanted to hear, Ryker would brand him.
Hiccup opened his mouth, whether to cave and tell them something, anything to avoid this fate (he'd lie, he'd give them false or harmless information), or to double down on his refusal, even Hiccup didn't know. But it didn't matter. He'd hesitated for too long, and Ryker wanted to brand Hiccup. He'd probably have gone ahead and done it even if Hiccup had told him what he wanted to hear.
The Dragon Hunter sigil seared into the flesh of his left shoulder, so hot that at first he didn't even feel it. He heard the sizzle of hot metal meeting skin, smelled the reek of burning flesh, heard the crowd behind him go quiet. And then he felt it — pain so consuming, a hundred times worse than any burn he'd gotten working in the forge, like one of the Fireworm dragons migrating down his back had made its nest in his flesh, curled up on his shoulder and cooked him while it slept. Fresh tears rolled down his face, he writhed in his bonds. A tinny ringing filled his ears and his vision faded at the edges. He felt himself detach from reality, the pain too much, too intense, too everything.
He didn't exactly pass out, not right away. But his body slumped against the mast, and his eyes slipped shut, tears still falling freely. His battered body shook with sobs that he couldn't control. He cried because of the pain, because of the mark burned into his flesh, because of what it could mean for his future and the future of his tribe.
He did not go gently into unconsciousness, but fitfully, filled with terror and dread and shame and all the scuttling uncertainties of a future going up in flame.
♡♡♡
"…brother?"
Hiccup blinked back to the present. Silent tears slipped down his cheeks. Oh, gods. Ryker had branded him, marked him as property of the Dragon Hunters. Even if he escaped from Dagur, he wouldn't truly be free. If anyone found out that he had been marked as the property of another…
Hiccup nearly jumped out of his skin when a hand brushed his arm. Hiccup jerked away, panting in pain and horror. "Don't touch me!" he cried. "Get away from me!"
Adrenaline propelled him up to his knees; he swayed but did not fall. He couldn't walk, wouldn't have been able to even if he'd had his leg, but it didn't matter. He just wanted to get away. He started to crawl, knowing he would never get far, that he couldn't escape his captor or the reality of what had happened to him.
But damn it, he could try.
Ultimately, Dagur didn't even need to chase after him. Hiccup's arms gave out after only a few shuffled paces and he collapsed onto his front, humiliated, hurting so much he could barely comprehend the pain. To his surprise, Dagur didn't rage at his pitiful attempt at escape. He just stood with a heavy sigh, grabbed Hiccup firmly by the right arm, and heaved him to his foot. His arm pressed into Hiccup's shredded back, but Hiccup was more concerned with the hand clamped around his waist, keeping him upright. Dagur carried more than supported Hiccup back to the bedroll, and carefully lowered him to a sitting position. Hiccup swayed but managed to stay upright, curling his right knee to his throbbing chest and folding his left leg beneath him. He wrapped his arms around his knee and dropped his head onto it.
"Ryker branded me," he whispered, and he didn't even recognize his own voice. It was too timid, too scared, too cracked. Too broken.
"Yeah," Dagur said, settling himself beside Hiccup. A weighted pause. "I tried to stop him. And afterwards, I was so mad I almost…" He chuckled humorlessly. "I may be deranged, but even I know better than to kill a man on his own ship while surrounded by men loyal to him."
"Why do you even care?" Hiccup asked. All the fight had drained out of him. A hollow had opened in his chest, deeper than his broken ribs, sucking everything but the physical pain into it. The fear, the panic, the rage all disappeared into the gaping blackness, rotting there with the last vestiges of his hope.
Dagur shifted uneasily beside him. He sat so closely their arms brushed. Hiccup didn't have it in him to recoil. "I told him, when I suggested capturing you to get your Dragon Eye knowledge, that I didn't care what he did to you, but that in the end, you were mine." A spark of revulsion rose up in Hiccup but flickered and died as the hollow consumed it. "And I don't like it when people take my stuff."
Perhaps something of himself remained, because at Dagur's words, a heat as terrible as the one on his shoulder rose up inside Hiccup. "I'm not yours. And I'm not theirs, either. I'm a person. Not a possession."
Dagur considered this for a moment. "Not in the eyes of Viking Law. Not really, anymore." The anger faltered, the hollow surged. Dagur was right. But then —
"But if anyone could change that, it would be you, Hiccup."
Hiccup glanced sidelong at Dagur, who stared stoically forward, the calmest and sanest Hiccup had ever seen him. "Why are you saying this? I thought you wanted — I mean, you said—"
"I know what I said!" Dagur shouted, then mellowed like nothing had ever happened. "But I don't think I like this version of Hiccup."
"The tainted version?" Hiccup snarled back.
"The defeated version."
This made Hiccup pause. "I don't understand."
Dagur laughed, but this time it wasn't loud or long or deranged. Just a little lost. Melancholy. "Me either."
A beat. "I really want to go back to my friends," Hiccup said. "I need them right now."
"Yeah," said Dagur, almost forlornly. "I know you do."
"So…?" Hiccup prompted. Maybe, just maybe, if he got back to Toothless, to his friends, he would be okay. He could get through this, he could find his way out of the darkness, purge the ravenous pit from inside of him. But alone, Dagur's prisoner? He didn't think he stood a chance.
"Let me treat you," Dagur said. "You can't move anytime soon, anyway."
"Dagur, please—"
"Huh," Dagur said, bemused. "I thought I'd like begging. Not really a fan of it either. Kinda a bummer."
The hope he'd thought had been consumed clawed its way up, poked its head out of the pit the tiniest bit. "Maybe you're not the same person you used to be," Hiccup ventured. "Maybe… something's changed?" Hiccup couldn't imagine how any of this would have changed anything in the Berserker, but maybe, if somehow, Dagur's hatred had shifted into something less violent…?
"I told you, Hiccup," Dagur snapped. "I'm not a hero."
"Yeah," Hiccup said. "I know."
A heavy silence. Then Dagur stood, and shook himself — honest to Norns shook himself like a dog — and said, "Okay, that's enough emotions for today."
Hiccup stared up at him, confused at the sudden, manic urge to laugh. Instead, he watched Dagur wander to the fire and stoke it, then grab a couple of corked clay jars and a clean cloth from a bag by the fire. "What's in the jars?" Hiccup asked warily.
"Water," said Dagur. Hiccup relaxed slightly. "And a disinfectant." Hiccup's heart stuttered; his whole body tensed. "Honey, vinegar, and thyme, I think? Grabbed these and some bandages before I broke you out, because they sure as Hel weren't going to treat your wounds."
"Dagur, take me back to my friends," Hiccup insisted. "Fishlegs is a healer. He can treat me."
"I told you, Hiccup, you don't need to be moved right now. Besides, I haven't decided what I'm going to do with you yet."
Hiccup's stomach turned. Trying to have a conversation with Dagur was like wandering around lost in the wilderness. Terrifying, confusing, and more than a little maddening. And it got you nowhere.
"Dagur—"
"Enough, Hiccup." Dagur didn't shout, he didn't scream, he didn't spiral into an embodiment of chaotic rage. He sounded worn, and tired, and about as lost as Hiccup felt. And that, more than anything else, gave Hiccup pause. "Now," Dagur said, "lie down on your stomach. I have to clean your wounds, and it's gonna hurt like Hel. Do you think you can be still and let me do that, or do I need to get out the rope?"
Hiccup ground his teeth together so hard they creaked, but he nodded. "Fine. You can treat me."
Dagur bared his teeth in a triumphant grin. "Finally! You're a hard nut to crack, Hiccup, I'll give you that."
"You didn't crack me," Hiccup snapped, surprised to realize he meant it. "A good strategist knows when to concede on small things in order to prevail in bigger ones."
"Sure, sure." Dagur waved him off distractedly, then sat down beside him as Hiccup lowered himself to his stomach, gasping at the pain ripping through his chest.
The revived hope dug its fingers in, stolidly refusing to fall back into the pit. It hauled itself up, squirmed and wriggled and crawled its way out. It lay on the edge of the pit, panting but alive, not daring to glance back down, lest it fall again.
Hiccup couldn't put his finger on it, but something had shifted. Something had changed between himself and Dagur. Dagur had changed, if only a little. And if he could rescue Hiccup, could put his own life and future on the line to get him away from Ryker, if he could sit here, ready to clean and dress Hiccup's wounds, then surely, surely anything was possible.
He'd escape, or maybe Dagur would, improbable as it was, let him go. He could get back to his friends. Together, they'd figure out how to move forward. He could, somehow, navigate the brand and the torture and the fear and shame and helplessness and soul-sickness festering in his mind, his heart, his body. Maybe, someday, the hollow pit inside of him could shrink.
But for now, he settled himself on his stomach, breathed as deeply as he could through the agony in his ribs, and reluctantly allowed his greatest enemy to take care of him. No matter how wrong it felt, no matter how much it scared him. Because in order to heal, he had to get back to his friends, and in order to get back to his friends, he had survive.
Just survive, he told himself as he felt Dagur slice through the bandages, felt the sting of the chilly night air on the open wounds and bit his lip against a rising cry of pain. Just survive, and worry about the rest later.
Hiccup's whole body tensed at the sound of a bottle uncorking, but it turned out to be the water. Dagur brought it to Hiccup's lips, helped him drink — Hiccup drank long and deep, the cool water soothing his abused throat. All too soon, Dagur pulled it away. Hiccup huffed in protest, then jerked back with a shout as the jar was replaced with something else: a length of scratchy fabric pushed gently but firmly between his teeth.
Hiccup struggled against the gag — Dagur said he wouldn't restrain him if he didn't fight! — but Dagur tied it off and grabbed Hiccup's face, forcing him to still his weak struggles and look at him. "I don't think we were followed, but just in case, we gotta keep you quiet. This is going to hurt, and if they hear you scream…" Hiccup forced his breathing to something approaching steady and wrenched his face out of Dagur's grasp. Dagur chuckled. "Guess I should've told you that before I… Yeah, okay. Makes sense. I'm still getting used to this whole 'treating wounds instead of causing them' thing."
Hiccup rolled his eyes but lay his head down on the bedroll, trying to calm his racing heart, trying to brace himself for the pain ahead. He tried not to focus on the way the gag rubbed the corners of his mouth raw, or the way it hurt his jaw, or the way it had been tied just a little too tightly at the back of his head. Instead, he breathed. In, pain, out, pain, in, pain, out, pain.
In the end, Hiccup almost wished he had taken Dagur up on the restraints. Lying still while his mangled back was cleaned, disinfected, and re-bandaged was all but impossible, the pain tearing muffled screams from his aching throat, making his body shake and jerk and writhe to get away. But he mostly managed it, and Dagur's hands remained oddly gentle. He worked quietly, quickly.
When he pressed a cool cloth to Hiccup's burn, Hiccup bucked as the pain exploded to treacherous new life, but after a couple of seconds, the intensity faded, the pain dulled, and Hiccup's body wilted in relief. Exhaustion rolled over him in waves, and his eyes slipped shut. He knew it would be sleep, real sleep, that he would sink into this time, not unconsciousness, and he was too fatigued, too wrung out by all he had been through, that he couldn't even muster up any concern about sleeping around Dagur.
He barely felt the gag being loosened and pulled from his mouth, or the hands arranging him more comfortably on the bedroll, draping a light blanket over his bandaged back, carefully avoiding the burn on his shoulder. He might have dreamed the gentle, tentative fingers gliding through his sweat-soaked hair before drawing reluctantly away.
He didn't hear the footsteps padding away, or the weary sigh as Dagur sat by the fire. Didn't see the firelight reflecting the confusion in his eyes, and the war raging in his soul.
Pairing: Robert "Bob" Floyd x Fem!Reader SOULMATE AU
Word Count: 4000+
Rating: T
Warnings: Swearing, Lots of Crying, Parent Trouble and Reconciliation, Insecurity,
We don't get to meet Bobby yet, I'm sorry!
My father's office looks the same. Honesty it has looked the same for as long as I can remember, and it's not just this office either. Every single one of my father's offices has looked just this way. Tan walls, that sort of sad, off beige color that every military installation, from this side of the world to the next, think outfit them so well. There's always a strong oak desk, sometimes it's pine, but either way it's always a sturdy piece of furniture that has no business around the thrown together particle board of the neighboring pieces.
My father has always brought in his own chair. It's faded leather is always well conditioned and it's warn in. Warn in just the way that when you sit in it, you can almost feel the ever lasting presence of the many years my father has sat in that very seat. He has hauled it with him all around the country, always in unaccompanied baggage so it would be sitting in his office and ready for him upon his arrival. He used to joke that if he made it there before his beloved chair, his time stationed there would be hell in a handbasket.
The day he got stationed at Top Gun as the Air Boss, that chair took it's rightful place behind the new desk. The same desk with empty drawers and too many files preemptively stacked atop it. But that's just how it is, right? After all, it's been that way since my father made Commander and things don't look to be changing anytime soon.
The decanter on his book shelf has been wiped clean of dust and fingerprints. No doubt filled with any run of the mill whiskey that may find it's way into my father's hands. It's an office staple, that decanter's about as old as myself, but the crystal still shines after 25 years, especially after a good cleaning. There's a bottle of good whiskey in the bottom drawer of his desk, sat beside a bottle of the best vodka he could find. Always ready for the COMPACFLT to drop by on a moment's notice, though the Admiral has never made himself known long enough to break it out.
I sit and stare out the windows, the ones that make up the back wall of his office. There's always windows, but strangely the size seems to correlate with rank. One might think it would depend on the building, on the base, on the climate or area of the world, but what I've come to find out is the higher the number on your Pay Code, the bigger your fucking office widows.
That, and the less time you have for your family. It seems the higher that Pay Code number, the more time I've managed to spend with clerks and assistants. More visitation with office windows and the low reflection that stares back at me as I try to focus on the air field. Aircraft take off and land, the service men and women knocking out their required flight hours as the sun moves its way throughout the sky. But still, there are times I catch my own eyes in that low light reflection, but there are less tears now. Or there had been, until that fucking incident at the airport.
Truth be told, I haven't stopped shaking. In that damn reflection of my father's office window I can see both my tear stained cheeks and the confused looks on Rhett and Jake's faces. The images twist together. It's all hurt, every last piece.
I'm sure the three of us would be a sight if we were all standing in the same place, the boys with those same lost looks, hurt flashing through there eyes, and me, red rimmed irises and damp skin. Skin that is already threatening to chap over from the way it stings. I should have savored the way they so fiercely defended me. The way they folded me into themselves and kept me safe. Isn't that what home is, if only so briefly? A lifted wing to a chick in the same way their kind eyes were to me. It's a shame, the way it all came crashing down with those four little words.
There's not even a part of me that doesn't ache when the memory of only hours ago runs through my head. Their touch still ghosts over my shoulders. Phantom fingerprints left upon my upper arms, still smoldering, smoking as they cool.
Friendship has to be written into the strands of the universe, it just must be. Hidden deep within the stitching, taking a back seat to the drips of ink that are marred into skin, so easy to see. Because if it isn't, my soul shouldn't feel this heavy. It couldn't feel this heavy. So it must be. It must be.
There's mumbling coming from just beyond the fire door of the office, voices that I can't make out by ear but I know those tell tale footsteps that can't help but get closer. My heart pounds in the same way his footsteps all but reverberate through the floor. The voices get closer, and closer, but I can't seem to focus on anything but the air field- the vision of my own red rimmed irises in the glass of the O-9 sized window.
"Sir, I'm trying to tell you that-" The words come through muffled then clear as the door nearly squeaks open. A call to DPW and those hinges wouldn't grind, but I know door hinges aren't exactly on the high priority list for a Vice Admiral.
"Birdie?" That damn nickname's spoken by my father, in that surprised tone that is just a little too irregular completely flattens all my resolve. The floodgates open, or moreover, they break, just as I turn to meet his eye.
"Hi Dad," The words come out too wet and too close to a sob, but we both just stand there looking at one another. In the time we stare at each other, the Earth has rotated almost two hundred eighty miles around it's access. Four hundred fifty kilometers in roughly fifteen seconds. His hand is still curled around the doorknob, the brass of the handle turned down just so. A Lieutenant stands next to my father, an apologetic look hung upon her features. The tightness of her bun pulls her eyebrows up, barely noticeable, but it makes her look a little more surprised, a little bit more of herself that's usually hidden under the mask, just barely breaking through.
It's another two hundred eighty miles before my father makes a move. He enters further into the office while the Lieutenant slips the door shut. I can almost feel how the handle must be warm beneath her slender fingers. The same warmth is rolling off of my hands; all of the nervous energy having nowhere to go but cycle out to my fingertips only to crawl back up my arms once more.
"Hey, kid," My father speaks after another moment passes, another few miles, "I- uh,"
There is so much hanging between us. After spending so many years arguing, instead of words left unsaid between us they all seem to be hanging in the air. Stiff and starched like a uniform collar, textured underneath my fingertips. The way they brush against my skin makes me itch as I inch closer. I wish to choke on them; on the words, longing for a moment that I had something else to say. Some sort of words found stuck somewhere between the tightness of my throat and the stickiness of my gums, lips dry and cracking under the pressure. Instead, they all still hang between us, a rickety old rope bridge while the few feet between us is a canyon's expanse.
The average argument lasts ten minutes, and families tend to have around a hundred arguments a year. That's a thousands hours of disagreements that stand between us over the last year alone. A hundred and twenty five words per minute. That's one hundred twenty five thousand words and I can feel each and every letter that hangs between us in this moment, thick between us like a fog. I can't seem to breathe.
The only thing that seems real is the hot tears falling down my cheeks and the sight of my father's downturned smile. There is so much pity there, or maybe it's remorse in the way one is remorseful for not appreciating a song the first time it's played through. It's the missing of the baseline and the way the bridge carries through to the end of the score. His eyes are gentle, in the way roses are- pricking, piercing from just the right angle.
"It's been a long time, Dad, I've missed you," The words have been hidden in the spaces between my molars, stuck there so long I barely recognized their honesty as they fell from my tongue. My lips catch on their sharp edges and I swallow down the acrid taste of bile and copper. Wiping at the new found streaks of tears, smearing them across the heat of my cheeks, my fingers come back tinged with watery mascara smudges.
"It's been too long, Birdie, sweet pea, too long," There's a slight hesitation in his tone, but it's all too genuine, in a way that makes my stomach turn. The nausea isn't new, not today. "How was-" I know he's going to ask about the last year, about the travel and the time spent in-between our arguments but I can't keep the words from slipping off of my tongue.
"I need to know about your Aviators," He stops, the words hitting him straight in the face leaving mouth hanging open mid sentence. His eyebrows scrunch with the narrowing of his gaze, the confusion evident in the way his head cocks gently to one side before he straightens it right back again. Parts of my father are slipping past the Admiral, like sand through fingertips, but he does everything he can to hold onto his hardened exterior.
"My Aviators?" There is so much hidden in the way the syllables crackle from his throat. He looks as though he has words still stuck to the roof of his mouth, words he keeps tonguing at to keep them hidden behind his teeth.
"I- yes," My brain is spiraling just a little to fast for my mouth to keep up. I can almost feel the way my nervous system is spiking, my neurons firing as my tongue tries to say the words in the forefront of my mind. The deep breath I force into my lungs does nothing to slow my thoughts, but my father's shoulders relax at the sight of my own shoulders dropping slightly. It's a shallow effort but it helps, if only a little.
"I met one of your Aviators today, at the airport," He nods in understanding, "Blond, tall, from Texas. Super nice. Said his name was Jake,"
"Jake?" My father huffs out, scrubbing a hand over his face. "A Texan with one of those shit eating grins?"
"He had a nice smile, if that's what you mean," I reason. The feeling of an impending argument is like static in the air, the hair on my arms standing on end as gooseflesh breaks out over my bare skin. That feeling is acknowledged with a quick glance between us, a look that has him moving closer to his desk. He picks up a framed photograph from it's corner before holding it out to me. I finally move closer, separating some of the distance between us. It's strange, being so close together after spending so long apart. I often wonder if that's how all children's relationships with their parents are after they grow up, or if my father and I are stuck in a unique form of perpetual misunderstanding. I take the photograph from his hand.
"This him?" He points at a man in the back row of the photograph, big smile and kind eyes. It's definitely him, that much I am certain of. There is just something so recognizable about that smile of his, the way the lines on either side of his mouth bend with a dash of mirth, bracketing perfect teeth. It's sick, really, how nice his teeth are.
There are a handful of other people shoved into the photograph together. Jake has his arm thrown around another man who sports a mustache and messy hair. That man looks at Jake like he emits pure light. Eyes squinted slightly with a smile too big to be contained with a closed jaw. That's Rooster. That's Jake's soulmate. There's no other explanation as to why the blond would be holding the other man so incredibly close, with his hands gripping into the material of Rooster's flight suit.
To Jake's other side is a woman. Her smile is smaller, almost practiced, but true joy emits from her eyes. With slicked back hair and sharp brows, she looks all business, like a woman not to be fucked with. But a friend, maybe? Her nametape is too small to read, but as one of the only women in the squad, she won't be too hard to pick out of the crowd. It's the man standing next to her that throws me. Another familiar face stands to her side, Rhett, only with shorter hair and glasses perched on the bridge of his nose. My eyebrows scrunch, mimicking my father's expression.
"Yeah, that's him," I confirm, my eyes still tracking over the faces in the photograph.
"Why do you ask, sweet pea?"
"I met a man on accident, really, his name is Rhett, and his friend was with him, this man here, Jake. We actually ended up on the same flight" I watch my father nod in understanding, one of his hands coming up to brush at his nonexistent five o'clock shadow. I huff, averting my eyes for the next part. "I might have had my soulmate sentence encounter earlier this afternoon," The confession is sheepish at best. I don't meet his eyes. There's no point. I know the expression he wears now and I know I can't handle it in this moment. There's already been enough crying.
"Was it with him? With Hangman?" I watch from the corner of my eye as my father's eyebrows knit together impossibly tighter. His voice is pinched at the callsign, lips tight around it.
"Yes, it was him, but that's not really the point, Dad," My eyes trail over him in the photograph again, but I'm pulled back to Rhett, confusion gnawing inside of my skull, just behind my eyes, "How old is this photograph, because this is Rhett right here, and he told me he wasn't military," I want to ask him if he really knows his aviators all that well, considering the lack of acknowledgement on his features.
"That photo was taken after their last mission, wasn't more than a few weeks ago, right after they all graduated their advanced training. It's recent, and there's nobody in that squad named Rhett,"
"There has to be! This is him, right here next to that woman. I swear it's him!" My fingernail, all chipped polish and sparkles, clinks against the glass, my father leaning closer to get a better look before plucking the frame from my gently shaking hands.
"Sweet pea, I think you're mistaken," His tone sounds like his words are treading a minefield somewhere deep in his throat. I can't help but cough at the thought. That tension bristles between us again, electric like a storm. My fingers knit through my hair to keep from chipping more of my nail polish from my already scraped up nails.
"That," My father taps the glass with his finger, "Is Lieutenant Floyd"
"Lieutenant Floyd?"
"Yes, Lieutenant Floyd," There's a faux confidence in his tone, the same one he used to use when he would call home to say he'd only be gone a little while longer.
"Dad," I raise my eyebrows as I finally swing my eyeline back up to meet his, "What is Lieutenant Floyd's first name?"
He sputters a bit, a hand rubbing at the lack of stubble on his chin. There's a sort of furrow to his brow, one I recognize, even if the rest of his features are laid out in a way I have never come to know. My father has always been a sure man, steadfast in his actions, information spread out in his brain easy to access. This grappling for an answer is unlike him, but it makes him seem impossibly more human.
"Oh, Dad," The words are spoken with slight exasperation laced in the low chuckle that springs forth from deep within my chest. "If you don't want to tell me, that's fine. I'll just ask the very nice Lieutenant who let me in earlier, she seemed... knowledgeable,"
I am met with the deep roll of my father's eyes, his hands no longer scrubbing over his face, instead he rubs carefully at his temples. His reaction makes me grip a little harder at my hair. It's stupid, this battle between us. Something left over from the strife of my youth; what we clung to with white knuckles and bloody nail beds just to keep a semblance of a relationship. It's all adolescent animosity stripped to adulthood anonymity, achingly arduous.
"Honestly, Birdie," The words travel on an exhale, "I don't know his first name. Hell, I don't know most of them, especially if they don't give me trouble. I've always called him Lieutenant, barely ever needed Floyd tacked on the end,"
My father shrugs his shoulders unceremoniously, plopping the photograph back down onto the corner of his desk. He leans back into the long line of his desk, his usually pristine tan uniform wrinkling with the way he almost folds in on himself. My tongue flicks over my teeth as I fight the grimace I can feel rising over my features. I try and school my face back into pleasant nonchalance, much like my father usually does, however I think it's a skill better mastered with each star pinned to his collar.
"Can I say something?" There's too much honesty in the way the words crackle out. I nod; it's easier that way. My hands find home near my hips, my thumbs tucked into my belt loops in a shallow attempt to keep from continuing the pull on my roots.
"For what feels like forever now, it's just been you, your brother and I against the world. Just the three of us, and I know not having your mother has been one of the most challenging things, for all of us. I know there has always been this bond that Arrow and I have had, and maybe it's because he is my son, or because he decided that the Navy was his calling too. Either way, I know that there's a foundation there, one that you and I just don't have," I can feel the tears welling up in my eyes, but I do my best to blink them back. The more he speaks, the more the sight of him swims.
"But, I want you to know that even though you and I have struggled," There's a little trace of humor there, but neither of us comment on it, "I love you so fucking much, kid. So much that my chest aches. And I knew this day was coming- your soulmate encounter. God, kid, I am so excited for you, but so fucking scared because you're my baby bird and I don't want anything bad to happen to you, I love you too much,"
There are tears steaking down his cheeks, a sight I haven't seen since my mother passed away. It makes my own chest ache in turn, seeing the strongest man I have ever known begin to crumble. With two quick steps, I am in my father's embrace. His arms are warm, cradling me into his chest, my face into the sandalwood scent of his collar. The stars pinned there less of an obstacle between us, now. He lets a land run over my spine, palm flat to my back, the warmth pooling through my top.
"I'll love you no matter what, kid, even if your soulmate is some military rat like me," He laughs, low and rumbling, into my hair.
"I love you, too, Dad, so much," I mumble into his collarbone, a smile pulling at the corners of my mouth. I can feel my tears sinking into the cotton of his shirt, the tan darkening with moisture. He doesn't seem to mind, or if he does, he doesn't say a thing. We stand there like that for a while, embracing. It's my father who breaks the silence.
"So, kid," He clears his throat in an attempt to hide the mangled bit to tears that still sits on the back of his tongue, "Tell me, how did it all happen? What did Hangman say?" The distaste in my father's tone is evident. I pull away from the embrace with a rueful laugh, one that stirs around that anxious feeling that's been ever present since the airport.
"Well," The word is all sigh, "Jake, Hangman or whatever you call him, was on the phone listening to his voicemail and Rhett had asked him who the message was from, you know? It was a pretty long message," I babble out the last sentence, trying to get to the point, but the words are stuck somewhere under my tongue.
My father just nods at me, allowing me the space to continue. Instead, I plop down into one of the chairs that sits in front of his desk, ones that are meant for official meetings rather than anxiety soaked realizations. I scrub a hand over my face before winding my fingers through my hair again, gentler this time. He stares at me, patient eyes and expression neutral. It's practiced, but genuine. I stare at he ground in front of my shoes when I can no longer meet his gaze.
"Rhett asked who it was," I begin again, back tracking a bit, "And Jake looked at him and said Oh, it's just Bob and that was it. I've had these words on my skin for so long that I thought hearing them would be so easy, but Dad, I panicked,"
"Oh Birdie, it's okay," My father hums, giving me a small grin on the side of reassurance, "It's not always like the stories, the fairytales are just to give us hope, but that's not how life is supposed to play out. It's alright,"
"It gets worse," My words are wet, "I ran, Dad, I ran. I heard him say that and I ran out of the airport and into the first cab I could find. I came straight here, I didn't know what else to do. I didn't even stick around to figure out exactly who Bob is to Jake. God, this whole situation gives me as much anxiety as a baby on board a pond jumper, look at me, I'm shaking like a fucking leaf."
"What did you just say?"
"I said I'm shaking like a leaf, look at me!" I laugh, but it catches in my throat and comes out all gargled. I hold my hands out, watching the way they tremor at the thought of it all.
"No, not that," My father shakes his head, "The thing about the pond jumper,"
"I dunno, Dad, it was an analogy," I reply, it's all furrowed brows and tired voice. as if it could be anything else at this point. I watch my father's expression turn quizzical, his eyes tracking though the air as if he's watching a hop. His nose twitches for a second before he schools his expression back. His hands tighten a bit around the edge of his desk, then he's clicking his tongue to punctuate a sort of silent eureka moment.
"Come with me, kid, I think there's someone we need to go talk to," Then he's pushing himself form the desk and heading towards the door with the same conviction the Admiral meets everything with.
"What?" I push myself from my seat but can't keep my shoulders from sagging. He's stopped at the door, turning back to offer just a hint more.
"I think you and I need to go see Captain Mitchell," There's distain in his voice at the name. I bite at my lower lip, tucking my hands back through my belt loops.
"Why do we need to see Captain Michell? Isn't he the man you can't stand?" I ask, following after him. The whole thing seems futile but a curiosity thrums between my ribs. We pass the nice Lieutenant's desk, her seat vacant, before turning down the hall. It's not long before we are out on the air field and heading towards one of the large carriers.
“The least you can do is tell me where you go at night,” she said, voice straining with barely contained frustration. “I just want to make sure you’re safe.”
His eyes didn’t meet hers. “It’s none of your business.”
