XVI.

The sound of his jagged breaths is loud within the confines of his helmet, heavy panting steaming against the face mask and making it too humid to breathe. So he gasps and swallows even larger gulps of air, perpetuating what he realizes is a vicious circle of hyperventilation. He should take off the helmet, or at least lift the face piece, but every muscle in his body has gone stiff. If he even takes his eyes off the black horizon, he might send him and Toothless spinning.

Hiccup's hands are welded in a tight grip around his saddle's handlebars. His arms shake, though, feeling entirely too weak and numb. In his ears, his pulse roars, and the echo of it in his chest is a painful, bruising slam. Each heartbeat feels like a punch to the ribs. The overwhelming attack of sensation is a familiar kind of panic, the knowledge that he's done something wrong. Again.

He can't breathe. The thin air isn't enough. So he screams.

Bulg is quieter than usual. Hiccup takes a swig from his flask as he strolls through the dark paths of the little village, observing the structural damage of a house here, a fence there. There are scorch marks, some forever scarred into doorways and some that look like somebody's tried to scrub them off of stone. He should feel a little guilt, he thinks, but he's had enough to drink that he's already past that.

Toothless didn't want to come here. After making their first stop, he grew more and more unhappy about their journey south. He tried turning them around, nipping at Hiccup's foot in the pedal, grumbling his distaste. But the further they fly from the icy north, the clearer the rider's head becomes.

He doesn't need to be sober to find his way through the maze of similar houses, lined up like pastries on a baker's tray. He knows the alleys by memory, accustomed to searching in even the drunkest, haziest daze. There's even a little comfort in the familiarity of this walk, a strange sense of relaxing normalcy that soothes his jittery nerves.

Locating the right window with ease, he leans against the exterior wall of the house and caps his flask. With one hand, he tucks the flask into his vest, and with the other, he scratches at the slatted shutters. The following beat of silence is filled with an anxiety he's trying to numb. Hiccup waits, listening for noise inside, and then he raps his knuckles against the window.

There's a shuffling on the other side of the wall– a brief sound at first, and then followed by a series of rustlings and clatters. The latch is unlocked from the inside, and the shutters are suddenly pushed open so wide that they nearly hit him.

Ingrid shoves her head out the window, eyes wide and searching in the moonlight. They fall on him, and her brows climb high. "Horrendous!"

One corner of his mouth lifts, attempting a grin but not quite achieving sincerity. "Don't wake your mother," he whispers back. "Come let me in the back door."

With a breathless smile, she retreats and locks the window shut once more. He pushes away from the wall– ignoring the tipsy twirl of his off-kilter balance– and uses his hand to trace the corner of the small house in the dark. By the time he approaches the back entrance, the door is already opening. Ingrid peeks out to check for any witnesses before letting him inside.

She's wrapped a blanket around her shoulders, and it envelops him when he steps forward to accept her open arms. She smells like florals and clean laundry, and her hair is smooth and loose against his cheek.

"Hey," she breathes, warmth in her voice. Pulling back but not away, she straightens his sweaty bangs with her fingers. "We were hoping you'd show up soon. I'm glad you're safe."

"I'm fine," he replies, giving her arms a short squeeze. A thread of panic attempts to climb up his throat, to scream that it's a lie, but he swallows it down and tastes the burn of alcohol on his tongue.

Ingrid steps away, adjusting the blanket around her shoulders and starting towards the kitchen. "I'll start some water for tea," she murmurs. "You know where the blankets are, you can set some up by the fire."

Before she can get too far, he reaches for her elbow, pulling her short. She blinks back, confused, until she sees the hard set of his jaw. He tugs a little, trying to bring her closer. "I didn't come for a place to crash."

Sighing, she shakes her head just a little but can't seem to look away. "Ren…"

He slides his hand down her arm until he can lace his fingers with hers. They're warm and soft and familiar, slender and feminine. When he tries pulling her closer this time, she gives into the tug. Eyes the color of wheat in the noon-day sun search his face, full lips parting just slightly.

Usually when he dips his head to kiss her, she meets him halfway. This time she only barely tilts her chin upwards to meet his mouth. The melding of their lips is both easy and strangely different. He knows the taste of her well, has her body memorized by touch, but there's a new hint of unfamiliar strangeness between them. Something just slight enough to be ignored.

Slowly, she melts in his arms. Exhaling a quiet whimper, she settles against him so that their chests meet with every breath. His hands slide around to her back, feeling the warmth of her skin beneath the thin fabric of her nightgown. His pulse quickens, body heating. She finds his sides and holds onto the belt around his waist.

Something about Ingrid has always made it very easy for him to forget. Maybe it's the fact that he's usually drunk when he stumbles into her room, or maybe it's just the semi-magical effect of a beautiful woman. Nonetheless, when she shyly allows his tongue to trace the tip of hers, the past and his problems drip away like rain left on a doorstep. It's certainly not always like that. In fact, he's used to being torn open by memories lately, to feel the knife of clarity whenever he's with–

That unraveling ball of thought is snipped short by a pained gasp for air. Hiccup screws his eyes shut, lifts a hand to knot in Ingrid's hair and hold her face firmly to his. Her whispered moan should banish his distractions the way it always does, but it plays like a chord strummed from badly tuned strings. Hiccup twists and pushes her forward so he can press her into the wall.

"Ren," she breathes, palms sliding up his chest. He kisses a sloppy trail down her throat, pushing back her hair to reach her exposed collarbone. Her body arches against him, and for a brief moment, he feels it– that pride, the feeling of doing something right. He closes his mouth over that spot, sucking until she begins to squirm and scratch at his clothes.

"Oh– Ren," she groans again, and he's encouraged by the sound. Ren is capable and controlled and uncageable. Ren protects and pleases. He blindly scrapes a hand up the curve of her waist, gropes at the soft swell of her breast for a moment before reaching for the laces of her gown. His fingers are a little clumsy in his inebriation, but they tug the knot free after a couple of tries. "Ren. Horrendous, stop."

That word hits him, bringing his attention to focus the way a hammer to the thumb startles him in the forge. Her command isn't sharp or frightened, but firm. He pulls back with alarm.

"What? What is it?" He swallows, trying to catch his breath.

Examining her face in the dark, she looks like the definition of sin. Dark hair tumbling around her flushed cheeks, lips swollen and panting. She's dropped her blanket, and her nightgown hangs off one shoulder, wide neckline nearly exposing her.

"We can't," she tells him, even with desire still coloring her voice. Her hands rest on his biceps, gently holding him back. "Not anymore."

He doesn't mean for a frustrated swear to slip free, but it does. Cupping his fingers around the back of her neck, he leans down to meet her gaze. "You know it's not like that," he tells her, keeping his volume at a whisper. "I didn't get married because I wanted to."

"I know." Ingrid wets her lips. "I know you didn't get a say in it. I know it was your parents, that you and Astrid aren't sweethearts or anything. But it doesn't feel right, Horrendous. It's not fair to her or me."

This isn't the time for morality to find a foothold in their less-than-proper relationship. He resists the urge to grit his teeth. "What if I told you I left her?" Even as he says them, the words taste awful. They sound much harsher in the air than they did in his head.

His lover's eyes widen. He can almost make out a ring of light surrounding her pupils. "Did you?"

"Mm." It's not really a confirmation. He doesn't want to nod. But he guesses that's what he did, in the end.

"Horrendous!" her hands drop. The incredulity in her tone doesn't sound happy. "You left your wife? Why?"

Hiccup takes a step back. Why is she questioning him? Why is she like this? Never before has she taken such an interest in his personal affairs, content to wait for his next visit and be his distraction for a night.

"It wasn't working," he answers, a little perturbed. "I can't trust her. She doesn't like me."

Ingrid folds her arms in front of her chest, glancing at the floor before looking back up at him. She moves so that her back isn't pressed into the wall. "It seems to me like she's the one who shouldn't trust you." Crossing the space between them, she reaches for his hand, but he pulls it away reflexively. "I care about you, Ren, I do. But this doesn't just concern us anymore– you have someone you need to take care of. Somebody depending on you."

That shouldn't cut so deep. This familiar place shouldn't feel like it's shrinking, like the walls are closing in on him. It's been a safe haven for the past three years, a comfortable space he can turn to after a hard drink or a harder night. Not anymore. Even this place is different now.

"She doesn't need me," he mutters, already taking a step backwards, towards the door. He hears his mother's voice– you can't keep running!– and shakes his head as if to shake it off. "She practically told me to go."

"Did she?" Ingrid lifts one brow. She doesn't look any less beautiful, but somehow less appealing.

He scoffs. "She didn't try to stop me."

"Should she have to?"

The crawling dread he'd choked down earlier is finding its way back up. Hiccup rakes his fingers through his hair, glaring at her in betrayal. She's supposed to be his ally, not more opposition. Not another reminder of everything he wants to forget. Was she always like this? Good? Maybe he was always too distracted to notice.

Her frown is disappointed, the crease in her brow deep. She stares at the floor, not even granting him eye contact. "Don't come to me anymore, Horrendous. Go back to your wife."

He's turning on his heel and storming outside before the guilt has a chance to catch up with him.

He's not sure how, but somehow he finds himself banging on a door in the black hours of night. It's just a few hours before sunrise– or maybe a few after sunset. All the details are a blurred fog, lost to the dizziness.

"Fiske!" He shouts, slamming his fist against the door. His forehead hits the wood, and he tries to dig his nails in to hold himself straight when the ground suddenly tilts. "Fiske, open up, dammit!" In the distance, someone yells out their window for him to be quiet, but he only knocks louder. "I need a drink!"

Hiccup groans when there's no response, giving the door a kick. "Fiske!"

It suddenly swings open, and he falls forward with a blurted yelp. Large hands grab his arms, shake him aright. There's angry words in his ear that he can't quite make out, but he can see past Fiske's shoulder and see a scowling woman lingering by the back room.

"That's your wife?" he slurs, pointing to the woman in her nightgown. "You said she was ugly."

Fiske makes a noise of recognition, pulling him straight and shoving him against the doorway. He searches the younger man's face, expression shocked. "Horrendous?"

Hiccup puts a hand on the barkeep's chest. "I need a drink."

Fiske curls his upper lip and leans back. "Smells like you've had a few." He turns to his wife, dragging him inside but keeping a strong grip on his upper arm. "Go back to bed. It's Horrendous."

Waving, Hiccup tries to greet the woman, but she keeps her arms crossed disapprovingly and looks him up and down before disappearing into the back.

Fiske helps him stumble towards the hearth, sitting him down in a chair by the almost-dead fire. His body feels heavy, and his arms fall to the sides as he slouches in the seat. "I need something strong," he mumbles, head rolling to the side. "I am way too lucid right now."

"There was a raid," the other man says in a low voice. He moves around behind the bar for a few seconds, and Hiccup hears the sound of liquid pouring. "Nobody's seen you. We thought you'd gotten yourself killed."

"I had some… family matters to attend to." Snorting, he shakes his head, but that makes the room spin. When Fiske sets down the mug on the table, it takes Hiccup a few tries before he can grab the handle. Bringing it to his mouth, his drink spills over the side and dribbles down his shirt. He takes one sip and spits it out. "This is water, you asshole!"

"I know. Drink it." Fiske refuses the mug that he tries to press back into his hands, holding Hiccup by the wrist to keep it in his grip. He'd never thought of Fiske as a particularly intimidating guy, but damn, he's strong. There's muscle beneath his bear-like frame. "Drink the water and I'll give you something else."

"I don't want it!" He tries to pull his arm back while pushing the drink away. It splashes onto his lap and chest. "I need alcohol! I really don't feel like remembering everything!"

"Water first. Then we'll talk." His tone is firm, adamant. Just like Ingrid, talking to him like he's the unreasonable one for expecting ale from a barkeep or affection from a lover. They're the ones acting out of character, not him. How is it that he can see that, even while drunk, but they can't?

"I'm not drinking it!" He snarls, kicking out and making contact with the burly man's knee.

"Fine." Fiske hisses, tossing the mug full of water in his face. "Then wear it."

Hiccup coughs and splutters, using his shoulder to wipe his cheek. He cusses. His cold shirt instantly sticks to his skin, making him squirm uncomfortably. Fiske crosses the room and gently shuts the back door that leads to the second floor.

"I just need a drink," Hiccup groans, pulling at his dripping clothes. Trying to sit up proves to be a bad idea– he loses his balance and falls out of his chair, on his hands and knees in front of the hearth. He fumbles at his pocket for a second before procuring his empty flask. "I need… before it wears off…"

Fiske comes to stand over him, smacking the flask out of his hand. "I'm used to dealing with drunks, but if you wake my kids, Horrendous, you're on the street."

His kids. What a good father. Like a second lightning bolt choosing him from the sky, pain tears through his chest. His face crumples, and Hiccup throws his palms to his eyes to disguise it. "Too late…" He tries to laugh, but it comes out too rough. "Fuck."

Fiske's shadow looms over him, and then he's kneeling. "What's going on, Horrendous? Talk to me."

"I fucked up," he breathes, voice cracking. Fissures of regret split through him. "I fucked up."

"Horrendous, what happened? What's going on? Horrendous? Horrendous–"

"That's not my name!" he suddenly growls, reaching out a hand to shove him away, but his aim fails. Fiske grabs his shoulders, holding him still, even as he shouts, "It's not my name! Don't call me that!"

"Okay, okay, okay!" The older man gives him a hard shake to calm him. It helps a little bit. "What's your name? What's your name?"

He fights the heavy tilt of gravity to lift his head and meet the barkeep's eyes. "…'s Hiccup."

"Hiccup?"

A harsh chuckle escapes. "I know, right? Perfect for me." He winces. "The hiccup. The useless runt! The fuck-up."

Fiske grabs his face by the chin, holds it so he can't look away. It actually hurts a little, but his tongue is too numb to tell him so. "What's going on, Hiccup? What'd you fuck up?"

And because he can't help it, he cries. Hot tears spill over his cheeks, mixing strangely with the chilled water drenching his hair and clothes. "Astrid," he chokes out, because if he says too much more, his quiet tears will become pathetic sobs. "Astrid. I fucked up."

His tone instantly sharpens with concern. "Astrid– your wife? What'd you do, Hiccup? Did you hit her? Was it a dragon? Where is she?"

He shakes his head, despite the nauseating way it makes his stomach turn. "She's pregnant," he gasps. "I got her pregnant."

As if in relief, Fiske slumps to the floor, releasing him. For a moment, he's quiet. Exhaling slowly, he rubs his face with his palms and then reaches over. He gives Hiccup's knee a pat. "It's okay. You're okay."

"I got her pregnant," he whispers again, almost to himself. Shoving his hands through his hair, he knots his fingers so tightly it almost hurts. Things weren't supposed to happen this way. He was supposed to be able to leave her behind, and the pain, and Berk with it. Let it all burn.

The older Viking takes his shoulder, squeezes it tight. He shifts so he can duck his head to try and catch Hiccup's gaze. Just that feels too heavy, like Fiske might see him for the disgusting bastard he is, so he turns his head away. "You didn't fuck up, Hiccup." Fiske's voice is low and gravelly. "You didn't fuck up. That's what husbands do. They put babes in their wives."

Biting his lip so he won't cough on anymore embarrassing tears, he shakes his head. "I can't be a father. I can't– I'm not that kind of man." His hands find the barkeep's shirt and turn to fists in the fabric. "I ruined everything. I wanted her so I took her, and now– now…" He can't even finish his sentence. He just sees the hard set of Astrid's gaze when she told his mother, let him. "I disappointed my own dad. He's an ass. And now I'm the exact same kind of shitty parent. I can't– I can't be what she needs."

For a second, all he can do is sob and hate himself. Fiske's arms jerk him upwards, wrap around his shoulders and squeeze him close. He's not quite the size of Stoick the Vast, but he's a big man, and it makes him think of childhood tears. He misses his dad, damn him. For all the chief of Berk has become, as cruel and awful as it was of him to throw Astrid to the mercy of the Dragon Master– he's still his father. There's something to be said for the comfort of a familiar embrace.

"Just take some breaths, okay?" Large hands pat at his back. "This is just the alcohol. It'll pass."

"It's not." Hiccup pushes away, swipes his forearm across his wet face. "This is me. Cowardly and disloyal and perpetually intoxicated." It's all coming out now, his dirty truths. "I can't do anything right. Can't protect anyone. I told a secret that ended dozens of innocent lives. I got my own cousin killed. I left a whole village of people to be slaughtered, and my own village to starve and die." Even now, though, he can't bear to confess the worst of it– that he left his pretend wife the minute he found out she was carrying his child.

He grits his teeth against another onslaught of tears. "How– how does that kind of person become a good husband? A good father? Someone that selfish, that… weak?"

Fiske doesn't argue with him, doesn't try to justify anything he's just admitted. Staring intently, he holds Hiccup's head between his hands. "You can only try." His low voice is even. It reminds him of the night Snotlout died, when Astrid put her palms on either side of his face and told him it would be okay. "You just try."

Hiccup swallows thickly. "What if I screw up? What if she hates me?" There was a glint in her eyes that night. A challenge. A fear. He proved that fear right. And he knows her well enough not to expect her easy forgiveness. If he can even earn it at all.

"You try again," he answers promptly and calmly. "And you love her anyways."

"I never said I loved her." Watery eyes cut aside, fixing Fiske in a weak glare.

"You didn't have to."

Waking is weird. It's not a sound that rouses him, not a bright light or a touch. Just the odd sensation of being watched. Of having someone's eyes on him. Blinking through the knives of morning stabbing through his lashes, he squints up from the hard floor and groans at the headache it disturbs.

Standing above him are two children, both younger than ten and watching him silently. He freezes, alarmed, but then he recognizes his surroundings. They almost look different in the light of day. He doesn't remember the walk to the bar, but a few flashing memories definitely place him there before passing out.

"You Fiske's kids?" he mumbles, his voice scraping through a throat that feels like Nightmare scales. There's an awful taste on his tongue and a ringing in his ears.

The older of the two, a girl with two pigtail braids, puts her hands on her knees and examines him with scrutiny. "We're s'posed to let Mama know when you're awake."

Hiccup looks at her, waiting for her to run off to her mother. When she doesn't, he shifts his gaze to the boy a couple years younger than her at her side. He chews on one finger and watches with wide, dazed eyes. Disturbing. His glance slips back to the girl. "Well? Are you going to go tell her?"

"Yeah, I guess," she answers, as if she's inconvenienced by this duty. Straightening, she continues to stare. "Are you one of Papa's friends?"

He shrugs in near bafflement, rubbing his fingertips into one eye. "Yeah, I guess."

She points behind him, to the hearth. "How come you're sleeping there?"

Pushing up onto his elbow, he examines his positioning. He's sprawled on the hard floor with the stone at his back, long legs tangled around the legs of a chair. He doesn't remember removing his vest either, but it's folded like a pillow where his head had been lying. It's not the most uncomfortable place he's ended up after drinking. Definitely not the weirdest.

"My bed was taken," he half replies.

This seems to satisfy her curiosity well enough. With a shrug, she turns and starts towards the cracked back door. The girl tugs on her brother's arm when she realizes he's not following and drags him along.

Hiccup sits up with a groan, pinching the bridge of his nose and leaning against his knees. His stomach roils, and his tongue scrapes over fuzzy-feeling teeth. Swallowing hard, he slowly pushes to his feet and ambles to the front door. His eyes sting. His head feels like it's being crushed beneath a Gronkle's foot.

After relieving himself outside, he rights his clothing and reluctantly ducks back inside. He straightens a few chairs, nudges his usual table back into alignment. His flask is sitting on the corner of the hearth. He pulls his vest on and tucks the empty flask inside.

The back door creaks open, and the little girl from before pokes her head out. "Mama wants you," she informs him, pushing the door wide before running behind the stairs to the kitchen in the far back. He can hear pittering footsteps and the sound of rustling.

He's never spoken to Fiske's wife. The glimpse he caught of her in the doorway is the closest they've ever gotten to meeting, and she'd looked sorely annoyed that he'd roused her from her sleep. He's not really sure what to expect. Still, he did disturb their night and sleep on their floor, so he grudgingly crosses behind the long bar and follows the barkeep's daughter to the family's living spaces.

In the kitchen, he sees both children sitting at a small table, eating bite-sized pieces of ham straight from the tabletop, no plate or utensils in sight. The boy is still and quiet, but the little girl watches him enter and swings her feet.

At the island, Fiske's wife scowls down at the strange root she's slicing. She's tall and slender-built, but with a softness around her arms, belly, and face. Light brown hair is pulled into tight braids, making her look cold and severe. Pretty, in a way, but a little harsh. Much like the night before, she wears an expression of distaste, making Hiccup wonder if that's just the natural setting of her face.

He still remembers Fiske's answer when he'd been asked if his wife was nice– "Meaner than a cat in heat." It's a little unnerving.

She points her knife over the cutting board but doesn't look up when he awkwardly steps inside. "Drink that," she says of the mug across from her.

Hiccup hesitates. Then, realizing the kids are watching and waiting, he clears his throat and obeys. The mug is full to the brim with something creamy-looking and unappetizing. From the sour smell of it, he's not sure he wants to take even a sip. There's not much of a choice, though, so he chugs it down as quickly as possible and tries not to gag too noticeably. Luckily, he's gotten plenty of practice with his mother.

"What is that?" he rasps, hoping the question doesn't sound too disgusted. He looks into the mug. There's clumps of something sticking to the bottom.

"For hangovers," she answered, still focused on the task at hand. The root in her hand looks like some sort of distorted tuber– white-ish and fat, with gnarled limbs sprouting from either side. She's got her eyes fixed on it as she cuts it into thin disks. "Fiske fixed it before going to bed."

He's not sure what to do with the empty mug in his hand, so he slowly sets it back down in front of him. Finally, the woman's eyes flick to him.

"Here." She steps back and hands him the knife, handle first. "Do this."

Unsure, he accepts the blade, but he feels uncomfortable and awkward at a cutting board. He's never been one to cook extensively. Usually, shoving a fish on a stick and holding it over a fire is the closest he gets to preparing a meal. Still, he's a little afraid to disobey, so he edges around the island and takes her place. The strange vegetable feels smooth to the touch. It smells pleasant and vaguely familiar.

As he unsteadily begins slicing the way she'd been, Fiske's wife crosses the room, removing a small pot from over the fire. Hiccup observes as she sets it down next to him and begins throwing handfuls of the thin disks into a clear liquid.

"Watch what you're doing," she snaps. He instantly reacts. "If you get blood on my table, you're cleaning it off."

"What are you making?" He's curious, and the strange root is weird enough to make him wonder. They haven't even really been introduced, and yet she's commanding him around her kitchen like a master.

"Candied ginger," she sighs. For a shocking moment, her tone is so strikingly familiar, and he realizes that her daughter answered him in the exact same way. As if simply replying is a nuisance. He's blown away by how such a tiny trait could be passed on.

"Ginger," he echoes, looking down at the cutting board. A slightly exotic spice from the east, supposedly good on pork. He's heard of it before but never seen or tasted it himself.

"It settles the stomach," she tells him, somehow managing to make him feel stupid as she speaks. He wonders if she's always this condescending or if she's making a special effort just for him. "It'll help your wife with her nausea. The sugar will help, too, if she can't make herself eat anything else."

"Nausea?" His hand pauses, fingers rearranging themselves on the handle of the knife. What exactly had he said while drunk?

"It's a good thing." She stirs the ginger into what he realizes is melted sugar with a large wooden spoon. "The sicker the mother, the healthier the babe."

"She's sick?" The thought hadn't occurred to him. He looks at Fiske's wife with wide eyes, and the returning stare she gives him makes him think she's convinced he's an idiot.

"I've never met a pregnant woman who wasn't," she says flatly. "It'll fade in the last few months. Until then, let her eat what she can and what she wants. If she craves something, it's really what the little one wants."

Stunned, Hiccup finds himself gaping. That anxiety starts crawling up the back of his neck, cued by talk of little ones. He tries to tell his heart not to race, wets his dry lips. Fiske's wife is sharing new information, things he wouldn't have even thought to ask. Of course, having born two children, she's probably an expert on the subject. Words are stuck in his throat, the picture of Astrid's tense posture stuck in his mind.

"I set aside some of Wyn and Greta's old things," she goes on. "It's not much, but you can take them with you. There's a maternity tunic, too. I've never met your wife. I don't know if it'll fit." The older woman doesn't look up from her bowl, though she does reach in and take a small piece of ginger for herself. She doesn't seem to notice Hiccup's dropped jaw as she chews distractedly.

He sets down the knife. Lowers his voice so the observant children won't listen in. "Why are you doing this? Telling me all this?"

She stops her stirring and looks up, mouth pursing. She looks him up and down, ending with an even gaze on his face. "You dress a lot like the Phantom."

His heart skips a beat.

"He's been looking after my family for years. Someday, I'd like to repay him by looking after his."