Riders of B E R K

Part 31: Quis custodiet ipsos custodes?

I refused to let him out of my sight when we got into the infirmary, recalling his reluctance to come here, as we manoeuvred him onto a couch and uncovered the horrible wounds on his arm. He turned his battered face to me and his grip tightened on my hand as I gaped at the deep slice into his skin. By me, Ragnar winced at the damage to his hand.

"He was going to cut my finger off," he said faintly. "Um...it was okay because he wanted to cut me up piece by piece so a few cuts are really nothing, Astrid..." I stared at him, unable to process what he was saying. Nothing? Oh, God-this was horrible.

"Hiccup...this isn't nothing," I tell him softly. His eyes conveyed his pain and he nodded.

"I know," he sighed. "But what does complaining achieve? It's done." He sounded defeated, accepting of the fact he still seemed to be everybody's punchbag and I felt my fury rise.

"And whoever did this has to pay!" I said tightly. He managed to quirk the smallest smile.

"Um...I think you may have already shot him dead," he reminded me softly. I stared at him and relaxed.

"Okay, not the best example," I muttered. "Just stay with me while Ragnar..."

"I want you to stitch me up," he told me quietly. I gaped.

"I-I..." I can't. Because it will hurt and I can't hurt you. "Hiccup..."

"I trust you, Astrid," he told me simply, though he saw the hesitation and uncertainty in my eyes. "Please..." And his big green eyes pleaded as well. Dammit, Hiccup. Why do you have to be so...you? Why can't I say no?

"Ragnar does your hand and I will do your arm," I bargained. He read my face and nodded.

"Okay," he conceded. And so I found myself trembling, my stomach dancing with anxiety and nausea in my throat. This is why you don't treat family members: you can't keep the emotional distance you need to do a procedure, to accept that you will hurt people when you are helping them. And he was brave: he barely flinched as I injected the local and cleaned the wound, his eyes were calm as I put each suture in with my shaking hand, he kept talking to me and reassuring me that it looked great. And I tried not to see the tightness of his face and the hitch in his voice as I completed the task but he was grateful and the trust in his eyes never wavered. Ragnar had done his hand because the cut was deeper and far more awkward and frankly, he had loads more experience.

We headed back to his room-gods only knew what time it was but it had been another horrendously long and busy day. Scratch that-a nightmarish and traumatic day. He was leaning on me, quiet and brooding as we reached his room. He needed human contact and he never let me go, all the way back. So when he let himself in, I followed and read the gratitude in his eyes at my continued presence. I puttered around, tidying things up and folding away discarded clothes as he shrugged his shirt off-it would need washing. I grabbed it and his scarf as well, taking them to his shower room and grabbing the soap, scrubbing hard to get the blood out and get them clean. After about five minutes of careful work, I had done all I could and only the faintest of stains remained. They just needed a run through a normal wash cycle-so I draped them over the towel rail and came out-to find him already in bed, dressed in a grey T-shirt and shorts, his prosthetic carefully propped against the wall. He looked exhausted, with deep shadows under his eyes and his battered face weary. I walked up to him and leaned forward to kiss him goodnight but he grabbed my hand and stared up into my eyes.

"Stay," he pleaded softly and I sighed but not unwillingly, because it had been a really trying day as well. As I moved, I remembered my cheek was bruised and I had been punched and kicked and involved in a car crash: the prospect of snuggling up against Hiccup was actually really appealing. So I quickly shrugged off my jeans and shoes and slid in beside him. He snuggled close and wrapped his arms around me.