#we'er here now and it's weird

[lone-starlight]

i'm sorry that everything sucks right now, star :(

you're not losing it though, the rest of us really are seeing this. we'ere here too and we're all with you

-🌵

Yeah... I know. I like the reassurance though.

... My memory is weird and inconsistent, has been my entire life. I forget things that everyone else seems to know, but remember things no one else does, to the point they tell me it didn't happen, even though I'm sure it did. It infuriates me sometimes...

The only people who really seem to believe me are my mom and stepdad... and even then, he's often skeptical...

[tysonrunningfox]

Ripped Part 26

Ao3

Hiccup has had one other psychological evaluation.  It was when he got out of the hospital, and it went about the same as this one. 

In other words, not well. 

It turns out that being a white male with a rough relationship with an impossible to please, now absent father figure who also happens to have a long history of childhood bullying raises some red flags.  At least last time he was fifteen and still theoretically moldable, instead of a twenty-five-year-old serial murder suspect who just happened to spend the last few years giving nightly tours about the very murders he allegedly copied. 

So maybe it went worse this time. 

The one bright point was probably the crack in the psychologist’s clinical veneer when Hiccup assured her that no, in fact, he did not have any history of killing animals and he actually loved his childhood cat very much until it died at the ripe old age of eighteen.  Of natural causes. 

When assuring a mental health professional that he does not now and never has enjoyed torturing animals is a high point, it’s safe to say that this has been a long week.  A long month, really.  A long year. 

Hell, a long life. 

Jail has a way of stretching minutes into hours and squeezing hours into dull, ceaseless blinks of an eye.  He understands now why people used to mark the dungeon walls when they got fed or caught a glimpse of the sun, because the days blurring together is enough to make Hiccup feel as crazy as the psychiatrist assumed he was. 

Not that his version of crazy would ever mean killing cats.  His version of crazy appears to mean long, elaborate daydreams of a private shower with a locking door, and also practically unfettered glee when he sees his lawyer because that means he gets to go to a room with a comfortable chair for a while and talk to someone not assuming his guilt. 

A straight-faced guard in an NWF uniform walks Hiccup down to the long bank of stalls along a plexiglass barrier.  The guard gestures to the last stall and Hiccup sits down in the office chair that might as well be a throne of perfectly fluffed pillows after sitting on his thin mattress all day.  His back relaxes enough to hurt, and he exhales a long, slow breath and focuses on Eretson filling out a form before taking the seat on the other side of the plexiglass and picking up the dingy white plastic phone. 

“How are you?” Eretson asks out of politeness, not expecting a real answer. 

Hiccup almost gives him one anyway, but he doesn’t think it would make him feel any better to say that he’s in jail, it’s miserable, he’s been terrified for so long that he’s mostly just exhausted, and he doesn’t think the psychiatrist liked him very much because she didn’t laugh at any of his jokes. 

He settles instead for, “I’m here.” 

“How is everything going?” Eretson asks, writing on a legal pad in neat, oversized block letters.  Grisly?

They can’t be sure if anything is being recorded on the ancient phone system, but silence is suspicious too. 

“Oh, you know, I’m just being in jail.  It’s pretty lonely not talking to anyone but your lawyer,” Hiccup laughs, not explicitly trying to sound tired but not holding it back either. 

“Any family that you want to visit?  I know your mom has been in contact.” 

Hiccup swallows hard, “it’s a long flight, she doesn’t need to spend the money just to see me make a fashion statement in orange.”  It doesn’t stop him from thinking about her though, how confused she’d be.  How angry she’d be if she knew the truth. 

His mom is the only woman who ever made his dad back down from an argument and for a second, he lets himself imagine that she could save him.  Yell at Grisly, start a picket line, demand reform. 

But Grisly isn’t someone to yell at.  He’d have no issue adding to his body count. 

It makes Hiccup want to scream, and rave, and get a poster-board at a busy intersection to help him spread the truth, and if it were his own life he was risking, he’d do it.  But it’s not. 

“How is everyone?”  He asks, and if Eretson knows who he’s really asking about, he doesn’t show it.  His poker face is exhausting, adding to the dreary blur of days in jail.  If Hiccup had been making marks on the dungeon wall for every time he won a reaction out of someone, he’d have a single mark made immediately after being placed in his cell, awarded for getting under Grisly’s skin during processing. 

“Everything is fine,” Eretson could be lying and Hiccup probably wouldn’t know it, but the thought of something happening to Snotlout or Astrid and not even knowing is too much to even speculate on.  It’s the kind of thought that keeps him up at night, counting dimples in the popcorn ceiling to fill the dead space in his mind.  “I do want to talk about your options moving towards a trial.” 

“Oh God, did the profiler tell you that I’m crazy?”  Hiccup laughs under his breath, “because I think she confused my attempts at humor for debilitating psychological issues.”  He continues babbling when Eretson doesn’t laugh, “not that I know anything about that.  I’m just speaking from what I’ve seen on TV.” 

“The profile is just one piece of the case,” Eretson assures, “and you don’t quite fit the profile of a serial murderer.” 

“What does ‘not quite’ mean?  Is it just the white male, daddy issues thing or did some of my answers partially fit the serial murderer profile?” 

“For future reference, saying that Viggo Grimborn is a ‘hobby’ is a bit suspicious.” 

“I’ll file that away for the next time I get criminally profiled,” Hiccup nods, “with my luck I’ll probably need it.  Should I have said that I actually picked up yoga like my doctor told me to?” 

“I finally got access to Grisly’s evidence file,” Eretson changes the subject and Hiccup bites the inside of his cheek to keep from asking if he’s ever laughed, even once, “and it’s going to take a while to look through it all and compare it to my own, but so far it’s more airtight than I would have expected.” 

Hiccup has never been very good at not saying what he feels, or even delaying saying what he feels, but glancing at the NWF guard out of the corner of his eye helps him shove his rant back down. 

“Oh.” 

“Of course, forensics is still working, but that could take months—”

“Months?”  Hiccup knows the theory of the word, in that the year is broken into twelve more or less even pieces consisting of approximately thirty days each.  There’s something about the moon in there too.  But in practice?  The concept of spending months in this limbo is foreign and impossible, defying some belief held so strongly that it feels like a physical law.  “How long have I been in here?” 

“Five days.” 

“And you’re saying months until a trial.” 

“Under current timelines, yes.”  Eretson goes to make another note but then decides against it, speaking carefully instead.  “And given the unique circumstances of your situation, I don’t believe that waiting months is the best path forward.” 

Hiccup hears the truth between the words:  Leaving Grisly to his own devices for months gives him more time to bulletproof his lies and clean up his evidence.   His throat tightens when he thinks of Astrid and how much danger she’s in. 

“Have you told anyone what I told you about…the case?”  He tries, “you know, about their um, continued involvement in the case as it progresses?”  His eyes scream about Grisly’s threats and Eretson must get the message because he shakes his head. 

“No, I haven’t, I think it’s best to minimize Miss Hofferson’s involvement at this point, given all how many times her name comes up in the file.” 

Hiccup doesn’t know Miss Hofferson.  Miss Hofferson threatened a harassment claim at one point, sure, but she ceased to exist when Astrid came into the picture.  Astrid with her glares and her bony fists and misty eyes when she looks at old books.  Astrid impatient for the truth, impatient for the point of a roundabout story, always moving and trying and inviting him to try too. 

“Don’t you think…I mean, wouldn’t it be better for her to know the situation?”  His throat is dry, and swallowing doesn’t seem to help. 

“I thought of something that could potentially move the process along faster,” Eretson ignores Hiccup’s question, not unkindly just devoted to keeping the meeting on track, and Hiccup presses the phone closer to his face, forcing himself to focus. “We haven’t considered a plea deal.” 

“A plea deal?  Like taking a driving course to knock a few points off of a driving ticket?” 

“In this case, a confession and promise to divulge information about anyone else involved in the case in exchange for a reduced sentence.”  Eretson writes on the pad, Grisly coerced you into the last murder, then turned on you. 

Hiccup’s heart pounds in his ears.  One murder, not four.  It would be a better ratio if they were talking about any other crime.  One car stolen, not four.  One house broken into, not four.  But as someone who has committed zero murders, confessing to one feels monumental and terrifying and stupid. 

While he can’t honestly say he’s spent much time trying to be successful, he has made a conscious effort to not absolutely ruin his life, and confessing to a murder he didn’t commit in order to tell a bunch of lies connecting him to the man who did sounds like a very quick way to undo all of that. 

“Reduced sentence, not no sentence.” 

“It gives us leverage too,” Eretson insists, “we can argue the conditions of you coming forward with information and include minimum sentence before appeal for probation or insist on a certain facility that’s better than here.” 

“So trading months waiting for trial for some as of yet unspecified amount of time in a different cell?”  Hiccup snorts, “is there a catalog?  Do I get to choose my bedsheets and pick out a plant for the window?” 

“The prosecution would no longer have months to prepare for a trial.  As it is, they have plenty of time to build their case.”  The ‘and do other things like horribly murder your remaining loved ones’ is an unspoken addition. 

“Do you think it would work?”  Hiccup lets himself think about it, glazing over the moment he’d have to sit in front of his father’s oldest frenemy and say that he took someone’s life. 

How deep can Grisly’s cover really go?  He thinks of the man’s empty office, his horde of creepy guards seamlessly integrating with multiple levels of law enforcement.  How long would someone have to dig to find something wrong?  Would a name brought up in a plea deal be enough? 

“I have witnesses,” Eretson says, scrawling Jorgenson in purposeful letters on the pad. 

“The benefit then, is that we have a chance to direct the investigation.” 

“Towards the truth, of course.” 

“Right, the truth.”  As much as Hiccup has played fast and loose with the rules, he’s always had a steady commitment to the truth, but telling it didn’t save him.  Hell, telling the truth now would get people killed, and the silence is starting to be so deafening he’s wondering if the affects will be permanent. 

“Think about it,” Eretson starts to stand up and Hiccup fumbles for something else to talk about, anything to get some more time out of character as ‘obedient inmate’, but he’s too slow and Eretson hangs up the phone. 

He almost knocks on the plexiglass to get his attention before remembering that’s strictly against the rules, and his hand freezes mid-air when he looks over Eretson’s shoulder and sees who’s turning away from the front desk after filling out a form. 

It’s Astrid. 

She’s wearing a glare that could melt the barrier between them if she aimed it his direction instead of at Eretson and a jacket she must have borrowed from Hiccup’s coat closet.  Her arms fly out from her sides as she argues then she shoves her hands in her pockets and narrows her eyes, an expression he instantly recognizes as seething doubt.  She was clearly asking for something she thought she wasn’t going to get, and now that she’s won it, she’s unsure if it’s real. 

Then, she looks at him and her eyes widen as her shoulders slump, relief that he can hardly fathom having anything to do with him flooding across her features. 

He smiles the first real smile he’s had since she was tangled in his hoarded sheets and everything seemed like it would be ok and waves and she waves back, one half limp hand raised to shoulder height. 

Eretson crosses his arms, shoulders rigid then relaxing as he points at the chair he just vacated, saying something else that makes Astrid shoot him a sharp look before hurrying to the other side of the glass.  She practically falls into the chair, picking up the phone with shaking fingers and holding it to her ear. 

He loves her.

“Hi,” Hiccup starts, anticlimactic, and Astrid’s mouth splits into a wide, tired smile. 

He loves her and she isn’t safe here.  Not with the NWF guard at the door, not with Grisly just a buzz away. 

“Hi,” she bites her lower lip and leans forward on her elbows on the ledge in front of the window, and if it weren’t for the plexiglass, he could kiss her.  “Eretson isn’t happy that I’m here, he told me not to follow him because visiting hours were over, but I checked online and, well—”

“And you’re here.”  And he loves her, and he doesn’t want to tell her in an itchy jumpsuit over a dirty jail phone, but it’s so true and so much that he’s not sure he’ll have a choice.  “You shouldn’t be here.” 

“I’ve been told ten minutes and no discussions of ‘substance’,” she air-quotes around the word and his palms itch with how much he wants to touch her. 

Eretson is standing by the door and Hiccup idly wonders if he has his gun or if he had to turn that in to step into his lawyer shoes.  Either way, his presence feels protective, and Hiccup already told Astrid once that she shouldn’t be here, he can’t be expected to do that again.  Not when she’s right across from him, not when it’s been so long since he’s seen a friendly face. 

“That works for me, I don’t have anything of substance to talk about.”  He shrugs and she smiles, soft and fond in a way he definitely doesn’t deserve.  She’s obviously exhausted, the dark circles under her eyes making his chest ache even as the sight of her in his jacket lets him feel like he’s protecting her in some tiny way while he can’t do anything else.  “How are you?” 

“I’m fine, you?” 

“I’m here.”  It hurts more the second time. 

“Yeah,” she looks back at Eretson for a second before scooting her chair closer to the glass, “that was a stupid question.  You look like hell.” 

“Thanks,” he wipes a hand over his stubble and his cheeks heat up. 

“No, not—the beard is fine,” her smile is faint and secret and too far away, “it’s more just…” She waves her hand at him and he rolls his eyes. 

“You just gestured to all of me.” 

“All of you except your beard,” she clarifies before checking on Eretson again.  She’s not built for levity in this kind of situation and he can see a serious depth sneaking back into her eyes.  “Everything’s a mess.” 

“Hey now, that sounds like ‘substance’,” he redirects, “how’s Snotlout?” 

“When his shoulder is better to the point that I won’t literally kill him, I’m going to hit him sixty-seven separate times,” she sets her chin, resolute, “I have a tally.” 

“Are you sure he’s ok?  That sounds a little low.”

She laughs, a tinge of mischief clouding the worry in her expression, “he’s ok.  He made a point yesterday to tell me his favorite story about you.” 

“Oh God,” Hiccup’s stomach falls as his eyes widen, “what favorite story is that?” 

“You know,” she tucks her hair behind her ear but it doesn’t stay, falling back against her flushing cheek, “some girl called you ‘Viggo’ and—”

“Yep, that one.”  If Grisly came in right now and offered to kill him to make this easier, he might just let him.  “Which version was it?” 

“There are different versions?” 

“No,” he drags his palm down his face, “not—I wish there were, every other Snotlout story is blown out of proportion so much it’s easy to call bullshit, but that one…he tells that story with unflinching accuracy and dedication to the truth.”  He shakes is head, wishing he had a bucket of ice to put out the fire on his face, “sometimes there are sound effects, I’m shocked you’re here.” 

“No sound effects,” she shakes her head, “maybe he’ll do those in court though, he seems to think he can prove your innocence.” 

“I think I’d rather plead guilty than listen to Snotlout tell that story in court.”  He laughs, but it brings Eretson’s plea deal back into his conscious mind.  Just as a concept to get used to, as something neutral that takes up space in his brain until he decides what to do about it. 

“Don’t even joke about that,” she whispers, crossing her legs and tapping an anxious foot in the air.  “I’ve been looking at this from every angle and I haven’t found anything yet.” 

“That’s definitely substance—”

“Eretson isn’t listening,” she mutters, “and if I don’t do something useful, I’m going to scream, I—”

“Hey, it’s ok,” he lies, and he can’t help thinking of Grisly’s promise, “you’re safe, that’s what matters—”

“That’s a copout,” she glares, tired and alive and his chest throbs, “there has to be something that we can do.” 

“I can’t do anything,” he hates how bitter he sounds, honest for the first time in days, and something about Astrid’s solid expression is almost shocked, like she expected better or at least different of him.  “I can barely keep the days straight, I—Hell, I told a psychologist that Viggo Grimborn is a hobby and now they think—well, I guess they already thought given that I’m here—”

“Hiccup,” she sighs, palm on the plexiglass, fingertips that he can’t touch smudged with ink and library dust. 

“Eretson said that a trial could take months,” he leans his head on his hand, “and I know that, rationally.  I know that big, newsworthy trials for serial killers take months to put together, but I guess—I don’t want to do this here.” 

“Do what?” 

“Anything.”  Even he thinks he sounds pathetic now and Astrid’s frown turns disappointed, which is worse than just sad.  “I just feel useless.” 

“I can see that.”  If it were pity in her voice, it would shut him down, but it’s not.  It’s something different, something stronger.  Something annoyed, and he realizes for the first time, she’s dragging him along a path of her choice, and him digging in his heel isn’t going to stop her. 

He looks at her hand and his jumpsuit and his blurry reflection that he can see superimposed over her face on the plexiglass if he stares hard enough.  He loves her.  He thinks about that ill-fated breakfast run and what he’d be doing now if things had gone differently. 

“I guess…I spent the last few years in complete stasis, just giving tours and knowing what every day would look like before it began.  And then, well, you.”  Then he fell in love with her.  No, she changed everything before he did that, but that doesn’t make it sound any less corny.  He wouldn’t have thought she was in the mood for corny, but her eyes soften slightly even as she holds her frown in place.  He forces himself to keep talking so that he doesn’t backtrack over anything he hasn’t decided to say yet, “and I think for the first time in a while, I thought these next few months were going to be different.” 

“How?”  Of course she asks the question most likely to make him look like an idiot. 

“Aside from well, you maybe being around I hope, umm,” he clears his throat and presses the phone closer to his ear to continue, “and well, I guess I have to finally figure out what I’m going to do with my life?  Because it isn’t sensationalizing murders that are still destroying everything I love about this city even a hundred years on, and,” he swallows hard and laughs, a sharp, surprised sound, “and I think I was looking forward to it, almost.  But now that’s not happening because my next few months are all booked up.  Literally.” 

“Well, you have plenty of time to think about it,” she tries and fails to cushion the statement and it makes him smile even as his heart sinks, heavy and exhausted and desperate. 

What are the chances she’s still going to look at him like that after months? 

“That’s true.” 

“I’ll figure out how to book a conjugal trailer and we can work on your resume,” she offers, evidently satisfied with his suggested path forward.  “

“You shouldn’t,” he tries to swallow against the knot in his throat when he thinks about her on jail property, alone with him, and Grisly’s promised intent rings in his ears.  Months.  What are the chances she can evade Grisly for months if she can’t go five days without ending up here?  “It’s not safe.” 

“I obviously need to, just a few days of this and you sound like Eretson.” 

“Eretson’s right, Astrid.”  He sighs and rubs his hand over his face.  He could tell her.  The NWF guard behind him couldn’t make a move with cameras and Eretson standing right there in the lobby.  If he told her, then she’d know to run far away and—and he doesn’t now how deep Grisly’s cover goes.  

“I can take care of myself.”  Plus, looking at her fierce blue eyes, he knows that she wouldn’t run. 

Months.  Months of chances.  Months of not seeing her every day, or at all, if she’s doing what’s best for herself.  Months of limited information and fear that the next snippet that makes it through the bars on his cell will be bad. 

He’s right, it is time to figure out what he’s going to do with his life, and while he has decidedly fewer choices than he thought he would, the answer is still obvious. 

“Eretson’s right about a lot of things,” he sighs, hoping she’ll go easy on him and knowing that’s impossible, “he thinks I should take a plea deal.” 

“I told you not to joke about that—”

“I’m not joking.”  He shakes his head, taking in her furious expression.  It’s slower blooming than normal, jaw flexing and setting forward before the blue fire is truly lit in her eyes.  She’s tired, after five days, and she doesn’t now half of the truth.  He loves her, and the only draw to finally getting his shit together is that he’d be doing it with her.  He doesn’t get to do that now, but he can do something for her. 

He could tell himself that he’s doing it for Snotlout or for whoever would be unlucky enough to cross Grisly’s path next, but since he’s already planning to lie himself into a prison sentence for a murder he didn’t commit, he should probably stick to the truth, at least internally. 

“That decision is going to last more than months, Hiccup—”

“Yeah, and it’s about more than time.”  He almost tells her then, but he’s not sure what good it would do when she’s staring at him with something like hatred.  Too shocked, too sad, too helpless.  She looks like she wants to smack some sense into him and he’d let her if it meant he could touch her before he takes this step he knows he can’t retreat from. 

He wonders, briefly, if the real Viggo Grimborn ever thought about turning himself in.  When the fervor died down and no one mentioned him in the paper anymore.  Maybe he took a Victorian plea deal and got arrested for something else, something smaller, something forgiveable, but barely.  And only to some. 

If only Astrid didn’t forgive him for harassment, then he might have that ‘get out of trouble free’ card to spend now. 

Except he wouldn’t need it then, because he would have done his community service and gone right back to giving tours, staying across the street to respect a fifty-yard boundary.  No matter what, Astrid was destined to disrupt the monotony of his life, he just hoped one of the roads didn’t lead to a courtroom. 

“Hiccup,” she says his name in a tone he doesn’t recognize, half-pleading and half-insulting, both uncomfortable for her.  She opens her mouth again wordlessly, obviously unsure what to say to bring her pep talk back on track. 

“You were right, there is something I can do.” 

“No—”

“Visiting hours are over,” the NWF guard appears behind Hiccup, heavy hand on his shoulder as he looks at Astrid, recognition flickering in his otherwise brainwashed eyes.  “Time’s up.” 

“I’m not done here,” Astrid stands up, phone still pressed to her ear, glare dialed to the maximum even as Eretson steps into the room behind her and says something to get her attention. 

“Let Eretson give you a ride,” Hiccup says, memorizing how her eyes on him feel, even through plexiglass, even furious and confused, “please.” 

His cell is smaller than before.  The bed is less comfortable, the walls colder, the single light in the ceiling flickering at just the right frequency to prevent him from thinking.  His jumpsuit is itchy and his back is either too tense to hurt, or the sensation is entirely drowned out by the dull throbbing in his chest.  Most of the time, when people sacrifice themselves for the greater good, it’s faster than this.  It’s jumping in front of a bullet, not waiting alone for hours to invoke due process like a spell. 

He can’t say he’s surprised when the door to the hallway opens, and he’s definitely not surprised to see Grisly, monochromatic and rigid, danger stuffed carefully out of sight for the time being.  Hiccup’s relief is palpable and gruesome, he hates knowing what the man looks like after a kill, but he’s glad to know that this sober expression isn’t it. 

“I heard Astrid visited today,” Grisly’s smile blooms slowly as he steps out of range of the hallway cameras and Hiccup rolls his eyes. 

“Yeah?  Did a little birdie tell you?” 

“I trust you didn’t tell her anything sensitive,” he gloats, a cat pinning a mouse’s tail down and watching it struggle. 

But Hiccup isn’t struggling, not anymore.  He’s not trying to escape, he’s steering into the skid.  He’s a mouse full of rat poison, ready to dive into the belly of the beast. 

“Oh, so you can’t get the recordings from those visiting phones?  Eretson was wondering about that, thanks for the tip.”  He jokes, voice even, and Grisly straightens his uniform.  Hiccup wonders if he designed the NWF uniforms himself, and the thought strikes him as kind of pathetic.  Less of a wolf in sheep’s clothing and more of an institutional fanboy, a blatant self-insert too self-conscious to be believable. 

At least when Hiccup puts on an act, he gets real antiques.  He commits.

“I just thought I’d remind you of her…precarious situation.”  It’s bluster, painted on thick and smudged before it could dry into armor. 

“Trust me, I couldn’t forget it if I tried.” 

“Good,” Grisly’s smile is cracked around the edges, veneer wearing thin after a long day at an office job he hates, “you seem to be taking something seriously for once.  You know, maybe all of this has been good for you.” 

“The legal system is supposed to rehabilitate people after all,” Hiccup shrugs, on the weird end of a paternal lecture from someone he respects so little that he feels the need to make it clear.  “Maybe I’ll finally be an upstanding citizen when this is all over.” 

“Upstanding,” Grisly’s lip curls, eyes manic and alive for just a second before he wipes has hands on his pants and selects one key off of his keyring, “if it keeps your spirits up…” 

“Oh yeah, I’m downright chipper,” Hiccup nods, “catching up on my sleep. So, if you don’t mind,” he points at the evening sky outside and fakes a yawn. 

Grisly grits his teeth, feral for a second, canine too sharp, “of course.  Can I get you anything else while I’m being so accommodating?”

“I think I’m good for now,” Hiccup waves him towards the door, “I’ll let you know though.” 

Grisly leaves then, shoulders rigid, and Hiccup hates how the silence makes him wish he’d dragged out the conversation longer.  He tells himself that this will be over soon and tries to think about his new tour, a thrilling, courtroom-based tale of murder and eventual, inevitable betrayal.