#sigrid and shrapnel haddock

[tysonrunningfox]

Open Flames: Chapter 20

Also known as...the epilogue

Ao3 

If I asked Fuse what her favorite part of our honeymonth was, I’d guess it was when I told my mom to ‘go away’ a little less than charitably because she thought she could interrupt our second day of wedded bliss to ask some question about some random thing that Acting Chief Hiccup could obviously handle.  If Fuse asked me the same question, I’d probably say what happened immediately after I told my mom to ‘go away’, because that was a memorable way to accidentally knock the weapons rack off of the wall and then realize no one could yell at us because it is our wall. 

If this hypothetical conversation happened in the first few days after the wedding, in that wave of the novelty of true, uninterruptible privacy that momentarily made Fuse do her best and mostly succeed to forget that she was pretty miserably pregnant, my answer would have garnered an enthusiastic response.  Any other time in the last month she probably would have rolled her eyes and asked me to rub her feet. 

Which I would have done.  Happily.  Without question. 

As always, I’d do anything to make Fuse safer or better. 

But this morning, when she assured me that burning Snoggletog breakfast didn’t make her sick while her hands curled into white-knuckled balls of pain at her side, there was nothing I could do.  She told me to get the midwife with the same even voice she uses to guide shaky hands into building bombs, and I did it, moving mechanically like she always wants me to around explosives. 

All day, for the first time, I haven’t been able to stop what’s hurting her.  My axe hanging useless on the crooked weapons rack, fists clenched against the urge to try and take control of the uncontrollable. 

“Does he need to wait outside?”  The midwife asks, yanking me out of my panic, and Fuse – Fuse, who I put into this situation – has the gall to look worried about me for a mortifying second.  “If he forgot how to move, I can get Arvid to drag him out by his toes.” 

Not a good look for a Chief. Or a man.

Or a dad. 

“Fuck,” I swear at the situation. At the house. At myself.  At the obligation to compose my face, to be a Chief, to be there for Fuse even when I want to apologize over and over every time I see the contents of one of those medical buckets.  “I’m good.  I’m good.” 

And then Fuse is breaking my hand and the midwife is encouraging her and then silence.  The worst thing I’ve ever heard. 

It stretches.  Seconds.  Years.  Eons. 

My useless axe couldn’t cut the tension.

My knees shake. 

Then there’s a cry. 

A baby’s cry. 

A shrill, instantly recognizable cry that makes me want to get that axe and face outwards from the doorway, but I can’t, because the baby is wrapped in a blanket and shoved hastily in my arms while the midwife works. 

“It’s a girl,” she says, offhand, like it’s not the most important thing she’ll ever say. 

And the silence in my head is the loudest, longest, beat of my life, looking down at that red little face. 

The baby’s furious.  Beyond pissed. 

I get it.

Hel, I just spent a month with nothing but Fuse and after being forced into the world I feel like sobbing.  And I have distractions. 

There’s something Fuse-like in the twist of the little girl’s anger.  Something righteous and unhinged and the weight of my two Fuse’s slams into my chest like a battering ram. 

I don’t remember sagging down against the wall, bundle in my arms. I don’t remember crying. I just know I have to wipe tears from my eyes when I hear the second cry, this one higher pitched as a wriggling, arching little thing is wrapped in another blanket.

“Another girl,” the midwife says, holding the screaming bundle in my direction. 

“You mean,” I jump upright as carefully as I can, still supporting myself on the wall, scared to take even a hand off of the bundle in my arms, “both? I—”

“You’re going to have to get used to having your hands full,” she adjusts my arms with brusque, bloody hands and sets the second baby in them. 

In theory, she pats my shoulder in a matronly way. I theoretically feel it and nod like her words made some kind of sense.  In practice, I float, lost in two tiny, indignant faces I almost recognize. 

Here they are. 

After all that, here they are. 

“Hand me the older one,” the midwife prompts and I reflexively shake my head, holding both bundles closer to my chest.  Her eyes are irritated but kind as she raises an eyebrow, “she needs to eat.  Unless you were intending to feed her.” 

“I’ll feed her,” I insist mindlessly.  “How—I mean, how do I feed her?” 

“By handing her to your wife, Chief.”  The midwife says the title like a mild admonishment, and I flush. 

“Right.  I knew that.  I know that.”  I reluctantly allow her to take the older twin, clutching the younger one to my chest as I appear by the bed, my feet insubstantial against the floor as I allow myself to take in the scene. 

Fuse.  Obviously exhausted, pink hair stuck to her face, head back against a pile of pillows. A baby in her arms, expression placid and overwhelmed as she listens to the midwife and tries to position the squirming bundle against her chest. 

I clear my throat.  She glances at me and there’s all that understanding, all that coping, all that resilience that’s always left behind after the blast.  It’s all familiar, all such a relief that I can barely breathe as I sit on the edge of the bed before my quaking knees dump me on my ass. 

The older twin goes to sleep after she eats, a squishy little bundle with red-brown hair tucked under Fuse’s arm as I reluctantly hand over the younger girl, her hair just starting to show blonde where it’s brushed clean on the blanket.  I was hoping for pink, but she has Fuse’s nose and I don’t remember the last time I was this lost for words.

Probably when I was our babies’ age and didn’t know any words. 

Gods, they don’t know any words. I have to teach them everything and keep them safe and I cradle my head in my hands, trying not to dwell on how easy it’s going to be to mess up. 

“I’m going to let you two get settled while I go tell your families,” the midwife starts picking up her supplies and I sit upright. 

“You’re leaving?”  I fumble for the words, “does that—what if—it’s over?”  I look at Fuse, all three of my Fuses, impossibly safe and tired and terrifying, because of how much they need me.  Because all that’s left in me is how much I need them. 

“Unless you think there’s a third.”  The midwife raises that eyebrow at me, and I get the feeling she’s thinking about moving to some other island with a chief who makes sense.  “I’ll be back.” 

“You’re alright.”  I let myself say it once the heavy front door is shut and we’re alone, let the relief bleed around it, let my hand shake now that I can’t drop anything. 

“That’s one word for it,” Fuse mutters under her breath, but my expression makes her pause and she sighs, shifting a bit uncomfortably, “I will be.  Just…a long day.” 

“Why?”  I snort even though I don’t think it’s explicitly a joke, scooting a little closer and barely biting back a sigh of relief when she lifts her head for me to slip my arm behind it, like she doesn’t hate me even after what I just put her through.  “Been busy?”

“A little bit.”  She glares at me, eyes blue fire, and that’s the same too, like I really managed not to lose any of her in the multiplication. 

“I’ll trade you for the next one,” I glance between the two babies, still more than a little in awe of how persistently they’re existing here, “I can do the hard part while you freak out and the midwife makes fun of you.” 

“Next one?”  She huffs, intact eyebrow raised. 

“I was operating under the impression that the grumpiness was supposed to end when you weren’t pregnant anymore,” I joke, kissing her forehead, happy pang in my stomach when that little blonde head nestles against my chest. 

“To be fair, I said I’d be grumpy as long as I couldn’t see my toes,” she leans back against my arm a little harder, circles under her eyes prominent as the other baby fusses, less furious than before, little hand fisting in the blanket. 

I glance at Fuse’s foot peeking out from the blankets and laugh, “and you haven’t looked yet?” 

“I don’t intend to.”  She almost laughs, breathy and exhausted as she leans a little harder into my side.  The older twin fusses again, bordering on a cry. “Can you take her?”  She asks, a little unsure of herself, holding the little blonde bundle like some rare and exciting mineral she hasn’t worked with before, but believes will combust especially impressively. 

“Sure.  Yeah.”  I nod, apologizing at least a dozen times under my breath throughout the clumsy shuffle as Fuse adjusts the blankets and picks up the older baby, steady hand gentle against the back of her neck. 

My hands feel too big, too rough, ill-equipped and shaky as my thumb brushes a blonde curl away from a tiny furrowed eyebrow.  Fuse’s eyebrow as if it had never been burned, focused on something no one else can see. 

“Gods, she looks like you,” Fuse mumbles, looking down at the older twin in her arms, temple on my chest. 

“Are you kidding me?”  I kiss the top of her head, “did you hear her screaming?  All you.” 

“This is your morning face,” she insists, “exactly.” 

I look down at the babies, the older one’s grumpy face and the younger one’s blonde curls, seeing Fuse in every twitch of tiny fingers. 

“We have to name them,” I say a bit slowly, awkwardly, trying not to show how nervous I’ve been for this part.  It’s obvious that Fuse picks up on it anyway because she kisses my shirt and sighs, settling in for a conversation she’s obviously too tired to want to have.  “I can’t keep referring to them as ‘older’ and ‘younger’ in my head.” 

“One and two?”  She offers and I shake my head. 

“Of course, when I have my first opportunity to mess a kid up for life, I double down.”  I can’t imagine shoving some of my own generational baggage down onto either of the nameless girls’ beautiful, wrinkled faces.  I’m not going to lie, I feel like I’ve gotten off the hook a little bit because Eret IV, Hiccup IV, and Stoick III are all out of the running just due to gender. 

“Sounds like you,” Fuse wakes up enough to mull the problem over properly, “they don’t look like Nuts to me.” 

“Do twins names have to go together?  Like a set?”  I love how our house feels like an extension of my mind, like anything I think, I can say out loud and it’ll find purchase, not judgement.  “Thunder and Drum.  Or rhyme?  Inga and Helga.”  Nothing sounds right, and Fuse agrees from the way she shifts, silence heavy, shoulder digging into my ribs.  “Purchase,” I gesture to the baby in her arms, “and Free Gift The Merchant Threw In For A Loyal Customer.” 

“That’s a little wordy.” 

“Maybe we should work off your name?”  I don’t bring up mine and she doesn’t either and I love her so much I don’t know where to put it all.  I’m glad for the girls to collect the love that feels like it’s spilling over.  “Fuse, Grenade, and Aftershock.  Casing and Powder.  Blast and Shrapnel.” 

She snorts half a tired laugh before sitting up a little straighter, “wait, Shrapnel.” 

“I was kidding.” 

“I’m not,” she tickles a chubby foot that has escaped the blanket bundle on my lap, “she is the second wave of destruction after the explosion.” 

“Fuse and Shrapnel.”  I mull it over and nod, “I like it.  Halfway done.” 

“The easy half,” she bounces the little girl in her arms. 

“Just because Shrapnel is a side effect of an explosion doesn’t mean she’s not destructive,” I chide gently, that heavy bond in my chest deepening when I look at the baby on my lap and tie a name to her. 

“No, I—whatever we choose has to sound good with Chief in front of it.” 

“Oh.”  I swallow, “I hadn’t thought of that.” 

“The future Chief of Berk,” Fuse says quietly, messing with chubby fingers until the baby girl’s face furrows. 

I want to deflect.  To say something stupid about how Shrapnel could stage a coup at any time.  I want to tell Fuse that she doesn’t have to worry about that now, just how I want to tell her that she doesn’t have to worry about the mantle of Chief’s wife. 

But she’s right.  And as much as I hate needing it, especially now, her support makes the hazy future feel possible. 

How much can I really mess up this dad thing if Fuse is helping me? 

“So, it’s got to be easy to pronounce,” I swallow hard, “you know how Christians have problems with Viking names.” 

“And it has to be strong.  If she looks like you this much already, of course she’s going to be strong.” 

I don’t see any of my scrawny, freckled mess in the baby’s perfect little face, but it’s not the time to argue. 

“I hope she’s smarter than me,” I rest my cheek on Fuse’s head, “a little quicker on the uptake, maybe.  Some of your common sense couldn’t hurt.” 

“So, something with some strength, some wisdom.”  A smile leaks into her voice, the kind of sly smile that usually only follows billowing smoke and destruction, “something that looks good in an Edda claiming victory over an enemy.” 

“There are a few Sigrids in my family tree,” I offer, “victorious, wise, easy for Christians to pronounce as they run away screaming.”  

“Sigrid Haddock, Heir to the throne of Berk,” Fuse whispers like she’s scared to say it louder, like I’m not the only one who feels like I’m going to wake up to some other, worse reality.  “How do we make it official?” 

“I think I just tell Rolf to write it down,” I kiss her ear, the top of her head, trying to communicate how amazing she is and knowing I’ll never quite get there, “one of the perks of being Chief.” 

Fuse hums in agreement, half asleep, and I’m settling in for a shift as her dedicated pillow when the front door swings open and the midwife steps inside, asking how Fuse is doing and leading a small group of people along with her.

Tuffnut is first, holding a stuffed Zippleback toy half his size with a white knuckled grip and a worried expression that I recognize as similar to my own before I realized that Fuse was ok.  My mom is white faced but excited, eyes widening when she sees the baby on my lap.  My dad is with her, also searching for the babies, counting really, like he also doesn’t trust the good news until he catalogs everyone. 

Hiccup trails behind a little bit, as unsure if he’s invited as his name is in my head, and I kiss the top of Fuse’s head as I wiggle my arm out from behind her, standing slowly, carefully, Shrapnel’s tiny body more precious and fragile than anything I’ve ever held. 

“Can you shut the door?”  I ask when the Snoggletog wind whips through the room, trying not to panic when the gust of cold makes Shrapnel’s face screw up as she lets out a single, indignant cry.  “It’s ok,” I bounce her like I’ve seen Rolf do, but it doesn’t seem to cheer her up any, “your grandpa is shutting the door.” 

“On it,” he says too quickly, and if I weren’t so busy trying to prevent my baby from crying, I’d comment on how Hiccup sounds like he’s about to join in. 

“Two healthy baby girls,” the midwife assures as the door clicks shut and my dad tosses a log on the fire without me having to ask, “one healthy mom.” 

Mom. 

Fuse is a mom. 

It’s the first time I’ve heard it and I look up at her, again searching for some sort of change, something that’s getting away from me.  But she’s still Fuse, thanking her dad for the Zippleback and rolling her eyes when he ruffles her hair. 

“One overwhelmed new dad,” Hiccup jokes and I nod, willingly admitting to that much. 

Dad. 

I’m a dad.  It’s different when people say it out loud. 

“Do you want to hold her?”  I ask, glancing at Fuse to double check that it’s ok, but she’s already handed off Sigrid to her dad, who’s cooing enthusiastically over her and saying something about the chaos she’ll cause. 

“Y—Absolutely,” Hiccup nods and I carefully rest my daughter—I have a daughter.  I have two daughters—in his arms. 

“Hold her head.” 

“Of course,” he says, humoring me, even as Mom steps up beside him and gives me a fond, exasperated smile. 

“He has held a baby before.” 

“You haven’t been a dad before,” he tells her gently, voice low as he rocks Shrapnel, “he’s got to be protective, he can’t help it.” 

“She’s beautiful.”  When Mom looks between her husband and me, there’s a ghost of that old ‘what if’ I used to hate on his face, but now it just makes me think about what it would have felt like not to be able to hold my baby the second they came into the world.  “Older or younger?”

“Younger,” I nod, “by all of a few minutes, so I don’t know how much it matters but…” 

“It’ll matter to them,” my dad points out, very carefully taking Sigrid from Tuffnut and smiling at her. 

“Ruffnut never forgave me for beating her on the way out,” Tuffnut shakes his head, “you’ve got a long life of guilt trips ahead of you, little miss.”  He frowns, “assuming this one is the girl twin.” 

“They’re both girls,” I correct him, risking the few steps of distance from my parents to stand next to Fuse, hand on her shoulder. 

“Yeah, but which one’s the boy?”  He asks and Fuse sighs, exhausted. 

“Dad, there’s no boy.” 

“But they’re twins.”  Tuffnut looks around the room confused and for the first time today, the midwife is looking at someone other than me like they’re the dumbest person on Midgard. 

“Twins who are both girls,” Hiccup cradles the head, like I asked, as he hands Shrapnel carefully to my mom. 

“Yeah, but which one’s the boy?” 

“Neither,” I say, the room feeling a little smaller than it did a few minutes ago.  A little more cramped.  “Because they’re both girls.” 

“No, really,” he laughs, “which one’s the boy?” 

I look down at Fuse, her pale face barely sustaining her irritated expression, and sometimes, the Chief mantle isn’t as heavy as I feared it would be. 

“Ok, everybody out,” I clap my hands together before reaching out towards my dad, “baby please.” 

“I’m just asking—”

“Tuffnut,” I nudge my chin towards the door as I accept Sigrid, “get out of my house.” 

“Mom needs her rest,” the midwife is finally my ally, helping me herd the extra family towards the door. 

“Are you sure you don’t need any help?” My mom asks, hesitant to hand Shrapnel over. 

“I’m good,” I insist, feeling overwhelmed but symmetrical when she sets the baby in my free arm.  

“Come on,” Hiccup takes her hand and tugs, and I don’t know what to do with how easy it is for him to be on my side right now, but I’m glad for it, “let’s get back to the feast, I have a lot to brag about.” 

“If you’re sure—”

“He’s sure,” Dad helps move her towards the door and then we’re alone again.  The four of us. 

My family within the family. 

Fuse yawns, scooting down in bed a bit with a wince that makes my chest hurt. 

“Get some rest,” I look down at the babies in my arms, both of their eyes closed, their barely there weight soothing.  “I’ve got this for a while.” 

“You could put them down and come rest with me,” she offers, already comfortable in the center of the bed and I smile. 

“Maybe later,” I shrug, barely, my always moving hands finally forced still like Fuse is always trying to do.  “I’ve got a lot to tell these girls, might as well get started.” 

“They need to sleep too,” she says like she feels like she has to, but she’s looking at me with a soft, hazy expression I can’t possibly deserve before she yawns again. 

“I’m not stopping them.”  I adjust my grip and Sigrid’s little hand escapes the blanket, fingers curling reflexively against my shirt.  “They like my voice, remember?” 

“I love you,” she says, quiet and sleepy, tugging the blankets further around her shoulders. 

“Love you too.”  I’m not sure if she hears me, because her light snores start almost immediately, chest rising and falling evenly under the covers. 

I walk to the small front window, mostly to check on the snow, but the torchlight in the village catches my eye.  My village. 

I look down at my daughters.  Our village. 

“This is Berk,” I whisper, swallowing hard and watching the fluffy snow drift towards the ground, casting shadows across my babies’ faces when it passes in front of the moon.  “Our home for eight—well, nine generations.  It snows so much that the only way you can really tell that it’s winter is when you haven’t seen the sun for the better part of a month.  The food is…mostly mutton, I’m not going to lie to you.  Lots of mutton now that we have fewer dragons than ever, but that’s alright, the ones sticking around are family.” 

I’m unsure what to do with the feeling that this day, this conversation, this moment is the first of many, not part of a countdown, but I’m glad for the change.