Work Text:
Heather has always said he’s free to use the kitchen.
Hiccup knows this. He knows, because she repeats it every time he asks to cook, and then she always follows it up with “you live here now, you can do whatever you want”. But it doesn’t stop him from feeling unsafe whenever he tries to make cereal.
In the back of his mind, a voice that sounds suspiciously like his therapist’s tells him it’s Trauma, it’s Not His Fault, it’s Leftover Adrenaline from his Unsafe and Abusive Living Situation– but that doesn’t even help, because what can he do? Nothing– nothing. He can’t do anything to fix himself, so he just… doesn’t eat.
It works for a while, and then Dagur has a shift and Heather takes Windshear for a walk through the local park, and Hiccup is left home alone for an hour.
He practically bathes in it, spinning around the house like an idiot. Toothless mews at him, and Hiccup laughs, picking the cat up and spinning him around too. A wave of guilt hits him all of a sudden and he freezes; Dagur and Heather were so kind in opening their house up to him, offering him a place to stay and giving him their guest room– they don’t even have a guest room anymore, because it’s his– and now he’s celebrating their absence.
“It’s not that,” he says under his breath, and Toothless seems to tilt his head. “It’s not that. It’s not that I want them gone. I don’t even– I don’t have the right to want them gone, this is their house, I’m just– I’m an intruder, Toothless. I don’t even belong here.”
Toothless growls quietly, and Hiccup kisses the top of his head. “I’m sorry, bud. I’m being– I’m being stupid. This is just… this is hard, okay?”
Toothless scrabbles to escape his grip, and Hiccup puts him down on the couch, where he curls up for a moment and then immediately scampers off to the kitchen.
Hiccup’s eyes follow, landing on the loaf of bread on the countertop– maybe this is his chance, his opportunity, to use the kitchen. He follows Toothless into the kitchen, twisting the tie on the loaf and taking out two slices of bread. He takes a deep breath, closing his eyes briefly before slapping his thighs and opening the fridge.
Surveying his options, Hiccup remembers how he used to make food– sneaking almonds and semi–sweet chocolate to his room, slipping oatmeal sachets under his shirt so that his father wouldn’t see. He never made food in the kitchen– the most he’d ever do was a coffee.
Suddenly, Hiccup feels disgusted, guilty, physically sick, and he slams the fridge door shut, lowering himself to the floor before he has time to fall. He breathes shakily, leans against the cupboard to ground himself, and buries his head in his arms.
The front door opens at some point, and Hiccup listens as Heather walks through the house, placing Windshear’s leash on the hall table and taking her boots off. Eventually, she calls out, “I’m home! I’m hungry, we should heat up that leftover pasta.”
Hiccup can’t bring himself to answer, and she enters the kitchen and gasps, bending to his level and placing a hand on his shoulder. “Hiccup, what’s wrong? Are you okay?”
Heather sits down next to him, and Hiccup whispers, “I was… I just wanted a sandwich. I couldn’t.” He stares at her, waiting for her to berate him and call him stupid, but she doesn’t, instead pulling him into her arms and hugging him tightly.
“It must be hard to adjust,” she says softly. “I’m sorry.”
“I should have adjusted by now,” Hiccup sniffs, and she sighs. “Recovery can be slow. You need to let yourself process in your own time.”
“I thought I was better.”
Heather smiles sadly at him, stands up, and opens the fridge, retrieving a Tupperware container of spaghetti bolognese. “You don’t have to be, not yet. I just… I want you to know that you’ll never get in trouble for taking care of yourself here.”
Hiccup returns the smile, slightly watery, but a smile nonetheless. He doesn’t get up for a while longer, but when he does, the kitchen seems slightly less threatening.