Finding Hiccup - Modern!Au ✔️

thirty nine

Dr. Gobber loves the bipolar homicidal maniac story.
Well, I say "loves." He actually groans and clutches his hair with both hands and says "Seriously?" And I can see him writing Outreach program—schools? EDUCATE??? on his notepad.
But I just laugh. I mean, it is funny, even if it's all wrong too. You have to see that.
I laugh a lot more when I see Dr. Gobber these days. And I talk a lot more. For a long time it seemed like he had more to say than I did. It seemed like he did most of the talking and I did most of the listening. (To be fair, I wasn't wild about communication of any type when we first met. To be even more fair, at our first session I wouldn't even come in the room, let alone look at him, let alone speak.) But now things have flipped the other way. I have so much to tell him! About Astrid, Nathan, all my trips out, that time I went on the bus and didn't panic one bit...
"So anyway, I reckon I'm done," I say as I finish my last story. "I'm cooked."
"Cooked?"
"Cured."

"Right." Dr. Gobber taps his pencil thoughtfully. "Which means..."
"You know. I'm fine. Back to normal."
"You're certainly making very good progress. I'm delighted, Henry. Really delighted."
"No, not just 'good progress,' " I say impatiently. "I'm back to normal. I mean, you know. Practically."
"Mmhhm." Dr. Gobber always leaves a polite pause before he contradicts me. "You haven't been back to school yet," he points out. "You're still wearing dark glasses. You're still on medication."
"OK, I said 'practically.' " I feel a spike of anger. "You don't have to be so negative."
"Henry, I just need you to be realistic."
"I am!"
"Remember the graph of your progress that I drew? The jagged line?"
"Yes, well, that graph is old news," I say. "This is my graph."
I stand up, march to the white board and draw a straight line, zooming up to the stars. "This is me. No more down. Only up."
Dr. Gobber sighs. "Henry, I'd love that to be true. But the overwhelming majority of patients recovering from an episode such as yours will encounter setbacks. And that's fine. It's normal."
"Well, I've had all my setbacks." I look at him stonily. "I've done setbacks, OK? I'm just not having any more. It's not happening."
"I know you're frustrated, Henry—"
"I'm thinking positive. What's wrong with that?"
"Nothing. Just don't overdo it. Don't put pressure on yourself. The danger is that you give yourself a real setback."
"I'm fine," I say resolutely.

"Yes, you are." He nods. "But you're also fragile. Imagine a mended china plate which hasn't quite set."
"I'm a plate?" I say sardonically, but Dr. Gobber doesn't rise to it.
"I had a patient a few years ago, very similar to you, Henry, who was at the same stage of his recovery. He decided to go to Disneyland Paris, against my advice." He rolls his eyes. "Disneyland! Of all places!"
Even the idea of Disneyland makes me wince, not that I'll admit that to Dr. Gobber.
"What happened?" I can't resist asking.
"It was far too much for him. He had to come home from the trip early. Then he felt he'd failed. His mood sank to the lowest it had been, and it didn't do his progress any good."
"Well, I won't go to Disneyland." I fold my arms. "So."
"Good. I know you're sensible." As Dr. Gobber surveys me, his mouth twitches. "You've got your spirit back, at any rate. And life is good?"
"Life is good."
"And Ally is still..." He pauses delicately.
"Ally." I nod. "She's still Ally. She says hi, by the way."
"Oh!" Dr. Gobber seems taken aback. "Well, say hi back."
"And she says, 'Good job.' "
There's silence and a little smile creeps round Dr. Gobber's face. "Well," he says. "You can say that back to her too. I'd like to meet this Ally."
"Yeah, well, don't get your hopes up," I say with a deadpan shrug. "She's mine."