The Worst Week of his Life

by Double_Trouble_36

Summary:

It occurred to him then, that dragons were not the heartless, thoughtless, cruel beasts he thought them to be.

 

It occurred right after, that his son was right. About everything.

 

And Stoick didn’t believe him.

 

No, what did he say? He disowned him. His own son. The boy that held the only living piece of Va– of her left. He was right:

 

He did this.

 

.o0o.

A week is a long time to be in a coma. But for one person on Berk, waiting for his son to wake up seemed to last forever.

Notes:

• For Thereweredragonshere.

HAPPY ONE YEAR ON AO3 THEREWEREDRAGONSHERE <333333

TWDH, you're an INCREDIBLE writer and i am so proud of how much you've improved and grown as a writer and artist even within a year <3 *hugs*

Chapter 1: Day 0

 

“I did this.”

 

He admitted it then, (it was easier, back then, with no one to acknowledge him but the narrow, dark slits of resent in the Night Fury’s venom–green eyes), his voice hushed, his knees digging into the gravel beneath him, his helmet pressed in the ultimate display of vulnerability to his chest. He hung his head before the cocooned, black wings, praying to every Norse God he could think of to please, oh Thor almighty, please give me my son back, please, Odin, give him your strength your life anything you can spare just please...

 

But the Fury’s eyes only regarded him with unspoken mistrust. Sotick didn’t need the creature to say a word to know exactly what he thought of him, kneeling like a peasant, begging for him to give his son back.

 

It occurred to him then, that dragons were not the heartless, thoughtless, cruel beasts he thought them to be.

 

It occurred right after, that his son was right. About everything.

 

And Stoick didn’t believe him.

 

No, what did he say? He disowned him. His own son. The boy that held the only living piece of Va– of her left. He was right:

 

He did this.

 

“I’m so sorry,” he whispered, his voice so soft he wasn’t sure if his desperate thoughts even manifested as words in the first place.

 

The Night Fury – Toothless, did Hiccup call him? – didn’t move, and for a horrifying moment, Stoick felt in his gut, like a boulder smashing into him, that Hiccup was surely dead.

 

But like the miracle he became when he was first born, Toothless opened his wings, and his son came back to life.

 

Hiccup came back alive.

 

And now, sailing back to Berk, the words choke Stoick like a fist around his throat.

 

He doesn’t need to say them. He knows, Toothless knows, the other dragon killers – or, he supposes, the dragon riders now – know, everyone on Berk knows. Everyone was watching in the arena, where Hiccup tried to prove that dragons were not the cruel, vicious monsters everyone thought them to be, and Stoick ignored it.

 

His son really tried.

 

And what does he have to show for it?

 

The bloody, burning, charred stump of his left leg.

 

Astrid Hofferson carries him, clutching his body to her chest. Stoick wanted to carry Hiccup himself, but Astrid firmly shook her head, and insisted that he needed to be back on Berk as soon as possible. And, as was made evident in recent times, dragons are marginally faster than boats.

 

His son was going to get the best care possible. Astrid, he knew, would make sure he would. The Hoffersons were known for their unwavering loyalty and determination.

 

But that didn’t mean it hurt any less to see the sky–blue outline of the Nadder soaring into the sky, Astrid looking behind her shoulder with stormy eyes, before urging the Nadder on with a “hyah!” The bloody, bandaged wreck that was Hiccup’s amputated leg was the last thing Stoick lost sight of, as they disappeared into the clouds.

 

As for Toothless... he can’t even look at him. The dragon hates him and he knows it.

 

He would hate himself too, if the roles were reversed.

 

(He doesn’t need to reverse the roles to hate himself.)

 

The teenagers riding the dragons eventually return for the next lot of people, and prepare to ferry more small groups on the backs of their dragons to Berk. When Astrid lands, Stoick approaches her, questions burning on his lips, but she barely has time to load several wounded men onto the Nadder’s back before she’s off again.

 

And Stoick is left wondering.

 

He’s not the only one who hates him. Astrid, he’s pretty sure, hates him too. Maybe Hiccup told her what he said to him that fateful day in the Great Hall.

 

The dragons go back and forth. A few curious Nadders, Gronckles, Zipplebacks and Nightmares approach the thinning group of vikings, and Astrid stays behind a little longer one time to teach them how to ride them.

 

Stoick tries to approach her then, but all she tells him is:

 

“Hiccup is fine. Go be a chief.”

 

Blunt as ever, she gives him a brief glare, blue eyes icy, and turns back to helping Bucket and Mulch get onto a Zippleback.

 

Stoick sighs, and returns to the rock he was sitting on. Even Gobber doesn’t go near him.

 

Maybe it’s respectful distance. Many vikings lose limbs, but some – especially at this age – don’t survive.

 

And Hiccup has already brushed death with his tiny, baby fingertips, contracting illness after illness that left him bedbound, and Stoick stuffing his feelings down so he could be a functional chief.

 

Stoick got out of the habit of dreading the lethal consequences of his son’s every movement when Hiccup started to work in the forge. He hoped it would give him some independence; the crucial exposure to survival in the real viking world.

 

Now all it did was snatch one of his limbs. He was there when Gobber, Mulch, Bucket, and countless other vikings lost their limbs, and he remembers the horrific screams of pain that came from Gothi’s hut, months of agonising, frustrating recovery as they relearned how to use their missing limb.

 

Oh Thor, he’s going to have to see Hiccup go through it all. He’s going to have to deal with the consequences of every action he took within the past few days – and even years – that lead to this.

“I did this,” he finally says.

 

Chapter 2: Day 1

 

Gothi arrives in the morning, and tells Stoick she isn’t sure when Hiccup will wake up. That is, if he ever does.

 

She doesn’t say the last part, but Gobber’s eyes widen, his lips press together into an imperceptible expression, and he shakes his head.

 

Stoick might not be able to read Gothi, but he can read Gobber– they’ve been friends for decades, he knows Gobber like he knows the island of Berk. It’s familiar to him.

 

Seeing his son with one leg is not.

 

It would probably be more of a concern if it weren’t for the Night Fury curled up by Hiccup’s bedside. But the dark, reptilian form snarls, a protective wing guarding Hiccup’s unmoving little body.

 

He lets Gothi go past him. Stoick isn’t sure how, but Toothless seems to understand that she’s helping him.

 

What does that say about Stoick, then, that Toothless refuses to allow him to see his son? What does this dragon think of him, to look at him with such resent?

 

Moreso, why does Stoick care what he thinks? It’s a dragon!

 

“I’m the chief, for Thor’s sake!” Stoick screams at Toothless, after pacing, contemplating this for several moments. “And I’m his father! You will let me see my son!”

 

Toothless growls, but strokes Hiccup’s forehead with the tip of his wing – without even looking behind him. As if that dragon has vigilantly eyed the front door, all while comforting Hiccup, for endless hours.

 

All the anger sinks from Stoick’s shoulders like a deflated balloon. “I’m sorry, dragon.”

 

Toothless doesn’t nod – Stoick doesn’t suppose dragons know how to do that – but his eyes flicker shut, then open again. As if to replicate a nod. Stoick does the same back to him.

 

Again, he walks forward to see his son – and Toothless lets Stoick stand by his bedside. Touching his son, Toothless has decided, is – for the time being – off limits. But Stoick stands beside Hiccup’s bed, watching Stoick now, with strange interest. Stoick feels weirdly self conscious in front of him, in a way he didn’t used to be around dragons.

 

Perhaps Toothless saving his son humanised him.

 

Or maybe, dragons never needed to be humanised in the first place.

 

Maybe, they were already as good as vikings: deserving of the same love, respect, and compassion as any Berkian.

 

He doesn’t deserve them.

 

Doesn’t deserve either of them.

 

Hiccup deserves someone better.

 

With a sigh that rattles his shoulder armour, Stoick leaves, shutting the door behind him. Toothless wouldn’t let anything or anyone lay a finger on his son, he understands that now.

 

Toothless is the guardian Hiccup never had. Toothless saved him from the man Hiccup should’ve been able to rely on.

 

And yet here they both are. Hiccup: a dragon as his sole protector. And himself: alone, his child a hair’s width from death, and only the Gods to hear his desperate prayers in the woods to please, bring his son back.

 

“I’ll do anything,” he tells them, his voice diminished to a whisper. “Anything, Odin. If I could have him back. Please, Odin, just give me back my son... he’s not ready to join you and– and Val in Valhalla.”

 

I don’t have anyone left, he thinks for a heartbeat, then stops.

 

His prayers whirl around the trees, their burnt branches mocking him as they rattle among each other in a language he won’t ever understand. And the trees are far from the only thing in which that ignorance is certain.

 

A Terrible Terror chirps on the branches above him, and his hand darts to the axe on his hip, before he realises he left it at the house. Why did he do that? The Terror poses no threat to him. Was that instinctual manoeuvre his own – or the actions of seven generations of war?

 

Is the war over now? Did– did his son end the terrible conflicts? Is this the first of many days of peace to come?

 

Perhaps. The villagers rejoice, but there can be no peace for Stoick.

 

Not without his boy.

 

Notes:

take care, stay safe, take your meds, and thank you very much for reading!!! <3 have some spoons 🥄🥄🥄🥄🥄🥄🥄🥄
[IMG DESC: 8 spoon emojis]

Chapter 3: Day 2

Summary:

i have nothing to say other than that i'm tired i hope you like this <3

 

The Riders – as they call themselves now – have generally been too busy to bother with him; rebuilding the village is time–consuming work, after all.

 

So Stoick wasn’t expecting to open his door to five forlorn teenagers.

 

And their dragons, squawking and chirping behind them.

 

“What?” He snaps.

 

Astrid blinks like it’s a shock. “We– is there any chance we can see Hiccup?”

 

Stoick slams the door.

 

“Chief!” Astrid yells.

 

“Gothi said no visitors,” he lies.

 

“Is it that dangerous for us to see Hiccup?” Snotlout retorts. “He’s literally unconscious. And we’re not armed.”

 

Not armed?! Stoick scoffs. Did it really take them less than two days for them to stop seeing those... dragons as deadly?

 

“The dragons will stay outside,” Astrid adds, as if she read his mind.

 

“No. I don’t want you anywhere near here,” Stoick warns, his voice low and rumbling.

 

Angry cries of protest come from all five vikings – an amalgamation of upset and disagreement. Stoick grabs his ears with his fists, trying desperately not to hear them. Everything inside his body shakes, that same raw terror he first felt when the Red Death emerged from the mountain flooding his veins.

 

For several moments, he forgets how to breathe.

 

When he eventually finds the courage to uncover his ears, they’re still there. Wishing, hoping, pleading. Sad, little vikings.

 

Stoick would almost pity them.

 

He opens the door. “Save your breath. You’re not seeing him.”

 

“Chief, I don’t know why you feel the need to be so defensive over us seeing our friend for five minutes,” Astrid says.

 

“Friend?!” Stoick actually laughs, for the first time in what’s probably days, shaking his head. “You were never his friend.”

 

The others all squirm, but they hold their ground. “We were there for him when he needed us,” Ruffnut argues.

 

“And you weren’t,” Tuffnut adds under his breath.

 

Stoick’s eyes slowly widen.

 

“What... did you say to me?”

 

Fear flashes across Tuffnut’s face for a heartbeat; Stoick can practically see the gears turning, the mental calculations of the risk: is this worth it?

 

But the lines on his face straighten into a frown, and Stoick knows he answered: yes.

 

“I said: you weren’t. And none of the other villagers were. Hiccup tried to tell us the dragons aren't dangerous. He warned you all, and you didn’t listen!” He finishes with triumph.

 

“I didn’t listen?–”

 

“–For once in your life, would you please just listen to me!”

 

Hiccup’s voice thuds around his head like a stray cannonball.

 

Hiccup did try to warn him.

 

He reached out to his own father.

 

And he...

 

“Chief–”

 

He didn’t listen.

 

“No!” He hollers, jabbing his finger at them, causing the twins and Fishlegs to bend back to avoid it. “This isn’t my fault; it’s all of yours. You could’ve been up in the air with him, but you weren’t. You could’ve helped, and you didn’t. You are the reason he’s dying. You couldn’t save him. You did this!”

 

The teens shrink away from the spittle flying from his mouth.

 

(He tells himself that’s why they flinch.)

 

For a moment, there’s horrible, horrible silence. A few villagers turn their heads, and Astrid’s fingers curl into fists. Stoick’s chest heaves with breathing.

 

Then, Snotlout says, a voice of stone, “we weren’t the ones who didn’t believe him.”

 

Stoick growls. The audacity... he pictures his hands around Snotlout’s neck, for a horrific moment, then banishes that thought.

 

“Go,” he commands. “Get out of my sight.”

 

At least they have the sense to scramble. Fishlegs murmurs something along the lines of, “let him grieve,” and Stoick slams the door on them all.

 

Grieve... is that what this is? Grieving the loss of his son?! But he isn’t dead! He can’t be. Stoick refuses to give up on him. He’ll be fine. If only he would just wake up...

 

He looks at him now: sweat–slicked skin, hollowing cheekbones, and a face so void of anything, Stoick fears it’s death.

 

He reaches to check, and Toothless bats him away with his tail. Something cold lingers in the animal’s bright green eyes, holding him with highest contempt.

 

Another volcano of fury burns in his chest, and Stoick reaches for one of the many weapons on the wall, before he recalls how Toothless took down a beast the size of a mountain, and decides his odds would be better off upstairs.

 

At least he knows Hiccup will be safe.

 

As he ascends the stairs, he takes one last look at his son, and pleads, “please pull through. Please, Hiccup. I... don’t know what I’d do without you.”

 

Notes:

take care, stay safe, and thank you for reading <3

Chapter 4: Day 3

Summary:

two chapters in one go, aren't you guys lucky? /lh

 

The first to return after their argument is Fishlegs.

 

“Um– may I come in? Sir?” He stammers. “I’d like to see Hiccup if that’s okay with you.” Silence. “The dragons are at the arena. We– we promise.”

 

Stoick sighs, but grunts “come in,” and Fishlegs does, followed by the other teens – and, as promised, no dragons. Not a scale in sight.

 

Toothless growls, giving them a disinterested look. He settles his head on his front paws, keeping one eye open. Watching them.

 

Stoick clears his throat – grabbing an axe off the wall for good measure, and twirling it around his wrist as they step forward to look at Hiccup’s unmoving body. Fishlegs lets out a soft cry, and Snotlout blinks, long and hard, several times. The twins gently punch each other’s shoulders – a weird, Thorston way of hugging, if Stoick recalls correctly.

 

But what’s most insulting is the way Astrid leans forward to kiss Hiccup’s bloodied forehead, and Toothless lets him.

 

“Well?” He finally says. “You’ve seen him. You can go now.”

 

“Go? We barely got here!” Ruffnut complains.

 

Fishlegs clears his throat. “I, um... I just wanted to say – Sir – that we Riders talked, and we... we feel guilty too.”

 

Stoick gives him a fierce look. “Guilty, you say?”

 

“Well– Hiccup only fought the Red Death because you, well... you didn’t... listen... to him when he said not to...”

 

His voice peters off. Maybe he was realising the error of his words.

 

Or maybe, it was something to do with Stoick slowly pacing forward, his silhouette creeping up Fishlegs’s body until he swallowed it whole, and Fishlegs’s mouth was gaping.

 

“Get out,” Stoick says. His voice is cold as ice, and low and menacing as thunder.

 

“Uh– um... I’m really very sorry, sir–”

 

“You dare question the orders of your chief?!” Lightning bolts strike in his voice, dilating Fishlegs’s pupils into tiny, terrified pinpricks. “Get out of my house!”

 

Fishlegs doesn’t stay for a moment longer. He bolts for the door, and light briefly pops into the room before the door swings shut, swallowing it in its path.

 

That’s one of them out of his way for a while. Snotlout and the twins exchange uneasy glances, before making their way to the door.

 

But Astrid, scowling, with her hand on her hip, doesn’t seem dissuaded.

 

She slowly paces to the other side of Hiccup’s bed – as if to use it for a shield – moving so slowly, it’s as if she was bored. Eventually, she places a hand on one of the bedposts, and says, “fine. Maybe the other Riders and I messed up. We were wrong, for how we all treated Hiccup, and we’re sorry. Truly. We owe him an apology.”

 

Stoick grunts in acknowledgement.

 

“But – when he wakes up – you’ll owe him an apology too.”

 

His mouth opens, fury boiling in his gut, ready to spew more hatred that he knows, deep down, she doesn’t deserve – but she’s faster.

 

“I tried to convince him to tell you and the others about the nest! I did!”

 

“You knew before this?!” Stoick gasps. “You knew about the nest?”

 

“I did, chief,” Astrid says firmly, her jaw set and stubborn. “I wanted Hiccup to tell you, but he didn’t. He did it to protect Toothless. Because he knew that, if you found out about this, you would ignore the dangers and just go ahead with whatever you thought was right.”

 

Somewhere, in the darkest trenches of his mind, he thinks: she’s just like Valka.  

 

But that thought crumbles like ash, and he hollers back, “how dare you speak to your chief this way. You have no right–”

 

“You’re only angry because it’s true,” she snaps back.

 

“The audacity... that beast of yours can only protect you so much!”

 

“Her name is Stormfly, and she’s not a beast. She’s my friend.” She says the last word with fierce pride, her eyes blazing, and Stoick wonders if she really does love Hiccup with so much ferocity.

 

“Those beasts are what almost got my boy killed.” The last word splinters out of him, and he begs every God to make Astrid not notice the sob in his voice.

 

“Those ‘beasts’ saved his life!” Astrid shouts. Toothless growls, as if to agree with her. “And if you’re not going to see sense about this, then I won’t bother!”

 

With that, she strides from the room, and slams the door in her wake.

 

Once he’s sure she is gone, Stoick’s knees turn to sawdust and he cries, bent over Hiccup’s bed.

 

Notes:

i was trying to be serious about this fic but i started imagining stoick screaming like gordon ramsay and that lowkey ruined it BYE-

take care, stay safe, and thank you for reading <3

Chapter 5: Day 4

Summary:

guyssss 3 chapters in one night i am #cooking

 

He wakes many hours later, still curled over Hiccup’s bedside. His back aches, and his damp skin is scrubbed raw against the scratchy bedsheets.

 

That won’t do. Hiccup needs furs in this weather. And in his... condition. He’s getting worse and worse by the day, having gone so long without nutrition. Maybe there’s a way to supplement him somehow. But if there is, Stoick doesn’t know it.

 

All he can do is get the furs from the cupboard nearby, and arrange them over his body, adding more and more until they swaddle him like the baby Stoick’s half–convinced he still is. All that’s left is his pale, unmoving face, still like the moon, scarred like Stoick’s fists.

 

He remembers holding him as a baby, his face as delicate as a snowflake. Swearing he’d never allow anything to happen to his little boy...

 

“You’re not a–”

 

He stood on the clifftops, showing Hiccup the land he would someday inherit, waiting every day for the time he’d get to go home just to hear Hiccup laugh.

 

“You’re not a viking–”

 

He gave Hiccup his first axe, his first helmet, his first game of Maces and Talons. He wanted to give Hiccup his rite of passage into vikinghood. He–

 

“You’re not my–”

 

Kisses, nicknames, tough love, advice, it was all for...

 

“You’re not my son.”

How could I?

He doesn’t realise he’s crying until it drips onto the furs, clumping several hairs together into a darker strand.

 

He doesn’t realise he’s sobbing until he hears the sound slowly crawling into his ears, wrenching from somewhere deep and primal in his stomach, borne of a desperate need to just have his son back.

 

“Hiccup...” his fingers scrunch into the furs, burying his face in the woody, musky smell that means home. And, by extension, means, Hiccup. “Oh, son... I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean it. I swear. You are my son. You are.” His words come, hot and desperate, bubbling from his mouth like the flames of a dragon: a last–ditch attack against the overwhelming remorse for what he’s done.

 

He disowned him. His own son. His heir. His pride and joy. His everything. The reason he went and threw himself into battle, to rid the world of these vermin so Hiccup could be safe – before he went and befriended the very thing Stoick loathed most.

 

Dragons: deadly, cruel, merciless, sky venom, made of nothing but fire and claws and–

He doesn’t realise Toothless is nuzzling his hand until his scales, dry and leathery, meet his fingers.

 

Stoick looks down, and Toothless’s eyes are meeting his. He not–quite–blinks; instead, his eyelids drop a little, then open again.

 

A human nod. As close to one as the dragon can.

 

Maybe Stoick was wrong about them. Maybe... Stoick was wrong about them all.

 

And maybe... now that he’s admitted this, the village will fall in step. Finally accept the dragons, and let them live amongst vikings.

 

Maybe... this will be a change for good.

 

Stoick looks back at Toothless, drops his eyelids, and opens them again. Toothless purrs happily.

 

This, maybe, is the beginning of a bond.

 

Chapter 6: Day 5

 

He finds them in the Great Hall, nursing mugs of what he hopes isn’t alcoholic. Their eyes are shadowed with ghosts of many sleepless nights, and their faces look old, like they’ve seen enough horror to age them lifetimes. Guilt stabs through him.

 

He clears his throat.

 

Astrid is the first to look up. “What?”

 

“You dare speak to–” he clears his throat. “I– uh... I’m here to speak with you.”

 

They all twist to look at him, frowning. Stoick knows in a heartbeat, by the cruel curvatures of their eyebrows, that they all hate him. A lot.

 

Just go for it! He screams at himself – sounding horribly similar to the days of battle where he had to switch off his brain or risk the lethal second of hesitation. “I was angry... when I shouted at you. I didn’t mean to be cruel, or to hurt you. I’m... sorry.”

 

The teens pause, all seeming to think amongst themselves, holding a conversation with only their eyes. Stoick thinks for a moment of reckless teenage years, streaked with Gobber and Valka and Spitelout and better, easier days, when it was only mead and bonafides and camaraderie and silent gestures in the heat of dragon fire and battle. When conflict was enough to bring common people together, and it never grew big enough to seep into the tight–knit cracks between each other.

 

Astrid clears her throat. “We don’t forgive you.”

 

Stoick startles. “You– what?”

 

“You were rude. And insensitive. And too–possessive.”

 

“I think he gets the point, Ruffnut,” Fishlegs whispers, fear tracing his features.

 

“But,” Astrid continues, “you were also scared for your son. And I think you’d be foolish if you aren’t still. We know how you feel.”

 

How do you know each other so well you can already say ‘we know’ and not ‘I know’? Stoick wonders in the back of his mind.

 

But instead, he squashes that strange feeling, and says, “you’re right, lass. I’m scared too. Thor, I’ve been praying to the Gods every day just for him to wake up.” He gives a soft, reminiscent chuckle. “I read to him too. Stories. I don’t have any from past his childhood–” he halts suddenly, remembering Hiccup is still a child, and a spear goes right into his chest “–well, his younger years, at least. But I like to imagine he likes hearing them again.”

 

When he finishes talking, the others are looking at him with fond smiles on their faces.

 

“Be with him,” urges Astrid. “Be with your son. He needs you.”

 

“You can–” he hesitates a beat. “You’re welcome, whenever you want to see him. Well, in the daytime. I need sleep too.” He chuckles for a moment. “But really, I was wrong to shut you out. You’re his friends.”

 

“Of course we are,” Snotlout says with a smile. “We’re the Dragon Riders.”

 

“That you are,” Stoick says with a grin of his own.

 

Chapter 7: Day 6

Summary:

to be clear, timeline wise, hiccup wakes up the day after this, i just ran out of steam for this fic rip

Notes:

the beginning segment is a real tradition in wales! thank you erin (recipient of this gift fic) for the inclusion of this :))

 

“They say,” Stoick says to the unmoving boy, “in a land not so far from here, there’s a tradition on the New Year where they take a horse’s skull, and decorate it in flowers and ribbons. Yeah, that’s right!” He exclaims, as if Hiccup were here, and conscious, and talking, able to contribute meaningfully to the conversation.

 

The room pauses.

 

“And they wrap it in cloth, and mount its head on a spear. And people parade it around, as if it’s moving around on its own. Like a ghost, all around town.”

 

(Stoick wonders, for a moment, if Hiccup dies, will his ghost wander the streets of Berk too.)

 

“And if you don’t invite this horse into your home, you’ll have bad luck for the rest of the year.”

 

Maybe it was a silly superstition, the hundreds that Stoick missed, that resulted in Hiccup lying there, with one less leg and shrinking chances of life.

 

Stoick squashes those thoughts, fearing he’d get lost in them otherwise, and smiles, stroking the hair from Hiccup’s clammy forehead. He doesn’t look any better, if Stoick’s being honest. If anything, he’s got worse.

 

Toothless growls, purrs, and lays his head on Hiccup’s unmoving chest.

 

“I know, dragon,” Stoick consoles. “I know.”

 

Just as his lips part, someone knocks – rather loudly – on the door.

 

“Hey, chief? Are you in?” Tuffnut yells.

 

“Come–” he clears his throat, which had unexpectedly gone dry, as if every second that passed was a year ageing his throat in rust, “come in.”

 

The riders burst in like a hurricane of helmets, limbs, and laughter. How they can even smile, let alone laugh, at a time like this is beyond Stoick, but they do, their grins bright as the chips of sunlight that reach through the wooden walls of his house.

 

The twins both sit cross–legged on the end of Hiccup’s bed, and Fishlegs sits on the stool Gothi usually sits on. Snotlout hesitates for several heartbeats, before settling on the floor, resting his chin on Hiccup’s bed. Astrid sits opposite Snotlout, using her arms as a pillow, and softly strokes the hair from Hiccup’s forehead.

 

And her fingers become his, their soft smiles are stolen from Stoick’s own face, and he knows then, he can count on these people to care for Hiccup.

 

“Hey... Hiccup,” Astrid eventually says, the smile dropping from her face for a second. “Stuff’s been good in the village. The dragons are assimilating nicely.”

 

“Yeah, there’s only been a few fires,” Ruffnut adds. Astrid glares, and gently smacks her on the wrist.

 

“We’re working on plans for building stables,” Fishlegs interjects. “We’d love your input i– when you wake up.”

 

“None of us actually know about building,” Snotlout says.

 

“Or dragons,” Tuffnut adds.

 

“Give Gobber some credit, he taught you lot all he knows about dragons,” Stoick interjects with something of a laugh.

 

“He essentially threw us into the arena, gave us weapons, and told us ‘good luck’!” Snotlout exclaims.

 

“That would be half of it,” Stoick admits, chuckling.

 

“So he doesn’t know about dragons?!” Snotlout bursts.

 

“Oh, he does. You should see him on the field of battle.” Stoick lets out a great guffaw of delight. “Although, I suppose we won’t have much more of that now.”

 

“Hopefully not,” Astrid agrees. She turns back to Hiccup. “It’s getting better in the village. People are a lot happier already now we don’t have to fight.”

 

“You were right,” Snotlout adds, his voice small and soft and sad. “Hiccup was right about everything.”

 

Stoick, feeling he should say something, says to the teens, “don’t feel bad. It wasn’t your fault.”

 

“Wasn’t wholly your’s either,” Tuffnut says.

 

Stoick smiles.

 

They stay there for a while longer. The teens crowd around Hiccup’s bed, telling them about the village’s reconstruction until Stoick could probably recite the blueprints in his sleep. Stoick stands, Toothless’s tail curled around Stoick’s feet as he’s seen the dragon do many times around Hiccup’s bedside, and Stoick thinks things might finally be looking up.

Notes:

take care, stay safe, take your meds, and thank you very much for reading!!! <3 have some spoons 🥄🥄🥄🥄🥄🥄🥄🥄
[IMG DESC: 8 spoon emojis]

Series this work belongs to:

• Part 1 of DT's (not) canon HTTYD episodes