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Stoick awoke, as he had done for the past three months, on a hospital bed. It wasn’t a proper bed; the nurses called them cots. It wasn’t the official hospital beds either. That bed belonged to Hiccup.
He was sleeping, for now, and Stoick almost liked it better that way. Hiccup looked ten times more peaceful when he was unconscious, and unable to feel the horrors of his own body attacking him.
Better yet, he was unable to feel his father’s utter desperation as he pleaded for doctor after doctor to take Hiccup’s illnesses seriously.
Three months, and it still wasn’t sorted. Three months since Hiccup woke up in hospital without a lower left leg. But it had been far longer since his mental health issues started, and his eating problem.
The doctors didn’t know why he couldn’t eat. Hiccup was adamant it wasn’t because he didn’t want to, rather that he was sick every time he tried to. Stoick believed him, but every doctor Hiccup had seen about the problem didn’t.
And that was only part of his slew of conditions- his dizziness, his joint pains, his constant fatigue... Even the doctors couldn’t work it out. Chasing up professionals on one thing was enough to drive a parent mad with worry and frustration. Stoick was barely handling it all together.
But, as the months went on, Stoick got a little more used to it. The nurses became his new neighbours. The Clubhouse Café across the road was his new lunch spot. His German Shepherd Skullcrusher lived with his old friend Gobber after it became clear Skullcrusher was suffering from all the time he spent alone in Stoick’s house.
And heading to the hallway machines for his morning coffee, and a fresh cup of water for Hiccup, was second nature.
The hallway buzzed with nurses and doctors. He politely nodded to the ones he recognised, and got their drinks. Holding a cup in each hand, he returned to Hiccup’s room to the sound of vomiting.
He darted inside instantly. The sight of Hiccup - his hands clamped to his mouth, bile dripping between his fingers, and his eyes open in an utterly pained expression - hit him like a truck. Three months, half those days beginning with a similar sight, and Stoick still felt like he was being stabbed in the chest every time he saw his own son suffering.
He grabbed a cardboard tray, and held it to Hiccup’s face. He released his hands, continuing to be sick. Stoick used one hand to hold the tray, and the other to brush the hair out of Hiccup’s face.
“Easy, easy... you’re alright,” he soothed. Better out than in, he almost said, before remembering Hiccup wasn’t being sick in the normal way. Better out than in was not true, because he was throwing up everything he ate. He could barely stomach water, let alone food. All his nutrients - and additional fluids - came from a series of IV drips near his bed, but the doctor was very clear the drips were a temporary fix.
“He'll have to start eating then,” he had said, like Hiccup's problems were his own fault.
Hiccup finally stopped throwing up, and Stoick handed him the cup of water. He took a few gentle sips, and spat into the tray. Then, he allowed himself a larger swallow.
“Alright, that’s...” Stoick tried to recall what he and Hiccup ate last night.
“Rice, broccoli and teriyaki chicken,” Hiccup said. “More things I can’t have. You can add those to the list.”
“I don’t understand- you said it sat fine,” Stoick said. “You were f-”
“I know, dad,” Hiccup snapped. His head hung. “I tried.”
Stoick placed the used container in the trash bin, took a wet wipe, and began wiping down Hiccup’s face. “I’m sorry, son. I didn’t mean to get cross.”
“It’s not your fault, dad,” Hiccup said tiredly. He opened his mouth, as if to say something else, but didn't.
After a pause, he said “can you get some breakfast?”
“You’re sure you can manage it?”
Hiccup shrugged. “I can try.”
Stoick thought back to the pain in his eyes when he first came in, and shuddered.
But his son was fifteen, and mature for his age. He knew his own body better than Stoick ever could. He was capable of judging how he felt and making his own decisions.
“I’ll get you some yoghurt,” he eventually said. So far, Hiccup was throwing up the least frequently on liquid foods - Stoick would know; he was documenting everything very carefully in an Excel spreadsheet. “Are you okay to be by yourself for ten minutes?”
Hiccup nodded, cleaning his hands with another wet wipe.
“Okay. I won’t be long.”
“Bye dad.”
He took the hint to leave, and made his way to the hospital cafeteria.
The wait staff knew Stoick by now, no matter who was on the morning shift. That's how long he'd spent with Hiccup in the hospital.
Today, it was Devi, a high schooler a year above Hiccup’s who was doing her apprenticeship, who worked a shift a day to help save enough money to pay for her mother’s cancer treatment. When she confided in Stoick about this, he offered to donate her some money, but she insisted otherwise.
Privately, he was the tiniest bit glad. His bank account was already looking dismally empty from paying for all of Hiccup’s treatments, and he was one of the richest people in the city! If he couldn’t afford healthcare for his son, how could other people? He’d have to raise that in the next council meeting.
But he wished Devi’s family all the best anyway.
“Morning, Stoick. The usual today?” Devi said, already opening the fridge.
“Aye. That’ll be-”
“Strawberry yoghurt for your son, a breakfast roll for you.” She placed the items on the counter. “$9.99.”
He handed her a twenty, and tiredly told her to keep the change. “I don’t have any other notes.”
“Okay.” Devi nodded. “Take care, Stoick.”
“Yourself too.”
Back in Hiccup’s room, Stoick watched him slowly eat the yoghurt from a plastic teaspoon as he drank his coffee. He never ate in front of Hiccup anymore; it seemed insulting.
Hiccup read, and Stoick worked on his laptop, until ten in the morning, when Hiccup’s dietician came.
“Good morning!” He said as he came in, surprisingly chipper. “How are you doing?”
“I’m alright,” said Hiccup.
“He was sick this morning,” said Stoick.
Hiccup glared at him.
“Ah. I see,” said his dietician. “What did he eat last night?”
“I ate broccoli, teriyaki chicken and rice,” Hiccup said, pointedly glaring at him. Stoick was getting tired of every medical professional ignoring Hiccup- it was insulting for him, and it deprived Hiccup of the autonomy he so greatly deserved.
“Right. And... have you had anything since?”
“Yoghurt,” said Hiccup.
“And how’s that?”
“Fine.”
The dietician asked him a few more questions, scribbling notes on his clipboard, before wishing them a good day.
Stoick couldn’t help but grumble once he was gone- he was paying that man two hundred dollars per session, if not more, for him to ask Hiccup questions Stoick could ask himself.
Well, his dietician did piece together a meal plan for him. His current aim was to continue Hiccup on as much liquid foods, and try some thicker broths than what he usually had.
And it was helping! Slightly. Hiccup was thinner than Stoick had ever seen him after the accident. It might be Stoick’s wishful thinking, but he was gaining a bit of weight from the drips, and what little food he’d managed to actually hold. But he was still scarily thin, with sharp cheekbones and elbows, and bones that always seemed frail to Stoick’s touch.
Hiccup lay down with his eyes shut; it was hard to tell whether he had fainted, or was just resting. Stoick didn’t disturb him to ask either way. His son needed all the ignorance to reality he could get.
At eleven, he woke up, and swung his legs over the side of the bed, stretching his back.
Stoick looked up, surprised by the sound. He slammed his laptop shut, not really caring what would or wouldn’t save.
“You ready to try with the prosthetic again?” Stoick asked, already reaching for the prosthesis.
Hiccup got to his feet, holding onto the side of his bed. “Think s-”
Hiccup’s eyes fluttered shut, and - his legs buckling beneath him - he fell forward. Stoick barely caught him in time, slamming his knees into the floor to be sure Hiccup wouldn’t hit it.
He gently guided Hiccup back to his bed, laying him down, and pressed the button to bend the top half up, so Hiccup was sitting.
“You alright?” Stoick asked, when he regained consciousness.
Hiccup gave a small, tired nod. “Sorry, dad. I just wanted to see the garden. Fishlegs says the crocuses will be blooming.”
Stoick looked at the wheelchair in the corner for a moment. It helped, but he’d have to transport Hiccup’s IV drips as well, and the uncomfortable hospital material hurt Hiccup’s joints. He hated to see his son hurting.
But he also hated to see him missing out on life. Even if his current life's highlight was spring flowers, he deserved to enjoy that.
As if reading his thoughts, Hiccup said “I’ll use the wheelchair. I don’t mind.”
Stoick helped Hiccup into it, and attached his IVs to the stand by the handle. He was careful to push him as gently as he could. Hiccup felt unmistakably fragile to him now, like holding a piece of delicate glasswork in his huge hands. It would be easier if he had the light touch of a surgeon, but his hands were huge and strong- suited to woodwork, or fighting.
They reached the garden, and unlocked the door, before pushing Hiccup through. Thankfully, they had level access. It was one of the things Stoick never noticed until he was pushing Hiccup the long way around the hospital because the nearest lift was broken.
Sure enough, the crocuses were gorgeous: peeking into bloom from the earth, their tips shaded with purple. He pushed Hiccup so he could see them better, and rested his hands on the handles while Hiccup looked at them.
Stoick instead looked around the garden: full of the children's ward patients that had become Hiccup’s new companions.
A child being treated for leukaemia sat with his mother; another being treated for cystic fibrosis with an oxygen tube up his nose sat with his dads; another girl with epilepsy went around the garden with her mother and sister. Some children were in wheelchairs, others clutched a forearm. A few walked on their own.
Hiccup looked around and saw his friends, but Stoick just saw sick kids.
And his son was among them.
.o0o.
At the end of the day, when Hiccup’s joint specialist had finally left, Stoick collapsed with relief onto the cot, a big breath of air releasing from his throat. Hiccup gave him a look.
He sighed, sitting right back up. “What is it, son?”
“Well... don’t mind me saying this, but-”
“But what?” Stoick snapped, but he just sounded very tired.
“You look utterly dishevelled, dad.”
“Yes, I’m aware of that.”
“No, nonono, I mean- you look bad, dad.” A guilty look crossed Hiccup’s face. “You’ve been running around, taking care of me all day. You need a break.”
A break did sound tempting. Not that he didn’t love his son to bits, but Hiccup was right- he did feel utterly dishevelled. And a few days to rest would be amazing, but...
“Well who’s going to take care of you, eh?”
Hiccup shrugged. “Your friend Gobber can look after me. I don’t mind.”
Oh. That hadn’t occurred to Stoick. “He doesn’t know about-”
“I can teach him,” said Hiccup. “We can have a day where he watches how you do it, and you can... have some time off, okay? I don't want to be a burden on you, dad.”
“Hiccup, you are not a burden. You could never be a burden in my life. You are my son, and I love you very much. I'd take care of you any day.”
“But you need your own rest too, dad,” Hiccup said softly.
Stoick contemplated the thought for a while. Gobber was one of his most trusted friends- if not the most. He was also one of his only friends, but that was irrelevant. However many friends he had, he trusted Gobber with his life. But could he trust him with his son’s...?
“He has a prosthetic leg,” said Hiccup. “Maybe he could teach me how to walk on mine.”
Stoick hmm- ed. Gobber would be careful with him. He was a fast learner; he’d pick up the in’s and out’s of taking care of Hiccup in no time.
And it would be good for Hiccup to see someone like Gobber - another person with the same limb difference as him - doing so well. The man had his own prosthetics-building company, and he was even expanding to start making canes, and other assistive devices. He was happy. He was successful. He was doing great.
It would be good for Hiccup to get to know someone like him.
“Okay,” he concluded. “I’ll arrange it now.”
Hiccup nodded. “Thanks dad. I can’t wait to see him. It’s been a while.”
“Yes, yes, of course.” Stoick stood, slapping his palms on his knees. “I’ll go and call him right now.”
Hiccup smiled. “Thanks dad.”
A pause.
“You know I love you, son?” Stoick said hesitantly. “I- I don’t want to leave you. Of course not.”
“But you need a rest,” Hiccup finished. “You’ve been running around after asshole doctors, trying to get me treatment, and you’re exhausting yourself.”
“Hiccup...”
But Stoick knew the truth. He couldn’t wear himself to the ground taking care of Hiccup. It wouldn’t help Hiccup if he couldn’t take care of him, and it wouldn’t help himself either. If he wanted to fight for his son, he’d have to recover so he had the strength to do so.
“Dad. Really. It’s fine.” Hiccup gave a genuine smile. “Now you go get dinner, okay?”
“Are you sure-”
“Dad.”
Stoick shut his mouth, swallowing whatever sentence was on his lips. “Well, okay then, son. Whatever you want.”
And he’d continue fighting for his son, whatever that took.