Work Text:
The freshman class of 2018 leave the graduation stage, and – though many people cheer – no one cheers louder than Stoick.
“That's my boy!” He yells, fist–pumping the air. Hiccup sheepishly waves, looking at his dad before turning away.
The students slowly walk off the stage one by one. Hiccup goes last, gripping the railing with one hand and his cane with the other.
Stoick tries to push through the crowd, but there are so many parents, all swarming for their children. He’s careful not to bump into people (he knows his strength, after all), but at the same time– this is huge. His son just graduated freshman year; his last ever year of public schooling before he starts homeschool.
And Stoick has seen the bad nights– the tears over a lengthy homework assignment, the stress when Hiccup couldn’t make himself focus, the physical exhaustion from every school day.
But Hiccup made it through.
And watching his son walk onto that stage to receive his certificate... Stoick couldn’t be more proud.
“Ha, ha! There he is!” Stoick finally reaches him, and claps him on the shoulder (careful, of course, of his son’s fragile body). “The pride of the Haddocks!”
“Aww, thanks dad.” Hiccup smiles, but in the hesitant, distracted way Stoick knows means he’s very overwhelmed. “Can we get out of here?”
“Of course, of course.” Stoick offers Hiccup his arm, and he helps guide him away from the crowd, until they reach a vacated area of grass behind the outdoor stage.
Once they’re finally alone, they let loose, and burst into a cacophony of cheering and laughter. Stoick raises his hand, and Hiccup jumps up to high five him.
“I’m done with high school!” Hiccup cries.
“You’re done with high school– you made it!” Stoick exclaims, sweeping Hiccup into a hug.
“I made it!” Hiccup repeats, relief making his body all but melt into his dad’s arms. “I finished it.”
“I know you did. Oh, Hiccup, I'm so proud!” Stoick squeezes him tight, swallowed by his joy.
“Dad– dad, wait, you're–” Hiccup gasps.
There's a sickening crunch!
Hiccup stops talking.
Stoick's heart drops.
Dread floods through his body, as if he was dunked in the mid–winter ocean.
Stoick puts him down at once, and Hiccup sways on his feet, seeming to struggle for breath. The hot, sunny weather is a disgusting contrast to the terror pooling inside Stoick’s heart.
“Hiccup? Are you alright?”
Hiccup gives a tiny shake of his head. “Ribs... hurt.”
“Oh, Hiccup, I–” Stoick reaches for Hiccup’s cheek to console him, and–
He flinches.
Stoick recoils in undiluted horror. This... is any parent's worst nightmare.
He hurt him. His own son. How can he expect to recover from knowing he did something like that?
Not only that, but Hiccup is so fragile. There’s times where Stoick can forget Hiccup’s daily reality of pain, but many times where Hiccup’s face is scrunched like a ball of paper in his efforts not to show the pain, and touching him feels like cradling a piece of glass in Stoick’s clumsy hands.
(Sometimes, Stoick wonders if he’s the best parent Hiccup could have.)
Hiccup gasps and wheezes, clutching at his shirt. Some air struggles into his lungs, but it’s not enough.
Just as Stoick tries to say something, Hiccup’s face starts to go pink.
Adrenaline taking over, Stoick scoops Hiccup into his arms, (terrified by how he weighs almost nothing), and begins frantically sprinting to his car.
Seconds, or minutes, later, Stoick reaches his car, more glad than ever they got a disabled parking space. He couldn't imagine carrying Hiccup all the way across the car park. They've only crossed fifty metres or so, but Hiccup twitches and groans in pain with every little movement.
Stoick gently places Hiccup in the passenger seat and, though he tries very hard not to show it, Hiccup flinches again.
Stoick’s voice drops to a soft tone – what Hiccup jokingly calls his ‘patient voice’ – and he says, “I’m going to take you to the hospital. It’s not far. Right now, I'll just get your seatbelt on, alright?”
“Okay, but d–” the seatbelt’s fabric grazes Hiccup’s chest, and his voice trails into a gut–wrenching scream. “Stop! Stop! Please stop!”
Stoick yanks the seatbelt away as if the sound of Hiccup’s suffering was a lightning bolt to his nervous system. “What happened?”
Hiccup takes several shuddering breaths, collecting himself. Tears roll from his eyes, and Stoick almost wipes them away, but Hiccup's scream replays in his head, and he draws his hand away.
Since when was he so afraid to touch his son?
(Since he broke his ribs, most likely.)
“Hiccup?” He repeats.
“I– hurts.” A whimper escapes Hiccup’s throat.
“I know, my sweetheart. I’m so sorry,” he says, in a pathetically futile attempt to comfort him. “I didn't mean to hurt you. I would never mean to hurt you.”
But you did, a horrible voice in his head whispers. You know how strong you are. You could’ve been more gentle. You did this on purpose.
“May– may I touch your ribs? Just so I can work out if they’re broken.”
“They sure feel broken,” Hiccup says through gritted teeth.
“Just to check.”
Hiccup groans, but mumbles, “okay.”
“I'm about to touch your ribs, alright?” Stoick says softly. Hiccup nods. “I’ll be very, very gentle. Very careful.”
And Stoick puts his hand on his son's ribs.
No sooner does he do that, than a stomach–churning crunching sound meets Stoick’s ears, and Hiccup lets out a heartbreaking cry of pain. It's long and loud, and Hiccup’s eyes screw so tightly shut, his tears can only squeeze through his eyelashes.
“I'm so sorry, my son, I'm so sorry...” Stoick gasps, withdrawing his hand. He's on the verge of tears himself, but he could never let himself cry in front of Hiccup.
“It's... okay,” Hiccup says, smiling weakly, trying his hardest to breathe evenly. “I'll live.”
I'll live?! That's the best he can say for himself? That the pain, no matter how bad, is survivable? Hiccup shouldn't be in any pain, not if Stoick can help it! He suffers enough. Is it not enough for the universe to spare him any more?
But the universe won’t help him now. It’s just him, and Hiccup, and sometimes Gobber, and Hiccup’s friend Fishlegs, but that’s always been enough.
So Stoick grits his teeth, and – with the help of the backseat cushion – he gets Hiccup’s seatbelt on, and begins the drive to the hospital.
There's something Stoick has learned about driving a car with a very physically fragile passenger: it's terrifying. Not in the slightly nerve–wracking way driving usually is. The way that makes him wince going over a speed bump. The way that turns his head to Hiccup in the passenger seat, just to check he’s okay.
But that feeling has almost never been as strong as today. Stoick doesn't even come close to the speed limit, and halves that speed when he turns corners. Still, Hiccup flinches and sharply draws air through his teeth every other second. If it weren't for Hiccup beside him, Stoick would make it to the hospital in less than ten minutes.
But he is beside him, and it takes a tortuous half hour before they reach the hospital. Stoick parks the car in another disabled parking space – thankful, at least, they have that accommodation – and gently lifts Hiccup out of his seat. He's near–unconscious now. When Stoick readjusts his grip on him, he barely has the energy to cry.
Stoick crosses the car park once again, the automatic doors slide open to the waiting room, and Stoick bellows, “I need help! My son broke his ribs.”
The receptionist tuts and says, “I'll put in a request, but it might be a while. We're really busy today.”
“Can't you see he's suffering?” Stoick's volume masks the terror in his voice. “There has to be something you can do.”
The receptionist nods, and types something on her keyboard. “Please take a seat.”
“Isn’t there anywhere he can lie down?”
“Not at the moment, we're all full.”
Stoick grumbles, but sits down, and carefully spreads Hiccup's body across the seats. But they're hardly comfortable enough for him, let alone Hiccup – so thin, with bones jutting unhealthily prominent from his skin.
A few moments later, a brown–haired teenager wearing headphones and grunge clothes Hiccup would probably like, wordlessly crosses the room and hands Stoick two cushions.
“I– thank you.”
“It’s nothing,” they say, giving a tiny smile, and returns to their seat.
Stoick gently lifts Hiccup, sliding the cushions underneath him, and adjusting to make sure the cushions protect his body. His head still lies on Stoick’s thigh, pale and sweating and riddled with the tiniest movements that betray the brave face he puts on.
Stoick waits, and waits, and waits. His guilt multiplies by the second, spreading through his body like a disease. No matter how much better Hiccup gets after this, no matter how many times Stoick apologises, he’ll always know–
You did this, the voice says.
“I did this,” Stoick whispers back.
.o0o.
It's a long wait until a doctor comes and sees them. He arrives, and gently feels Hiccup’s ribs. There’s more screaming, and Hiccup grapples for something that Stoick doesn’t realise is his hand to hold until he grabs Hiccup’s hand in his, and he hangs on with all his might.
Then, the doctor talks into a radio, and more doctors come. They load Hiccup onto a stretcher, and push him to get an X–ray.
When the results come back, the X–ray reader only confirms what Stoick was dreading.
“Seven rib fractures,” the radiologist announces. Stoick forces every muscle on his face into a painful mask of neutrality.
“How are you going to treat them?”
“I’m recommending Tylenol four times a day for three days, lots of ice packs, and three weeks of rest and minimal activity.”
Stoick blinks. “That's it? He– he doesn't need surgery?”
“We’ll do an MRI just to be sure, but he doesn't have any indications of complications such as a collapsed lung.”
“Oh, thank goodness.” Stoick's legs seem to turn to jelly, and he almost collapses with relief.
“He should be fine,” the radiologist says, peeling the gloves off her hands, and picks up a clipboard. “How did it happen, anyway?”
There it is– the question Stoick was most dreading. How could he explain himself?
Oh God– what if they took Hiccup away from him? All because of one mistake. His beloved son, surrendered to the mercy of the foster care system, where Hiccup would be lucky to have guardians that care for him even half as much as Stoick does.
A lie almost falls off his lips, but he takes one look at the radiologist’s wise, stern face, and says, “he'd just graduated freshman year at his high school. It's his last official year of school, actually – I'm homeschooling him, because he's disabled.”
If they take Hiccup away from you, they'll force him back into school, Stoick thinks, his stomach churning.
The radiologist nods. “Right.”
“And– he's been through so much, and I was so proud of him, that I...”
He tries to form the words in his mouth, but his own throat suffocates him.
“You...?” She gestures.
“I... hugged him too hard.” Stoick hangs his head in shame.
The radiologist quirks her eyebrows. “You must be very strong.”
“I– I am, but Hiccup – my son – I’m much bigger than him anyway – Hiccup has hypermobile Ehlers Danlos syndrome. His joints and bones are very weak. So–”
“They snap easily?” The radiologist scribbles something on her clipboard.
“I– I feel terrible. I didn't mean to hurt him, I would– I would never.”
“I know.” The radiologist nods. “We do have to consult with CPS, but only as a safety net. Between you and me, though,” she gives a small smile, “I know you'd never hurt your son.”
“Oh, thank you.” Stoick can't find any more words to say.
“We’ll keep him for a few hours for observation, but he can go home by the end of today.”
Stoick checks the clock– and it’s three in the morning. Technically the day after Hiccup's graduation.
“Thank you.”
“Just wait there,” she tells him. “Once Hiccup’s settled in his room, you can join him.”
With that, she nods, leaves, and Stoick is left with only his guilt for company.
How can he even begin to forgive himself? How can he come back from this emotionally? How can he let himself off the metaphorical hook, when he knows that it was his fault he hurt his son?
More importantly, how can Hiccup forgive him? Stoick might’ve been cross with him once or twice, or yelled when he shouldn’t have, but when Hiccup was a baby, he was born early and spent the first month of his life in an incubator. Stoick didn’t even trust himself to hold him until a week after he came out of it. But when he did, looking at the peacefully sleeping face of his son swaddled in a blanket, he swore that he would never raise so much as a harmful finger towards his son.
And, until today, he’s made good on that promise. He used to listen to his old ‘friends’ lament how a bit of spanking made their kids behave, but Stoick stopped talking to people like them.
Now, what would people like them say? Even they would say fracturing your own child’s ribs is too far.
What does that say, then, about him?
How could he?
.o0o.
The first thing Stoick says, when Hiccup is conscious and pain–free enough to talk, is, “I’m sorry, son.”
“I know,” comes his dry reply. “You might’ve mentioned that once or twice yesterday. Hm... let me think.” Hiccup makes a show of pretending to wonder, and Stoick chuckles.
“I’m serious, though.”
“I know, dad.” Hiccup smiles genuinely. “I don’t blame you.”
“Hiccup, I know my own strength. I– I got caught up in my emotions. I was just so damn proud of you, and–”
“I know, dad. It’s honestly fine. My bones are just fragile.”
Stoick nods, and goes back to stroking Hiccup’s forehead with his thumb, but a part of him still doesn’t feel right.
Hiccup should be mad. Hiccup should resent his father for causing him so much pain. Hiccup should be screaming, and crying, and demanding Stoick leave the room.
But instead, all Hiccup does is lean into his touch.
It’s clear he forgives him.
But Stoick isn’t quite there yet.
Maybe, he never will be.