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“Daddy?”
The voice comes from somewhere around Stoick’s knee- his knee, for Thor’s sake! He glances down at the little bird’s nest that his son’s hair has become- no doubt from the way he relentlessly burrows beneath his blankets every night, and meets Hiccup’s eyes. The five-year old has a hand on Stoick’s leg but he can’t feel a thing, not through the thick woolen leggings he’s wearing as an undergarment. It’s winter on Berk- well, it’s always winter on Berk, but today is especially freezing outside. The fire crackles comfortingly across the house, and Hiccup’s bright green eyes stare round and wide into Stoick’s own, sleep still crusted at the corners.
“Yes, son?”
“Are you shaving your beard?”
Stoick keeps most of his beard proudly braided and styled, but he does have to do some cleanup around the edges here and there. After all, a chief has no business looking scruffy. Rugged, sure, battle-hardened, of course, but he’s a proud man. His beard will be maintained.
“I am.” He nods once, turning his face back towards the mirror and pulling at the skin over his jaw to get at a stubborn spot near his pulse.
“Daddy?”
That is Hiccup’s favorite word, and Stoick knows this because he says it exponentially more than any other. He must hear it a thousand times a day, and each time it threatens to disprove his name.
“Yes, son?”
“Do you think I’ll ever grow a beard?”
Stoick almost laughs thinking of it- not cruelly, no, but amused all the same. His little Hiccup, the boy who’s the same size as the average sheep, with a viking’s beard.
“Someday, son. Someday.” Stoick promises, scraping the blade over his face.
“Daddy?”
“Yes, son?”
“Do you think I’ll grow a beard tomorrow?”
This time Stoick does laugh. His chest shakes and the chuckle he lets out seems to slam against the windows, “Tomorrow? Well that’s’a mighty tall order, son. Ya’ might want to start off with a few whiskers first.”
Hiccup’s face scrunches, which is really an adorable sight because his button nose is pink from the warmth of the fire, and his brows pull down to accentuate the puff of his cheeks while he glares at the floorboards. It’s determination, a look that Hiccup adorns whenever he is about to do something incredibly advanced for his age.
Like climbing to the top of the Great Hall. Or rigging a zipline from his bedroom to the outhouse. Or building a surprisingly structurally sound nest in the rafters of their home.
All of these things are outrageous, of course, pure fantasy, and definitely were not responsible for Stoick’s three new grey hairs.
“Daddy?”
“Yes, son?”
“Check me for whiskers.”
Stoick’s bushy brows raise, “What’s that?”
“Check me for whiskers,” Hiccup’s viking face is laughably un-scary, but the fists that he plonks on his hips are what really makes Stoick’s heart glow with admiration, “If I have them now then I can grow a beard for tomorrow.”
Stoick considers explaining to his child that vikings don’t grow beards until puberty kicks in, but he finds himself giving in very easily to Hiccup’s open arms, which he’s never been able to say no to before, either. He scoops the boy up like he weighs nothing, which seems true despite Stoick’s insistence on getting him to finish every bite of fish on his plate each night. Hiccup rests naturally against his side but Stoick could hold him anywhere- the boy clings to his father like a fur cape.
Stoick sets Hiccup on the table to inspect his face. There’s a bruise from where he’d fallen down while running earlier this week, what had been a scrape is now cleaned and healed and nothing more than blood under the skin. There’s his rounded nose, still tinged rosy from the warmth of their home, and there’s his bright, hopeful eyes. Stoick grips Hiccup’s chin in one hand, turning it to continue his very thorough inspection, and marvels at how the boy’s entire face tucks so neatly into his large palm.
It’s like holding a baby bird’s skull, one of the ones he and Gobber would find after the last snow of the season and poke with a stick and hide in Gothi’s bed. One of the ones Gothi would throw at them as they fled from her hut. Tiny, fascinatingly so, and so fragile you don’t want to close your fingers around it in case it disappears in there. But this baby bird is very much alive, thank you, and giggling brightly at the way his father’s breath fans over his face while Stoick checks for whiskers.
What strikes Hiccup even more about holding his son’s face is how his son lets his face be held. The boy leans into his father’s palm without a shred of hesitation, letting his cheek smush against Stoick’s hand and chub beneath his eye. His little bird legs are swinging back and forth beneath their tabletop, content to be inspected if it means growing a beard like his father’s.
There’s a mole beneath the right side of Hiccup’s jawline, and that’ll have to be the stand-in whisker, because the only other spot on his son’s skin that isn’t baby-smooth and pale from winter is the silver scar on his chin. Stoick rubs his thumb over the mark as he lets Hiccup’s head go, feeling the boy’s anticipation in his own bones.
“A whisker or two,” Stoick muses, and Hiccup’s bright grin, toothy and gapped where Ruffnut had accidentally elbowed him three weeks ago, is his reward. It’s warmer than the fire, and the wrinkles where his nose scrunches should be permanent for the way his face looks empty without them.
“Do you think I’ll have a beard by tomorrow?” Hiccup asks, his eyes shining like Valka’s.
“Beards take a long time to grow.” Stoick manages when his throat clears, and he leans down to press a soft kiss to the boy’s forehead before he lets Hiccup’s face go, “But maybe we should focus on taming this mess first, hm?”
He grabs at the hair that rests against the back of Hiccup’s neck, soft and mousy as it tickles Stoick’s fingers. Hiccup raises his tiny hands to comb it out of his eyes and laughs when Stoick tugs gently on the strands to lean him to the left.
“Where’s your brush, son?” Stoick asks, and they both know it’s on the ledge behind the mirror, but Hiccup likes to be tall so Stoick lets him clamber up onto the counter and retrieve it. He hands it to his dad with a proud smile and eagerly flumps back onto his butt. Stoick begins gently working away the tangles and volume in Hiccup’s hair with the brush, cupping his chin once more to ensure he’s not pulling too hard on any knots.
Hiccup has Valka’s hair. He knows- he’d run his thick fingers through her tresses more times than he could count, and he’d kill to do it one last time. But this is almost identical, save for its length- his son is a perfect reflection of his mother. Stoick lets Hiccup’s now-combed hair slip through his fingers, grief and fondness tangling as one in his chest to leave him short of breath.
Stoick’s gaze is concentrated on his son’s fine, thin hair, shining softly in the firelight, but when he deems Hiccup properly groomed and glances back at his face, he finds his son’s eyes closed. He supposes the sensation had been soothing, a constant fine pressure and scratching at his scalp, but he marvels at the way his son, perhaps as tall and thick around as one of Stoick’s arms, had trusted his father enough to fall asleep in the palm of his hand.
“Hiccup?” Stoick asks, shifting his hand gently, tilting his face to the side. His son’s eyes blink blearily open- maybe he’d crawled out of his blankets a little too early this morning - and he hums questioningly to his father.
“Did’je fall asleep, son?” Stoick asks, feeling Hiccup’s warm face press further into his palm like a preening kitten.
“No. I’m just resting.” Hiccup sighs, slumping forwards into Stoick’s chest. His beard is freshly braided, oiled to smell like herbs, and Hiccup is content to rest his head there. Stoick all-too-happily lifts his son into his arms, letting the boy slump over his shoulder while he considers his schedule for the day.
It’s freezing outside, which means he typically makes rounds to ensure everyone is safe and secure and warm in their homes. But Gobber is happy to take over on a day that the forge won’t get much business, and his son is oh-so-small and oh-so-sleepy where he rests in his father’s arms.
Hiccup rouses when something thick and heavy drapes itself over his head, and he blinks through the darkness he’s been enveloped in. It smells like his dad, and it’s furry like the skins he wears out in weather like this. Hiccup’s intuitive mind deduces that his father has buried him in his furs.
“Go back to sleep, son.” Stoick rumbles, his voice soothing where Hiccup’s nose is pressed into his father’s neck, now concealed with a thick coat of fur to protect the boy from the harsh winter outside the door, “Just have’ta make a visit to the forge.”
“-see Gobber?”
Stoick doesn’t know if there was a beginning to that sentence, but his chest rumbles with a fond chuckle that Hiccup leans into as it shakes his tiny body.
“Yes, Hiccup. To see Gobber.”
Hiccup adores Stoick’s friend, and Stoick couldn’t be happier for it. The boy needs someone, especially in the wake of the loss of his mother, and Gobber’s silly antics are a perfect match for Hiccup’s childlike curiosity.
“Okay.” His son hums, and Stoick can barely make out the sound, not even the word from beneath the thick fur piled over him. But Hiccup is warm, and safe, and clutching at Stoick’s shoulders despite there being no danger near- out of love, then, not fear, and if Stoick sets out for the forge with misty eyes, it’s surely because of the cold nipping at his nose- nothing more.