Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Berk was the kind of town that never quite sat still. Nestled between jagged cliffs and the restless sea, it thrived on grit, smoke, and adrenaline. The firehouse sirens were as familiar as church bells, and the scent of salt and diesel hung in the air like a second skin. On any given day, you could hear the roar of engines, the crackle of radios, and the distant thud of controlled demolitions courtesy of the Thorston twins. It was a town built on muscle and instinct, where people ran toward danger, not away from it.

Today, though, Berk was quiet. Rain slicked the streets, muting the usual chaos to a low hum. The sky hung low and gray, and even the usual morning rush felt subdued, like the town was holding its breath.

And in a cluttered garage on the edge of town, one man was doing the same.

The garage-turned-lab smelled of solder, burnt coffee, and the faint metallic tang of prototype parts. Hiccup H. Haddock III wiped sweat from his brow, his fingers trembling slightly from too many hours bent over his latest creation; a prosthetic forearm designed for extreme conditions. The joints were sleek, the grip responsive, the outer shell reinforced against heat and impact.

Almost there.

He adjusted the wiring, muttering to himself. "Come on, come on…."

A spark. A hiss. The hand twitched, then locked up.

Hiccup groaned, slumping back in his chair. The workshop was a disaster, blueprints tacked haphazardly to the walls, half-dismantled gadgets strewn across every surface, and a tower of unpaid bills threatening to topple over. His laptop screen glowed with the latest rejection email:

"While your designs are innovative, we regret to inform you that our investors are seeking more commercially viable…."

He snapped the laptop shut, the sound sharp in the quiet.

Outside, rain pattered against the garage door. The dim glow of his desk lamp cast long shadows, making the space feel smaller than it was. He’d poured everything into Haddock Innovations… his savings, his sleepless nights, his stubborn refusal to give up. And yet, the world didn’t seem to care.

He stared at the prosthetic hand. It was beautiful, in its own way. Functional. Strong. But it didn’t matter if no one believed in it. Or in him.

The garage door rattled open with a metallic screech, and in stomped Gobber the Belch, grease-streaked and grinning, his mechanical arm clanking as he shook rainwater from his jacket.

"Oi! Still alive in here?"

Hiccup didn’t look up. "Barely."

Gobber kicked aside a pile of discarded circuit boards and plopped onto a stool. "Y’know, most people take breaks. Sleep. Eat. Maybe see the sun once in a while."

"I’ll sleep when this works."

Gobber snorted, grabbing a half-empty energy drink from the desk and taking a swig. "Kid, if stubbornness powered cities, you’d light up the whole damn country."

Hiccup finally glanced up, rubbing his tired eyes. "What do you want, Gobber?"

"Can’t I just check in on my favorite disaster of a protégé?"

"You never just check in."

Gobber grinned, unoffended. "Fair enough." He leaned forward, his expression shifting to something more serious. "Look, I’ve got an idea. You’re drowning here. You need a real client, someone who needs what you’re making."

Hiccup scoffed. "Oh yeah? And who’s that?"

Gobber’s grin widened. "Firefighters."

Hiccup froze.

The word hung in the air like a lit fuse.

"No."

"Come on, Hiccup…"

"You know exactly why that’s a bad idea."

Gobber sighed, scratching at his beard. "I know you and Stoick haven’t exactly been on speaking terms"

"That’s putting it mildly."

"… but this isn’t about him. It’s about your work. Firefighters need durable gear, prosthetics that can handle heat and impact. Your designs? They’re perfect for that."

Hiccup clenched his jaw. Stoick the Vast; his father, former Marine, now fire chief, had never understood Hiccup’s obsession with engineering. To him, real work was about strength, duty, tradition. Not tinkering in a garage.

The last time they’d spoken, Stoick had called his work “toys for people who’d never see real action.” That line had stuck like a splinter that’s why leaving the family legacy had been the hardest and easiest decision Hiccup ever made.

Gobber watched him carefully. "You don’t have to make peace with the man. Just show him what you’ve built. Let the work speak."

Hiccup exhaled slowly, the breath shaky and uneven. He stared at the prosthetic hand on the bench sleek, promising, and utterly silent. It didn’t mock him like the rejection emails or the unpaid bills. It just waited. Like it believed in him more than anyone else did.

"...And if he laughs in my face?"

Gobber didn’t flinch. "Then you walk away. But at least you tried."

Silence stretched between them, thick and humming with everything unsaid. The rain outside had picked up, tapping against the garage door like impatient fingers. Hiccup’s gaze drifted to the blueprints on the wall, versions of the arm that had failed, iterations that had sparked and locked and refused to cooperate. He’d built and rebuilt this thing so many times it felt like a part of him now. A stubborn, broken part.

He rubbed the back of his neck, fingers catching on a smear of grease. "You think he’ll even listen?"

Gobber shrugged. "Stoick’s a lot of things. Stubborn. Proud. Loud as a damn freight train. But he’s not blind. If you show him something real, something that could help his crew, he’ll see it."

Hiccup’s jaw tightened. "He never saw me."

Gobber’s voice softened. "Maybe not the way you wanted. But he never stopped looking."

That landed like a punch to the ribs.

Hiccup turned away, blinking hard. The shadows in the workshop seemed to lean in, wrapping around the edges of his resolve. He hated how much this mattered. How much the idea of Stoick seeing him, really seeing him… still twisted something raw in his chest.

He looked back at the prosthetic. The fingers were locked, but the design was solid. The grip was strong. The shell could take heat, impact, pressure. It was everything a firefighter might need. Everything Stoick might respect.

Maybe.

He reached out, adjusted a wire, and the hand twitched again… just slightly, just enough.

Gobber watched him quietly, not pushing, just waiting.

Hiccup’s fingers hovered over the casing, then curled into a fist. He could feel the weight of every failure pressing down on him. But beneath it, something else stirred. Not hope, exactly. But motion. Possibility.

Finally, Hiccup nodded, voice low but steady. "Okay. I’ll go."

Gobber grinned, clapping a hand on his shoulder. "Atta boy."

Hiccup didn’t smile. But he didn’t flinch either.

Outside, the rain kept falling. But inside the garage, something had shifted.

Not fixed. Not finished.

But moving.

And maybe, just maybe, that was enough.

**Firehouse**

The next morning, Hiccup stood outside Station 12, rain misting his jacket and nerves coiled tight in his chest. His prototype case was clutched tightly in his hands, fingers white-knuckled around the handle. The firehouse loomed before him; a brick-and-steel beast, weathered but sturdy, with the faint scent of smoke clinging to its walls. It looked like it could survive a war. Maybe it had.

The building hadn’t changed much since he was a kid. The same faded emblem above the bay doors. The same cracked sidewalk where he’d once scraped his knee chasing Gobber’s dog. Back then, it had felt like a fortress. Now it felt like a test.

Inside, voices echoed… laughter, shouts, the occasional radio crackle. It was alive in a way his workshop never was. Loud. Physical. Real.

He took a deep breath. In. Pitch. Out. Just get in, pitch, get out.

He hesitated at the threshold, rain dripping from his hair, the weight of the case suddenly heavier. His reflection shimmered faintly in the glass; tired eyes, hunched shoulders, a man who looked like he hadn’t slept in days. Then he stepped inside.

Chaos greeted him. Firefighters in various states of uniform bustled about, some lifting weights, others polishing gear, a few lounging on a worn-out couch watching sports highlights. The air smelled like sweat, smoke, and coffee… familiar, but foreign. It was the scent of people who lived on adrenaline and instinct. Hiccup lived on caffeine and anxiety.

And then, a voice cut through the noise.

"You lost, string bean?"

Hiccup turned. A blonde woman; muscular, sharp-eyed, arms crossed stood in front of him. Astrid Hofferson, if he remembered right. Former military, now a trainer for the crew.

"Uh… no. I’m here to see Chief Haddock."

Astrid raised an eyebrow. "You’re Hiccup?"

He bristled. "Yeah. That a problem?"

She smirked. "Just didn’t expect Stoick’s kid to look like a strong breeze could knock you over."

Hiccup’s jaw tightened. He’d heard variations of that line his whole life. Too thin. Too quiet. Too weird.

Before he could retort, Astrid’s gaze flicked to the case. “That the prototype?”

He nodded.

She stepped closer, eyes narrowing as she examined the casing. “Heat shielding?”

“Reinforced carbon fiber. With a ceramic layer.”

“Grip strength?”

“Adjustable. Can lift up to 200 pounds.”

Astrid gave a low whistle. “Not bad. If it doesn’t melt in a blaze or jam mid-rescue, you might actually be onto something.”

Hiccup blinked. “Thanks… I think.”

Before Astrid could reply, another voice slid in… smooth, amused, and impossible to ignore.

"Aw, be nice, Astrid. He might cry."

Hiccup turned…

And there he was.

Leaning against the engine bay door, covered in soot and grinning like he’d just won the lottery, was a man who could only be described as electric. Dark hair, sharper-than-should-be-legal cheekbones, and eyes that glinted with mischief.

Toothless.

He looked like he belonged in motion on a motorcycle, in a helicopter, falling out of the sky with a parachute and a grin.

Something in Hiccup’s brain short-circuited. He wasn’t prepared for this… this walking contradiction of soot and swagger.

Astrid rolled her eyes. "Ignore him. He’s always like this."

Toothless pushed off the wall, sauntering over. "Like what? Charming? Incredibly handsome?"

"Insufferable," Astrid deadpanned.

Toothless just laughed, then turned his full attention to Hiccup. "So. You’re the genius inventor Gobber won’t shut up about."

Hiccup swallowed. "Uh. I don’t know about genius…"

Toothless reached out, tapping the case. "What’s in the box?"

Hiccup jerked it back. "None of your business."

The man blinked, then smirked. "Ooh. Touchy."

Astrid sighed. "Hiccup, meet Toothless. Local disaster and our best aerial rescue guy."

"Only aerial rescue guy," Toothless corrected, still grinning.

Hiccup’s grip tightened on the case. "Great. Can I talk to the chief now?"

Toothless tilted his head. "What, not even gonna show me the fancy tech?"

"Why? You an expert?"

"Nope." Toothless shrugged. "Just curious."

There was something in his tone, not mocking, not dismissive. Just open. Interested. It threw Hiccup off more than the teasing.

His gaze lingered on Hiccup’s hands, noting the tremor. Not nerves. Exhaustion.

“You built that yourself?” he asked, voice quieter now.

Hiccup hesitated. “Yeah.”

Toothless nodded, something unreadable flickering behind the grin. “Cool.”

Before Hiccup could respond, the chief’s voice boomed across the bay.

"Hiccup."

Stoick the Vast stood in the doorway, arms crossed, expression unreadable.

The room went quiet.

Hiccup straightened. "Chief."

Stoick’s gaze flicked to the case in Hiccup’s hands, then back to his face. "Show me what you’ve got."

The words were simple. The weight behind them wasn’t.

And as Hiccup followed him into the office, he could feel Toothless watching him… smug, amused, infuriating, but not unkind.

Something hot and prickling coiled in his chest. Not just nerves. Not just dread. Something else.

This was going to be a disaster.

Or the first spark of something new.

The firehouse had a pulse.

It thudded through the concrete floors, echoed in the clang of gear lockers, and hummed in the chatter of voices bouncing off steel and brick. Berk’s Station 12 wasn’t just a building; it was a living thing. A beast built on instinct and urgency, always half a breath from chaos. The walls bore scorch marks like battle scars, and the air carried the scent of smoke, sweat, and something metallic, like adrenaline had a smell.

Hiccup stood in the chief’s office, prototype case balanced on his knees, trying not to fidget. The room was utilitarian: metal desk, wall of commendations, a framed photo of Stoick in uniform with a younger, grinning Hiccup beside him. That photo hadn’t aged well. Neither had they.

Stoick sat across from him, arms folded, expression carved from granite. The silence between them was thick, like it had weight. Like it had history.

“So,” Stoick said finally, voice low and steady. “Show me.”

Hiccup swallowed, unclipped the case, and opened it with a soft hiss. Inside, nestled in foam, was the prosthetic arm; sleek, matte black, reinforced joints, heat-resistant casing. It looked like something out of a sci-fi movie. It looked like it belonged to someone braver than him.

He lifted it carefully, fingers trembling just slightly, and placed it on the desk.

“It’s designed for high-heat environments,” he said, voice tight. “Impact-resistant. Responsive grip. Modular attachments. I’ve been testing it for months.”

Stoick didn’t speak. Just leaned forward, inspecting the arm like it might bite.

Hiccup pressed a button on the wrist. The fingers twitched, then curled into a fist. Smooth. Precise.

“It’s meant for firefighters,” Hiccup added. “For people who’ve lost limbs in the field. It can take the heat. Literally.”

Stoick’s gaze flicked up. “You built this in your garage?”

Hiccup bristled. “It’s a lab.”

Stoick didn’t smile. But something in his eyes shifted. “It’s good work.”

That landed harder than it should have. Hiccup looked away, jaw tight. “Doesn’t matter if no one uses it.”

Stoick leaned back. “You want me to test it?”

“I want you to consider it. For your crew. For anyone who needs it.”

Silence again. Then Stoick nodded, slow and deliberate. “I’ll think about it.”

It wasn’t a yes. But it wasn’t a no.

Hiccup lingered a moment longer, unsure if he should say more. The words pressed against his throat, things he hadn’t said in years. But Stoick had already turned back to his paperwork, and the moment slipped away like steam.

Hiccup stepped out of the office, case lighter now, but nerves still coiled tight. The bay was alive, gear clanking, boots stomping, radios crackling. Astrid was running drills with a pair of rookies, barking orders like a general. Toothless was perched on the engine hood, legs swinging, watching Hiccup like he was the most interesting thing in the room.

“You survive?” he called.

Hiccup didn’t answer. Just walked past, trying not to look rattled.

Toothless hopped down, falling into step beside him. “So what’s the verdict? Is the chief gonna slap your name on a plaque or toss your arm into the furnace?”

Hiccup sighed. “He said he’d think about it.”

Toothless whistled. “That’s practically a love letter, coming from Stoick.”

They reached the far end of the bay, where a row of lockers stood like sentinels. Toothless leaned against one, arms crossed, grin lazy.

“You know,” he said, “I saw the way you looked at the firehouse. Like it was gonna eat you.”

“It might,” Hiccup muttered.

Toothless chuckled. “You’re weird. I like it.”

Hiccup blinked. “You don’t even know me.”

“Exactly. Mystery’s half the fun.”

Hiccup glanced at him, unsure whether to be annoyed or intrigued. Toothless had that kind of energy, like he could talk you into skydiving with nothing but a smirk.

Toothless tilted his head. “You ever flown?”

“What?”

“In a chopper. Rescue run. Adrenaline. Wind in your teeth.”

Hiccup shook his head. “I build things. I don’t jump out of them.”

Toothless grinned. “We’ll fix that.”

Before Hiccup could protest, Astrid called out, “Toothless! Briefing in five!”

Toothless winked. “Duty calls. Don’t disappear, string bean.”

And then he was gone, swaggering across the bay like he owned the sky.

Hiccup watched him go, something unsettled and electric buzzing under his skin. He wasn’t sure if it was admiration or irritation. Maybe both.

Hiccup stood there, heart thudding, unsure if he’d just survived something or stumbled into something bigger than he could name.

The drive home was quiet.

Hiccup sat behind the wheel of his beat-up hatchback, fingers loose on the steering wheel, eyes flicking between the road and the rain-streaked windows. The city blurred past in shades of gray and amber, streetlights smearing like brushstrokes across the windshield.

He didn’t turn on the radio. Didn’t need the noise. His thoughts were loud enough.

Stoick’s voice echoed in his head; gruff, measured, not quite dismissive. “I’ll think about it.” It wasn’t rejection. But it wasn’t validation either. Just a maybe. A pause. A door cracked open, but not wide enough to see through.

And then there was Toothless. That grin. That swagger. That maddening ease. Like he belonged in the chaos. Like he thrived in it.

Hiccup exhaled slowly, watching the wipers sweep away the remnants of the storm. He felt like a wire pulled too tight, buzzing with something he couldn’t name. Not fear. Not excitement. Just... movement.

The firehouse had stirred something. A pulse he hadn’t felt in years.

Chapter Text

The rain had stopped, but the quiet hadn’t.
It clung to Hiccup’s garage like oil on water; thick, pervasive, and humming with the ghosts of failure. The storm’s aftermath left the world outside glistening under bruised purple clouds, but inside, the air tasted of solder, stale coffee, and the ozone tang of fried circuits. Hiccup hunched over his workbench; a soldering iron poised like a scalpel over the disassembled prosthetic. The desk lamp cast a jaundiced halo over the chaos: schematics spilling onto the floor, a half-eaten energy bar fossilizing beside a torque wrench, and the prosthetic’s innards splayed like an autopsy, wires like exposed veins, the carbon-fiber casing gaping open like a wound.

Focus.

He nudged a resistor into place, fingers trembling with a fatigue that went deeper than muscle. His mind wasn’t in the garage. It was trapped in the echoing bay of Station 12.

Stoick’s granite stare. "I’ll think about it."
The words were a door slammed in his face, yet left slightly ajar. Infuriating. Hopeful. Terrifying.

And then him.

Toothless.

That damn grin; smug, effortless, charged like a live wire… had burrowed under Hiccup’s skin and lodged itself somewhere behind his ribs. A persistent spark in the gloom. Hiccup could still see it: the effortless drop from the rescue rig, the smoke curling around him like a second skin, that lazy wave through the haze. Like he’d known Hiccup would be watching. Like he wanted him to.

Not like he’s thinking about you, Hiccup chided himself, jabbing the soldering iron. A wisp of acrid smoke curled up.

The prosthetic hand twitched on the bench, fingers spasming erratically before seizing into a rigid claw.

"Fucks Sake!" Hiccup slammed the iron down, the clatter echoing in the hollow space. He pressed the heels of his hands against his burning eyes. Exhaustion wasn’t just physical; it was the weight of every rejection letter, every maxed-out credit card, every skeptical glance that said garage tinkerer instead of engineer. And now, the crushing uncertainty of Stoick’s non-answer. The prosthetic wasn’t just a project; it was his lifeline. His proof. And it was failing him. Again.

He slumped back, the stool groaning in protest. His gaze drifted to the far wall, plastered not just with blueprints, but with relics of obsession. Photos of industrial exoskeletons. Printouts on advanced thermoresistant polymers. A graveyard of earlier prototypes: Mk I (overheated), Mk II (hydraulic leak), Mk III (sheared gears). And pinned squarely in the center, a faded newspaper clipping: "CHIEF STOICK HADDOCK RECEIVES VALOR MEDAL FOR CLIFFSIDE RESCUE." Beneath the grainy photo of a younger, broader Stoick accepting the award, a small, blurry figure stood rigidly beside Gobber. Hiccup, age twelve, trying desperately not to fidget. Trying to be seen.

He’d brought the clipping here when he moved out. A reminder? A punishment? He tore his eyes away.

The silence pressed in, broken only by the erratic drip of water from a leaky gutter outside. It sounded like a ticking clock.

Across town, the firehouse bay breathed. Even in the relative quiet of a post-drill lull, it pulsed with latent energy. The scent of diesel, wet concrete, and the ghost of old fires hung thick. Sunlight, weak and watery after the storm, slanted through the high windows, illuminating dust motes dancing in the beams.

Toothless leaned against the cool metal of the lockers, a threadbare towel slung around his neck, damp hair plastered to his forehead. He watched Gobber, who sat on a rolling stool, his mechanical arm whirring softly as he meticulously disassembled a SCBA regulator. The rhythmic clink of tools was the only sound besides the distant hum of the city.

"Hey, Gobbs," Toothless called, his voice bouncing off the cavernous space.

Gobber grunted, not looking up. "If it’s about the coffee maker blowing a fuse again, blame Snotlout. Kid thinks 'high' means 'volcano.'"

"Nah." Toothless pushed off the lockers, sauntering closer. He nudged a stray gear with his boot. "That guy yesterday. Hiccup. What’s his deal?"

Gobber paused, a tiny spring held in his wrench's grip. He finally looked up, his one good eye sharp. "Which part? The genius inventor bit? The chronic insomnia? The stubbornness that makes a mule look agreeable?"

"All of it." Toothless leaned against the engine bumper, arms crossed. "Especially the bit where he looks at this place like it’s gonna bite his head off."

Gobber sighed, a sound like gravel rattling in a tin can. He carefully placed the spring aside. "Hiccup… he’s got more brains in his pinky than most have in their whole skull. Built that arm you saw from scrap and sheer bloody-mindedness. Spent years in that garage, barely sleeps, lives off caffeine and fumes." He gestured vaguely towards the town's edge. "Got a vision. Wants to build things that matter. Things that help people who’ve been through hell."

"And Stoick?" Toothless prodded, his gaze flicking towards the Chief’s office window. Stoick was visible, a broad silhouette hunched over paperwork, shoulders tense.

Gobber’s face tightened, the lines around his eyes deepening. "History. Complicated. Like trying to weld water to fire." He picked up a rag, wiping grease from his mechanical fingers with unnecessary force. "Stoick… he’s old school. Marine. Firefighter. Believes in muscle, grit, tradition. Things you can see, touch, rely on with your life. Hiccup’s world… circuits, code, possibilities… Stoick never quite got the hang of it. Saw it as… not real work. Not like this." He gestured around the bay.

"And Hiccup?"

"Wanted his dad to see him. To understand." Gobber’s voice dropped lower. "Last big blowout… Stoick called his work 'toys for people who’d never see real action.' Kid walked out that day. Didn’t look back. Til yesterday." Gobber fixed Toothless with a look. "You want the full sob story, lad, you ask Stoick. But I wouldn’t recommend it on an empty stomach."

Toothless absorbed this, his usual grin absent. He watched Stoick through the glass – the rigid posture, the way the Chief’s thumb rubbed unconsciously over a scar on his knuckle. It wasn’t just disapproval etched there; it was something heavier. Regret? Frustration? Toothless knew the weight of expectations, the sting of not measuring up. He’d carved his own path here, away from the polished corridors his family name had paved. He understood defiance.

"Yeah," Toothless murmured, pushing off the bumper. "I’ll pass. Thanks, Gobbs."

As he walked away, Gobber called after him, "Don’t go rattling his cage, Toothless. Kid’s wound tighter than a spring trap."

Toothless just waved a hand, his grin flickering back, thoughtful now. Wound tight. Brilliant. Stubborn. And watching him through the smoke with eyes like a startled deer. Yeah, Hiccup Haddock was officially the most interesting puzzle in Berk.

Hours bled into each other. The weak afternoon light surrendered to the deep indigo of twilight. Hiccup’s world had shrunk to the circle of lamplight on his bench and the intricate, infuriating landscape of the prosthetic. He’d bypassed the fried sensor cluster, rerouted power through a secondary conduit, and was now painstakingly recalibrating the neural interface receptors – tiny filaments designed to pick up residual nerve signals from the user’s stump. It was delicate, microscopic work. His eyes burned.

A sudden, sharp crack echoed from the alley behind the garage, followed by the frantic yowl of a cat. Hiccup jerked, the soldering iron slipping.

"Skítr!"

The searing tip grazed the back of his left hand. He hissed, dropping the iron, which clattered against the casing. A blister was already rising, angry and red. He fumbled for a rag, cursing his own jumpiness, cursing the cat, cursing the relentless thrum of anxiety that felt permanently wired into his nervous system.

He ran cold water over the burn at the small sink in the corner, the sting a sharp counterpoint to the dull ache in his shoulders. The reflection in the grimy mirror above the sink startled him: dark smudges under bloodshot eyes, skin pale, hair sticking up in frantic tufts. He looked like he’d wrestled a dragon and lost. Pathetic.

He splashed water on his face, the cold shock barely registering. His gaze drifted past his own reflection to the window. Across the wet street, the flickering neon sign of "The Mead Hall" buzzed erratically. And beyond it, the darker silhouette of the residential blocks near the old cannery – the industrial edge.

Just get it working. Prove it works. Prove you’re not wasting your life.

He returned to the bench, forcing his trembling hands to steady. He picked up the neural filaments again. Focus on the connections. The pathways. The logic. It was easier than focusing on the chasm of Stoick’s silence or the unsettling electricity of Toothless’s grin.

Dusk had bled into full dark when the quiet shattered.

It wasn’t the usual city hum. It was a rising wail, slicing through the damp evening air – the banshee cry of Station 12’s sirens. Multiple units. Close.

Hiccup’s head snapped up. His heart, sluggish with fatigue a moment before, kicked into a frantic gallop against his ribs. He dropped the micro-tweezers and was at the window in two strides, shoving aside a pile of discarded thermal shielding.

Red and white lights strobed against the rain-slicked pavement, painting the street in frantic pulses. Two engines and the aerial rescue rig screamed past his garage, sirens Doppler-shifting from a roar to a shriek as they rounded the corner towards the cannery district. His breath hitched. Industrial edge. Electrical fire. Gobber’s offhand comment about Snotlout and the coffee maker flashed, absurdly, through his mind.

Driven by a compulsion he couldn’t name, Hiccup grabbed his worn leather jacket and bolted out the side door into the alley. The cold air hit him like a slap, carrying the faint, acrid scent of burning insulation even from blocks away. He ran, sneakers slapping on wet asphalt, following the strobing lights and the fading sirens.

He rounded the corner onto Harbor View Terrace. Chaos.

The street was cordoned off, bathed in the harsh, oscillating glare of emergency lights. Police cruisers blocked the ends, their radios crackling. Curious, anxious faces peered from neighboring apartment windows. Fire Engine 12 was angled sharply, its hose already snaking towards the source – a three-story brick apartment building. Thick, greasy smoke billowed from a third-floor window, tinged an unnatural yellow. Electrical fire. Worse than minor.

Hiccup skidded to a halt behind the police tape, chest heaving. His eyes scanned the organized frenzy. Astrid was marshalling hose teams, her voice sharp and clear over the radio chatter. Gobber wrestled with a heavy junction box near the engine. Rookies hauled equipment with wide-eyed intensity.

Then he saw him.

Toothless.

He wasn’t just moving; he was flowing. He dropped from the side of the rescue rig like gravity was a mild suggestion, landing in a crouch that absorbed the impact effortlessly. Gear strapped tight, helmet secured, breathing apparatus already dangling ready. He scanned the building facade with laser focus, barking rapid-fire orders into his shoulder mic.

"Ladder 2, position northwest corner! Ground team, confirm power cut at main! Evac team, status on 3B?"

His voice, amplified slightly by the mic, cut through the noise – calm, authoritative, utterly in command. Gone was the lazy grin, replaced by a fierce, concentrated energy. This was Toothless in his element. Pure, distilled competence.

Hiccup’s breath caught, his earlier anxiety momentarily eclipsed by sheer, stunned admiration.

Without hesitation, Toothless grabbed the ladder already extending towards the smoking window. He didn’t climb; he ascended, hand over hand, boots finding purchase with impossible speed and agility. Smoke curled around him as he neared the window, tendrils licking at his gear like hungry ghosts. He paused at the top, peering into the gloom, assessing. For a heartbeat, he was a silhouette against the hellish glow – fearless, focused, vital.

Then, unexpectedly, he turned his head. Not towards the fire, not towards his crew.

Towards the street. Towards the police tape.

His gaze swept across the crowd, seemingly unfocused… then locked directly onto Hiccup.

Through the swirling haze, the distance, the chaos, their eyes met.

Toothless didn’t smile. But recognition flared in his eyes, sharp and bright. Then, impossibly, the corner of his mouth quirked upwards. Not the full, lazy grin. Something smaller, sharper. Acknowledgment. Challenge? He lifted a soot-streaked hand, encased in a fire-resistant glove, and gave a single, deliberate wave. A salute from the edge of the inferno.

Hiccup froze. Every thought, every worry, every circuit diagram evaporated. His world narrowed to the figure on the ladder, the wave, the electric jolt that shot down his spine. He didn’t wave back. He couldn’t move.

But deep in his core, where the spark of creation lived, something ignited. And his fingers, resting uselessly at his sides, gave a single, involuntary twitch.

Back in the bay, the controlled chaos of the call had settled into the routine of post-incident recovery. Gear was hosed down, SCBA tanks refilled, reports begun. The scent of wet ash and ozone replaced the earlier smell of smoke.

Toothless peeled off his turnout coat, the heavy material hitting the floor with a wet thud. Sweat plastered his dark t-shirt to his back, and a streak of soot cut diagonally across one sharp cheekbone. He ran a hand through his damp hair, shaking off loose debris.

Astrid tossed him a chilled water bottle. "You good? Looked like a stubborn little beast in there."

He caught it, cracked the cap, and gulped half of it down in one go. The cold water was a shock to his system, grounding him. "Nah. Just fussy. Overloaded junction box, faulty wiring in the wall. More smoke than fire once we killed the power." He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, smearing the soot. "Rookies handled the evac clean."

"Good." Astrid leaned against the rig, arms crossed, studying him. Her gaze was perceptive, cutting. "You waved at the garage guy."

Toothless took another swig, buying a half-second. "He was watching."

"Intently," Astrid countered, a knowing tilt to her head. "Looked like he forgot to breathe."

A flicker of something unreadable passed behind Toothless's eyes. He shrugged, aiming for nonchalance. "Curious, I guess. Wondering if his fancy tech would’ve survived that mess."

Astrid’s smirk was immediate and devastating. "You like him."

Toothless didn’t answer immediately. He looked down, spinning the water bottle slowly on the rig’s fender. The image of Hiccup at the tape flashed in his mind – wide-eyed, pale, utterly transfixed. Not fear, exactly. Something more complex. Fascination? Alarm? A hunger to understand? He remembered the tremor in Hiccup’s hands yesterday, the fierce protectiveness over his case, the stubborn set of his jaw when challenged. Brilliant. Fragile. Defiant. A contradiction wrapped in a too-big hoodie.

He finally looked up at Astrid, a slow, crooked smile spreading across his face. It wasn't the usual dazzling grin. This was quieter, more intimate, tinged with genuine intrigue. "Curious," he repeated, his voice low. "That's all."

Astrid snorted, pushing off the rig. "Uh-huh. 'Curious.' Right. Just remember, genius inventor types? They overthink everything." She tapped her temple meaningfully before walking towards the locker room. "Try not to break him, Flyboy."

Toothless watched her go, his smile lingering. Break him? The thought was absurd. Hiccup Haddock looked like he’d been breaking himself against the world for years. Toothless was just… curious about what happened when someone stopped watching him fall and offered a hand up. Or maybe just watched him fly.

Midnight draped the garage in velvety blackness, broken only by the pool of light from Hiccup’s desk lamp. The city outside was quieter now, a distant, drowsy hum. The prosthetic arm lay partially reassembled before him, the matte black casing gleaming dully. The burn on his hand throbbed in time with his heartbeat.

He wasn’t working.

He was staring at a grease-stained sketchpad lying open beside the tools. On the page, rendered in quick, anxious strokes of charcoal, was the silhouette of a firefighter on a ladder. The lines captured the tension in the shoulders, the dynamic balance, the focus. Smoke swirled around the figure, suggested rather than defined. And the face, though barely hinted at, held a familiar, sharp-edged intensity.

Hiccup hadn’t consciously decided to draw. His hand had moved of its own accord while his mind replayed the scene on loop: the sirens, the smoke, the effortless drop, the ascent, the wave through the haze. The recognition.

He saw me.

The thought was a live wire. Toothless hadn’t just spotted a face in the crowd; he’d locked onto him. In the middle of a fire call. And then he’d waved. Not dismissively. Not mockingly. Acknowledgingly. Like Hiccup belonged there, watching.

Why?

Hiccup touched the edge of the sketch, smudging the charcoal. His fingers still tingled with the phantom echo of that involuntary twitch. He thought of Toothless’s easy competence, the way he commanded the chaos, the sheer physical presence of him. It was everything Hiccup wasn’t: fearless, grounded, effortlessly belonging in the world of action Stoick revered.

And yet… Toothless had asked about the arm. Not sneered. Asked. He’d seen the tremor in Hiccup’s hands and noted the exhaustion, not with pity, but with… what? Observation? "You built that yourself?"

Hiccup closed the sketchpad, a flush creeping up his neck. He looked at the prosthetic hand. It was no longer just a machine, a proof of concept, a ticket to validation. It was suddenly, irrevocably, tied to him. To the firefighter who scaled burning buildings and waved from the smoke. To the man who called him "genius inventor" and looked at him with open, unsettling curiosity.

What if it failed during a rescue? What if the heat shielding buckled? What if the grip locked up while holding a life? The stakes, which had always felt abstractly professional, now had a face. Toothless’s face. Sharp, grinning, smudged with soot.

The fear was paralyzing. But beneath it, deeper and hotter, surged a new determination. It wasn't just about proving Stoick wrong anymore. It was about proving he could build something worthy of that. Worthy of the trust implicit in a wave from a ladder. Worthy of the dangerous, vital world Toothless inhabited.

He picked up a micro-screwdriver. His hands were still tired, but the tremor was gone, replaced by a focused steadiness. He slid the neural interface assembly back into the forearm casing, the connections clicking home with satisfying precision.

He didn’t know what this feeling was – this electric buzz under his skin whenever he thought of Toothless. Attraction? Admiration? A terrifying sense of possibility? He didn’t have a name for it.

But he knew one thing with absolute, bone-deep certainty.

He wasn’t done.

Not with the arm, its mechanisms whispering promises of resilience under his careful hands.
Not with the firehouse, its pulse now a rhythm echoing in his own chest.
Not with Stoick, the specter of judgment now a challenge rather than a condemnation.
And definitely not with Toothless – the enigma, the spark, the man who saw him in the smoke.

He had work to do. Real work. Hard work.

Not yet.

The soldering iron flared to life in his hand, a tiny, defiant sun in the midnight garage. Outside, the first drops of a new rain began to fall, whispering against the roof. Inside, Hiccup Haddock bent over his creation, the shadows leaning close, the future crackling with unspoken currents