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Stoick watched his son sleep. Watched his chest rise and fall, rise and fall, marked the steady, even cadence of his breathing.
He had been here before. Less than a year ago, he had sat by this same bedside, watched his son sleep with the same gnawing hole in his chest, prayed the same prayer to any gods who would listen that his child would open his eyes, sit up, smile at him. That the same fire would come back to his eyes.
At his side, Toothless whined, and Stoick automatically leaned down to pat the dragon on the head. Once again, Toothless had saved his son. Stoick would never be able to repay the Night Fury for what he had given him. Like last time, man and dragon waited, and watched, and hoped, and feared. Comforted each other. Kept brave faces when friends and well-wishers came to call.
The last time, Hiccup had slept for nearly two weeks. Gothi said his body needed uninterrupted time to heal from the trauma of losing his leg. Stoick had had no choice but to trust her, but doubt crept in on more than one occasion. Gobber hadn't stayed unconscious that long when he'd lost his limbs, so what if Gothi was wrong? What if he never woke up? What if he stayed like this forever, face blank and empty of everything that made him Hiccup?
Out of control what-ifs could shatter a man's soul as completely as the feared outcome itself. Stoick had languished in his fears and doubts, his regrets and his guilt, the whole time Hiccup had slept.
Gothi had been right, of course. Eventually, Hiccup had woken up. He'd healed, he'd grown stronger, he'd become more confident and had begun to develop into a promising leader. And Stoick had finally been able to breathe again. Eventually, he put the nightmare behind him.
(He tried to put it behind him, but it kept pace with him, always following, always breathing on the back of his neck.)
And yet — here he was again. Watching. Waiting. Praying. Hoping. And this time, he had no idea if Hiccup would wake up. None of them did — not even Gothi.
Because Hiccup, in an effort to protect the dragon that always protected him, had been struck down by lightning, had plummeted into the sea, would have drowned had Toothless not broken free from his chains and dove in after him.
Somehow, Hiccup still breathed after the lightning bolt. Not many people did. Thor's wrath sparked fierce and strong; rarely did it leave a body with life still inside.
Hiccup breathed, but he didn't wake.
It had been four days. Gothi had treated his surface wounds — the strangely beautiful, branching burn marks, like a winter tree reaching for Valhalla, traveling from his left wrist to his shoulder and down his left side. But the healer did not know if Hiccup would wake, did not know if he would be the same if he did wake.
And so Stoick did the only thing he could do: He waited, he watched, he comforted Toothless and received comfort in return. He cried when no one could see him. He hoped and prayed and grieved and feared.
Now he stood, back cramping, muscles aching. Heart breaking, because Hiccup hadn't improved, hadn't shown any signs of life other than the rise and fall of his chest. Toothless gurgled up at him, and Stoick explained, "I have to get out of this room for a bit. It's too — too stifling."
The room, in fact, felt pleasantly cool, but the atmosphere curdled around him, the walls pressed in, the chasm in his chest when he looked at his son made it hard to breathe. He didn't explain all this to Toothless. Instead, he said, "Keep an eye on him while I'm gone, dragon."
He slumped down the stairs, body held down by the iron weights of helplessness, despair, and dread.
He found Gobber puttering around downstairs, making a cup of tea.
"What are you doing here?"
Gobber snorted. "Nice to see you too, Stoick." He shoved the steaming cup into his friend's hands. "Here. Chamomile. It'll help you relax."
Stoick sank down into his chair and cupped the tea in his hands but did not drink. He drew comfort from the heat of the cup, the way it burned but in a way that felt good, grounding.
"Still no change, I take it?"
Stoick shook his head, too overwhelmed to speak.
"If anyone can make it through this, it'll be Hiccup, just you wait and see," Gobber predicted. "See how well he's doin' after losin' that leg. We both know grown Vikings who didn't handle losin' a limb as well as he did at fifteen. A lightning bolt'll barely slow him down."
Stoick took a sip of the tea, barely tasting it. It burned down his throat and pooled warmly in his stomach. He felt marginally calmer, so he took another sip.
"Gods, Gobber. All I can think about is the last time. Paler than death, empty, still. Hiccup isn't — he's never still, Gobber."
"Oh, I know. Trust me. Tryin' to keep up with that boy is like tryin' to herd a pack of wild Changewings." He paused, then clarified: "Very difficult."
Stoick nodded. "I can't lose him, Gobber."
"I know. And you won't."
The brazen certainty in Gobber's voice made Stoick pause. "How can you be so sure?"
Gobber shrugged. "Because he's Hiccup."
Stoick had to admit his friend had a point. "But Gothi—"
Gobber waved him off. "Take whatever that melodramatic old bat writes with a grain of salt. She doesn't know Hiccup as well as we do."
Stoick placed the half-empty cup on the table and stood. "You're right, Gobber."
"Of course I am."
Together, the two friends ascended the stairs, Stoick in front and Gobber behind. Stoick fully expected to return to the same scene that he had left: Hiccup, pale, limp, lifeless in all but breath. Toothless curled by the bed, a picture of abject misery. No change. The same thing he had been seeing for four days now.
So when he entered the room to find Hiccup not only awake, but sitting up, perched on the edge of the bed and scratching an ecstatically wiggling Toothless under the chin, he thought for a wild moment that he had somehow slipped into a dream while awake.
But no — that was Hiccup, real, solid, awake, alive, himself. Smiling up at him. Dark circles under his eyes, paler than usual, a slight tremor in his hands. But awake. His son had come home.
"My boy! You're all all right!" Stoick all but launched himself at his son, pulled him into his arms, and lifted him into the air. "You took a lightning bolt to the head!"
On Hiccup's face, he saw wonder, confusion. Stoick drank in the sight of him, all gangly limbs and freckles and intelligent green eyes.
Behind him, Gobber whispered, "Told ya so."
And as he embraced his child, reassured him that Toothless would be staying right here, where he belonged, Stoick could barely contain his joy. It burbled up inside him, it calmed the raging storm inside, it overflowed. It spilled through the cracks his fear had made, filled them, mended them. The traces of the cracks still remained — they always would — but he had been made, once again, whole.