A/N: Since it was canonically confirmed, both in the second HTTYD movie and by director Dean Deblois, that Gobber is gay, I've wondered after his backstory. And because I like to believe that the alternate universe in which the movies exist would allow gay marriage, it seemed to me that Gobber's line, "This is why I never married. This, and one other reason" needed another explanation. And the story behind that explanation is more complex and enthralling than even Hiccup could have imagined from three simple words...


Gobber had never fancied himself a romantic.

He didn't fantasize about taking any of the girls on walks along the rocky beaches or through the thick forests of the island. His heart didn't flutter at the idea of looking deep into their eyes or asking for their hands in marriage. It just wasn't something that seemed appealing to him.

And this was much to the chagrin of his father, who matched his son up with every passing shield-maiden and baker.

This afternoon's lucky lady was the waitress at their table in Meade Hall. Most of the village was gathered under the massive roof, celebrating a successful fall harvest.

Though the girl barely paid them any attention, running from table to table as quick as a dragon's flame, that didn't stop his father from insisting that she had her eye on him and that Gobber should walk her to her home later that evening.

He slapped his tankard on the table and licked his lips. By this time, he was drunk enough that his thoughts were slurred, but not his speech–that would come when the sun went down. "Next time she comes by, offer her a drink. She'll like that."

Gobber looked sullenly at his own full mug of ale. "I can't offer her a drink, Dad. She's the one that pours the drinks. And I'm sure she's seen enough alcohol just today to last her a lifetime."

His father narrowed his eyes, uncomprehending. "That's nonsense. All you have to do is..."

"Can we talk about something else? Please?" Gobber groaned and ran his hand through his hair. The movement lacked a certain emphasis, because he had to put his mug down first–it was a minor problem that came with only having one hand. He still hadn't gotten used to it, but he supposed a week wasn't long enough for that sort of thing. His stump was still wrapped up in bandages and healing, so it was extra worthless at the moment.

"You're twenty years old, Gobber. It's time for you to get married, start a family."

The idea turned his stomach. It really did.

"Son, you can't avoid it. Not anymore."

He was formulating a response that would do just that when a shout erupted from the mouth of the Hall: "Ships! Ships on the horizon! Report to battle positions!"

Thank the Gods, Gobber thought. He vaulted off the bench and toward the door without a backward glance.

To their credit, the Vikings sobered up and emptied the Hall with great speed. Gobber was caught in the swarm, but managed to extract himself just in time to grab hold of a rung on the ladder that led up to his watchtower. It was positioned to the west of the docks, and from the top he had a clear view of half of the island's beaches.

He'd been restricted to a non-combat position since the loss of his hand, and wouldn't be put back on the ground until it'd healed and he could wield weapons effectively again. He understood the chief's decision, because he would be a weakness if events turned for the worse, but that didn't mean he was happy about it.

After scrambling up the ladder–much harder now than it used to be–he pulled a short knife out of the waistband of his trousers and settled in to his watch position. The tower was actually quite spacious, at Gobber's current size. It was designed to fit even the biggest villager, which Gobber was not and probably would never be. And Vikings tended to grow up before they grew out, so he had a substantial amount of bulking up to do before he reached his full size.

He peered out at the docks, squinting his eyes to get a proper look at the ships. The outlines of four of them approached the island, and as they drew closer he realized the shape they were in. Broken planks and torn sails riddled their decks, and at least two of them had hull damage and sagged low into the water.

When they got within a few hundred yards, the lead ship raised a perfectly white flag of truce. Hardly a breeze had ruffled the island all day, so the cloth hung limp on the mast. But its message was clear.

They sought refuge on Berk.

The chief and a small party of villagers waited for them on the docks at the base of the cliff. All was silent as the ships floated to them. Three stopped one hundred yards away, but the last continued to the dock. A single plank was used to connect the ship to it, and an unarmed woman crossed to meet the chief of Berk.

They were too far away for Gobber to hear their words or read their body language, but he could at least tell that nothing terribly awful passed between them. After several minutes, the chief raised his arm in a closed fist, and the bugler followed his lead and gave the all-clear signal.

In his excitement, Gobber didn't bother with the ladder on the way down.

He bounded over the dirt paths through the forest and the village and wove down the ramps to the bottom as fast as his legs would take him. His natural curiosity would not be sated by anything other than immediate information.

Spotting Alvilda the Fierce, he slid to a stop and blurted, "What's going on?"

She turned to him, a small amount of surprise showing on her face. "These ships were attacked by dragons during their voyage," the master trainer said simply. "They are of an ally tribe, so we have offered them a place to stay until their ships are repaired. That is all I know at the moment."

Gobber nodded and approached the ship. Men and women, anywhere from Gobber's age to village elders, were already unloading themselves. They didn't have much to carry with them–either they'd planned for a short trip, or they'd lost a lot of it in the attack.

He stepped up to the plank, only a few yards long, and reached out his hand, grasping the forearm of the next villager to come ashore. With the added support, he could clamber onto the dock easily. Gobber accepted his thanks and reached out for the next person.

He continued to help the villagers onto shore, and as the ship cleared out, even more damage became evident. These ships probably wouldn't have lasted another day at sea.

As he squinted at a tribal emblem carved into the main mast, he took hold of another hand absently. It jerked suddenly, nearly tearing out of his grip.

The man let out a surprised yelp as he teetered on the plank, one foot thrown out to the side.

Managing to keep a hold on the man's wrist, Gobber saved him from a swim by pulling him forward onto the dock.

He fell toward Gobber, who put out his stump reflexively before realizing what an awful idea that was. He resigned himself instead to being knocked to his back on the wooden docks.

The man landed on him with a thud, and any air that may have been left in Gobber's lungs was pressed out. He saw stars for a few moments, and barely registered when the other man rolled off of his chest.

He felt like a fish, taking in great gulps of air until his vision cleared.

Next to him, the man pushed up to his feet, dusted off his knees, and held out his hand–first one and then the other, seeing the problem–to help Gobber up.

"I'm very sorry," he apologized in earnest as he pulled Gobber to his feet. "I'm as clumsy as a blind yak, I swear it."

"No need to apologize," replied Gobber with a wave of his stump.

He shook his head a little, ridding it of the lingering dizziness, and took a good look at the man.

Roughly Gobber's age, he had the kind of hair that was almost but not quite black, and blue eyes that jumped out of a dark-skinned face. He had a broad nose, but not as broad as the grin that seemed to sit naturally on his mouth. And he nearly towered over Gobber, but he was used to that. He was far from the tallest viking on Berk, and people from anywhere else wouldn't be much different.

As he finished his scrutiny, Gobber stuck out his hand. "I'm Gobber."

The man nodded and shook Gobber's hand firmly, saying after a split-second's hesitation: "You can call me Rack."

"Well, Rack," Gobber said, starting to walk up the dock to the village, "welcome to Berk. We haven't got much for fun things to do around here, unless you enjoy rocky beaches and dark forests."

Rack tilted his head as he walked beside Gobber, considering the idea. "That sounds like the most fun I've had in years, so long as I get a guided tour of these forest and beaches you speak of–the darker and the rockier the better."

"You'll have to find someone else for that," Gobber replied forlornly. "I haven't the time for anything other than what forge work I can still manage and my apprenticeship to the Dragon Training instructor." Gobber kicked a rock off the path, mourning his lack of free time.

A moment came and went in silence, and Gobber almost wondered if this man was reconsidering his choice to walk along with him. But then came a quiet request: "That sounds even better, if you don't mind my tagging along. I could even help, if you'd like."

Gobber looked over at Rack in disbelief. All of the sarcastic banter had dropped out of his voice. And to his surprise, the look on the man's face was nothing but genuine. He really meant it.

"I don't know how long my tribe will be here," Rack admitted, his voice back to normal. "A few months, maybe, and I–well, I want to make the best of the delay."

Gobber snorted. "'Making the best' of it doesn't really sound like hanging around with me, but you're welcome to it."

They walked in the would-be silence, if not for Rack's slow, easy whistling.

"I've dabbled in forge work," Rack continued after a bit. "So I'm curious to see how other tribes do things. And–Dragon Training, you said? How in Thor's name do you manage to train the beasts?"

A derisive laugh burst from him. "We don't train them!" He gasped through his chuckling. "That's impossible! No, we train the sixteenth years to fight them! Three months long, it is, and this year's bunch has barely survived one," added Gobber with a mischievous quirk of the mouth.

"Brilliant," Rack agreed with a matching grin. "This 'Dragon Training' sounds fascinating. Where I live, parents teach their children the basics, and then they are apprenticed to masters of the weapons they excel at."

Gobber turned off the main road and onto the path that led to the forge. "And dare I ask what your weapon of choice is?" he asked with a sidelong glance.

"The sword," Rack shrugged. "Nothing exceptional, really, but I love the feel of it. So powerful and right. I had one that I'd forged for myself–the best I've ever held–but it was lost in the dragon attack. It was either lose the sword or lose my arm, so–"

The words had barely come out of his mouth before he clapped his hands over it and turned to Gobber with wide-eyed embarrassment. "I didn't mean–"

"Don't worry about it," interrupted Gobber, glancing down at the limb he'd momentarily forgotten was missing. Although battle scars such as his were a badge of honor among vikings, that didn't stop it from hurting.

Gobber pushed away the self pity with a wave of his stump. "It's nothing I don't already know about. Besides, it has its perks."

"Like what?" Rack frowned.

"The tavern master gives us money off drinks for every limb we've lost. Some people get all their drinks free–so I'm not that bad off, really."

When Rack didn't respond, Gobber looked over to him again. They'd turned to an angle that put the sun right above his head so that Gobber had to look almost straight into it. It made it impossible to read his new friend's face as they slowed to a stop right outside the forge.

"What is it?"

Rack shook his head. "I couldn't have picked a better person to assault in my first moments on Berk."

Gobber frowned at the sort-of compliment. "Um...thanks."

"Don't worry about it."


A/N: Thanks for reading, and please review to tell me what you thought! I'm updating at least every week (maybe sooner, depending) so keep an eye out for updates.