1. This story picks up at the final scene of "Snotlout Gets the Axe." Slight deviation from the ep in that the subplot with the wedding ends before this scene, instead of ending the episode.
2. Not into Snotlout whump? Click 'back' now. This is an extended Snotlout-centric h/c. Consider yourselves duly notified.
3. The dragons' names for themselves - Fire-Scale, Spike-Tail, etc - are the invention of the wonderful 10Blue10, here on FFN, and used with permission.
4. Gratitude to Thursday26 for editing efforts above and beyond.
5. This is pretty much finished, just at the beta's. Expect frequent updates.
For Meraki7734, with thanks!
Spitelout snatches the priceless ceremonial axe from his son's negligent hands before he can damage it, sending Snotlout stumbling. He should have known better than to trust the boy with anything so important. He lays it carefully on a flat rock for later retrieval, then turns his attention to the matter at hand.
"You disappoint me." The words drop from Spitelout like stones as he stalks towards his son. "I wanted to be proud in front of the clan chiefs." He's boiling with rage. No, not boiling – seething. All the resentment at his son's pretensions, all the times he's been itching to put Snotlout in his place since he pranced off to play grown-up with the other spoiled brats, solidify in this final act of utter irresponsibility. Snotlout is within reach now. "Undress."
Snotlout lowers his hands to his privates. "E-everything?"
"Not your smallclothes, don't be disgusting," he spits. Is the whelp deliberately trying to annoy him? "Everything else."
Spitelout stands back, arms folded, watching Snotlout take off his ridiculous getup. Didn't even think of dressing smartly for the wedding. It's like he was trying to humiliate the Jorgenson name. "I'm going to teach you a lesson you'll never forget," he mutters; it's a promise. Snotlout strips clumsily, fumbling with his belt buckle, hands shaking as he removes his boots and peels off his leggings. And well may he tremble, with what's coming to him.
"I'm sorry." Snotlout's voice is muffled in the tunic he's pulling off. His head slips out of the neck-opening. Finally, he stands in nothing but the slip of a garment covering his rear and his privates. "I'm sorry," he repeats.
"You should be," Spitelout looks at the sorry spectacle, "and you will be. Extremely." He jerks his head toward the bushes. "Go and relieve yourself."
Snotlout scurries away, bare feet leaving imprints on the sand. Such a pathetic sight. Couldn't he have done better? All he had to do was obey. Then Spitelout would be congratulating him and cheering his name in a joyful battle-cry, not having him empty his bladder in preparation for being punished.
Eventually, the miscreant returns. "Put your belt back on," Spitelout says to his son. Snotlout picks up the belt and buckles it around his bare torso as Spitelout watches impassively. The thick, broad leather will protect the boy's lower back and stomach, allowing Spitelout to lay the strokes on without fear of striking a potentially fatal blow. His son doesn't understand how much his father loves him, how careful Spitelout is of his welfare. Just another way in which Snotlout doesn't appreciate his father. That pack of wild beasts he runs around with would never think to protect him like this—wild beasts headed by the son of a Chief, no less. If Hiccup were his, Spitelout's, son, things would be different. He could have raised that boy right.
He takes a deep breath, starting to pace around Snotlout. Snotlout shivers, standing all but naked in the biting night air. Spitelout can see the gooseflesh rising on Snotlout's arms. "Cold, are you? This is what comes of running around after those friends of yours," Spitelout hisses. "Don't worry. I'll warm you up soon enough. Should've known you were nothing but a child, even if you think you're a man." He pauses in front of Snotlout, and gives his pale face a little smack, not hard. Snotlout flinches hard. "You like your friends, do you? Feel like a big man among them?" Spitelout inflates his chest, drawing himself up. "Pathetic." He looks his half-naked offspring up and down, sneering at the sorry sight. To add insult to injury, the boy's grown up short and squat. Never did get a proper Viking physique. He looks even smaller now as he shrinks into himself in fear. For a while, he seemed like someone Spitelout would be able to point out and crow, 'That's my son!' But after tonight… "Yer lucky I don't disown you, boyo."
Snotlout doesn't dare move a muscle as Spitelout circles him. He knows the drill: chin up, eyes down. "Think you're so important now, living on, what is it, Dragon's Edge."Spitelout lets his resentment out in a huff. "Glorified treehouse if you ask me. Thought you'd flown the nest, did you? All grown-up and independent? Big man now because you've a few hairs on your chin?" He presses two hard fingers under Snotlout's chin and flicks them up, making Snotlout's head snap back for a moment. Snotlout clenches his jaw and settles back to where he was. Spitelout flings out his hand, ignoring the way that his son flinches at the movement, "Surrounded by your ' friends ' who tell you to bite the hand that feeds ye? Faugh!" He spits on the ground. The boy starts, but he pays it no mind. "Friends, indeed" he sneers. "Children. Playing at being Vikings. And now it's come to this, disappointing me. Disappointing your family . Think you're superior to your elders and betters, do ye?"
The boy's eyes are glazed. He's not even looking at him. How much disrespect can this boy possess? "You struck dumb, boyo? ANSWER ME!"
Snotlout starts at the shout, cringing. "I'm sorry, Dad?" he offers.
"You weren't listening," Spitelout hisses into Snotlout's ear. Snotlout shrinks back as though repulsed, sending rage spiking through Spitelout. He wants so badly to lash out, to start punishing the boy without any preparations, but he's better than that. He clenches his fists at his sides, shaking with the effort of holding back. "What's the matter, boy? Disgusted by yer own father?"
"No! No, Dad, I'm sorry..." Snotlout straightens again, holding himself stiff. He's unconvincing, at best.
"I think different," Spitelout sneers, barely above a whisper. "I think you have placed your friends above your family. I think you've grown so invested in this little fantasy I've let you play in with your friends that you've deluded yourself into believing you amount to anything outside the Jorgenson family tree."
"No! No, Dad, I haven't, I swear I haven't!"
"I swear I haven't," Spitelout mimics in a high-pitched squeak, half-blind with fury. "Your actions say otherwise. You didn't just neglect your family obligations – you spat on them! You dragged the Jorgenson name through the mud!"
"I'm sorry. I'm sorry." Snotlout is shaking already. From the cold, or from fear, it doesn't matter. It's disgraceful to be showing anything in this situation. Spitelout takes a sharp breath in through his nose, his frown deepening. Where did he go wrong?
"No, you're not, you disloyal, miserable whelp. But you will be." Spitelout keeps pacing. He doesn't shout: his disappointment has had time to settle into cold rage. "I told the Hoffersons, I told the assembled clan chiefs, 'Snotlout, my son, my pride and joy, my only son, will be here on dragon-back!' I kept looking up into the sky, waiting for you to come. I was sure your stupid idiot games wouldn't make a mess of something this big, this important. Not this time." The last part comes out a whisper, like a stalking snake.
Snotlout stands there, still shaking. "But you didn't come. The patriarchs of great families were all there! If you had been planning to publicly humiliate me, you couldnae have done it better!"
Still the boy stands, dumb as a post. "They laughed at me," Spitelout says, low and dangerous. The words drop like stones into the silent air around them."They laughed at me and then they got angry, because the wedding was ruined. You think your father deserves to be mocked, boyo? Is that how little you think, how little you care, for the one who gave you life? This is how you repay me, by turning me into a joke?"
"No, D-dad…"
"The wedding was ruined, Snotlout. They had to arrange another date. And the shame was on me. The wedding was ruined because the heir of the Jorgenson clan was too busy with his own stupid friends and his own stupid dragon and his own stupid foolery to think of anyone but his own stupid self!"
Wide blue eyes stare dumbly at Spitelout, mouth moving without making a sound. He waits for Snotlout to say something, anything, in his own defence. Spitelout isn't completely heartless, he'll give the boy a chance to defend himself. But the boy stays silent, mouth opening and closing like a stupid fish. Spitelout is just about out of patience with this whelp. "Well? Do you have an excuse? Burnt cookies? Fighting invaders? Saving the world, maybe?" Who knows, if there really was some battle or attack, he might even forgive the boy. Duty calls and all that.
The idiot shakes his head, eyes glazed and staring, mouth finally closed.
Spitelout's hand shoots out and grabs Snotlout by the hair on the back of his head. The boy cries out, then clamps his mouth shut. "How could you? How could you do this to everybody? You've always been selfish and irresponsible, but this takes the fucking cake!" He shakes Snotlout, drawing another whimper. "Keep yer blasted mouth shut!" He gives the boy a good shake for emphasis. "I'll have you crying all night, don't be so eager to get started!" There's fire in his veins, boiling under his skin, and every sound that falls out of Snotlout's mouth is only making him angrier.
Snotlout blinks up at Spitelout, his hair still clutched in Spitelout's grip. Spitelout gives a couple more shakes, his fingers starting to ache from how tightly he's holding onto Snotlout's hair. Snotlout blinks at him, trying to muffle the noises escaping him. "I'm sorry," he whimpers.
"You're sorry." Spitelout finds his voice is smooth. He feels… incredulous. "And you think sorry will fix everything."
"No, Dad I…"
"You made me a LAUGHINGSTOCK!" Spitelout bursts out, giving the boy an extra shake. He pulls Snotlout close, so he can understand. "You made your CLAN a laughingstock! You SPAT on the Jorgenson name today! How did you even dare? Did you think it was a joke? Because, believe me," Spitelout lets his anger slide into his low promise, leaning just that much closer, Snotlout cringing away from him, "I will show you that it isn't."
Hookfang flaps his massive wings in a strong downbeat, then glides. The night air swirls softly around him. The other dragons are silent. He should be looking forward to fish and sleep on the Edge, but all he can think of is how pale Snotlout looked as he told him to leave, the way the human's small heart beat fast and scared.
Hookfang's anger at his partner's shameless exploitation of the life debt lasted for twenty, perhaps thirty, wingbeats. To tell the truth, he never even knew Snotlout thought of it as a life debt. They've saved each other's lives so many times that it's almost impossible to track who owes whom now. And Hookfang knows perfectly well that Snotlout would never, ever have invoked this most sacred of dragon obligations if he hadn't been desperate for a way to get Hookfang out of the picture.
Hiccup gives him a friendly glance. "Doing okay, Hookfang?"
Hookfang rumbles. Of course. Everything's fine. Toothless makes a sound, but Hookfang ignores him.
It'll be okay, Hookfang, said Snotlout. Hookfang shakes his head as he glides along, marring the arrow-straight line of his flight path. He can't shake the feeling in his gut that Snotlout was lying.
