The Ghost and His Shadow

That… that was his son. The teen whose eyes snapped like green fire, the teen who stood tall and proud, who squared his broad – when had he had his growing spurt – shoulders and raised his chin and didn't falter before anyone. Not even him.

The teen who stood in black-painted armor and stepped more like a dragon than a man. The teen who had traces of rough stubble on his jaw and Stoick wondered with a jolt if Gobber had taught him how to shave or if that was one more thing he'd had to learn on his own. The teen who knew how to fight and how to fight well and that must've been Gobber too. And then Hiccup meted out justice as he saw fit, despite protests, despite the crowd and the pressure and the lack of support, and he looked like a chief.

Then Hiccup picked up his bag and nodded to Gobber and walked into the forest. He never once made eye contact with Stoick. And why would he? What had Stoick ever done to earn those looks? The chief watched the forest long after Hiccup had disappeared and cursed his own weakness and folly and stupidity.

He'd been so focused on not meeting those eyes because they reminded him of Valka's that he'd driven his own son away. He couldn't bear to see Hiccup's face light up in fascination just like hers when he was enamored with a project, so he hadn't looked, and Hiccup had stopped showing him. He had made excuses. There was always something to be done with all the raids and the searches for the Nest. There was always a complaint or a marriage or something broken or a death. He'd been so focused on being a good chief that he failed as a father.

"Oh, Val, what have I done to our son?" he breathed.

Gobber deserved those looks because he'd bothered to look Hiccup in the eye. Gobber deserved those nods because it was Gobber who had looked over the boy's new projects, giving advice or praising his work. It was Gobber who taught him to work metal and encouraged his interests. It was Gobber whose sense of humor and talent for sarcasm he'd inherited, or at least had from what he had heard of Hiccup's sharp tongue. It was Gobber who taught him to shave. Gobber had been his guide, his mentor, his champion. Gobber had been… Gobber was Hiccup's father, in all but blood.

Gobber had taught him to fight too. That much was obvious. Because it was a father's duty to teach their son how to handle a blade and swing an axe and Stoick had never bothered. He'd looked at Hiccup and thought small and weak, and didn't even try, other than to hand him a small dagger as a consolation. And Gobber had taught him well, as he did in all things. The boy moved like the wind, all grace and speed and unpredictability.

Gobber had done that. Gobber was Hiccup's father.

Stoick had lost that right.