Inspired by the song For Those Who Wait by Fireflight, and requested by Crimson-strength. Cover art is also made by Crimson-strength.

This story really is for those who wait, and with that I mean Crimson-strength, because she really had to wait days until it was finished. It's a good thing she's such a patient and wonderful person.

Kathy, for you!

Enjoy!

For Those Who wait

Hiccup was staring out the window. It was another rainy day, the grey downpour soaking everything and everyone who was unfortunate enough to be outside immediately. He was resting his head in his hands, his elbows on the rough wood of the windowsill. He didn't really lean on his arms, trying to keep his wound from reopening.

It had happened during the last dragon raid. His father had told him to stay inside, and of course he hadn't listened. He didn't really remember what happened, but he did remember being attacked by a Nadder. The dragon had lashed out at him, and for a moment the world had exploded in red and black. When he had come to his senses, he had been clutching his arm, a long gash bleeding badly.

His father had found him, and when he had discovered he had been injured, he had been furious. He had taken him to the healer anyway, and she had cleaned the wound, put some stitches in it and then she had bandaged it. She had send him off, with the warning to leave the wound alone, keep it clean and change the bandage once a day, or it might become infected.

He had done all that, and it had become infected anyway.

A few days ago the fever had come up, and the pain in his arm had returned with a vengeance. When he had gone back to the healer, she had given him some accusing glances, almost a look of "I told you to take care of it". She didn't understand that he had. Or she just didn't want to listen.

He had been bedridden ever since, the fever shaking his frail body, but today he couldn't stand it any longer. He had gotten up on shaking legs and staggered to the window. But the rain prevented him from seeing much, and he wasn't looking at anything in particular.

He sneezed, his eyes watering and he rubbed his face. He could feel he was burning up again and he pulled away from the windowsill. As soon as he did so, the room spun around him and he had to grab the desk not to fall. He just stood there until the dizziness wore off, then he carefully walked the few paces to his chair and sat down.

He took out an empty sheet of paper and searched around for his pencil, getting increasingly annoyed when he couldn't find it. It took him a full ten minutes to realize that it was laying on his paper right in front of him. He sighed and rubbed his face again, scrunching his nose when he felt another sneeze come up.

He stared at his paper, wanting to draw the ideas swirling in his head, to get them out and have some peace, but he found it impossible. His mind felt like it had been replaced by cotton balls and he couldn't muster the focus. He ran a hand over his face, wincing when he felt the wound pull underneath the bandages. He rubbed them gingerly, feeling the throbbing in his arm return as soon as he touched it.

He suddenly realized that he was shaking. Not from the cold, couldn't be, because he was so hot he thought he would melt. No, he decided, he wasn't shaking because he was cold, he was shaking because he was sick. He got up, seeking support wherever he could, and slowly made his way downstairs. He knew his father kept some healing herbs in the cabinet, but he had to get there first.

The stairs were the trickiest part. He didn't trust his legs enough, so he sat down, going down like that. Once he reached the bottom, he just sat there for a while, catching his breath. He could suddenly feel the fever come back with all his might. It tore at him, at his energy and he could feel his focus waning. He had to get to that cabinet, and fast.

Standing up, a sudden surge of dizziness took hold of him again and he stumbled forward, falling against the table. He screamed when the jolt send a burning pain up his arm and he curled up in the floor, cradling the throbbing appendage against his chest.

After a while, he felt both pain and dizziness subside, and he dared to get up again. Using the table as support, he walked towards the kitchen, carefully setting one foot on front of the other. He had almost reached the end of the table, almost reached the kitchen, when a wave of nausea gripped him and he doubled over, his arms around his stomach. He was fighting the urge to throw up, trying to keep whatever little food he had eaten in his body, but he lost the fight.

Crawling backwards, he stared at the little puddle on the floor, feeling sicker then ever. He tried to get up again, but his legs were shaking so much that he slumped over the table, slowly slipping back to the ground. He shivered, drawing his knees up to his chin, hugging his legs.

He curled up next to the table. The pain was returning, nausea washing over him. He was so hot now, but he couldn't stop shivering. He closed his eyes. He was so tired now... he didn't even care if he was on the floor next to the table. He just had to sleep...

0-0-0-0-0-0

He breathed in deeply, at first not really registering where he was. As his senses returned, so did the pain in his arm and head. He groaned, shifting a little. There was something on his forehead, something that was wet and cool, and it eased the fire in his head. He exhaled slowly, becoming aware of the blanket that was draped over him. He could feel the warmth around him, but he was still shivering.

He opened his eyes, seeing the ceiling of his room above his head. He sat up a little, the wet cloth slipping from his head and looked around the room. It was dark, there was a candle sitting on his desk, one more on the nightstand, but other than that there was no light. He was alone, but there was a chair next to the bed.

Sharp pain shot through his arm as he accidentally leaned on it and reflexively he pulled it up, losing balance and almost falling out of his bed. He yelped when he braced his fall, once again putting weight on his hurting arm. He pulled his legs up, sobbing softly at the pain.

His head shot up when the door to his room opened and he saw his father standing in the doorway. With a few paces the man closed the distance between the door and the bed and he sat down in the chair. Hiccup ducked his head, his hair falling over his face. He felt a little uncomfortable with his father next to him.

'How do you feel?'

His father's voice sounded a little scratchy, tired and he glanced at the man before shrugging, wincing at the pain in his arm.

'Okay I guess...'

'I was worried about you. When I found you on the floor, I thought...'

He looked up surprised. His father, worried about him? There was a softness in the man's eyes and he stared at it, not fully comprehending what he was seeing.

'Can I get you something? Water?'

He nodded wordlessly, suddenly realizing how dry his throat was. Stoick left, to return a few minutes later with a cup of water. He drank it carefully, not wanting to spill a single drop. As soon as the cup was empty, he gave it back to his father, and the man put it down on the desk. Then he turned to him again.

'Hiccup, what happened? Why weren't you in your bed?'

'I wanted... I just...'

He plucked at the blanket, not meeting his fathers eyes. Should he tell the man he was feeling so bad he had just wanted to get some of the healing plants he had downstairs? But there was no need for words. For some reason, Stoick understood just what he had wanted to get.

'Were you feeling that bad?'

He nodded. He was still feeling that bad. He was hot and cold at the same time, and the blanket did nothing to help with that. His arm hurt terribly much, his head was throbbing, and the nausea and dizziness seemed to have an iron grip on him. How could a stupid wound have so much consequences?

Suddenly there was a hand on his shoulder and he looked up. He knew his cheeks had to be red, his eyes shining with fever, but he met his father's eyes anyway. The man smiled at him, then he gently pushed him down, pulling the blanket over him again.

'Get some sleep Hiccup. You'll feel better in the morning, you'll see.'

He didn't argue, he didn't have the strength. Stoick left, leaving the door open just a little and Hiccup sighed. Normally the man didn't pay much attention to him, only seeming to notice him when he screwed up, but now he was suddenly gentle and caring. Did that mean he loved him after all?

He turned to his side, his wounded arm resting on the mattress, the pain and nausea slowly fading now that he was just laying down. He curled up, closing his eyes. He fell in a restless, haunted sleep, plagued by feverish dreams and nightmares.

0-0-0-0-0-0

The following few days were a haze. He was asleep more then he was awake, and the times he was awake he felt so tired, so drained of energy that he couldn't do anything besides stare at the ceiling or the wall. His father visited frequently, bringing water, another blanket, trying to get him to eat something. The healer came by a few times, changing the bandage around his arm, but he hardly noticed any of it. The sleep didn't rest his exhausted body, instead it felt like it was making things worse. Every time he woke up he would feel sicker, as if the sleep made the infection worse instead of better.

It was usually quiet in the house when he woke, but when he opened his eyes this time, he could hear soft voices coming from outside the door. One belonged to his father, the other to a man he didn't know. He strained his ears to hear what they were saying, but the wood from the door as well as the fog in his head, prevented him from catching the words.

There were footsteps and the voices left, leaving him in silence once again. He didn't mind. Silence meant that he could sleep. He looked at his arm, throbbing from his fingertips to his elbow, a dull pain that was just insistent enough to make sleeping very hard. He closed his eyes anyway, wanting to sleep desperately. Really sleep, get some real rest. He drifted off again, swimming away in the blackness of unconsciousness.

He awoke to screams this time, roaring coming from outside and pulled the blanket over his head. Another dragon raid was going on, but for the first time, he had no desire to go out and try to kill a dragon to prove his worth. All he wanted was to sleep, but with the battle going on outside that was impossible. He closed his eyes, listening to the sounds, when suddenly there was a crash that shook the whole house. For a moment, the world seemed to stand still, then his room exploded in flames.

He could see the orange flickering from under his blanket and was almost afraid to look. He looked anyway, fear gripping his heart when he saw the roaring fire that quickly consumed the outer wall of his room, and he caught a glance of a dragon's tail as it shot past his window.

He stared at the fire, wild-eyed and terrified. He was far too weak to get out of the house on his own, he couldn't even sit up without assistance. He started crying as he watched the flames come closer, helpless to do anything against it. He curled up, pulling the blanket over his head to escape the smoke, but he could feel how it started to irritate his lungs, stealing the oxygen away from him.

He coughed, gasping for breath as he felt the heat of the fire coming closer. He wanted to cry, but his lungs were burning, his eyes were watering from the smoke and he was too scared to even make a sound. If he had listened to his father in the first place, he wouldn't have been attacked by the Nadder, and he wouldn't be too sick to move right now.

A loud bang came from downstairs, and then he heard a voice. He blinked a few times. Did he really hear a voice? Or was that the fever playing tricks on him?

But the hands grabbing him were no trick. He was lifted from the bed, wrapped in his blanket and he rested his head against the man's shoulder as he was carried away from the flames. He could still feel the heat on his skin, and he vaguely realized that the entire house had to be on fire.

His vision suddenly washed black as he struggled to breath properly. His lungs burned with every breath he sucked in, and his breathing was becoming ragged. When he felt the cool air of the night around him, a sharp contrast with the heat from the fire, he finally lost consciousness.

0-0-0-0-0-0

Stoick swung his axe at a Monstrous Nightmare, and he grunted as it got away from him. He had no time to see where it was going as he was attacked but a Gronckle, the dragon's stocky body slamming into his own. He managed to score a few hits to the dragon's head and the beast flew off, dazed. He left it for another viking to finish as he took a moment to catch his breath. Suddenly there was an explosion on the distance and his eyes were drawn to his house, his breath hitching and his heart skipping a few beats when he saw the flames rising up from the building.

He threw the axe aside as he started running towards the house, only one thought on his mind.

Hiccup was inside, and he was too sick to move on his own.

He ran up the steps two at a time and kicked the door in. He flinched when the heat from the fire slapped him in the face and took a step back in shock. The entire lower level was on fire, the flames licking the wood, quickly consuming it. He looked at the stairs and the loft, where Hiccup's room was, but it was also on fire. Panic gripped his heart and he dove into the fire, ignoring the flames that clung to his clothes, trying to burn them.

He made it up the stairs, but hesitated when he reached out to the doorknob. The brass doorknob was glowing, burning hot from the fire that was raging on inside the room behind it.

'Hiccup!'

Inhaling more smoke than he meant to, he started coughing. There was no reply to his call and he kicked in the door, seeing the flame rage in the room. He immediately looked to the bed, and he saw a small bundle curled up under the blanket. He launched forward, taking his son in his arms, wrapping the blanket around him to protect him from the fire and the smoke, and as fast as he could he made his way out of the house.

Beams from the roof were already coming down by the time he reached the door and stepped outside, Hiccup's limp body in his arms. He laid him down on the grass away from the house and pulled the blanket away. Hiccup was pale, barely breathing and the breaths he did take were ragged. He wasn't sure if it was the fever or the smoke.

Vikings rushed passed him, carrying buckets and they quickly formed a line from the well to the house, trying to kill the flames before they consumed the entire house. He paid no attention to them. His eyes were fixed on his son, shaking the boy gently, trying to get him to wake up. Hiccup didn't respond to anything, he just lay on the grass. Worry grew in his heart as he scooped the boy up in his arms. He had to get him to a healer.

0-0-0-0-0-0

'Stoick? Can I come in?'

He looked up, seeing Gobber standing in the doorway. He nodded and gestured the man inside. The smith glanced at Hiccup, laying in the bed. He was pale, his breathing still ragged, his bandaged arm lay across his chest.

'How is he?'

'He said that the smoke made his sickness worse.' Stoick said softly, afraid to wake the boy. 'He was already weak from the infection, but now...'

'Well, ya can stay with me if ya want.'

'Thanks for the offer, but Hiccup can't be moved at the moment. And I'm not leaving him.'

Gobber nodded and silence filled the room. Both men were staring at the boy in the bed, one worried for his son, the other for his apprentice.

'How bad is it? The house?'

'Well...' Gobber said, finally sitting down. 'Tha walls are still standing. Tha roof has collapsed, and tha entire loft is burned out. You got him out in time, Stoick. He wouldn't have survived.'

Stoick sighed. He still felt the heat of the fire on his skin. His clothes and hair had been singed when he got out of the house. His shoulder had been burned, but it wasn't bad. His major concern was with his son. The healer had said that the boy was in a coma, and that is was unsure when, and if he would wake up.

'Well... I'll leave ya then. I think I will help with tha cleanup. There's lots to be done.'

Stoick just nodded, his only acknowledgment that the blacksmith left. His eyes were fixed on Hiccup's face. The whiteness of his skin looked wrong, and the way his hair clung to his forehead, damp from sweat, was a clear indication that the fever still had the boy in his grasp. He couldn't remember the last time he had been this afraid that he would lose the boy. But as he stared at Hiccup's face, he realized he hadn't really seen the boy in years.

He leaned back, closing his eyes. Hiccup's labored breathing sounded deafening in his ears, while he knew that in truth, the boy was breathing much too shallow. The smoke had affected his lungs, and that combined with the infection and the fever he was already suffering from, could be deadly according to the healer.

He sighed heavily and opened his eyes, looking down on Hiccup again. He took Hiccup's hand in his, and placed the other one on the boys forehead, feeling the heat seep into his skin. Hiccup mumbled something incoherent, his eyes fluttering, and for a moment he thought he would wake up. But he slipped away again, his hand going limp.

Brushing a lock of damp hair from Hiccup's forehead, he swallowed back the tears. He did love the boy, he really did. He just found it so very hard to tell him. Hiccup would never listen, he would always do the exact opposite of whatever he was told, and he was as stubborn as a viking could be. It made it very hard to tell the boy he loved him.

But even with all his stubbornness, Hiccup didn't deserve this much bad luck. First he received his first dragon related injury, "Cool!" as the twins had called it, which had become infected for no apparent reason, the fever forcing him to stay in bed, to weak to even eat. Then, with the very next raid, he had become trapped inside a burning house, breathing in more smoke than was healthy, especially in his condition.

He kept his hand on the boy's forehead, both in worry that the fever would rise and in an effort to let his son know that he wasn't alone.

He couldn't really do anything, except wait.

0-0-0-0-0-0

Fire...

The room had been on fire.

He could still feel the heat surrounding him and he panicked. He tried to open his eyes, but they wouldn't. Every breath he took suddenly burned in his chest, and his arm was hurting like it had never hurt before.

His eyes shot open and he expected to see the flames all around him, but instead he was staring up at a wooden ceiling that wasn't his own. He was gasping for breath, crying when he felt the breaths sting, and suddenly there was a hand on his shoulder. He turned his head, seeing his father standing next to him, worry evident in his eyes.

'It's okay Hiccup, you're safe now.'

He wanted to ask something, he had so many questions, but he started coughing instead. He struggled to even out his breathing, but he couldn't stop coughing. Before Stoick could do anything, the door opened and the healer came in, carrying a cup. He shoed Stoick aside and sat down at the edge of the bed.

As soon as he had drank the contents of the cup, the coughing subsided, but he was still panting as if he had run for hours. The healer didn't leave, but set the cup aside and started to unwrap the bandage around his arm. Every movement was agonizing and he whimpered softly when the man touched the area around the wound.

The healer gently placed his arm on his chest and left for a few minutes. He sneaked a glance at his arm, and wished he hadn't. The wound was red, the area around it was red as well, some blueish/black discolorations on the skin along with the red. Looking at it made it even more painful, and he simply closed his eyes as he lay waiting for the healer to return. Silent tears were slipping from his eyes, soaking into the pillow.

He opened his eyes again when he heard the healer come back and the man took his arm. There was a soft splash of water, and then a flaming pain suddenly shot through his arm. He screamed and tried to pull his arm away from the man, but he was so weakened by the fever and the smoke inhalation that he could hardly move.

The healer continued to clean the wound almost merciless, and he just lay whimpering, gritting his teeth, occasionally crying out when the pain became too much. Something cool was rubbed on the wound, then he felt how it was bandaged again. The coolness eased the fire in his arm and numbed the pain, killing the burning sensation quickly. Then the healer left and his father came to his side again, his eyes still worried, but glinting with... tears?

He frowned.

His father wouldn't cry, would he?

But the man took his hand, gently rubbing the back of it. 'It's okay Hiccup. Go to sleep. You're safe now son, it will be alright.'

'D... dad...?'

His voice was terribly raw, and he had to force the words out of his mouth. Talking made his throat burn and he almost started coughing again.

'Shh, don't talk. I'll tell you what happened later okay? Right now you have to rest. You've been asleep for a week. And you're still sick.'

He didn't need his father to tell him that. He could feel the fever in his veins, hot and cold flashes, the throbbing in his arm, the burning in his chest every time he drew breath, and on top of that he just felt so tired...

'Go to sleep.' Stoick mumbled, gently stroking his hair.

He closed his eyes. There were so many things that would have prevented him from sleep. The pain in his arm, his chest, the fever... but he was too tired to resist. He felt the sleep pull on him from all sides, trying to drag him away from consciousness and he simply let it. There was no point in fighting it. Maybe, if he woke up again, he wouldn't feel this bad anymore.

0-0-0-0-0-0

Stoick watched as Hiccup quickly fell asleep. Part of the worry and fear he had felt the past week had been lifted. Hiccup still had a long way to recovery, but at least he had awoken from the coma. He had his hand on his cheek now, and the boy nuzzled into his palm, drawn to the warmth and security if his fathers hand.

Smiling, he leaned back, careful not to move his hand. He would still have to tell Hiccup that his room had been burned out. That the entire house had burned out. But he wouldn't be able to leave the healers hut any time soon anyway, so there was no reason to upset him with things like that.

He decided that he would wait with telling him that.

He had been waiting for a week, a heavy burden on his shoulders. The burden had not lessened, Hiccup was still in danger, but he was on the road to recovery. He would have a scar on his arm, but at least he would not lose it. It would take a while, but he would be okay.

He would just have to wait.

But he didn't mind anymore.

Because time is patient for those who wait.