Morning arrived not with the gentle prodding of sunlight, but with the unyielding pressure of a living mountain range. The sensation was familiar—the warmth, the scent of ozone, the solid weight of a draconic body—but the intensity was new. Yesterday's announcement had fundamentally altered the emotional landscape of my home, and the primary geological feature of that new landscape was a clingy, dark, scaly wall of pure, unadulterated jealousy. And he was currently using me as a mattress.
I was pinned. Utterly and completely. My face was wedged into the valley between Toothless's bicep and his pectoral muscle, a space so dense with muscle it felt like being trapped between a hydraulic press and a granite slab. An arm, thick as a tree trunk, was draped over my back, its heavy claws resting possessively on my shoulder. His other arm was wrapped around my waist, and his legs were tangled with mine under the sheets, a heavy, scaly anchor preventing any hope of escape. He wasn't just hugging me; he was claiming me, his body a physical declaration: This one is mine. All challengers will be vaporized.
His breathing was a deep, slow rumble against my ear, but I knew he wasn't asleep. He had been like this since Agent Smith left, a massive, silent shadow of possessive anxiety. His usual playful nudges and gentle purrs had been replaced by a constant, oppressive proximity. If I moved, he moved, always maintaining contact, his presence a constant, suffocating reminder of his displeasure.
With a groan, I began my morning escape attempt. It was an exercise in futility, like a mouse trying to tunnel its way out from under a sleeping panther. I wiggled, trying to create a sliver of space. The only result was the arm around my back tightening reflexively, pulling me deeper into the suffocating warmth of his embrace. He let out a low, sleepy-sounding growl, a clear warning to cease and desist all squirming activities.
"Come on, bud," I wheezed, my voice muffled against his scales. "I need to get up. Coffee. Fish. The world needs to start spinning."
He responded by nuzzling his head against the top of mine, a gesture that was less affectionate and more like a car being parked on my skull. It was clear I wasn't going anywhere until he decided I was. This new, super-glued version of Toothless was a direct consequence of yesterday's double-barreled news: a rival was coming, and his best friend was leaving. In his mind, the only logical response was to physically attach himself to the one constant he had left: me.
Eventually, after another ten minutes of strategic, patient wriggling, I managed to create enough space to breathe actual, non-dragon-scented air. He finally relented with a great, dramatic sigh, releasing me from his grip with the reluctance of a dragon forfeiting a particularly shiny piece of treasure. I scrambled out of bed, my body aching as if I'd spent the night being used as a stress toy.
The atmosphere downstairs was just as tense. Stormfly was already in the kitchen, but she wasn't her usual, newly confident self. She was perched nervously on her stool, her vibrant blue scales seeming a little dull in the morning light. She was picking at a piece of salmon, her movements jerky and uncertain. She looked at me, her piercing blue eyes wide with a familiar anxiety I hadn't seen since the day she arrived. The news of her impending move, of her second separation from Toothless, had undone a week's worth of progress. She was terrified of being alone again.
Toothless padded into the kitchen behind me, his heavy tread a silent warning. He didn't sit at the table. Instead, he stood directly behind me as I prepared their breakfast, his chest a warm, solid wall against my back. He rested his chin on my shoulder, his intense green eyes tracking my every move, daring the world to try and take me from him. It was like trying to cook with a possessive, eight-and-a-half-foot-tall backpack.
The morning passed in this state of strained silence. Astrid arrived for her "daily check-in," but the easy, lighthearted banter of yesterday was gone. She and I spoke in low, worried tones while Stormfly and Toothless sat together in the living room, a miserable island of blue and black scales, communicating in soft, sad-sounding chirps.
At precisely ten o'clock, it arrived.
A large, sterile, and entirely featureless white truck pulled up to the curb in front of my house. It had no logos, no markings, just the faint, ominous hum of a powerful engine and a heavy-duty refrigeration unit. Two men in identical gray jumpsuits, their faces impassive and professional, got out and walked to the back of the truck.
My heart began to hammer against my ribs. "Okay," I said, my voice louder than I intended, startling everyone. "This is it. Remember the plan. We are calm. We are non-threatening. We are a welcoming, well-adjusted, multi-species household."
Toothless let out a low growl, a clear statement that he, for one, would be doing no such thing. He rose to his full, intimidating height, planting his feet in a wide, stable stance. Stormfly stood with him, her fear momentarily eclipsed by her loyalty to her friend. They took up position behind the sofa, a united front of suspicion.
I opened the front door just as the two agents and a third figure—a tall, stern-looking woman I hadn't seen before—were approaching. The woman held a tablet and didn't bother with pleasantries.
"Mr. Haddock," she said, her voice clipped and professional. "We are here with Subject 812. The transport environment is stable, but we need to move him inside promptly. We require a clear, direct path to the primary living area. Please secure your other… residents."
"They're secured," I said, gesturing vaguely behind me. I had a feeling her definition of 'secured' and mine were vastly different.
The agents opened the heavy rear doors of the truck, and a wave of chilled, sterile air washed out. From the shadowy interior, a figure emerged, moving with a stiff, reluctant grace.
My first thought was: He's bigger than the picture.
The holographic image had not done him justice. Twelve feet and two inches of height is a fundamentally reality-warping thing to witness in person. He had to duck to get out of the truck, and as he straightened up on my lawn, he seemed to block out the sun. His hide was a breathtaking mosaic of deep, oceanic blues and shimmering gold, the scales smaller and finer than Toothless's, almost like chainmail. His two pairs of wings were bound by soft but secure-looking restraints, and his hands were similarly restrained in front of him. But it was his presence that was most overwhelming. He held himself with the unshakeable, regal poise of a king being paraded through a village of peasants. His head, crowned with sharp, elegant horns, was held high, and his intelligent, golden eyes scanned his new surroundings with an expression of profound, weary disdain. He wasn't a prisoner; he was a monarch enduring a tedious but temporary inconvenience.
He took in my house, my meticulously manicured lawn, my perfectly average suburban existence, and I could almost hear his internal, dismissive sniff.
He was guided up the walkway, his heavy, three-toed feet silent on the concrete. When he reached the doorway, he had to bend nearly double to fit through it, a process he performed with a slow, deliberate grace that was almost insulting, as if to highlight the sheer inadequacy of my dwelling.
The moment he stepped inside, the atmosphere in the house crackled with energy. The air grew thick, heavy with the silent, clashing wills of two alpha predators.
Toothless's low growl deepened into a chest-rattling snarl. He pushed himself off the back of the sofa, every muscle in his body tensed and ready for battle. He was a creature of primal power, a coiled spring of territorial fury.
The Stormcutter, now standing in my foyer and still bent over to avoid the ceiling, slowly turned his head. His golden eyes, slitted like a cat's, landed on Toothless. He took in the display of aggression, the bared teeth, the simmering rage. And he did… nothing. There was no answering growl, no tensing of muscles. He simply looked at Toothless with an expression of mild, intellectual curiosity, like a scientist observing a particularly loud and lab rat. He acknowledged the threat and then, with an almost imperceptible shift in his gaze, he dismissed it as irrelevant.
That single, silent act of dismissal was more infuriating to Toothless than any physical challenge could have been. His growl hitched with sheer frustration.
The head agent removed the restraints from the Stormcutter's hands and wings. "He's been passive throughout transport," she said, her voice low. "But remain cautious. We'll leave you to handle the initial introduction." And with that, they turned and left, the click of the front door sealing us inside a pressure cooker of draconic ego.
For a long, tense minute, nobody moved. The Stormcutter remained in the foyer, slowly and silently surveying the living room. Toothless stood his ground, a rumbling engine of hostility. Finally, the Stormcutter seemed to deem the room acceptable. He moved from the foyer into the living room proper, his movements slow and deliberate. He had to keep his head bowed, his neck bent at an awkward angle to keep from scraping the ceiling. He found the center of the room, the spot with the highest clearance, and with a sigh that sounded more bored than tired, he folded his powerful legs and settled onto the floor, coiling his long tail neatly around himself.
The king had chosen his throne.
Stormfly, overwhelmed by the sheer presence of the two alphas, let out a soft, nervous whimper and retreated towards the kitchen, giving the unfolding drama a wide berth.
"Okay," I said, clapping my hands together with a forced, painfully awkward cheerfulness. "Well! Welcome to your… temporary home. I'm Hiccup." I took a cautious step forward. "It's, uh, nice to meet you."
The Stormcutter's head, which was level with my own even as he was sitting, swiveled to face me. His golden eyes focused on me, and for the first time, I felt the full, unnerving weight of his intelligence. It was an ancient, analytical gaze. He was cataloging me, analyzing my posture, my tone, my scent, and filing the data away for future reference.
Before I could take another step, a wall of black scales moved to intercept me. Toothless placed himself directly between me and the Stormcutter, his back to the newcomer, his body a living shield. He didn't look at me, but the message was unmistakable. You do not approach him.
"Easy there, bud," I murmured, placing a hand on his shoulder. His muscles were tense as iron cables beneath my palm. "I'm just saying hello. We have to, you know, coexist."
I tried to step around him. He mirrored my movement, blocking me again. The low, possessive rumble started in his chest, a clear warning. This wasn't just about territory anymore. This was about me. He was not going to allow this regal, arrogant newcomer anywhere near his human.
I looked over Toothless's broad shoulder at the Stormcutter. He was watching our little dance with that same look of detached, academic curiosity. He wasn't a threat. He wasn't a rival. He was an observer, a scholar of this strange new environment. But in Toothless's eyes, he was the greatest threat that had ever walked through our door.
I sighed, running a hand through my hair. Agent Smith had been wrong. This wasn't a challenge for my engineering skills. This was a diplomatic crisis. I was a UN peacekeeper trying to negotiate a truce between two proud, heavily armed superpowers, and my only tools were a bag of salmon and a desperate hope that my house would still be standing by the end of the morning.