#rebecoming

He almost laughs. It's a weirdly normal sound, considering—everything. 

"Well. Not to put you on the spot." He's still gallantly holding her hand as he peers through the gloom, and she's trying steadfastly to ignore how warm her face feels at the touch. "We shouldn't be much longer, if I read those blueprints right, but—ah. There!"

There's a collapsed section of ceiling just past the end of the corridor. She's not—glad, to see it. She knows, or at least can guess, what it means that a hospital looks like this. But they've been looking for roof access for what feels like ages, now, and as tired as she is—after three collapsed stairwells, half a dozen locked doors, and the effort of all the ebullient denial she's been floating on for the past several hours—the thought of a little parkour is almost exciting.

"Do you think this'll work?" 

"Only one way to find out."

Somehow, she still manages to be surprised when he leaps up easily, all coiled stone muscles and cold, inhuman sharpness.

She's been trying not to be—voyeuristic, for lack of a better word, as they've been making their way through the hospital. Even as she's running all sorts of mental calculations and cross-references. (The world record for human jump height is, what, just over five feet? The floor-to-ceiling distance alone is almost twice that.) But she also spent most of their little adventure painfully aware of how handsome he is, this strange maybe-gargoyle maybe-troll maybe-weird-shapeshifting-something that had shown up with her son and saved her floor crew.

It's not—a normal thing to think. Probably. Definitely. Also: categorically not the time, Barb. Maybe she's just delirious.

"All right." That train of thought is mercifully derailed by her chaperone's reappearance, cool and mysterious and maybe, somewhere, just as haggard as she feels. "There's an exit to the roof not far from here. Everything looks clear on this side; as long as you're alright with it..."

She swallows, then nods. "Sure. Just—give me a boost."

He kneels down, and offers his hand. But he must mistake her expression for something else, because before she can say anything—there's just a weird, hissing crackle, followed by the briefest flash of light.

And then—which is the part that's really confusing—he's a person.

"It's still me," he says, too quickly. She's staring, she realizes, but too late—he flashes her a little smile, so thin it can hardly cover the sudden anxiety on those soft, human features. "It's just—you looked worried. So: me. But, er. Softer."

"You changed," she says, and boy, if it doesn't sound even stupider aloud than it did in her head. "I—how?"

"I'm—I'm a changeling." Which explains absolutely nothing, even if he says it softly, kind of quickly, like it should. "Still strong enough to pull you up, don't worry. Which, if you're ready…?"

She has. So many questions. She's absolutely certain some of them—most of them are rude. 

But as she reaches up to take his hand, all she can think is: when she woke up this morning, the biggest problem in her world was waiting for Wanda to get back to her with next month's schedule.

And now—well. If she hadn't already thought he was handsome.

Focus, Barb!

"There you are," he says gently, as she pulls herself the rest of the way up through the ceiling. His voice sounds—different, like this. Not better, but—smoother, somehow. He's still taller than her, and this close she can see the echoes, almost, of stone features in flesh. He's still unfairly good-looking, even if she wants nothing more at the moment than to shove that particular realization down and never think about weirdly, stupidly handsome troll monsters ever again. 

"That light over there," he says. Part of her thinks, deliriously, that he might just be blushing, and then, a bigger part of her wonders what exactly he'd have to blush at. "It's coming from outside. We should be able to reach the emergency access from here."

"Thanks," she says, surprising herself with just how much she means it. "I, uh—I really mean it. Even if I still don't know your name."

Oh, that is definitely a blush. All his coolness, all his composure evaporates instantly; he looks like he's just realizing he left the oven on. 

"Who I am—it's not important," he says. "Someone who got the world into this mess."

"My name's Barbara." She does her best to meet his eyes, tired and unexpectedly soft and really, stupidly beautiful. "Barbara Lake. Jim's my son. Which it seems like you already knew."

They stand, staring at each other, for what feels like a very long moment. 

Then:

"Most humans called me Walter." He sounds so—cool, so nonchalant, even while acknowledging the fiction of being human. "But—my real name is Stricklander. Until recently, Lord Seneschal of the armies of Gunmar the Black. Among...other things."

"My son's history teacher, for one."

"Technically, yes." He ducks his head, suddenly all shyness. "I suppose that's why he came to me. Lucky he did."

Hearing him confirm it—it gives her a weird feeling. 

"You can change back," she says, suddenly. Offering it like a gift, like—like part of the gratitude she'll never be able to repay, for—for bringing Jim back to her. "If you want. I don't want to—I don't know. Pressure you, or anything."

He looks at her, almost warily. His eyes—these eyes—are startlingly green, she realizes, even in the gloom.

"Humans aren't generally a—sympathetic audience, to those wearing trollskin." He says it almost casually, like he's explaining an interesting piece of trivia. It takes a careful eye to notice that he's standing very, very still. 

"Look. Stricklander. Walter." She lays a hand on his shoulder, without thinking. In for a penny... "After everything that's happened tonight, I don't think I really qualify as 'most humans.'"

When he just gives her a disbelieving look, she feels a flush creep over her cheeks, and crosses her arms. 

"Plus, y'know. That whole—pristine tweed jacket ensemble?" She doesn't mean to tease, but she's too overcome by the thought to pass it by. "Kind of out of place, in the apocalypse, and all."