Barbara's foot tapped nervously as she waited outside of the apartment door, arms wrapped tightly around her body—though not against the cold. Over and over, the words kept playing in her head:

"I'm sixteen, Mom," Jim's voice rattled though the phone, "stop trying to control what I do."

"You have school in the morning, Jim, and you still live in my house. Under my roof, you follow my rules."

"What are you going to do? Ground me from going out?" her son seethed. "You're not even home half of the time."

Barbara paced the hallway, feet following a circle she'd been carving for hours. After many calls, Jim had finally answered, only to give her this. Her face contorted, on the verge of tears.

"You're right," she said with shaking words, "I'm not, because I'm busting my butt trying to make sure that we can afford to live, Jim. I pull extra hours so that you can go to college after you graduate-this isn't negotiable. Whatever it is you're doing, it's not worth your future! "

"Yeah, well, maybe I won't have a future."

Her heart sank at the words. She clutched the phone to her face as though it were her infant child.

"Honey, please…just tell me. Whatever this is, we can get through it. I can help you."

"There's nothing you can do," he said, "I'll be home tomorrow after school. Just leave me alone."

The phone clicked and she stood motionless, frozen by the silence. After a few moments, her watery eyes scanned the clock. 2AM.

She grabbed the keys. Locked the door. Drove off.

What on earth was happening to her son?

Numbly, she drove-past the houses, the schools, and the empty little shops, until she found herself standing at the door of a familiar apartment complex.

Someone smoking a cigarette had left the door propped open. Her blue eyes wandered to the figure a few feet away. The stranger wasn't paying attention, her back to Barbara, smoke billowing through the light of the cell phone she held.

Barbara wandered forward like something compelled, sneaking past the doors and into the elevator. It squeaked as she rode it up.

"Mommy, I'm afraid," she heard within the flash of her mind. A crystal-eyed toddler stared up at her, too afraid to look toward the elevator door. Back then, a smile and a tummy-tickle had been enough to make his problems go away.

Now, she didn't know what to do.

The elevator chimed and the doors opened; she stepped into a hallway that looked dated, but cozy. Each door had a number, and she counted them until she found the right one: 515. The doctor paused, shivering in the air-conditioned hallway as she stared at the door's painted surface.

Each panicked heartbeat brought a question to her mind: Was this okay? Would it annoy him? Were they really that close?

She moved closer, pressing her ear against the wood. Faintly, she could make-out the sound of a television murmuring in the room beyond. Walt would be up early or school. He needed the sleep. It wasn't right to disturb him.

She started to turn, started to go away, started thinking that this was a terrible idea-but then she head the clang and a thud, accompanied by a tired, frustrated voice.

Barbara rubbed an arm across her tear-stained cheeks, then drew a deep breath before mashing the doorbell. She heard another thud, followed by a flash of light visible through the cracks between the door and its casing. Then, before she knew it, she was staring into his green and curious eyes.

"Barbara, love." He said, sounding slightly out of breath, "what is it?"

A long hand reached to grasp her shoulder, his brows furrowing against the pallor in her eyes and skin.

"Darling, are you alr—oomph!" She flew into him before he could finish, arms clutching tightly, as though she were dangling over the edge of a cliff.

Instinctively, he froze—in some ways, still unused to affectionate human contact—but the stillness was short-lived. His own arms pretzeled around her, squeezing until every breath and shudder became his own.

Briefly, he worried over Jim's condition. As a troll, he wanted to see the boy taken down. Since debuting as the Trollhunter, the child had been nothing but a nuisance to his cause—he was a fly meant to be swatted-but as a human, he felt otherwise. Jim had always been a bright student, whose day-to-day fumblings reminded Walter Strickler of himself. He worked tirelessly to keep what little family he had left intact, even at the expense of being ridiculed, and demonstrated adaptability even in the worst of conditions. When life threw him a curveball, the boy managed it. The changeling could only applaud such actions.

Then, there was Barbara, from whom young Jim had inherited such traits. She lit his world like the sun. And if she was the sun, then Jim was a waning moon-a crescent of her light that was slowly fading from her view.

And what did that make him: a dark cloud, a nebula, a black hole consuming all within in its path? Her pain was a necessary consequence, he told himself, the byproduct of a millennia-old war that was bigger than them both.

Of course, saying it was one thing; seeing it, quite another.

His embrace tightened, as if to apologize, then, he tugged her gently in from hallway. In the periphery of his vision, he caught the green flash of the goblin with whom he'd been consorting. The minion had come with a coded message from the Janus Order regarding the loss of a changeling comrade in England, a friend of Stricklander's from a time long past and someone he would still phone on occasion—just to have a friend, just to know that someone out there was as old and world-worn as himself. The loss dampened his mood enough to see him roaming around his apartment in his troll form with an entire bottle of wine at hand. He'd only gotten a few sips in when the doorbell sounded. The resulting panic saw him knocking over an entire box of cereal that got caught between his horns, sending flakes of grain skittering across the floor. He reached down, only to knock his head and horns on the countertop, unused to being a troll in his human space.

Luckily, goblins made great vacuums.

Stomach now bloated from the meal, the minion paused to stare up at the changeling and the human. It made childish, kissing faces at the couple until Walter opened his eyes and, with a red-hot flash of his irises, sent the creature scurrying away.

He pulled away from her, but only long enough to close the door before he gathered her by the waist and placed a kiss on her forehead.

"Is your son alright?" He asked, tucking a rebel strand behind her ear.

Barbara sighed and pulled closer, resting her head on his shoulder. "It's," she paused, "it's not worth talking about. I just feel so lost and...like I can't help. I'm a doctor, I fix things," her voice waivered and she pulled back to look at him, tears threatening. "I can't fix this," she shook her head. "I'm sorry, I know I probably should have called-you have the school to oversee in the morning and god knows how late it is. We've only known each other for a few months and- "

"Please love," he cut her off, tracing a hand down her arm. "It's not a bother. You are welcome here, and you should feel free to contact me at any time, no matter the hour."

There it was again, the word 'love', she thought. He hadn't called her that before. No one had. Of course, she knew it was a popular term of endearment in other countries—equivalent to "baby," or "sweetheart," in America. It didn't mean "I love you" so much as it meant "we're close, we've been intimate, I like spending time with you." But it sent a shockwave through her soul all the same.

"I want you here." The changeling continued when she gave no response, his fingers trailing up her side. "Believe me, Barbara. You cross my mind...well, very often," he admitted, trying not to sound like an indecorous fool. "I haven't yet convinced myself that this isn't some wonderful dream I've slipped into."

Walter smiled, then frowned. "Not that I enjoy seeing you upset!" He corrected hastily, "That is certainly not what I meant. I was unable to sleep myself, you see, and , oh, I'm muddling this one up, aren't I?"

Barbara smiled—the first smile he'd seen on her that night. "I know what you mean," she rose up on her toes to give him a quick kiss. He leaned in as she broke away, making her giggle. "I think about you too."

The green of his eyes lingered on her for a moment. Then, he twined his fingers with hers, and brushed his lips against the tops of her knuckles.

"Would you like a cup of chamomile?" He asked, tugging her gently toward the living room. "I was in need of one myself, before you came."

The doctor nodded and squeezed his hand. "I'd love one."

The couch in the middle of the room was of the oversized variety: large enough to seat two grizzly bears—or two trolls, as he liked the think of it—and fashioned of a rich, brown cloth which promised all the comforts of a hearthside cottage. He sat her down on its surface and smiled at the way she sunk into it.

Still holding his hand, she tugged him toward her. He obeyed, but only to an extent, bracing a hand against the back of the couch as he loomed over her.

"It wouldn't do to hold you properly until I shower" he said before she could peg his resistance on herself. "I smell positively like an ogre."

Unfortunately, Angor Rot spent a large amount of time staying hidden in the sewers, and visiting him meant a trip into the stench. He'd undertaken such a chore earlier that evening, just before returning home to receive the ill-tided news of his friend's demise. At the time, wine had seemed more important than personal hygiene. Now, he regretted his judgement.

But of course, he was quick on his feet.

An impish grin overcame him. He bent close to her, his lips inches away—so close that she could feel their heat—and hovered: waiting, watching.

She closed her eyes, but instead of closing the gap between them, he brushed his nose against hers, humor murmuring in his throat.

When she opened her eyes in surprise, he laughed and backed away. A single finger rose into the air.

"Hold that thought," he said, unable to hide the husk in his voice, "I'll be back in a tick."

A "tick" became twenty minutes. After showering, he'd managed to over-steep their tea. Twice. So distracted was he by the excitement of her presence. As he pecked around the cabinets, he stole glances at her from the kitchen pass-through. She looked comfortable, at home, her face glowing blue from the light of the television. To have another presence in his home felt warm, comforting, in a way he didn't expect.

By the time he returned, his arms were laden with the weight of a tea tray. The saucers and teapot rattled as he walked barefoot across the cold wooden floor, trying not to slide on the edges of his black, silk pajama bottoms. Gingerly, he set the tray on the nearest end table and then glanced toward her.

…only to find her fast asleep. She was on her side, curled up against the cold, her face a peaceful portrait compared to the stress she'd worn before. He shook his head and chuckled. So much for the tea, he thought as he popped into his bedroom to grab a blanket. His green eyes traced the sheets before he left, remembering that night a few months ago when she'd first visited his apartment..

In a flash, he was there: Two silhouettes moving in tandem, her breath running hot against his ear, the smell and taste of her neck, the feel of his body moving against hers-rhythmically, sensually, until he finally heard her gasping in the dark.

Back in the living room, he downed his cup chamomile, hoping to calm his senses. One look at her and the rise and fall of his chest slowed. Her face had changed, the crease between her brows now slightly furrowed, lips tilted downward into a small button of a frown. The air in the apartment wafted down on her in short, cold bursts, the fan above a cohort in its crime.

There was the smallest hesitation before he crawled over the arm of the couch and slipped into the nook between her body and the backrest. With a flourish of cloth, he spread the blanket over them both and tucked it in around her. Beneath the cover, a long arm snaked around her ribcage and he pulled her gently back and into the curve of his torso.

Barbara made a small sound. From behind her, he could see her eyelashes fluttering, struggling to open.

"Walt?" She murmured groggily, craning her neck to regard him. The blue of her eyes shimmered through half-lidded slits.

He propped himself onto his elbow so she could see him better. "I didn't mean to wake you."

"My son…" She said in a haze, her memories moving like syrup.

"Jim's fine. He'll be fine." He hushed, urging her back down. "You need rest."

His eyes fell onto the television and, for a long while, he watched the figures dance across the screen. Ancient creature though he was, he couldn't remember a time when he had felt so calm. One thumb traced the lower ridge of her spine, moving in slow, rhythmic circles that, like a pendulum, lulled them both.

Just when he thought she was asleep, when his own eyes became heavy and lidded, her small voice rose from beneath the covers.

"Thank you, Walt," she murmured in a hazy, sleep laden voice, "I didn't want to be alone."

His chest tightened, heart breaking for her and swelling with an emotion he'd not encountered since his youth.

The changeling moved to lean over her, wanting to catch her eyes. Still spooning her, his hand reached around to tilt her chin back, just far enough to brush his lips against hers.

She responded eagerly, reaching one arm behind her to circle his neck and pull him closer. The kisses were sleepy, sloppy, their aim imperfect, but it didn't matter. It wasn't about having an agenda. Everything in his life required a plan, a tactic, a scheme-not this. They'd gone off script, way off, and, guiltily, he'd let it happen.

Perhaps that was why he felt so strange. For once in his life, he embraced the aleatory nature of affection.

The taste of chamomile and honey mixed between them as his tongue twined with hers, their tempo slow, erratic, inventive in ways. And yes maybe, just maybe, he was in too deep, maybe had taken things too far-but if this was water, then he wanted to drown. He wanted to submerge himself in this impossible tryst until his breath ran short and his lungs were aching for air.

A moan escaped her when he pulled away. Squeezing her hip, his voice murmured low beside her ear. "I'll be with you when you wake, love. I promise."

He felt a hand come over his. She tugged their locked fingers down to her stomach and held them there against the soft grey fabric of her shirt. The sigh she heaved was one of such relief that it melted every inch of his cold and stony heart. In all his years, he could not remember feeling such comfort in another's presence. And to know that she felt that comfort in return…it was mesmerizing. Magical. Some part of him wanted to believe that it could extend beyond his human form.

No, he'd determined that the night they'd made love in his car-he had no warmth to give. Sometimes, his heart felt as old and fragile as the artifacts he kept in his apartment.

Life, in the human world, was meant to be lived in as it was, not as it would be. Although humans, classically, were as bad about "living in the moment" as trolls, they couldn't afford it. Time drifted away from them as steadily and surely as a waning tide, and old age always came as a surprise. If there was one thing he could be sure about in their relationship, one thing he could cling to in this chaotic tumble, it was that he would only be underwater for so long. Even if their time together outlasted her discovery of his changeling nature, it would never outlast the brevity of the human lifespan.

Despite the pain that such a thought encouraged, he also saw in it a particular opportunity for wonder. Like walking through a forest in the springtime, navigating this particular aspect of human existence encouraged enjoyment, despite the ephemerality of things. A flower's life in the sun was short, but it was beautiful, and it lived with flair. Stones did not. They inhabited a cold and lightless world, always wading through winter, never able to enjoy the softness and levity of the sun.

The night brought with it many horrors from the deep. Unfortunately, he was one of them.

But she'd brought brightness and color to his dim and grey existence, and the thought of being without it only made him cling to her all the more. His arms tightened around her small frame, holding on to the beauty of her form and soul despite the fact that it was slipping through his fingers.

Red with fatigue, his own eyes closed. The comfort of her presence washed over him like soft sea-waves, and soon his breathing matched her own.

They lay like that, dormant in the dark, waiting for the sun to rise, as, one day, he never would.