Strickler paced the room back and forth, worrying his hands behind his back, running his long fingers through his hair, and occasionally sitting in his armchair only to rise again a few moments later. He was nervous, tremendously so, and with good reason.
Things were getting close, too close, with Dr. Barbara Lake.
They were meeting tonight. His place. He'd cooked the meal himself. Nothing fancy: Chicken piccata with a side of swiss chard, fresh mint ice cream, a bottle of Chablis (young Jim wasn't the only one who could cook). Everything was light, fresh, tantalizing. The changeling knew what was coming, knew what they both wanted out of this situation even though neither of them would admit it aloud. He was too much of a gentleman (or gentle-troll, as it were) and she, too modest. But both of them knew, they knew, and the thought of that alone sent a shockwave through his soul that kept him circling the apartment like a caged panther.
With a crack, his knee hit the table. He cried out, almost knocking over a three-thousand year old Egyptian vase in the process. It hardly mattered. He didn't care if it broke, as long as this night didn't shatter with it, scattering into thousand fractals of misplaced pride and emotion. It had been centuries since his last soirée with anything, and never with a human. This meant more to him than anything he had encountered before. Previous incidents were little more than a manifestation of his desire for power, dominance, control; this was something entirely different. Any illusions he'd harbored over controlling anything about his situation with Barbara had long since died. She was a flurry of chaos, always busy, always trying, always on the move. She never stayed still enough for anyone to catch, and that quality about her would never change. Much to his surprise, he didn't want it to. She should remain free, uncaged, forever.
A knock on the door shocked him out of his festering. He took a deep breath, nodded at his reflection in a nearby mirror, and then moved to the doorway. The moment his eyes met hers, the risk, the chance, the fear...it was all worth it. It didn't matter how much his colleagues would shun and mock him when they found out. It didn't matter how little he felt in control. The ocean inside those irises calmed him, splashed against his rough edges, broke into even the most bitter cracks of his soul, and smoothed him into something better than he was.
Barbara was the first to find her words. "I brought some strawberries," she blurted as she tucked a piece of hair behind her ear, still standing at the threshold of the doorway. "Sorry, I was going to bake a cake with them but that plan sort of...backfired."
Walter could already envision the flames, somehow it made her all the more endearing. "Hello Barbara," he spoke, taking the box of strawberries, then her hand as he leaned down to kiss it. "Strawberries would be lovely, thank you. Please, come inside."
"Wow," she said as she stepped into the apartment, eyeing the decor. "This place is nice." It was exactly what she expected: smart, simple, masculine with its dark accents. A history professor's alcove. The occasional relic rested against a table or wall, begging to be asked about, while the scent of the air swirled with a mixture of cedar, mulberries, and spice.
"You like it? I don't host guests often. I so rarely have the time." He said as he led them into the dining room.
"Tell me about it," she smiled and bumped her shoulder against his. "I'm glad we both found the time tonight."
"Mmm," he hummed in agreement, then offered to take her coat.
Nothing on earth could have prepared him for the sight that soon followed. Beneath the dark folds of cloth, she wore a dress: a deep, sapphire masterpiece that brought out her eyes and clung to her in ways that made a man's mind wander. For several moments, he could not breathe, could barely think as he stared in wonder at the figure before him.
Barbara turned around, having sensed too long a pause in their conversational rhythm.
She knew what was going on (the flush in his skin, the dilated eyes-she was a doctor, after all), but asked nevertheless. "Walt?"she coaxed, cocking her head to the side.
Green eyes bore into hers, full of fear. For once, he felt at a loss for words.
"I-uh," he rubbed at the nape of his neck, feeling very much like an adolescent fool. "Forgive me, Barbara. I'm afraid that I've been a bit peckish." Quickly, he hung the coat and ushered her further into the apartment. "Nothing that can't be mended with a little nourishment. Please," he gestured to the table.
The doctors grin went lopsided, amused by his relentless modesty. "Do you need any help in the kitchen?"
"Oh, no," He said and sat her down at the table, hands shaking as he pushed at the back of the chair. "Everything is already prepared. I will return in a moment." The changeling practically dove into the kitchen, trying to calm the growing sense of...enthusiasm that the dress had sparked within him. Barbara was a beautiful woman, no matter what she wore, but this, he thought, should be outlawed. It was all he could do to catch his breath as he prepared their plates. His mind continued to reel, wanting nothing more than to dive into that deep, cerulean sea of cloth. What treasures lay hidden beneath, he could only guess.
A splash of water on the face found him in calmer spirits. The changeling took a deep breath, wiped his face, then returned to the dining area with silverware for two.
"Is your Young Atlas occupied this evening?" he asked as he set the table.
"Ugh," she tented her elbows on the table, head dropping into her hands. "I don't know where Jim is. He called earlier this afternoon; something about spending the night at his a friend's uncle's farm. Who knows what that means?"
"Hmm, maybe he has a girlfriend." Walter speculated, knowing full well where the boy probably was.
"There is this one girl," Barbara gave a light laugh. "Claaaiire," she moaned, imitating Jim. "He's really into her. I didn't think that they were dating yet, though. Oh god," she pinched the bridge of her nose. "What if they're...do you think he's...you know?"
"Claire is a student of mine," The changeling interrupted before she could continue down that path. "She's a smart girl. I sincerely doubt that she would get herself into anything she's not prepared for." After placing their prepared plates on the table, moved to light the candle in the center. "Besides, Jim's not the type to jump into that sort of thing. He's shy enough as it is."
"I know, I know..." she trailed off, blue eyes clouded with fear.
Strickler popped the cork off of the wine bottle, but stopped before he poured her a glass. One look at her and he practically jumped to the table. Bending down to one knee, he placed a hand on her shoulder. "He'll be alright Barbara," the deep tones of his voice washed over her, seeking only to soothe as he rubbed his thumb across the bare skin on her shoulder. "He's just testing his wings, that's all. You're right to worry-you're his mother-but Jim is very capable. He's surprised me more times than I can count. "
She placed a hand on his, then took a deep breath, letting it out slowly. When her eyes opened again they were tired, weary, but less periled. "Thank you".
It took everything he had not to kiss her then and there: to surround her, soothe her, make her forget the stress she endured every hour of every day. Whether at her job or at home, she seemed constantly on edge, unceasingly at work on how to better the lives of others. For once, he wanted her to be the recipient of such tireless care.
But of course, that care started with nourishment, not sex, he thought bemusedly as his thumb traced her arm. Although she worked at a facility that promoted health, she hardly ever got the chance to eat properly.
"You deserve it," Walter said, his voice low. "Now," he smiled and rose, "while young Jim is out skewering marshmallows and roasting them alive." (He was probably skewering something, Strickler reasoned.) "I would love to treat you to the finest cuisine that Arcadia has to offer." A hand flourished as he poured their wine. "I've heard, given that you have your own live-in chef, that you are quite the food critic. We must discover whether or not I measure up to your undoubtedly high standards."
"The best that Arcadia has to offer, huh?" She raised a brow, eyes sparkling in the subdued light. "We'll have to see about that."
Walter lifted his glass as he sat down, "cheers," he said warmly.
"Cheers," she smiled as their glasses clinked.
The rest of the dinner proceeded smoothly. The conversation was radiant, refined, and full of the most enigmatic stories that a teacher and a doctor could exchange. By the time that the dishes were soaking in the sink, they were giddy with wine and laughter.
While they "made room for dessert," he suggested that they retire to the rooftop terrace above his complex. "Most of my neighbors are too old to enjoy it," He explained when she gave him a questioning brow. "It is rarely occupied."
There was something of a chaise lounge at the top, with room enough for two. Strickler spread a blanket across its cushioned surface and there, among the plants and decorative lights, he sculpted a small cocoon. He sat down to test its comfort, then leaned back and spread an arm out to the empty space beside him.
"I've heard that I make a fairly decent pillow." He offered cavalierly.
"Oh really?" she said as she plopped down beside him. "And who told you that?"
"Mrs. Presgrit from the floor above." He intoned as she nuzzled her head beneath his chin. It was the closest they'd been that evening. "84 years old. She fell asleep against my arm after coming over for tea."
A chuckle escaped her. "So, no one I have to compete with?"
"Against you, Barbara?" He pulled back to regard her. "There can be no competition. I've never met anyone like you. I meant it when I said that the other night."
For a while, they both fell silent, wanting nothing more than to hold each other, but by-and-by, a small voice rose from somewhere within the folds of Strickler's coat.
"Did you mean what you did the other night, too?"
In a flash, his mind reeled back to the event in question. "Oh Yes," he said through a shivering breath. "Of course. How could I not?" He regarded her sincerely, eyes boring into her own. For humans, a kiss was normal, expected. For changelings, it was a foreign enterprise, something to do only if it meant getting ahead. He'd kissed before, to be sure, but only out of obligation and never with the emotions he'd had the other night. "Although," he raised a brow, growing impish, "I can't quite recall...didn't it go something like this?"
He bent closer and, for the second time in their lives, they kissed. Their mouths moved slowly at first, taking their time, exploring, but things became increasingly ravenous. By the time they stopped for air they'd completely lost the blanket, and though the air was cold their faces were flushed. Walter stared at her, wide-eyed, surprised by his own fervor, shocked, too, by the ardent waves he could feel coursing into her through the bond.
Whatever he regretted about tying her fate to his, he certainly found pleasure in this aspect of it. He didn't have to question her state of mind, or worry over whether or not she wanted this. He could feel it.
This, he thought as he hovered over her, one hand on her hip, the other keeping his balance as his heart raced. Barbara smiled and shook her head, then pushed him back, switching their positions. "No," she said as her nails traced his chin. "I think it was more like this," she kissed him again, softly, just once, mimicking the previous night, then pulled away.
He sighed and caressed her cheek. "Yes," he acquiesced, "it was more like that."
For a few frozen moments, they stayed like that, simply staring at each other, breathing.
"I see Orion is on the Hunt," he said, stealing a glance at the night sky, trying to bring them back down to earth. They needed to get up, move, find someplace more private. Kissing was one thing, but the path they were headed down required seclusion.
"For what?" She backed up, hands squeezing his shoulders.
Tendrils of her hair, like molten lava, dripped down around him. Beautiful, he thought, absolutely beautiful. "Scorpions, stars, I don't know." And to his surprise, he didn't care. His hands pulled her down into another kiss, unable to wait any longer. Her tongue dueled with his, begging him to surrender. He would, in the end. Already, he could see a white flag crawling up the pole, but he wasn't going to go down without a fight-no troll worth its salt ever would.
Not that any of this was, at all, troll-like, he thought briefly. His current predicament went against everything he'd been trained to be around humans. Raw, exposed, vulnerable; he shouldn't have shown her such things, but he wanted it, needed it, even.
When she moaned, it completely unraveled the last of his resolve. How she'd managed to compress so much yearning into so small a sound, he would never know, but he wasn't about to leave her bereft.
Strickler rose and trailed a string of kisses down her neck. His arms moved in tandem, caressing her neck, her back, everything he could touch.
"I think," he said through strained lungs, "I think..."
Barbara stopped, noticing his struggle, her head dipping into her shoulder. "Yeah," she said, catching her breath, "we should."
The doctor took his hand, then the blanket, and practically dragged him to the elevator, too impatient to take the stairs. Before she could even press the button, his arms and mouth were flying-touching and tasting everything in their path. Suddenly, that beautiful dress she wore was entirely inconvenient. The kiss deepened and he pinned her against the wall, gentle but insistent. He reached down, toying with the hem of her dress, unable to hide what he desired.
It didn't matter what his changeling brothers would think, or how it went against his troll-guided training, or even how complicated his relationship really was with the doctor before him. He wanted to please her, be with her, show her how he felt, even if the moment was ephemeral.
Was that, by definition, a form of love? Well, he didn't have a dictionary at the moment.
Against the wall, Barbara clung to him, encouraging his movements. Her nails, beautifully unpainted, raked through his hair, teasing it, ruffling it, making him look boyish in his ardor.
The elevator dinged. Strickler hardly noticed, so entranced was he by their dance. He practically growled when her hand snaked below his waistband, and moved to press her deeper into the metallic wall.
"Walter?" the small sound came from behind him. "Is that you?"
Walter stopped, Barbara stopped, everything stopped. His eyes went wide as he looked at her.
"Mrs. Presgrit!" The changeling spun around on one heel; tucking his shirt, smoothing his hair, and wiping the lipstick off his face all in one go. "Isn't it past your bedtime?"
"New medication," she said in a kind but creaking voice, "I'm headed down to check my mail. Didn't get a chance to do it earlier. I slept half the day!"
He gave an acquiescing smile as the elevator closed, trapping them.
"Honey, you looked flushed," the older woman reached a hand to his face, squinting through her bifocals "you have some red bumps on your neck. Looks like a rash. You feeling okay?"
"I, uh," he stammered. "I..."
He felt a hand grab his from behind. "Strawberries!" Barbara blurted, smoothing her hands over her dress. "We were making a strawberry sauce for a shortcake, but we left it on the stove too long and burnt half the batch...had to get some fresh air," she pointed up to the rooftop.
Walter stared at the doctor, impressed by her quick thinking. "Yes, it was quite the affair"
"Oh, I didn't see you there, dear." Mrs. Presgrit peered around Strickler. "It's nice to meet you. You didn't tell me you had a friend, Walter."
The elevator reached the next floor and chimed again. Walter bolted through the opening doors as though he had caught fire. "Well this is our stop." he blurted out, waving to his neighbor. "We really must get back to cooking!"
"Bring me some of that cake, dear." Mrs. Presgrit said, looking slightly bewildered as she disappeared behind a wall of metal.
"Strawberries," Strickler laughed, rubbing at the prints of lipstick on his neck. "Very clever. Of course, now I have to make a cake." He jammed the keys into his door.
"Maybe you can show me how. One of these days I want to actually impress Jim."
Before he turned the doorknob, he paused. "You already do," his voice hummed deeply as he brought a hand to her chin, thumb tracing a line across her reddened lips.
A shadow caught her eyes, and she hesitated. "It's been a while," she frowned up at him. "You know…since I've made strawberry shortcake."
"That's alright," he smiled, leaning forward to her ear. "You're not alone. I'll be gentle," he whispered. He placed a kiss upon her cheek, then another, and another, and another before the door clicked behind them.