Chapter Text
Horns do not mix with pillows.
Walter learned this early-on. When he was young and growing into himself he once had half a mind to try and walk about in his trollish skin. The other half woke up with a crick from sleeping with his chin against his chest, his poor pillow double-impaled like a pasty on a fork.
He sleeps in his human form…until the air conditioning goes kaput.
Even with every window thrown open for invitation, the summer breezes snub the second house at the end of the street. Jim’s smoothies during the day only last so long, and the refrigerator makes sounds that warn of mutiny should the torture of overwork continue.
Their bed (theirs, that they share, together, with mutual enthusiasm) is a linen swamp. Walter lies flat on his back, arms behind his pillow, legs spread as far as possible without intruding on Barbara’s attempt at a similarly pancake-ish pose. They breathe. They do not touch. The intruding fly by the sill dares not even buzz lest the effort make the space hotter.
“That’s it.”
“Hm?”
“Change. Right now. Into your troll form.”
Walter turns and lifts an eyebrow she doesn’t need to see to know he’s doing it in the dark.
“Beg pardon?”
There is the wettish rustle of damp sheets. Barbara’s plaintive voice comes from above him.
“Your stone skin is always so cool. Roll over and c'mere so I can cuddle my husband.”
The pillow sighs as he pulls his arms down and places his hands on his stomach. Barbara also doesn’t need to see to know the exact curve of his mouth as his brows knit and he sets an affable smile next to a tentative frown.
“But…Darling,” (he’ll bat his dark lashes and his green eyes will look distractingly soft and charming), “I’m stone. Don’t you think that would be rather less than comfortable?” (She’ll catch the back of the question, the implication of discomfort farther-reaching, and her heart will hurt while she lets him keep his strength to lean on.)
But the bed creaks, and now Walter is surrounded. A warm hand strokes his temple. Citrus wafts into his nose and soft hair tickles his cheek.
“You’re always comfortable,” whispers his wife, low and beguiling against his neck. “And you happen to have a cold setting so I don’t have to pretend you have the plague when it’s hot.“
She feels the tug of his cheeks and the tremble of his throat as he chuckles.
“I’ll have you know, dear wife,” he rolls onto his side, the room flashes green and his next words become a delicious growl she can feel in her chest, “that I never once caught the plague.”
“Mm. Good to know. Now come here,” she commands.
“Yes, darling,” he purrs, settling gently beside her, their arms snaking around each other tight as the twined halves of a knot.
We fit, he thinks, sighing as her fingers trace his markings like the lines on a map. She knows exactly where to go.
Sleep comes easily. Queen Mab and her ladies giggle softly when they pass o'er the lovers never odder, more perfectly, sweetly matched