Chapter Text
Barbara Lake wiped flour off her palms and onto her apron, leaving ghostly handprints on the faded blue fabric. "Do you think seventeen forks is excessive?" she asked, surveying the mismatched silverware scattered across the dining table like abandoned battle formations.
Strickler, sleeves rolled up past his elbows, paused mid-step with a stack of plates. "Considering Aaarrrggh!!! once ate an entire cutlery drawer thinking it was appetizers, I'd say we're underprepared." He set the plates down with a clatter, one chipped edge catching the afternoon light. The scar along his jaw—still pink, still fresh—twitched when he smiled.
Outside, a loose shutter banged against the house in time with Barbara's humming. She kept glancing at the clock above the stove, not because she cared about the time, but because its quiet ticking drowned out the memory of air raid sirens.
Strickler plucked a fork from the table and spun it between his fingers—old changeling habits died hard. "The salad bowls are in the basement, aren't they?"
Barbara exhaled through her nose, fingers tapping against the countertop. "Basement," she confirmed. "Third box on the left, under Jim's old baby clothes." The words tasted strange—how many months had it been since she'd referenced that part of their lives without wincing?
Strickler hesitated by the basement door, one hand on the knob. "We could..." he began, then stopped, the unspoken *talk about it* hanging between them. Instead, he descended without another word, his footsteps unusually heavy on the creaking stairs.
Upstairs, Barbara adjusted the lopsided centerpiece—a ridiculous thing Toby had cobbled together from spare gears and a dented tea light. The candle flickered when the front door burst open, admitting a gust of autumn air and Claire Nuñez in mid-laugh, her arms full of grocery bags. "Sorry we're early!" she announced, kicking the door shut with her heel. Behind her, Jim juggled two casserole dishes.
"You're never sorry," Barbara called back, already reaching for oven mitts. Jim grinned at her over Claire's shoulder, that same crooked smile he'd had since kindergarten, though now it carried shadows no eighteen-year-old should know.
The front door banged open again just as Barbara was wrestling with the oven temperature dial—this time admitting Toby Domzalski mid-conversation, phone wedged between his ear and shoulder while he juggled a bakery box stamped with "Douxie's Dark Enchantments" in glittering cursive. "No, babe, I swear, Blinky won't recite epic poetry this time," Toby was saying, kicking off his shoes with the precision of someone who'd spent years dodging troll traps. "Unless you count his potato salad haiku—ow!" He yelped as Douxie hip-checked him through the doorway, the wizard's arms laden with bottles that clinked ominously.
"Tell Darci we've got the good cider," Douxie announced, plunking his cargo onto the counter where one bottle immediately rolled off. Claire lunged to catch it mid-air without looking up from chopping parsley—six months of portal combat reflexes never really faded.
Barbara wiped her hands on her apron. "Where are Blinky and Aaarrrggh!!?" she asked, eyeing the way Douxie was attempting to uncork something with his teeth. Jim appeared at her elbow, smelling of burnt sugar and carrying a tray of suspiciously lopsided cookies. "Went to pick up Nomura," he said, nudging the oven dial to the correct temperature with his elbow. "Should be here in—"
A thunderous crash from the backyard interrupted him. Through the window, six glowing eyes appeared at the treeline as Blinky emerged from the shadows, all four arms waving enthusiastically while Aaarrrggh!!! ducked under the clothesline. Nomura followed, picking twigs out of her hair with razor-sharp claws. "Your neighbor's trash cans," she called toward the house, "are structurally unsound."
Aja and Krel arrived in a shimmer of neon blue light, their royal Akiridion garb catching the late afternoon sun like liquid metal. Each held one of Steve and Aja's 7 kids by the hand—the kids' tiny fingers glowing faintly blue where they made contact. "Ghim!" shrieked the smaller one, immediately breaking free to launch herself at Jim's legs. He caught her mid-air with a laugh, swinging her up onto his hip where she promptly yanked on his grown-out hair. "Oof—hey, firecracker."
Steve lumbered in behind them, a baby bag slung over one shoulder like a tactical supply pack, stuffed so full of bottles it clattered with every step. Eli trotted alongside, adjusting the straps of his Akiridion suit where they pinched. "We brought enough formula to survive another apocalypse,," Steve announced before he was joined by Eli muttering something under his breath as Steve screamed about one of their soiled diapers and dumping the bag on the counter next to Douxie's questionable cider collection. One bottle rolled out—Eli snatched it before it hit the floor with the reflexes of someone who'd spent years dodging alien tech explosions.
Claire leaned her hip against the fridge, watching Toby attempt to balance the bakery box on one hand while texting Darci with the other. His new mustache twitched when he grinned. "Tobes, c'mon, you look like a musketeer who raided a clown's closet," Jim said, dodging the half-hearted swat Toby aimed at him.
Douxie, halfway through pouring something violently purple into a mason jar, snorted. His band shirt had a suspicious singe mark near the collar, and his ripped jeans looked like they'd lost a fight with a cheese grater. "At least he's committing to the aesthetic," he said, raising his jar in salute just as Aaarrrggh!!! ducked through the back door, nearly taking the frame with him.
Barbara watched from the kitchen, fingers curling around the edge of the counter as flour drifted lazily through a sunbeam. Jim was laughing in the living room—that full-bodied, head-thrown-back kind of laugh she hadn't heard since before the war. Her hands hovered over the mess of spilled sugar and cracked eggshells, but she didn't call for him. Let him have this moment, she thought, scraping caramelized drips off the stovetop with a butter knife that had seen better days.
Strickler reappeared at her elbow, the salad bowls clattering onto the counter with the precision of someone who'd spent centuries arranging artifacts. His shoulder brushed hers—an accidental touch that wasn't accidental at all. Barbara exhaled, watching flour puff up from her apron when she untied the knots. Three years ago, this house had echoed. Just her, Jim, and the ticking clock over the stove. Now the walls vibrated with Aja's crystalline laughter, the thump of Aaarrrggh!!!'s tail against the floorboards, the clink of Douxie's dubious homebrew bottles.
spital scrubs in the sink at 2 AM, listening for Jim's bike tires on the gravel. Now she was marrying a centuries-old changeling while steve arm-wrestled an alien prince in her living room. The absurdity hit her like a frying pan to the face—she laughed so suddenly she choked on it.
Strickler raised an eyebrow. "Something amusing?"
"Just—" Barbara gestured vaguely at the chaos. Krel was attempting to explain quantum physics to Eli using a fork and a dinner roll. Steve had somehow gotten tangled in Aaarrrggh!!!'s harness straps. "This is our life now."
Strickler's smile softened the scars on his face. "Terrifying, isn't it?"
She nudged him with her hip, leaving a floury smudge on his slacks. "You love it."
The front door slammed again—Varvatos Vex announcing his arrival by nearly taking the hinges with him. He strode in like a conquering general, arms laden with suspiciously lumpy packages wrapped in what appeared to be duct tape. "BEHOLD! THE WARRIOR'S FEAST!" he boomed, slamming a package onto the counter that jingled alarmingly.
Barbara eyed it. "Please tell me that's not—"
"FIREWORKS!" Varvatos declared proudly, just as Jim snatched the package off the counter with a yelp. The motion sent a cascade of sugar-dusted cookies sliding across the countertop—Claire caught three mid-fall without looking up from stirring the gravy.
Claire leaned against the kitchen doorway, watching Jim flip a pancake with the same effortless precision he'd once used to swing a sword. The golden-brown disk soared in a perfect arc, catching the afternoon light before landing back in the pan with a soft *plop*. Toby hovered at his elbow like an eager sous-chef, fingers darting in to steal a bite of caramelized apple filling when he thought Jim wasn't looking.
Sunlight caught the scar along Jim's temple—that thin white line from where Belroc's claw had grazed him—turning it into a liquid silver thread against his pale skin. His hair, now brushing his shoulders, swayed with each movement, catching on the collar of his flour-dusted quarter zip which was now a darker shade of navy blue. Claire remembered the way he'd laughed when Barbara called him *beautiful* last Thanksgiving, the way his nose had scrunched up even as his ears turned pink.
The memory propelled her forward just as Douxie strummed a discordant chord from the living room. Krel's answering groan ("That's not how harmonics work, you troglodyte!") blended seamlessly with Steve's booming laughter and the *thump* of Aaarrrggh!!!'s tail against the floorboards.
Barbara stood by the sink, her sleeves rolled up as she dried wine glasses with military precision. Nomura murmured something that made Strickler snort into his whiskey, his fingers laced with Barbara's over the countertop. Claire's pulse thundered in her ears as she approached.
"Can I steal you both for a minute?" Claire's voice came out steadier than she felt. She caught the way Strickler's eyebrows climbed his forehead, the subtle tightening of Barbara's grip on the dish towel.
The backyard smelled of lavender and charred meat—someone had definitely let Steve near the grill again. Claire flexed her fingers inside her jacket pocket, the ring box's velvet nap catching on her calluses.
"We didn't break anything," Barbara said automatically, glancing back at the house where Eli was currently attempting to levitate sugar packets with Akiridion tech.
Claire exhaled through her nose. "I want to propose to Jim."
Strickler choked on his whiskey. Barbara's wine glass hovered halfway to her lips, the afternoon light fracturing through the cabernet like liquid stained glass. Somewhere behind them, Toby shrieked as Aaarrrggh!!! pretended to bite his head.
"You..." Barbara set her glass down with deliberate precision. "You want to..."
"Marry your son," Claire finished. Her palms burned where she'd clenched them too tight during three separate apocalypses. "If that's... I mean, I wanted to ask—"
"You're seventeen," Strickler blurted, then winced when Barbara elbowed him. The ice cubes in his drink rattled like dice.
Claire's fingers flexed around the ring box. "Eighteen next month," she corrected softly. Sunlight glanced off the silver-and-gold band, illuminating the delicate whorls of lapis and amethyst enamel—designed to resemble both Trollish metalwork and the arcane swirls of her own shadow magic. She'd commissioned it from a gnome jeweler in New Jersey.
Barbara's lips parted. Then closed. Then— "Show me please."
Claire handed over the box with trembling fingers. Barbara cradled it like a wounded bird, tilting it to catch the light. The sapphire in her own engagement ring—Strickler's awkward, centuries-old heirloom—winked in response.
"Christ, Walter," Barbara murmured, "it's perfect."
Strickler studied Claire with that unsettling changeling focus, the kind that once made Jim squirm during detention. "You realize," he said slowly, "that technically, as his stepfather-to-be, I should threaten you with dismemberment."
Claire choked on a laugh. The backyard gate creaked behind them—Jim's voice carrying through the screen door as he scolded Toby for eating half the pancake batter.
Barbara snapped the box shut with a decisive click. "Jim thinks he's subtle," she said, thumb brushing the velvet. "But he's been doodling 'Claire Lake' in his notebook margins since sophomore year."
Strickler smirked into his whiskey. "Trollhunters. Always so dramatic with their—"
The back door slammed open. Jim stood framed in sunlight, spatula in hand, flour dusting his cheekbones. "Who's dramatic?" he asked, blinking at their guilty huddle. Claire's pulse spiked—she'd seen that exact expression before battles, when he was seconds from figuring out her plan.
Toby materialized behind him, licking caramel off his fingers. "Dude, Aaarrrggh!! just ate the newspaper with Eli's new quantum theory article."
Krel's indignant shout carried from inside. "That was peer-reviewed!"
Jim's eyes flicked between them—Claire's clenched fists, Strickler's poorly-hidden grin, Barbara's suspiciously moist eyes. His shoulders tensed. "Okay, what apocalypse did I miss this time?"
Claire stepped forward. Her shadow stretched long across the patio stones, mingling with Jim's in the golden hour light. "Not an apocalypse," she said softly. Then louder: "Just dinner."
Jim blinked flour from his eyelashes. "Dinner."
"Special dinner," Barbara amended, nudging the ring box into Claire's palm with ninja-like discretion. Strickler coughed into his fist—badly hiding laughter.
Toby gasped. "Oh shit." His pancake-filled cheeks made him look like an overexcited chipmunk.
Jim turned slowly to look at Toby who was behind. His spatula hovered mid-flip. "What did you—"
Claire stepped forward, The ring box clicked open in her palm. Jim turned almost as quickly and soon his spatula clattered to the floor.
The whole house was silent save the kids babbling and Aja's ecstatic shushing. Then the entire house erupted. Toby screamed into his pancake batter. Aja teleported in a burst of cobalt sparks directly onto the kitchen counter, scattering silverware. Krel's four hands flew up in perfect sync—"ABOUT TIME!"—while Eli choked on his drink behind him. Steve, halfway through feeding Baja, promptly dropped the spoon into the baby's onesie.
Jim stood frozen, flour drifting from his hair like snowfall. His scar caught the light when he blinked. "You..." His voice cracked. "You're joking."
Claire's thumb brushed the ring's intricate metalwork—the lapis swirls for Trollmarket, the amethyst whorls for her shadow magic. "Never been more serious."
Claire's knee hit the patio stone with a soft *thud*, her shadow stretching long across the uneven cracks like a living thing. The ring caught the dying sunlight—amethyst and lapis swirling together in an echo of battles fought, portals opened, a thousand nights spent stitching each other back together. Jim's flour-dusted boots squeaked against the stone as he stumbled back half a step.
"James Lake Jr.," Claire said, loud enough for the entire backyard to hear, "will you—"
"—marry me?" Claire finished, voice cracking on the last syllable as the ring trembled in her outstretched palm. The backyard froze—even Steve's baby stopped mid-wail, pudgy fingers clutching a spoonful of mashed peas like a tiny grenade.
Jim's flour-dusted boots left ghostly prints on the patio stones as he swayed. His mouth moved soundlessly, forming shapes that might have been *Claire* or *what* or *holy shit*. Behind him, Aja's Akiridion markings pulsed cobalt bright enough to cast shadows, her hands clasped over her mouth.
Jim's knees hit the patio stones before Claire could finish her question. The impact sent a puff of flour into the air—Barbara would find the ghostly outline of his kneecaps there tomorrow and laugh until she cried. His hands, still flecked with pancake batter, cradled Claire's face like she was the last sacred text in Arcadia.
"Gosh, it's the Spring Fling all over again" Toby huffed, spraying half-chewed pancake across Nomura's sleeve. She flicked batter off her cuff with a claw while Aaarrrggh!!! roared approval loud enough to shake loose petals from the hydrangeas.
Jim wasn't breathing. Claire realized with dizzying clarity that neither was she. His eyelashes fluttered—flour dusting the dark strands like snowfall—as his thumbs traced the hollows beneath her eyes. The ring's metals warmed between them, lapis humming faintly with residual magic where it touched her palm.
"Say something," Claire whispered, though her shadow was already curling around Jim's ankles in tight, possessive loops.
Jim's exhale shuddered against Claire's lips. His fingers trembled where they cupped her jaw, pancake batter drying in the creases of his knuckles. "Yes," he choked out—then louder, voice cracking like a teenager's all over again—"God, yes, a thousand times yes—"
The ring barely had time to touch his finger before Claire tackled him backward into the hydrangeas. Their laughter tangled together as petals rained down, sticking to Jim's flour-dusted hair like confetti. Somewhere above them, Barbara sniffled into Strickler's shoulder while Douxie started an off-key rendition of *Here Comes the Bride* on his guitar.
Toby belly-flopped onto the grass beside them, nearly crushing Jim's ribs in a tackle-hug. "GROUP MARRIAGE!" he bellowed, waving his half-eaten pancake like a flag. "Me and Darci next, then Steve and Aja can renew their vows in space—"
Steve, who'd been attempting to fish peas out of the baby's onesie, looked up sharply. "Wait, we get a *space wedding*?"
Claire's fingers trembled as she slid the ring onto Jim's finger—the lapis and amethyst band catching fire in the sunset, as if reacting to the pulse point of his heartbeat. When their lips met, she tasted flour and caramelized apples, felt the hitch of his breath against her cheek as his hands fisted in the back of her jacket. Somewhere to their left, Blinky's delighted squeals dissolved into full-throated Trollish poetry, his four arms waving so wildly he nearly upended Aaarrrggh!!!'s plate of deviled eggs.
Krel's face met his palm with a resounding *smack*, but the Akiridion prince couldn't hide the way his facial markings flickered cobalt—the alien equivalent of a blush. "Disgustingly sentimental," he muttered, though his fingers lingered on the holo-screen where he'd been surreptitiously recording the whole scene. Douxie's laugh curled warm around them both, the wizard's elbow nudging Krel's ribs as he stole a sip of something electric-blue from the prince's drink. Their fingers brushed—just once—over the condensation-slick glass.
Claire only caught it because she was breathing hard when they broke apart, her forehead pressed to Jim's as the world spun. His eyelashes were starpoints of white where flour clung to them, his pulse rabbiting under her thumb where it rested against his jugular. "You're shaking," he whispered, voice raw. His newly-ringed hand flexed against the small of her back, the metal still warm from her grip.
"I fought a titan once," Claire managed, "but this was scarier."
Toby watched them from the kitchen window, his fingers tapping an uneven rhythm against his half-empty soda can. The backyard was chaos—Steve attempting a handstand while Aja balanced a baby on his feet, Eli frantically recalibrating an Akiridion diaper-changer that kept spitting out glitter instead of wipes. Four months. Four months since the war ended, since Arcadia Oaks had been more rubble than town. Now look at them. The hydrangeas Jim and Claire were currently demolishing had been grown from Akiridion-bioengineered seeds that bloomed in 48 hours. The Lake house's new porch swing? Carved by Blinky using stone from the rebuilt Hero's Forge.
He took a swig of flat soda. Darci's laughter carried from the living room where she was explaining police academy training to a fascinated Nomura. Toby's chest ached with something too big to name. This—the flour fights, the rogue fireworks Varvatos kept producing, the way Strickler's hand hadn't left Barbara's lower back all afternoon—this was the peace they'd bled for. Adult life. Who'd have thought?
His phone buzzed. A text from Douxie: *Found more cider in the basement.*
Toby's thumb hovered over the screen. He'd been there when Douxie pulled Strickler aside last week, their heads bent together near the ruins of the museum. *Excalibur isn't just a sword,* Douxie had said, voice low enough that Toby had to read his lips. *It's a coronation waiting to happen.*
The can crumpled in Toby's grip. On the grass, Jim was attempting to wipe flour from Claire's nose while she brandished the ring like a victory torch. King Arthur shit was the last thing they needed. But Strickler had that look—the one that meant *I'm worried but won't admit it.* Toby tossed the can into the recycling (Akiridion-tech, dissolved waste in seconds) and plastered on a grin as Aaarrrggh!!! lumbered over with a platter of suspiciously green deviled eggs.
For now—petals in Jim's hair, Krel accidentally setting the gravy ablaze with royal plasma, the way the sunset turned Claire's engagement ring to liquid gold—this was enough.
Douxie materialized at Toby's elbow, smelling of ozone and spiced cider. His gaze tracked Krel across the room—the Akiridion prince was elbow-deep in Barbara's fridge, royal markings pulsing irritated teal as he searched for "anything not fermented by human peasants." Douxie's fingers twitched like he wanted to help. Or maybe touch. Toby smirked into his soda can. Yeah, that was definitely a thing.
The sliding glass door hissed open. Darci slipped out, her patrol uniform swapped for soft jeans and a sweater that smelled faintly of Barbara's lavender detergent. "You okay?" she asked, thumb brushing Toby's knuckles where they'd gone white around the can.
Toby exhaled. Four months of peace. Four months of movie nights and rebuilding and Steve learning to change diapers that sometimes phased through dimensions. No more apocalypses. No more death. Just... this.
"Awesome-Sauce."
Douxie leaned against the porch railing, nursing a bottle of something violently purple that fizzed like carbonated starlight. Across the yard, Toby was whispering something against Darci's temple—his mangled French ("Ton sourire est comme... uh... un baguette dans mon cœur?") making her snort into her lemonade. The golden hour light caught Darci's funky hair when she threw her head back laughing, turning them to molten copper.
Jim's flour-dusted hair glowed like a halo where he knelt in the hydrangeas, Claire's ring glinting on his finger as he gestured wildly—probably recounting some battle they'd barely survived. Douxie's ribs ached. Nine centuries of watching mortal lives flicker out like candle flames, and yet this boy with his ridiculous hero complex had carved out a corner of his chest like a nesting bird.
"Stop brooding, old man," Krel muttered, hip-checking Douxie as he passed with a platter of suspiciously glowing hors d'oeuvres. The Akiridion's markings pulsed teal with poorly disguised concern—alien empathy sensors working overtime again.
Douxie forced a swig of cider past the sudden tightness in his throat. He'd promised himself after Merlin's death—no more attachments to ephemeral creatures. Yet here he was, memorizing the exact cadence of Jim's laugh as it tangled with Claire's, the way Toby's new mustache twitched when he fake-gagged at their kiss.
The back door creaked. Strickler emerged with two tumblers of amber liquid, his changeling-pale fingers careful around the glass as he extended one. "For the nerves," he murmured, gaze flicking to where Barbara was attempting to wrangle Steve's toddlers away from the fireworks Varvatos had "confiscated."
Douxie accepted the drink with a nod. The whiskey burned going down—900 years, and he still hadn't developed a taste for the stuff. "He asked me to move in," he blurted, staring into his glass. "After Camelot fell. Like some—some domesticated housecat."
Strickler's chuckle was a rasp of flint. "Welcome to the family, then." His own ring—that emerald Barbara adored—caught the light as he gestured toward Jim. The boy was now attempting to flip Claire over his shoulder while she shrieked about frosting in her hair. "He's alarmingly persuasive."
Douxie's fingers tightened around the tumbler. Jim had said it outright last week, flour up to his elbows as they rebuilt the bakery—*You're like a brother, you know that, right?* Simple as that. No grand declarations, just warm hands pressing a chipped mug of too-sweet cocoa into his palms.
The crowd settled into the living room's haphazard nest of pillows and blankets, the glow of the TV casting blue shadows across their faces. Someone had dug out Barbara's old Ratatouille DVD—its scratched surface a relic from a time before trolls and magic—and now the opening credits played to the soundtrack of Aaarrrggh!!!'s delighted rumbles. Jim was asleep by the twenty-minute mark, his flour-dusted head lolling against Claire's shoulder while his legs sprawled across Barbara's lap. Claire's fingers absently carded through his hair, dislodging stray hydrangea petals onto Strickler's knee where he perched on the armrest.
Douxie found himself wedged between the couch arm and Krel, the Akiridion prince's royal markings flickering erratic teal every time their elbows brushed. Now he sat stiff-backed, four hands fidgeting with the hem of his human-disguise sweater like he might bolt any second. Douxie pretended not to notice how Krel's knee kept jostling his own whenever Remy the rat did something particularly dramatic.
Across the room, Steve was buried under Aja's Akiridion form—her crystalline limbs wrapped around him like living armor while their youngest snoozed against his chest. "This is the most comfortable chokehold I've ever been in," Steve whispered reverently as Aja nuzzled his hair, her facial markings pulsing contented blue. Blinky and Aaarrrggh!!! shared the recliner, the former enthusiastically narrating cooking techniques to the latter's wide-eyed fascination. "Fascinating! These surface-dwellers wield spatulas as soldiers once wielded swords!"
Toby had Darci half in his lap, her patrol boots kicked up on the coffee table next to a plate of suspiciously green deviled eggs. "That rat's got better knife skills than Jim," he muttered around a mouthful of popcorn, earning a jab to the ribs from Claire. Darci's laughter vibrated against his shoulder, her fingers laced with his where they rested on his stomach—right over the scar Gatto had given him.
The TV flickered. For a heartbeat, Douxie saw it—the reflection of Excalibur mounted above the fireplace, its blade catching blue light in the same rhythm as Krel's markings. Jim stirred in his sleep, fingers twitching toward the sword like it called to him. Claire's shadow flickered in response, tendrils curling protectively around his wrist.
Douxie's cider turned to ash in his mouth. Nine centuries, and he still wasn't ready for this—for the way history circled back like a hungry thing. Merlin's voice echoed in his skull: *Every king needs his wizard, boy.*
Krel's knee bumped his again, deliberate this time. The prince's markings flared cobalt as he leaned in. "Your heartbeat is arrhythmic," he murmured, too low for human ears. One hand hovered near Douxie's sternum, sensors pulsing. "Are you dying?"
Douxie caught his wrist—felt the buzz of alien tech beneath thin skin. "Not today," he lied. On screen, Remy the rat raised a tiny fist of triumph. Somewhere, a prophecy was waking up.
Jim sighed in his sleep, crownless and flour-dusted, utterly unaware.