Chapter Text
“A single hit, and you’ll be changed forever.”
It was something Blinky had said to him over four years ago, when the scariest thing he had to worry about was whether Steve would be in the mood to pick a fight or if he’d finally gather up the courage to talk to Claire.
Then the list of ‘scariest things I’ve had to face’ grew and grew until it was stomach twisting-ly long. Jim could lay in bed at night counting off the daunting things he’s had to go against and come morning he’d only be halfway down the list.
He had gotten so tired.
In the beginning it had been too much. Balancing the hard physical strain and the weary constant fear of being the Trollhunter with his somewhat neglectful home life and chaotic school life— it was hard to do alone.
Then Jim had his friends to rely on. With Blinky’s guidance, Arrgh and Toby’s support, and then, later, Draal’s loyalty and Claire’s advice, he had been given a break. The helping hands of his friends helped carry him throughout his duties as Trollhunter and through the worst moments of his life— and there were a lot of those.
The worst part? Possibly the fact that he had asked for it. This whole time, the tears, the agony of it all, poor fifteen year old, wide-eyed Jim had been yearning for that ‘something more’.
It wasn’t without its perks, of course. Without being forced into a destiny he grew to hate he would have never gotten together with Claire, met all of the wonderful trolls and changelings like Blinkus and NotEnrique, or would have grow into the strong person he was now.
He’d tell himself that, at least. Jim didn’t feel very strong now. In fact, throughout all of those years of bone-grinding work and soul-crushing anguish, he has never felt as small and helpless as he was right now.
He had faced goliaths of trolls and the most brutal of enemies. He had wandered the Darklands and learned the shadows as if they were his own mother’s face. He took that paralyzing, joint-locking fear and turned it into his fuel to keep moving through the honey thick world he was trapped in.
He had saved hundreds and then thousands and then millions. With the darkness festering in his own heart and head, he wove together a sword to fight the darkness of their enemies. When he was half-troll, he had done that well.
That skin had never fit him well, though. His body wasn’t quite right for troll or for human, and for days he had been stuck in the agony of not-quite-right.
It wasn’t just his appearance that had changed either.
Four years of fighting he never asked for in a war centuries older than him had changed something inside of him, too. It was ugly and sharp and cruel and it would take out Jim’s own ambitions and self-esteem just as swiftly as he would fell his enemies with the sword of daylight.
He had gotten used to his physical self not mirroring what was inside, especially after regaining his human body. That sense of not-quite-right had never gone away.
Maybe it had really started when he first felt the armor fit around his body— unnatural, heavy.
Maybe it had been when he took a sword to a gum-gum’s head and knew that there was no turning back. He had killed before. He would kill again. It was his destiny to keep going, keep killing, keep protecting, over and over and over again.
Perhaps that’s why it took a few minutes for the breakdown to come when he realized his time travel had been successful.
He had woken up in his bed. Not right, not right!
His hands were soft, uncalloused despite the years of hard work in swordsmanship. It didn’t make sense!
He touched his face. It was smooth and soft, just like his hands. He was back, and it hurt.
His hands came back wet with tears. This couldn’t be happening— but it was happening and that was too much— he let out a soft yet broken cry out into the dim light of his bedroom. The birds sung a harmony along with his unstable sobs.
Courage was something he had to knit into his very being as the Trollhunter. It was what reinforced his spine and gave his shoulders the strength to hold the world. It was something that was failing him now, as it hadn’t failed him in a long time, almost too long to recall.
He was shaking— it was his shoulders, his hands, his voice. He couldn’t stop the tremors. His eyes were burning with all the tears he had never shed for himself throughout his Trollhunter years. He had lost everyone and everything that mattered.
He would have to build back lost friendships and face the ghosts of people who he didn’t know anymore. The Toby now was not the same Toby as before. He had lost all of his friends from the troll world. He had lost Strickler. He had lost Claire.
None of them were the same as they had been before. Those faces that he had memorized and voices he’d give anything to hear on a bad night wouldn’t recognize him the way he had been recognized before.
Jim was going to build back the fortress of love and friendship he had lost with sand and shaking hands.
With a raspy inhale, he began to know.
He was about to face the hardest, scariest thing he’s ever had to. He was going to watch the ghosts of future-past friends grow and change into people who will be not quite the same as they were in his timeline.
He’d do this alone.
It was nearly too much.
Instead of continuing to crumble, a sandcastle in the waves of time and grief, he did what he always did since he picked up the amulet that day in the canal— he pulled himself together. He put on his best strong face, and he was going to keep going, keep killing, and keep protecting.
Strickler could see it in Jim’s face. It wasn’t quite right on such a young man. The look of a bone deep tiredness that came with war. It was something Strickler knew well. It was something that shouldn’t be written all over his fifteen year old student’s face.
The first alarming thing had been Jim’s body language. He stood rod-straight and, despite the new appearance of dark circles, his eyes wide with alertness— the mark of a soldier. It uneased him. That was, until, Jim had saw him.
It was strange, unsettling. Yesterday Jim was a typical teenage boy, lusting for more in life, ambitious and hardworking, innocent to the real war being waged just underneath everyone’s feet. There must be something malicious at work, he reasoned, because that was not the same boy that Jim had been yesterday.
Strickler couldn’t help but feel like he was looking at a ghost lost in time. The thought was so ridiculous he had to shake it off. Jim must’ve had a bad night, something he’d ask about after class. What he saw, what he imagined he saw, it was nothing more than a self-projection on one of his favorite students, so much like him at that age.
Gathering up his lesson plan notes, he felt his lips thin into a tight line. The reminder of his own past and the rage and unrest lying in wait in the shadows had put him in an off-beat mood. He did his best to ignore the uneasy feeling stirring in his gut.
Jim walked into the room, maintaining an uncomfortable amount of eye contact as he walked pass Strickler’s desk. There was something in the boy’s expression that made that thread of anxiety tighten around his chest.
Then Jim broke away from his own surprised expression and sat down, chin in hand, and Strickler noted the absence of Toby. What was going on today?
It took a second for Strickler to resume his train of thought.
Class. He felt a bit sheepish at the time it took for him to remember.
Taking another anxious look at Jim’s stoic face Strickler began the lecture. There’s nothing like a little history to cheer Jim up. He quite appreciated the boy’s participation in class, although his attention would sometimes be diverted to staring at Clair Nunez, a particularly bright young student who he recalled was passionate about theater.
Today Jim seemed lost to his own thoughts, and as if that weren’t rare in itself, Strickler realized with building horror that he could see his face crumpling, as if about to cry. All it took was for Jim’s dull eyes to focus for a moment and to take in the frequent worried glances Strickler had been sending to make Jim crumble further.
He could say for sure now that the new shine to Jim’s eyes wasn’t a renewed interest in class, but tears. His cheeks were painted red and Jim futilely tried covering half of his face with a hand, shielding himself from the interested glances of his classmates.
Strickler pursed his lips at the entire situation, giving the entire class a scrutinizing look. When he clapped his hands he could see Jim startle from the edge of his vision. He held back the urge to wince and instead used the momentary advantage he held.
“If I could direct everyone’s attention to the board, please,” he requested firmly, using his teacher voice, perfected throughout the years of berating reckless and ignorant gum-gums and students alike. He’d be surprised at his own ability to fool his way through a distraction if it weren’t for centuries of practice.
Even his current form was a distraction, meant to divert the attention from his insidious changeling nature to his human appearance, treated with care and oozing with charisma and comfort. He’d have to thank the baby he had been with switched with when he was little— he had amazing genes, genes that worked in favor of Strickler.
If it hadn’t been beaten out of him, Strickler would still wish he was his human counterpart.
Nevertheless, here the changeling stood, fingers cramping as he gripped the history book in hand, worrying about his star student, who couldn’t even muster up the energy to stare at Ms. Nuñez. Toby’s absence was also worrying him, as the young lad had rarely been marked absent and had no truancy problems.
It was hard to finish the lesson like this, but he managed, giving Jim a sideways glances that went entirely unnoticed, seeing as Jim found the desk underneath his fingertips much more interesting than the embalming of ancient Egyptian pharaohs.
By the end of class Jim had stared so unblinkingly at his desk that his eyes must be dry, and Strickler had been clenching his teeth so hard his jaw hurt.
Jim only snapped to attention when the bell rang, signaling the end of class. It was with a full body flinch he emerged from his dissociative state, eyes losing their glossiness as he took in the world around him. Seeing the returned clarity in his student’s gaze, Strickler felt himself relax an iota.
“Mr. Lake, class has been over for over five minutes,” he begins softly, and as uncharacteristic of him as it is, it relaxes Jim’s tense shoulders. The noirette brings a hand to his forehead, swatting away at neatly trimmed midnight bangs, and grimaces.
“Yeah… I see that now,” he replies faintly, eyebrows scrunching together in what could be interpreted as either annoyance or worry. “Sorry Mr. Strickler,” Jim continues, looking vaguely apologetic when he meets the changeling’s eyes.
“It’s quite alright young atlas. Is there anything,” Strickler pauses briefly with indecision, “bothering you?” Jim shakes his head, but he still looks unsteady on his feet and his eyes are watery.
“No, not at all. It was just a long night last night— studying, you know?” Jim clarifies as he cringes to himself, clearly not buying his own lie.
Strickler imperceptibly purses his lips, worry zinging through his chest. Jim was hiding something, and with such a bright, young, and ambitious student, the sudden behavior change could be spelling out a disaster.
Strickler gently places a hand on Jim’s shoulder, causing Jim to flinch. Out of respect Strickler pulls his hand away, equally as careful, and he thinks the pang in his heart was sympathy.
“Please don’t be afraid to talk to me, Jim.” He hopes the use of his first name will shepherd Jim’s decision to talk to him.
“Here’s my number. I think a call with your mother is also past due, don’t you?” His voice is as gentle as the he has ever tried to make it, and it sticks in his throat like thick honey. Strickler goes to grab a nearby index card and pen to scribble down his home number, and then passes his number to Jim— who has occupied himself by making quick analytic glances around the room.
“Yep, I think so. I’ll make sure my mom can call tonight.” Jim tries at a smile, but the facsimile doesn’t hold up and he winds up looking like a depressed Cheshire cat.
“Thank you, Mr. Lake. I shall see you at school tomorrow.” But Jim is already out of the classroom door, and Strickler thinks he saw his shoulders shaking with tears.