"I would run."

“More ‘an there are good vamps.” He fires back, bristling slightly. It’s an automatic reaction, one even he isn’t expecting. It’s not like he’s a Great Defender of wolves or that it’s even a facet of his identity with which he consciously identifies. Despite his transition, Quentin’s always thought of himself first as a human, and far, far second - as a wolf. It’s almost as if he isn’t one -  until he has to admit to it aloud. So the defensive slip surprises him and he gives his head a shake after a beat of silence. “Sorry.” He mutters, uncertain whether he’s embarrassed about the slip - or the need to defend the wolves in the first place.

 “They’re all shit, right? As a whole. Vamps, wolves…” Quentin shrugs. “But Jackson’s an exception. Maybe the only one. I don’t wanna talk ‘bout ‘em though. Rather talk ‘bout-…” You. It didn’t make it past his lips and for that he’s grateful. He doesn’t need two comments to regret in the span of a minute so he reaches for his beer instead and takes a swig before continuing. “Don’t mind jazz. Is that what ya play? You know… With yer violin?” The briefest smile captures his lips, so quick it’s a blink-and-you’d-miss-it. 

“Could you teach someone? T’play?”

The biting tone, the snippishness doesn’t really phase her. She deals with Elijah all the time and he’s full of snark and sarcasm. It also doesn’t take long to realize there’s a shit ton of walls that Quentin hides behind and she can’t blame him. She’s got her own. She thinks they might just not be quite so... rough... as his. Hers, she thinks, have to be run into. Sometimes Quentin seems to use his like a battering ram. Still. Walls. It’s probably a miracle in and of itself that they’re... here. Hanging out.

“Yeah, maybe more than there are vamps,” she said dryly. “But I meant, you know,” she gestured all around them with her drink, her face never quite losing that pleasant smile. “Everyone. Not just you know. Most people are assholes.”

She waves away the apology. Not because she doesn’t appreciate it but because it isn’t necessary. Unless he attacks the people she... cares about, she’s not going to take personal offense. So she focuses on the conversation that he continues into, wonders how that sentence was going to end before he cut himself off.

“I prefer jazz,” she said, smiling a little wider now, just barely catching the one that curls his lips and then disappears. “But I’ll play pretty much whatever anyone stops to ask for, you know? Except Beethoven. I hate it. Classical in general is just not for me. When I started taking lessons classical was all my dad wanted to hear me practice. It made me crazy. Maybe that’s why I hate it so much. Lingering remnants of teenage rebellion.” She’s saying too much. She stops herself, huffing a laugh, embarrassed.

He snorts at that as he settles down on the stool she pushes out for him. “It’s all I can ask fer, huh? Best not get any hopes up in this city.” For all his grumbling, Quentin was grateful. Staying alive was no easy feat for a man on the run. Survival was not a luxury he could take for granted. At any given moment the people who wanted him dead could catch up, and it would just restart his race against the clock - if he was lucky enough to escape them first.

(How many times could he beat the odds?… How many times could he play Russian Roulette before he landed on the chamber with the cartridge in it? - One day, it’d be inevitable).

“Yea, been quiet in the Bayou as well - too quiet.” He agrees, forehead creasing briefly to indicate it doesn’t sit well with him. “Wolves are restless sons of bitches - they don’t do quiet. Always gotta be somethin’ to fight ‘bout, somethin’ to debate an’ disagree over. Jackson has his hands full - but not this week. Means they’re up to somethin’; the ones who normally give him him shit.” The werewolf shrugs, as though remembering that he’s not supposed to care. “It ain’t my business, I’m packless - but Jackson… He’s one ‘a the good ones.” Like you, his mind noted silently, and his eyes found Gia’s for a split-second before flickering away as he raised his beer towards her bourbon. “We toastin’ then?”

Packless.

She knew it was his choice, but it still sounded lonely. Wolves were meant to live in packs, right?

Wolves lived in packs...

Did her sister have one? The thought hurt. A sharp stab in her heart. Packs were family and wolves lived in packs. She couldn’t imagine her sister being happy not having other people to boss around. Had she done this? Left Gia behind to be... an alpha... to have a pack?

She shook her head, she didn’t want to think about that now.

“One of the good ones,” she murmured. “Yeah, not many of those, huh?”

He was though. Quentin. He was a good one. She didn’t know why she was so sure of it, she probably shouldn’t be. She could practically hear the voices of both Marcel and Elijah lecturing her on trusting him. But... She met his glance and felt her face flush. She knew he was a good one.

“Toasting to a quiet couple weeks sounds like a good idea,” she agreed. She offered out her glass, tapping it against his beer. “Cheers.” She took a sip.

He won’t admit this to anyone, especially not Gia, but he’d be lying if he said that he isn’t looking forward to meeting up with her tonight. He can’t quite put his finger on it; on why exactly he jumped at the prospect of her company more quickly than he was used to, and without the wariness that normally delayed his response to such offers. Maybe it’s because with her, he can take a short-cut and skip the part where he normally dissects the other party’s motive, their interest in him, the pros and cons of going out on a limb. 

With her, maybe he can be himself… Or, as close to it as he dares.

“Gia, s’up?” The werewolf greets her when he finds her, eyes flickering down to take in her appearance. He isn’t normally good at noticing those things, but he likes the way her shock of dark hair contrasts against the colour of her skin; the whimsical smile that tugs at her lips as she swivels in her seat to regard him. “Sorry I’m late.” He notes the drink she’s already ordered for herself and flags down a waiter to ask for a beer. “What’s new?” Because he does wonder; when a week comes and goes, when a second one follows - whether she’s still alive, whether Marcel or the Mikaelsons have stabbed her in the back and left her to burn, whether another werewolf has made the mistake of snapping his or her jaws in Gia’s direction… 

He doesn’t wonder about many people, but he wonders about her.

Gia shoved the stool next to her out as he approached so he could easily sit. To be honest, it was a relief to see him. Whole and unharmed. No fights recently then, around here you never knew. And she had to admit she’d... worried.

She watched him signal the bartender and order his beer. He looked good. Her finger trailed along the lip of her cup. And she smiled down at it as he asked her what was up. She tossed her hair back over her shoulder to raise her eyes and meet his.

“No worries, this place gets better the later you stay anyway,” she said. “I’m just glad you made it. The way our lives go, that’s always a nice surprise, isn’t it? Staying alive?”

She was kidding but.. she wasn’t. She hadn’t anticipated immortal life being so stressful and so full of death.

“No coupes this week, no battles last week. Things are quiet, here, anyway. Which I guess means something is bound to blow up soon, right? What about you? How’re things?”

She was quiet as the bartender came over and dropped off Quentin’s beer. Her dark eyes moved between her drink and him, her lips curved into a smile.

This is the first time they meet on purpose. Which isn’t something that Gia even realizes until she’s actually heading to a specific place to see him, as opposed to stumbling upon him someplace either of them shouldn’t be. The bayou. The Quarter.

Nope.

Tonight is a hole in the wall jazz bar that she used to play in, in Algiers, where they can both be, technically. No one has claimed it yet. Someday she might play again. She and Elijah are still working on her music and while it’s come far since the day he offered to help, it’s still not what it was. What she needs it to be, in order to stand in front of people and play.

But that doesn’t mean she can’t enjoy the music of others. And it’s been too long since she did just that. She can’t exactly ask Elijah to come hang out in the open. Marcel is still too wrapped up in his grief. And it’s not that Quentin is her last choice, it’s just funny to her that the person she has to hang out with, is a werewolf. One who reminds her of herself, really.

He’s not playing sides to stay alive, not like she is if that’s what she would call what she’s doing- it’s not how she would put it, but she doesn’t know how else to put it either- but their end goal seems to be the same. Make a life, stay alive, maybe even find some kind of happiness in all of this.

Either way she has to admit, she... feels something. Some kind of connection, friendship.

Maybe she’s just lonely. Possible. And also probably pathetic. She sighs and orders a bourbon, not even considering this influence of her sire’s. She’s always been a beer girl.

He was being sarcastic, he doesn’t actually expect her to say yes. Quentin hadn’t moved, but in his mind, one foot was already out the door - and the mental note of ‘avoid all possible future interactions’ was already being written, in anticipation of being told ‘Leave me alone’. Instead, Gia absorbed his story without comment - and, more importantly - without judgment. 

And maybe it was because of her no-questions-asked reception that Quentin returns the favour, listening to her own story with interest but without the interrogation. He doubts he can suppress the questions indefinitely, but for now, he pushes them aside and merely nods. 

The tension between them hasn’t resolved entirely, but some of it has rolled off his shoulders more quickly than he’d anticipated. They’re acquaintances at best, a fragile connection that is budding like the shoot of a plant; not yet strong enough to survive the unexpected chill of an early spring’s morning. But it’s a start, he thinks, even though he doesn’t quite know what’s meant to follow. It’s only been a few years maybe, but he can’t help feeling rusty and wholly out of his league when it comes to this sort of thing.

“Still on the table.” Quentin agrees, a faint smile on his lips as he settled down and tilts his can of beer towards hers. “Cheers an’… Thanks again fer steppin’ in back there.”

Gia knows the look in Quentin’s eyes. The look that says he’s accepted he needs to go. That he’s not welcome here. That he should run somewhere, anywhere, else. She’s felt that a million times. But despite how jagged their conversations seem to be capable of being, there’s something about him that she likes.

So she relaxes a little when he takes the beer. Smiles at him in what she hopes is a reassuring way. A way that says the invitation to stay is a genuine one. She might not find out anything about her sister tonight, but that’s okay.

His hands swing up, palms out in a gesture of surrender. “A’right, a’right. No questions ‘bout you dyin’. Touchy topic - I get it. But just in case you’re wonderin’…” He trails off, weighing whether he should proceed or whether he’ll regret it. It didn’t occur to Quentin to be more polite, but it did occur to him to be more honest. Here he was, berating her for answers, trying, unconsciously even, to get beneath her skin - while he kept doors on his own identity so firmly locked. “I shot someone.” He announces bluntly, eyeing her carefully to see how she’ll take the revelation. “Killed ‘im… ‘cuz he woulda killed me instead.” The defense comes before it’s even asked of him, because he’s so prepared to give it. 

Most vampires turn by being made victims first. Most werewolves activate their genes by being willing perpetrators. He wants to see if that’s how she’d see him, as the others did.

“… I’ll take that beer if it’s still on the table.” Quentin adds, as though it’s a natural segue in the conversation. He finally looks away from her, pretending to take interest in the rest of his surroundings as he wonders whether this is the part where he gets a boot out the door.

It wasn’t as if Gia didn’t know how werewolves triggered their gene. It was one of the first things she’d learned. And then, having realized what her sister was, it was something she couldn’t stop thinking about. But somehow him saying it... her hands tightened into fists, nails digging into the skin.

Had her sister killed someone in self defense...

Or had she triggered it on purpose.

It didn’t sit well with her that she couldn’t convince herself on way or another.

But Quentin... isn’t her sister. And she can’t blame someone for killing in self defense. Especially not with the friends she keeps. She hasn’t killed anyone herself, its a line she’d rather not ever cross... but Elijah’s training has made her think she is capable of it under the right circumstances.

“Yeah,” she says finally. “Of course it’s still on the table.”

She grabs two, pops the caps off easily and crosses the room back to him. He’s offered a truth he obviously doesn’t enjoy sharing. And Gia doesn’t owe him one in return but...

“I wanted to be one. A vampire. I knew what they were, and I wanted to be one. To be strong. To take care of myself. Live forever. I don’t really tell people that part.”

She lifts her eyes to meet his, lifts the second beer towards him.

“Good. That’d have been some messed-up gene.” He mutters, before realizing what it must sound like. Quentin steals a glance at her, adds a ‘sorry’ under his breath as they stop in front of her door and he shoves his hands into his pockets. “I just mean like… The bit ‘bout drinkin’ blood… Would mean that humans would be preyed on by their own species… Kinda fucked up.” He tries to explain. But really, when it came down to it - didn’t humans do that already? They were one of the few species that killed their own members for far lesser reasons than survival. Out of anger, hatred, ambition, or just out of pure whim. A little bit of blood-sucking was probably tame by comparison. The thought unsettled him… Gia aside, Quentin was resolved to hate the vamps on principle alone. 

“Nice space,” the werewolf remarks approvingly as she opens the door to let him in. His gaze travels over the furniture, and he likes that it doesn’t suffocate. But Gia’s answer brings his gaze right back onto her. “How’s that possible? That ya don’t remember? Are ya tellin’ me that drinkin’ someone’s blood an’ being killed isn’t memorable enough?” It’s just sarcastic enough to imply disbelief, without crossing the line of overtly rude. After-all, though manners are certainly not his forte, Quentin is well aware of his place as guest in her home. He owes her.

He doesn’t like it.

Gia closes and locks the door behind them. Not that that would stop anything supernatural, but there’s something about the action that still calms her nerves a bit. She moves around him, huffing at his answer. After dealing most of the time with Marcel, and especially Elijah, there’s something almost jarring about his roughness. His complete lack of manners. Well. Maybe not complete, if she’s being fair. She can tell he’s trying.

Elijh would be appalled by him. But then, he’s a wolf. Elijah would be appalled in general.

“It’s memorable. It’s also traumatic. You die. There’s not much pleasant about it. So even if I did remember it all, maybe I just don’t want to remember. Do you want to chat about exactly how you triggered yourself?” And if there was a bite to her tone it was because she wanted to steer them away from this conversation.

The fewer people who knew Elijah Mikaelson had sired her, the better.

She sighed, pushing her hair back, the other hand resting on her hip. “Look, I just- do you want a drink? Because I could use one. And maybe we could start with an easier topic?”

There was what some would consider an almost old fashioned entertainment system set up so she could play music whenever she wanted, in whatever format. And underneath that, in the drawers, was several bottles of liquor. One of which was a particular scotch she never could have afforded otherwise. She left that and pulled out the Jack and the tequilla and set them on coffee table.

“I’ve got beer too.”

She stopped moving, dark eyes settling on him. She didn’t want to fight with him. Strangely, she found that she wanted to sit and get to know him. To talk.

‘Sometimes, stupidly, out in the bayou.’

“Don’t think I know what yer talkin’ ‘bout… ‘Cuz that would be really silly.” He feigned ignorance. But a smile curved over his lips at the recollection, and Quentin ducked his head a little lower to hide it. True enough he’d found her weird that day; but the mix of bold and blind had intrigued him, and given their earlier encounter today, he was beginning to think it was a common theme for Gia. He just hoped she wouldn’t pay for it any time soon.

“I’m listenin’…” The werewolf offered somewhat vaguely as she started talking about how, like him, she’d only recently been introduced to this world. “But it’s different for fangers. You’re not born with a gene, right? You’re bitten. So what’s your story? How’d it happen?” Maybe it was nosy - the thought occurred to him too late. After-all, he wasn’t sure he’d be able to answer the question if it was thrown back at him. But, depending on how frankly she answered - maybe he’d have to. “I mean… If you wanna talk ‘bout it…” Quentin added a little uncomfortably, realizing too that it might be a sore spot. He stopped walking when they reached her front door, glancing over his shoulder to make sure they hadn’t been followed.

“Very, very silly.”

Gia double checked the streets around them as well. But they seemed as empty as they had their entire walk here. She might be close to Marcel, but she was pretty sure that didn’t warrant anyone keeping an eye on her. She wasn’t a key player in anyone’s game. Not... really.

Her connection to Elijah was one they’d kept mostly secret so far and she had no intention of changing that anytime soon. Which made answering his question... difficult. Her standard answer was that she didn’t know, didn’t remember. Having no story meant not having to worry about keeping it straight. Rouge vamps killing or changing someone wasn’t unheard of.

“No, we aren’t born with a gene.”

But had she been born with one? With the wolf gene, like her sister? Or had it skipped her? Did it mean anything... if she did have it? Or.. had it? Even as a vampire she hadn’t killed anyone, if she killed someone now would it matter?

She opened the door and held it for him to follow. Their apartment was only one floor up so she headed for the stairs, fully expecting him to follow. The place wasn’t anything spectacular, but the apartment she shared- had shared- with her sister, was roomy and clean and nice. She’d been so happy when they found it. When they’d moved in. Just the two of them. She’d had plans...

He had dozed off. No matter how much he was trying to keep the normal day night rhythm, he found himself dozing off during the day far more often lately, only to lay awake, overthinking his situation, wondering if he would ever see his wife and daughter again at night. 

He suddenly woke up when he heard a woman call out for lunch. He sat up straight, expecting a few rude words and his food being thrown down, like it usually happened. Most of them hadn’t forgotten what he had done the night that landed him here. Breaking in was one thing, but he had killed some of their friends, even when he was convinced most of them -unfortunately- were just wounded and would live.

This one sounded different. Almost concerned. He wasn’t sure if that was for his well being -probably not- or because she didn’t want to tell her boss that their prisoner had died on them. “I’m not planning  on giving you lot the satisfaction of dying in here. Why don’t you just leave it like everyone else and let me eat in peace?”

Hunters.

The one thing she hadn’t really counted in her decision to turn. She hadn’t even known about them. After she’d turned, obviously, she’d learned. And she never had been or would be one to dismiss an entire group of people but that didn’t mean she wasn’t... wary.

As with the wolves, there were few exceptions to this wariness. She planned on enjoying her immortality. And being careless wouldn’t help her with that goal at all. And this hunter in particular... he’d killed plenty of theirs.

So maybe she shouldn’t care if he was alive or not. If he ate or not. But as far as she’s concerned... the one he’d replaced was worse.

“You know, this thing were everyone is an asshole because they’re not the same thing is really fucking annoying,” she snapped. “You get that you’re basically buried in a wall, right? Marcel isn’t feeling real merciful so you probably aren’t getting out. You’re probably hoping that demon spawn sister of yours might help you, and well, maybe. But right now you’ve got the walls, the food, and the person bringing it. So if I’m not being an asshole, maybe you shouldn’t be. I could, I don’t know, describe the weather for you. Spray some air freshener. But you’re basically in a wall. Being a dick.”

She was tired. She didn’t like wolves, in general. She didn’t like hunters, in general. She wasn’t real fond of witches. Humans were fine, obviously. And the vampires were her family. And Elijah was... Elijah. Generally speaking she didn’t like the other factions in this town. But fuck all if she wasn’t looking for a damned fight every time she opened her mouth.

The grief that struck Marcel several weeks prior had not lessened in the least. Everything he did, everywhere he went, he saw reminders of the things he had lost. He saw Davina and the memories they had made in their much too short time together. This was even worse for those forced to interact with him on a day to day basis. He was no longer about the blood parties or creating peace, he only wanted revenge and solitude.

So when he heard the footsteps approach him, he met the person owning them with a scowl. “Gia.” He grumbled out. There was no ill intent with her. In fact with Gia, he trusted her more than most, maybe not Diego but enough all the same. “How can I be of service?”

Her frustrations, most of them, bled out in the face of his open grief. They always did. Out there, in the world, dealing with the fallout, she could be enraged at him. But here, with him, it was harder.

His grief was suffocating. And if she felt it, how must he feel? How could he stand to feel at all?

“Of service, huh?” she said, coming further into the room, raising an eyebrow. “I’m pretty good, so, if it’s cool with you I thought maybe I could share a drink.”

She made her way to the alcohol and toyed with a glass. She wouldn’t until he said she could. She wasn’t courting his anger or frustration. It had simply been too long since she’d sat with him. There were a lot of reasons for it, not just on her end. She missed the man who had helped teach her. Who had made her work for a daylight ring. Who had given her one.

“Unless you’re determined to be alone?”

The Garden.

Gia had never had reason to come down here. There were plenty of things about the way New Orleans was run, especially after what happened with the children, that Gia didn’t agree with. The Garden, however, predated even that. And it wasn’t something she particularly wanted to tour.

But they had a... human guest now. And even though she kept herself busy between the Mikaelson estate, Marcel, and her own life, even she got dragged into the day to day running of Marcel’s... home. So when the vamp on food duty needed to leave for some reason or another, Gia took over his job.

Never let it be said she wasn’t a team player.

A lot of teams, these days, but still...

“Smells like bullshit t’me… Like some fairytale you’d have to be dumb to believe. An’ I think a lota things ‘bout the witches, but I doubt they’re that dumb.” Which, to the suspicious werewolf, meant that it was more likely there was an ulterior motive to the sacrifices, one that maybe neither he nor Gia knew. Which meant there was little use in discussing it further.

And Gia clearly intended to stay quiet about Marcel and his motives, which meant a change of topic was necessary. Not exactly the werewolf’s forté. Instead, he let silence reign between them for a couple of minutes, focusing preferentially on his cigarette as they walked. There was a lot to think about, a lot he was still angry over. And yet there were emotions that were much more complicated than anger which he was trying to sift through. At the moment, they were centering on Gia. Even as they reached her home, he had to wonder at the innate feeling that had him following a vampire to a more secluded area. He’d only met her once before - why did trusting her feel like it came naturally? What made her different than the other strangers he’d met and pushed away in New Orleans? Was it just that she’d jumped to his defense back there? It confused him, it made him wonder whether he was making a mistake.

“So, uh… Tell me somethin’ ‘bout you.” He said abruptly, to get his mind off of his dilemma.

There was no real way around it. It was bullshit. There was no other way to put it. She didn’t know what the fuck the witches or Marcel had been thinking. Except that they’d been desperate. Desperate people did stupid things, no matter how high up they were. This was all proof of that. She knew it was above her pay grade. There was some shit she just didn’t understand or know.

She wasn’t sure she wanted to.

She was grateful for the quiet as they walked. She wasn’t sure what the hell she was doing with this either. Taking a wolf home. The danger wasn’t just being seen. A wolf was a danger to a vampire as a rule.

But he... seemed... different. 

Which was about the most cliche thing she could think it that moment. She glanced at him again, snorting softly at the question. She could throw it up to the thing about her sister, she guessed. But he didn’t seem to be a fan. Whatever answers he might have probably wouldn’t be the depth to which she was wanting.

No. There was more than that.

She sighed a little, shrugging one shoulder. “You already know I play the violin. Sometimes, stupidly, out in the bayou. I haven’t been a vampire long, you know? I know you said... that you weren’t a wolf that long. It hasn’t been long for me either. I didn’t even know it was all real.”

 Although he didn’t want to make it too obvious, it was hard not to notice the fact that Gia was running his words over in her head. He saw it in the furrow of her brow, heard it in the silence that elapsed after his defiant assertion. “It’s different for me.” Quentin explained, even though there was no explicit invitation for him to do so. “I haven’t been a wolf all my life… Only two years, just ‘bout. The rest of ‘em, don’t get that. I don’t see a wolf when I look at myself in the mirror - an’ they don’t wanna hear it.” He shared, before fishing his pack of cigarettes out of his pocket and pausing on the street to light up. 

A couple of seconds later, he caught up with her, falling in step with Gia just in time to hear her response where it concerned Marcel and the ritual. “Che cazzo… How the fuck could they believe that? I get they got magic, but can they bring people back? Has it worked before?” Quentin asked, curious despite himself. But Gia was right, the sooner they got behind closed doors, the safer they’d both be from the possibility of being overheard. He was relieved to hear that they were getting close to home, but his voice dropped another few decibels just in case. “You don’t wanna talk ‘bout Marcel, right?” He surmised, taking a slow drag of his cigarette as they kept walking briskly. “That’s cool, but I don’t get how any of you can put up with his shit… Has anyone tried tellin’ him he’s insane?”

Gia knew he would catch up so she only slowed her walking a little as he lit a cigarette. She resisted the urge to say something cliche like how they’d kill him.

She wanted to ask him a lot of things. About being a wolf. About when he’d turned. Why it had taken him so long. Had it been on purpose? But those were probably... rude. At least to blurt out in the middle of the street and without any kind of actual conversation first.

So... he had no alpha? He was just a wolf, trying to make a living. Trying to stay alive. She could... appreciate that.

“I guess once upon a time? I’m not really sure if the ritual ever actually brought people back or if it was just some kind of figurative witch bullshit. But I do think they really thought it would work.”

No. She didn’t want to talk about Marcel. Not really. Or maybe it was more that she didn’t think she should. Or could. Loyalty. It made things harder. She turned her head, looking at him, shrugging. And it wasn’t like with the wolves. The vampires had one leader. One person looking out for them. If... maybe... if someone like Elijah would step forward. Or even if Marcel could be convinced to let him help. It couldn’t stay like this- she shook her head at herself and focused on the wolf walking with her instead.