Oliver Randolph

The amusement faded slightly when Oliver's tone shifted. Not completely. Just enough that Dawson noticed it. He rolled the bottle slowly between his palms and looked out across the bar for a moment before glancing back at him. "Yeah," he admitted. "It's confusing." The words came easier than expected. Maybe because pretending otherwise would've been stupid. Maybe because there wasn't much point.

A year ago, Dawson would've given a joke. Changed the subject. Made some crack about time travel and bad luck and moved on. Instead, he leaned back against the bar and let out a quiet breath through his nose. "I mean, from my side of things?" His mouth twisted slightly. "I spent most of my life with you as a story." He shrugged one shoulder. "Not even my story, really. Everybody else's." The words weren't bitter. Just honest.

"Jackson's story. Pack stories. Things people told about who you were and what happened and why." He glanced down at the bottle in his hand before looking back up. "Then suddenly you're standing in front of me arguing about flirting and complaining that I'm a bad wingman." A faint smile pulled at the corner of his mouth. "It's weird." There was no point pretending it wasn't. No point pretending any of this was normal. His gaze drifted briefly toward the crowd before returning to Oliver. "But I don't think anybody was expecting normal anymore."

The smile widened slightly. "Besides, if we're being honest, I think you got the easier side of this deal." He lifted his beer in Oliver's direction. "You got to skip all the awkward teenage years." The warmth returned to his expression then, slipping naturally back into familiar teasing. "You didn't have to teach me to drive. Didn't have to explain taxes. Didn't have to bail me out of jail." A pause. "Which is good, because I definitely would've called Jackson first."

"When I was pulled from, I didn't... I hadn't made the decisions that I made yet." He spoke quietly. "Hayley, she, uh, she told me. About everything I did - what I did to the pack; what it cost me in the end. All of it." He cleared his throat awkwardly. "So, I know I've probably said it before over and over this past year, but, uh, I'm sorry. You know? Sorry for setting you and little Jay aside like that... I want to say I would never do that to y'all, but I... but I guess I did." He said. It was the part he was still trying to come to terms with the most out of everything his future self had done.

Even though Dawson quickly returned to his usual warmth and carefree attitude, Oliver shook his head. "Yeah, you're probably right." He chuckled once. "But I didn't get to do a bunch of other stuff either. Give you advice on the ladies. Buy your 'first' beer after we definitely didn't steal from Mary's stash of shine." He remarked. A louder laugh escaped him. "Jail? The hell you do, boy? But good call on calling Jackson first. That probably would've been smarter."

He took a drink, entirely too pleased with himself, before continuing. "And for the record, I don't think your game is the issue. The fact that you're actively defending your game is the issue. Nobody who's actually smooth has ever started a sentence with, 'I'll have you know.'" His expression turned mock-serious. "That's dad behavior. That's the kind of thing people say right before complaining about lower back pain or explaining why music was better twenty years ago."

The amusement softened slightly as he leaned against the bar, rolling the bottle between his palms. There was still something bizarre about this sometimes. Not bad. Just bizarre. Growing up, Oliver had been a story people told. A cautionary tale. A complicated legacy. Now he was standing here getting defensive because his son was making fun of his flirting technique. Reality remained deeply strange.

Thankfully, Dawson had never been one to sit with feelings when sarcasm was available.

"I think my favorite part is that you genuinely expected me to be a wingman." He shook his head, laughing under his breath. "You've known me for a year. You should know better by now." His gaze drifted briefly toward where the fae had disappeared into the crowd before returning to Oliver. "Besides, if she ran because she found out you had a grown son, that's not on me. That's just information management."

The grin returned in full force. "Honestly, though? I think I'm being very supportive. Most people get embarrassing childhood stories from their parents. I get to embarrass my parent in real time. That's a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, and it'd be disrespectful not to take advantage of it." He raised his beer in a mock toast. "I'm pretty sure this is what family bonding looks like."

The wolf's expression hardened slightly and he chewed the inside of his cheek in thought for a few moments as Dawson quipped about the short time they'd 'known' each other. "Yeah, well, you used to be a pretty cool kid back when I'm from." He remarked; masking the deeper feelings of the words with sarcasm. He cut a glance at his son with furrowed brows. "Information management? Daws, I don't know anyone that would just shrug and be all 'Oh, that's cool' if they knew how really confusing this--" He gestured between them, "--really is." He rolled his eyes at the remark about family bonding and drank from his bottle once more.

the amusement in her voice took any sting out of the interruption as she looked between them. olive leaned back in her chair, her loose curls falling over one shoulder as she fixed ollie with a look that was equal parts fond and suspicious. “for the record, he's leaving out the important parts.” she pointed lightly toward him. “the charm offensive? genetic. the tendency to collect conversations like souvenirs? also genetic. i'm still trying to figure out if it's a family trait or a supernatural ability.”

her attention shifted to the fae woman then, genuine curiosity brightening her expression. “the flower thing is pretty incredible, though. i think i'd be asking questions too.” a smile tugged at the corner of her mouth before she glanced back at her grandfather. “although i'd probably ask them before the third drink, which feels like the safer journalistic approach.”

A cultural exchange program. He'd have to remember that one the next time he wanted to describe his... activities. The smirk broke free as he pocketed the information away as ammunition the next time Jackson, or anyone, found it fit to lecture him.

"Thank you, miss. Though, while all of drinks and an evening discussing our... cultures, as you put it, sound lovely - I think I should probably find my friends and head back to the Spring. Perhaps you'll join us there sometime?" The fae female gave Oliver an interested grin before turning away and giving Olive a look that said she wasn't quite sure what to make of her, before disappearing through the dive bar crowd.

Oliver sighed the moment she was gone and settled his gaze upon his granddaughter. "Why?" Was all he asked.

The shove to his shoulder barely moved him, and that only seemed to make his amusement worse. He took another sip of his drink, looking entirely too pleased with himself. "Also, let's be clear here—I didn't even do anything." The fact that he couldn't keep a straight face while saying it ruined any chance of the lie being believable.

He leaned back against the bar, eyes bright with mischief. "You were doing the thing." His hand made a vague gesture in Oliver's direction. "The voice. You know the voice. The one where you lean in a little and suddenly every sentence sounds like it's carrying the weight of ancient werewolf wisdom." Dawson narrowed his eyes dramatically as if slipping into an impression. "'The moon teaches us many things.' 'Our people have endured great hardships.' 'The flowers in your hair remind me of resilience.'" He pressed a hand against his chest and shook his head. "I'm paraphrasing, obviously. Mostly."

A bowl of pretzels appeared somewhere within reach, and Dawson immediately helped himself without asking. He tossed one into his mouth before glancing sideways at Oliver. Beneath all the teasing, something in his expression softened for half a second. It still hadn't stopped feeling strange. A year later and it still occasionally hit him that the man standing next to him was someone he'd grown up hearing stories about, someone who was supposed to have stayed dead long before Dawson had ever existed.

"You've been dead longer than I've been alive," he said, rolling the bottle between his palms. "I think I get at least a few months of giving you a hard time."

The sentiment lingered only briefly before the grin returned in full force. "And for the record, if you wanted a wingman, maybe don't start with the flower fae. That was advanced-level flirting. You should've worked your way up to that. Maybe start with somebody who doesn't have magical flowers growing out of their hair and work your way up the difficulty settings from there." He lifted his beer in a mock toast. "Baby steps, old man."

He narrowed his gaze, but ultimately rolled his eyes as Dawson negotiated in favor of having months of being a pain in Oliver's ass. Ollie supposed his son had a point. He had left him and his brother behind following his own stupidity and reckless path; at least, in Dawson's past. In Ollie's future, had the converging timelines not seen fit to pluck him from before he ever began his downward spiral.

Not because she was offended.

Because she was deciding whether or not to throw something at him.

“Your beautiful face?” she echoed, deadpan. “That's a bold assessment for a man standing thirty feet away in bad lighting.”

The corner of her mouth betrayed her before she could stop it.

She shifted her weight against the dock railing, crossing her arms as she watched him settle against the post.

“Also, let's be clear,” Hayley continued, “the opinions don't start when I see your face. They start when I hear you coming and immediately assume you're about to say something that raises my blood pressure.”

A beat.

“Which, statistically, has been a solid bet.”

The water lapped quietly against the pilings below them, strange and restless since the fog had rolled through. Hayley followed his glance toward the dark surface for a moment before snorting.

“Yeah, well, if I decide to take a swim, you'll know.”

Her gaze slid back to him.

“Because it'd take at least three wolves, a tranquilizer dart, and a very compelling argument.”

She leaned back against the railing again, boots hooked against the lower beam.

“Besides, I've spent years keeping idiots out of dangerous water. Be kind of embarrassing if I suddenly forgot how.”

The teasing lingered for a second before softening.

“Appreciate you checking, though.”

She said it casually. Like it wasn't a big deal.

Which was exactly how Hayley said things that mattered.

A breeze rolled off the water, tugging at her jacket.

“I'm not planning anything dramatic,” she added. “Just needed five minutes where nobody was asking me questions, handing me problems, or telling me the world's ending.”

Her brow lifted.

“Then you showed up.”

The faint smirk returned.

“So naturally, now I'm being supervised.”

The wolf slowly removed his hands from his pockets and picked at his nails as he listened to her. "Yeah." He grumbled out - the only form of awkward acknowledgment he could muster when she mentioned appreciating his efforts.

"Ain't all about you though," Oliver dismissed as he took in a breath, "The Rousseau kid is making rounds back at the cabins and if I have to hear one more time about trying to set up some sort of football scrimmage with these fae, Mary ain't gonna have enough liquor in her stash for me to cope." Oliver shook his head a few slow times. There was a small twinge in his words, however, that said the idea had peaked Oliver's interest the past few times it had been brought up.

Finally, he stopped a few feet away from the alpha and gazed at the muddy waters around the pier they stood upon. "Don't worry. I don't come bearin' any sort of questions, problems, or world-ending news today."

Not because Oliver was doing anything wrong.

Because the second Dawson realized who he was talking to, every immature instinct he possessed woke up at once.

The fae woman was pretty. That much was obvious. Auburn hair, flowers woven through the vines tangled around it, bright eyes fixed on whatever conversation she'd been having before Dawson arrived.

Which meant there was still time to ruin it.

Perfect.

He drifted over without invitation, stopping beside the bar and taking a pull from his beer before speaking.

"Question."

His attention landed squarely on the fae.

"Has he gotten to the tragic werewolf backstory yet, or are you two still in the fun facts portion of the evening?"

The corner of his mouth twitched.

"If we're still early, you've probably got moon phases coming up next."

Dawson lifted his bottle slightly.

"Don't get me wrong. Love wolves. Big fan. Five stars. But we really overshare as a species."

His gaze flicked briefly toward Oliver before returning to her.

"I figured somebody should intervene before you accidentally left here knowing the entire history of Crescent territory."

A beat.

Then, with complete sincerity:

"Also, for the record, the flower thing is objectively cooler than anything we've got going on."

He leaned casually against the bar.

"So. Dawson. The old man here's son."

A small gesture toward himself.

"And before either of you continue whatever this was, I need to know if those flowers bloom when you're happy, angry, or if they're just making the rest of us look bad on purpose."

Then came those words. Old man here's son. Oliver felt a small knot twist in his gut and words failed him for a split-second. At the same moment, the female took a small step backwards and held her hands up. "I'm sorry. Maybe we'll catch one another some other time?" She offered, but the speed at which she shuffled away told Oliver that time would be very far off.

An irritated sigh escaped him and he folded his arms as he regarded the man. "What the hell?" He started and shoved at Dawson's shoulder. "You're supposed to be a wingman for your old man, not a cockblock.... seriously." He grumbled through the awkwardness of referring to himself so... paternally. "Seriously, what was that? Look, if you're acting out about me flirting with someone that isn't your mother you're about two decades too late for that." He stated sarcastically. And a few years more. The words went unspoken. Oliver hadn't exactly been close to the woman even back in 2011.

Rain earlier had left the streets slick and shining, the whole block reflecting neon like bruised watercolor. Somewhere down the road, someone laughed too loudly. Somewhere closer, a train horn groaned through the dark.

Indi looked up at the sound of approaching footsteps, eyes sharp for half a second before they softened into recognition of “not immediately dangerous.”

“Before you ask,” she said, voice low and dry, “no, this isn’t my car. I just look emotionally attached to bad decisions.”

The corner of her mouth lifted faintly as she tipped the soda bottle in a lazy salute.

“You hiding from something,” she asked, “or just wandering around the city pretending insomnia counts as a personality trait?”

"Me? Nah, ain't got nothing to hide here." He said smoothly, even if it wasn't entirely the truth these days. "I was on my way to go roam the Spring Court, but decided it was a little too late and just kept my prowling closer to home." He shrugged his shoulders. "I'm Oliver." He added and nodded in her direction. "You?"

Hayley stood at the edge of the old dock with her hands in her jacket pockets, boots planted like she was keeping herself from drifting too far with the tide. The boards creaked under her weight when she shifted, but she didn’t move away. Didn’t flinch.

Somewhere behind her, the city kept pretending it was normal.

It wasn’t.

She exhaled slowly, watching the dark water catch fragments of distant light. For a moment, she let herself do nothing but listen—no pack reports, no whispered problems, no expectations pressing against her shoulders like they had somewhere to be.

Just… quiet.

It never lasted long.

Hayley tilted her head slightly when she heard footsteps approaching, not turning yet—just acknowledging they existed.

“Before you start,” she called over her shoulder, voice dry but steady, “if this is about anything that explodes, bleeds, or requires me to form an opinion before coffee, I’m going to need you to rethink your timing.”

A beat.

Then she finally looked back, green eyes sharp but not unkind.

“But,” she added, the corner of her mouth tugging faintly, “if you’re just here to stand around and pretend the world isn’t on fire for five minutes… I might be able to make room for that.”