#(oliver.)

Oliver stared up at Cleo’s apartment, shifting his weight from one foot to another. He inhaled deeply before he exhaled slowly, watching as his breath caught the cold air, turning into white wisps that reminded Oliver of smoke. God, what he wouldn’t do for a cigarette right now. It had been decades since he smoked, but periods of high stress always made him wish for one. He had stared at the selection at one of the nearby gas stations a few days ago when he was paying, mentally going through the many reasons why getting one would be a bad idea, while the bored teenager stared at him as they popped the gum they were chewing. “Anything else, sir?” She had asked, snapping Oliver out of his train of thought. He had shaken his head quickly and paid before scampering back out to his car. 

He turned his phone over in his hand a few times, Cleo’s contact shining back up at him. Oliver had thought about texting her or even calling her. It had been a week since the blackouts, 6 days since Izzy stormed out of his home. Cleo knew one of his secrets. She hadn’t mentioned it, but Oliver still knew that she knew. It felt futile to continue dancing around the subject, but calling or texting didn’t feel right. So he had shown up in person but hadn’t called ahead because, if she wasn’t there, well… he had tried. He could try again another day. 

There’s movement in one of the windows, and a blanket of tension is placed on Oliver’s shoulders. He didn’t even get the chance to walk up to the door, knock, and have a few moments of peace where maybe it went unanswered. Oliver sighed before he trudged up the stairs and knocked. Upon its opening, he smiled; a tinge of sadness was evident on his lips. “Hey, could I come in?”

—

Cleo had not known that her friend was standing outside the building that housed both her shop and small apartment, but once she saw him standing on the sidewalk outside she felt no surprise. Just a hint of relief that came with something inevitable happening. She had known that Oliver and her needed to talk, but she had not pushed nor shoved. Through Isidore she’d heard that Oliver had not been happy about her knowing, but she did not consider a responsibility for her to carry. She had simply hoped that her friend would come to her. 

Patience was easy when you lived long. She had assumed that he knew that her door was open for him, and that she would not barge down his for now. Secrets were not a thing that lasted long among fae. Lying through omission was not durable. Eventually they’d have to face whatever it was that was wrong with Oliver. Truth be told? She was scared, too. Of the conversation, of the reality laid out on the table. Loss was not a stranger to her, but it was because of that, that she feared it. 

She was already at her door when he knocked on it, moving it open gently. “Of course,” she said, stepping aside and letting Oliver in. She moved through to the kitchen, which she figured the best place to discuss such things. The place was quite lacking — Cleo didn’t cook, but she did enjoy a few good drinks. “What do you want to drink? Tea, coffee, something stronger?” She had it all. She was not sure whether Oliver wanted something to comfort or to numb him.

—-

Oliver’s mouth quirked upwards when she mentioned drinks. “Let’s start with tea, but don’t put the harder stuff away quite yet.” He might end up needing it later in the night, depending on how the rest of the conversation went. Oliver followed her towards the kitchen, gaze traveling from where Cleo was standing to the rest of the apartment. A silence fell between the two of them. It’s not heavy, and there isn’t a sense of awkwardness, but Oliver still felt uncomfortable. There’s a reason he came here tonight, and the longer he sits with the knowledge that they both know why he’s here, the more he wants to flee. 

He clears his throat, fingers tapping on his thigh. “So..Izzy had mentioned that he had spoken to you the night of the blackout.” Oliver starts, wetting his lips. “That you know what happens to me when they happen. How I…die.” Best to just say it, right? Rather than dance around the subject. Oliver feels like he is on a stage, with a spotlight directly pointed at him. So exposed with nowhere to hide. 

“It-It’s true.” Oliver said quietly. He doesn’t think Cleo would have any reason not believe Izzy, but he still wants to make it clear that the other was being truthful. He takes a deep breath before letting it out slowly. “And…that’s not all. Izzy didn’t say he mentioned it, but...” It didn’t feel right to only give Cleo a half-truth and keep the rest of his secret hidden away. “My trees are disappearing. I don’t have many left. Once they all disappear, I’ll die with them.” Oliver says in a rush. Words tumbling out before he has a moment to try and find a better way to explain it. The script that he had mentally plotted out wasn’t touched. “So-I just-” Oliver takes a deep breath before letting it out slowly. “I have a lot going on.” He lands on, smiling weakly. 

—

“Sounds good,” she confirmed, getting the kettle full of water before igniting a flame on the stove and placing it on there. Like many things in her life, that too was analogue. The tea would take a while, so she turned to Oliver and all the unspoken things hanging in the air between them. Cleo was patient, had not taken it upon herself to confront Oliver with the things he had omitted, even if they were quite striking things. But the worry was showing on her face.

She did not have to ask Oliver to talk about it. She did not have to pry or carefully dance around it, and she was glad for it. She was not one for such difficult conversations — she preferred to hit emotional beats by talking about art that was evocative. Grief as a leitmotif, for example, or happiness as a change in key. “Yes,” she said, “He told me.” She wondered if it was a point of contention between the two, though she did not ask after it. She was not quite sure how their friendship worked yet, but was happy to know that their friendship existed.

She pulled out a chair, gestured at Oliver to sit. Though her kitchen was greatly non functional, there was still a table to sit at. It was something she had come to appreciate — a kitchen table to talk at. Cleo watched her friend with a creased brow. At the way he stumbled over his words and then came to a conclusion. Not only did he die, temporarily – something she had yet to grasp – but he was dying too. “Oh, Oliver,” she said softly. “I’m sorry. But … I am glad you’re telling me now, that we can – that I can help. Or listen, or hold your hand — whatever it is you need.” Her gut ached. She had gone years without seeing Oliver, but he had always been there. A presence to return to. An address to send letters to. “Your trees … can we protect them? Plant more? I’m sure … you’ve thought of this, but still.” She did not voice her most prominent thought: that she did not want to lose him.

—-

Oliver sat in the chair that she offered, linking his fingers together. “T-There’s nothing you can do.” He said quietly, feeling his eyes well up. Blinking quickly to try and have them dissipate, Oliver glanced upward. He cleared his throat. “I don’t want you to think I was hiding this from you for any…specific reason. It’s just…a lot.” If Oliver had his way, he would simply disappear one day, allowing others to believe that he had simply moved on. Have it so people aren’t able to worry until it’s been months without a new letter coming with a new address for correspondence. It might have been something he could have done if he had spent less time in the area, but in building connections, he had made it impossible to disappear completely. A double-edged sword, he supposed. 

“The trees are safe, for now. They are technically a protected species in Maine; my dad helped set up that law.” He laughed wetly. “But if they get sick? Or if they get struck by lightning, or someone decides to break a law.” He held his hands up, palms facing upwards. “I can’t use my abilities on my own trees, and I haven’t run into any other tree nymphs in decades,” Oliver said with a sigh. 

He ran a hand through his hair. “The bigger concern right now is these blackouts, you know? I think I’m dying during them because I have so few trees left. When the trees all disappear, so do I, which means if the magic goes out from them, since I don’t have any outside of Wicked, my life source goes out with them.” Oliver chewed on his bottom lip. “But no one knows what’s causing them, which means there isn’t a known solution, and they keep getting longer and…” 

—

Powerlessness was a feeling Cleo was familiar with. It went hand in hand with grief, after all. But Oliver was still alive, and anticipatory grief was not something she could add to the list of her woes (even if she would end up doing so all the same). “I can be there for you,” she protested quietly. Then, with a shake of her head, she waved away his attempt at an excuse. “Don’t worry. I understand keeping things close to ones chest. I am guilty of this too, of course. I’m not offended.” Just … frustrated, perhaps, that something like this had gone on unknown to her. But it wasn’t like she was telling Oliver about how she could not feed any more, either. 

“That is good. Human laws only have so much influence, but it is something. We do not have to fear building projects or whatnot, then. But other humans…” She bristled. They were such a frustrating species at times, even if she loved them also. “Mindless fools. Can we help protect them? From the humans, at the very least.” She racked her brain. “I don’t know any either, besides you.”

Cleo was silent for a moment. Where anticipatory grief had been on her mind before, and disregarded through a poor attempt, it came back swinging now. Oliver was dying and coming back. It was a worrying thing. “I wish I knew what to do. I can … be there, when they happen. Safeguard your body from all that is running around wild in town.” Because the idea that Oliver might be mauled by a feral vampire or shifter was laughable, yet realistic. “And we will have to see if we can figure out what is amiss. It is a magic issue, no? But not just one type, it seems. All kinds are affected from what I can gather, which make this a large problem — which hopefully means others are onto this, too.” 

—

With every person that Oliver let in on his secret, there was a sense of relief, as well as a building sense of dread. The two feelings warred against each other, the idea that there were people whom he could lean on, but that he knew this was causing others pain as well. “...thank you.” Oliver said softly when the other waved off his apologies. 

Oliver gave a small nod. “There’s a…bugbear. Someone I met a few months ago said they would protect my trees.” It wasn’t as if Joel would be able to always be around, but it was at least something. “Plus, uh, I get notified if any of them get hurt.” He motioned to his own body.  “So I can always get over there, or contact you or-” He clamps his teeth together with a ‘click’ before Izzy’s name leaves his mouth. “Or someone else if I’m not able to.”

Oliver sighed at her wishes. “That’s really all I can ask for. Honestly, I hope that another one won’t happen.” If there is, and it lasts longer than this last one…well…Oliver would rather not go down that rabbit hole. “I’ve tried to ask around, but no one seems to know what might be going on. You’re right, though. This is impacting everyone. All supernatural types are getting affected.” He ran a hand through his hair. “So I’m hoping whatever is causing the issues gets fixed, and quickly.”

—

The kettle was starting to make that sound that promised a whistle was coming soon, and Cleo got up to turn off the heat. She did not much like the softness of Oliver’s voice, the way he seemed diminished by it all. Did it take something from him, every time he died? Did it eat away at his soul or his organic make up? She looked him over and saw something like fatigue, but not decomposition.

She wondered what a banshee might make of Oliver. But there was no bone within that wanted to ask Siobhan for her expertise. 

“That’s good,” she said, sounding somewhat relieved. She busied herself with pouring the water in a teapot, placing it under its cosy before putting it on the table. Two mugs and a box of different teas was provided next before she sat down across from Oliver. “A bear will scare the humans more than either of us ever could. And I can come at a moment’s notice, truly.” 

She shared Oliver’s hope, but it felt like a futile one. Hope was traitorous and dangerous, and she did not want to cling to it too much. There seemed to be a rhythm to these black outs, from what she had learned. They came, they went, and came again. “I’m not much of an investigator,” Cleo admitted, “But I’ll try to see if I can ask around. Maybe someone knows if another will happen. We should be prepared for that possible reality, even if I too hope none will happen again. And I’m sure there are those proactive types in town getting to the bottom of this already.” Because she knew, deep down, that neither Oliver or her were those types. 

—

Oliver nodded at the mug placed in front of him, “Thanks.” He said quietly as he looked through the teas, picking out the chamomile blend and placing it in his cup to steep. “Yeah, definitely.” He cracked a smile at the idea of the two of them competing with Joel on scaring people. “It means a lot for you to say that, so thank you.” He cupped his hands around the mug, relishing in the heat soaking into his hands. Allowing the tea bag to steep for another minute, Oliver took it out, placing it on the napkin next to him. 

He brought the mug up to his lips, taking a sip before setting it back down. The silence between them is calm, though Oliver can’t ignore the heavy sadness that clings to the edges. A relationship built over decades of never talking about the hard things, suddenly being forced to do exactly that. “I’ve been looking into it a little, but haven’t found anything helpful.” Oliver explained, gaze shifting from the mug back up to Cleo. “Don’t feel too bad if you aren’t able to find anything major. I’ve asked around, and no one has been able to give me a clear answer.” He sighed, “It seems that for now, everyone is just as lost, which is incredibly unhelpful.”

Oliver laughed at her idea that maybe they wouldn’t happen again. “That would be great, honestly. It’s my hope.” However, he had hoped that the first time the blackouts happened, then the second, and then the third. At this point, it didn’t seem like they would be stopping anytime soon. With them increasing in frequency and length, Oliver wasn’t sure if he could continue to hope they would just go away. “Unfortunately…” He trailed off, tapping his finger against the mug. “I just-I don’t know how likely that is. The fact that there’s never any warning is really the worst part.”

—

Loyalty was a thing mostly lost upon Cleo these days. She moved through the world untethered, her ties with her family and community undone and forcibly forgotten. She had a few contacts she tended to, but she did not tie herself to people. Or so she thought. She had come to Wicked’s Rest in part because Oliver was here, because Isidore was. And now one of them was dying and Cleo was finding that there was a ribbon tying her to him. “Of course.” But it wasn’t that natural to her. Still, there was no walking away from this. At least not until it was done.

She swallowed her pessimism about Oliver’s situation with a sip of her tea, the water burning its way down her throat. It was too hot. Her eyes burned slightly. She cleared her throat as if that would alleviate the heat and the part of her that wanted to ask Oliver if he wanted to fight, or if he wanted to lie down and accept this? It was a wrong way to go about it, but Cleo knew how she might feel, if the roles were reversed. “I will try not to. It’s … an ugly thing, guilt. I’m not as good as avoiding that feeling as I once was. But I have your blessing now. Not that it … matters. You do, now.”

Some people spoke of leaving town due to the blackouts. Cleo considered it too, but she knew for Oliver and his trees it wasn’t an option. For her it wasn’t even so bad. As long as she was somewhere she could hide, there was no true danger, no true lack of control. Cleo swallowed. She smiled ruefully. “Knowing how nature works, how the world loves its cruelty … it will happen again. It’s easier to ignore an issue but … I won’t, not this time.” Avoidance in the face of struggle was her preferred approach, but she would fight as long as Oliver would. “I can’t help predict, but I can help when it occurs next. And until then … we’ll ask around, we’ll wrack our brains. We’ll keep your trees safe. And we can sit here, and drink. Hm?”

—

Oliver’s eyes softened at Cleo’s statement about trying not feel guilty. “It truly is.” Guilt could cling to you, whisper in your ear how you hadn’t done enough; that it was all your fault for not trying harder. He had experienced guilt time and time again in his life, and it never got better. It made him vaguely nauseous to know that his friends would likely feel guilty about not being able to do more. Oliver didn’t know how to lessen the blow other than to repeatedly state that this didn’t fall to their shoulders. He took another sip of his drink. “Avoiding it just means you’re running from it until it corners you in the middle of the night.” He said quietly, grip tightening on his cup. 

He sighed when she mentioned the cruelty of the world. “No…you’re probably right. That would be too easy.” It scared him to think about what could happen if it went on for longer than this last one. Especially if he had to go through it alone. Oliver knew, realistically, that just because he and Izzy weren’t speaking; that there could be other people who could come and be with him during one if needed. However, it still made him feel antsy. 

Jenny Price would not be found dead at the community center on any old day. But these days were not normal, and it seemed death was both around the corner and very far away, anyway. She was restless, listless and directionless. More so than she ever had been before, which was really saying something. So as she strolled through her neighborhood and she passed the center, she figured why not?

She trailed past the place that she’d usually write off as something for plebs and people who had no community of their own (as if she had any place to judge), halting at someone tending to a garden. She had no green thumb, not even a green pinky, but she really did like plants. For aesthetic reasons, mostly, though she figured the air quality perks were also cool. She dreamed of a house covered in ivy one day, which at least was a more feasible option now that immortality was around the corner. It was one of the ways she tried to look at things more positively.

“Cool plants,” she said, addressing the gardener and wondering how to talk like a person. A person that wasn’t on the brink of becoming a monstrous vampire, that was. She rubbed a leaf between her fingers before smelling her fingers. “Is this mint?”

—-

The community garden was a guilty pleasure of Oliver’s. He was the youngest appearing person who helped care for the plants. There were older individuals, people that Oliver could only assume were retired, and one or two that seemed only slightly older than Oliver, but who seemed to be here on a mission. Something was rewarding about just being on a random list of approved ‘helpers’ as the email had described. He stopped by at least once every two weeks to water, pull weeds, or check on any plants that seemed to be struggling. However, last time he had come by, Susan (or Dr.Hollandson as she had introduced herself) had come by 10 minutes later and had been upset that he was there during “her timeslot”. Oliver had simply blinked before looking around the rather large area and offered to split the garden in half. He was fairly certain that the organizer had said that the timeslots weren’t set in stone, and as long as there weren’t too many people around to the point they had nothing to do, it was fine. Dr.Hollandson had refuted his attempts to compromise, and Oliver had left soon after, not wanting to cause more of a stir. So he had done a glance at the schedule, and came on a day when no one else was scheduled. 

The garden itself wasn’t exactly a tourist trap, but there tended to be at least one person who came by to explore whenever Oliver visited. He was using the watering can on one of the rose bushes, mind elsewhere, when he was brought back to the present by the sound of someone next to him. Internally groaning, Oliver glanced over, half expecting it to be Susan again or someone else who was going to berate him for signing up for this timeslot, but was happily surprised that it was someone who just had a plant question. 

“Hm?” Oliver asked, but then her question fully processed. “Oh, no, close! It’s spinach.” Oliver explained. “They look similar, though, so I don’t think it’ll be too offended.” He joked with a grin. 

—

It was overcast, which was good. Not for the plants, maybe, but Jenny wasn’t as concerned with their need for vitamin D. The past few weeks, she’d been growing more and more sensitive to the sun, which was ironic considering the fact that the days were growing darker and shorter. It was part of the virus taking over her body, the fast acting terminal illness that was bound to kill her momentarily before she would rise again. 

There was no cure yet. But she could still stand in the sun, even if her tongue ached. Even if sometimes smells hit her stronger than ever. Even if she no longer hungered for her usual go to favorite foods, any of the indulgences she could always go for. If this was going to be something she had to see through, then she’d take this bit of clouded sun. Still, she took it with her head covered with a rimmed hat, and sunglasses at the ready should the clouds break. She stared at the plant she’d asked about, the smell on her fingers already telling her she was dead-wrong. They smelled earthy and a little grassy, and she wrinkled her nose before dropping her hand. 

The gardener revealed what it actually was, and she flushed. At least, she thought she did — Jenny wasn’t sure what was happening to the blood in her veins, or how that worked for vampires in general. She snorted at herself. This was easy to laugh at herself at, in the grand scheme of things. “Yes,” she said, “Very similar. Spinach and mint, both green plants. Like … most plants.” She looked around the plants pointing at another leafy, green plant. “That one’s mint. Right?”

—

Oliver laughed at her conclusion. “Yeah, at least it’s a pretty color! I feel like it would be much harder to get people into gardening if all the plants were some ugly gray or something.” He said before following her finger to a different plant. “I think that’s actually peppermint! The leaves are super similar, though.” Oliver said with a nod. Walking people through the different kinds of plants was something he loved doing. Most of the time, the person who was asking the questions would leave after their first question was answered. Content to have filled their social quota for the visit before allowing the area to return to the baseline of murmurs between guests. 

“Mint is actually over there-” Oliver moved to point to a row over when he accidentally brushed his hand up against one of the rose bushes. “Ouch.” It wasn’t a bad cut. It was barely a cut at all. More akin to a papercut then anything else. However, it was enough that Oliver could see blood filling the opened space. Sighing, he glanced back at his guest. “These rose bushes, they wait until you’re not paying attention to get’cha” He joked, setting the watering can down. Assisted by gravity, the blood trickled out of the cut and down his finger. “You wouldn’t happen to have any tissues, would you?”

—

Jenny stared at the other, wondering if he was messing with her. “Peppermint is mint,” she stated, utterly convinced of the statement. Sure, she knew that peppermint and mint were slightly different toothpaste and gum flavors, but they were the same. Right? She wasn’t entirely sure. She moved to where the gardener said mint actually was, getting ready to consider the plant and get confirmation that it was the same, and that he was just over complicating things for no good reason. 

She stilled, though. The gardener said ouch, which was little cause for concern (as of yet). But her nose caught the scent of something familiar. She looked at him, listened to what he was saying and before he was finished she said, “No.” Her head shook and she backed away. “No, no, no.” It smelled like Baz. It smelled sweet and intoxicating, stronger than it had when it had oozed from Baz’ wound. It was almost like she felt the scent traveling from the other’s finger to her nose, to her head, to her mouth. Her mouth grew wet with saliva.

Whatever step she’d taken back mattered little as she moved forward, sliding down onto her knees, uncharacteristically uncaring about the dirt getting on her tights. Jenny felt herself grow ravenous, her other thoughts shoved to the back and she reached forward, grabbing the hand with the bleeding finger and pulling it to her mouth. 

—

“Peppermint is a type of mint! So they are actually different plants.” Oliver explained, excitement tinging his tone as he got to teach her something new. “It’s actually a naturally occurring hybrid of water mint and spearmint, with a way higher methanol level than normal mint!” He babbled as he shifted so that his thumb was pressed up against the cut as he checked his pockets for something he could use, which is why he didn’t hear the visitor at first. The second ‘no’ caught his attention, though, making him glance up with his eyebrows furrowed. “No?” Olive replied, watching as she backed away. Holding up his uninjured hand in surrender, Oliver shook his head. “Oh! It’s not that bad. Promise!” The last thing he needed was for her to run away and for the story to somehow grow from a small cut to him losing a finger, as the gossip in Wicked’s Rest typically went. 

It was why, when she took a step closer, Oliver felt his shoulders relax a fraction. It seemed like an overreaction to a simple cut, but some people freaked out at the sight of any blood, so he wasn’t going to judge her too harshly. However, any thought that this was a normal reaction was swiftly thrown out the window as Oliver watched the woman slide down to the ground. “I-Are you ok? Are you feeling faint?” He asked, but things weren’t adding up for that to be the answer. It wasn’t as if the woman had lost any color in her face that he might expect to see in someone who was trying to stay conscious, and it wasn’t as if she looked like she was getting weak. He didn’t have an answer for what was happening, which just made him feel uneasy. 

When she reached forward, Oliver didn’t pull away, figuring that perhaps she just needed help standing. However, when she pulled his hand forward, her mouth opened as if awaiting a meal; everything changed. He pulled his hand away, curling the hand into a fist and placing it over his chest as he felt his heart rate quicken beneath it. “Sorry, while other plants here are edible, my body is off limits.” Oliver moved a few steps back, frowning. “Who are you?” He asked coolly, eyes still locked on her. 

—

She got close. His fingers were only inches removed from her mouth when the other pulled away, slipping from her grasp. A sound left her mouth without intention, something ugly and animalistic that Jenny hardly recognized, though her mind wasn’t functioning fully. The part inside of her that was itching to transform was in stead on the forefront, all instinct and no capacity for thought. That part of her noticed the warmth, slickness of blood that had stained her hand as she’d grabbed the other, and licked it ferociously.

It was only a few drops, barely enough to satiate the hunger within but a moan of satisfaction left her anyway. More was the only demand she knew, and Jenny had no other words to make that clear. So she said, “More,” and stumbled up to her full height (which was unimpressive compared to the man). She was not yet fully transformed or formed, but there was a part of her that seemed awakened now. A part of her that thought itself stronger than the human limitations, that acted on the presumption that she already was an immortal brute, rather than a human woman of short height.

She threw herself at him, climbing him like a tree, legs throwing themselves around his middle as she reached for his neck. Her mouth was still human — two rows of teeth, artificially straightened and whitened, but her mind was thrumming with the instinct to bite down. She did not know what else to do but give into her instincts, so she pressed her manicured nails into the back of his neck, tore at the skin and sank her teeth into his neck.

—-

Oliver’s eyes widened when the woman didn’t answer him; instead, she opted to moan as she licked her hands for any speck of his blood. What the fuck was happening? He had expected some sort of grin from the other before she would have launched into some kind of monologue about who she was and what she wanted. He had expected her to look at him like he was a foe. However, instead, he found that she was looking at him as if he were a meal. As she stood up, Oliver caught the ‘More’ that left her lips. He frowned, shifting his weight onto his back foot to run for it if he needed to.  “Uh-” Oliver isn’t able to finish whatever he was about to say, and any memory of what he had started to formulate is overshadowed by the woman throwing herself at him. 

A mix of being caught off guard and the way she securely wrapped her legs around Oliver’s waist makes it so Oliver isn’t able to just push her off him, at least not without sending them both to the ground. “Get. Off.” Oliver shouts as he tries to lean back enough to avoid her face while also attempting to pull her legs off of his waist. Not having enough hands, he isn’t able to stop her hands reaching the back of his neck, and he lets out a gasp of pain as he feels her nails sink in. Oliver jerked his head away and was instead met with the feeling of teeth in his neck. For a moment, he thought he had figured out what was happening. It was a vampire attack. But it wasn’t the feeling of fangs that he felt slip into his neck, no, Oliver had felt those before. 

Instead, it was the stinging of her teeth scraping against his neck, followed by a sharp, hot clamp as they gripped onto his skin. He shut his eyes for a moment as the pain radiated down his neck, and he could feel the blood dripping down the back of his neck from her nails. Gritting his teeth, he forced his eyes open. Whatever she was, it was clear this wasn’t a random human, which meant that there was no point in fighting with his arms tied behind his back. Oliver’s eyes glowed as the dirt around the plants next to him shifted. He was able to get his hands underneath her thighs, lifting her slightly, whereas in any other setting, others would probably see it as a romantic gesture. In this one, though, he was using it more for leverage, while she was more focused on breaking through his skin. “I said, GET OFF.” Oliver grunted, lifting her to eye level before head-butting her while he let go of her legs. The roots of the plants around him weren’t strong on their own, but with enough of them combined, they had reached over to her feet, building a barrier so as not to be wrapped around his own body anymore. This caused the woman to no longer be securely tied to him, and so when she fell backwards, Oliver was not taken down with her. A headache formed behind his eyes, while his forehead ached from the headbutt, which was mixed with the stinging and sharp pain stemming from his neck, essentially making his whole head just a ball of pain. 

Oliver moved quickly, not wanting to allow her to use a moment of hesitation for a retaliation strike. He placed his hand on the ground, eyes lighting up as roots came up from the ground and wrapped around her wrists and ankles. A trail of blood fell from his nose, but a noise from behind him made him stiffen. “Sorry! The garden’s closed today!” Oliver said loudly enough that he hoped whoever was coming would hear him. He blinked down the scene in front of him, as he racked his brain for a possible explanation. “We-We’re filming a short film!” His stomach ached at the lie, but he pushed that aside. 

—--

It had taken time for it to register but once it finally did, Owen realized that he was busy in a way he hadn’t been before, when he’d been doing shifts at the bar or Fable Blades and hunting more for sport than on any real schedule. Now, between running an actual business semi-efficiently and then the side business which really took most of the effort (not to mention all of the damn socializing which wasn’t supposed to take up any time or brainpower but fucking alas) Owen was finding that things slipped through the cracks. One of those things was the damn nymph, another non-human Owen had (in this case accidentally) slept with. Oliver probably thought he’d won at this point, thought he’d be allowed to get away with doing whatever the hell he wanted when Owen’s directions had been real fucking clear. 

Now that Owen finally had time to think about the nymph, after finally catching up on the chaos that followed those damn surges, he was set on not leaving Oliver be until the two of them were firmly on the same page. Owen’s page. 

It had barely required any snooping at all to find out where Oliver was, because the nymph was clearly very friendly and shared his location with people that were more than willing to then belay that information to Owen. It was the first time the slayer had ever gone to the community garden and the way it was currently empty, he could only assume it was always this slow and sad because really, what kind of person actually enjoyed gardening? In the silence, it was hard to miss the sounds of a struggle once they started. 

Knife at the ready, an iron blade considering who Owen had actually come here looking for, he followed the noise. A random sheet of plastic rustled annoyingly loudly as Owen brushed against it, robbing him of the element of surprise but instead, confirming that at least Oliver was here. His voice called out, feigning nonchalance well enough but there was a hint of something tense underlying the words - the lie, probably. So Owen advanced with less hesitation now, stepping in to find the scene that greeted him, and it took him a few moments to fully register it and even longer to try and understand it. 

The unbearable fangbanger was here for some reason, blood all over her face, maybe from a broken nose, limbs restrained by roots and vines that had reached for her in a very unnatural way. Owen’s grip on the iron blade tightened, attention turning to Oliver who… didn’t look fantastic, either. Blood dripped from his nose and the side of his neck, the wound looking… odd. What the hell did those two have to fight over, other than both of them being insufferable? The hairs on the back of Owen’s neck raised, confusion bringing on the discomfort, surely - since it was similar to the feeling of an undead hiding some distance away, which… Owen’s head swiveled, completing a full survey of their surroundings, finding only Oliver and Jenny as the feeling faded. Alright then. “What the fuck is going on here?” 

—

Teeth grazed skin but Jenny did not manage to pierce the skin her instincts wanted her to. She lacked the fangs, the sharp rows of teeth that the upior within was already acting with. She at least drew blood with her nails and was considering taking that for now, wanting to climb up higher to start licking at the scratches. It seemed like the gardener was helping her, lifting her slightly, and she let out a satisfied sound as she got face to face with the source of the sweet smell in the air. He met her halfway, crashing his skull into her face. 

It happened fast and Jenny was lacking in combat instincts and the sharp senses that she might gain should her transformation complete. And so she fell back, blood streaming from her nose. Fury took a hold of her as she was ripped from the scratches she’d created, animalistic instinct struggling against what was enveloping now. Her mind was too red, too clouded to realize what was restraining her — just that she was, and that the struggle of her limbs was not enough to break through it. 

The blood streaming from her nose into her mouth was something of a surprise as it leaked down her throat, and she was grunting hungrily. Her tongue started lapping madly at her nose, trying to get to the blood faster than the injury could deliver. Sanity was not yet returning to her, her mind fixated on only blood and getting more of it. When another party joined the fray, she whipped her head, pulling her tongue back into her mouth and staring. Another opportunity to feed this need was all she saw. Recognition did not strike her yet, nor did the ironic realization that the last time this had happened, it had been Baz wearing Owen’s face that had managed to control her.

Maybe that was a gift. Maybe it was better that she did not realize the plant restraints, the grunting that came with her tongue trying to surpass its natural length. The Jenny who cared so detrimentally deeply about how she came across and how she looked was buried underneath animalistic instinct. And for now, that was a kindness. She pulled at the roots, snarling with little threat to the sound. She wagged her (short, normal) tongue at the new player on the board, which was also ineffective. “More.”

—

At the sight of Owen, Oliver felt his body stiffen for a moment. What was he doing here? He had largely stayed away from the hunter after their last interaction. It was obvious that the two of them had different ideas of how things should be done, and neither was willing to change their thought processes. While he had been actively avoiding Owen, Oliver had been mildly surprised that the other hadn’t contacted him. Not that he was going to complain, especially when everything else in Oliver’s life was already growing more complicated. The last thing he needed to add to the mix was an ex-hook-up who also just so happened to hunt supernatural. Especially when blackmail was still on the table. At the very least, Oliver knew that Owen hadn’t messed with the tree that was hidden away. It appeared that his grace period had ended, though, and Oliver raised an eyebrow as he caught sight of the knife in Owen’s hand. Who had Owen been planning to run into? Had it been Oliver? Or had he been hunting someone else? 

Too many questions, too few answers. Oliver huffed at Owen’s own question, turning his attention back to the squirming body next to him. “Great question! No idea.” He grimaced at the sight of the woman now greedily licking at her own blood that fell from her nose. Oliver couldn’t help but feel bad about the fact that he had definitely broken her nose, though at least now she was distracted from trying to get to Oliver’s. “She was normal five minutes ago, we were chatting about the plants around here, and then I accidentally cut myself on one of the rose’s thorns, and it was like she flipped a switch.” Oliver explained, reaching up to feel where she had attempted to bite him. The skin was irritated, and Oliver could feel the ridges of her bite mark as he ran a finger over the area, but it didn’t appear that she had been able to actually break the skin. Lucky, Oliver couldn’t help but think. Though he wished people would stop trying to take literal bites out of him. 

“No fangs, but also she doesn’t look like a zombie that is losing control because of hunger.” Oliver explained, gaze flicking between Owen and the woman. “She’s not fae, but she’s definitely not human either. At least not fully.” He watched as she wiggled her tongue at Owen, tilting his head to the side. “Ever seen anything like this?”

—--

Slowly, it all settled. The distraction of seeing Oliver’s abilities on full display(presumably, unless the plants here were randomly fucking rebelling), even though the nymph looked less than intimidating at the moment, coupled with Jenny of all people, being here and acting, well… Owen’s eyes narrowed and he reached for that fleeting feeling earlier, the one that had almost been a warning of undead nearby. Again, it was briefly there before vanishing. Not the sign of a vampire being less than ten feet away, not even a zombie despite the way those always felt more dull to Owen. This was different. But definitely not fucking normal. His mind flipped through years of experience and knowledge, of what to kill and how to kill it. Jenny’s tongue flicked out to desperately lap at her own blood and despite his lack of a complete answer, Owen’s stomach dropped on instinct. 

Oliver’s voice cut through the scrambled thoughts - not something usual, but something blood thirsty, but without the fangs and either not setting off or capable of avoiding Owen’s very keen sense for the undead, some damn weird sort of fae except she’d so clearly been human - and the nymph’s confusion seemed to mirror Owen’s. At least Oliver could knock one group off the table, even though Owen was certain that no one could fake being an obnoxious human longing for cursed immortality as well as Jenny had. “She was,” Owen bit out, brows furrowed. 

Entirely unthreatened by the desperate but still quite human noises, Owen moved closer to the struggling girl, taking in how she strained uselessly against the roots and then, how her tongue was no longer reaching for the blood from her own nose but instead, so clearly towards him. With a flash of anger and something colder, maybe even sadder, the answer struck him. Rare enough to not have crossed his mind instantly, the memory of an upior only halfway there to their full monstrous form came to Owen’s recollection. Teeth half sharpened but deadly enough, tongue doubled in size with a few barbs beginning to take shape. The process of becoming a creature completely controlled by instinct, more so than just the average, fanged vampire, well on its way. There were stories of a cure, sure, but in Owen’s experience, they were just that. Stories. 

Having never seen one this early into the process, he couldn’t be entirely sure. The way his whole being buzzed with discomfort without his sixth sense was maybe telling but… Well, Owen had made threats but he wasn’t exactly excited at the prospect of running a stake through her and find it jabbed into a beating heart if he was wrong. Maybe some goddamn curse or whatever the fuck he wasn’t familiar with. Annoying as she was, Owen really wanted to be wrong on this. “You fucking idiot,” he muttered, gritting his teeth as he turned to Oliver. “Go get cleaned up. Wrap up anything that’s bleeding, tight. Go. I’ll… keep an eye on her.”

—-

While her blood was far from what she – or whatever was taking over now – wanted, it was enough to balm her hunger somewhat, to ease the rage that stirred within. It was still human blood, after all, and though it wasn’t as enticing as the blood she had smelled before it was something to hold her over. But Jenny wasn’t breaking through her frenzy yet, was not yet faced with the sobering reality of her situation as she fought against the restraints to try and get to the person close to her.

She kept lapping up the blood that was streaming from her nose, satisfying herself with what was available, the warm and irony taste making her tongue feel electric. All of it was wrong, her instincts were starting to realize — she was not strong enough, her tongue wasn’t large enough, her teeth not sharp enough. Maybe it was that that made her feel more conscious, that made part of her crash through the instinct that was taking over. While her heightened senses still smelled the blood that didn’t seem as metallic as her own, she also was starting to realize the predicament she was in.

Before, she would have described her predicament in a singular way, with a single word: blood. That was all her mind had thought about, all her body had moved on accord of — the need for more. The plants were not a magic she’d never seen, but just something keeping her from what she wanted. The new person on the scene was not a slayer she disliked (and worried about), but another potential source. Her behavior was not embarrassing, aggressive and ugly, but a necessary means to an end. 

But now it was like part of herself was being catapulted back within. Jenny saw the plants around her wrists and ankles. She saw Owen. She tasted blood on her mouth, felt the dull and stuffy ache of her nose. She felt not only hunger and rage any more, but another emotion too — fear. It hit her system at the same time as a hint of clearheadedness did. She continued to struggle, but her tongue was trapped in her mouth now, despite the way it wanted to keep licking her nose. A noise escaped through her closed mouth, a scared whine. Henri had suggested locking her up and she’d bucked at that idea, but now she wished that was her reality. She spoke eventually, tongue struggling to cooperate. “Go away, go — go away, I don’t want – I don’t want to …” But she did want to. She wanted to lick the small bits of blood and skin from under her nails. To make the cut on the gardener’s hand deeper. To drink it all. She closed her eyes and pulled at the plants to try and cover her face, but failed. In stead another high pitched whine left her mouth, eyes flicking between Owen and the gardener. Like both a cornered creature and a beast of prey, choosing who it wanted to pounce on.

—-

Oliver’s head shot up at the other’s insult, a surge of anger coursing under his skin at being called an idiot. It isn’t as if he went into this interaction expecting to be attacked after all, if anything, Oliver feels like he handled it pretty well. However, once he sees that Owen’s attention is on the woman and not himself, the anger cools just as suddenly as it had started brewing. Oliver’s gaze shifts from the hunter to the woman as it clicks that they likely know each other. He gives a small nod at the others' instructions. In any other situation, he probably wouldn’t be so quick to follow orders from him, but this isn’t just any situation.  “Right, I’ll…go do that.” He says, standing slowly, wiping his hands on his pants. “I’ll be close by, so just…you know, call out if you need anything.” Though he was fairly certain they both knew that wouldn’t be something that would happen, even if things did start to go awry. As he goes to leave, the woman’s pleas make him stop. He opens his mouth, before shutting it as he gives one last look at Owen. It’s not as if there’s anything helpful he could say in this moment anyway.

Not knowing how long his plants would hold, especially if the woman started thrashing around, Oliver jogged over to the public bathroom that stood near the edge of the garden. Not seeing anyone immediately inside, he pushed open the stall doors to confirm that he was alone before locking the front door. Finally having a moment to himself, Oliver leaned heavily against the sink, eyes closed. He inhaled deeply through his nose before letting it out slowly, doing some another two times before he felt his heart rate start to slow down. Re-opening his eyes, Oliver reached over and flicked the faucet on. With the help of a paper towel from one of the dispensers, Oliver cleared away the blood from his nose as well as his neck, leaving a ring of pink around the drain. Checking the first-aid kit on the far wall, Oliver found a handful of Band-Aids and antiseptic wipes in small packets. He wondered how long it had been since the kit had been stocked, and then quickly decided that perhaps he didn’t want to know that answer. 

Gasping quietly at the sting, Oliver carefully cleaned the scratch marks on the back of his neck and wiped the irritated skin of where she had attempted to bite the side of his neck for good measure. The last thing he needed was a weird infection to crop up from this whole interaction. Using the mirror for assistance, Oliver placed Band-Aids where her nails entered his skin, cursing quietly when it didn’t go as smoothly as he would have liked. His shirt still had drops of now-dried blood on the back of his collar, but there wasn’t much he could do about that other than plan to throw the shirt out the next chance he got. 

Running a hand through his hair, Oliver sighs as he gives himself one more glance-over before unlocking the door and walking back out. He doesn’t leave, though, no matter how much his instincts yell at him to do exactly that. There’s a nagging sense of unease to leave her behind with a hunter, even if Oliver was pretty sure he had seen a flicker of concern in Owen’s eyes. He also doesn’t feel right about leaving Owen behind if the woman tries to attack again. Oliver doesn’t need that on his conscious. Instead, Oliver opts to walk around the two of them, giving them a wide berth, and pauses a couple of feet ahead of them. He’s close enough to be there in a moment if needed, but far enough away that he isn’t crowding them. Oliver turns his attention towards the garden’s entrance. The last thing they need is some random townie deciding that today is the day they visit the garden. 

—-

The shift wasn’t completely clear cut, not with Jenny still struggling, her pupils still blown in what was now a mix of fear and what Owen assumed was hunger. At least her tongue had returned to her mouth, retreating almost shamefully and Owen saw actual thought appear behind Jenny’s eyes before she finally spoke, confirming that there was some sense (what little there had been to begin with) left in her. His throat worked around a swallow, her pleading cutting deeper than Owen wanted it to. This was what she’d wanted, he thought. Not the fantasy version of it but karma rarely worked that way. An upior, though… That felt almost too cruel, even for an entitled, insufferable brat like Jenny. Owen wouldn’t have wished that fate on his worst fucking enemy - well, fine, maybe someone for whom he thought death was too kind of a punishment. Jenny hadn’t quite earned herself that spot. 

A small blessing, Oliver didn’t argue with his demand, leaving and hopefully bringing some more sense back to Jenny with the source of blood getting further away. That was about all the blessing Owen had and could hope for. If he was right (which he was, he knew as much deep in his gut, even though admitting it was fucking shit) then the risk of just letting Jenny leave now, to be someone else’s problem a few weeks from now… But taking care of it here, now, where she would bleed like any old human instead of turning into dust or even exploding into a rain of blood. A better slayer - an actual slayer, who had at any damn point in his life acted in the way a hunter should - might have gone through with it. Owen had never acted from a sense of actual justice, except maybe for his own scorned past, or any kind of caring about the general public’s safety. It was a bonus, maybe, to all the grime and ash that coated his hands but that had never been the point and he wasn’t much different now. Killing Jenny might have been the right thing to do, in the grand scheme of things but, just like with a certain fury, Owen wasn’t capable of that. 

He avoided meeting her eyes as he brandished the knife, sharp iron making quick work of slicing through the roots keeping her in place. Owen left the final one behind, wrapped around her left wrist as he finally met her gaze. “I fucking told you,” he gritted out but there was nothing smug about it, no satisfaction in this inevitable I told you so. Maybe Owen would have found amusement in finding Jenny turned into a regular old vampire, finding her ruining some human’s life, and maybe he would have driven a stake into her chest then with ease. Probably not. Too damn fucking soft. 

“Get the fuck out of here,” Owen hissed, slicing through the last root, ignoring the pit in his stomach for now. His instincts knew this was the wrong damn call, knew that like so fucking many of his decisions (usually the ones not made with his common sense) it would come back to haunt him. All of that knowledge did absolutely nothing to change right now, though. 

—-

The bleeding gardener left and with him, he took some of the leftover frenzy that had taken over Jenny. She felt the fantasies of finally cracking through his skin with her teeth die out and though a part of her continued to yearn for that slice in flesh, she felt herself land back within herself. It wasn’t necessarily better. She felt panicked and scared, swallowed whole by embarrassment. She wanted to disappear, but the plants were still keeping her in place, and so in stead she looked at Owen with hesitation, perhaps even fear.

She remembered how he’d culled that vampire as if it’d been yesterday. Eight months had passed since then— since the first time she had seen someone die and it had been in a cloud of dust. All the words shared between them now seemed to point to a logical conclusion of their dynamic. She saw him brandish his knife and got ready to beg. To exclaim that there was still hope, that she hadn’t transformed yet, that she was sorry and would really keep herself locked inside her house from now on.

But Owen did not put the knife at her throat or heart, not even at her hands. He was slicing through the roots, freeing her from the restraints. Jenny remained still as he worked, scared that any wrong move might make him change his mind on this pre-vampire that had already showed lack of constraint. The only movement was a mild tremble of her nerves, of leftover energy that had nowhere to do. Owen did cut her eventually with those words, the ones that held the same sentiment she’d sensed in Henri. But she noted no happiness about it, no kind of victory of being the clever one between them. She looked at him. She had nothing to say. She did not go looking for this, it had just happened on her path. She did not deserve this. Baz had said so. Rosemary had been not said anything of the sort to her. Xóchitl had looked after her. Henri was working to help undo it. She did not deserve this, but as she looked at Owen she felt her stomach sink anyway.

As her last wrist was released, she scrambled to her feet and backed away. Jenny picked her bag from the ground and continued scurrying back. Eventually she found her voice and all she had to say was: “Thank you.” Even if the only thing she was thanking Owen for was not killing her, and that seemed like a shit thing to thank someone for. But she was grateful all the same, because hope wasn’t entirely dead yet, just like she wasn’t. She turned on her heel and ran off, head pounding from the impact, gut churning with the endless hunger she was not yet familiar with.

—-

At the sound of movement behind him, Oliver stiffened. Is the woman fighting Owen? Is he using the knife he had seen? Oliver bit the inside of his cheek as an internal battle raged within him. If he turned around and Owen is hurting her, does Oliver have any ground to stand on to stop it? She was normal 10 minutes ago, asking questions about plants, and now he doesn’t know if he’s standing guard as a Hunter murdered her. 

However, before Oliver could even try and decide what he wanted to do, he heard the ‘thank you’ that was definitely not Owen’s voice, followed by the quickened pace of footsteps away. He glanced over his shoulder and spotted Owen, who was currently alone, surrounded by the cut roots, with the woman gone. Oliver's gaze moved from the gate in front of him to where Owen was, to the general direction the woman had run off. Should he just leave? That would be the easy answer: pretend that this was all just a weird dream or hallucination and go about his day. Use this as an excuse to continue to avoid Owen. Unfortunately, Oliver’s never been all that good at following the easy path. 

Instead, Oliver turned and walked until he was only a foot or two away from Owen. “So, what was going on?” He asked, not even attempting to hide the curiosity in his tone. “Will..she be ok?”

—--

Jenny looked pathetic. It wasn’t something that had ever worked on Owen before, he remembered enjoying it when they begged, when he knew nothing more about them than the fact that they were dead and wrong. So much more fucking simple. The Owen from a few years ago would have carved out her heart without hesitation but then, that Owen also wouldn’t have been swinging by to have a chat with the fae under his (mostly forced) employ. A lot had changed. Not for the better. 

The would-be vampire’s ‘thank you’ stung, almost made Owen change his mind, a brutal reminder of the time he’d been forced to intervene and save vampires he had no damn longing to save. But this decision, stupid as it was, had been his own. And the undead he’d been tasked with keeping safe had rarely, if ever, thanked him. If Jenny lived for more than a few days, if she didn’t run into another slayer who was actually equipped to do their job, Owen wondered how this encounter would change Jenny’s view of him. Would she think he was just following some code of only taking out fully transformed vampires? Or that maybe he wanted her to become a horrible monster lacking all control, as part of her punishment for pining for this fucked up dream? Not that any of it mattered, her judgement was no match for the one already speaking loud and clear inside Owen’s head.