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loftylockjaw · 2 days ago

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TIMING: Current LOCATION: A dive bar in town PARTIES: Wyatt (@loftylockjaw), Owen (@apaininyourneck), & Emilio (@mortemoppetere) SUMMARY: Wyatt confronts Owen in a bar about him snooping around the Grit Pit, and tries to get him to talk about what's going on. Owen refuses and it gets heated. Wyatt is removed from the bar after hurling death threats, and Emilio, who was quietly watching the whole thing go down, approaches the shifter with an offer. CONTENT WARNINGS: Mentions of emotional abuse

—

Being approached by someone he had pissed off at some point was by no means a new experience for Owen. Quite the opposite actually, it was more of a given by the time he’d spent just over a few months in this godforsaken town. People were easily insulted and a lot of them dumb enough to try and start shit with a 6 '3'’ hunter. Granted, a lot of them didn’t know just what sort of strength the lithe figure actually contained but most ended up finding out in some way or another. Or they got verbally torn to shreds, depending on the amount of frustrations Owen needed to vent on that particular day. Either way, there had been a commonality between all of them and that was enjoyment. It probably didn’t come as a surprise that these conflicts amused him, stoked the fire in him that tended to rub people the wrong way.

What might have come as a surprise was just how little he was going to enjoy this particular confrontation, though.

Maybe it was a good thing that Owen was ‘room starting to spin just a little bit’ drunk, or maybe that was the reason he hadn’t noticed Wyatt’s presence before it was too late. Fucking Wyatt. It was hard to really remember where things had been heading before shit blew up, somewhere weird definitely but… well, he was finding it hard to muster up any sort of emotion other than ‘pissy as all hell’ when dealing with the people who were part of the reason he was in this current mess. Unwitting participants or not, Owen was still perfectly torn between pure hatred and the reason he was filled with hatred - the fact that he’d been foolish enough to let himself care. No surprises on which emotion was easiest to put into words and actions.

So, there was no room to run. Not that he wanted to run, Owen didn’t think of himself as someone who ran away from shit (god, did he want to run away from all of this) and maybe this confrontation would even be good. Not in any sane way, it would completely and utterly suck but that was good. His attempts to feel nothing towards the shifter that had accidentally witnessed more of Owen than any other living person had been pathetically useless. Getting yelled at might help. Even though he felt his whole body tense when Wyatt was actually looming over him - not that this tension was visible from the way Owen leaned back in the small booth, a lazy but mostly drunken grin greeting the other man.

—

Being the one who got cast aside was a familiar role, though it usually involved a bit more fanfare. Until Xóchitl came along, the reaction had always been the same, too. Wyatt was angry for having been kicked to the curb like last week’s trash, and the dumper was pissed off at his anger. With Xó, Wyatt had done his best to not let the hurt transform him into a hateful, miserable thing, and it’d gone well, hadn’t it? In the weeks following her decision, his kindness and understanding had earned him her favor (maybe—hopefully) and she wanted to see him again. But such grace could not be extended to Owen, because Owen would never willingly admit that anything had been happening between them. So the anger was allowed free reign, the lamia falling back into old patterns that Owen himself had witnessed back in Boston, from the perspective of a friend. He knew what this kind of thing would do to Wyatt, and he’d done it anyway. Worst of all, now he was being an ass about it. It was expected to a degree, but still managed to sting.

Hearing Felix’s recounting of a recent, bizarre interaction with the slayer in the alley by the Pit was like adding fuel to an already-burning fire: Owen had been looking for him? Hoping to talk to him? Why? It only managed to create a million more questions in the shifter’s mind, and he’d never been great at letting things remain unknown. That’s why, when he happened to spot the slayer in some dive bar in town, he didn’t retreat. He narrowed his eyes at the man, taking his time and keeping an eye on him, getting a drink before approaching the table Owen was sitting at. The smile he was greeted with made Wyatt’s skin prickle and start to feel warm, the anger getting confused with something else where it swirled in his gut and made his heart rate quicken. Still he kept his expression even, coming to a stop in front of the slayer and giving him a thorough once-over, like a butcher deciding which cut to make first in a carcass.

“Lurkin’ ‘round the Pit now, are we? That’s a pretty pathetic move, if you ask me. Ain’t you got any better ways to spend your time?” Wyatt took a sip of his drink, hoping that the liquor would steel his nerves, as he might not be able to mimic nonchalance for long.

—

For a while, things had mostly worked out in Owen’s favor. Not really, things had gone to shit plenty of times but he’d developed a knack for insisting, whichever way things ended up going, that it was the outcome he’d desired or planned for all along. Those had been simpler times and there was no pretending that he wanted any of this. Granted, this thing with him and Wyatt had always been doomed to end here - Rosel had just sped up the process. The cracks had already begun to form even before Owen’s sudden departure, the foundation of a decent friendship made weak once they’d inevitably fallen into bed together and then even flimsier once the domesticity had settled in. In a way, his bitch of an ex had also sped up the process of combustion by way of forcing this proximity with Wyatt, making it feel, for a moment, normal to share a space with someone who occasionally made you breakfast and moaned about the lack of gratitude for it.

Probably not a good thing that Owen’s mind was drunkenly, and very unhelpfully, conjuring up further memories from the time spent at the inviting house. Even the knowledge that Wyatt was shacking it up with some undead scum of the earth wasn’t enough to keep other knowledge at bay, the kind that still lived in his skin and could remind him how it felt to be truly close to the man currently staring down at him with disdain. He was warm with it, both in the familiar way that had him wondering just how badly trying for a quick round somewhere secluded would go, as well as in the much more disturbing way of feeling comfort, or the ghost of it. The familiarity of a passing touch or knowing grin or for fuck’s sake, a scaled tail wrapped around his midsection for a night of sleep better than most others he could remember.

So no, Owen hadn’t been expecting things to go his way after the mishap at The Grit Pit with the squirrely fighter. He’d definitely shoved it into some dark corner of his mind and hoped it wouldn’t come up again but that was also expecting too much from this fucked up hand he’d been dealt. How much of the pitiful display of lies and truth all garbled together had reached Wyatt? Had the fighter repeated it all, word for word, maybe added on a flourish of desperation for the dramatics of it all? Not that Owen cared except he fucking did. “Sure I do. And for the record, I wasn’t actually there for you. Your nervous friend just had no business knowing why I was really there.”

It sounded entirely unconvincing, which was hilarious in its own way considering it really was the truth, and now he was simply unraveling (or trying to unravel) the shit lie made up to cover something that would cause plenty of trouble if it reached the wrong people. Somehow, Owen was honestly more comfortable with telling Wyatt he’d murdered a hunter in cold blood rather than have him think he’d been there to grovel. “So don’t worry about it, don’t have anything to say to you.”

—

He knew the smart thing to do would be to turn around and walk away. He could finish his drink in peace and leave, and just hope that whatever was keeping Owen in this fucking town would be done soon, and the man would move on. The smart thing did not involve prodding him for more information to get answers he really shouldn’t care about, but the anger was winning out over reason. Owen had threatened Caleb (thankfully without knowing it was Caleb he was threatening) ((yet)), and that fact sat in the back of Wyatt’s brain like a bag of bricks ready to drag him to the bottom of the lake. This hunter was a danger to people he cared about, and he wanted to know why.

So instead of taking Owen at his word that they didn’t have anything to discuss, Wyatt decided that they did. “Seems you do,” he started, not sitting opposite Owen but instead deciding to continue standing, preferring having the height on the hunter for as long as he could. “You still ain’t told me why the fuck you’re here.” The question had been posed in private messages at least twice, and each time it had gone unanswered. If there was something that Wyatt could do to get him out of here (not a favor, of course), then he wanted to hear it.

—

Obviously there were things Wyatt should have been worried about, telling him otherwise was a stone cold lie, but the shifter only knew half of it - the part that involved a zombie or a mare or a vampire (Owen really fucking hoped it wasn’t a vampire) that had managed to earn a spot in Wyatt’s heart. Which in retrospect, clearly wasn’t that hard of a task if someone as prickly as Owen had somehow managed it and obviously, he was aware of the hypocrisy of judging the other man’s caring and blatantly ignoring it. No, Wyatt got to be blissfully unaware of the looming threat to his life, a threat kept at bay by so much spilled blood and humiliation. Wyatt could allow himself to stand there and demand answers as if he wasn’t inadvertently responsible for the carnage of these last few months.

“Why should I? I don’t owe you shit,” Owen scoffed, neck craned to meet the full force of those angry, blue eyes. It was possible they contained something more than just anger but everything in his line of vision was slightly blurry and his chest burned with the consequences of caring and the last time he’d seen Wyatt, he’d had the luxury of being able to reach out and touch which was muddling most of his coherent thoughts (there weren’t too many to begin with at this point). “If you’re worried then that’s your fucking fault for messing around with some nasty, undead fucker. They’ll get theirs eventually and it will have nothing to do with why I’m here, that part will just be for the fun of it.”

Owen had long since decided that anyone Rosel had made him play lapdog for would meet their gruesome end when the time was right but whoever Wyatt thought he was here protecting? Well, that one would be personal. Or more personal. Far from fair but Owen had never claimed to not be a petty son of a bitch.

“But definitely do try to talk me out of it, that sounds hilarious.” Green eyes searched blue for any sign that the (mostly) calm facade was about to crack - speaking of fair, it only seemed right that Wyatt lose his shit at least once considering the drunken hissy fit Owen had thrown over Rosel’s return. The one where Wyatt had been a calm beacon of understanding followed by the perfect way to vent frustrations and yeah, Owen really needed this to turn into an altercation soon before his treacherous mind was allowed further reminiscing.

—

Still no answer, and he was threatening them again. It didn’t matter that Owen didn’t know exactly who he was promising to kill, because Wyatt knew he meant it. Whatever business had him back in Wicked’s Rest and acting against his own will had him angry enough to lash out at anyone he perceived as responsible, and there was no doubt in Wyatt’s mind that Owen would first turn on the undead he’d been forced to protect out of spite. When and where that would happen Wyatt couldn’t even begin to guess, but he didn’t have the luxury of waiting around to find out. Not when he knew Caleb’s name would be on that list, and god love him, he also knew that Caleb wasn’t exactly prepared to defend himself from a slayer. At least not in a way that wouldn’t end with him turning feral and dangerous to everyone.

The anger flared, intermixed with fear, and it made Wyatt feel sick. He wanted to yell at Owen, wanted to grab him by his stupid neck and slam his head into the table, wanted to tell him he was a mistake. He wanted to kill him, truthfully, even being aware of the agony that would follow. All sorts of violent scenes ran through his mind and the shifter was fighting tooth and nail to not act on them, fists clenched at his sides, jaw tight as his teeth ground together. He was quiet, listening to those venomous words spill from lips he’d once been able to draw much more pleasant sounds from. He needed to be smart about this. For once in his fucking life, he needed to not act on his instinct to hurt and maim, and instead consider the option that had the best chance of getting him somewhere.

He drew in a long, slow breath, hoping that it would calm him (it didn’t). Instead of throwing a punch like he really wanted to, Wyatt sank into a squat, one arm propped on the edge of the table, the other resting on his thigh. “I don’t think you really wanna do that to me,” he tried, his voice quiet. It wasn’t even, though — despite his best efforts to mask it, the shifter still pretty much wore his heart on his sleeve. His anger was palpable, but so was the fear and pain that convinced him to try and be civil. “I think that whatever’s got your hands tied behind your back is makin’ you meaner ‘n usual. And I think you’re tryin’ to take it out on me, ‘cuz some part’ah you still cares.” His eyes narrowed. “Now I could and I should take your head clean off for threatenin’ to kill someone I care about. I can take care’ah myself, but I know people that can’t, and I ain’t about to just sit back n’ let ‘em fend for themselves. But I’m also tryin’ to be less impulsive these days, so why don’t you just go ahead n’ tell me… what’s goin’ on? And stop makin’ promises you ain’t never gonna keep.”

—

Silence dragged on and despite the haze of alcohol, Owen didn’t miss the telltale signs of frustration, a confirmation that he was finally getting under Wyatt’s skin, the visible tension in every muscle Owen was reluctantly familiar with. If it came to it, he’d probably even allow those clenched fists to get in a hit or two before reacting - granted, Owen didn’t like his odds against the real Wyatt but the full ten foot gator probably wouldn’t be called on inside a crowded bar. Probably. Owen found he didn’t much care either way, the thought of sharp claws or teeth tearing into his flesh one that provided quite a neutral reaction, maybe even a hidden sense of calm. He wondered if Wyatt would regret the taste of his blood afterwards, seek comfort from the undead creature whose protection would be guaranteed with the single act of brutality.

Owen doubted it would be regret that lasted too long, if his death (or murder) even managed to inspire any emotion at all.

The taunting smile didn’t betray any of that, such an easy expression to maintain after years of practice, but it faltered when Wyatt willingly gave up the position of physically standing taller. It took a moment for the quiet words to really register, to break through the expected reactions Owen had been preparing for - anger or avoidance. This was neither, this was… it was tempting is what it was. Owen had been pulled taut for over a year now, no reprieve to be found in the usual ways or the unusual ways, no relying on the slivers of emotional connection that had gotten him into this fucked up mess in the first place. It was a soft offer, a genuine one to unload the horrors of this past year, maybe even accept a helping hand.

If only there was a part of him left that believed such a kindness to actually be a viable option, instead of one that would inevitably make things worse or, and that part stung, simply a manipulation to ensure the safety of someone who mattered more than Owen.

“Must have gotten knocked on the head a few times too often if this is what you see as someone caring.” Owen finally spoke, hoping the venom in his voice made up for the very obvious hesitation, the moment of weakness where he’d wanted nothing more than to give in to pretending someone cared and that it wouldn’t end up ruining him. He leaned in closer, practiced smug turn of the lips back in its place, even if it lacked all emotion. “That’s pretty fucked up, Barlow.”

Owen rose to his feet, wanted - no, needed - Wyatt out of that condescending crouch, needed to crush any and all misconceptions that a few soft spoken words in that ridiculous accent were enough to break him (they almost were - was there anything left to break?). “You don’t know shit about what I want or what I won’t do. You really think you know me?” His laugh was clipped, cold. “No wonder you’re going to end up alone, being this fucking delusional.”

—

The patience that Wyatt had been clinging to was gone like a flash in the pan — igniting an inferno as it made a quick exit, stage left. Fine. If Owen wanted to be an insufferable shitstain, let him. If Owen craved Wyatt’s anger that badly, then who was he to deny him? He’d fucking drown him in it.

There was nothing more to say as he stood, knowing that no words he could conjure would make a difference to the hunter. There was no reasoning with him. All attempts to appeal to his better nature were wasted, because he had no better fucking nature. He was a miserable, wretched thing, and it left Wyatt with one option: kill him before he figured out who the lamia was protecting. End this before it had a chance to get any worse, and spare whoever else in the process. Wyatt didn’t know (because Owen wouldn’t fucking tell him), and he didn’t care. Not anymore.

Only… he did. It was a convincing act, though, as he let his fist do the talking for the first time that night. “Go fuck yourself,” he snarled, wasting no time winding up the second punctuated statement of knuckles-to-face-justice. Okay, maybe it wasn’t exactly justice, but it sure felt good.

There wasn’t time to deliver a third, violent point as his arm was caught by someone, and he felt more hands pulling on his jacket. Remembering the time he’d tried to attack Inge in public and the strangers around them had defended her, pinning him to the ground until the police arrived, his panic spiked. But of course instead of being reasonable and displaying submission to the people pulling him off of Owen, the fighter did what he did best: he made the situation worse. “I’ll fuckin’ kill you!” he bellowed, tears stinging his eyes. There were too many people dragging him toward the door for him to manage to stay on his feet enough to get away from them, so all he could do was yell and scream until his back met the cold, snowy pavement outside.

It was actually infuriating to realize that Owen wasn’t getting tossed out alongside him, where he very much would have liked to finish the job. Blinking away the snow that tried to collect on his eyelashes as it fell from the sky, the shifter gave a grunt and rolled over onto his side, pushing himself upright. There’d be time. He didn’t know where Owen was staying these days, but he knew the kinds of places the slayer was liable to crop up. And when he found him again, he was going to rip his fucking throat out.

—

Mission accomplished with none of the satisfaction. Wyatt could throw a punch but in this form, only with the strength of a competent human, so it was far from the heaviest hit Owen had received, barely even stung through the blanket of booze and thrumming of whatever fucking emotion was currently wrestling for control. Physically, Owen was fine, this would only leave a bruise that would be gone by tomorrow evening. The metaphorical gut punch of the genuine murderous intent in Wyatt’s eyes, that one did leave a mark even if it had been the intended effect of Owen’s scathing remarks and threats. If a part of him had been clinging onto some pitiful hope that it wouldn’t work, well, that was a part he needed to work harder still to squash.

The third wind up for a punch was foiled and Owen watched with detached interest as strangers started pulling Wyatt away. Remembered a time years and years ago when either of them had been the one to hold back the other, or sometimes done the opposite and provided backup for whatever brawl their big mouths had started. It was a curious thing, wondering what might have been if he hadn’t let Rosel run him out of the city. Of course, Owen was tired of ‘what if’ scenarios, too many of them to count but essentially all of them boiling down to the only constant in his life - the person that had irreparably sharpened his edges and shown him the consequences of caring.

Wyatt’s face, contorted in rage and desperation as he screamed out his threats was a pretty good visual for the consequences of caring, too.

As soon as Wyatt had been forced outside, the quiet only lasted for a second, business as usual resuming. People luckily had the common sense not to approach Owen once he’d sat back down, washing down the mouthful of blood with what remained of his drink. It was cold out, the shifter wouldn’t last long trying to wait him out so Owen probably wasn’t getting torn to shreds this evening. Rubbing at his face, at sore spots he would barely feel in the morning, Owen was quick to open his eyes again, banishing the image of absolute betrayal on Wyatt’s face. Maybe with a few more drinks, he’d be able to swing a couple of hours of dreamless sleep. He wouldn’t but it was all he could do to pretend it was an option as he waved for a refill.

—

Restlessness was a familiar thing for Emilio. He’d found sitting still difficult since childhood, despite his mother’s attempts to correct it. He wasn’t good at waiting for the opportune moment to do something, wasn’t good at utilizing things only when it was most beneficial to do so. When he found something exploitable, he was impulsive. He moved right away. If he saw a weak spot in his opponent’s form, he didn’t wait for an opening — he aimed his next hit directly at the target. When he got information that could lead to a result he wanted, he rarely found himself capable of sitting on it long enough to make a plan. Instead, he acted immediately. He dug his fingernails in, he carved out a path for himself even when an easier one might have made itself available had he only waited. It wasn’t always effective. It wasn’t always smart. But it had gotten him this far.

Now, he just needed it to get him a little farther.

They’d learned plenty from Owen’s apartment. With the information he’d already had pooled together with what Eve had known and what he’d learned through his scooping, Emilio almost had the full story. All that was really left, all he really needed was a name. There was someone pulling Owen’s strings, someone else in charge of what he was up to. And, as much as Emilio would have loved to take Owen out, taking out whoever was really behind the behavior was the priority. After, if Owen was still a problem, he was one Emilio would be happy to solve. But killing him without taking care of the woman calling the shots would only fuck things up for everyone.

He could have waited things out. He could have given Eve a chance to do her digging, and she probably would have found something eventually. They might have had to break into Owen’s place again, might have needed to do some more surveillance, but Eve’s methods were the kind that usually got results sooner or later. If he waited, he’d probably know more soon. But Emilio was bad at waiting. Thirty-odd years later, and he’d still never quite mastered sitting still.

But he had gotten a little better at blending in. Granted, it wasn’t hard when Owen was several drinks in and swaying in his seat, paying far more attention to another familiar face than Emilio hunched in a corner at the opposite end of the bar watching him. Wyatt took up all the other slayer’s attention, first in quiet conversation and then in angry blows. Emilio tensed as he watched it all go down, half-tempted to join in just to get a few shots in himself. But… Wyatt’s name was on that list, and Owen clearly knew him well enough to get pretty firmly under his skin. Emilio could punch Owen later. (He was planning on it.) Right now, a conversation might do him a little better.

He ducked out of the bar as everyone, including Owen, remained distracted with the aftermath of the fight. It wasn’t hard to find Wyatt sitting in the snow, looking angry and pathetic and probably exactly the same way Emilio looked half the damn time. The slayer pulled his jacket a little tighter around his midsection as he approached the lamia, standing back far enough so that Wyatt wouldn’t get the idea that he was offering to help him to his feet. (Emilio didn’t think either of them had any interest in that.)

“That seemed to go well,” he greeted dryly, nodding his head slightly. “You at least get a few good ones in? Ought to try stabbing him next time. More fun that way.” He let the words hang, let Wyatt grow used to his presence like one might do a wild animal before continuing. “We should talk. I think we’ve got a couple common goals between us.”

—

The reaction to Emilio’s voice was made more pronounced by how raw he felt right now, his head snapping up to meet the slayer’s dark gaze, teeth clenched in a scowl and eyes wide. His heart hammered in his chest, blood roared past his ears, and he nearly flew at the other man out of instinct, ready to unleash this anger upon the first living thing stupid enough to engage with him. But there wasn’t a cage here, nor a jeering crowd. No cattle prods, no sickly stench of old blood and poorly sanitized floors where viscera had been smeared across it like a meaty fruit preserve on burnt toast. Something was ringing, drowning the other’s voice out with a high-pitched wine, and his vision blurred.

“What?” Wyatt was panting like he’d just run a marathon, eyes squeezing shut. When he opened them again, the world was in focus, and it was quieter. Car tires hissed on the road as they drove through wet slush, headlight beams sweeping across the pair as the vehicle turned at the intersection. He could see Emilio’s face with more clarity for just long enough to settle his nerves, muscles relaxing as he sighed and heaved himself up onto his feet. “The hell you wanna talk about?” He almost made a snarky comment about Emilio’s impeccable timing, or perhaps his lack of assistance — but he wouldn’t have wanted the help, of course. If everyone had just let him, he’d have wanted to snuff Owen’s light out himself, to watch that smug smile fall slack as his eyes became unfocused and cloudy. (No, he didn’t.) ((Yes, he did.))

—

It was comforting, in a fucked up kind of way, to know that he wasn’t the only person who Owen had this kind of effect on. Emilio disliked the way the other slayer always seemed to know exactly what to say to get under his skin, hated knowing that Owen’s words still echoed in his head over a year after he’d first said them. Now, having spoken with Eve and understanding that it had been an incredibly intentional move on Owen’s part, he was even angrier. There were few things he hated more than being manipulated, and hadn’t Owen done exactly that? Emilio wanted to march back into the bar and punch the guy at the thought, and given the expression on Wyatt’s face, he was far from the only one. But there were other factors at play here. Emilio wasn’t good at sitting still, but he could control the direction in which he moved.

He rolled his eyes as Wyatt’s anger turned towards him, though he wasn’t surprised by it. Wasn’t it the same thing he would have done, roles reversed? Even now, part of him wanted to snap back at the lamia just for getting short with him. He did his best to stop himself… at least for the moment. He could snipe at Wyatt later. (He probably would, knowing himself.) “The asshole in the bar whose face you just bruised your hand on,” he replied. “Bet it felt good. Bet I can give you something that feels better. If you like punching him, you’ll really like fucking him over.” Or… maybe he wouldn’t. Wyatt’s name was on that list, the one of people Owen… apparently gave some kind of a shit about. (But so was Emilio’s. He still couldn’t figure out why.) “Guessing you know something’s going on with him. I’m… one puzzle piece short of knowing what. Hoping you might be able to help.”

—

“I don’t wanna fuck him over,” Wyatt snapped, “I wanna fuckin’ kill him.” He heaved another sigh, trying to encourage himself to calm down rather than get more worked up — what good had charging into a non-work-related fight headfirst ever done him in the past? It’d gotten Felix in trouble with Leo, is what it’d done. And while there certainly wasn’t anything remotely near the same stakes in this situation, maybe Emilio knew something he didn’t. Obviously Emilio knew something he didn’t, but it kind of sounded like Wyatt might know something Emilio didn’t, from what he was saying.

What was he saying?

“But yeah, no shit something’s goin’ on with him. Fucker won’t tell me what, I done asked about twenty times, now. Fuck.” Dusting snow off his ass, the shifter dragged his chin up again to squint at Emilio. The last time they’d crossed paths, Emilio had given him a hell of a whack in the head with a tree branch. Threatened to throw a knife in his ass. All because of that stupid, nosy girl — point was, they weren’t on the best of terms. Not the worst, either… even if the bar was practically on the floor. “What? What’s this puzzle, huh? What you need to know so damn bad?”

—

That was good news. Emilio’s expression shifted just a little, some of the tension melting away at the idea that he and Wyatt did have a common goal here. “Well,” he said slowly, “we can do that, too.” He ignored the strange churning in his gut at the idea, ignored the way his fingers itched. He wanted Owen dead, just like Wyatt did. If that meant letting Wyatt do the deed, that was okay. Wasn’t it? (Maybe that was the source of his sudden discomfort; maybe Emilio disliked the idea of not getting to kill Owen himself. He clung to the thought, declared it the truth in the privacy of his own mind for the audience of one uncertain hunter.)

He watched Wyatt warily, trying to decide if this was going to be a conversation or if the lamia was going to start throwing punches again. The former would be better for both of them, but he wasn’t sure he’d mind a fight, either. Wyatt seemed willing to talk, though, and Emilio shrugged at his response. No shit Owen wasn’t talking. Owen never talked, unless his dynamic with Wyatt had been… something wholly different than what Emilio knew of the other slayer. It was rare for any hunter to open up about their problems; he couldn’t imagine Owen partaking in it. But if Wyatt asked twenty times, didn’t that mean he’d expected an answer? Didn’t that mean Emilio was on the right track, asking him about all this? It was a good sign. “Someone’s pulling his strings,” he said, cutting right to the meat of things. “Holding a list of people he cares about over his head, using them to make him do what they want him to do. Shit he wouldn’t do on his own. Killing allies, protecting enemies. Shit like that.” He paused a moment. “Your names on the list.” He left out the fact that his was, too. “I figure maybe you know who might be calling the shots.”

—

The expression Wyatt wore was wholly unimpressed as Emilio spoke of some kind of puppet master. That couldn't be right, could it? Short of brainwashing (Owen was acting differently, sure, but not like he was brainwashed) what the hell was there for someone to hold over his head that he'd care enough about to do what someone else told him? It sounded like a load of crap. He was rolling his eyes in disbelief when Emilio said it was a list of people — yeah fuckin’ right. Owen didn't give a shit about anyone. “Sounds to me like you got bad info,” Wyatt griped, pointing a finger toward the interior of the bar he'd been so unceremoniously removed from. “That couyon in there don't give a flyin’ fuck ‘bout nobody but himself.” As he said it, his voice damn near cracked. The hurt came slamming into him full force all over again, and he tried to cover it by clearing his throat and straightening out his winter jacket, avoiding eye contact with Emilio in favor of glancing down the street in the direction of his parked car. “Look, I don't wanna fuckin' hang out in the cold no more, so if you got more to say, say it while we walk.” He stepped around Emilio, head down and shoulders hunched, begging his emotions to stop flaring up like that before something really embarrassing happened.

—

In a lot of ways, Emilio was inclined to agree with Wyatt. Seeing his own name on that list made it seem impossible that it was something being held over Owen’s head, because hadn’t Owen made it pretty goddamn obvious that he’d like to see Emilio in a shallow grave? Maybe the idea of someone else killing Emilio would be enough to make Owen hesitate — after all, Emilio had decided that he’d be a little bitter if he wasn’t the one to deliver the killing blow to Owen, and it’d make sense if that was a thing that went both ways — but not enough to turn him into this. Maybe the added weight of names like Wyatt’s (whose reaction definitely seemed to speak of something deeper than anything Emilio had ever had with Owen) and his family back home were enough to add to it. Emilio tried not to let himself think of the younger siblings whose names Eve had uncovered, tried not to let himself remember the way their ages so closely reflected the ages Flora and Jaime had been when they’d died. It was hard to think of anything else, so he focused on Wyatt. On the expression on his face, on the anger that could only really come from a betrayal from someone close. It was a good move, asking Wyatt for thoughts. It seemed like he might actually know something.

“That’s what I thought, too,” he admitted with a small shrug. “But shit’s been coming together, and I can’t think of any other reason for it. Unless you’ve got some idea of what might make him hang out with vampires, protect them.” If Wyatt knew Owen as well as he seemed to, he probably knew how he felt about the undead. Eve’s discovery of dead hunters was a big one, but Emilio got the feeling that Owen’s newfound chumminess with people he’d been out to kill before his disappearance would shock Wyatt a little more. Glancing to the car, Emilio felt some quiet semblance of relief. He didn’t want to be out in the cold either… but he didn’t like admitting things like that. “Sure,” he agreed, falling into step beside the lamia. “I don’t know much, but I know enough. Last time I saw him, it was at a bar full of vampires. He was being a prick — not something that’s much of a surprise, I’m sure — and let slip that I’m who I am. One of his buddies mentioned that she wouldn’t like it. So… I know there’s somebody pulling his strings. I just don’t know who. Figured…” He trailed off, glancing back to the bar. “You know him better than I do. He and I never talked much.”

—

Wyatt was silent as they walked to his car, mostly because he was trying to dissect what Emilio was telling him. It was a lot, and piecing it all out was proving to be too much of a task for him while he was this fuckin’ cold. So he just listened, unlocking all the car doors and silently circling around to the driver’s side to drop into the seat and turn the key in the ignition, swiping the temperature dial all the way up. He looked confused and annoyed when he finally turned his attention to Emilio again, staring at him blankly for a second before shaking his head and opening the center console between them, pulling out a pack of cigarettes. He held the box out to Emilio for a beat, then shook one out for himself and pinched it between his lips.

“He’s protectin’ vampires?” he spoke around the grit. It was somehow both a surprise and not — Wyatt had known that Owen’s information was being given to zombies, at least, as some sort of protection… but vampires? He’d always hated them the most. So much so that Wyatt had once found himself in a dodgy situation with a vampire, and rather than seeking kinship with a fellow supernatural being, he had wondered if Owen would smile when he heard Wyatt had killed a vampire. He’d wondered if the slayer would be proud of him.

So no, it made no fucking sense that he’d be protecting them now. Not unless Emilio was right, which barely made any fucking more sense.

Lighting the cigarette, Wyatt set the lighter on the center console and cracked his window just enough to let the smoke escape the vehicle. “You said it’s a she? Whoever’s got him in a bind?” And she wanted him to protect the undead… He couldn’t begin to fathom why, but now that vampires were on the brain and Emilio was talking about a mystery woman, Wyatt felt his hand start to tremble.

“She… there’s… one, I guess. That I can think of. She was… or is… a vampire.” And she’d arrived back in town just after Owen’s apartment had been overrun by the goo, and he’d moved in with Wyatt. “I practically begged the idiot to let me eat ‘er for ‘im, but he kept sayin’ no…” And then he vanished without a trace.

“... ah, fuck, I’m a god damned idiot.” Pressing a palm over his eyes, Wyatt let out a long, weary sigh, then took a drag of his grit. “Yeah. Yeah, I know your girl.” He nodded and then shook his head, disappointed in his own inability to ever connect a single fucking dot without having all the clues laid out for him like a toddler with a fit-the-shapes-in-the-holes puzzle box. “Name’s Rosel. Never knew her last name, sorry. She n’ Owen were sweet on each other, years ago, back when we was both livin’ in Boston. Ended bad. Obviously he never forgave her, n’ he’s been takin’ his anger out on vamps ever since.” Which meant the list of people Owen was protecting was real, and his name was really on it.

He felt sick again.

“I don’t really wanna kill him,” the lamia added in a small, defeated voice. “I’m pissed, n’ he’s an idiot, but… if it’s really… fuck. Fuckin’ god damnit.”

—

Emilio settled into the car, refusing to let the relief show on his face as Wyatt blasted the heat. He took the offered cigarette, sliding it between his lips and pulling a lighter from his pocket as the lamia got settled. It was clear that he wasn’t the only one put off by Owen’s strange behavior, and that came as something of a relief. Though he’d never admit to it, he was well aware of his habit of letting his emotions get the better of him from time to time, and Owen had proven that he was very capable of manipulating this habit. Hadn’t Eve implied that that was why he’d shoved Emilio against that wall and ripped him open by flinging his own insecurities in his face? Wasn’t that what had landed him here to begin with? Even with Wyatt, the first time they’d met, Emilio had let what he felt get in the way of what he was supposed to do, what he was supposed to be. If he couldn’t trust his own thoughts on Owen’s behavior, the fact that Wyatt seemed to share them was invaluable.

“More than once now,” he confirmed, feeling a little more vindicated at the shock Wyatt expressed in response. Killing hunters was jarring, of course. Emilio knew Eve was put off by it, knew she was shocked by the revelation. And it wasn’t as if Emilio wasn’t shocked by that tidbit himself, but… at the same time, Emilio was certain Owen would kill him given half the chance. It seemed far less out of character than protecting a group of people he’d always been vocal about hating.

Wyatt might have been the only person out there who could clue Emilio in on the why. Owen had clearly taken measures to distance himself from everyone in his life, but the closeness he’d shared with those people before that decision could prove to be all they needed now. Whatever Wyatt and Owen had shared, it was clearly something deep enough to inspire a very personal anger in the lamia. Emilio watched the gears turning in his mind, nodding his head at the question. “That’s what the vampire at the bar said,” he confirmed. “Didn’t get to ask for details. Owen ran after him and killed him right after. First halfway normal thing he’s done since he got back to town, actually.” It was the why behind that particular slaying that brought up questions.

And Wyatt might just have the answer to that question. He seemed to be grappling with something, and Emilio leaned forward a little as he puzzled it out. There was a woman who had apparently been in Owen’s life just before his disappearance. He’d had some kind of problem with her, but hadn’t let Wyatt solve it with his teeth. The timing added up.

It took a lot of self control not to react when Wyatt confirmed he knew who they were looking for. Part of Emilio wanted to clap, or pound a fist against the side of the car, or cheer, but he grounded himself with a neutral nod instead. “Never would have taken him for the type,” he commented, taking a long drag of the cigarette. Rosel. “Don’t need much more than that. I can find out the rest with a little digging.” And with Eve’s help, probably. Knowing Rosel’s name wouldn’t make her motivations fall into their laps; Eve’s skills on a computer were far more likely to be the thing that made that happen.

He wasn’t really expecting Wyatt to say anything else. When he did, Emilio felt a rush of… something wash over him. Maybe it was disappointment; maybe it was relief. He thought it was a little odd that he couldn’t tell the difference between the two anymore. “Then you won’t kill him,” he replied. He wondered if he would, wondered if driving a knife through Owen’s heart would feel as good as shoving that stake into his side had or if it would only leave him feeling empty. (Wasn’t there only one way to find out? Shouldn’t he give it a try? The thought made his stomach churn; he didn’t know why.) “But she has to go. Lot of names on that list. Kids. Long as she’s around, they’re in trouble. If you still want to take a bite out of her… I wouldn’t say no to another person on my side here.” There was no way of knowing whether Owen would help them take out Rosel or whether they’d have to fight against him, too. And while Emilio was (perhaps foolishly) confident in his ability to take out both on his own, it’d be a hell of a lot easier with someone like Wyatt on his side. “You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do here. But this is what I’m doing. You can help if you want to.”

—

Maybe it was foolish to let sentiment get in the way of reason. Well, was it reason? All Wyatt had known up to this point was that Owen seemed to want nothing to do with him anymore, and that he’d been told by someone to make himself available to play bodyguard for Caleb. But that someone was Rosel, which he should have figured out months ago, and the reason was blackmail, and it seemed to be any undead that the woman deemed valuable. That wasn’t Owen’s fault, was it? His attitude was his own fucking fault, but feeling like he didn’t have a choice…? Wyatt was reminded of that night in the ring with Samir. He’d begged his handler to pit him against someone else and his pleas had fallen on deaf ears. What was he supposed to do? He couldn’t say no. (He could have, but it would have cost him something he couldn’t quantify, and he was too much of a coward to face that unknown.) Really, Owen’s situation here was less his fault in some ways (he was trying to protect people he cared about, and wasn’t it nobler to sacrifice his own happiness and safety for their sake? Though it just meant different people were dying—) and more his fault in others. Wyatt had offered to help him kill Rosel more than once, and the slayer had let his pride get in the way of accepting. Now look where they were! This could have been dealt with a long time ago, but no! Of course it fucking wasn’t! The anger was building in his chest, and he couldn’t rightly decide if he was more pissed at Rosel or Owen. He wasn’t lying when he said he didn’t want to kill Owen, but he couldn’t be certain about how he’d feel in the moment. Part of him worried that if Owen had the chance to hurl one more insult at him, he’d fucking snap. And if he was there with Emilio… there wasn’t going to be anyone to hold him back. It didn’t matter that Owen was doing it to protect him. He didn’t have to be such a cunt about it.

Killing Rosel, though, that much he could agree to without any weight on his conscience. “Sure,” he muttered, sucking on the cigarette like his life depended on it. “Find ‘er, show me where to go, n’ I’ll make sure she don’t fuckin’ get back up again.” He thought about Owen sitting in that bar, alone and shiftfaced, and he wanted to march back inside and grab him by the shoulders and shake him. This ain’t how you protect people, he wanted to shout at him. Stupid idiot. Stupid fucking idiot.

Flicking the half-finished cigarette out the window, Wyatt rolled it back up and gripped the steering wheel tightly, leaning his head forward onto the backs of his hands. He wanted to rip the mechanism from the dashboard, wanted to shred the seats and kick out the windshield. He also wanted to cry, and he didn’t need an audience for that. “We done here, compadre?”

—

Wyatt was clearly having his own kind of crisis, and Emilio tried not to let himself focus on it. It was easier for him to think of Owen exclusively as he had been lately, as he had been in that empty apartment when he’d shoved Emilio against the wall and dissected every thought he’d ever berated himself with to voice them aloud. He didn’t want to think of the circumstances that might have encouraged Wyatt to offer to kill Rosel on Owen’s behalf, didn’t want to think about the conflicted expression on the lamia’s face or the fact that the list of names being used to hold Owen in line included his own. He wanted things to be simple, because they used to be. Both with Owen and in general. He missed the time when Owen was just a guy he fucked around with every now and then, missed the time when killing the undead was a thing he didn’t have to think about. He missed the certainty he used to carry with him. He couldn’t make slaying simple again, no matter how hard he tried. He couldn’t make morality an easy thing to tackle, couldn’t make himself forget the complicated churning of emotions that had lived in his gut since the day Flora was born or the way they’d outlived her just as he had. Life couldn’t be black and white, so he needed things with Owen to be. He needed this situation to be easy so that something was. Focusing on Wyatt’s reaction, on the obvious turmoil surrounding him, would make that impossible. So Emilio, like the coward he always had been, looked away. He focused on the glass of the window and the way it fogged with his breath, focused on the cigarette between his fingers and the way it felt just a little different than his usual brand. If he could make things simple, he would be fine. If he could make it so he didn’t have to think, this whole thing would be easier. He wanted, so badly, for it to be easier.

“Don’t think I’m just sending you off on your own,” he huffed, taking another drag of the cigarette. “I’m going to be there, too. Might be me that takes her out, might be you. Important thing is that she’s dust when this is over.” He was as involved as Wyatt was, though he had no intention of sharing that fact. His name on Owen’s list still wasn’t a thing that made any kind of sense to him. He’d rather forget about it entirely, rather avoid publicizing it even if Wyatt knowing might benefit them all in the long run. Emilio was nothing if not stubborn, after all.

Now that he had the information he needed, the interior of the car felt stifling. Wyatt’s conflict was still there on full display, still making things more complicated than Emilio wanted them to be, still humanizing Owen in a way Emilio hadn’t allowed in months now. When he was alone, it was simple to think of Owen as a monster. When he was with someone like Wyatt or Eve, it got harder. He reached for the door handle with a nod, relieved at the prospect of being released from the complexities of the situation, even if he knew it was only temporary. “We’re done,” he agreed, “for now. I’ll know more soon. When I do, I’ll give you a call.” With one last healthy drag of the cigarette, he opened the car door and tossed it on the cement before stepping out into the cold. Somehow, it was still preferable to the inside of the vehicle with the complicated conflict of a man he didn’t want to think of as having any qualities worth saving. Glancing back to Wyatt, he nodded. “I’ll be in touch.” And then, with little fanfare, he was gone. He had a lot to look into.

#. thread ;#. take your shot ;#. with ; emilio cortez #. with ; owen lundkvist #emotional abuse tw

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loftylockjaw · 8 days ago

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TIMING: Current LOCATION: The Grit Pit PARTIES: Wyatt (@loftylockjaw) & Felix (@recoveringdreamer) SUMMARY: Wyatt offers to stay the night with Felix in the boiler room, and they make a whole evening out of it. Also, Felix gets a new bed! CONTENT WARNINGS: none!

—

Wyatt was pretty sure he’d remembered what they’d cooked that night at Felix’s old apartment, but even if the spread of food wasn’t exactly the same, he knew his friend wouldn’t care. The poor guy just wanted some company, and Wyatt couldn’t blame them. Having to sleep in a place like that… it was even worse than the cage that’d unofficially become the lamia’s, since it was rare for him to maintain control after a fight these days. At least that was less stuffy than the boiler room. His thoughts continued to try and wander to dark places while he cooked, but he worked hard to keep his head on straight and remember that this wasn’t for him, it was for Felix. And he needed to be there, like really there, in order to be any kind of moral support.

Packaging up the food in containers and bags that would keep things warm, Wyatt made the familiar drive to the Pit. He loaded himself up with everything he’d brought, not wanting to make more than one trip and risk someone asking questions or giving him a hard time. Still, he got looks. He ignored them as best he could, moving through the dingy hallways of the employee-only sections of the building until his feet came to a stop outside the familiar door. A sigh built up in his lungs, pressing past clenched teeth before he gave the door a couple rough taps with his foot. “Honey, I’m home!” he called in a cheerful tone, determined to make this whole thing a little god damned brighter.

—

Seeing Santiago had rattled Felix in a way that was hard to explain. There was a complex war of emotions waging deep within his chest, with the relief and joy at seeing their brother again fighting tirelessly against the stress and anxiety of having to lie to him. There was also worry for the way Santiago had dodged so many of their questions, and fear that their father might turn up next with a far less friendly attitude. Selfishly, they were glad that Wyatt was coming over tonight, glad that they’d planned it before their world had been shaken. Hanging out with the lamia would be a good distraction from everything going on in their own mind.

Sitting on what remained of their ratty mattress after Thea’s ‘rat disposal’ service, Felix bounced their foot restlessly in anticipation of Wyatt’s arrival. They wore their green pants, just as they’d joked about; they thought seeing them might make Wyatt laugh, and that would be nice. They were a bundle of nervous energy, practically staring a hole in the door until the quiet rap of a shoe against the outside of it alerted them to Wyatt’s presence. Practically jumping to their feet, they strode over to the door — it only took a step and a half to get to it from the mattress — and pulled it open. “Hey!” They greeted, quickly moving to help Wyatt with the food. “You should have texted me, I could’ve come helped you carry stuff in!” Squonkella waddled out from her corner to cry at the new arrival. “Oh, it’s okay, Ella,” Felix assured her. “There’s probably some for you, too!”

—

“Don’t worry about it, I’m strong enough,” Wyatt chuckled, though his amusement faded to bewilderment as he looked at the strange creature that came shuffling out from behind one of the boilers. “Wow,” he muttered dumbly, a bit at a loss for words for what he was seeing. Ella, as she’d been called, was a wrinkly mess of skinfolds, those nearer her face glistening with what he now understood to be tears. Good god. What a miserable little thing. “Uh… yeah! Definitely,” he continued, blinking a few times and tearing his gaze away from the ugly creature, not wanting to point out just how ugly he thought it was in an effort to not make Felix feel worse than they already did. They’d named it, after all.

While the squonk kept sniffling and snorting around their feet, Wyatt busied himself with setting out the food on whatever surfaces were available — he’d also brought disposable plates and utensils to minimize cleanup, which stayed in the bag that sat on the floor. His gaze was eventually drawn to the tattered mattress, and he frowned. “What happened to your bed?” he asked, glancing back over at Felix.

—

“That doesn’t mean you had to carry it all by yourself,” Felix pointed out, sounding more amused than anything. They watched Wyatt turn his attention to Squonkella, curious as to how he might react. The squonk snorted and sobbed, just like she always did, but he liked to think that it seemed like she liked Wyatt. She wasn’t hiding from him, at least, and that was more than could be said for most visitors to the boiler room. (The comparison wasn’t a great one; since they’d gotten Squonkella, they’d had very few visitors. They couldn’t really blame the squonk for disliking Leo.) Wyatt seemed willing to share food with the squonk, and Felix grinned. “I don’t know if she can actually eat it,” they admitted. “I just like for her to feel included.”

He helped as best he could with the setup, clearing off surfaces so that food could be set down and fetching the only dishes they had here — a pair of plastic cups with the Grit Pit’s logo on them, from the concession stand — but Wyatt seemed content to do most of the work himself. Following the lamia’s gaze to the damaged mattress, Felix winced. “Rats,” they said. “Well, technically a werewolf. But, uh, the werewolf was getting rid of the rats, so…” They trailed off with a shrug. “It’s not that bad.” It was uncomfortable, but it had been uncomfortable before Thea ripped it to pieces.

—

Rats? A werewolf? Who was — oh, right. That janitor girl. “Babe, it is that bad.” He shook his head. This wouldn’t do, he couldn’t leave here knowing Felix was going to have to keep sleeping on that thing. And there was no way he was sleeping on that thing tonight. “Right, well. Eat up, we’ll see if your girl there wants any, and then we’re takin’ a little field trip to the mattress store.” The evening was young and a store or two certainly still be open — not that Wyatt was opposed to breaking in, but something told him that Felix wouldn’t like that as much. Stupid as it felt to get a new mattress (and a simple metal frame, to at least get them off the ground) for a place like this, it wasn’t as if Felix had an option. So they’d make due with what they had, even if it was shit. “You got a spare set of sheets at… your old place? Do you even still pay for that place?” It wasn’t something he’d really thought about, but he couldn’t blame Felix for hanging on to it even if they were unable to ever sleep there, on the off chance that something changed. God, something had to change.

—

Their faint attempt at a smile faltered when Wyatt was unwilling to play along with the obvious lie that things were fine. Felix looked down at their feet, grimace returning as their eyes landed on a piece of fluff that had been left over from the mattress’s destruction after they swept. The floor was so sticky that it had been impossible to sweep the whole of the destroyed mattress bits away. They were pretty sure this did very little to sell their claim that things weren’t so bad. Glancing up as Wyatt spoke, Felix furrowed their brow. “Oh, I don’t — I mean, that sounds like a lot of trouble, you know, getting it in here and everything.” They didn’t want to inconvenience Wyatt any more than they already had… which they knew was a lot. Wyatt already felt guilty for Felix’s situation, and this probably wasn’t helping. And that made Felix feel guilty in return, and that didn’t really help anyone. “I, uh… Yeah, there are sheets there. I still pay the rent and everything.” Half so Luci would be able to stay as long as she needed, and half because he longed for the day he could go back to it. The apartment had been small and cramped and not great, but it had been Felix’s. They missed it. “You don’t have to do all this, though. I’m okay, Wyatt. Really.”

—

“I guess if the sheets are still there, then the bed is too, huh. Could just go grab that, bring it here.” As expected, Felix insisted that it was too much trouble. Wyatt frowned. “Yes I do, Felix. It’s my fuckin’ fault you’re in here… least I can do is help make it more tolerable. It’s no problem. We’ll swing by your apartment after we eat n’ get it sorted. I ain’t takin’ no for an answer, cher.” It wasn’t like they were pressed for time — Wyatt had offered to stay the night to keep Felix company, and the night was still young. Besides, deconstructing and reassembling a bed could be fun, if you had the right attitude about it! He would try, anyway. He didn’t want Felix feeling any more guilty than they obviously already did, because that shit was a vicious, unending cycle that neither of them needed.

There was a beat of quiet, and he looked at Felix with an unmistakable sadness in his eyes. “Please. Let me help.”

—

“It’s on the second floor. It’d be — I mean, it’s a lot of work.” The idea of moving their bed from their apartment to the boiler room had occurred to them before, of course, but there was something… uncomfortable about it. It seemed to carry with it a certain sense of finality, like moving the bed would mean admitting that the setup was far more permanent than Felix wanted it to be. Buying a new bed for the boiler room seemed similarly daunting, albeit to a lesser extent. In any case, the idea of letting Wyatt go to such measures made Felix feel uneasy. He shifted his weight, looking down at their feet. “It’s not your fault, Wyatt. It’s — He was always going to do something like this.” Wyatt had done little more than give Leo an excuse he would have found somewhere else otherwise, but Felix wished the excuse had come from another source. Wyatt still felt awful about the whole thing; Zane probably did, too. Maybe he’d feel better if Felix let him help a little.

With a newfound resolve and a quiet mantra that they were doing this to help their friend, Felix nodded. “Yeah,” they agreed. “All right. We can — We can do that.”

—

The agreement came slowly, and it wasn’t very convincing. Wyatt frowned, holding back the sigh that wanted to slip out. Felix was right — it would be more work to move the existing bed than it would be to just get them a new one, and… he hadn’t considered how that might feel. Moving Felix’s actual bed to this place. The other’s quiet struggle to accept the offer provided the context needed, and Wyatt shook his head. “We’ll get you a new one, cher. It’ll be simpler. And it can be a crappy little wobbly frame, if you prefer. I just wanna get you up off the floor, is all.” He reached out and gave their shoulder a gentle squeeze, wearing as normal of a smile as he could manage. “It’s no trouble for a friend.” With that, Wyatt gestured to the food, silently telling Felix to go fill a plate for himself. His gaze dropped down to the wrinkly little beast that was still wandering around their feet, and he sank into a squat after putting a little bit of everything on a plate for her. “Here… if you even like this kinda stuff,” he offered with an unsure laugh, leaving it there before getting his own.

The conversation that filled what would’ve been silence while they ate was focused on everything other than the place they were in. Wyatt tried to fill Felix in on everything that’d been going on in his life lately, doing his best to avoid the more dire circumstances, or his own tenuous grasp on reality. It was certainly improving since that mare had stopped feeding on him, but his nights were still long and restless and not nearly enough recovery time for him to deal with the workload he’d been handed. He talked about Caleb, one of the few bright spots in an otherwise bleak few months, and how they’d managed to reconcile. There was no mention of the previous demon possession, nor that he was a little worried about the zombie lately — those were not topics that he felt either of them needed to get into, right now. This wasn’t a therapy session, it was just supposed to be a relaxing, casual hangout between friends in an effort to cheer Felix up… even if their circumstances didn’t lend themselves to that kind of evening. Things were going well, though (or as well as they could) and the time to go get Felix a new bed was drawing near. “Alright, Fe… what kind of mattress you want, anyway? One of them foam ones that comes shoved in a box?” Wyatt chuckled. If they were going to use it tonight, that might not be the best choice, but it sure would be easier to transport. They’d make do, either way.

—

There was some relief in the sensation of being understood, even if it also came with some residual guilt. Felix didn’t need to explain the deeper reason behind not wanting to move their bed from the apartment to the boiler room, and Wyatt didn’t need to ask. He understood, in his own way. It wasn’t something Felix had had a lot of throughout their life. For the most part, they’d grown used to being misunderstood. Their father never tried, their siblings couldn’t manage. Leo had always seemed to take pleasure in intentionally misunderstanding and blaming Felix for it, belittling them for being difficult to comprehend. But here was Wyatt, understanding without being asked, and that was nice. That made Felix feel good. They offered Wyatt a small smile, hoping it might communicate their gratitude in a way they didn’t know how to achieve with words. “Um, okay. Yeah. Just — Don’t feel like you have to.” He got the feeling Wyatt would insist on paying for the bed, but that was a bridge to be crossed later. For now, Felix settled down to eat the food Wyatt had brought. Squonkella, for her part, seemed content to do the same, and it was nice to see his friend offer it to her.

Conversation filled the small space in a way that made it seem a little less dingy and a little less miserable. Usually at this time of day, Felix was alone in the confines of the boiler room, sitting on the mattress and scrolling through his phone in some attempt to forget where they were or why. There was no such sense of hopelessness tonight. Wyatt had a way of filling every room he entered. It was something Felix had always admired about him. Even when he was struggling himself — which Felix knew he was — he found a way to make the atmosphere of the boiler room a little brighter. It was easy to grin as he told Felix about his relationship and how it calmed him, easy to nod along to tales of his latest exploits. The food disappeared rather quickly, too good to be savored when they were as hungry as they were and soon, it was time to move on to the other plans of the evening. “That would probably be easiest to carry,” they mused thoughtfully. “I’ve got a truck, but, uh… It’d be hard to get anything too big through the door.” Felix wasn’t sure a full-sized mattress could fit in the boiler room.

—

“Let’s see what we can figure out, hm?” There wasn’t an easy way to measure the space, so going by the old ‘how many steps’ method was going to have to do the trick. They at least had a sense of what size mattress would fit, what with the ripped up one still existing in some capacity. That said, after Wyatt helped Felix put the leftovers in their little fridge, he stooped to pick up the ratty thing they were replacing and hoisted it up onto its side. “Alrighty, bud, let’s hit the road,” Wyatt said with a smile.

Getting it out to the dumpster was a bit of an ordeal, but nothing they couldn’t handle. And now with it safely in the trash, there was no arguing about getting a new one. Thankfully, there was a furniture store just across town, and Wyatt had made sure to check their hours before the pair had discarded the old mattress. Now all there was left to do was get there, and have Felix pick something out.

The options were many — even among boxed memory foam mattresses, they had at least five brands and sizes to choose from. And the bed frames ranged from fancy, solid wood frames to cheap metal ones with support slats that unrolled like a massively wide ladder to hold up the mattress. Wyatt had a feeling Felix was unlikely to go for anything but the cheapest options, and so he stood with his hands on his hips, smirking over at the other fighter. “What’cha thinkin’?”

—

“Okay,” Felix agreed with a sheepish smile. They trusted Wyatt to figure something out, because Wyatt usually did. In spite of everything, the lamia was one of Felix’s closest friends, one of the people he trusted most. He was certainly the person Felix trusted most within the Grit Pit, though Thea was a close second. Looking at the ruined mattress and remembering how it had gotten that way, though… It wasn’t Thea’s fault, really. Felix knew all about how it felt to have little control over yourself. But Thea still didn’t even seem to recognize what she was, and that could be dangerous. (But wasn’t Wyatt dangerous, too? The memory of Samir burned like a physical thing; Felix shoved it as far away as they could manage.)

They watched Wyatt move the old mattress, nodding when he was ready to take it out. There was something almost sad about dragging it to the dumpster. Felix had a habit of growing attached to… just about everything, including ratty mattresses that he’d hated sleeping on. Still, they knew that this was for the best. The mattress was uncomfortable before Thea’s wolf tore it to pieces. Now, it was beyond that. Springs stuck out at odd angles, poked into their back. Felix hadn’t gotten a decent night’s sleep in a while. Tonight might change that.

Even so, the mattress store was… kind of daunting. Felix stared at all the options, feeling a prickling of sweat at the back of his neck. “Uh…” There was a lot. Their eyes darted to the price tags, hoping to find huge discrepancies between them to even the odds and make the decision easier, but there wasn’t that much of a difference between one and the next. “What do you think?” Maybe Wyatt had mattress opinions that Felix could adopt as their own.

—

A question answered with another question. Classic Felix. Wyatt huffed out a laugh, shaking his head. “Tell you what… we’ll just go mid on everything, so we don’t sacrifice money or quality, how’s that?” And by we, he meant… he. Because he wasn’t going to insist that Felix get a new bed and then make them pay for it. That was bad manners, and Wyatt had been raised right, thanks very much. He might not have much money to his own name right now, but there was still some left over from what Mateo had given him — he’d insisted the shifter keep it, but Wyatt hadn’t had the heart to spend it yet. This felt more worthy. Besides, Felix was certainly in as much the same financial position that he was, and they didn’t have a generous boyfriend to lend them cash.

“I’m payin’, and I don’t wanna hear no complaints about it,” Wyatt warned with a smile, hefting a box with a memory foam mattress stuffed inside of it onto the large dolly they’d snagged on the way in. “Alright, for a frame… you want metal, or wood? Metal might hold up better down there, but wood’ll look nicer. Though… well. Ain’t much sprucin’ up to be done anyway, I guess.” His smile faded slightly and he sighed. “It’s temporary, cher. Don’t overthink it. Won’t matter for long, eh?” He was being hopeful at best, and foolish at worst. He wasn’t sure if either was a kindness.

—

Middle of the road seemed fair, and was probably leagues ahead of the mattress currently in the boiler room even before Thea had gone all wolf on it. Mostly, though, Felix was relieved to have an answer delivered to them rather than having to puzzle it out for themself. He’d never been good at making choices, never known how to put a foot down and say something decisive. Every decision he made was a mess of ums and uhs, and it was nice to have someone else make the call.

It was… a little stressful to have that person insist that they’d be paying for the mattress, though. It wasn’t unexpected, of course — Wyatt did things like this, because Wyatt was a good person who wanted Felix to have good things — but Felix blanched all the same. “You — I don’t think — I mean, you shouldn’t have to — maybe we can split it?” Mattresses were expensive, weren’t they? And Felix knew what Grit Pit fighters made. Wyatt couldn’t afford to just… go around buying mattresses for people he felt sorry for, could he? It wasn’t really fair.

He trailed uncertainly behind the lamia, eyeing the frames — and their price tags — with a wary look. “Uh… I think wood might get, um… I mean, it’s damp.” The metal would rust, but the wood would rot. That wouldn’t exactly make the boiler room easy to live in. Felix looked down at their feet as Wyatt assured them that their situation was a temporary one. He used to believe that wholeheartedly, but it got harder every day. Still, they nodded. It was rare for Wyatt to lean on optimism; Felix wouldn’t discourage it. “Yeah,” they said, forcing a smile. “Won’t be long now.” They looked back to the bedframes, pointing to a cheap metal one. “Uh, that one — That one looks nice.”

—

A decision was made, and while this whole endeavor left a bad taste in Wyatt’s mouth, he was glad he could at least help give Felix some kind of comfort. When it came time to pay, the subject of them splitting the cost was brought up again, and Wyatt dug in his heels. “I tell you what, Fe — I’m a notorious cuddler, but the people I been sharin’ beds with lately don’t sleep. You let me hold you tonight like the big ol’ teddy bear you are, n’ we’ll call it even.” He was grinning as he suggested it, amused by the awkward cough from the cashier as they read the total aloud, and Wyatt passed over his card. “Besides, I got money to spare right now, it’s nothin’ for a friend of mine.”

Swinging by Felix’s apartment was, of course, a bittersweet experience — really, was there any sweetness at all? They were just there for some bedding, and thankfully neither shifter seemed keen on lingering in a place they knew they couldn’t afford to get comfortable, so before long, they were back at the Pit and setting up the new metal frame and letting the boxed mattress settle on it once it was all ready to go. It barely fit in the space available, but it was definitely an improvement over a shabby mattress on the floor, especially once the bedding had been added. Wyatt set the mattress box up at the end of the bed and placed the little projector he’d brought along on top of it, pointing it at the opposite wall. The cracks and dark smudges on the concrete surface didn’t make for a flawless image, but that was okay, it was still better than nothing. A movie was put on (one he figured Felix wouldn’t have any qualms with, but then, Felix never really had many qualms with anything), the lone speaker connected, and the pair settled in on the new bed. This setup wasn’t going to earn any high ratings, but Wyatt had a feeling that Felix was just happy he was there, and willing to stay the night and keep them company.

“When’s the last time you had a sleepover?” Wyatt asked casually, knowing that Felix was restricted to this place but still hoping he hadn’t been the first person to offer to stay over.

—

Was that really enough to make them even? Felix struggled to wrap their mind around the idea that simply sharing a space with them — someone who, at the end of the day, wasn’t worth a whole lot — was enough to equal the cost of the mattress. But Felix knew Wyatt well enough to know that when the lamia made his mind up about something, it was difficult to convince him to change it. If he said he wouldn’t let Felix pay him back, it was going to be hard to find a way to make him accept any cash they might try pushing his way. After a moment’s hesitation, the balam relented with a sigh. “Yeah,” they agreed, “okay. But I’m buying you lunch or something next week!” They couldn’t just do nothing, couldn’t offer only their presence in return. Something like that could never really amount to what they owed Wyatt. Not just the monetary value of the bed — though that was certainly no small thing — but the emotional value of what he was providing, too. Not many people would offer to stay the night in a place like this voluntarily. Certainly not for Felix.

They were subdued when they stopped by the old apartment, intent on getting in and out as quickly as possible. With the place still technically occupied, Felix was at least saved the complicated feelings that might have come with seeing a layer of dust covering everything, but it was a small thing. It hurt, knowing that this place was still here and they couldn’t return to it. They’d been proud of the apartment when they’d first moved into it. It had felt like the first thing that was ever really their own space. There were no memories of Leo or their father associated with it, no need to share space if they didn’t want to share space. They’d liked it, even if it was small and in a subpar neighborhood. They ached for it now, though they tried not to let it show on their face. They didn’t want to make Wyatt feel bad. Still… they made the trip a quick one. There was no need to linger.

Back in the boiler room, the bed made things look… not homey, but a little less sad. The mattress was certainly more comfortable than the dingy thing it had replaced, and Felix settled onto it with a sigh. It felt good to be off the floor. It would certainly do wonders for his back. He glanced to Wyatt, considering the question. “Oh… I don’t know. I, um… I’ve never had one here.” Intentionally, for the most part. They didn’t want to make any of their friends sleep on the mattress. “I actually don’t know if I’ve had a sleepover since I was a kid. I mean, I’ve stayed at people’s houses, had them stay at mine, but that was more…” They trailed off, looking a little embarrassed. Sexual exploits definitely didn’t count as sleepovers. “What about you?”

—

Wyatt laughed, nudging Felix with his shoulder. “Truth told, that is kinda what I was askin’, babe. Was just tryna put a cute lil’ bow on it.” Of course it made sense that they wouldn’t have brought anyone here… it was a boiler room, for god’s sake. That wasn’t sexy. Still, the lamia hoped that didn’t mean that Felix spent every night alone, at least not all of it, even if it meant he had to come slinking back to this place at the ass crack of dawn. When the question was turned back on him, he shrugged. “Plenty recent, I suppose.” It was a bittersweet thing. “Let some folks stay with me for a while here n’ there this year… n’ of course I got Caleb, Mateo, Xóchitl…” He smiled to himself before looking over at Felix again, lifting an arm to wrap it around the balam’s shoulders. The movie they weren’t paying a lot of attention to continued to play in the background, filling what would have otherwise been a comfortable silence. Wyatt never felt uncomfortable around Felix, only protective. He gave them a gentle squeeze and let his gaze wander around the room for a moment before it fell back on the moving picture on the opposite wall from where they were laid out in the new bed. “Just nice to not be alone sometimes.” There was another beat, and Wyatt sucked in a soft, quick breath. “Could make this a regular thing, you know, if it ain’t a bother. Movie night with dinner n’ a sleepover, eh? What you think? Thursdays sound good to you?”

—

The red coloring Felix’s face deepened a little as Wyatt admitted that he had been asking about the ‘other’ kind of sleepover. That wasn’t something Felix really wanted to talk about. It wasn’t as if they were ashamed by it — they were an adult, and so were the very small number of people they’d had ‘sleepovers’ with — but it always felt a little… wrong to recount such things. Felix would rather keep it all private, when it was him. If others wanted to talk about their own experiences, though, he didn’t mind it. They nodded as Wyatt spoke of his own experiences, and they were glad for it. They were glad that Wyatt had the people he had. He deserved it, after everything he’d been through. He deserved anything he wanted, in Felix’s opinion. “That’s good,” they acknowledged with a smile, leaning into him fondly as they wrapped an arm around him. “That’s really good, that you… have people. I hope they’re good to you.” He thought they were. Wyatt had never said anything about any of them that made Felix worry or brought back memories of Leo. Felix wasn’t sure what they would do if he did. They’d never given a shovel talk before, but… they’d probably give it a try for Wyatt. If it meant letting him stay safe and happy, they were sure they could figure it out.

They settled quietly against Wyatt’s side for a moment, half-watching the movie they’d turned on as it projected across the uneven surface of the wall. It was nice, or as nice as the boiler room was capable of being. Felix looked up as Wyatt spoke again, a quiet warmth flooding their chest. “You’d… I mean, you’d want to? It’s not — I know it isn’t… a fun place to hang out. I wouldn’t be upset if you didn’t want to. I’d get it, I mean. But…” They trailed off, letting the end of the sentence hang. The idea of doing this regularly was nice, even if Felix felt guilty for letting themself want it.

—

“They are.” Better than I deserve, Wyatt thought, but only privately. There was no sense in being self-deprecating in front of Felix, because he knew they’d shut him down as quickly as they could. And this wasn’t supposed to turn into some sort of pity party, it was supposed to remain a nice, fun evening for the both of them. So he just smiled and rubbed his thumb over their shoulder, letting out a breathy chuckle when they started to assure him that he didn’t have to, that it’d be okay if he was just saying it to be nice. He’d seen that coming, of course.

“Of course I want to! I’m havin’ a great time — and hey, from here on out, it’ll be a lot easier, right? We ain’t gonna have to get you a new bed every week, after all!” He was injecting his enthusiasm into Felix’s tempered reaction, trying to further convince them that he really did want to, and that they didn’t need to feel badly about it. He pressed a rough, playful kiss to the side of the balam’s head just to punctuate the statement, giving them a tight hug. “Right, now pay attention,” he laughed, gesturing back at the movie, “Walter’s daydream sequence comin’ up here fuckin’ rips, you’re gonna love it, it’s so stupid.”

—

“I’m glad you have that.” After everything, Wyatt deserved to have people in his life who were good to him, people who made him happy. Felix tried, tried to be a decent friend and someone who wasn’t completely miserable to be around, but they knew they fell short sometimes. They knew their nervousness and their naivety and the trouble they got themself into made it hard for anyone to like them in the long term. Leo had told them as much in no uncertain terms, proven it time and time again. It was good that Wyatt had people in his life who made him happy, who took care of him. It was all Felix wanted for him, all they wanted for all the people they loved.

Wyatt seemed to want the same for them, too, and that was touching. Felix offered him a small smile, letting out a quiet laugh as he spoke. “No, the bed is definitely a one-time thing.” Leo would be pissed when he saw it, but that didn’t matter much, either. He wouldn’t go through the trouble of dragging the bed out of the boiler room just to make Felix more miserable. (At least… Felix wanted to think he wouldn’t.) “If you want to, though… we can definitely do this every week.” They laughed at Wyatt’s antics, the sound airy and light and real as they settled against his side. The movie flickered across the wall, and Wyatt’s body was warm against their side. And the boiler room was still damp and musty, the air was still stale and the bare lightbulb still too dim, but in that moment, it was hard to care. They were watching a movie with their friend, and he loved them. It was hard to ask for anything more than that.

#. thread ;#. with ; felix mendoza #. bedtime blues ;

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