@lafemmecarmen
By some ungodly miracle in this heinous time of death and despair, the Black Dahlia and their bar were still open. Oliver wasn’t about to question the small stroke of good fortune, especially after the unmistakable taste of August’s secret, saved-for-special-occasions-only, highly illegal, werewolf-grade moonshine slid down his throat and left a cool blaze in its wake--a welcome change from the suffocating guilt he suffered as of late.
Izzy, Rachel, those witches (Lucius and Hayley, his buzzed, guilt-ridden mind oh so helpfully supplied), maybe Mark now, too, and hell knows how many others were sick and dying, somehow because of him. And he still didn’t know how that was possible, but he still had to find someway to fix it. Life was so much simpler when he didn’t grow fangs and fur on a monthly basis...
“On the house, brother.” Jasper interrupted what little train of thought Oliver had by swiping his glass away to refill it, and then sliding it back across the counter. Lowering his voice, he added sincerely: “Sorry to hear about Ramos. Always did like her.”
“You’re a saint, Ashworth, thanks, but she ain’t dead yet.” Oliver commended dryly, lifting his glass in an effort to toast. He stared at the glass, assessing it. One was enough to get him buzzed, even with his werewolf metabolism; two would be a new experience for certain... possibly one yielding a worthwhile, problem-solving, life-saving idea. Or possibly death. There was only one way to find out.
Oliver set the glass back down on the counter and glanced at the vaguely familiar stranger sitting a ways down the bar. “Get her another one of whatever she’s having, on me. I’m in a pay-it-forward kinda mood.”
