Chapter Text
This was the second night in a row Oliver had been transported to this forest in his dreams. That was probably a sign of something.
The first time, Oliver assumed it was the End's answer to him contemplating how to add more variety to his life, as the same old, same old was starting to grate on him. Which, Oliver thought as he stood in the woods once more, was quite a dumb thing to assume. But it's nice to think that it cares about him. Besides, it would beat having to join a club or something.
From their spot on the side of the road, they could see small, thin tendrils leading up into trees or through bushes. Animal deaths. Plenty of small critters around here to get eaten, or hit by cars, or starve. As Oliver peered into the darkness, they could see one large one, snaking off deep into the foliage. They started following it, curious what animal it was wrapping itself around. Perhaps a deer. Or maybe someone was straight up dying out here. That would be unfortunate.
Oliver followed the tendril over a log and through a bush, thinking it was far longer than normal. It didn't matter, though; it's not like they had anything better to do than follow it. After he had been following it for a couple of minutes, Oliver noticed that parts of the tendril were flickering in and out of existence. Not a lot, just little specks, here and there. As he continued to follow it, more and more of it would disappear for short periods of time, until the entire tendril was flickering. This had never happened before. Oliver picked up the pace.
The tendril led to a clearing that housed several recently dug, suspiciously person-shaped holes. When it was visible, the tendril was trying to bury itself into the one that looked the most recent, but despite the abnormal looseness of the dirt, it couldn't break the surface.
Oliver knelt next to the tendril and carefully touched the dirt of the grave. The abnormal looseness wasn't just because it had been recently dug. The dirt was almost sandlike, and when Oliver dug his hands into the surface, it parted with ease. Almost like it seemed eager to get out of his way.
Oliver dug, and dug, and dug. He expected the tendril to follow. That's why it brought him here, was it not? The job had to be finished. But it just dangled awkwardly into the small pit Oliver had created, never becoming more solid. Oliver was grateful that he wasn't fully corporeal in his dreams, and the dirt wouldn't stick to him. Really, he was surprised he was corporeal enough for this to work. The most he had been able to ever do was drive a car through empty streets, or open a door. Would the hole be here when he woke up? Did he care enough to come check?
The hole was about a meter deep now. Oliver was debating making it wider so he could fit when he hit something.
Denim. It rose and fell with the cadence of breath.
Oliver woke up in his bed at two forty-six in the morning. He didn't go back to sleep. Instead, he researched forests near him and tried to find a match.
At midnight the following night, Oliver put a shovel in the trunk of his car and began the drive to where he thought the body might be.
They didn't have any evidence, but they had a hunch. Well, more than a hunch. They knew where it was, even if they didn't know where it was. Was this what it was like to be an Eye avatar? Oliver had to envy them.
Oliver drove through the streets until London faded into suburbs, and suburbs faded into woodland. There wasn't much out here; after he had been driving for an hour outside of London, all they had seen were a handful of houses and one well-lit petrol station. After a couple of wrong turns, he found the stretch of wilderness he needed. Well, they were fairly certain they'd found it, anyway. There was a large tendril, larger than the rest, that disappeared into the foliage. If this was a different dying person, Oliver was going to be quite put out.
With his shovel in hand, Oliver began to trek through the woods. He had purchased a headlamp, which was now illuminating his way through the forest. With their shovel, Oliver pushed aside bushes and logs, trying to force their muscles to relax. He hated nature. Well, no, not nature. Germs. Dirt. All the things you have to deal with when you're out in nature. He kept massaging his finger joints, grateful that he had thought to bring his moisturizer in his jacket pocket. If he wasn't able to close his hands enough to dig, he'd be really fucking useless.
Oliver found the clearing quicker this time. The hole Oliver dug the previous night wasn't in the grave, but other than that, it looked the exact same as it had in their dream. They made sure their sleeves and gloves were tightly sealed so that dirt wouldn't get in before digging, then planted the shovel at the edge of the grave. The dirt practically parted itself for Oliver as they sunk the tip of the shovel in. They figured they'd try to uncover the buried person's face first. If he incorrectly guessed which side was the head and dug up their feet, he could easily switch to the other side.
After about half a meter of digging, Oliver was too anxious to use the shovel. There was no point in them coming out here if they were just going to impale whoever was under the dirt. And yet, the thought of shoveling dirt out with their hands made them feel sick. He cursed himself and massaged his hands to loosen up the burn scars. Before the Corruption had attacked the Institute, he had gotten better. He could sit in the grass. He could pet dogs. Hell, he had managed to stop seeing a therapist regularly. But, after seeing what happened to Jon and the others on the news, and seeing pictures… he just couldn't go more than a day without cleaning again. It didn't take long for a day to turn into a few hours. His neighbors started complaining about the chemical stench emanating from his flat. He quit his job at the crystal shop because he couldn't stand how lax everyone was about cleaning. How they didn't bother even making sure all the dirt was off the crystals before putting them on display. Then, after he died, it had only gotten worse. He couldn't put on lotion or sunscreen anymore, which made his burn scars worse. He had to throw out his bleach (and, eventually, other cleaning chemicals) because it was becoming harder and harder not to wash his hands with it. Again. Eventually, he forced himself to get a job. He got one at a coffee shop, which was… clean enough. They deal with food, so it has to be cleaner than, say, a metaphysical shop. And none of the other employees minded that he cleaned a little more than was necessary. He was able to get back to using sunscreen and lotion. Then he was able to not wear protective gloves when manning the register, just the fingerless gloves he regularly wore. Putting his hand in the dirt, where filth lived, was far away from something he was capable of at the moment.
But Oliver didn't really have a choice, did he? So he knelt on his knees and started digging dirt out with his hands.
He was about to give in to the compulsion to check inside his gloves for dirt by the time he hit hair. He sucked in a breath and started flinging larger clumps of dirt over their shoulder. The more they uncovered, the better they felt. There was someone here. They needed him. Probably. There was a reason he was doing this. A good reason, even. There wasn't a good reason for the way he dusted his hands off every few seconds– the same hands he had already wrapped in four layers of gloves, with rubber bands securing them and his sleeves. (Logistically, Oliver knew that OCD was a "good reason" for his behaviours. That didn't make him any less frustrated.)
After an excruciatingly long time, he had uncovered enough of the body to pull it out. The dirt filed back into the hole of its own accord, happy to assist in getting this foreign object out of the ground. Oliver tried to be as careful as possible, in case there were any broken bones, but he wasn't the strongest person in the world, and it turns out lifting a deadweight, fully-grown adult a meter out of the ground is really fucking difficult, so the other guy probably gained a few more bruises in the process.
Oliver laid the person on the ground. He was short and sturdy, with pale skin and shaggy blonde hair with blue streaks in it. He was dressed appropriately for the chilly weather– denim jacket, red t-shirt, jeans, and a navy blue scarf wrapped around their neck. Oliver dusted the dirt off his face, having to put a bit more elbow grease in to clear out his airways and wipe away the mud that crusted his eyes shut. There was a bullet wound on his right temple that made Oliver's heart sink. Was he even still alive? Did he have a pulse? They pulled the scarf off his neck and saw why it was there in the first place. A thin, pale pink scar crept down the back and sides of his neck, branching out like a lightning strike. It was fully healed, though, so it wasn't Oliver's problem. They pressed their fingers against his neck in the hopes of finding a pulse, praying he didn't wake up and think Oliver was trying to choke him. Sure enough, his heart was beating. Oliver peeled the gloves off one of their hands and put it under his nose. He was breathing, although just barely.
After securing the gloves back on their hand, Oliver picked up the stranger in a way that could barely be called a bridal carry and took him to their car. They had a long night ahead.