Worlds Apart

Saturday

Oliver sits up abruptly, breath catching as his eyes scan the dark room. Silence.

He stays still for a moment, listening. Nothing. No movement, no follow up sound, just the quiet hum of the house settling.

I must have dreamt it.

He exhales and lets himself fall back against the mattress, shifting under the covers to get comfortable again.

It wouldn’t be the first time. He’d woken up like this before, heart racing, body tense, after dreaming he was falling or being pulled under. Sometimes his mind liked to play tricks on him.

Still... It sounded real. Too real.

Oliver frowns slightly, staring up at the ceiling. He’s fully awake now. There’s no haze, no lingering confusion.

And then, a sound. Faint from downstairs. Not loud this time, softer, uneven.

... A grunt?

Oliver freezes.

Someone is in my house.

His stomach drops. He pushes himself up slowly, listening harder now, every part of him going still.

He’s not built for this, he’s not a fighter. Not someone who knows what to do when things go wrong.

... But someone is downstairs. He needs to do something.

Oliver carefully pushes the blanket off his body, turning just enough to place his feet against the carpet. No sound, good.

He reaches over and turns on the bedside lamp. The dim light barely touches the room, just enough to see, not enough to give him away.

His eyes move quickly, searching for anything, something.

They land on a small trophy sitting on his shelf, plastic, cheap. A childhood thing. He could grab it, maybe use the pointed edge, but... It would snap before it did any real damage.

Useless.

His gaze shifts and lands on the bat leaning beside the dresser. Better.

He makes his way over to it, lower now, every step deliberate. His fingers close around the handle, grip tightening as he lifts it, testing the weight.

He turns towards the door, holding it close, ready. Then he stops.

The handle sits just in front of him, all he has to do is open it.

Or... He could call the police.

That would be smarter, safer. This is how it goes, isn’t it? People hear something, go looking, and end up...

His grip tightens on the bat.

No. He wants to see tomorrow.

He takes in a shaky breath, slowly letting it out before reaching for the handle.

The door opens with barely a sound.

Oliver steps into the dark hallway, pausing for a second to listen. Nothing.

He moves forward anyways, careful, quiet, feeling for the edge of the stairs with his foot before shifting his weight down.

One step, then another.

The house feels different at night. Too still. Every small sound carries.

At the top, he stops again. Listens. There’s a faint rustle, then a low, uneven sound. A grunt. Coming from downstairs.

It sounds like someone is moving things, searching for something.

Oliver gulps and continues, taking each step carefully until he reaches the bottom.

He leans slightly around the wall first, checking for anyone. But no one.

The bathroom door is wide open. A few things scattered across the floor. Bottles, a towel half dragged out.

His toothbrush lies just outside the doorway, abandoned on the carpet... Great.

He looks away from it quickly. There’s a soft glow coming from the kitchen.

Light. Not bright, but enough to spill into the room.

Oliver’s grip tightens on the bat, his knuckles turning white.

Maybe they’re just looking for food. Maybe they’ll leave once they find something.

If he’s lucky. But that’s wishful thinking.

Then a low, frustrated murmur drifts from the kitchen. Oliver freezes, it’s too quiet to make out properly, but the sound of it... it’s strange.

Not just low, but unfamiliar.

He frowns slightly, maybe it’s just too soft to catch the words. Or maybe it’s a language he doesn’t know.

He moves closer anyway, discreetly.

The distance from the stairs to the wall feels longer than it should. The bat stays close to his body, grip tight, ready. Just in case.

He stops at the edge of the wall separating the living room from the kitchen.

Breath in, held, then he leans just enough to look around it.

There’s no one.

Oliver hesitates, but still steps forward, one step into the kitchen.

And there, by the pantry, a figure.

Relief flickers first. Okay. Just someone looking for food.

He takes in the shape properly. The man is big. Not just taller, but broader. Taking up more space than feels normal in the room.

Long hair falls around his shoulders, dark and wild, sticking out in uneven strands. Almost like a mane.

... Right. Great. A homeless guy.

Of course.

Now he’s going to feel bad for interrupting whatever this is.

Oliver lowers the bat slightly, the tension easing just a fraction. Not a threat, he can deal with this.

“I-” he exhales quietly. “If you’re hungry, I’ll make you something. But you can’t just go breaking into people’s houses.”

He reaches up for the light switch and clicks it on. The room floods with light.

The man goes completely still. His whole body tenses, sharp, immediate. A low, strained sound slips from him. A groan.

Oliver pauses.

The man doesn’t move at first. Then, slowly, he turns his head and looks at him.

Oliver’s eyes widen as he stumbles back a step before he can stop himself.

Something is wrong. It takes a second for his brain to catch up.

Red. This guy is fucking red.

Not flushed, nor shadow. Just red.

His gaze drags upward, catching on something just beneath the mess of dark hair. Horns.

They are partially hidden but they are there.

There’s something wet along one of them, thick and blue.

Blue... blood.

No, this isn’t real.

They stay on the spot, staring at each other. Oliver doesn’t even blink, his gaze stays locked on the... thing in front of him.

Movement. His eyes drop just slightly, the red man has stepped closer.

Oliver’s grip tightens instantly, the bat lifting again. “No.” His voice comes out sharper than he expects.

His gaze snaps back up.

The colour of the alien’s skin shifts. Darker. Only slightly but enough. If Oliver hadn’t been watching so closely, he would’ve missed it.

“Stay where you are.”

The alien doesn’t stop, he takes another step, then another.

And that’s when Oliver notices it properly. The limp, subtle but there. One side weaker, unsteady.

His eyes move over him quickly now. The, very tight, shirt stretches across his frame. Marked. Dark patches in spots. Blood.

He’s injured.

Oliver’s grip falters for just a second. He could take him like this... probably.

Another step, but then the alien’s body pauses. His head dips slightly, eyes flicker the roll back.

Oliver barely has time to react before the alien collapses, hitting the floor hard.

“... shit.”