The wiry arms of a clock ticked away on the wall as Oz stooped over a clay pot, examining the spotted leaves of the plant contained within its walls. His brow furrowed as the pad of his thumb brushed over the slightly raised blemishes, the whole plant shuddering at his touch. It was just basil, something he could easily get were this one to die, but its affliction was unusual, especially for a hot house dweller.<span style="font-style: italic">A bad omen</span>, thought Oz,<span style="font-style: italic">If one believes in such things</span>.<br/><br/>Sighing heavily, he returned the pot to its shelf and stood, vowing to do some research later time permitting, and strode between the rows and racks of plants. With a practiced hand, he pushed aside the heavy sheet of plastic, making sure it fell properly closed behind him. It would be bad if his seedlings got a chill. Wiping sweat from his brow, he crossed the floor of his personal quarters, still comfortably sized despite the makeshift green house dominating half of the room.<br/><br/>Pausing by a wash basin jutting from the wall, he pulled a hand towel from the cabinet and dipped it in the sink before running it over his face, hands, and the back of his neck. He was absentmindedly cleaning his forearms when a sound caught his attention, accompanied by a familiar scent.<br/><br/>“Come on in, Ava,” he called, slinging the cloth over one shoulder, “It’s not locked.” Not that it ever was. Oz was not someone who had much to fear from anyone, and that was just how he liked it. “I’ll put some tea on,” he muttered absentmindedly as he flipped the power switch on his electric kettle with one hand and rummaged around in his cupboard with the other. Chamomile was good, he decided. Maybe it would ease his alpha’s agitation.