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Legundo wondered if he was going to have cured Owen just to watch him die.
The first couple of days after the takedown (he would not think of it as Scott’s murder, not yet), it was easy to focus on his other patients. Nobody had gotten out unharmed, after all, including Legs himself. The work had been exhausting, unending, and overwhelming, and he had been operating on nothing but a half hour of sleep a night and his own determination.
Despite her assurances, Drift had almost instantly passed out as soon as the fighting was over. Avid had gotten her good, slashing deeply into her muscle, and if he had gotten a good enough hit on her torso, she definitely would have been too weak to survive the cure. As it was, she barely held on, body fighting both to heal itself and simultaneously ridding itself of what let it heal, and it had taken her the longest to wake up again, (besides Owen) at two days.
So the doctor filled his days with work, elbow deep in guts and bone and gauze as he frantically stitched everybody back together. Sausage had offered his help once, willingness more than enough to make up for his lack of experience, but Legs had laughed him off, anger he was usually too exhausted to maintain curling up through his mouth.
“Get out, Sausage.” He had snapped, and the other man had. The extra set of hands would have done wonders, but Legs still hadn’t forgiven Sausage or Martyn for forcing Owen to take the cure when they’d said they wouldn’t. When they’d promised they wouldn’t. As far as he was concerned, he’d done his duty in patching them up, and now it was done.
On day three, Abolish had appeared quietly at Legs’ door, not even flinching at the pained moans floating down from upstairs where Owen lay in (hopefully) unconscious agony.
“I only know some basic first-aid from patching myself up.” He’d said, “but I’m here to help you. You can’t do this alone, Doc.” Legundo wanted to protest, say that he could handle it on his own-- what kind of doctor couldn’t?-- but he still hadn’t slept, so he begrudgingly gave Abolish the keys to the neighboring house being used as their clinic and promptly fell asleep for twelve hours.
Now he was upstairs, the cushion of Abolish’s assurances to come get him if something went wrong giving him a moment to truly examine the man in front of him. Owen seemed, if anything, to be getting worse, and it was worrying Legs immensely. He was unresponsive, but every now and again he’d seize up in apparent agony, gagging and flailing as the cure burned its way through the venom in his veins before he’d drop, boneless, back onto the bed. He had just finished a fit a minute ago, and Legs’ heart still hurt from the memory, the pain of being unable to help him sharp and unforgiving. He got up, grabbed a bucket of cool water and a rag, and brought it over to the unconscious man, dipping the cloth to dampen it and bringing it up to Owen’s face.
Legs grimaced as he saw the damage from the latest fit. Owen had bit through his lower lip, and blood was steadily trickling out of his mouth. Legs swiped the area lightly, and Owen’s mouth fell open. Legs couldn’t stop the quick gasp that left him.
Owen’s fangs were… well, gone. In their place were human teeth, small canines and flat molars. Tentatively, Legs put his hand in Owen’s mouth, feeling gently at the space behind his top teeth and finding no wound. He wondered again where the fangs went during the cure, if they were reabsorbed into the bone, or had disappeared by some magic, but despite himself he couldn’t bring himself to care too much. Cleo and Avid’s fangs had left them hours into the process, and even Shelby and Pyro’s had only taken a day (Drift along with them as she struggled to recover). To have waited four days for them to leave Owen had been deeply concerning, a concern he felt lifted off of him at this moment. Owen was being cured. His relief was short-lived, however, as he looked back at the rip in Owen’s lip with new eyes. If he had been in enough pain to bite through his own skin with human teeth, how could the cure possibly be working? Legs scanned Owen’s body again, stomach sinking as he remembered every bad sign. Owen’s skin was graying, even through his marbled scars. He hadn’t eaten anything in days, since neither blood nor human food would sustain him until he was better, and Legs could see the way his cheeks had hollowed in hunger. And, of course, his wounds were struggling to heal under the weight of his power being drained away, wrists burnt and the skin on the back of his head slow to heal even with the help of stitches. No, Owen was not out of the woods yet, Legs thought with a sigh. He set Owen’s head back down on his pillow, gentle not to jostle him more than he needed to, and wrung the bloody cloth over the bucket as he went to grab his needle and thread. Time to fix that lip.
The day Owen woke up was not as joyous as the other times Legs had witnessed the cure fully take effect.
Legs had only been talking to Owen for about a minute, and he already knew something was deeply wrong. Owen hadn’t responded, only shut his eyes, and now his fists were clenching against his soft restraints, his entire body trembling.
What could he possibly say to him, this man who must feel so much betrayal and agony? Legs remembered Owen’s anguish when he’d watched Scott die, his vow to kill all of them, and held back a wince. He was sure Owen was not happy in the revelation that such revenge might not be as easy as it once would have been.
“Please, Owen, you won’t survive this if you won’t let me help.” He pleaded, moving forward slightly in hopes of a reaction. Though he was sure Owen could hear him, he didn’t seem to be as present as he had been a moment ago, short nails visibly digging into scraped palms. The doctor knew that Owen was fragile, that this was the natural process of the cure, but Owen had never looked more like he was going to die, even when he had been thrashing in agony. Legs bit his lip to keep himself from saying something stupid, mind casting about for some sort of tether that Owen could use to anchor himself to reality.
“The others are worried about you.” He said, settling on the hope that Owen’s old coven would be enough to make him open his eyes again. “Especially Shelby, and Pyro. Even Avid.”
It was true. The unwilling vampires had been understandably reluctant in the beginning, and then mostly ashamed of themselves. Avid had actually burst into tears when he’d learned that Drift was still unconscious, and everybody could tell that he still blamed himself, but the first thing he’d done after checking on her was to ask on behalf of the three if they could see Owen. Legs had denied them, apologetic, and they’d all understood-- regardless, the remaining coven had started showing up more and more often to his house, playing games and making sure the doctor ate and slept.
“You know you guys don’t have to cook for me, right?” Legs had asked one night, as Avid set everybody’s plate down in front of them on the circular wooden table.
“Yeah, we know.” Shelby said, cheerily sipping her soup as Avid settled in next to her. “But…” she flushed slightly, taking a longer sip, and Avid had spoken up.
“But you’re the reason we’re human again, Doc.” Ever since his transformation, Avid had been quieter, more thoughtful, but in recent days more life had crept back into his voice. “We want to thank you, I guess.”
“You don’t have to do that--” Legs had started, heat rising in his face now, but Pyro had cut him off.
“If it makes you feel better,” they’d said, tilting their head towards the upstairs where Owen lay unconscious, “we also feel better being near him. I know we’re… technically human, but I don’t think our ‘coven’ instincts have fully faded yet. I’m sure it’ll be better when he’s cured.” The revelation that any instincts, no matter how muddled, still remained was enough to derail the conversation and sufficiently distract Legs, and he’d stopped protesting when he’d find fresh baked goods in the morning, or one of them would slip in to start dinner.
Back in the present, Legs could tell that his words hadn’t done any work to change Owen’s mind. The… vampire? Man? had only curled in on himself, as if to block out the world, seemingly giving up on pretending to be asleep altogether.
“If you’re in pain,” Legs said softly, “I can make you something.” He shuffled closer, within arm’s reach now, and was opening his mouth to continue when Owen’s eyes snapped open again.
The pain and rage in Owen’s eyes almost knocked Legs over. They were brown again, not tinged with the red of vampirism, though they were definitely bloodshot. Legs tried not to let it show how much the fury affected him, just those eyes on a cold, still face, and sat down to set his hand next to Owen’s where it was held against the mattress.
You would have thought that the doctor had been made of pure silver by the way Owen flinched, violently enough to shake the bed. The man’s jaw, unshaven and covered in stubble, clenched as he bent inwards, bringing his hands as far into his curled form as the soft restraints would allow. It looked incredibly painful, and Legs saw the confirmation that it was in the small signs Owen was not yet strong enough to cover; more flinching, this time from internal pain, the way his breath scraped through his nose as if to hold back a scream, the way that through all of it, those brown eyes never once left Legs-- the danger. The causer of pain.
“Hey, I’m sorry.” The doctor said, pulling back to raise both of his hands and show their emptiness. Do no harm. “I’m not going to hurt you. I’m only here to help.” It didn’t seem to be the wrong thing to have said, but it appeared not to be right either as he watched Owen’s lips twitch and mouth open.
“Good lotta help you did.” Came the voice that must be Owen’s, so shredded and unused that it was nearly unrecognizable. Instantly, a cough ripped through him, and his hand flew up weakly to cover his throat like he could protect it, eyes squeezing shut against the pain.
“Oh, Owen, you’re in a lot of pain, I can tell.” Legs said, eyebrows furrowing. “I’ll get you something for your voice, but what else hurts?” Even if Owen didn’t speak again, Legs was sure he’d be able to figure something out based on gestures or some other communication. He was briefly distracted by thinking out logistics before realizing that Owen hadn’t moved in a minute, and didn’t seem like he was going to be anytime soon. “Tell me, Owen, please.” He pleaded, but the huddled man on the bed didn’t move at all. He waited as long as he could let himself believe there would be a change before rubbing his face over his hand with a sigh, giving up for the moment.
“I’ll go prepare something for your voice.” He said. “Always let me know if there’s something I can do.” He pushed himself into a kneel, preparing to stand, but just as he had steadied himself onto his knees--
“One thing.” Came the broken voice from in front of him, and instantly Legs’ eyes were back on the patient.
“Anything.” He swore, leaning forwards so as to not miss a word.
“Let me die.”
He should have expected it, but the pained hiss went straight to his heart anyways. Owen’s eyes were open again, a thin coating of tears gleaming even as his brow was furrowed in fury. Legs stood up fully, hoping that he could hold himself together long enough to get Owen something for his throat, and walked to the trapdoor. He was nearly there before his frustration, brewed in the pit of sorrow and determination in his stomach, almost broke through. Let me save you! He wanted to scream. I know I can help, but I can’t do it alone!
“I’ll be back in a few minutes.” He managed to say instead, and escaped down the ladder before Owen could respond. He grabbed some honeyed tea, fretting about whether or not a cup or a bowl would be better (and definitely not procrastinating), but he needn’t have bothered. When he got back up the ladder again, Owen was asleep, and as Legundo looked down at his shaking hands he knew he wasn’t ready to force feed him again just yet.
In his youth, someone had taught Legundo about a famous thought experiment: what would happen if an unstoppable force met an immovable object? He’d pondered it for many years, passing time in the trenches, even working it into his acceptance speech for the cold, dead medal he’d worn. The unstoppable force, he’d claimed, would always win. Nothing is immovable if you don’t give up.
Decades later, Owen was singlehandedly chipping away at that belief.
Every day was more of the same: climb up the ladder with food and medicine, desperately try to haggle with the unresponsive man, leave whatever he’d brought, and listen from below in hopes of hearing footsteps. But it never changed; not even a creak from the bed upstairs reached him in the intervening hours, and he’d bring up new supplies only to be face to face with the old, untouched ones.
Once hearing that Owen had woken up, the townspeople had temporarily paused their visits, but in the absence of any change they had found themselves trickling back in. Cleo came first, under the guise of bringing the doctor more food.
“Come on in.” Legundo said tiredly, opening the door and ushering her inside. “You can just set that there.”
“Nonsense.” They said briskly, bringing the vegetables over to the sink and turning on the water. “I’m going to help you prepare them. Heaven knows you won’t wash them if I don’t.”
“Fair.” Legs muttered, trudging over through his bone-deep exhaustion to help. He could tell that Cleo was holding something back, and he was certain he knew what it was, but he didn’t have the energy to play games with them. If they wanted to know, they’d ask. He was proven right only a minute later when he saw her face scrunch awkwardly, pointedly looking at the vegetables as if not to spook him.
“How’s Owen doing?” She asked, voice too neutral to be casual.
“He just,” Legs started with a sigh, then stopped. What could he possibly say? Curing him didn’t cure his suicidality. He just wants to die. He just might succeed. “...came back wrong. He was supposed to feel human again. It was supposed to feel good, but he’s…” latent resentment rose up in his throat, choking him for a moment, but he swallowed it down. Cleo hadn’t done anything wrong. “...he was supposed to get a choice.” He finished, eyes focused on chopping the celery in front of him.
“You know what his choice was.” Cleo said, gentle but firm. “And you know that if he chose to stay a vampire, he would never be able to leave Oakhurst.”
“I know.” Legs muttered, setting down his knife to put his face in his hands. He heard Cleo turn off the water and then felt their arms wrap around him for a brief moment, the warmth of her skin a physical reminder of the good he’d already done, the science he’d accomplished. She only stayed for a moment before pulling away, but it was enough to get them both moving again, sorting vegetables, humming gently as they worked, even starting a salad. It was only when they sat down for a break that he broke the silence.
“Just tell me you don’t regret it.” Legs said, making sure to catch Cleo’s eyes this time. He needed to be able to see their face, know if they were lying to him, but was met with a smile instead of the glower he’d feared.
“I don’t.” They said simply, crossing their arms at him when his tension visibly drained away. “I only resisted because I didn’t think it would work, and it wasn’t worth betraying Sco-- the coven until I knew it would. Drift feels the same, even if it almost killed her, and Apo too. It’s not your fault the transition can be… difficult.” Legundo let out a dry laugh, rubbing his forehead as he looked down at his water.
“That’s one word for it.” He muttered, and Cleo took the opportunity to push that he knew they’d been waiting for.
“So, how is the transformation going?” She asked, running her finger over the tabletop idly as if the answer was inconsequential to her. “Does he seem human?”
Owen had always seemed human to Legundo, but he knew that’s not what she meant. Did Owen seem to be cured? He wasn’t sure. His body seemed to be nearly finished changing, sure, but his mind was far behind the shaky timeline the doctor had managed to establish with the others, even adjusted to his reduced healing speed. Legs didn’t want to say that to Cleo, though, not when he knew she’d be hounded for every detail as soon as she left, so he tried a small evasion instead.
“He’s in so much pain,” he said with a grimace, “and he won’t let me help.”
“You didn’t expect that?” Cleo snapped, and the words hit him like a stone to his chest.
“Cleo, please.” He whispered, because she was right, because he stupidly hadn’t expected it. Had wished and prayed to whatever forces there may be that maybe, just maybe, what had held Owen back this whole time had been a symptom of vampirism and nothing more. It was silly, and superstitious, and everything he wasn’t, and yet there had been that brief moment when he’d climbed up the ladder and saw Owen’s open eyes and thought, I’ve done it. I’ve saved him.
“I’m sorry.” Cleo said gently, and placed her warm hand over his on the table. “I know you’re going through a lot. And I know you’re doing your best. How can I help you?”
“This.” Legs replied instantly, turning his hand over so he could squeeze hers and feeling a tight squeeze back in response. “The farming, it’s perfect.”
“No problem, Doc.” She said with a smile, and he let himself return it, shaky but genuine. “I’ll tell the others, too. They’ve been very helpful, I’m sure they’ll appreciate knowing it’s making a difference.”
“Has anyone left Oakhurst yet?” He asked, trying to sound like he didn’t care, but Cleo let go of his hand to slap it gently in reproach.
“Oh, Doc, you know they’d all come to say goodbye first, right?” They said, scolding glare softening at his half-hearted shrug. “It doesn’t feel right to leave yet. Not with you here, doing this.”
“Oh.” Legs said, unsure how to feel about that idea. “That’s… very kind.”
“Don’t mention it.” Cleo said decisively before standing up with a stretch. “Speaking of, what does that gremlin even eat?” Legs couldn’t hide the shocked laugh that came out of him at the descriptor, and Cleo flashed a wide, human-toothed smile his way. “Oh, c’mon, just because he’s sick doesn’t mean it’s not true.” He chuckled again before standing, opting for a quick stretch of his own before considering what to make for Owen’s dinner.
“I’ve been offering soup,” he said, “but he doesn’t eat it. Can’t get him to take water either, which is even more pressing.”
Cleo frowned, putting their hands on their hips as they considered the situation.
“What about broth?” She ventured, already moving over towards where they’d left some of the vegetables. “Easy on his stomach.”
“I doubt that’ll change much.” The doctor grumbled, quickly met by Cleo’s more ferocious arched brow. “But yes, I suppose we have to try.”
It was nice to not have to be the one always thinking, always persevering, even if just for a while. Cleo was smart and decisive, pointing whenever they needed something and grabbing utensils out of Legs’ hands with a ‘tsk’ when his work wasn’t up to their standards. They fell into a rhythm, though the broth didn’t take very long, and soon Legs was ushering her out before she could convince him they needed to cook a whole feast.
“Bye then, Doc.” They said outside his door, a mischievous glint still in their eye. It faded for a moment as they glanced up at the second floor, mouth tightening before replacing it with a small smile. “Keep up the good work.”
“Thank you, Cleo.” Legs said, less tired than he’d been in a while, and closed the door.
It wasn’t long before he decided it was time to go back up, so he poured some broth into a bottle, wrapped a cloth around it, and ascended into Owen’s room.
The ever-hateful brown eyes were on him instantly. Legs finished pulling himself up, making sure he was steady, and started to walk over slowly in hopes to not startle him.
“This is just broth.” He said as he reached the edge of the bed. “It’s the easiest possible thing you could have right now.” Owen didn’t even blink, though his human eyes must be hurting by now, and suddenly the doctor felt a wave of anger swell unbidden in his chest. He wouldn’t do this. He refused to watch Owen die. Legundo had reached into the very heart of medicine, flipped it on its head, and pulled hard enough to reverse the process of undeath, all on his own. He would not literally rip Owen back into life just to watch him starve right back to the grave. He knelt down near the head of the bed, resolve hardening at the lifeless way Owen’s eyes followed him, and uncorked the bottle with steady hands.
“I’m going to hold it this time,” he said firmly, “and I’m not leaving until you drink it.”
Finally, the brown eyes blinked-- though he suspected it was more of shock than of giving into the need-- and still, the man in front of him did not move, laid out on his back with only his head turned to face the doctor.
“I don’t want to do this the hard way, Owen.” He pleaded truthfully. “Please try to drink it.” When it was clear no such attempt was forthcoming, he steeled himself and leaned over, reaching for Owen’s head as he raised the bottle. It got a reaction, at least, in the form of one of Owen’s patented whole-body flinches, the kind that always stabbed Legs through with pain. “Owen,” Legs breathed, hoping the other could tell how much he regretted what he had to do by his voice, “please.”
Another attempt, this time met with a hand swatting at the bottle. It was as heartbreaking as it was easy to dodge, weak as Owen was, but Legs only corked the bottle and set it down long enough to fasten the soft restraints around the man’s arms. Bottle back in hand, the doctor stared down at Owen, now strapped to the bed with a face contorted in anger and fear.
Legs knew that the similarity of Owen’s situation to the one in the crypt wasn’t lost on either of them as he leaned down, one hand holding Owen’s head in place while the other poured the broth down his throat. In response, however, Owen managed to spit it out, warm broth mixed with saliva spraying Legundo’s coat. The doctor grunted and jerked back slightly in surprise, but took the momentary cough that seized Owen as an opportunity to pour more down his throat. This time, his steady hand covered Owen’s mouth and nose, and Legs saw the horrible moment that a vampire who hadn’t been able to drown for two hundred years rediscovered the ability to choke. It made him want to vomit, but finally Owen swallowed, and Legs let go of his mouth instantly, watching warily as Owen’s gasps and coughs grated against his ears.
“We can keep doing it this way,” Legs said, “but I’d be more than happy to hold it for you while we go at your pace.” Please, he thought. Let me help you.
But Owen’s eyes were as angry as ever, and he never faltered, even as he choked over and over again, the doctor muttering assurances over his thrashing body. Even as the moon rose high in the sky, stars watching on until they’d finally finished, Legs tiredly walking to the trapdoor with promises to be back the next day. Even when the morning brought kept promises and new broth that grew cold by the time Legs had finally forced it all down Owen’s unwilling throat.
The next time there was a knock on Legs’ door, it was Shelby.
“Hey, Legs.” She said, her bright smile a bit too cheery for the nervous way she was wringing her hands. “Can I come in?”
Unbidden, Scott’s voice flashed into Legs’ mind. Vampires have manners. It drawled, and he had never been more grateful that nobody could hear his heart as it thumped wildly in panic for a moment.
“Of course.” He said, hoping his smile hadn’t faltered as he walked over to his table. “Are you alright? Any new symptoms?” His hands quickly found his medical journal, pre-emptively flicking to Shelby’s case notes.
“Oh, no, I’m okay.” Shelby said. Legs lifted his head curiously at her as she shut the door, closing the book and straightening up. “I feel good. I feel, um, a lot right now.” Huh. “I was wondering about Owen, though.”
Oh. Right. Legs wanted to kick himself for not seeing the obvious coming as Shelby approached the table, hands still fidgeting nervously together.
“He’s sleeping upstairs.” He responded carefully, clasping his hands in front of him and meeting her eyes. “He won’t speak, and he won’t cooperate with me, but I’m getting better at helping him anyway.”
Shelby’s face twitched, just for a moment, eyebrows furrowing in concern and mouth pulling into a frown. Legs cringed internally, hoping he hadn’t misspoken and upset her with the truth. He was sure it was hard to hear the implication that Owen might be being… forced into things. With almost uncanny speed, however, Shelby’s face reconfigured itself into perfect, innocent concern.
“I see. Is he, you know? Really mad? Does he wanna see anyone?”
If Cleo had asked to see Owen almost half a week ago, Legs knew his answer would have been a resounding no. Owen had been too physically fragile and Cleo too much of an unknown to have risked it. But Legs had been feeding him twice a day for four or five days, and by the looks of things it was starting to pay off-- Owen’s face, while still long and thin, was fuller now, and the hands that resisted his restraints were getting harder and harder to ignore. And this was Shelby….
“I haven’t asked if he wants to see anyone.” The doctor confessed, flushing slightly in embarrassment as the truth of the statement caught up to him. They hadn’t exactly been having conversations, he supposed, but ‘visitors’ was pretty much a yes/no question. He might have been able to get a head movement in response, if he had thought to ask. “But we could go up, if you wanted.” If Owen wanted to yell at Legs about it, it would be the most emotion he'd've shown in a while.
A smile stretched on Shelby’s face, and though she still seemed nervous, there was excitement in her eyes as she bounced on her feet.
“I’d really like to.” She said, voice calmer than her body language but still obviously pleased. Legs felt a smile blossom on his face back to her. He’d almost forgotten how nice it was to make somebody happy. He nodded, starting over towards the ladder and gesturing her to follow as he passed, only hesitating at the bottom for a moment before he started climbing.
He didn’t stop to look at Owen when he got to the top, instead turning around to make sure Shelby got up alright. Her smile had dimmed slightly at the reality of what she might see, but it flashed wider at him as she took his hand to haul herself up the last foot or so. Once on her feet, her eyes instantly went to the figure on the bed, and the smile twisted into a concerned frown.
Shelby stepped forward softly towards the bed, and Legs followed, finally getting a good look at Owen. He was rigid, laying on his side on the bed as if asleep, though Legs knew from hours of study that he was as awake as either of the visitors.
Shelby seemed to be fooled, though, hesitating a few feet away from the bed so as not to wake him. When she glanced back, Legs jerked his head to the wall across from Owen, and she made her careful way back. They both sat, the doctor crossing his legs, Shelby leaning back from a kneel.
“He doesn’t look good.” She whispered, eyes never leaving Owen’s still form.
“I know.” Legs said with a sigh. “I’m having Avid brew some things for me that might help, but you know how his alchemy is.” He’d treated enough of Shelby’s burns from standing too close to her friend’s ‘experiments’ to know that she understood.
Owen must have decided the conversation was interesting enough to join, because one of his eyes opened, brow raising skeptically. Shelby let out a small gasp and instantly dropped to all fours, scuttling over to his bedside before Legs could think about whether to stop them. Oh, well. He supposed she would have to deal with Owen’s hateful silence eventually..
“Owen,” Shelby said, voice almost awestruck. “I’m so happy to see you. I’ve been so worried.”
Surprisingly, it wasn’t Shelby’s gaze that Owen met, but Legs’. The doctor couldn’t read his expression. Spite? Determination? Shelby continued on, undeterred by his lack of enthusiasm.
“The whole town is waiting to hear that you’re better. I--” a quick falter in her cheery tone, but she quickly recovered-- “I know you think they don’t care, but they really want you to be okay.” Owen’s eyes were still locked on the doctor’s, unblinking, and Shelby glanced between the two of them nervously as if Legs could give her answers, biting her lip. Legs shifted his eyes to theirs, but he couldn’t tell what she was asking him for. She’d just have to go for it. “Um,” Shelby said, voice more nervous than it had been since she’d asked to come up as she looked back to Owen, “I’ve been thinking about Scott, and--”
Legs watched as Owen’s eyes clamped shut and a ripple ran through his body. Oh, he wished he’d have known what Shelby was asking him. He might have advised her to wait on this one. Shelby seemed to wilt, hand reaching out as if to stroke Owen’s shoulder before catching herself and putting it back down.
“Oh, I’m sorry.” Came her whisper, clearly heartbroken. “I’m sorry, I can’t even imagine how you feel about all that.”
Shelby was too good for all of them, Legundo thought. She’d forgiven the original humans for killing Scott only days after waking back up, though he knew she still struggled with it. And now here she was, looking like they might cry at the thought of hurting Owen’s feelings, when he was clearly about to ‘go back to sleep’ and ignore her. To his shock, however, Owen’s lips parted, and his voice quietly scraped out.
“Are you glad he’s gone?” Owen asked, eyes still shut.
“No.” They said instantly, desperately. “No-- well, I don’t know.” A small, pained noise escaped past her lips, and Legs twitched as he held himself back from interjecting. She was an adult, he thought sternly, and she could take care of herself. But his already battered heart still took a punch as he watched them continue, hands twisting nervously again. “No. I think I was a bit trapped by him, you know? I didn’t ask to be turned and, while I did enjoy his friendship and the castle, and the family… I wish we could have had all of that without the turning. Without the fighting.” Legs watched their words land with Owen, watched his mouth twist bitterly as he swallowed hard.
“And… and you see that now that you’ve been cured?” Came his reply, so exhausted that Legs had to clench his fists to not crawl over and soothe him. Not that it would have worked, anyways.
“I saw it when I realized I wasn’t getting away from Apo and Drift.” Shelby said after a careful pause. “And after that, yes.”
“So you’re glad he’s gone.” Owen’s voice was stronger now, angrier. Legs wondered if that’s the only way he knew how to be. Surely the man across the room had laughed freely before, had smiled and talked without the slightest trace of bitterness. He must have at least had happiness with his… Louis, if not before. “You’re glad the only other person who took me in, shared a home with me, and accepted me, is gone?”
Shamefully, Legs’ further ruminations about Owen’s past were disrupted by a flare of annoyance. ‘The only other person?’ What did Owen think that Legs was doing right now? What Legs would do for the rest of his life if he had to?
“I wouldn’t… put it that way.” Shelby said nervously, looking back at the doctor for a moment as if for help, but he only pressed his lips into a line, too frustrated to think of how to assist. “I wish he was here, with the rest of us, willingly and happily.”
Owen’s face twisted with the rage that the doctor was so used to, mouth opening to surely rip Shelby to pieces, when Legs decided he couldn’t stay out of the conversation any longer.
“Owen, Shelby accepted you.” He said, hoping he was keeping his voice level. “I accepted you.” I never rejected you in the first place. “And the town is accepting you, right now.”
“You didn’t accept me.” Owen hissed in response, though his voice was clearly still sore. “You need to cure me to feel like a good doctor.”
That one hit. Legs snapped his mouth shut before he could say something stupid, opting to glower at Owen even though he knew he wouldn’t see him.
“Owen, that’s not true.” Shelby argued, clearly not willing to accept criticism of Legs at the moment. “Legs was angry when they cured you. He wanted you to have the choice, and I know you drank from him. He let you drink from him.”
Owen’s resounding silence was worse than any retort he could have given. His words were still ringing in Legs’ mind, slicing through him like a blade. Suddenly, Legs felt like he was back in the war again, in the confession booth the church offered at camp, sitting in the dark with sins heavy in his chest.
“I tried to convince them to knock you out instead.” He blurted, unable to stop himself. Pleading for absolution. “I wanted to get you set up in Avid’s jail-- I was going to make it comfortable for you, and just until I knew you weren’t going to hurt anyone. Then if you decided you still wouldn’t take the cure, I wasn’t going to make you…. You just would have been stuck in Oakhurst because of the beacons.”
Owen didn’t deign him with a response, silence continuing to stretch out like the endless horizon. Legs pressed his lips together again, ignoring the pitying look Shelby was giving him and turning his head to stare at the blank wall away from the others.
“I’m not leaving Oakhurst without you, Owen.” He heard Shelby say, though he kept his head turned away to give them the illusion of privacy. “I’ll wait as long as I need to.” He heard her shuffling around, settling down more comfortably as if to prove it, and still Owen gave no response. They stayed there, unmoving, until his breath evened out into true sleep. Legs turned back to tell Shelby that she should go home and get some rest herself, but was startled to see her face red and shining with tears.
“Just one moment.” They mouthed, and he nodded, eyes closing as he waited patiently for them to finish. A few minutes later, he heard the faint squeak of her shoes against the floor and opened his eyes to see her holding out her hand to help him up. For now, at least, their watchful vigil was over.
Legs was torn out of a dream of blood and screams by the sound of sobbing from above him. He was moving before it had finished registering, throwing his blanket off and scrambling for his monocle by his bedtable, almost slipping as he ran towards the ladder. He scrambled up and wrenched the trapdoor open and, just as he had feared, was met with Owen’s shaking shape on the bed across the room.
“Owen,” he said as he rushed over, dropping to his knees in front of the bed and ignoring the pain that shot through them, “what’s wrong? I’m here.” He had never heard Owen make these noises before, even in the throes of agony as he was cured, and while he knew theoretically that they were normal cries, it was making him nervous. Owen was curled into himself on his side, arms locked tight around his own torso and head bowed, entire body shaking and gasping for air every few seconds as he got used to crying as a human again. “I’m here.” Legs said, reaching up a hand and gently setting it on Owen’s shoulder. “Talk to me.”
For a moment, he didn’t think he would get any response, but then he heard Owen take a shuddering breath through still-clenched teeth.
“Why are you making me do this?” Came the words, mangled by grief and pain so tangible Legs could almost see it. His hand loosened on the other man’s shoulder for a moment before he tightened it again, hoping it would be steadying.
“You can be happy, Owen.” Legs said firmly. “You can, you will.”
“It’s my life.” Owen hissed, though in his current state it was more of a splutter. “You can’t tell me what to do with it.”
Legs scooted closer to the bed, leaning over more as he caressed Owen’s shoulder gently with his thumb. His left elbow rested on the pillow, and he absentmindedly reminded himself to change the sheets later.
“I’m showing you what you can do with it.” He vowed, but Owen only shook his head, another whine escaping him as he did so. Legs took a shaky breath, mentally preparing himself to use his strongest, though maybe most painful, card. He was glad Owen’s face was hidden from him-- he didn’t know if he would have had the strength otherwise-- but still, only the chant of save the body, lose the leg. save the body, cut off the arm moved him forwards. “Louis wanted--”
“Don’t!” Owen wailed, moving so quickly that it almost looked like he was seizing. Legs heard the man’s spine smack into the far wall and cringed. “Don’t speak of him!”
Save the body, lose the leg. Drain the wound, stop the infection--
“Louis wanted you to be happy.” Legs continued, though he couldn’t stop the shake in his voice.
“Stop it.” Owen moaned, trying to push himself up into a sitting position and only succeeding halfway.
Save the body, cut off the arm--
“He wanted you to be loved.” Legs said, digging his nails into his palm as he watched Owen’s body spasm again to push him further away from the doctor.
“Stop.”
Re-break the bone, save a bad set--
“He didn’t gift you with vampirism, Owen, he gifted you with a chance at a better life.” Legs tried to keep the pleading out of his voice, though he was unsure how successful he was. Owen was scrambling away now, pushing himself all the way up into a sitting position against the wall like his life depended on it.
“Well that’s gone now!” He spat, and for the first time that night he met the Doctor’s gaze. His eyes seemed to not have the energy to fuel his usual anger, but his brows were still pulled together in agony as he shook. “It’s gone!”
Save the body, lose the leg--
“Only if you let it be.” Legs said, fully pleading now. Owen shook his head violently, uncaring as his tangled hair whipped into his face as he shut his eyes firmly once more. “Louis wanted you to be happy.”
“Stop it.” Owen pleaded, trying to lift his hands to his hair and letting out a yell of frustration and fear when the soft restraints reached their limit, holding his arms close to the mattress. “Stop.”
Kill the sire, free the fledgelings. Stake Scott through the heart, cure all of them--
“He turned you so he could keep you happy and safe forever.” Legs continued, pushing himself into a stand. “Some very awful people stopped that from happening, but don’t be the reason that he fails now.” I will not let his wish fail now, he thought, but kept it to himself. Owen let out a horrible, mangled noise, and Legs kneeled onto the mattress, crawling over so that he was sitting next to him. The only response was Owen’s shaking knees pulling up against his chest as if to protect him from the doctor’s words, but it was no use. “Louis--”
“Please,” Owen yelled, and Legs paused mid-sentence at the ferocity of it. “Enough. Please, I’ll do anything for you to just shut up.”
In medical school, Legs had hated the course on draining pus from wounds. It wasn’t the smell, or the feel, or even the substance itself, though. No, it was the uncertainty of when to stop. It’s hurting her, he remembered saying to his teacher as he worked on a patient. There’s no more in there.
Yes, there is. He remembered the man saying sternly. Keep going. You’ve come this far now.
It was the class he’d come closest to failing. He’d had to go on autopilot to pass the final exam, hands steady and mind blank, but he’d never gotten the hang of causing such immense pain in the hopes that you were doing good. Never knowing when you’d gone too far, never knowing if you hadn’t done enough. His mouth clicked shut as he mentally pulled back. Paused for a moment. Sent a prayer to a God that he didn’t believe in-- or maybe Louis himself-- that he’d done enough.
“Okay.” He finally said. “I’ll stop.” He didn’t miss the way Owen sagged in relief, but he could still feel the tension in the man’s shoulders. “Just don’t push me away right now.” He waited a moment, but Owen’s only response was to fix his gaze on the far wall, seemingly uncaring. Legs put his arm around the shaking figure, body still so thin that he could feel his shoulder joint, but fuller than it had been when he’d first been cured. Minutes passed, and then--
Was he imagining it? Or was Owen leaning onto him?
Only when the man’s head tucked itself firmly between Legs’ shoulder and his neck did he let himself believe it. He felt like he must be shaking too, though he was sure his were only psychological. Still, the tremors of emotion vibrated through him. Joy. Pride. Nervousness. And yes-- small, but there-- hope. Hope that maybe he would not fail, after all. That maybe it was all worth it.
“You just tell me if you want to lie down again.” Legs said, though he selfishly hoped Owen wouldn’t ask. The man seemed in no state to respond, however, eyes already drooping in the doctor’s periphery. Slowly, so as not to jostle them too much, Legs reached over to the soft restraint furthest from them, which was pulling Owen’s arm forward at a weird angle, and fiddled with the buckle until it released. He settled back against the wall, feeling the warmth of Owen’s body that hadn’t been there only a week or so ago, and allowed his eyes to slip closed, too.
Drifting off to sleep, Leg’s mind wandered to Louis. He hoped that he hadn’t trodden on the man’s memory with his appeal to Owen, but he had a feeling he’d been right. You didn’t turn somebody into a vampire like that, promising forever, unless you were completely devoted to them. Ready to spend your whole existence making them feel loved and comforted, even if life had not dealt them the best hand. In that way, he supposed, he and Louis were not so different. Owen wouldn’t be leaving his side for a while, not if he had anything to say about it. He remembered his Hippocratic Oath, swearing by gods and goddesses and even practices he didn’t believe in for the sake of tradition, how he’d much preferred the simpler ‘do no harm’ over the archaic language and thoughts of the past. Right before his mind succumbed to the depths of sleep, a new oath floated through his head, one that he accepted as soon as he’d thought it.
I swear, Louis, I will take care of him.
Content in his vow, Legs slept, and for the first time in years, there were no nightmares.