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“Why are you helping me?” Owen asks.
“Why would I not?” Legundo replies, as mildly as he can.
Owen narrows his eyes, suspicion clear in his gaze. “Not many people are eager to lend their aid to a—” He clenches his jaw, makes an aborted gesture towards himself, and ducks his head. “To a monster.”
There are no mirrors or other such reflective surfaces in this roughly dug shelter, and even if there had been, Owen would not be able to see that whatever condition once afflicted his appearance has long since vanished. As it is, Legundo almost cracks a sardonic smile; it’s the first time that this skittishly polite creature has come close to resembling the Owen of the present day.
“What you are,” he says, “the way you look, the way you were born, the things about yourself you can’t control—none of those things make you a monster. Only your actions determine that.” He folds his arms and fixes Owen with a level, unflinching stare. “Are you a monster, Owen?”
The words feel almost rote, considering the number of times he’s said them before, only to be rebuffed. This Owen, however, does not scoff at him for his hypocrisy. Instead, he stares up at Legundo with wide, sickeningly vulnerable eyes, as if it is the kindest thing anyone has ever said to him.
With horror, Legundo realizes that it very well might be.
“Thank you, Doctor. You’re a good man,” Owen says quietly, his voice thick with emotion. He gives Legundo a small, nervous smile that looks almost wrong on his face. “I’m glad that in whatever time I’ve missed, I managed to meet someone like you.”
Legundo thinks of a poisoned well, of an angry snarl of death’s too good for you, of fangs in his neck. He averts his eyes and says nothing.