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When they look at themselves, they see a monster.
When they look at each other, they see a doctor.
Not literally, at least for Legundo. He wouldn't trust Owen with a syringe, much less a needle. But he can help, much like a doctor would. Ease his nightmares, balm his woes, bandage his bleeding heart. Owen may claim to be the monster, if only he knew the blood on Legundo's hands. His white smock, banner of healing and hope, would be soaked in a mere sampling of his crimes. If Owen was a monster, then Legundo was a demon.
No. He's a lost, tortured soul, for sure. As broken as him, but a monster? At least he had a reason for his crimes. Vengeance is much sweeter a poison than simply following orders. At least Owen can claim being lost in the bloodlust, consumed by his anger to lose all reasoning. No, Legundo was sound of mind and devoid of emotion when he poisoned those wells.
Owen was more human than ever that day, while Legundo was the soulless monster.
Perhaps it is that hurting human heart that gives the doctor hope. The kind of hope he should have inspired. That a vampire can grieve and grow, that the choices of the past don't have to define the actions of the present.
He is the cure for Legundo's own loss in humanity.
And Legundo just the monster no one knows should be feared. The snake in the grass, the disease among the mundane, the poison in the well. No matter how much he tries, this doctor's smock will never be pure again. No matter what, his hands are stained and the water tainted by his presence.
To Owen, the Doctor was simply that. A doctor. Grasping for a cure, guessing on a treatment. And yet, something keeps him drawn to the self righteous bastard. Keeps giving him a chance, a second to plead his case, then a second more. Owen does not want whatever 'cure' this man is peddling… and yet, he keeps searching him out. Was it the questions he asked? The stance he took? Or simply the lingering relief Legundo offered in pushing back against Avid's fear mongering. Hell, he even willingly drank one of the Doctor's medicinal soups, just to please him.
If only Doc knew it made him sick to his stomach beyond any illness or hunger. He probably would have felt awful, in trying to help he did harm. Perhaps that's the difference between quacks and healers and doctors before, and Legundo.
He cares.
Even for a monster, he cares. He cares about if he's fed, he cares that he's safe, he cares about Owen's feelings. The only one to listen to Owen's story, and hear the pain rather than the pity. That's what makes him a doctor.
Owen doesn't care. Or, at least, he pretends he doesn't. He doesn't care about the blood on his hands, that he's killed thousands in a blind rage. He's not haunted by the flames, feasting upon Louis's skin and cracking his bones to ash. He isn't even bothered by the disappointment in Shelby's eyes when he torments the mortal souls of Oakhurst. Any rise in emotion beyond the simmering rage and agony he swallows, eyes sunken and rimmed with mourning, lips eclipsed with sorrow. He is a monster, but a monster humanity created, the monster they made him into. He is the beast children fear under their bed, the darkness that lurks among the night, the terror of the unknown.
And yet, Legundo still cares. And for that, maybe this monster can find it in him to care as well.
When they look at one another, they see very different things.
In Legundo's mind, he is the wolf in sheep's clothing. The monster muzzled, the venom of a snake for the cure. To Owen, Legundo is the care and commitment only afforded to Owen once before. The one decent human in two hundred and twenty five years. But an exception only proves the rule.
In Owen's mind, he is exactly what the stories say he should be. Bloodthirsty, cruel, violent, and alone. A monster twisted from humanity, unrepentant in his curse and uncaring in his actions. He is the monster they made, the day they burned his love and left him an empty husk. To Legundo, he is the hope that even bad choices can be atoned. That people, vampire or mortal, can change, be better. He is the cure for mankind's own sickness.
For both, it is their humanity that will be their downfall.
Monsters, in their own way. Monsters, made by mankind.