Chapter Text
In the end, they don't force Owen to go room with Legs, or whatever it was the Doctor had suggested– What he had implied Owen wouldn't have a choice about. They come later that night, before sundown: The Doctor, Avid, and Cleo, for whatever reason. He glares at the group from his curled up spot on the cot as they file into the room. He has no intention of letting them lead him anywhere.
“How are you feeling, Owen?” It's the first thing the Doctor asks him every time he comes to check on him, and the question has gone unanswered every time. The trend continues. The lumberjack's eyes focus on Cleo, instead– very few townsfolk have come to visit him, in the past few days. And, last time he checked, Cleo was still a vampire. She locks eyes with him, vivid green on deep brown, and he can't help but sneer.
“Do they know the secret you're hiding, Cleo?” Owen rasps, sitting up a little from the position he'd been hunched in for… too long. His joints ache something fierce.
Cleo raises an unintimidated eyebrow at him. “You can't use that against me, Owen. I am hiding no secrets.”
“What– And they haven't forced their poison down your throat yet?”
Cleo opens their mouth to respond, but Avid cuts her off. “Alright, alright, we need you outta the cell,” He says, unlocking and pulling open the door. Cleo huffs in annoyance at being interrupted, but remains quiet as the three crowd into Owen’s small cell.
And crowd really is the right word– it’s not made to fit four adults comfortably, not with the amount of space Owen wants, needs, between them. He curls further into himself, backing against the wall, breaths coming shorter and faster than before. Why do they need three people to– to try and get him to leave? Are they going to grab him, drag him out? Why can’t they just leave him alone?
He hears a sigh as Legundo takes note of the untouched, now cold bowl of soup on the floor. “This can’t be comfortable for you, Owen,” Legs coaxes, offering a hand out to the man. “I’ve put a room together for you, one that is surely more hospitable than this.”
Owen bares his useless teeth in a soundless snarl. “What makes you think that letting me into your home is a good idea, Doc?” He breathes, refusing to let his voice waver. “Letting me near where you sleep? I’m sure you have– have all sorts of medical supplies in there that I could–”
Cleo snorts, speaking over Owen’s gnarled, venomous words. “Could what? Stab him with a scalpel? Please, Owen, look at yourself. You can barely stand.”
The Doctor shoots Cleo an unimpressed look, and swings it toward Avid at the hunter’s muttered “I mean, he has a point, I told you he would try something–”
“Owen,” Legundo begins again, stepping even closer to the lumberjack (too closetooclose), “To start, I can more than defend myself. But, I really don’t think you would do those things. You’re– hurting, and scared, and lashing out, but I don’t think you are evil. I've seen evil men, and you aren't that. Even in the throes of the vampiric sickness, you weren’t evil.” Avid huffs in disagreement, but Legs continues, “And now, your body and mind are recovering. Your bark is louder than your bite,” the Doctor says, reaching out to put a hand on Owen’s shoulder. “ I trust you.”
The contact is like fire lancing through him, even though no skin is touching his own beneath the layers of grimy clothes and bandages. He flinches violently, but already pushed up against the wall as he is there’s nowhere to go and the Doctor hasn’t moved and he’s close too close and Owen can’t breathe (he shouldn’t need to breathe anymore but he can't and his chest is burning burning burning) and–
It all happens in a split second that feels centuries long, and before Owen’s racing thoughts (bite, fight, get him awayawayaway–) can catch up to his body, his teeth are sunk deep into the Doctor’s exposed forearm. Without his razor sharp vampiric fangs, just his normal, human, crooked canines, he’s a bit surprised that he still draws blood. Warm, metallic fluid floods his mouth for just a moment before Legundo wrenches his arm back with a pained swear.
Owen has never heard the Doctor curse before. Odd. He can hear Avid exclaiming something frantically, but the words are lost on him. There’s a buzzing in his ears, and blood in his mouth. He licks his teeth absently. It tastes like… blood. Nothing special. Not even particularly appetizing. That realization makes him ache, his anger bubbling back up to the surface.
“You–” Owen starts, but his voice catches and he coughs, choking on nothing. On blood. On bile. He swallows heavily. “You don’t know me,” he manages to hiss.
Legundo holds a rag to his bleeding arm, staring at Owen with surprise and shock coloring his gaze. Avid has his godforsaken crossbow pointed at the lumberjack again. Cleo, though, cannot seem to tear her eyes away from Legundo’s arm, pupils noticeably dilated.
“...Careful there, Cleo,” Owen taunts, desperate for the focus to be off of him, “When was the last time you fed?”
Avid tenses, swinging his crossbow toward the vampire in the room. The Doctor, shaking out of his shock from being bitten by the not-vampire in the room, makes a frustrated noise. He brings his hand (the one not bleeding) up to pinch the bridge of his nose, right on the scar marring his face.
“Avid. Do not shoot Cleo, I swear to— Both of you leave. Please. Let me talk with Owen.”
“Are– Are you sure that’s a good idea, Legs? He just bit you!” Avid scrambles, gesturing wildly with his loaded crossbow. Owen thinks he should not be allowed to have that thing, it's definitely a safety hazard.
Cleo coughs, rubbing their face, glaring at Owen. He licks some of the blood off of his lips, just to mess with her, and her nostrils flare with annoyance and hunger. “Yes, right, come on Avid.” She nods, grabbing the smaller man by the arm and dragging him out of the cell. “We need to go check on the cows.”
Avid's protests fade as the two exit the Center, leaving Legs and Owen staring at each other in tense silence. He can breathe a little easier, with Legundo out of arms reach and the room less crowded. He doesn't feel bad, really, for biting the man. He just wishes the blood satisfied him the way it used to. The way it should have.
“...I'm sorry, Owen.” The Doctor murmurs after a long moment.
“For what?” Owen scoffs. “For kidnapping me? For tearing away the only thing I had left, Doctor?”
“For scaring you, for touching you without permission,” Legundo shakes his head. “I should not have done that.”
Owen resents the idea that he'd been scared. That he's so weak as to– to freak out, when touched.
He resents the idea, but he also knows it to be true. The last person to touch him tenderly, to hold him, to trust him was Louis and Louis is dead and Owen will never feel his icy, soothing hands again. His bitter anger resides for a moment, replaced with a fresh wave of grief.
He has to close his eyes against the onslaught.
He has to hide from Legundo's piercing, too-knowing gaze.
“You're right, Owen, I do not know you. Not more than what you've shown me, at least, and what I see is a man who has been hurt. Who is not in his right mind,” The Doctor explains, nearly pleading.
Owen wants to argue that he is not crazy, he's not– but the open bite wound slowly drips blood down Legs’ arm, mocking. He has seen what humans do to those who they deem unwell, physically or mentally. He has experienced it.
“...You truly do not wish to leave this cell?” The Doctor asks, after Owen’s silence stretches between them.
Owen, wordlessly shakes his head, looking at the floor to avoid meeting the other man's eyes. He just wants them to leave him alone, to let him rot away without interference. He doesn't understand why they cured him, why they bother. Why are they still trying to, to give him freedom or something?
“Alright, how about– how about we make a deal, Owen?” The lumberjack in question cracks an eye open, watching as Legs continues, “You can stay here, if this is where you are most comfortable. But, I need you to eat.” He pointedly glances toward the abandoned bowl of soup by his feet. “Try, at least.”
Owen wants to argue, but his anger has quickly burned through what little energy he had left. His frail human body needs sustenance, and he knows this, even with the nausea building in his stomach at the thought.
“Can–” He pauses, swallows even though his mouth is achingly dry, “Can it be meat, at least?” He curses himself for how small his voice sounds, how pathetic, but Legundo only smiles with relief. (He hates that he's letting the man win. That he's giving in. Giving up. He tells himself he's just biding his time. If he wants to make them suffer, as he has, he needs to regain his strength.)
“Of course, Owen. We worried that might be too much for your stomach, but… carnivorous, of course. I should have expected meat to be easier to ease back into.”
Owen doesn't humor the Doctor's ramblings with an answer, just leans his head against the wall and closes his eyes again. Part of him wants to ask why Cleo was here. Why they haven't been cured yet. Whether the townsfolk had seen or talked to the other vampires. Whether they'd been looking for him.
He keeps silent, though, and Legundo correctly takes this as the end of the conversation. “I'll be back soon with something warm for you to eat.” Legs says, turning around, wiping at the blood on his arm again. Owen hears him muttering about infections and bacteria as he leaves the cell. He doesn't even lock it behind him, which is just negligent in Owen's opinion.
Not that he has any desire to stand up. Or the energy to do so. Where would he even go?
“Make it rare!” He weakly calls after the Doctor, who doesn't react to the request at all aside from a nod. Owen runs a hand through his tangled hair– he's still shaky.
He can't get the taste of Legundo's blood out of his mouth.