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“Owen. You need to eat.”
It has been nearly three days since he awoke, painfully human once again. He doesn't know how they accomplished it- whether it was science, or holy power, or some gnarled combination of the two. The way Avid and Legundo seemed to be working closely certainly suggested the latter.
He doesn't much care to ask. There was no reversing what they'd done to him- not, not truly. Even if Scott would turn him back, return him to a creature of the night, it wouldn't be the same. (Not that he'd ever ask for the arrogant bastard's help.) It would be a cruel mockery of the precious gift Louis had given him.
That connection had been torn in two when they took Louis from him, and the ragged pieces ripped entirely out of his chest when they held him down and forced the breath of humanity back into his shriveled lungs.
“Owen…” His name is repeated, the Doctor's disappointment- his pity- seeping into the cracks of his tone. Legundo holds a gently steaming bowl of something, one of his medicinal soups, full of garlic and potatoes from the smell of it.
Owen wrinkles his nose, curling further into himself in the corner of his cell, resolutely ignoring the Doctor's presence.
They had offered to let him out (Despite Avid's half-hearted protests. They only had one cell built to hold vampires, after all, and wasting it on something no longer undead could prove dangerous), but he wouldn't move. Wouldn't let their warm hands touch him, wouldn't be dragged away from the last place any piece of Louis, however slim, had touched.
There was nothing for him, outside these cobbled walls, regardless. He could not return to that mossy-roofed home Sausage built for them, to the surprisingly comfortable bed hidden in the loft. Owen had never actually properly slept in it- he had little need for the act, as a vampire. And Sausage snored.
Scott and his fledgling coven, if they would even take him back, surely had no use for him as he was now, weak and sickly. He isn't even sure if they had noticed his disappearance, if they knew what had been done.
Ever the outcast among outcasts, sitting along the edges of the circle. Pathetic.
Out of the corner of his eye, Owen watches as Legundo sighs heavily, setting the soup on the ground between where they both sit. The silver spoon clinks tauntingly against the wooden bowl.
Owen is hungry, yes, but the gnawing in his stomach is nothing compared to his hunger, his thirst, as a vampire. (He misses the ache, the all-consuming need to feed, the warmth of some struggling thing’s lifeblood soothing his parched throat. He longs for the taste.)
It's child's play to tune out the sensation. He is used to hunger, an old companion, from well before he met Louis and from long after. Always hungry, his body eating away at itself, never enough to go around. Not for him.
(Louis had fed him, nearly every time he visited the mayor, grandiose meals that felt like far too much for the lumberjack's meager appetite. The food was the most delicious thing he had ever tasted, at the time, cooked and seasoned to perfection. It warmed him, but not as much as Louis' kind eyes, his sharp smile, watching him feast. Louis never took a bite- Owen knows why, now, of course.)
It's almost comforting, knowing that he still has this control, that they might have taken everything he had but they cannot force him to eat.
The very thought of putting anything in his mouth besides blood and meat and flesh makes his stomach turn, anyways. He doesn't think he could keep anything down, even if they did force it into him.
The Doctor is quiet, sitting cross-legged a few meters away from him. He can feel the man's gaze burning into his skin, prickling the hairs on the back of his neck.
At least Legundo doesn't ramble nervously, doesn't ask pointed, accusatory questions, doesn't try to needle information on the other- on the remaining vampires out of him. Avid has been spending far too much time brewing potions across the room, unable to ignore Owen's sullen presence the way he wishes the hunter would.
“I know you are hurting, Owen.” Legs speaks up eventually, breaking the tense silence permeating the stale air. “I have studied far less in matters of the mind than of the body, though it is easy to tell that both are plaguing you.”
He extends his hands, and Owen shies away from it, shooting the man a glare.
“You spoke before of an affliction- medicine has advanced much in two hundred years. If it has returned along with your heartbeat, there may be a cure for that as well.”
Owen scoffs, hands tightening around his arms. The linen wraps coiled around his body are haggard, burnt in places from where the silver had pressed against his flesh, dirty and hanging limply off his skin.
He doesn't know if the affliction has returned. The blistering sores, the itching wounds that covered so much of his mottled skin before, have not yet made a reappearance- though the lingering pain they caused had.
Aches that were carved deep into his bones, a tremble in his hands, the fatigue that washed over him in waves. He had learned to live with the pain, before. It is not new to him.
“...May I see your arms? Even if you are not ill, again, the bandages should be removed- replaced,” the Doctor hastily amends at Owen's bristling.
“I do not need- I do not want your help.” Owen mutters, words raspy and broken. He has not spoken in what might be days.
They are nearly the only words that Owen has spoken, again and again. He's pleaded, tried to make them understand, to see that he was better before. To see their mistake. To see how he suffers.
Legundo sighs, mouth pinched and brows heavy. The Doctor's idiotic, bleeding heart will be the death of him, Owen swears it. Even if he has to drain it dry himself.
A roll of clean, fresh linen is pulled from the Doctor's bag, blindingly white compared to Owen's dingy, dirt-stained wraps. He sets it aside, next to the cooling, untouched bowl of soup.
“You cannot stay here, in this cell,” Legundo continues, changing the subject once it is obvious Owen has no desire to comply with his whims. “It is- clear, that you still require… supervision. You were cursed for much, much longer than Apo, and there may be side effects to the cure we have yet to see.” He adjusts his monocle, “The townsfolk and I have discussed it, and I am the only person with the needed skills to assist you, should an adverse effect rear its head.”
Owen watches the Doctor in silence, waiting for him to continue with narrowed eyes.
“There is room in my home. You would not be prisoner- We just want to give you the care that you need, Owen.”
Not to mention the fact that left alone and uncaged, both men are well aware that Owen is a danger to himself and others, fangs or no. His hands itch for the familiar handle of his axe. He wants to see these ruined streets run red with the blood of Oakhurst's foolish inhabitants, as many times as it takes to stick.
“...And if I refuse your hospitality?” Owen inquires after a long moment, tone sharp and biting.
“I'm afraid you do not have much of a choice here,” The Doctor shakes his head solemnly, bright eyes boring into the lumberjack's own. “I do not want to force you, Owen.”
It's a threat that hangs heavy in the air between them. A regretful necessity, maybe, on the Doctor's part, but a threat nonetheless.
“And,” Legundo adds, breaking away from Owen’s stare, “You would not be alone. Avid has offered to help in your- recovery, as much as he can. I may not trust his medical knowledge wholeheartedly, but no one in Oakhurst knows more about the vampiric curse than he does.” And the vampires, of course, goes unsaid.
A razor-edged bark of laughter escapes Owen, no humor in the harsh sound. “The psychotic, paranoid vampire hunter wants to help me?” He demands, disbelief coating his words.
“He does,” Legs nods, unfazed by Owen’s crazed laughter. “He and Drift offered their home first, actually, but I worry they may not have the tools and knowledge to help if the need arises.”
The idea doesn’t make sense with anything Owen knows about the vampire hunter, and he shakes his head with a huff. Ludicrous, truly. He would sooner tear his own throat out than be forced to live with that infuriating, annoying waste of air.
When it becomes clear that Owen is not going to offer a response to his ridiculous words, Legundo clicks his tongue and stands.
“Think about it, will you? I’ll be back to get you in a few hours, just before sundown. I’m sure you would like to sleep in a real bed.” His voice is kind, but it grates in Owen’s ears.
He scowls, dropping his gaze back to the stone floor. The Doctor watches him for a moment, maybe hoping for some sort of reaction, but eventually, finally, turns and leaves the cell.
He is alone once again (always alone), and the bowl of soup and the clean linen wraps are still sitting in front of the lumberjack, their very presence mocking him. He had nearly forgotten about the soup, but with the Doctor gone, the smell wafts back over him.
His stomach growls, desperate for something to fill it.
Owen stands shakily, dropping himself onto the thin cot, curling up in some pathetic semblance of comfort. With the soup behind him and out of sight, he can ignore it with little trouble.
His senses are so dulled, now. He doesn't know how he managed, Before, with such limited sight and smell, with such muffled hearing. It makes him feel disconnected from his body (this broken, wretched human body), a barrier between himself and the outside world that he used to be able to navigate so well under the protection of the night.
Later that day, Owen might have to leave his cell, dragged into the light by Legs or by Avid or Ren. He might have to bear the weight of their gazes, snarl and snap as they treat him like a wild dog. He might shout curses at Apo and Cleo, might watch the skies for the fluttering of bat wings with misplaced hope.
For now, though, it’s easy to slip into that numb haze, staring sightlessly at the wall in front of him, his own shallow breaths the only sound his useless human ears can pick up.
He is so tired.
He is so hungry.
Louis would be so disappointed, to see what he has become.