bubble

When he's present, however, it's unmistakable. Louis carries the doctor's body with poise retained from long-gone muscle memory, his movements sure, deliberate, and his damn smile–

Cleo would cleave that smile from his lips, except it isn't his to ruin.

Not yet.

Not ever.

The doctor's lucid moments are few now, and far between, but they're easy to spot. It's not just the confusion – that distant cousin of walking into a room and forgetting one's purpose. Neither is it just the sudden intake of breath, as if Louis – unaccustomed to a mortal form – sometimes forgets to breathe.

It's the exhaustion.

"This isn't right, doc," Cleo tries – because they have to try, they can't let him just slip away as if he's succumbing to a sickness in his sleep. As if this is natural. "You've got to see that."

Legundo sits at the edge of the animal paddock, where Cleo had seen the shifting perspectives take place. The low stone wall seems to be all that's keeping him up.

"Do I?" he asks. "Have to see that?"

"They're killing you," she says, because somehow, everyone keeps overlooking that. "They're just being polite about it."

The news of his imminent death doesn't perturb the doctor the way it might the other occupants of Oakhurst. He smiles – not in that damn benevolent way that Louis twists his mouth, but with a grief that asks: you understand, don't you? "I really thought it'd be over by now."

She doesn't want to understand, doesn't want to give him the inches of a rope that'll he'll use to hang himself by.

She understands, but she doesn't have to admit it.

"What would be over?"

"This," and he gestures to himself. "Every time I feel myself lapse, I think, maybe this is the last time. Maybe I don't come back after this."

"There must be a way to stop this. You're a doctor–"

Legs laughs – and, oh, she's going to miss it – and rubs tiredly at his eyes. "Of science. Medicine. Of real, rational conditions. Not ghosts, I don't know how to–" He breaks his comment off. He offers a wry smile that Cleo doesn't believe. Not for a moment. "They hardly taught how to cure possession at medical school."

"They didn't teach you how to cure vampirism either, but you're still trying," she replies, because they are not going to let Legs just let this happen. "Maybe there's a book out there. You don't know there isn't."

"And you don't know that there is." He reaches out to her, a show of comfort, of understanding, and she–

She flinches, before they can stop themselves.

(There had been another hand, the same but not the same, not the same in any way which mattered, which had reached out to her before. And they hate it. They hate how Louis has poisoned even this.)

Legs withdraws his hand. He doesn't even look hurt at the rejection – just sad.

"It'll be fine," he says – and the words could be Louis', it would be easier if they were, but this is Legundo, and a different kind of anger takes hold.

"How are you okay with this?" She's raising her voice, but they don't care. Let the whole town hear. Let Owen hear. Dammit, let Louis hear, in whatever depths of Legs' soul he's currently buried beneath. She rises to her feet. "How are you okay with any of this?"

"Cleo–"

"No. I've been in your shoes, doc. Not... not exactly," she remedies, because they're not sure there's really ever been any shoes quite like the fuckery that's currently going on. This is some tailor-made shit. "But not having control. I understand that, doc. You know I do."

He meets her gaze. He looks exhausted. Sallow. "I know."

"They win by making you believe that you have to accept this," she says. "They win when you choose not to fight."

"Not every battle should be fought."

"And this?" She stares down at him. "What if it was happening to someone else? To Abolish, or..." and she pauses to consider who's left. "Or Apo?" because, for whatever reason, there seems to be an understanding between the doctor and the soldier. "Would it still be okay?"

"That's different–"

"The hell it is." She kneels down before him, bringing their eyes level, and this time it is they who reach out. Her hands curl around the doctor's, and they can feel each pitted scar, each callused welt across his skin.

There comes the sudden, terrible fear that this might be the last time she holds these hands in hers.

"Come on, doc," she says. "We still need you."

The smile returns, and Cleo amends their previous judgement: it's not grief. It's the sorrow that comes before grief, the final vigil beside the dying patient. "The world doesn't need an old monster like me."

"It doesn't need a monster like Louis, either," Cleo says, because she doesn't have time to unpack the full weight of Legs' statement, not when there's never any way to know how soon the possession will return.

"Better Louis than me."

"And how would you know that?" Cleo realises their grip has tightened by the hitched wince, and forcibly loosens her hands. "How would you know he's like? He arrives on the scene, and you – what – get boxed away like a forgotten toy, and you just hope he means well? He's killing you, Legs, and calling it a kindness."

"And the last time Owen lost Louis, he murdered every living soul in Oakhurst," the doctor says.

"Damn Owen," Cleo says. "Damn him, and damn Louis."

"Cleo, I have spent... weeks trying to avert a war between vampires and humans," and he sounds so tired, morbid humour curdling at the edge of his voice. "Only for Louis to step in and immediately defuse the situation. If this is how we create peace, I'm happy with that."

"Well, I'm not. And, I'm telling you, doctor, we will find a way to stop this. We're not letting you go without a fight."

Something shifts within Legs then – a resettling of sorrow, an eased tension – and Cleo almost lets herself believe he's shucking off the apathy...

But then she sees that damn benevolent smile, and she knows he's lost again.

Louis shuffles back into the doctor's bones, posture sharpening and grief discarding. In its place sits polite, patient pity.