InsaneJournal

CAL: Cal came through the back of the diner. He didn't bother with the kitchen and one of the cooks turned to stop him -- everyone in the diner knew Cal, and they put up with him to an extent -- but when he saw the girl in Cal's arms and the blood he exclaimed in Spanish. He got out of Cal's way, and the big man kept going toward the diner's break room. "CATE!"


CATE: She wasn't in the breakroom, strangely enough. It was lucky she was in the diner at all: one of the girls had an impromptu out-of-town holiday, and Cate had been called in to open in her stead. She was moving sluggishly -- a doctor's appointment earlier that week had left her tired and groggy -- and had opted to avoid wiping down counters to flop into a booth and flip idly through her journal, until her body decided to wake up or one of the cooks came and hurried her off, whichever came first. It was something else entirely, really: familiar handwriting, welcome in the way news about bombings in Iraq were welcome: harrowing, but at least you knew what was going on.

And then Cal was shouting for her from the back, and she was already on her feet before he was even on the main floor. The journal fell out of her hands.

"What happened," she said stupidly, knowing exactly what it was. Or who, more accurately. Cal lumbered in, with the cook behind him. Cate felt numb.


CAL: "Son of a bitch cut her up," Cal said, almost without emotion. It was impossible to see how badly Edie was hurt because Cal was simply too tall, and he didn't stop when he saw Cate but instead kept going until they were in the little break room, the same one they had fought in months earlier. He put Edie gently down on the couch and started snatching up stray dish towels to try to stop the blood. "Can you do anything? Don't think she's got long." Edie wasn't conscious but she was alive.

There were four cuts. One was clearly visible and had gone off her ribs on one side. The other was high, close to one shoulder and below the collarbone. The one in the outside of her thigh was bleeding the hardest, but the ugliest was the one in her stomach.

Cal wiped tears or sweat out of his eyes and tried to keep the girl alive. "Please?"

CATE: Cate knew exactly what that meant. Cal wasn't stupid; she'd told him when they first met what she did, and he didn't forget much. She hadn't healed anyone in months, the largest expenditure of her blood being the regular little vial she slipped Charlie so Libby's hallucinogenic kisses wouldn't get to him. But that was nothing. Edie was bleeding out all over the dilapidated couch, through the thin dish towels and napkins and all over Cal's hands. The cook--he was new, fuck, what was his name?--was frantically trying to dial 911, his sausage fingers slipping in sweat and terror and shock. It wasn't every day one of the waitresses' boyfriends came in hauling a dying girl.

For a long moment, she just stared, assessing. Waiting. She could feel the lump in her throat rising and falling uncomfortable, bile or vomit or tears, she didn't know which. And then, with surprising force, she pushed Cal away. "Get out," she said. The cook, even though the order wasn't directed at him, went hustling out, the cord of the break room phone tangling around his legs. Cate looked down at Cal--a small distance, even on his knees--with something like hurt and anger and determination all mingled together. She knew he had no idea what this would do to her, and she knew how he could ask her to do it. She would have done the same in his situation. "Get me a knife, and get out."

CAL: Cal was not easily moved the first time, but he went because he was not expecting it. He tipped over like a child's toy, and then righted himself, looking at her. No, he didn't know what it would do to her, and he remembered his sister and hesitated. But it was too late; he had asked, and he would ask again, because Edie was just a girl and her blood was everywhere.

He got up and got out of her way. He pushed aside a staring waitress as if she was nothing and returned with a knife, a clean one from the desanitizer, sharp for the cooks, not the customers. Cal stepped inside and handed Cate the knife, hilt first. He shut the door behind him and stepped over to a file cabinet leaning against the wall. It was full and it was heavy, but he put his shoulder to it and it moved one scraping inch and then another, until it was blocking the door, which opened in.

It looked like Cal was staying.

CATE: She stood with the knife trembling over her arm, as if the thing had a will of its own and refused to go down. "I can't have you in here when I do this," she said.

CAL: "You can," he told her in a very soft, comforting voice. He didn't use it very much. He came over to the couch with her. "I can help."

CATE: Cate didn't respond. She had to make this clinical. She knew exactly what this would do, to her and to Edie, and likely to Cal if he stayed to watch. "I'm--the cut's going to be pretty deep," she said carefully, keeping her eyes trained on the wound in Edie's middle. Four cuts. She would have to do this four times. Who knew what the cook would say when they broke the door down, found Edie healed and Cate--well. She'd be flagged as suicidal, most likely. Put under psych watch and surveillance in the hospital, probably blamed on the advancing tumors. She'd have to see a psychologist, take anti-depressants. Her mother would cry.

The knife came down and hurt every bit as much as she thought it would. Three deep cuts across the inside of her forearm, away from her wrist but through the main artery. She started to cry. Blood, dark and red and rich, pooled up and poured out, and Cate sat down in the stains Edie's own blood had made, dropping the knife and pressing her hands, now red, onto Edie's middle. Something squelched uncomfortable under her palms, and she felt that lump start rising up again. But there were tears now, and blood, and slowly, very slowly, she felt the gash under her fingers start to knit itself together, even as the dizziness started in the back of her head.

CATE: At the edge of her vision, Cate could watch Cal move. The familiar presence of him was behind her, and even without the comforting familiarity of his scent (the harsh metal smell of Edie's blood took the air and didn't let go), he was warm and strong at her shoulder. He picked up the knife where she had dropped it, and several moments later, his arms came around her and both hands covered hers. "We'll fix it," he said, just into her ear, and he seemed calmer than he had ever been in the time she had known him.

It was the dizziness that went first, almost immediately after he put his split palms on hers. After that there was a peculiar rush, a rush of energy, like waking up in the morning after you've had just the right amount of sleep, or seconds after you start to jog and the adrenaline hits. With Cal's blood, Cate would feel strong. She would feel that way until she passed out, so Cal knew they would have to be careful.

He also knew they had about five minutes before the others showed up.

CATE: "You're bleeding--" and her hands came away almost instantly. She hadn't expected him to be there--a part of her had, in the way she expected Cal to be around when things were shitty, but the part that was Cate without Cal (which, she was surprised to admit, was a dwindling part, and she wasn't sure how she felt about that) never expected anyone to be there. She never wanted them to be, to see her bleed out, see holes and cuts and wounds and bones piece themselves back together. But then there were arms and shoulders and hands and she didn't feel dizzy anymore, and shock gave way to resolution--until she saw the blood that wasn't hers or Edie's coming out of his hands. "What did you do--why are you--I can't heal both of you, I can't do it--"

CAL: Cal took her hands without wincing against the pain, and put them back. "Don't stop. I don't need you to heal me. You worry about her. I worry about you. This is how it goes. I'll make sure you stop when you should, but not now. Don't stop."

CAL: Cate opened her mouth to protest--how could she, a healer, just let him do that? How could she, Cate do that?--but she was gulping back tears and could only turn back to her work. She had forgotten how much bleeding for people hurt. The wound was half-healed; she'd lost about a pint, at this rate. She knew it was five before a person had little chance of recovery. Carefully, she pressed her fingers around the cuts on her arm, pushing up more blood and letting it drip into the open wound in Edie's middle. Fix up the insides, then the outsides. She'd fix Cal after. She'd fix them.

The cut knit slowly, but steadily, and when it seemed only a small gash, Cate smeared blood across it and moved down to Edie's leg, throwing the dish towels to the side and picking the knife up again. Not enough blood. Too many cuts. She stuck carefully, point first, into her palm, wiped at her face with the other hand and pressed the new cut down. Insides, the outsides. It didn't take as long as the abdomen wound--less organs to mend, less blood to pour in--and she removed one hand to lean over Edie and press it into the one on her ribs. Two at a time. Use the time wisely. Fix her well, do what she was meant to. Another pint lost, at least. Cate shook her head roughly, and pushed Cal away for the last one. She needed to do this on her own. If she had been there--if she had learned more about Barr, faster, spent less time chatting him up--if she had gotten Edie out and away, like she said she would--

Her bleeding hand came down on the last wound, the other's slathered liberally with Cate's blood to take care of themselves, and Cate's other, unwounded fingers fell against Edie's cheek. The girl was pale, but not as pale as she had been before Cate started pouring blood into her, though Cate's only fingers looked blue beneath her nails. "God, I should have kept you safe," she said quietly, as the girl's shoulder steadily knit itself together under Cate's tiny fingers.

When it was done, she felt just the same as when Cal had first put his arms around her, if colder somehow. Her hands looked whiter, and she could feel herself shaking. "Ok," she said, a lot quieter than she thought she should have been. "Ok."

CAL: Cal let her push him aside again, and his absence at her back was almost painful. When she sat back, though, he was there, curling a thick arm around her and dragging her closer. He checked Edie's pulse with a bloody hand, then picked something up from the floor. It was a cup, and he pushed it into Cate's trembling hands. He caught her eyes with his, and spoke carefully. "You drink this, but you cannot be sick. It will make it worse. Do not throw up."

Somebody was banging on the door, but Cal ignored it.

EDIE: If Edie had guardian angels they were certainly with her tonight. She laid there in utter stillness like a corpse and drenched in her own blood as well as Cate's. Something was happening in her mind, forcing her to wake up. It was the pain. Her finger twitched and her eyes moved rapidly beneath the thin membrane of her eyelids. Something hurt really, really bad. Everything was black but slowly, very slowly she heard muffled voices and a blurry light.

Her eyes had cracked open, searching the break room in a clouded daze until they settled on Cal and Cate both of them stained in red.

CATE: To Cate's credit, she had never drank blood before, so ingesting Cal's was something of a new experience. She was still crying, but it was weaker, slower, and she didn't think she would have the energy to throw up even if she'd wanted to. The room faded in and out of focus, but she took the cup and slowly, carefully swallowed it down. It wasn't much, and her gag reflex went to work right away, but she threw her good hand up and kept swallowing until it was all down, stomach convulsing against her but everything else too weak to do much else. The cup fell when she was done, despite her best attempts to get it on the table, and then she curled up instinctively under Cal's arm, smaller than she had been a minute ago, still shaking even as the warmth of invigoration ran through her.

"We--" she croaked, and swallowed, wiping her mouth. "We need to go to a hospital."

CAL: Cal hugged Cate and smiled vaguely even though he wasn't sure that she could see it. He was tired. Very tired. He had been up for a long time, and that was not wise if he was going to help pull someone back from death. He picked up the kitchen towels Cate had pushed aside and wrapped her hands, then pressed them together between his. "I'll let them in." There was still banging on the door, more urgent, and yelling beyond it. Cal staggered to his feet. He would tell them the asshole had come for them, too, and he had panicked and come here. Yes. That was what they'd say.

EDIE: Edie made a face at seeing the two all cozy like that and she smirked, her voice was dry and barely there when she finally spoke up. "Christ you two, get a fucking room." Her eyes then fluttered shut and blackness took her.

CATE: A bit too late for that, Edie. Cate's arm was still bleeding steadily, and when Cal moved away, she fell right into the arm of the couch and didn't move again. Close to four pints lost, the doctors would say, looking dubiously over their charts when she was tucked into her hospital bed. A miracle they'd gotten to her when they did.

She'd find that word ironic when she woke up.