TITLE: Blood-red with a Dash of Crimson
GENRE: Drama
CHARACTERS: Cal, Gillian
PAIRING: Cal/Gillian friendship
RATING: PG-13
SPOILERS: None
WORDS: 800
SUMMARY: After arriving at the crime scene, Cal helps Gillian wash Claire's blood off her hands.

#THEN

The moment it merges with the running water it turns into something else. From dark crimson to something lighter—washing down the drain in almost majestic motions that remind him of a veil swaying in the wind.

He watches it with horror.

She watches it, too. But there is no horror on her face. Even the tears have dried and left her with a distant expression somewhere far, far away. She's not in the room with him and maybe it is for the better.

First he just holds her arms in place as if to guide her. After a while he gently wipes her hands, but not all of the blood comes off. He uses some soap and needs to rub harder, worried that he is hurting her, but what else is there to hurt, really. She seems unaware of what is going on.

The water circling the drain slowly becomes clearer, only a dash of red here and there after a while. It doesn't become easier, though. There is some blood left under her nails, so he turns off his brain and mindlessly cleans every single one of her fingers with meticulous detail.

When he turns the water off, the silence is deafening. She holds her hands in place, drops of water falling down into the basin. She still looks at them, but doesn't move.

He gets a towel from a rail nearby and wraps it around both her hands. For a moment he thinks of Wallowski and when she will finally be here. And he thinks of violent things he will do to the bastard who is responsible for all this pain. He thinks of it in graphic detail in fact.

The towel is white, and despite his efforts he sees that some faint hint of red remains on it when he takes it away. She just stares at it. He wants to hug her tight, but is afraid she'll break right under his fingers if he does.

While he is still holding the towel, not knowing what to do or where to put it, she looks around the room and begins to shake her head. Her voice is steady and yet so broken.

"This is wrong. It's her bathroom; those are her towels."

He knows, but he can't change it.

#NOW

He dreams of blood a lot. About it being hers this time, and about it being fatal. He once dreams about going to his own execution and about her already being there bleeding to death for him. He hugs her wordlessly the next day and just leaves her wondering what is going on with him.

When making dinner with Emily one fine evening he cuts his finger with a knife too sharp. As the blood rushes down the kitchen sink, he is nauseated by the tiny scratch and remains pale for the rest of the night. Not even he knows what's going on.

Then she wears a red dress to a client meeting and he loses all his concentration, because all he can think of is her hands, and the blood, and the hurt, and the faint smell of iron contaminating the air. Call it a panic attack or whatever. Who knows what's going on.

Later she catches him getting some air on the rooftop of the building. It's been a long time since they've been here together. Too long maybe, because it's always been a good place to talk and they haven't really done that a lot in the past few weeks.

"Are you alright?" she asks, but gives the answer within the same breath. "You don't look alright."

"I'm not alright," he replies bluntly, because what reason is there to lie to her.

"Me neither," she says, but she is also smiling while getting the truth out. It feels good to be this honest, he knows that much.

He puts his arm around her shoulders and draws her closer to himself. They both look out at the same sky—blood-red from a rarely seen sunset over the roofs of the city.

"Look at this," she whispers in awe.

"I hate it," he counters.

"You gotta learn to love it again."

For a while he wonders whether she has picked up on the true meaning behind his words. He wouldn't be surprised if she did, because she knows him like nobody else.

But after a minute or two he realizes that it doesn't matter; that he can't blame a color. Blood means death as much as it means life.

He hugs her tighter; not afraid of breaking her. There is some beauty in the moment, he has to admit.

THE END