TW: descriptions of life-threatening wounds in detail.
Dark Side.
Chapter 35: The Descent. Part I.
"It's been a summer
Of licking disappointment
From outstretched hands
And walking miles on my knees.
Inside of me lives
Something undeniably ugly
And it scratches my throat
For surrender.
The truth is
I could sleep forever
And it would be fine.
The truth is
I think about it
All the time."
—What I haven't Told My Mother. Emily Palermo.
The early morning sunlight filters through the blinds and past the weightless curtains until it rests against the floor, all yellow and black, yellow and black, yellow and black. Cassandra watches from her curled-up position in the bed, comforter up to her chin. She stopped crying sometime after three in the morning. Still, sleep never came and she's been looking at the same spot on the floor for hours until the dark shadows reflected on it turned light blue and then the pretty alternating yellow-and-black that it is now. Yellow and black. Like sunflowers.
Her phone goes off beside her, the vibrating of it making it dance on the bedside table. She sighs and turns on her side, facing the other side of the room. Her eyesight is haunted by an overexposed imprint of yellow and black.
Accidentally, she catches her reflection on the vanity's mirror. She looks dead. All half-dried tear tracks, dark circles under her eyes, puffy eyelids, dry, chapped lips. Dead. Dead and tired and pathetic. She's a pathetic murderer. A pathetic, dead, lost murderer. She can't bare the sight.
The wicker basket by the armoire catches her eye. It's painted white, a large piece of indigo tulle wrapping it as a present. Inside, there are bath bombs and lavender-scented body mists, some newly-released mystery novel, a box containing Covent Garden blend loose tea, chocolates. Caroline dropped it off, as well as a small stash of blood bags, yesterday afternoon after all Cassandra provided as answer to her many texts was a monosyllable. It makes her want to cry, the fact that even though she spent thirteen days doing nothing but prove she's a psychopathic monster Caroline still cares about her, still thinks of her as a friend.
Katherine would have tried to kill her by now.
Her phone vibrates again; its brrrmm-brrrmm drills into her skull. Fighting the urge to make the offending mobile device explode, briefly fantasizing about all its little pieces flying about and catching fire mid-air, Cassandra scrunches her eyes closed.
She plans on sleeping the day away, like she did yesterday and the day before that, like she will do tomorrow. So, she keeps her eyes closed and doesn't move. Not when her phone goes off again, or when the very obvious click of her front door opening and closing slowly reaches her supernatural ears. Not when a familiar presence flitters around her house. And definitely not when the door to the personalized sanctuary that is her room opens.
"Hey," Damon says softly.
His voice is that carefully constructed soothing wave that he adopted whenever he accidentally walked in on her feeding on the help. That kind of veiled fear and unwanted and unneeded concern. Cassandra hums, rolling on her side and hoisting herself up to a sitting position.
She comes face to face with a glass filled to the rim with blood. O Negative blood. With a tangy, metallic smell that burrows inside her nose until it reaches her brain. The depth of its color, the delicious smell, immediately sends her back to the last two weeks. Bile threatens to rise up her throat. Immediately, she shakes her head.
Damon lets out a deep sigh, swiftly switching hands to offer her a steaming cup of Earl Grey tea.
She thinks she could cry right in this minute. Instead, she reaches out and grabs the cup of tea with both hands. Resting it on her propped-up knees, she leans her face closer to the rolling steam and breathes in deep. The bergamot infused black tea—her favorite by far—seeps into her pores, soothes every particle in her body. Maybe today won't be such a bad day after all.
"You know, ignoring your calls and texts doesn't mean: 'please, break into my home.'" Her voice is reprimanding, but nowhere near close as it would usually be.
Taking a deep breath in, she mentally prepares herself to meet his eyes. Cassandra feels her eyes sting, her nose twitch, as her eyes meet his, but she doesn't acknowledge the clear signs that indicate her desperate need to break down crying again. Damon's eyes are so full of kindness, it's nothing but a reminder of the mess she made, of the embarrassment and regret that haunts her. I love you, she thinks but she doesn't say it, because she's starting to think she doesn't want to.
The issue is—Damon is here. He's here, after every awful thing she said and did. He's still here, with a glass of blood and a cup of tea, whatever she needs to get out of bed. The irrationally hopeful side of her wishes it was because he's had some kind of revelation. The rational part of her, the one that's a scientist, an expert at survival, knows the only reason he's here looking like the world is about to end and basically beaconing her with these wide, bright blue eyes is that something very bad happened.
"Cassie..." Damon starts, hesitant.
"What do you need?" Cassandra clears her throat, pulls her hair behind her ear.
Damon seems surprised for a moment. The silence stretches as he searches for words that seem to evade him. He takes a small step forward, waits to see how she reacts, pink tongue nervously wetting his bottom lip. In this moment, he reminds her a lot of the human version of him. Like she went to sleep and woke up back in the 19th Century.
Cassandra sips quietly at her tea, tucks her legs closer to her torso so there's more space available on the bed. If that's where he was going, anyway.
"A favor. It was the full moon last night and someone got hurt." He starts.
Her heart stops. It halts half-beat before starting again a few seconds later. She swallows another sip of tea, fighting off a scream. Because she only knows one person who would hang around a werewolf on a full moon, despite constant warnings from all of them that it was insanely dangerous.
"Caroline?" She asks for reassurance.
If Tyler bit Caroline, after she had been such a good friend to Cassandra… Well, Cassandra isn't sure what she'd do, but it wouldn't be pretty.
"No."
Damon finally takes a seat in front of her, one leg bent on the bed, the other firm on the ground. She knows it's insane, but she swears she can feel his warmth through the comforter. Never mind the fact that he's at least a foot away from her.
She swallows through a dry throat; relief flows through her veins like nectar, softens her bones until she's certain her soul is crying and worshiping some god she stopped believing in a long time ago. Caroline is fine. Stefan certainly is, too, otherwise Damon would not be allowing her so much time. Whoever got hurt must be human, which means they can be fixed.
"Who, then?" Cassandra asks.
Because if whoever got hurt is indeed human, then there's no need for her to help. A little bit of vampire blood will do the trick. Maybe she could brew the potion she was planning on using on Caroline what feels like years ago. After all, if the person who got hurt is Matt or Bonnie, they're certainly not going to be consuming vampire blood.
"Rose." Damon admits with difficulty.
Suddenly, his overall wariness makes absolute sense. After all, Cassandra did turn her humanity off after walking in on him post-coital with Rose. No matter how many times she says that wasn't what tipped her over the edge, she's pretty sure Damon knows she's partly lying.
"Oh." She mumbles. If she's honest, she kind of forgot the woman existed. She's had more pressing matters to worry over lately.
Still, she feels… bad. Cassandra and Rose have one thing in common. They have both spent their lives, or a rather large part of it, in fear. The kind of fear that is strong enough to cripple and eat at you until you become a hollowed-out carcass. Cassandra knows enough about this fear to know you either let it take you, or you fight it. You fight it hard until your nails bleed and your soft curves turn into jagged edges and your skin is made of ivory and your teeth have become daggers. You fight. You fight until you become this Thing that looks like you but isn't really. It doesn't matter. Because you survive. Cassandra survived. Cassandra survives. So does Rose, even if Rose let Fear take her. This, however, this werewolf bite that shrinks Rose's lifespan into a couple of days, that serves as a reminder of five centuries of lost time. This is terrifying.
"She must be very afraid." She comments after a moment.
Damon looks at her. Curiosity turns his face into this soft frown, tilted head and confused eyes. He's so pretty she wants to cry. So pretty and worried about his new friend-that-could-be-more, that she wishes she hadn't been having a breakdown yesterday. Maybe she could have stopped Rose from getting hurt.
"That's why I need you to help."
"I don't know what I could do." She shakes her head.
There's nothing to be done. Werewolf venom kills vampires. She's never seen it in action firsthand—werewolves are, after all, endangered—but she's read plenty about it. The pain, the hallucinations, the vomiting and maddening hunger. Cassandra wouldn't wish that on her worst enemy. Okay, maybe that's not entirely true. But, the point is, she can't think of anything she can really do to help.
"You told me your aunt was a healer." Damon reminds her.
His hand twitches, like he wanted to reach out and touch her. Instead, his hand ends up on the spot next to her feet as he leans forward, expectant. Oh, Judas, she curses silently in her mind. He wants her to heal Rose. But even if she was good at healing, the most she could do for Rose is try to make her comfortable. There's no cure or antidote for werewolf venom.
"Yes, but I didn't inherit that gift," Cassandra tells him carefully.
Damon exhales. His eyes narrow slightly as they find the patterned comforter.
"No, but you lived with her for ten years!" Damon stresses the word at the same time he scoots on the bed until his knee hits her ankles. "Surely you picked something up."
He's trying so hard to downplay how hard he desperately wants Rose to be okay. The two of them are not in the best of places right now, and she knows it must have taken a lot for him to swallow his pride and come asking for help. Cassandra sighs into her cup of tea, sipping at it quietly.
"Cassie, please." Damon adds, eyes pleading. "It was my fault. I pissed off a werewolf. Rose is hurt because of me, Cassie. So, please—"
"Okay." She whispers, unwillingly. Damon straightens, looking at her with awe all over his face. She secretly wishes he'd stop looking at her like she's oh-so-amazing. It's incredibly confusing. "Okay. Let me freshen up, I'll meet you downstairs."
Before Damon can answer, she places the teacup on her bedside table and jumps out of bed. She recognizes time is incredibly important when it comes to poison and venom, but her hair is a mess and she's been wearing the same pajamas for the last three days. She feels icky and dirty. No way is she leaving this house before showering.
She hears him rise from the bed, but she doesn't stop on her way to the en suite bathroom until he calls her name again. She turns around. Damon is standing by the door, hand on the handle, body angled towards her.
"Thank you." He nods, serious.
Her stomach clenches painfully. Dread runs through her, freezing her blood.
"Don't thank me yet."
In the bathroom, she takes a shower, scrubs her face, brushes her teeth, and carefully makes a list of options. A very short list. There isn't a lot she can do, not really.
She doesn't bother with makeup, or fancy clothes. She has no motivation for them. She slides on a pair of high-waisted black sports leggings, a black tank top, and a black teddy-fleece cropped track-top with a bunch of giant sunflowers patterned on it. Sunflowers are the only thing keeping her sane right now; she might as well wear them.
As she laces her old pair of combat boots, she ponders whether to wear a jacket or not. She's cold, colder than usual. Deciding against it, she simply diffuses her hair until it's semi-dried, knowing there's not enough time to dry it completely. It already took her twenty minutes to shower, her hair will have to be the big mane of natural curls it has always been, even if that's not how she styles it anymore.
Damon is waiting by the door when she finally makes her way downstairs. He frowns down at her. Her hold on her bag tightens a little. Again, and strangely it feels like some sort of taunt, Damon offers her a glass of blood.
"You need to eat," he says, impatient, when seconds pass and she simply, dumbly, stares at the glass without taking it.
"I'm not hungry." She denies through a dry throat.
He looks at her like she's an idiot. Maybe she is.
"We're vampires, Cassie." He moves the glass closer to her. Like bait. "We're constantly hungry."
"Yeah, well..." she shrugs.
Unconsciously, her eyes jump down to the glass hovering between them. She is hungry. But it's none of his business whether she feeds well or not. She's not starving herself, if that's what he's thinking. That'd be messed up. She had some blood last night, and she'll have some tonight. Little steps until the smell of blood doesn't trigger horrible memories, drowning guilt that leaves her gasping for air and wishing she were dead. In front of her, Damon lets out an exasperated sigh that borders on angry.
"Elena is there," he says. Her eyes find his face. "And I don't want to walk into the living room and find you ripped out her carotid because you 'weren't hungry.'"
Ah, yes, Elena. The sun around which Damon's world revolves.
That was mean. Damon isn't hers; she has no right to be jealous. No right at all. There is no jealousy here. Except that, dammit, he's worried again. He doesn't trust her with Elena anymore. And, earlier, the worry she naively thought was for her had been for Rose. Fear, thought, fear is definitely directed at her. He's afraid of her now. Who can blame him? She's a psychopath. An actual serial killer. The only reason Damon's here asking for help—help he must know is futile—is because Cassandra's the only one old enough to hold Rose back.
She closes her eyes, lets out a breath she didn't realize she'd been holding, and grabs the glass from Damon's hand. She doesn't even hesitate; she downs the blood in one go. It's delicious, of course it is. The heavy consistency of it soothes her parched throat in the most relaxing way. Every muscle in her body caves out. Okay, so maybe she's hungrier than she thought, if her body is this happy over a mere 250 milliliters of blood. When she opens her eyes, Damon is smirking down at her. Smug.
"We are making a stop at a drugstore." She informs him, carelessly sliding the glass into the sideboard by the door.
If he's expecting a 'you were right' from her. Then he'll wait for a long ass time.
They did stop at the drugstore, where Cassandra got an assortment of first aid materials and other items that would be useful in figuring out what exactly was going on with Rose. Of course, the first clue would be Rose herself, but she had a feeling she wouldn't be in a position to make several trips to town once she reached the Boarding House.
Because of this, she asked Damon to stop at the local market, and the florist, too. No matter how many times modern medicine insists herbs and flowers are a bogus remedy, if you pair them with a little magic, they work. Sometimes better than medicine itself. She only took the ones needed for a sleep draught and a calming infusion, also enough to make a rudimentary healing salve, but Damon doesn't need to know that. Let him think she's capable of a miracle.
The Salvatore home is eerily quiet when they enter the foyer. The curtains are closed, only allowing a thin sliver of natural light to filter through, giving the house a somber atmosphere. Well, more so than usual. For all its homey vibe and warmth, the Boarding House has always had a certain macabre undertone, like Southern Gothic meets the Kennedys. She loves it; it reminds her of some of the best years of her life, in another mansion, in a city that, back then, could be the embodiment of Southern Gothic.
Funny how the soul works, making connections out of nothing. Maybe she's just homesick for a home that never was. Maybe she clings to the past because it sounds so much better than the present.
She follows Damon down the hallway, across the great room, to the living room. Rose sits on the couch, her back to them. The chimney is lit, which is perplexing considering it's seventy-three degrees outside. Not hot, but certainly warm enough that the warmth from a lit fire would be unnecessary, not to mention uncomfortable. She makes a note of it in her mind, and walks to the cabinet on her left, placing the several paper bags in her arms on top, plus the plastic bag dangling from her wrist.
"Cassandra?" Elena questions, voice full of surprise as she turns on the spot.
She's standing right behind Rose, arms hanging at her side like she's not quite sure what to do with them. She had been eyeing the fireplace with the same critical eye Cassandra did before she saw them, confirming Cassandra's suspicions that fireplace was not lit for the human's benefit. Rose is cold.
Rose glances behind her but doesn't say anything, simply goes back to whatever she was doing. Letting the dancing flames lull her to a contemplative state where she judges the many years of her life? Cassandra isn't sure she wants to find out.
She sighs, absently pushing one of the paper bags upright. She isn't sure of anything these days.
"Here we go," she mutters under her breath when Elena decides she's going to join them by the door.
She catches Damon's warning look and ignores it.
"What are you doing here?" Elena asks her, voice lowered, tone of voice not judging exactly but a tad too curious for Cassandra to like it.
"She's going to help," Damon starts before placing a look on her that very clearly says 'be nice'. "Right?"
She gets it. Even if she thinks this is a lost cause, he doesn't want her saying as much when Rose is within hearing distance.
"As much as I am able." She confirms.
"How?"
"Her aunt was a healer." Damon answers Elena's question.
Once more she wishes he wouldn't put so much faith on her—well, not her as a person, but her as a witch. Faith on her magic—mainly because she's told him already healing magic was not her strongest suit. Elena is quick to pick up on that, on the fact that he said 'her aunt' and not 'she was a healer'.
"And I have twenty years of nursing experience," Cassandra adds.
And midwifery, but unless Rose is about to pop out a baby, she'll keep them focused on the nursing part.
"Cass, don't take this the wrong way," Elena starts, too gentle for her next words not to be a veiled insult. "But that's not exactly—I mean, she's really hurt and you're not a doctor, are you sure you wouldn't be doing more harm than good?"
Her face adopts this concerned, soft, look that somehow makes the blow worse. Beside her, Damon shifts, just barely, but enough that he ends up closer to her and fractionally in front of her, mouth opened to speak and, no doubt, spout some crap to defend Elena, rephrase what she said until it doesn't sound like an insult. She doesn't let him.
"Rose," Cassandra calls, raising her voice only so that Elena will feel a little embarrassed at being called out. Rose, after all, is old enough that she can hear them whisper even in her debilitated state. "Do you mind that I don't have an M.D.?"
Her healing magic might not be excellent, but she was the best goddamned nurse out in the front during World War II, and after, in London, where she doubled as a midwife—using at times what her aunt taught her, even if it was cheating—and she's not about to let seventeen-year-old Elena Gilbert have people doubting her competence.
"Not particularly." Rose answers, tucking her chin into her shoulder.
Cassandra turns back to Elena.
"She doesn't mind." She deadpans with raised eyebrows and tight lips.
It's a look that asks 'are you going to challenge me again?' and Elena is smart enough to know the correct answer is 'no'. She clears her throat and even takes a minute step back, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. Knowing she's won, Cassandra broaches another subject, one she's wanted to tackle since Damon mentioned Elena earlier.
"You shouldn't be here." Cassandra adds, ridding her voice of any hostility.
If what she knows about werewolf venom is true—as a human, once a vampire was afflicted, she never stayed long enough to witness the effects; as a vampire, she's never met anyone who's been bitten—things are about to get ugly, and Elena's human status puts her in danger.
"I want to help." Elena sighs like she's had this conversation before. "Any way I can."
No way, if she keeps second-guessing me, Cassandra thinks, but says nothing, instead looking around and noticing something she should have noticed before.
"Where's your brother?"
Stefan would be here. He's giving; he would want to help Rose, especially if Elena is insistent on also helping. After Elena's deal with Elijah which released Stefan from the tomb, a deal that ended with Katherine still stuck inside—all very stupid behavior, according to Caroline—Stefan reached out to her to thank her for having tried to free him, and to ensure she was doing okay. She guessed he would spend as much time as possible by Elena's side after that, but he's nowhere to be seen.
"On a fool's errand." Damon rolls his eyes.
"It's not a fool's errand." Elena shoots back with a bit of a bite, throwing Damon a semi-glare. "It's… he thinks it'd be a good idea to find Isobel and inquire about Klaus. He doesn't think Elijah is being honest." Elena tells her, losing the aggression she directed at Damon.
She hums. Elena thinks Elijah is being honest. Cassandra would assume he is, except she's having trouble imagining Elijah ripping Nik's heart out. It begs the question: if Elijah really is at his wit's end, what the hell did Niklaus do to get him there? And why does Elijah suddenly not want the Curse to be broken?
"You want to help?" Cassandra asks Elena, filing those questions under the same mental tab as all her Curse-related unanswered questions. "Take these to the kitchen," she nods to the two paper bags, before sliding her bag off her shoulder and holding it up in the air, "and my bag."
Elena nods, face morphing into an eager expression, and reaches for her bag, nearly buckling under the weight of it when Cassandra lets go. Cassandra looks at Damon out of the corner of her eye, waits for him to scramble to help Elena. He doesn't, and Elena manages to gather enough strength to lift the heavier-than-it-seems bag onto her shoulder. She grabs the two bags, sends them an awkward smile, and rushes toward the kitchen.
Cassandra turns, ready to argue that Elena struggling under the weight of two paper bags and a shoulder bag is proof enough that she should not be staying, when her chest slams against Damon's arm and she becomes aware of how close to each other they are standing. He frowns down at her, well, more like at the space where their bodies touch because her brain has ceased to function and she can't move or think through the heated fog inside her mind, before he steps away from her, looking, all in all, appalled.
It doesn't hurt, absolutely it doesn't. And those aren't tears misting over her vision on her way to Rose, drugstore bag clutched in one hand.
"Hi, Rose." She greets, walking around the couch until she stands directly in front of the older vampire. "How are you feeling?"
"Okay." Rose shrugs.
Cassandra watches her tug at the sleeves of the robe she's wearing, watches her shift slightly to the left in order to clear more space for Damon to sit down on the couch. She glances at Cassandra only long enough for their eyes to meet briefly, before her eyes land on the plastic bag hanging from her fingers.
"Are you cold?" Cassandra asks with enough authority in her voice that Rose tears her gaze away from the bag.
"A little, yes." Rose admits, shrugging again like it's of no consequence.
Cassandra hums, but doesn't comment. It isn't uncommon for the many fireplaces in the Boarding House to be lit, sometimes, Cassandra thinks, merely for the aesthetic. On days when the weather is particularly giving, however—not that Cassandra has had the privilege of experiencing many, with her arriving in January and all—the fireplaces remain unlit, the old house's central heating being enough to stop the large home from turning frigid.
Rose's eyes wander back to the bag. She's going to be one of those patients, isn't she?
Across the room, Elena enters, making a beeline for where they are before pausing two feet away from their little space by the fireplace, somewhere near the armchair. Her confidence seeps away and leaves her nervously holding on to her elbow and unsure of who to approach.
"I put the stuff in the counter, Cass." She mentions.
In a way, she sounds like the same hesitant, almost-shy girl Cassandra first met. The one who made her think Elena was nothing like Katherine. She knows what this is. Elena no longer knows how to act around her, in the same way Damon has distanced himself from her and can't decide whether he resents her or not. No, she's pretty sure he already knows that. He's trying to decipher whether he hates her or not. It knocks the breath out of her.
"Thank you, Elena," she says.
When she smiles, a closed-mouth, small smile, the one that says I couldn't even hurt a fly, the very same one she gave Elena the first time she met her, Elena lets out a breath and relaxes. She even takes a step closer, expression pleasantly surprised.
Cassandra turns back to Rose, who is eyeing the bag hanging from Cassandra's wrist with the same caution as if it were a shark. It doesn't make her feel any better than Elena's hesitance or Damon's mood swings.
"Does anything hurt?" Cassandra asks, sounding all in all the gentlest anyone in this room has probably heard her.
Next to Rose, Damon straightens. His frown eases away and his face adopts this soft expression that's almost sweet. His eyes shift. Okay, maybe not 'anyone in this room', but it's certainly not a tone she uses often.
"My back, where the bite is." Rose answers without hesitating. "My muscles are a little sore."
Ah, so she responds best to gentleness and soothing tones. Good to know.
"Where?"
"Um, everywhere?" Rose clears her throat, ashamed at the admission. "My legs, and my abdomen, especially."
Cassandra nods. With nothing else to ask, she reaches for the ottoman by the armchair and pulls it to her side, dropping the plastic bag on top. Calmly, like any sudden noise or movement is going to send Rose rushing out the front door, she begins to take the items in the bag out. Elena takes the moment to start idle small talk with the other two people in the room, clearly sensing Rose's nerves over what Cassandra could have possibly purchased at the local pharmacy.
Over the talk of Easter and other ineffectual tidings, Cassandra pulls out a brand new thermometer from the bag, a roll of gauze, a small bottle of antiseptic solution, a small box of size 6 gloves, four wooden tongue depressors tied together by a rubber band—the least amount they would sell to her—and a clear vial with a rubber stopper. She puts each item next to the other on the ottoman, presenting it to the world like they're an offering. Actually, she's placing them out for Rose to realize there's no danger in the bag, no need for fear. Well, the vial with a rubber stopper is actually a blood collection tube, but Rose doesn't need to know that yet.
She didn't expect Rose to be so apprehensive, but she can imagine it comes with not having needed a doctor for nearly six centuries. The fact that she has a fatal wound with no hint at a cure might also be making this experience worse. So, Cassandra keeps the scariest item yet in the bag, decides not to take it out until the time to use it comes.
Eyeing Rose all the while, she opens the box of gloves, pulls a pair halfway out so they're ready to be easily grabbed for use. Rose looks relatively fine, a little paler than usual maybe. Her breathing seems a little deep and hard, not like she's struggling to breathe, more like she needs more air than usual. Cassandra's willing to bet that if she were to take her pulse, it'd be through the roof.
Knowing none of this is good, and that time is of the essence—not to say they likely have none—she clears her throat lightly, cutting Elena off mid-sentence.
"Do you mind if I examine you?" She asks Rose.
Rose hesitates, eyes going from her to Damon, like she's expecting the Salvatore to have the answer. Damon shrugs. Elena shuffles her feet against the rug. The air turns back to awkward.
"Damon can step out, if it would make you more comfortable." Cassandra adds, bitter.
She knows that's not why they're all hesitating, but she's not about to explain herself again. That's all she does lately, and she's sick of it.
The request is also half genuine. Whenever Rose speaks, she ensures her left shoulder moves minimally as she gestures. Damon explained on the way here that the bite was on her left shoulder, right in the juncture between her shoulder and neck, and that it extended to her back. In order for Cassandra to get a proper look, Rose would have to partially remove her robe. Cassandra doesn't know how modest Rose is, but asking the only man present to leave the room is just good manners.
"It's fine. It's not like he hasn't seen everything before." Rose dismisses, too caught up in the unfortunate situation she's in to realize what she's saying.
Or maybe she knows perfectly, Cassandra notes, as Rose looks around, quickly realizing the rest of them aren't quite as amused by the comment. The moment hangs. Elena lets out a little huff, eyebrows raised as she makes faces at the rug beneath her feet. Damon clears his throat once, shifts on his seat. He chances a glance at her… only to sharply direct his gaze anywhere else when their eyes meet.
Cassandra presses her mouth into a tight line. If she allows the laugh threatening to erupt, will they think she's putting in on, that it's feigned? After all, she's still bitter about the whole affair. Not because Damon slept with someone else, but because it was Rose of all people. This moment is highly entertaining, though that may be because her emotional state is still a little frayed. She did spend the last three days doing nothing but lay in bed, cry, and drink tea.
"And we're not ready to joke about it, yet." Rose tsks with a curt nod.
Elena lets out a nervous giggle at that.
"Well, at least I can die knowing I embarrassed myself one last time." Rose mutters to Damon, lowering her voice in the most unsuccessful attempt at being secretive.
"No, no, we can joke about it. It's fine." Cassandra laughs.
Not enough that her laughter might escape her and turn to tears—she doesn't feel like crying, but if the last three days have been telling, she doesn't really have much control over that anymore—but enough that she sounds light-hearted and jovial. Most importantly, Cassandra laughs for long enough that no one thinks it's fake. What's even better, Rose joins her.
The short moment the two women share is interrupted by Damon's less than amused interjection:
"Besides, you're not dying."
That kills the mood pretty quickly.
"Denial isn't a pretty color on you," Rose tells Damon with a pointed look, before turning to her, "you can do whatever you want."
Cassandra nods, returning to the formality the situation requires.
"I'll wash my hands, and I'll be right back."
She washes her hands in the kitchen. There's a guest restroom just to the left of the living room, but the kitchen gives her, and the others, a privacy the guest restroom does not. Not that she can't hear them from the kitchen, but with the faucet on at full blast, she can let their voices blend into white noise. She can pretend they're just part of the water, just in case they decide to talk about her. They don't, or at least they don't mention her by name, and when she returns to them with clean hands, her penlight, and a small notepad and pen, Elena and Rose are bonding over Seinfeld. Not one of Cassandra's favorite shows, but if it keeps Rose's spirits up, she'll bear the conversation. Hell, she might even participate.
"First, I will do a simple exam, just your eyes, throat, and temperature." Cassandra explains, crouching once more by the ottoman to use it as a sort of desk while she takes notes. "Nothing should hurt, okay?"
Rose nods, and once more Elena takes a step back. This time it's more to do with wanting to be out of the way than being cautious around her, though.
Cassandra writes the date and time at the top of the page, all the while aware that, while Damon might not be saying anything and his face is the epitome of stoicism, he won't tear his eyes away from her. It has her heart beating faster than it should, especially because she can't tell what he's thinking when he looks at her like that.
Ignoring it, she focuses on the job at hand. Rose's pupil size and shape seems normal upon primary inspection. So, she writes that down and rises to her feet, retrieving the penlight from the ottoman and clicking it on.
"I am going to flash this across your eyes. Don't look directly at it." Cassandra explains, before lifting her index finger up. "Focus on my finger, please."
She starts on the outer corner of Rose's right eye, moving it across, and notices immediately the way she flinches and her face scrunches up at the light's proximity and strength. Her right pupil reacts normally, but her left is a little sluggish. Not a great diagnosis, but she won't be able to speculate why until she has more information. Still, her mind is already reeling with all the terrible repercussion that silly, little, sluggish pupil will bring with it. She's willing to bet acute infection will play a role.
Cassandra can certainly bring Rose comfort. Based on what she knows about werewolf venom, however, the infection will return full throttle, even if she successfully eradicates it. Every finding is another reminder that Rose is terminal, and she's thinking she should maybe quit while she's ahead.
Except, she said she'd try.
Going back to her notebook, she writes her findings, checking her watch and adding the exact time. She'll have to check her pupils again in an hour—actually, make it half—and she'll have to keep a close eye on Rose's hyper-sensibility to light.
"Have you experienced any headaches in the past ten hours? Not continuous necessarily, it may come and go. Or, not bad enough that it stops you from doing things, but enough that it's constantly in the background."
"No."
Cassandra hums, and adds that to her notes.
"Should she have a headache?" Elena asks. "You're being very specific."
Yes, she thinks, but doesn't say that. Instead, she says:
"Not necessarily, I just want to make sure I have all the information."
Also, she has a feeling Rose is the kind of patient to lie because she thinks not talking about a problem makes it go away instead of worsening it. She said she was 'a little' cold, but the fire behind them has this living room feeling like a toaster. She's rethinking the teddy-fleece sweatshirt.
"I haven't had any headaches." Rose insists.
"Dizziness?"
"No."
She makes a note of that, too, and hopes Rose is telling the truth.
"Okay, then." Cassandra looks up from the notebook, placing it back on the table, pen on top. She smiles gently at Rose, keeping her face a peaceful, unreadable mask. "I will examine your throat next, okay?"
Rose simply nods. She grabs one of the tongue depressors from her little pile of supplies and once more stands in front of Rose.
"Open your mouth." Rose does so without protest. "I'm going to press this against your tongue. It may be a little uncomfortable."
When she presses the depressor against Rose's tongue, revealing a clearer view of the woman's throat, Cassandra gets a good look at the redness there, the irritation.
"Tip your head back, please." She gently orders.
Then, she can see the inflammation, too. At least her tonsils don't look too bad, though why werewolf venom would attack the tonsils escapes her, so this isn't exactly news that she's on the mend. With her hand under Rose's jaw, she can't palm any lumps or abnormalities, so at least she can write down that the infection is yet to spread to lymph nodes and tonsils.
Finally, some good news.
"Great. Thank you," Cassandra says, removing the depressor from Rose's mouth.
She reaches out to the small metal trashcan by the fireplace, and drops the wooden stick in, making a note to empty the trashcan when this is all over, just for good sanitation.
"Keep this under your tongue." She offers the thermometer to Rose. "Don't move it."
Rose places the thermometer below her tongue, and waits, fingers tapping at the back of her hand. Cassandra writes down a couple more notes on her notebook, idly wonders if Elena finds the silence as tense as she does, and retrieves the thermometer from Rose when enough time has passed.
It reads 101 degrees. Based on the way Rose keeps tensing at intervals, clearly repressing a shiver, Cassandra surmises that temperature might get higher.
"Okay. This is the part you probably won't like." She starts, rummaging through the plastic bag to retrieve the last item in it: a syringe, needle and everything. "I'd like to take a sample of your blood."
Rose eyes the syringe, eyes staying on the covered needle. It's not a large needle, but it's not the thinnest one, either. A detail which is visible even through the plastic cover. She hopes Rose won't refuse. She needs her blood in order to determine which healing salve might be best, what kind of infection is wreaking havoc in her body. If she understands how it works, maybe she can slow it down, give Rose a little more time. Maybe she can make it as painless as possible.
"That's fine," Rose says, visibly swallowing.
Grateful for the permission that's just been granted, Cassandra reaches for the box of gloves, and pulls a pair out.
She doesn't know a lot about werewolf venom. As a hunter, it was never her preferred poison. When taking down vampires, she usually went for the obvious kill. She reserved venom and poisons to other supernatural creatures. The few times she did use werewolf venom, she never stayed long enough to witness its effects. Except for Rebekah, but all the Original experienced was a fever and a migraine.
She doesn't know a whole lot about werewolf venom, only the basics, which is why she's not risking Rose's blood accidentally entering her own system one way or another. Clearly, the venom doesn't transmit through saliva, otherwise Mr. Salvatore there would probably be on the same boat. Regardless of that, handling infected blood should always be done with care and precaution. Especially if it's blood that's infected with magic-altered venom. She's not risking it.
So, she slips the surgical gloves on and directs Rose to extend her arm and expose the correct area. Using a spare glove as a tourniquet—probably not the best practice but it'll do—she draws enough blood with the syringe that she won't have to draw any more blood in the future. She would have rather done it with a butterfly needle, directly into the vial, but Mystic Falls' local drugstore didn't have any, and it isn't like she could ransack the hospital.
Rose doesn't flinch when she removes the needle or the tourniquet, but Cassandra catches her rubbing at the spot as she covers the needle again securely. The small prickle the needle left behind doesn't continue bleeding, however, and heals immediately. Relief spreads through her slowly. Rose's body may not be able to fight the infection or heal the werewolf bite, but it can still heal new wounds. Useful, in case Rose injures herself accidentally. Cassandra's heard of the erratic behavior, and she doesn't want to have to explain that Rose didn't die of a werewolf bite, but of the gash in her head when she fell. Just in case, she'll make sure Rose doesn't go off on her own.
"May I examine the wound?"
Rose's answer to Cassandra's request is simply loosening the robe around her enough that she can slip it down her shoulder. She can see it from this distance, the red skin and dried blood, but it's only a fraction of the wound. So, she steps around the couch until she's right behind Rose. Elena trails after her, curious herself.
The wound is not what she expected. It is so much worse that Cassandra even has trouble schooling her features into calmness, stoic observation, an oh-this-little-thing? look, anything but the plain shock threatening to come through.
Damon was correct. The bite started on her shoulder, and she could see where each one of the werewolf's teeth had sunk into soft flesh and torn. Torn deep enough to expose muscle. The space between the marks of the werewolf's lower teeth and upper teeth is nothing but shredded grooves, peeled off skin, half-dried blood, and pus. So much pus Cassandra can smell it along with the blood. Pus, blood, and an infection so advanced it already smells like death.
Elena gasps quietly, and, when Cassandra tugs at Rose's robe with a gentle touch to reveal the rest of the wound—to reveal a halo of black veins around it, to reveal how it extends down her back—and some of the wounded, dying skin sticks to the soft fabric of Rose's robe, Elena can't contain the little, disgusted sound that crawls up her throat.
"Elena." She chastises quietly.
"That bad, huh?"
"Uh, sorry, no—I'm just squeamish." Elena lies in a rush.
"I've seen worse."
Cassandra doesn't mention how 'worse' was when she was twelve and Cousin George decided he was skillful enough to kill a dragon by himself. They didn't kill dragons. Dragons are a rare, endangered treasure, not an enemy. When the Grand Coven tasked George with retrieving the heart of a dragon, Father straight up refused and told them to get someone else.
Cousin George had had other ideas. He craved glory, and what was most glorious than besting a dragon? Plenty of things, especially since nothing but the darkest, most dangerous magics come from manipulating a dragon's heart. If twelve-year-old Cassandra knew it, twenty-year-old George ought to have known it, too. Still, off he went, and the result had been catastrophic.
Father had called it boyish defiance. Aunt Penelope called it arrogant stupidity. Cassandra never called it anything, but she still remembers the carnage, the torn limb and exposed bones, the charred flesh, the deep gashes with vibrant clarity. She remembers how the stench of ash and blood infused every corner of that bedchamber, the pool of blood in the bed, so abundant the linens didn't soak it up, and blood drippled down the sides of the bed to the floorboards, how some of his wounds still steamed.
When she and Aunt Penelope reached him, George only had moments left. Moments spent in delirious agony.
Rose isn't doing much better. She certainly isn't missing an arm. A dragon most definitely did not use her as a chew toy, but based on the level of infection of this wound, the blood poisoning, every other symptom, Cassandra can't, for the life of her, figure out how Rose is still alive. Vampirism certainly is an advantageous status. A stubborn form of magic. She can only assume it's about to get worse. Much, much worse.
Gauze and antiseptic solution with a little healing salve on top is not going to cut it.
"You mentioned earlier that the wound hurt. In a scale of one to ten, how would you categorize the pain in this area?"
Cassandra ensures her voice is as smooth and collected as possible. What she experienced as a trainee healer under Aunt Penelope's tutelage hardened her from a very young age to Life's cruelty and truths. It showed her death in a new light, very different to the one she, a natural necromancer, saw it in. As a nurse in the front, she saw some things. Some awful, gut-wrenching things that made even her—the centuries old, at times called 'ruthless' vampire—flinch. She tended to so many good men, comforted them and distracted them from the pain as they died. Sometimes, many, many times, that was all she could do for them. Some days, on particularly difficult days, she offered them vampirism. Only two ever took the offer.
She is used to this. She is used to treating patients that will not make it. It's never not awful, but it becomes more manageable. Except Rose's helpless case is hitting her harder than it should. Probably because of the look on Damon's face when he asked for help. Probably because that same chill that had crept into her bones this morning began to climb up her spine when she started talking to Rose. Now, it is comfortably sitting on her ribs, spreading down her arms, turning into a stowaway in her skeleton like a dark, foreboding phantom.
She tells herself this is not a person she knows. It's someone else she wants to help, a stranger she wants to help. It helps a little.
"An eight." Rose answers after a moment of contemplation.
An eight. She's been living at an eight for the past… twelve hours, Cassandra calculates in her mind. And that's just the actual wound, no mention of how uncomfortable the fever is, or the inflamed throat, or sore muscles. Though with such a nasty wound, Cassandra wouldn't be surprised if Rose simply doesn't notice the rest. She won't. Not until they, too, worsen, at least. Cassandra only gives her another hour at the most before that happens.
"Well, I think I have everything I need." Cassandra clears her throat. "I'll clean up. You just rest for a moment, Rose."
With that, she takes off her gloves, making sure the inside is now outside. She throws them into the metal trashcan, turning around to find Elena has started to put what she can from the ottoman back into the plastic bag. Trashcan balancing between her arm and her hip, she sends Elena a grateful smile and grabs the syringe—the only item Elena had been unsure about—herself.
It all takes a grand total of twenty seconds. They feel like an hour to Cassandra. She's going to fail Damon. There's nothing to do here. Nothing but keep Rose in a placid, sedated state where she's not completely aware of the fact she's slowly dying. Nothing but pray she can take away some of the pain, if not all of it.
When she makes for the kitchen, it's an unspoken sign to her two healthy companions to follow her. She hasn't turned the faucet on all the way when Elena is talking:
"How is she?"
Cassandra catches the near-frantic consternation, the utter sympathy to Elena's voice, and says nothing. She looks at Damon, instead.
He's standing by the breakfast bar across from the stove in the kitchen island, arm resting on the smooth marble. Every muscle in his body is tense as a coil about to snap. His face is an unreadable mask, yet his eyes are a stormy blue. She looks at him, and he looks right back.
"Damon." Elena calls when moments pass and neither Cassandra nor Damon answer her question.
"The wolf bite caused some kind of infection," Damon tells Elena, glancing at her to confirm his theory. She nods. "And it's getting worse."
She nods at that, too. Unnecessary, since Elena has turned her full attention to Damon, and Cassandra is now part of the furniture.
"I'm sorry."
Elena steps closer to Damon, hand resting on the kitchen island, right in front of his, so that their fingers are but a fingernail's breadth apart. Damon glances down at the action, before keeping his eyes on Elena with an even more inscrutable gaze. Cassandra raises her eyebrows at the scene playing before her but says nothing. It's none of her business. There are more important things to take care of today, she reminds herself.
"Death happens." Damon interjects with a curt tone just as Cassandra is starting to play with the idea that her meltdown probably gave Damon and Elena the chance to get closer to each other.
His harsh tone, the one she recognizes as his favorite to use when he wants to cover something else, snaps her out of her very selfish thoughts. Cassandra can't see Elena's face from here, but the girl's body jolts up only slightly and the long cascade of silky brown that is her hair sways to the side as Elena takes an even step closer to Damon.
She can't see Elena's face from here. Whatever emotion is reflected on it, however, is the wrong one to admit to, because Damon has grown even colder.
"We come; we go. Sooner she dies the better." It's almost like he's reprimanding her. Cassandra catches the way his eyes clear, how they somehow look a lighter blue against the morning sun, and knows this is more difficult for him to say than he's letting on. "It's gloomy as hell in here."
With that, he turns and makes to exit. Headed for the front door, no doubt. Elena's shoulders slump. She picks at her fingernails as she watches him go.
"You need to stay," Cassandra says.
Maybe it's the fact that she hasn't spoken since they entered the kitchen. Maybe it's the tone with which she says it: commanding, no room for arguing. She talks to him with the same tone she used on Gwendolen when the young girl hit fifteen and suddenly thought she knew best. Maybe it's both put together. Regardless, Damon halts on his step.
"Death may be your thing, but it sure as hell isn't mine." He turns around to face her. "I don't have to stay around for this."
She's not sure what he means by that, but she knows she's meant to take offense. She shouldn't fall for it; she knows that, too. And yet here she is, with the beginning of a glower behind her eyes.
"Yes, you do. She's your friend, and she's very ill. If Rose dies, and you're not here, you'll never forgive yourself."
For some reason, it doesn't come out as much like a bite as she wanted it to, more similar to a well-intended warning.
Damon blinks. A shadow crosses his face as it slowly morphs from hardly bothered to almost shaken, like he's trying to hold a dam up with only his hands, no asking for help. Her heart goes out for him, driving her to shorten the distance between them without her consent. Her feet get a mind of their own and bring her two steps closer to him. Damon watches her with an odd sort of caution, half-sweet, half-guarded.
"I will do everything I can to help her, Damon, but you can't run away."
It's the wrong thing to say. Whatever tenderness had softened up his face seconds ago, disappears for an anger so sharp it cuts straight through her. She stops nearing him, but she doesn't stop talking. This is something he needs to hear.
"Stay, spend some time with Rose. Say goodbye to your friend."
Damon takes one stride toward her, body angled almost completely in parallel. His eyes flash dangerously before easing back into a hard steel. His mouth is tense, his features hard. With a glower like that, he puts Cabanel's Falling Angel to shame.
It has her heart stuttering and her breath hitching.
"Don't ever make the mistake again of thinking you know anything about what I feel." He tells her with clipped words and a low tone that has enough danger in it to send a shiver down her back.
She wants to berate her stupid body for that reaction. Her heart has no business skipping beats. Her breath should stay nice and calm where it belongs. Her flesh doesn't get to tingle. This heated gaze he's laying on her is nothing but Damon getting ready for war. She keeps toeing the line, crossing it, and running back like it's nothing. It looks like he's had enough.
So, Cassandra nods, silent. Damon keeps his eyes on her for another moment, and when his eyes lower down to her body with that same angry glare that seems stuck to his face, she can't help but swallow through a dry throat. Anger is just as hot as anything else and if he keeps looking at her like that…
He doesn't. A split moment later, his eyes go back to her face, quickly, as if he hadn't realized where he was looking. A silly notion, of course. This is Damon Salvatore she's talking about; she doesn't think there's much he does without knowing.
Without a word, Damon turns and leaves. She and Elena stay standing in the kitchen. Silence surrounds them but for the rough splashing of water hitting the sink, the whistling of the old pipes.
"is Rose really dying?" Elena asks tentatively, moments after the front door slams loud enough for even Elena to hear without difficulty.
"I'd be surprised if she makes it through the night."
The admission leaves a heaviness on her tongue she doesn't like. Elena wavers, alternating between glancing at her or in the living room's direction. Cassandra knows Elena is looking for guidance on how to proceed. She stays where she is, though, frozen, hoping Damon will come back, wishing he never does.
A/N: I don't have much to say, only that this is a difficult episode to cover for me because I know it's pretty much there so that when Damon got bitten at the end of the season we as an audience would be more worried and afraid for him. Which is unfair to Rose, so the chapters covering The Descent might not be as harsh toward her as the episode was, be warned.
Not a lot of reviews last chapter, probably due to people losing interest because of my slow updates. Still, I wanted to thank the people who stayed and who read, as well as new readers!
Eennio: Thank you! x
SomebodyWhoCares: :0 is such a mood lol
AB0918: Thank you so much! I'm glad you're still enjoying the story.
nerdalertwarning: Hi again! Hadn't heard from you in a while! I love Cassandra too and I think that was something important to address. I think Cass is very self-aware when it comes to that, how she's so secretive about everything, but her love for Damon just spills through, that she hates how people have no idea of her other struggles and think she's only upset because of him. She will be making things for him a little difficult now, even though he really just wants to be with her, conflicted as he is. CassxKlaus is one of my favourite things. They have such a rich history I'm genuinely considering writing it as a side story. It is very much a DamonxCass story at the moment, but that might change as we delve further into the story. No promises, though. Stay safe!
Guest: oh lol thanks and hope you like this one too!