Title: Don't feed the plants. 7/9
Author: Pythia
Disclaimer: I don't own any of them - Buffy and the gang belong to Joss, and
Audrey-II was originally cultivated by Roger Corman before being set to
music by Howard Ashman.
It was the start of the evening shift at the Sunnydale General emergency room; three white-coated nurses paused by the administration desk to pick up their assignments and discuss the current intake of patients.
"So let me see," the tall one frowned, running her eyes and her finger down the list. "We got two domestic incidents ."
"Lover's quarrels," the plump one sighed.
"Brutal demonstrations of the fundamental bestial nature of man," the middle one corrected archly, buffing her perfect nails into a soft shine.
"Three people falling onto barbecue forks ."
"That is so common around here."
"Too common, if you ask me. They should put warning signs on those things."
"One gunshot wound ."
The plump one looked surprised. "Only one? They've usually had at least three by this time of night."
"It's Thursday," the middle of the three said, as if this explained everything. Her fellow nurse nodded sagely.
"Oh, *and* September. Should've remembered."
"One attempted suicide," the tall nurse continued, ignoring them both. "Two pregnant women with stab wounds to the stomach ."
"No doubt trying to cut the evil out of themselves again," the plump nurse confided knowingly. "Remember that woman last year?"
"Rose . no, Rosemary. I remember." Her friend nodded. "She had such a lovely baby, too ."
The tallest of them had turned the page over. "Six severe intoxications, three from one RTA and . oh yes. One attempted murder. Low priority though. Can't have been much of an attempt."
The plump one chuckled, tugging the list from her friend's hand. "Then he'll wait. Like the rest of them. Who wants a cup of coffee before we get to work?"
Willow sat in the emergency room with him while white-coated doctors and nurses bustled back and forth, dealing with assorted wounds and surly drunks and the other kind of emergencies that patterned late night living in California and Sunnydale in particular. Giles spent half that time apologising to her, for imposing on her time and keeping her away from the things he was sure she'd rather be doing - and she countered every soft 'I'm sorry' with brisk dismissal and firm assurance that she wasn't going *anywhere* until she knew he was both safe *and* comfortably settled for the rest of the night.
Because she wasn't.
Because she'd left him earlier that evening without protest, had grabbed the chance to extricate herself from potential danger and left him facing it, all without so much as an 'are you sure' to salve her conscience. And okay, so that was mostly his decision, and he'd wanted her safe, and all that kind of thing - but she'd still taken off without any thought of worrying about leaving him behind.
She felt bad about that.
She felt even *badder* about seeing him nearly get eaten, and maybe being responsible for showering him with shards of shattering glass, but that was a more normal kind of 'I live on a Hellmouth' kind of bad; the vague sense of guilt that was nagging at her had a lot more to do with the 'I care about this guy' feeling than the 'there was a giant carnivorous *plant* living in the school greenhouse one .'
"Willow," Giles said for the umpteenth time, giving her an affectionate if somewhat martyred look. "You *really* don't have to stay ."
"Yes I do," she retorted, reassuming resolve face mode and giving him a determined glare. "Because I'm *not* leaving you lying there, all blood-soaked and concussy. Not until I know that you've been properly stitched up and . and everything."
He leant back into the supporting pillow - carefully of course because, hey, damaged back as well as damaged front, and head, and wrists, and really, really tender all over - and sighed. A warm, weary, patient and gently amused sigh, one that went very well with his smile and - *gah*, did he have any idea how sexy that look was when he wasn't wearing his glasses?
"All right, all *right*" he acquiesced, his acceptance managing to convey he was really quite pleased that she was being stubborn, however much he felt he was being an imposition. "Stay if you must. Although," he added, "I have the feeling that I am being well and truly stitched up, one way or the other. I *don't* need a nursemaid, Willow."
"Course not," she agreed cheerfully, carefully reaching to plump his pillow, pour him some more water and then help him balance the glass so he could take a drink. His hands were slightly swollen, his grip was clumsy and she knew his wrists had to be incredibly painful; the doctor that had conducted initial triage had ruled against prescribing any painkillers until someone could check the extent of his concussion. Which was okay, and probably sensible, but that had been *hours* ago, and he still wasn't top of the list for attention.
"Nor do I need a guilt-stricken student hovering over me from a misguided sense of duty." His tone was wry behind the effort it cost, and she suppressed a sudden desire to smirk; he might be feeling - well, half ripped apart and barely put back together - but he was still *Giles*.
"Course not."
"Willow -" he started to say, and she sighed.
"*Giles*," she countered firmly, "what you *need* is a friend-shaped friend. One who'll keep you company and make sure you don't pass out or bleed to death waiting for one of these doctors to come and see to you. And - it could have been Buffy, but you sent her out on patrol with Angel, and it might have been Xander, but he was being all security-conscious and weapon care-taking guy, so that really leaves me, and here am, and here I'm going to stay - at least until I'm sure that someone's taking care of you, and maybe even after that, because I'm totally sure that getting hit on the head with a shovel and being fed to a *huge* carnivorous plant thing isn't a standard requirement in a Watcher's job description and it certainly isn't one for a school librarian, and . I'm babbling, aren't I ..?"
"Yes," he said, managing to make the word sound both amused and pained all at once. "You are. You're .. umm . q-quite right, though." He paused to lift his left hand so that he could scrub wearily at his eyes. "And I . umm . d-do appreciate the company. Really, I do. It's . well, it's just that . I -I have this . blinding headache and ." He trailed off, staring at his wrist with a bemused frown. "Oh dear," he breathed. "I-I don't think *that's* supposed to happen ."
Neither did Willow. The triage doctor had tugged peremptorily at the paramedic's dressings, peered under her makeshift bandages, made a few tutting noises and then left everything in place, more concerned with filling in his forms than dealing with his patient. There was dried blood mottled across the cotton around the Watcher's wrist, a dark stain of it crusting the edges of the padding beneath - and an ominous trickle of much fresher vintage, which was slowly oozing down Giles' arm and into the ruins of his shirt
"That's *it*," she declared, getting to her feet. "I'm going to find you a doctor, priority system or not!" She took a half-step away, then darted back, putting out both her hands and fixing him with an anxious look. "Don't move, okay? Stay right there. I'll be right back."