Title: Don't feed the plants. 8/9
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.

"So he wasn't *trying* to hang himself." The tallest nurse was grinning as she worked on changing sheets and preparing the examination bed for its next occupant. "Turns out it was all this bizarre game with silk scarves ."

". and he just forgot about the overhead fan?" Her plump colleague giggled at the thought, efficiently stripped the pillow of its regulation protective covering and tossing it into the plastic receptacle the third of the trio was holding.

"Totally forgot. And then his girlfriend panics and tries to get up to switch the thing off ."

" .only *she's* got one ankle tied to the bed and she trips and goes flying. Knocks herself out on the dresser. If the night porter hadn't heard him hammering his heels on the bedhead, he'd have still been hanging up there when the maid came in to change the sheets in the morning."

The three of them exchanged a look. "Poor girl," the middle of the three decided, stuffing a rumpled sheet in with the pillow covers.

"The maid?"

"No - the girlfriend. Bad enough your date's a dork. But when he's a *klutz* too .well, that's just adding insult to injury."

"Amen, sister," the plump one declared with feeling. "Maybe she'll realise what a lucky escape she had."

"When she comes round."

"From the coma ."

"Excuse me?" The three of them turned. A young woman with long red hair was standing at the entrance to the alcove, a very anxious look on her face. "I-I'm looking for a doctor?"

"Aren't we all, sweetheart." The comeback was dry; the young woman coloured a little.

"No - I . my friend. He's - " Her hand waved in the vague direction of one of the occupied alcoves. "We been waiting for - well, forever, and he's hurting and there's blood and I really, really think he needs help. Now," she added, the word a little determined gulp of sound. The three nurses exchanged a glance.

"Is he on the list?" the tallest one asked, frostily.

"Well - yes, but ."

"Is he next in line?" The middle of the three spoke with less ice, but a lot more disinterest.

"No, but - "

"He'll wait," the three of them chorused, going back to their duties without a second thought. The young woman's expression flitted from puzzled, to hurt, and finally slid into indignation. She reached out and caught the plump nurse's arm.

"No. He. *Wont'*," she declared firmly. "I don't care about the list, I don't care about your *system*. I know you were busy earlier, I know there were people who needed the now thing much more than he did then, but *those* beds are empty and the people in white coats are just - hanging around, making beds and - and drinking coffee. My friend is hurting and he needs help, and that's why we came here in the first place. So do I get a doctor, or do I have to make a scene?"

The nurse looked down at the hand on her arm, and then up at angry, anxious eyes. "Honey," she asked softly, "you really think the world's going to come to an end if we just wait until his name comes up on the list?"

The young woman thought about that for a moment, a whole slew of emotions dancing in her eyes. Then she shivered, as if someone had walked over her grave. "Yes," she said, the word as confident as her expression, which had settled into tight resolve. The nurse smiled.

"In that case," she said, turning the young woman round and pointing at someone standing near the coffee machine. "You probably want to talk to that man over there."

"Don't move, she says," Giles muttered to himself, gingerly sinking a little further into the pillows and wincing as even that miniscule movement stirred the damage across his back. "Because, of course, I am about to leap to my feet and dance an energetic Rhumba or two . *Christ* ."

The last was a hiss of angry pain, a determined expression of the invective he'd been fighting down for the last two hours, bewilderedly grateful for Willow's hovering presence, and determined not to shatter her illusions of him as . well, some kind of story-book English gentleman. Finally left alone, even if only for a minute or two, he could swear like trooper, and he did just that - a muttered litany of furious curse words that did nothing to ease his discomfort, but allowed him to vent some deep-seated frustrations concerning his current wretched and unwelcome state.

It wasn't so much that it *hurt* - which it certainly did, given that some of his wounds were still bleeding and half of the skin on his body had been stripped back to a decidedly tender layer by the acids in the plant's juices - so much as the fact that he was lying in a hospital bed, waiting to be poked and prodded by curious doctors, when he *could* be suffering much more comfortably at home, exorcising his sense of humiliation at being strung up - to be plant food no less - with a generous measure of two of Scotch.

He ran out of breath before he ran out of invective, and retreated to the repetition of a slightly less earthy mantra in ancient Sumerian. He could probably summon one or two *real* curses if he put his mind to it, especially since he was - to all intents and purposes - lying in a welter of his own blood, but no good ever came of such impulses, and it would hardly be any kind of example to set Willow, who seemed very determined to take care of him, whether he wanted her to or not.

He sighed in between one span of the meditative mantra and the next, reluctantly letting the tempting thought of a good glass of single malt turn into one of distant promise. Much as he hated to admit it - and hated the looming onslaught of fuss, and the whole degrading routine of being an impatient patient - he needed to be here. The worst of his wounds needed stitching, the rest of them needed disinfecting and he probably needed a infusion of blood to replace what he'd lost. He almost undoubtedly had a concussion, and . "*Blast*," he realised, losing the rhythm of his words and with it some of the distance he'd managed to put between himself and the pain. The comforting liquor he'd been mentally reaching for went back on the proverbial shelf. Concussion and alcohol were never a good mix, no matter how excellent the vintage might be.

"Well now," a voice said, managing to sound both amused and harassed at the same time. "What have we here? Been in the wars, have we, Mr - uh . Giles?"

Giles blinked, making an effort to focus on the blur of white that had suddenly materialised at the foot of the examination bed. It looked like a doctor - or possibly someone impersonating one; the obligatory white coat seemed to have been flung over a casual crimson shirt and a pair of faded jeans. The man wearing them was at that suspect age between competent authority and looming elder statesmanship; his hair was fair, but turning grey, his face was lined but not craggy, and his eyes were twinkling with the kind of jollity that suggested he'd been an eternal embarrassment as a father but was about to make the best grandfather a child could ever have.

"No," Giles found himself drawling pointedly. "I'm just lying here in a pool of my own blood because it's the latest fashion trend . Gods' *sake*, man," he snapped. "What do *you* think?"

"*I* think we're feeling a little testy," the doctor said, grinning at Willow, who had appeared in his wake. She frowned, jerking her finger at the clipboard of notes the triage medic had left behind.

"Doctoring now, bedside manner later," she ordered firmly. "And yes," she added, turning her resolve face back towards the wounded Watcher and letting it dissolve into an anxious smile. "Definitely testy. But only in a 'lying here for hours and not getting the help he needs' kind of way."

"Quite," Giles acknowledged faintly, a little shaken by the way she was looking at him. He knew fear when he saw it and he was seeing it now, lurking under the anxiety, fuelling her impatient determination. Willow was *scared* - scared of what, he'd have been hard-put to say. Scared by the events of the evening? About having to be adult and responsible? Scared, perhaps, of letting him down and failing to get him the care she thought he needed? Scared she'd lose Buffy's respect, or Xander's friendship if she let anything happen to him?

Or . his heart turned over and his hand went out, instinctively reaching for hers. . was she simply scared of losing *him*?

She caught the hand - gently, he was relieved to note - and her smile grew a little more genuine, some of that panicked 'rabbit in the headlights' look fading from her expression.

"Oh," the doctor was chuckling as he flipped through the notes, "I'm sure it's not as bad as all that ." The note of banter faded. His smile tightened into a wary frown. "*How* long ago were you admitted?"

"Uh ." Giles wasn't entirely sure. It *had* been some time .

"Two and a half hours ago," Willow declared, her grip tightening a little around his fingers. "And he's in pain, and he's got concussion and he's *bleeding*. Just like I told you." The look she gave the doctor was challenging. He, in turn, looked horrified.

"Two and a half ." His eyes darted down to the notes, then back up to his patient, the twinkle in them flashing with a moment of sheer indignation and fury. "*Damn*," he growled - and kicked into action, a sudden whirlwind of barked orders and determined medical competency.

"IV, *stat*," he snapped at the nearest nurse, then grabbed for the next one as the first scurried away. "Scrub up, and bring me a sterile dressings trolley - antiseptics, swabs, sutures, the whole works." He was on to the third before the second had even finished her answering nod. "I need an immediate admission - observation bed, private room if possible. And if Giestman protests," he called after as she too hurried away, "tell him we've a PMP in progress and that he needs to get his ass down here asap."

"PMP?" Willow echoed faintly, her eyes going wide and her clasp on his hand becoming tight and desperate. "Is that . bad?"

The doctor threw her a rueful smile. "Only for us, young lady. Potential Malpractice I'm afraid. although," he added, perching himself on the edge of the bed and dragging a small torch out of his pocket, "I am rather hoping I can persuade you both that I can more than make up for our initial neglect . Let me take a look at this ." His hand was a gentle touch against Giles' chin, turning his head - first to study the bruising on his temple, and then to check the dilation of both pupils with a practised flick of his torch. The Watcher blinked under the impact of the light, wincing as the movement stirred his headache. "Good, good ."

The doctor's name was Thackery; at least, that was the name written on the battered tag which hung from his pocket. Close to he came wreathed in the scent of antiseptics, a hint of Old Spice and a much stronger hint of peppermint; the waft of it took Giles back years - back, in fact to days spent in the school infirmary, recovering from the honourable injuries of the English playing field. The school doctor - a member of the order, and Watcher trained, if never field assigned - had been firm and friendly and briskly reassuring in his bedside manner. He too, had smelt of peppermint; humbugs in his case, and never averse to handing a few around as a reward for 'bravery in the field of fire' as he'd joking called the ordeals of splinting broken bones, bandaging twisted joints, or dealing with cracked heads and bloody noses.

Back *then*, Giles had always thought his gruff tales of life on the frontline - his horror stories of field agents brought home with shattered ribs, their limbs half ripped off, or stricken with claw marks so deep that they'd scarred through to the bone - had been bold exaggerations, fables intended to put the fear of god into his impressionable charges. But now - lying under the gentle ministrations of another of the same breed, bleeding in more places than he cared to think about and determinedly ignoring the nightmare memories of nearly being eaten alive - the Watcher had to admit that maybe - just *maybe* - the old man might have been telling it like it is.

"Okay," Thackery decided, putting the torch away and turning to Willow with one of those warm smiles. "Now, I know you want stay with him, young lady, but - I have work to do. Bandages to change. Wounds to clean and stitch. And I think perhaps you should wait in the lobby while I get on with it. Ahah," he countered as she opened her mouth to protest. "*Don't* go trying that look on me again, if you please. It's a very effective look and I think you'll find that it works much better if you apply it in moderation. Mr Giles is in good hands, I can assure you - and if you're not willing to leave so as to avoid having to watch the really icky stuff, perhaps you'd consider doing so so that *he* doesn't have to lie there being all brave and stoic while I stick needles into him?"

Her eyes went wide again; Giles - who didn't really *need* the hint, but took it anyway - found her a brave smile and squeezed her hand to encourage her flight. "You should go home, Willow," he advised softly. "I'm sure I'll be fine."

"Mhmh," she denied, shaking her head. "PMP, remember? Not going until I know . okay," she agreed, subsiding under the twin glare of both doctor and patient. "I'll . wait. Maybe - maybe I should phone Buffy. Let her know . you know?"

"Yes," Giles breathed, because he *did* know - and it was a constant surprise to discover his young charges did occasionally worry about him. When they didn't have more important things to worry about, that is. "I think that would be an excellent idea."

"Go," Thackery commanded, fluttering his hands to drive her from the now-curtained cubicle. One of the nurses arrived as she left, bringing the IV he'd asked for. "Nice kid," the doctor observed, checking the equipment and nodding at the nurse to start removing the remains of his patient's clothing. "Yours?"

"Good Lord, no," Giles reacted, drawing in a sharp breath as the nurse's hands disturbed his tender skin. "She's . umm . a student of mine."

"Student, huh?" Thackery sounded amused. "Good one?"

"Very." The soft coldness of a swab brushed his arm, and then the IV needle sank into a vein, starting to feed him the fluid his body badly craved. "I .umm . tutor a- a special group. Gifted students. T-that sort of thing ." There was more than simple saline in the drip; a slow, insistent warmth began to spread through him, soothing away the constant scream of his skin and muting the deeper protests of torn flesh and abused muscles.

"Good for you," Thackery smiled, lifting one of his wrists and gently starting the process of peeling away the makeshift bandaging. "And good for her, obviously. Wish I had your touch when it came to my interns. Ungrateful bunch. I doubt any of them would show me that kind of loyalty. You'll have to tell me your secret some time."

"N-no secret." He hissed as the bulk of the cotton padding fell away, his arm spasming with the sudden resurgence of pain. "Just . well, I - I don't know *what*, actually. They . tolerate my presence, seem to . *Christ* .consider me an expert in a few things. Even .listen to what I say. Occasionally."

Thackery's amused snort was a distracted reflex; he was actually staring at torn skin, carefully assessing the extent of the damage. "What the hell happened to you, Mr Giles?"

"It's . Rupert," Giles offered distantly, finding sudden appeal in a competent and professional adult addressing him by his given name. "And an insane gardener hit me with a shovel, tied me up with garden twine and attacked me with a rusty fork."

"Really?" the doctor questioned, with a raised eyebrow that suggested he knew a lot more about the nightlife of Sunnydale than the average sane person would admit to. The Watcher sighed.

"*Really*," he said, and closed his eyes, letting the caress of the painkillers carry him away.

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