ONTOGENESIS

Chapter Four:

She scrubbed the rest of him with brisk efficiency, working as quickly and as thoroughly as she could. She had let herself get distracted, and she ought to have known better. The task was punctuated by soft snores and the odd grunt or two; Giles had shifted from total oblivion into a deep and unprotesting sleep. A sleep without dreams, she hoped. And envied him.

Once the last digit was washed, and the last speck of foam rinsed away, she towelled him dry, tipped the now filthy water down the sink and came back to deal with the real issue, which really wouldn’t wait any longer.

She’d dragged the first aid box out of the cupboard earlier, scrabbling through it to find the gauze and the bottle of antiseptic stuff . Now she dived into it with serious intent, emerging with sealed rolls of sterilised bandage, more gauze and cotton wadding, a reel of medical tape, and a few other bits and pieces that she hoped she wouldn’t have to use but placed ready on the coffee table just in case. She’d brought a fresh bowl of warm water back from the kitchen and she tipped a generous dose of the antiseptic into it so that she could use it to disinfect her hands and arms up to her elbows. Her mother probably thought her first aid skills began and ended with knowing how to apply a band aid, but she’d learnt a lot from watching her Watcher over the years. Mostly watching him attend to her that was; he’d had to set bones, bandage bites and other wounds and even stitch bits of her neatly back together on more than one occasion. Being gifted with Slayer healing might be a good thing, but it definitely helped to have competent hands around to take care of the more immediate damages.

Giles had probably expected to be awake and directing the operation, but Buffy was rather glad that he wasn’t.

The wound was fiercely hot by now, his leg swollen and the skin tensioned and tender. She winced as she peeled back the temporary padding of gauze and studied the problem. The nock end of the bolt jutted out from the raw and weeping puncture that concealed the rest of the shaft and the flesh around it was dark and mottled with bruising. It looked ugly. It looked painful, and she could appreciate why he’d asked for the alcohol; had he really walked all that way like that, stumbling through those darkened sewers with only her shoulder to lean on?

‘Just a flesh wound’, he’d insisted. Yeah. Right. The same way she was just a slip of a girl and he was just an ex-librarian. Not for the first time she cursed the stubbornness of men and the ridiculousness of male bravado. Well, maybe not all of it. If it had been Xander she’d shot, he - at least - would have been sensibly whimpering all the way home.

Actually, she allowed, Giles had whimpered. Just a little. An apologetic sort of whimper, as if he’d been embarrassed about daring to complain. They’d staggered back through the sewers together, having that long argument about who’s fault it was and – while he’d started out pretending it wasn’t anything to make a fuss about, he’d begun to lean on her more and more, to excuse his need to stop for breath and to apologise distractedly for slowing her down and keeping her from her warm and comfortable bed. Maybe she should have realised he was really hurting then - but they’d both got distracted by the argument about the ER. The one which he’d ended by – figuratively speaking – putting his foot down and insisting on her bringing him home.

Buffy sighed, wondering if that had been a serious mistake. This wasn’t a flesh wound. It was nasty, and, if it did turn out to be infected, was likely to get even nastier. On the other hand, it would have been extremely difficult to explain how it had happened, and she knew he did his level best to stay out of Sunnydale General simply because he’d been a patient there too often over recent years. She would have to ring Riley; he’d had training in field medicine, and he might still have one of those standard issue Initiative med-kits, the ones that came with antibiotic powders and proper anti-inflammatory drugs. She’d call Willow too. There might be healing spells that she and Tara could cast, and probably some herbal stuff that would help as well. First things first, though. That bolt had to come out.

She covered her patient’s dignity with one of the towels, bundled a second one under his leg and then draped a third over his knee, hoping that she didn’t have to mop up that much blood, but being prepared for the worst, just in case. She’d already dragged the table over so that its contents were in easy reach, but she moved some of the gauze and a handful of wadding onto his stomach so that she’d have them right at hand. Then she gritted her teeth and pinched the jutting end of the bolt between her finger and thumb. She was going to do this quick and she had to do it clean – because if she screwed up and the shaft broke, she was calling the paramedics and to hell with explanations.

It was clamped in pretty tight. The damaged muscles were swollen with blood and fluid, and she suspected the tip might be nestling in behind the bone. He’d been lucky. More than lucky; the angle of penetration had been shallow enough to avoid anything being seriously broken – although she knew she’d have to be careful, because if she misjudged her strength that could still happen.

She took a deep breath, and tugged.

Anyone else would have struggled to even move it. But Buffy was the Slayer, gifted with the speed, the strength and the reflexes that enabled her to fight demons. Normally she was driving things like this deep into flesh, but on this occasion those skills served to support the opposite desire. The wound made an ugly sucking sound – and then she was clenching her hand around the bolt, lifting it to check the silver tip was still safely in place.

Much to her relief, it was.

Blood, hot, dark and thick, welled out of the injury, bubbling up with force. She tossed the bolt to one side and grabbed for the towel instead, using it to mop up the spill of dark red fluids. It wasn’t, she was relieved to see, bright arterial blood. But there was still a lot of it; it tainted the air with a heavy, metallic scent – along with hint of something sweeter, something sickly and rank. "Oh, great," she muttered. Not only was the wound infected, it had already started to fester.

She let it bleed for a moment or two, hoping that would wash the worst of the contamination from the wound, then reached for the wadding and pressed down to staunch the flow. Giles stirred in unconscious protest as she did so; he’d reacted to the impact of pain, even in his drunken stupor. If he hadn’t been dreaming before, he was now – unsettled dreams, at a guess. Probably ones in which his Slayer tortured and maimed him for the fun of it.

Or Angelus did …

"Not good," Buffy cursed a second time, fighting down a sudden shiver of panic and increasing the pressure as much as she dared. She was terrified that her patient might end up losing more blood than he could spare, a fear that did nothing to ease the distressing churn in her stomach as the crimson tide flooded out from beneath her fingers. It seemed to take forever before the alarming gush finally slowed to a slightly less distressing ooze and she could allow herself to breath again. She carefully eased back the now blood soaked bundle of wadding and found the wound still weeping sluggishly - although the discharge seemed to be mostly a watery fluid with a hint of pus in it. She decided that was an encouraging sign; she replaced the wadding with a fresh batch, laid a layer of gauze over it, doused the entire dressing with antiseptic and then gently bandaged everything in place, being careful not to obstruct the circulation in the leg as she did so. Giles was shivering slightly, which was worrying; he couldn’t afford to go into shock, not with that much alcohol in his system. Buffy hastily left his side to toss the blood soaked towels onto the laundry pile, quickly washed her hands yet again, and then dragged out a couple of blankets to help keep him warm. She laid them and the second clean sheet over him and tucked him in with anxious care, remembering to settle him onto his side so that he wasn’t in any danger of swallowing his tongue, or anything stupid like that.

Then she called Riley.

And got his answering machine.

"This is the message service for Riley Finn," an efficient female voice announced with military exactness. "He is currently unavailable. If you wish to leave a message, please speak at the tone, and he will respond as soon as he is able."

Buffy glanced at the clock. It was close to six by now, the morning creeping up on her with inevitability. Riley might still be asleep – or he might be out, taking an early morning constitutional, getting a head start on the day’s exercise. She found herself stifling a yawn as the message service went beep; she hadn’t been to sleep at all yet, and the night’s events were beginning to catch up with her. "Riley, it’s Buffy."

She wasn’t entirely sure what to say. She didn’t like leaving Slayery messages on answer phones, just in case someone else might end up listening in on them – but she had to say enough to get him to the right place, with the right stuff, and preferably not worrying himself sick about her. "Ah – I’m with Giles. Can you get over here? With that stuff – the thing you were showing me the other day. The emergency kit? We’ve – ah – sort’ve got an emergency. I know it’s early but – just get here as soon as you can, okay? Miss you," she added reflexively, an almost apologetic afterthought. She put the phone down, and fought back another yawn, wondering if maybe the phrase had been too automatic, too casual in tone. She shook the thought from her head with irritation; she was just tired, and emotionally drained. It had been a long and anxious night, and it was going to go on being an anxious day until he got here.

Her fingers were already dialling the second number, confident that she’d get a personal answer this time. A grumpy one, perhaps, but it was six o-clock in the morning.

"Rosenberg residence," the voice said sleepily. "I’m afraid I’m asleep right now. Call back later …"

"Will," Buffy said hastily, before her friend hung up. "It’s me. I’m sorry to wake you, but – I need your help."

"Buffy?" The query was bemused. "It’s – ah – ohhh – six o’clock. Six. Too early six. My help?" Her words had penetrated. "What is it? Something bad? End of the world and stuff like that?"

"Not quite." Buffy had to grin at the thought. Two banished Sifur demons and a wounded Giles were hardly apocalypse stuff – although she was very conscious that she’d nearly lost him, and if she had, her world would never have been the same again. Willow’s neither. Her best friend was very fond of Giles. "I just – need you to do me a favour."

"Well, sure," Willow responded, back to bemusement. "What’d’ya need?"

Buffy’s grin became a grimace. This was vaguely embarrassing. "Well," she said, "can you slip by my place and pick me up a change of clothes? A full set? Including underwear," she added with a quiet wince.

"Underwear?" Bemusement became total puzzlement. "Buffy - ? What’s happened? Where are you?"

Oh God, make that utterly embarrassing. "I’m – at Giles’. Um – We had a little – difficulty – down in the sewers … There were two Sifurs, not just one."

"God, Buffy," Willow’s concern was immediate. "Are you okay? Did the demons hurt anyone?"

Her glance towards the couch was involuntary. "No…," she answered slowly. "Not - exactly. I’m fine, Will. I just got soaked. In the – stuff. Sewers and – well, you know. That’s why I need the clothes."

"Okay." She didn’t sound entirely convinced by that explanation. "What else do you need?"

Buffy’s smile was wry. Willow knew her too well. "You," she said softly. "And Tara, and some of those herby brew things you do … Giles is – " She hesitated to say it, guilt swirling back to catch in her breath and clench in her stomach. "He got … hurt. Just come, okay? Get me something to wear and – be here."

"We will." Willow’s voice held sympathetic concern. "Just stay with him, Buffy. We’re on our way."

She lowered the handset back to its cradle and stared at it for a moment. She was vaguely wondering if she should call anyone else. Xander would come if she asked him, but there wouldn’t be much he could contribute right now. Later, maybe. Giles would need taking care of for a while; fetching and carrying and other nursing-an-invalid type stuff. Anya would probably help, although Buffy wasn’t entirely sure if Giles would appreciate that. The ex-demon did her best, but she didn’t always get it right.

Mom. She could call her Mom … except all that would do was wake and worry the rest of her family. Dawn would be unimpressed, she knew – and there wasn’t really much her Mom could do … other than be anxious and express her usual concerns. No, Mom could wait. Wait for a more sensible hour in the day, and possibly after she’d got some sleep.

Buffy cracked another yawn and went back to check on her patient. Willow and Tara would take a good hour or so – they had to get dressed, stop off at her place, argue about what to bring her … An hour. Easy. Riley, she didn’t know – but probably an hour for him as well. If he got back from his jog. If he thought to pick up his messages …

"Just you and me, I guess," she sighed wearily, easing tired kinks out of her shoulders and leaning over her patient to peel back blankets and examine her handiwork. There was blood on the bandages, but not much; she decided not to disturb the wound any further – not until Riley arrived at least – and carefully tucked the blankets back into place. Her hand brushed his bare butt as she did so, bringing a small grin to her face – one that froze in anxious alarm.

Away from the immediate heat of the wound, his skin felt unpleasantly clammy and cold.

She stepped back up the length of the couch and took a better look at him. He was still asleep, still sunk into oblivious slumber – and his face had gone way too pale, his lips tinged with a faint hint of blue. Loss of blood, too much alcohol … "Oh great," she griped, realising that the blankets hadn’t been enough; he was slipping even deeper into shock. "Giles, don’t do this too me. Don’t scare me like this. It’s not funny."

She cast a panicked glance around the apartment, wondering what she could do. You treated shock with warmth and fluids – except that he was out cold and you didn’t just pour things into a victim anyway, because there was always a danger of them vomiting it right back up. Riley might bring the stuff to rig an IV – but in the meantime she was on her own and running out of options.

Warmth. He needed warmth. Hot towels, perhaps, heated in the oven.

"Take too long," she realised, anxiously wrapping her hand around insensible fingers. They too, were becoming tinged with blue …

There was only one thing she could do; she slid her arm under his shoulders, lifted him up from the cushions and slid herself onto the couch instead. A moment later he was cradled in her arms, the chill of his skin pressed against her while she pulled the blankets close around them both. He stirred and settled again, his head rolling down to rest against her shoulder, and she smoothed back his still damp hair, smiling down at him with worried eyes.

"How come," she wondered, "someone so brilliant and so wise, can be so … perfectly you? It’s kinda weird. I don’t know that much about you, you know? And yet – you know more about me than I do. The tough things, anyway. Slayer stuff, and destinies and my place in the world. Some of the little stuff gets by you sometimes – what’s in, what’s out, who’s my latest boyfriend …" She paused to look a little contrite. "Okay. So that one was my fault. You still met him before my Mom did. I don’t think he knows – quite what to make of you. But that’s okay, you know, because he’s gonna have – well, *fun* isn’t quite the word, but – an interesting time figuring you out. I’m still figuring you out. It’s hard sometimes. There’s so much you keep hidden. So much you don’t say."

She sighed, pulling him close, feeling his heart beating softly beneath her hand.

"I lost sight of the journey, didn’t I," she realised. "Thought I knew it all. Didn’t need to study any more. But all I was doing was taking a rest break." Dracula had shown her a side of herself she didn’t like and she didn’t understand; she’d faced the First Slayer - the source of her power - in her dreams, and she hadn’t understood that either. She needed to explore those things, find ways to use them, ways to master them, ways to become them – without losing herself in the process. That wasn’t something she could do alone. She needed a guide. An interpreter. Someone willing to take that journey with her, to help her find the way.

Her way.

"I’m ready to ready to start training again," she murmured, speaking from her heart and somehow knowing he’d hear what she had to say. "Really train this time. No more quick warm ups and ignoring what you’re telling me about the ‘why’ anymore. I need to know. I need to be. And I can’t do that without you. I thought I could, but I can’t. I need my Watcher. I told you that, and I thought I knew what that meant. But it’s more than – more than just the book stuff, and what you know. It’s you*. I need you. To be there. To believe in me."

Her warmth was beginning to combat the chill which had possessed him; it cocooned them both, wrapping them together in mutual comfort. Sleep was tugging at her senses, and her eyelids were starting to droop. She really shouldn’t fall asleep. He wasn’t out of danger, not yet. But it wouldn’t hurt if she just closed her eyes for a moment.

Just a moment or two …