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Emma's parents take her news poorly.

"You're not done with your training!" her mother objects. "You can't just leave."

"Maybe not with my Watcher training, but I'm done with nursing school," Emma says patiently. "I have a job lined up in California. Phil also has a job lined up in California. We've lived near you for years; Phil wants to be near his family now."

"So this is his idea, is it?" her father asks darkly.

"No," Emma says, frustrated. "We decided. He wants to be closer to home. I can get better jobs there. I'm going to be an ER nurse, if we stayed on this coast I'd have to wait years for that. We're moving."

The argument continues for hours, but Emma's parents can't win this one. She's broken her lease, they've found a place in California, she's signed the paperwork for her new job. This is not something she can be talked out of, for once. There's more Watchers than Slayers, and there are never enough nurses. She's getting out of this weird, insular, magic-driven life and going to actually help people.

Two weeks later, she starts work at Sunnydale Hospital.

There are rather a lot of injuries, here.
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For example, here's a girl who looks like she was savaged by a demon.

There's a huge bite out of her right arm, which she's favoring, but not as much as she ought to; there are claw marks on her face and visible through the rips in her jeans.

She's arguing with the chief of police.

"Dad, I'll be fine, I'm walking wounded and there could be people in lethal danger in the ER, see, I'm walking - this is pointless - we have disinfectant and gauze at home, Dad -"

"Bells," says the chief of police, "you are getting medical attention from professionals whether you like it or not, and that's going to be the deal when you come home this beat up till you're eighteen, minimum."

"I'll be -" She stops talking when she double-checks the quantity of supervision. She sighs and sits down. "Fine."
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Emma's had a long, long day. Someone brought a poorly trained dog to a kindergarten, she's been stitching up clawed faces for hours- a baby had a collapsed lung, the doctor had to insert a tube- she's been on her feet for about twelve hours straight, at this point, and counting her blessings that at least she only has three of these shifts a week.

So she's only half paying attention when she sees the chief of police come in with his daughter. She hurries over to collect their forms. "Hello, welcome to Sunnydale General," she says in a rush, talking by rote. "We'll be with you shortly, there's an emergency with an infant in Room-"

Her brain catches up to her and she registers the girl's wounds.

She's seen wounds like this before, and not in her nursing textbooks.

"...Two," she finishes, just a tad more slowly. "But then I'll be right with you, okay?"

She favors the chief of police with a bright smile. "You're welcome to wait with your daughter, Chief Swan, but of course the consult will have to be in private, to comply with reporting regulations."

Please, please, let him hear so I can ask the state-mandated questions about abuse, she has scratches on her face, what if a boyfriend gave them to her? What if you did? and not I grew up on a steady diet of demonology books and would like to ask your daughter some careful questions without a policeman present.
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"Please don't drop anything on my account, this looks worse than it is," asserts the Swan girl. "Dad, I promise not to sneak out of the hospital at least until school's out tomorrow, you can go."

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"Right," sighs Chief Swan, and he kisses the top of her head and departs.

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There is a bite out of her arm and she's-

-right, baby, emergency. Emma hands the girl some gauze. "Keep pressure on it for now?" she says helplessly. "I'll be right back."

It's not even ten minutes later before she's back; the baby is successfully breathing, and asleep. She leads the Swan girl to the nearest free consultation room that has a door, and closes it very carefully.

"Do you need me to cut you out of those clothes?" is the first thing she asks. "I can't bandage them like that, and something has done a real number on you."

She digs around for more gauze, antiseptic cream, painkillers, she needs a cup for water-

"What was it that attacked you, anyway?" she asks casually. "Do you need a rabies shot, for instance?" (Nope.)
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"I can take them off myself. Might be able to salvage the jeans if you have any peroxide for the blood, 'distressed' look is in." The girl takes off her shirt and her pants. "Only mammals get rabies, right? I'm good."

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Emma stares at her. She's awfully functional for the amount of pain she should be in. She gets to applying antiseptic to the girl's injuries. "Not a mammal?" she inquires. "And what happened to this... not-a-mammal?

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"It's dead."

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It- dead? How?

"You're sure? Nothing to report to animal control?"

Not that she would, that's just asking to get them killed.
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"Nope. He didn't get hurt, obviously, but my dad turned up after it took a bite out of me," she shrugs. "Cops are allowed to have guns."

This is technically all true.
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And it does relax Emma, some, to have a reasonable explanation. But the girl- Isabella, the form says- is still in far too little pain. And why isn't she more freaked out? Nothing the normal Denial Crowd knows about could possibly explain these injuries, and she isn't even fazed by this, what kind of girl-

-oh.

Oh.

Oh, gods damnit all.

She resists the urge to beat her head on the counter. She just got out of this whole- whole- cult thing her parents love so much. Out! And yet, she's spent a good month now listening to them vent about the missing Slayer, and now that Slayer has just walked into Emma's ER?!

She groans and hands Isabella the painkillers and water. "Here you are," she sighs. "Though you probably don't need it much, do you?"
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"I mean, I'll take 'em." She takes 'em. "It just isn't really as bad as it looks."

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"Sure it is," Emma says. "You're just better at handling it than most, aren't you." This is not really a question.

She digs up one of their little plastic bags and fills it with sample packets of antiseptic and gauze wrap. "Here," she says. "Normally I'd say change those every day, but you should probably change them every twelve hours once we get the stitches in." She can see at least three- four?- wounds she'd like to get stitched; they've got the fancy dissolving thread around somewhere, so Isabella won't have to come back weirdly-a-couple-days early for removal.

She debates saying anything more, but decides against silence with an internal sigh. For the sake of public safety, if nothing else. "...They come in twos, you know," she adds.
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"Anet'lov demons come in twos. You said it was just the one, that... your father shot?"

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"...I didn't actually say that." Bella looks at the distinctive bite on her arm.

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"No, you didn't, did you?" Emma says wryly. "You're a tricky one. No wonder no one could find you." She bundles up the extra blood-soaked gauze and disposes of it. "Hang on. I don't care how fast you heal, those still need stitching."

A doctor is summoned, who stitches (with, at Emma's polite insistence, the dissolving thread) and promptly leaves again, with Emma reassuring him that she'll handle the discharge, never fear, she has this under control. It's a busy night, he has no incentive to linger.

Emma has lots of incentive.

"Look, Isabella," she says. "I'm sorry, I know there's a protocol to these conversations. What are your thoughts on PCP gangs with barbeque forks and all that. But it's been a long day, a busy day, and I'm tired and I'm desperate to get home to my husband. I just want to make sure I don't see anyone else, tomorrow, with identically missing chunks out of their extremities. So, do you want help finding the other Anet'lov demon? Or is it conveniently already dead somewhere?"
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"It is conveniently already dead somewhere. Go home."

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Emma sighs with relief. "You're my favorite tight-lipped demon slayer," she tells Isabella.

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"I just bet. Please do not send demonic hordes to my house."

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Emma chuckles. "I won't. The town does that all by itself."

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"I noticed."

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Emma can't bring herself to outright volunteer as a Watcher. She isn't one, not anymore. Or at least she tells herself that. But she certainly knows more than this poor girl does. "If you ever need- advice, or something, I'll be here," she offers. "Or, um- wait, here."

She grabs an extra consent form for something or another and writes her name and phone number on the back. She offers it to Isabella.

"In case something hospital unfriendly happens," she says with a sad smile. (This is a Slayer. There will be injuries, and she won't want to take them all to the hospital, and she should. So Emma will offer.)
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"Cool, that's good of you. If I am bitten by something dreadfully venomous or whatever I will bear this in mind." Bella takes it.

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"It is my medical opinion that you avoid being bitten by anything venomous," Emma deadpans.

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