"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.
This is technically all true.
-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?"
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.
"Anet'lov demons come in twos. You said it was just the one, that... your father shot?"
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?"
Emma sighs with relief. "You're my favorite tight-lipped demon slayer," she tells Isabella.
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.)
"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.
"It is my medical opinion that you avoid being bitten by anything venomous," Emma deadpans.
"Well, the venomous part could be tricky, I suppose," Emma says thoughtfully. "Your school library will have a surprisingly good selection of relevant books, though, if I'm remembering correctly."
"We're working through the ones that are at least arguably in English as fast as we can."
"We?" Emma asks, surprised. She thought she knew all the Watchers, at least roughly at the name-and-location level; one of the reasons she took this job was that there wasn't anyone here.
"My sister's helping. Dad doesn't know any more than he wants to. I repeat, do not send demonic hordes to my house."
"Well, I can probably help with some of the non-English ones," she confesses. "And as I haven't the foggiest notion where I would come by a horde of demons to send you, it seems safe enough to promise I won't."
"It's not that I particularly suspect you of wanting to send demons after me or having a bunch of them in your back pocket, it's just I usually don't go shouting from rooftops that there might be reason for this to cross anyone's mind in the first place."
Emma snorts. "You might want to consider acting a little more pathetic in the emergency room, then," she suggests. "Seventeen year olds are not usually quite so cavalier about this many claw marks."
"I decided 'it's not as bad as it looks' was just barely less flimsy than 'oh, the pain, the pain, but let me go tomorrow at the latest pretty please'."