23 May 2009 @ 08:48 pm
Title: Only A Flesh Wound
Fandom: Glee
Rating: PG
Word Count: 1,008
Summary: It's a quick slip, and a long trip down.
Disclaimer: Everything belongs to Ryan Murphy, Fox, et al. — I'm just having fun. ;-)
Notes: Just a bit of (slightly angsty?) fluff. I think both Emma and Will are too cute, and the potential for their characters on the show is really exciting. I've been feeling pretty motivated to write lately, so hopefully this isn't the end of it! Not beta'ed, so all mistakes are mine.



Emma falls hard and fast, and the look of concern on his face is almost enough to make her forget that it's down half a flight of stairs.

Months later, there won't be much of a scar left to show it ever happened, but she'll still take extra care with that patch of skin when she's exfoliating in the shower, thinking of the gold band on his left hand and feeling something heavy press down on her chest because she wants to keep this one set of marks instead of trying to scrub it away with everything else like she should. Another secret to wear on the outside and hope hiding it in plain sight will keep anyone from seeing.

And, really, it's nothing astronomical: just a fallen flyer she sees too late, and a brand-new heel with an unscuffed sole that slides like a cotton sock on waxed tile. It's early in the morning, meaning there's practically no one wandering the halls to witness it; she's sure the security personnel will kill some time by rewinding that part of the surveillance tapes over again, but her dignity isn't fragile enough to be bruised by the thought. She does hope it won't end up on YouTube, knows it probably will if someone ever figures out how to convert and transfer the footage from the tapes.

At the moment, though, she's much more concerned by the tiny flecks of grit digging into her skin wherever it makes contact with the floor.

Three seconds and several stunned blinks after the fact, she hasn't gathered herself together enough to stand up but she's already propelling herself into motion, pulling out her travel-sized pack of wet wipes and her miniature first aid kit. She makes a mental note to run by the dry cleaner's later on to drop off the skirt she's wearing. Even if she weren't looking uncertainly back and forth from her hands to the bloody mess running a couple of inches below her right knee, she would have been fine.

Of course, he's the one who stops anyway, and mostly the point is, he stops.

"Oh, God — Emma? Are you okay?"

Her eyes widen as Will reaches her in two long strides and sets down the stack of textbooks he's carrying to crouch beside her and press a few fingers to the opposite side of her leg, turning it towards himself so he can get a better look at the scrape.

"Oh, yeah, I just — poster — didn't see, so I slipped and it — um, yeah," she babbles. "What are — what are you doing here so early?"

"Hmm? Eh, just getting a head start on end-of-year inventory. Gosh, this looks like it hurts pretty bad." He sucks in a breath through his teeth, then looks up to meet her eyes, and she realizes that she's been staring; she immediately drops her gaze to her injury. It stings and the beads of dark red welling up look awful, but it's pretty bearable. All things considered.

Shifting slightly, Emma pauses before extending her roll of towelettes. "I'm sorry, I know it's probably an imposition, but could you—? My hands, they're —"

"Sure thing," Will says, pulling a square out of the tube and sitting down. A thin line sinks between his eyebrows as he focuses on wiping the blood off, his warm, steady hand gently curved just behind her ankle to keep her foot in place as he pats the wet nap to her broken skin. "So what are you doing here this early? I know parking gets scarce later on in the morning, but I think Figgins is gonna be out sick for the rest of the week. You totally could've taken his spot."

He grins, and for a beat she forgets, loses the thread of the conversation before managing a short laugh that sounds only slightly nervous.

"But seriously, you make it a habit of coming in before seven in the morning?"

"No, not really, I just have a, uh, an assembly to organize. We're having a speaker come in to talk about abstinence and safe sex, which I'm sure the kids will love." She rolls her eyes, swiping the bits of dirt and dust from her other calf with a fresh wipe, and he snorts, grabbing up the first aid kit.

"They haven't already had that one?" he says.

"Probably, but it's sponsored by the Christ Crusaders, so. Guess they're trying to be thorough?"

"Yeah, sounds about right."

They lapse into silence as he peels the large flesh-colored band-aid from its thin packaging and holds either end between his thumbs and forefingers, careful not to touch the adhesive as he lowers and lays it flat across her shin where he's already applied a modest layer of Neosporin. Tucking her hair behind her ear, she looks down to examine his handiwork, tries not to think about how close he's sitting. When she glances up again, she sees that the tag of his shirt is sticking out above his collar, barely brushing against the curls at the nape of his neck. She resists the urge to tuck it in.

"There." Will smoothes a thumb over the bandage, crumples up the paper wrapping in his fist, and smiles at her as he leans back and props his elbows on his bent knees. "All done."

This is the part where she's supposed to stand up, offer him a squirt of Purell, thank him politely, walk away. Spritz, wipe, move on.

"Thanks," she says. Her fingers reach into her purse, automatically going for the pocket nestled in the middle beside the pockets for her spare plastic gloves and her car-handle disinfectant. "Purell? I know — I mean, not that I'm accustomed to having other people clean my blood up or that I'm implying I think you think it's unsanitary or — well —"

"Sure," he says, laughing a little and holding out a hand.

Emma smiles back and keeps sitting on the floor, doesn't budge an inch.
 
 
Current Mood: accomplished
 
 
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