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The hands on her wrists are strong, holding her down to the bed. Buffy struggles, but the weeks of captivity have left her body week, her strength sapped from her by the invasive testing. A few Initiative researchers stand at Buffy's bedside, helping restrain her, but Buffy's attention is focused solely on Walsh.
"Sit still, Ms. Summers." Walsh's hands are cold through the latex gloves that she wears. She has one hand on Buffy's upper arm, holding her firmly down."You're only going to hurt yourself."
"Go to hell!" Buffy snarls, "Bitch!"
Walsh rolls her eyes, just a little. The dismissive gesture really only serves to piss Buffy off further. "This would be easier on both of us if you would just cooperate."
Buffy keeps struggling, flopping on the bed like a netted fish, her thin hospital gown shifting to reveal her bare skin, gone pasty from weeks without seeing sunlight.
"Doctor Walsh, I would advise chemical restraint," Dr. Angleman says, his voice as reticent as ever.
Walsh nods, taking her hand off Buffy's bicep and turning away. When she turns back around, she's holding a syringe, needle glinting in the harsh institutional lighting. Buffy feels her heart start to race.
"Stop! Don't!" Buffy yells, trying to wriggle away, but the hands holding her down are too strong, and her body is too weak.
"I gave you a chance to cooperate. You decided not to take it." Walsh's expression is intense, scrutinizing Buffy as if she's a bacterium on a slide, pinned down between two sheets of glass for study.
Buffy tries a different track, slumping down in the bed, letting herself go limp under Dr. Angleman and the other researchers' hands. "Please. Please don't hurt me."
Her voice trembles, and she doesn't need to fabricate her fear.
"Please. Mercy," Buffy begs, "I'll— I'll behave. Please."
Walsh's expression softens, just a bit. "I'm not going to hurt you, Buffy. I promise."
The needle slips into Buffy's arm, a bright pinprick of pain. Buffy whimpers, a stifled sound that slips out of its own accord. Walsh disposes of the syringe, then leans forward, stroking Buffy's hair, a small bit of succor as the drug starts to take effect. The room goes soft and fuzzy, the hard lines of the lab dissolving into something more fluid.
"Shh… it's alright…" Walsh whispers, so softly that Buffy thinks that perhaps it's a dream. The room fades, going dim, even as Buffy fights to stay awake. Vaguely, she registers the hands that hold her loosening their grip, the sting of a needle as someone pulls a blood sample, and someone draping a blanket over her body. Walsh must be the one with the blanket; Buffy can smell her perfume as she tucks it around Buffy's shoulders.
"Let's get a blood pressure," Walsh says, her voice sounding like it comes from a million miles away. Buffy feels someone wrapping a blood pressure cuff around her upper arm. She tries to swat it away, but her limbs feel heavy, as if she's trying to move them through viscous honey.
Buffy's eyes flutter shut, and she finally feels herself giving in to the pull of the drug. She relaxes, even as her body is jostled and prodded. Someone pulls her eyes open, shining a light into them. For a moment, she gets a blurry view of the researchers looking down at her, before her eyes slide shut again.
She can hear the researchers talking about her, although none of them are speaking to her. Their voices are growing fainter, but she can still catch snippets of conversation.
"…BP is one twenty over ninety…"
"…sugar is ninety. When did she eat last?"
"…get her down to the MRI once we've got her vitals… need more scans…"
Finally, Buffy sinks into unconsciousness, the world fading to black.
When Buffy wakes up, she's still in bed— or back in bed, maybe, given that she has no idea what happened while she was unconscious. She's been in this room before, recognizes the lab equipment, the cold lighting, the scratchy white hospital sheets. Someone has shackled her to the bed, which is also a familiar feeling. Walsh is standing at her bedside, arms folded across her chest. Buffy glares up at her.
"It's good to see that you're awake. Tell me, how are you feeling?"
Buffy keeps glaring, though her heart isn't really in it. She still feels relaxed and fuzzy from the drugs in her system.
"Still uncooperative, I see."
"You drugged me and experimented on me!"
"True." Walsh reaches forward, taking Buffy's wrist between her hands. She isn't wearing gloves, and the skin to skin contact feels… nicer than Buffy would like to admit.
"What are you doing?" Buffy asks.
"Checking your pulse."
"Don't you have a machine that could do that?"
"Yes. But this way works, too."
"What do you want with me?"
"I want to know what makes you tick. You're so valuable to me, Buffy— I hope you know that. You're a fascinating subject."
"Please, I just want to go home," Buffy says.
"I know. And you will, soon. I can't hold you here forever, as much as I'd like to."
"You're going to kill me, aren't you?"
"Oh, no. You aren't in any danger, Buffy. You have my word. And if you're cooperative, your stay with us will be far more pleasant."
Buffy believes her. She hasn't known Walsh to lie; despite everything that Buffy has been subjected too, Walsh has been unflinchingly honest.
Walsh is still holding Buffy's wrist.
"How's my pulse?"
Walsh looks down, almost as if she's surprised to see that she's still holding Buffy's wrist. She gently sets Buffy's arm back on the bed, readjusting Buffy's blanket. "It's strong and regular. I think you're going to be just fine."
"That's… good," Buffy says, not sure what else to say.
"Get some rest, Buffy. You really wore yourself out today."
Buffy mumbles something that might be an apology, even if she isn't sure what she's apologizing for. She isn't sorry about kicking the guards who had dragged her from her cell this morning, and she isn't sorry for trying to scratch Dr. Angleman, and she definitely isn't sorry for calling Walsh a bitch.
"The drugs will be out of your system in a few hours. I'll be back to check on you in a bit. Rest now."
Walsh turns, leaving the lab, shutting the door softly behind her. Buffy finds herself missing Walsh's company the moment she's gone. Her presence is almost comforting— anything is better than being left alone with her own thoughts and worries.