miscellany n 1: a collection containing a variety of sorts of things.

A Hospital in Los Angelas

"It's almost a shame that you aren't Lindsey," said Wesley.

"Well, I like that," said Lorne mildly. "Though I suppose if you have to fantasize about someone else, Lindsey is a good choice."

"What? I just meant that being with Wolfram and Hart, getting Doyle released would probably be no obstacle. If all else failed, he'd just have the firm buy the bloody hospital."

"I can't be the only one who finds it amusing that one of the greatest proponents of capitalism in America is a demonically controlled law firm. I wonder if the Republicans know about this?"

"Lorne..."

"I know, sweetie. We're not going to be able to come up with a good plan of action till we scope out the situation. Better let me go--you're going to stand out a bit in my threads. Let's park you in a waiting room, with a paper in front of your face so that a passing nurse doesn't snap to who you are, hm?"

Wesley followed the plan. He'd never be able to say what was in the paper he was 'reading'--all his attention was focused on the sounds around him. He kept waiting for each set of passing footsteps to pause outside the door, or for yells and demands for security to erupt nearby. Finally he heard someone enter the room, and tensed until he heard, "Unwinde, sugar--it's just me. Has anyone said anything to you about reading the newspaper upside down?"

"What did you find out?"

"That the head nurse on duty is inordinately fond of Elton John, and the other nurse couldn't carry a tune in a Dooney and Burke handbag. Doyle has apparently calmed down to the point where they no longer think he is psychotic--they only think he was having a bad drug reaction--common enough in Los Angelas. However they still want to keep him for 48 hours."

"Damn! This is the best place for Cordelia right now--they can look after her. But if Doyle starts having visions again while he's under observation we'll NEVER get him out of there."

"Does he have good medical insurance?"

Wesley stared at him. "I'd be surprised if he had ANY medical insurance."

"Then they'd keep him till the next budget cut--then he'd be out in a flash. Unfortunately we can't wait for that."

The two went upstairs to the psych ward. As they stepped out of the elevator, Lorne grabbed Wesley's arm and dragged him quickly to one side, into a short side corridor. The only things in the mini-hall were a couple of chairs, a painting of a rather off-kilter looking still life, a stairwell, and the doors to the public restrooms. "The nurse at the station was busy with paper work," Lorne whispered. "I don't think she saw us come up. That door just past the station leads into the ward, and it stays locked."

"Right," said Wesley grimly. "We have to get them to open the door. I hate intimidating a woman..."

"Sweetie, you haven't seen the nurse. She looks like Rosie Grier in drag, and WITHOUT a close shave. The security guard doesn't look as intimidating."

"What security guard?"

"I didn't mention him? Well, there is a security guard, but I'm not sure where. I think he covers a couple of floors."

"Damn again. This is going to need a very clever, perhaps even diabolical plan."

"Or we could go for simple." Lorne lifted the picture off the wall, and used the frame to smash the glass on the fire alarm on the wall. He grabbed the handle, and pulled.

Sirens started shrieking, followed quickly by human shrieks. Wesley peeked around the corner in time to see a very large woman in a nurse's smock unlocking the door beyond the nurse's station. She was shouting to a more slender woman behind her, "You get Turner and Pascal--those are the only ones we need to worry about. Guide the others downstairs. I'll take care of Doyle."

That was the nurse's original plan. The patients weren't in on it, though. The moment she opened the door several people, all of them dressed in the traditional inadequate hospital gown, broke through. Wesley was forcefully reminded of a George Romero zombie movie, except that these people were showing a lot more life than the zombies ever did. The zombies might manage a few moans, but these people were being very vocal. Lorne thought he could pick out several threats to sue the hospital. The head nurse surged forward through the herd of patients, shouting back at her nurse to keep them away from the elevators.

Lorne and Wesley went out into the main hall just as the first patients began to turn into the short hallway, headed for the stairs. The nurse left behind, looking very frazzled, tried to push them back. She grabbed at Lorne's arm, saying "Outside! Out into the parking lot till we find out what's going on."

"I can't. I have to get my friend, Harvey." Lorne shooed Wesley, who hurried on toward the ward. "Have you seen him? He's about six-foot three, covered in white fur, long ears, buck teeth..."

Wesley got through the door, shoving his way through the rapidly thinning crowd. He had a thought that it might be good if he knew what room Doyle was being held in, but as it turned out, that bit of information was unnecessary. The nurse had him in a head lock, and was dragging him out into the corridor. "C'mon, fool. Neither one of us is going to get burned up, but you're sure as hell not going to go running off on your own with some of the crazy crap you've been spouting. Powers That Be, my behind. That's just another way of sayin' 'God told me to', and I'm not havin' any blashpemin' around here."

"But ya don't understand, ya bloody great cow! This is obviously some sort of ploy t' get t' me," Doyle was gasping.

"Sure it is. It says 'conspiracy paranoia', right on your record."

"Doyle, it isn't wise to make negative comments about someone's size when they are in the process of choking you," said Wesley. "Madam, I'm going to ask you once like a gentleman to release my friend."

The nurse clipped him smartly on the chin, knocking him back against the wall. "You can shove that gentleman nonsense where the sun don't shine. NOBODY takes one of my patients without the proper paperwork."

Lorne found Doyle in the grip of the mammoth head nurse, while Wesley eyed her warily, rubbing his jaw. "What's the hold-up? Someone's going to snap soon."

"Like my neck," complained Doyle. "Will one of ya twits DO something?"

"Oh, so you're in on this, too, pretty boy?" growled the nurse. "I should have known you were just foolin' when you told me I was just like Lena Horne." Wesley gave Lorne a disbelieving look. Lorne shrugged. "God's gonna getcha for that!"

Lorne looked at Wesley. "Well?"

Wesley said, "I'll give you one more..."

"Oh, for goodness sake! If you MUST do it without actual violence..." He smacked his hands together smartly. "Clap off!" The image of Lindsey disappeared, and Lorne stood there in all his green-and-horned glory. He grinned at the nurse. "Booga-booga!" She screamed, and fainted. "I really shouldn't enjoy doing that as much as I do. C'mon Wes--let's get Doyle out from under her before he pancakes."

As he wiggled out, Doyle said, "We'd best haul it before the security guard shows up. He might not be as big as Nurse Ratchet here, but he makes up for it in attitude an' one of those bloody great flashlights." They started for the exit, and Doyle hesitated, grabbing at the flapping back of his gown. "Wait! I need clothes."

"Are you kidding? You'll be one of dozens of people in peek-a-boo nighties," said Lorne. "You'll blend in like Chuck Heston at an NRA convention."

They hustled. It says a lot for LA that a green, horned demon, and two men--one dressed in an outfit that would have been loud even by radical seventies disco standards, and one wearing the equivalent of a thin cotton, slit, poncho--didn't attract a second glance from anyone.

Luckily Lorne's car was a classic Thunderbird, 'with a backseat big enough for a Roman orgy'. "It was decided that Lorne and Doyle had better huddle as low as possible in the back, at least till they got out of town. Wesley insisted that they get down till he couldn't see either of them in the rearview mirror.

Just before they left the city limits he heard Doyle mutter, "Jaysus, Lorne, will ya stop that?"

"Sorry, Precious. I couldn't help it. Everything is on display with that gown."

"Don't be sorry. Just cut yer bloody fingernails next time..."



"Come to bed, babe," Willow called.

"In a minute," Tara responded. "Do we have any iguana fat left?"

"Um... no. If you're looking for a bed time snack, I'd suggest some peanut butter on your toast instead."

"Nut."

"Why do you want it?"

Tara came into the bedroom. "We need to recharge the evil sensing crystal thingy."

Willow had been lying in bed--now she propped herself up on her elbows. "I'd nearly forgotten about that. It hasn't burned itself out? I mean, the thing runs almost constantly, given our location."

"It almost has. I checked it, and the glow has gone from, like, 100 watts to anemic twinkly Christmas light."

Now Willow did sit up, frowning. "Twinkly? As in flashing?"

Tara slipped into bed beside her. "More... pulsing, I guess. The light is so dim that you can barely tell when it changes intensity, but it IS doing it, because that's why I noticed it. I walk past it a dozen times a day and never notice it, and tonight I see a little sort of blink of light out of the corner of my eye." She looked worried. "Does that mean we have imminent evil, and need to call the troops together?"

"Not necessarily. I'm not really up on that crystal. It was nice of Wesley to give it to us as a sort of wedding gift." She smiled. "He almost blushed himself to death trying to explain it. Anyway, I was going to do that reading he recommended on it, but I never got around to it. There's a chance that this might just be sort of like when a fancy car starts telling you you're low on gas, or it's time for an oil change. Anyway, we can't get any iguana fat to renew the charge tonight." She held out her arms. "I can think of other things to do, though." Giggling, Tara moved into her embrace.

And they thought that only guys were blinded to the world around them by sex.