More Important Matters

A/N: This is a prompt-fic. I don't normally do them, but my prompter was very sweet to provide me some when I begged for them. (I got three, and am working on #2 at the moment.) Anyone else wonder why Angela was the only one who changed clothes in RE: Degeneration? Many thanks to my beloved prompter, Firestar9mm for the lovely prompt.

Prompt Summary: A view of Leon and Claire from an ancillary character-the bartender, a diner waitress, an intern in whatever office-anybody. They can have a name; they don't have to. But it's always refreshing to see how other people see the details that are invisible to us because we're already used to them. What do they look like to the outside world?

Harvardville Municipal Hospital
2:35 a.m.

Patricia figured that there was going to be trouble when she saw the report on the news. For hours the emergency room staff had waited with baited breath for a rush of ill or injured to pour in from the airport. At five they'd gotten what they anticipated, but it was only bruised and battered protesters.

A sneaky little phone call Allison had made to her FBI agent boyfriend told them all that they weren't going to see any of the worst of the collateral damage. At all. Medical concerns related to the incident were being handled by the first-responder units that were on the scene. No one was releasing potentially dangerous individuals to untrained and unsupplied hospital staff.

So the whole hospital had breathed a sigh of relief, even though some of them crossed themselves against their wickedness for being relieved not to have to do their jobs, and the day had continued. Normal, even, for an ER.

Until two-thirty a.m. when a blond man all but carried in a redheaded woman. She was a pale thing, compared to him, and slender. Patricia tried not to be jealous of how intimate the man's grip on her looked, she knew she could be just imagining it... one of her arms was over his broad shoulders, his hand on her hip was curling around her waist... Patricia knew she could be inferring the intimacy. Was there a better way to help her in with a leg wound aside from carrying her?

Patricia had never seen the after effects of an outbreak, but she knew in an instant that this wasn't a car wreck or a domestic dispute. For one, the redhead was cracking jokes trying to make the blond man smile. For another, he was carrying a gun. Openly.

Cop, Patricia surmised, glancing up only momentarily from the processing paperwork she was inputting on the screen. There was no sense getting ahead of herself. Sometimes people lingered before coming over to the big, giant, obvious 'RECEPTION' sign that hung over her counter.

It didn't take long, maybe a minute or two of quiet talking between them. Patricia looked up fully as he half-carried her to the desk and the redhead politely asked for the admission forms. The redhead collected the forms and said a sincere 'thank you', then she tapped the blond on the chest with them, saying a gentle, "Come on, ace, over there. I need a ballpoint."

The blond man had a look on his face that said the word 'emergency' ought to be used, but he followed the woman's instructions, and the pair of them retreated to the waiting chairs.

Patricia had seen that look before, and knew the story written on the two of them.

The woman was calm, the man was quietly freaking out.

Couple, Patricia noted, returning to the screen in front of her.

The emergency room wasn't empty, despite not having any of the serious collateral from the airport atrocity. There had been some transfers earlier from other hospitals that had supplies commandeered by the government troops as they set up the mobile facilities at the airport itself, and the rest of the city was still running like normal.

"Shit," the woman cursed, drawing Patricia's attention back to them.

"What is it?"

"My wallet was in my carry-on."

"Where's your carry-on?" the man asked.

"Well I dunno, Leon, I think I dropped it... you know, in all the commotion."

A sour look crossed the man's face, and Patricia tried not to stare at the two of them. They were far more interesting than the rest of the waiting patients in the lobby, and definitely better than the CRT monitor that she was entering data on. There was no refresh rate on living things, thankfully, no pixels to cycle power through. And her eyes were a little tired.

"Your whole wallet?"

The woman shrugged. "It's nothing important. Didn't even have my passport this time. I'll get a new ID when I get back to the city, I-"

"Claire, you can't get on a plane without ID. And you can't be treated in a hospital."

"Then I guess we'd better go, because I don't have one. Or my insurance card. I've got a cell phone, that's about it. So unless they can track my identity with that, we're SOL."

The man made an annoyed noise. One that Patricia had heard before out of other men when their women were being far too practical for their own physical good.

"Hang on a minute," he said.

This part was in the script too. He took the clipboard from her and crossed to the desk. Patricia tried to find something else to look at, but it was almost three in the morning, and that wasn't liable to look anything but forced, so she just watched as he approached.

The man's face had a confident, business-like expression.

Patricia offered a professional smile in return. Don't cause trouble, she hoped, don't be that asshole at three in the morning.

"Morning," he said as he put the clipboard on the counter.

"Hi," Patricia offered in response.

The emergency room was filled with patients, but from the look on the man's face, the hazel-eyed blond was of the impression that the redhead he had all but carried in was more important than the rest of the waiting room. At three a.m. he was probably right. Most of the cases that were still around at that point were mundane. A baby that swallowed some pain medication. No one was sure how much, but the baby was laughing and it was six hours later, and the pediatrician wasn't in for another hour. An older woman who swore she couldn't feel her fingers or toes, but was moving them just the same, two people who seemed to be sleeping in the chairs, and a young man who had taken a knock in the head when ejected from the demonstrating outside the airport a little too hard.

The redhead was the only one in the lobby actually bleeding, and so she was, actually, a more pressing concern than the others.

Knowing what was on the clipboard already, or what was missing, Patricia glanced it over anyway, out of professional politeness. "Sir, these forms are not complete. I need a copy of her insurance card."

"I know," the man said in a friendly voice. Patricia didn't trust the friendly ones. "We just came from the airport."

"I gathered that," Patricia said. She glanced discreetly past the blond man leaning on her island counter. The woman, as the reception nurse regarded her, gave her a long-suffering smile and spread her hands helplessly.

At least the woman seemed to be thinking sensibly.

"Mm," the man agreed. "So I was wondering if there was a way to have her seen without the standard documentation."

"Sir, standard procedure states that emergency room visits are run through insurance. It's really better for the patients. It can be a real nightmare trying to get that sort of thing corrected after the fact."

The man had an even expression that was bordering on scowl at the moment, and he was asking, "Can I do it with my insurance? She was at the airport earlier and in the commotion her wallet ran off."

"Is she listed as a dependent?" Patricia asked. She really hated insurance questions.

"...no."

"Well then, I'll call her insurance company, but I'm afraid I'll have to wait for her insurance company to call me back," Patricia hated this sort of red tape. She'd become a nurse to help people, not to push them away with paperwork.

"Is there any other way to do this?" the man before her asked.

Patricia watched him. He glanced over his shoulder at the redhead that he had left with her leg propped up on the uncomfortable chairs, and his brow tightened in pain. He seemed to be in pain for her, while she was seemingly undisturbed. Patricia didn't know if that was normal, but at least he cared.

She glanced at the redhead, who smiled at him, and then as he turned back to her, Patrica watched the cheerful smile melt away into a flat lined mouth, and she shifted just a little on the chair, grimacing silently as she did.

So he was concerned, and she knew it, and she was trying to keep him calmed down.

Why wasn't she listed as his dependent again? Normally this was husband-wife behavior.

"Anything?" the man asked hopefully. His hazel eyes looked pretty green as he turned to her, and the tightened muscles across his brow made him look younger than the stoic face and the straight-backed build he'd come in with. He slouched over the counter, leaning on his elbows with his hands crossed on the teal-green formica surface. He had to know he could be intimidating, he had to be working to keep from bullying people, because he curled his back a bit and was a little shorter towering over her as he asked.

"It doesn't have to go through insurance," Patricia said, "but that's going to be expensive if she needs stitches or... anything. We don't normally let people do that sort of thing if they have insurance, it's a nightmare to try and get your money back, and-"

Almost as soon as she'd said the word insurance, he'd reached around to his pocket for his wallet, and pulled a card out, conveniently on the side of him that the redhead couldn't see.

"-are you sure about that?"

"I'm positive," he replied. "Not only will she need that leg, but I'm pretty sure my credit line is higher than hers."

"Alright," Patricia said, though she was dubious about the whole thing. "You know... you could just get her listed as a dependent on your insurance, and then this wouldn't be a big deal." She reached up to take the card he'd set on the counter in front of her, and glanced at the forms beside her. The redhead's forms.

The blond haired man... 'Leon S Kennedy', according to the piece of plastic he'd handed her, was glancing away, undoubtedly at the woman he'd all but carried in, at... 'Claire Redfield', according to the in-processing paperwork at the side of Patricia's keyboard, and didn't pay her another thought.

"That's probably more complicated than me just paying for it and telling her I gave you my insurance card," the man said. "Trust me."

"I don't have to trust you, Mr. Kennedy, I just have to process your friend."

Patricia slid the card through her terminal and checked to see which doctor was on call. She sent the appropriate system message to his pager, and finished the processing of the patient information.

"Thank you," the blond man said, absently. He turned his head, glancing back at the woman with her leg up in the chairs.

Finishing up, Patricia gave him back his card, followed by the slip he needed to sign to authorize the transaction. "Doctor Jones will be with you two shortly, Mr. Kennedy, if you could please retake your seat."

Nodding, he tucked the card back into his wallet before putting his wallet away, and straightened, heading back over to the chairs where the young lady he'd helped in was still reclining. The faint smile was back on her lips, and she looked as though she didn't hurt at all, but Patricia had seen better of it. There was blood on her pantleg and she was getting a little pale, if it was possible for her to get more pale than she already seemed to be.

As she made out the woman's chart, she watched the two of them. She listened in on the conversation. The redhead seemed dubious about being here.

"Why didn't we go back to the tent? They could've taken care of me there, you know."

"Private medical is better for you," the blond man replied. "And faster. They've got a lot of work to do tonight."

He settled in the chair beside her, beside her back, and she leaned her back against his shoulder. They looked very comfortable together, despite her blood loss. Patricia wondered, again, about why he didn't just make her a dependent. She knew a few friends who had done similar things, and they weren't nearly as comfortable as these two looked.

"Did you sweet talk that nurse?" the woman asked.

He settled and shifted, straightening up so she had something to lean on, and turned his head towards the red tail of hair beside him. "Sweet talk her? Of course not. I just put it on my insurance card."

"You have insurance?" The redhead was trying to turn and look at him, but couldn't do it very well without moving her leg.

"Everyone has insurance, Claire. Mine is just better than yours. Sit still, you'll bother your leg." He put a hand up on her shoulder to keep her from shifting, and Patricia noticed that his fingers lingered curled there.

The redheaded woman didn't seem to notice the hand that lingered on her. "How did you-"

Patricia's eavesdropping on their conversation was interrupted as Dr. Jones stepped into view in front of her, a small smile on his lips that he didn't often give the nurses. Patricia wondered if she'd called him out of his girlfriend's office, or if he was just being friendly.

"Is it a bad one?"

"Well," Patricia said, nodding past him, "she's bleeding, but you're more likely to have trouble from the big guy that brought her."

Dr. Jones glanced at them, and then turned back to the chart. He nodded to Patricia, and murmured, "Thanks for the heads up," before heading over to the two of them.

Working on the end of the forms she had to enter data into, Patricia was amused to overhear the exchange between the three of them.

"We'll need to head to an exam room, Mrs... Redfield."

"Miss."

"Sorry about that," Dr. Jones said. "If you'll come this way, Miss."

She started to get up, Patricia heard it, and looked up, only to see the blond man... Leon... stand up with her and scoop her arm back over his shoulder. "Hey, I can walk," the redheaded woman protested.

"You're bleeding," the blond man and the doctor said at the same time.

"Let me get a wheelchair."

"No! I can w-"

"Miss, please, your leg is bleeding-"

"I don't want a-"

As if to end the discussion entirely, the blond man bent a little and picked the redheaded woman up, hooking his arm under her knees. "Practical solution, Doctor, lead the way?"

Patricia tried not to snicker as Dr. Jones nodded and did just that. She noticed the blush on the redheaded woman's cheeks, and the faint smirk on the blond man's lips as he carried her down the hall. Next time this happens, Patricia wagered privately, there wouldn't be that issue about being a dependent or not on his insurance.