Disclaimer: I claim no ownership and am making no money.
FRT at the worst.
"Oh!" Buffy meeped in misery and annoyance. Giles made an indeterminate sound in response, a sort of muffled grunt. He was carrying her, so she supposed some amount of incoherence was okay. She leaned her head against his shoulder and made her little whimpery noise again.
"It had a knife! Giles, what was it doing with a knife? They're not supposed to have knives! It's, like, in the union charter. Slayers get stakes and impeccable taste. Vamps get fangs and yesterday's fashions."
"Tomorrow you shall write a stern memo," said Giles. He negotiated the stairs down to his little patio with a few more of those grunts. Buffy was pretty sure she could walk now, but she wasn't about to tell him that. He had nice shoulders and his arms were warm where they were wrapped around her. He didn't even mention putting her down. It was a good thing he never, ever locked his door, because all he had to do was wiggle the knob, then kick the door shut behind him.
He laid her down carefully on his sofa then vanished. He came back with his big first aid kit. Buffy had already kicked off her shoes and undone her jeans. Giles stuttered and stood looking away and probably blushing. This was no time for that.
"Giles, they're toast. Get over here and patch me up. Ow!" At her only-exaggerated-a-little wince, he was on his knees by the couch and helping her ease the jeans down and away from the icky spot. Buffy pulled them all the way off and held them up to look.
"I liked these jeans," she said. They had flowers stitched on the pockets. And now they had a big hole in them, and bloodstains that probably weren't ever going to come out. The Slaying was murder on her wardrobe. Buffy let them drop to the floor.
Giles was ignoring the jeans and swabbing the blood off the gash. It was deep. The knife had gone way into the muscle. It had hurt like, well, like that stuff always hurt, until the adrenaline from the fight hit. It had really pissed Buffy off, and had inspired her to throw that stake extra-hard. It wasn't bleeding much any more, though. All Giles had to do was make sure nothing got in the way of the Slayer healing.
The wound was way up, right up where her underwear began. And she was wearing French-cut panties today. Thank goodness they were nice. She hadn't thought that anybody would be seeing them when she put them on, but it always made her feel better to have something cute on. And this planning ahead worked out, because now Giles had seen that she had the impeccable taste she'd alluded to before. They were pale green, with lacy edges and little hearts, and they matched her tan line perfectly.
And there was no way he was pretending he hadn't noticed. She saw his glance flicker once over her body, and again, and felt his hands shake, just a little, while he smoothed on the tape. He ran his fingers over the gauze, as if to make sure it was in place. His fingers rested lightly on Buffy's thigh. She looked at Giles' hand, then looked up at him. He met her gaze, and there was no pretending in his eyes, just heat edged with an anxious tremor.
Buffy smiled at him, and watched the heat rise.