The man had been driving for what seemed like hours until he pulled up thankfully in a quiet motel and booked himself a room. He smiled politely at the girl who gave him the key to his room and he unloaded his car and took his bags in. Then he spent the rest of the evening with the heels of his palms pressed tight against his eye sockets in an effort to stave off the migraines that he didn't have any more medication for.

The night in Las Vegas was just as depressing as all the other nights he'd spent away from his friends- dark, lonely and unprepossessingly slow. And this was Las Vegas!

He went out to get some fresh air, the remnants of that hammering pain in his head still echoing slightly. He was used to that by now; he had the practice of long association.

The bar was, like the motel, small and shabby. But it wasn't quiet and for that he was grateful.

"A beer, please," he signaled, relaxing into a seat at the bar.

The bartender sent it over quickly and effortlessly before settling in for a chat. "English, huh? What's a guy like you doing down here? The casinos are the usual place for the tourists."

"I never said I was one," Giles reasoned softly, slugging back as much as he could before needing to breathe.

The bartender didn't take the hint. "Oh. So you staying here, then?"

Giles sighed and looked at the man. Dark hair going gray, dark eyes with tired lines and a muscled bicep with a tattooed bleeding heart- the man was typical and who the hell was he kidding. He certainly couldn't live without human contact forever. "In a way," the Englishman said simply, "I just got here. But I lived in California for around six years; in a town called Sunnydale."

"Gawd," the man intoned, gawking openly, "You from that hellhole?"

For an instant Giles thought the man meant something else. "It wasn't quite as bad as all that," he grinned, "More like a typical town with it's typical atrocities."

"How'd you survive? I heard there was a busload of you people who got out. Saw it on the news a couple months ago," the bartender said enthusiastically, "Man! Must have been rough."

"It was," Giles agreed, "Very. I lost a lot of friends that day."

The bartender silently pulled out a bottle of Jack Daniels and two glasses and settled in to listen.

The next morning Bill got out of bed, and stretched before walking around to collect his carelessly strewn clothes off the floor. Giles lay back with a cigarette in his mouth and stared at the picture on the table. He'd left it standing upright and the picture of Willow, Buffy and Xander had 'seen' the entire proceedings of his ridiculous first night in Vegas. He vaguely decided he didn't like that; nor did he like Bill, the bartender, strolling around in front of those innocent faces in the nude. He longed to walk over and carefully flip the photo over so they wouldn't have to witness this.

"You okay?" the man asked casually, buckling his belt.

"Tired," Giles smiled coolly. The man deserved no more and no less.

Bill shrugged ironically. "You called the shots, not me. Seemed like you needed it too."

More barroom advice from someone who was paid to serve drinks and listen to drunken sob stories. Giles was through with that. "It's been stressful."

"Yeah, well," Bill grinned, his face suddenly looking animated, "You get stressed out, give me a call. Be seein' ya, buddy."

With that he walked out, leaving Giles to snort. A compliment in any form was welcome right now. But tonight would be a different bar; he was sure of that.

The next morning he woke up with a brunette who looked older in the morning sunlight than she had in smoke-hazy air. She left without more than a "Got a cigarette?" and a "Well, thanks, darling. I'll see you soon, hmmm?"

The third night, Giles went out for a walk to a chemist to buy as strong a painkiller as he could get. The migraine was back with a vengeance and even the streetlights were a cruel assault on his head. He didn't dare drive, dragging himself on foot to the nearest pharmacy.

But when he walked in, he found he couldn't buy anything at all because there was a man there who was carrying a gun and wearing a cap pulled low over his face. Another quick look from half-open eyes spotted another man lying on the ground with blood pooled around him.

The gun-carrier pointed the gun and told him to get on his knees now.

Giles complied willingly. He hadn't come to Vegas to get killed over a petty robbery. "I don't know you; I can't see you. Get out of here and I won't be able to tell the police anything."

The man shifted from foot to foot, undecided. "Yeah, right! I should kill you now, man! Huh? That'll stop you talking to the cops! I'm gonna kill you!"

Giles had faced ubervamps, as his Slayer called them, and he wasn't that scared of a gun any more. In truth, Ripper had been looking for a fight in too bloody long to worry about getting shot. "Then kill me already," he snarled, standing back up, "Because my head is splitting and I've had quite enough of your ridiculous petty criminal behaviour. I need medication. So go ahead and pull the trigger."

He walked past the stunned man and began hunting for painkillers, turning his back indifferently on the gunman. If the perpetrator had been a vampire he might have heard a thundering heart and smelt the fear and sweat. But the man saw nothing and so he bolted. He ran for the open door and disappeared.

Giles sighed and turned. If anything, his eyes now felt like they were slowly being clawed out of his head. All he wanted was to leave and maybe slit his own throat. But there was a dead man on the floor and his conscience was up in arms.

"Damned conscience," he grumbled, moving behind the counter where the telephone was. "Hello, emergency? I'd like to report that a man has been shot dead. Yes. Uh, no, I'm not sure where exactly I am. Could you? My name is Rupert Giles. Yes."

He hung up finally, having answered all questions that the lady asked him. "Now I wait," he sighed. He walked out from behind the counter and sat down with his back against it, in full view from the open door and directly opposite the body. For some reason it began to remind him of Randall.

The police arrived fifteen minutes later. "You the guy who called it in?" one of the uniformed figured asked professionally, "Giles or something?"

Giles nodded; the pain that kept him slumped against the counter. He finally roused himself to go outside, stumbling with fatigue. He leaned against the hood of the police and wished that they would all just shut up. But he kept his mouth closed for fear he would scream. He managed to rouse himself to make a coherent statement and then stayed in his corner.

Another car pulled up and a man and a woman got out in plain clothes. They turned out to be CSI people

"Grissom, I'll handle the body. It looks like Beacham wants a word with you," Sara begged, walking away quickly and leaving Grissom to deal with the pompous man waddling up to them.

Grissom hastily composed a professionally courteous look on his face and gazed enquiringly at Beacham. "What've you got for me tonight?" he asked quickly, getting straight to the point.

"Gil Grissom! Nice to see you again," Beacham greeted enthusiastically, slapping him on the shoulder. Grissom smiled politely. "Anyway, you're probably hot for your crime scene right now so I'll fill you in. We got a report twenty minutes ago from some Brit that there was a robbery and a shooting. We got here, the perp was gone and our witness sitting as cool as you like against the counter. We've taken a brief statement but I'm not sure 'bout him."

Beacham pointed the 'witness' out before hurrying to take a call. Grissom observed the man standing docilely against the car. He watched as the man raised his hands and dug his fingers briefly into his eyes before blinking rapidly.

"Excuse me? Are you the witness who called in the report?" he asked, walking up. "Gil Grissom; Crime Scene Investigations."

"Rupert Giles," Giles managed, voice hoarse as he struggled, "Look, is it possible for me to leave soon?"

"Have you somewhere you have to be?" Grissom found himself asking.

"Yes," Giles said dryly, seeing two of everything, "Bed."

Grissom didn't grin, but he couldn't control the slight twitch of amusement. "I'll try and make this quick. What exactly did you observe?"

Giles dredged up the long nights of research and exhaustion and concentrated. Of all the things in all the world he had to stumble onto this. "I didn't really see much, I regret to say. That is, I didn't see the shooting. I walked in to buy something and saw a man- Caucasian and fairly young- waving a gun around. He seemed somewhat indecisive. The victim was lying on the floor and covered in blood. That's all I saw."

Grissom nodded. "Thank you. There are just a few more questions, however. Did you touch or move the body in any way? Maybe check for a pulse or something?"

"No, he was dead. Any attempt to revive him would have been useless," Giles sighed, finding spots in front of his eyes.

Grissom frowned. "But if you didn't check, he might have been alive. How were you to know?"

And how could Giles say that between his youth and his calling he'd seen enough dead bodies to know at a glance. And besides which he'd read the man's aura automatically and there was no life force left. Fortunately or not, something else was occupying his attention.

"Is something the matter, Mr. Giles?" Grissom asked curiously.

Giles had screwed his eyes shut and his entire body went rigid as he clasped his head in his hands. He began to lightly bang the heels of his palms against his skull, a moan escaping as the pain escalated. Grissom began to look alarmed and grabbed at him, steadying him back against the car and calling over a uniformed officer.

"Call an ambulance," the CSI operative ordered, "Mr. Giles, what's wrong?"

"Migraine," Giles ground out harshly, "Went in for medication. Oh God, not now!"

Grissom watched the ambulance rush their 'witness' away.

Sara came out to ask his opinion about something; as well as to ask why she was investigating the crime scene alone. "Playing hooky, Grissom?" she teased.

He stared at her in confusion and she backed down. "What's wrong?" she settled for.

"The key witness just took off in an ambulance," Grissom sighed, "And if the pain was as bad as it seemed, he might just be in no fit condition to question tomorrow morning."

He seemed to be thinking about something and then stopped. He turned determinedly and went back inside, brushing abruptly past his colleague to immerse himself in his work.