HERE TO WATCH GIRLS, Chapter Thirteen: Helpless (13 OF 14)

[protoneoromanic.livejournal.com]

Title: Here to Watch Girls
Author: ProtoNeoRomantic
Betas: Gilescandy & porkwithbones
Rating: Mature (work as a whole bordering on NC-17, but really just because of that one chaper a few chapters back)
Paring: Giles/Willow, Giles/Buffy, Giles/Cordelia, Giles/other female characters
Word Count:  1093 (this chapter)

The ambulance rushed along the street, sirens wailing. Strangers were poking at Rupert's scrotum and asking him odd questions, which he gamely tried to answer to the best of his ability. It was remarkable how little he cared. They'd given him something on top of what he'd already taken and everything had gotten very vague, even his sense of dread at the prospect of losing The Good Fight and/or his testicles. In fact, it suddenly struck him as rather funny that if, at some point in the future, someone told him he 'didn't have the balls' for something-or-other, they might literally be right. He hoped not figuratively... vaguely. He assumed there really wasn't much of a connection. The adrenal glands actually took care of most of that, from what he understood.

Say, you really are looped, aren't you? Indubitably. How far out there are ya? Rupert might have actually laughed out loud at that, but no one reacted, so he wasn't really sure. Somewhere between comfortably numb and the dark side of the moon, only without being comfortable. Or numb. Oh hell. Sorry. Immediately, Rupert felt a blissful cessation of torment which fully taught him the difference between pain management and relief.

There you go, the demon assured him soothingly. All untwisted. Pretty good blood flow coming right back in already. Yeah. Yeah, there you go. You should be all right now. Although, I may twist one of them back just a little right before the doctor sees you, just to make sure they still do the surgery. I do still need you flat on your ass tomorrow. Don't s'pose I should bother pretending you can trust me, Rupert agreed affably, since you know perfectly well how much I'm looking forward to killing you at the first reasonable opportunity. The demon imitated a yawn, which is a damnably strange thing to do silently inside another person’s head.

Rupert giggled. “Bloody hell, what did you give me?” he asked a young woman he'd almost swear was 'new' relative to the other one to three people who were poking at him and murmuring excitedly. Though where she could have come from while the vehicle was in motion, he couldn't begin to guess. He didn't think the generally more positive attitude that suddenly prevailed towards his genitals had anything to do with his brave new erection, but just in case, he said slyly “Those gloves are a bit cold. Perhaps it would be better if you took them off.” The fact that he got jabbed very hard with a needle at that exact moment was probably a coincidence, he decided. He still laughed though, because it would be funny if it wasn't. Things got more than a bit blurrier after that. Which was hilarious.

“What are *you* laughing at?” the woman asked him crossly. It was a male voice actually, but it seemed to come from her, though he couldn't see her face properly to know if her lips moved or not.

“It's the end of the world!” he explained through convulsive fits of mirth that caused tears to stream down his face and someone to hold him down by the shoulders. “We're all going to die! Isn't it wonderful! No, no, I'm kidding. It's terrible. I know it is. I just—the look on your face! As though anyone will be alive to miss you in a week's time! And here you are offended that I want to shag you at a time like this.”

“His vital signs seem a bit unstable,” said a disembodied female voice in a tone of heavily taxed patience and grudging professional concern.

“Touché,” Rupert admitted cheerfully, letting the world spin merrily around him.

“They ought to be!” someone shouted, someone who sounded in need of something to take the edge off themselves. “Look at his eyes! Christ, what *did* you give him?”

Giles became aware of the pain before anything else. He felt rather like someone had taken a knife, a set of pliers, and quite possibly several additional implements to his scrotum and testicles.

Which, of course they had.

“Wha—m?” he groaned around something that had been shoved—also quite painfully—down his throat. He opened his eyes, but it was still dark. He was lying in a hospital bed. Strapped down. Hooked up to a respirator or something like it. With an IV in. And a catheter. And something stuck all over his chest, with wires in. His eyes soon adjusted to the dim glow of the various monitors. Enough to know that the place looked like hospital rooms everywhere. And that he was alone.

What time is it? he repeated. 5:14 in the morning, the demon answered glumly. It's that first glowy green-white number in the top left of that big square one there. Giles felt a sharp pang of despair at still having that voice in his head. But at least it meant he still had his testicles. Just the one actually, the demon admitted sheepishly. And I didn't even do any retwisting, it hastened to add, feeling his growing anger about to burst forth. It just, didn't get reoxygenated very fast, what with the reduced blood pressure and the doctors being distracted and everything from your overdose and your heart attack so....

MY WHAT! Giles meant to shout, jerking against his restraints so hard in his attempt to sit up that he was slammed back against the mattress setting something to beeping furiously. Heart attack, the demon repeated impatiently, almost sullenly, in fact, bored already with its brief attempt to be apologetic and solicitous. The real bad kind where they have to actually jump-start you. Which *you* caused by not telling the EMTs about all the drugs you took, it argued as the nurse made her brisk but unruffled way into the room to check him over and call for a doctor. So there's no sense shouting at me, old friend, especially since it looks like we're going to be stuck with each other for a good long while.

Now Giles was puzzled on top of angry and annoyed and in pain, which only made him even more impatient with his inexplicably morose companion. Stuck with each other? he snarled silently. I'm exactly where you wanted me last night: flat on my ass. Unable to help Buffy in any way. When did you become such a pessimist? About nine hours ago, the fiend huffed petulantly. Which by the way was *Friday* evening. When the Slayer stopped the Harvest. Without your help.