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Past Tense
By Alexandra Huxley
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&nsbp;

It was always the same:

The sound of the dry twigs snapping underfoot and the crisp, cool night air; Graham, ten feet ahead, taking point, the black of his uniform showing as green in the night vision lenses. His closed fist up in the air – stop. Pumped once, twice, two fingers up – two at two o'clock.

I look to the right to scope out the situation. Two hostiles? Civilians? Graham couldn't tell either or he would have signaled.

Fanning out now. Off to the right while Graham moves straight ahead, the rest of the squad to the left and behind, moving forward silently. A man and a woman come into view. I push my goggles off as I crouch at the edge of the clearing.

The man's back all too familiar – peroxide blonde hair buried in the woman's neck, his long black leather coat obscuring her body from view. Her back to the wall of the tomb, her hands above her head, wrists pinned by the man's grip. Long blonde hair trailing down her back and her chin tilted up towards the sky, offering no resistance.

Frozen in place – unable to step forward or back, avoiding Graham's glance as he raises the crossbow to his shoulder, unable to do anything but watch her face. Her eyes closing as Spike presses roughly against her – urgently, desperately. She suddenly looks up and our eyes lock as she smiles. The way she used to. Her body beneath me, always willing; her heart never yielding.

Her eyes close again as her lips part and her hands clench. Her back arches away from the wall and a gasp escapes her throat; it is carried by the wind. Spike, with one hand behind her head and the other gripping her shoulder, pulls her to him in a close embrace, shifting slightly as he turns to me, his evil, gloating, satiated smile dripping in blood. A monster's smile that broadens as he hears the arrow closing in at breakneck speed; he raises his arms above his head as the tip pierces his heart. An all out laugh ending abruptly as he turns to dust.

Spike's body disintegrates and Buffy crumples to the ground, her eyes still open as she watches me come to her. I reach her and she turns away. "That was it, Riley. That was the package," she says, her voice fading more with each word until it's barely a whisper.

Falling in slow motion towards her lifeless body, almost reaching her – so achingly close, before being suddenly pushed back, the backs of my knees hitting something as I sink down. I look down in confusion at the ball in my hand.

"You don't got game, son."

Can't help but answer his grin with a smile of my own. I try to find the words to explain everything I couldn't before, but the only one that makes it out is, "Forrest."

He grabs the ball and throws it at the net as the door opens.

"Alpha code blue, Riley," says Graham.

"One of ours?" I ask.

Graham looks at Forrest and smiles, his face morphing into Walsh's as she says, "It's about Buffy. She's dead, Riley."

I know that. I saw her die. I let it happen, powerless to stop her from going away.

A sudden rush of air and everything is changing. Lowell House disappears from view, replaced by dank, damp walls and stainless steel tables. Someone needs to tell Buffy that she's going to die. It's not too late if we just apply ourselves and get it done. I try to get up but my arms are pinned. The metal chair is cold against the back of my neck. Forrest is coming closer and closer until his face is only inches away from mine.

"She needed killing, soldier," Forrest says and then laughs, raising his arms up and throwing another ball at the Nerf hoop as we are back in my room again. "I am *kickin'* your weak ass." He lets out a yell and brings his hands up over his head.

I open my mouth to warn him, but it's too late. I close my eyes against the flash, opening them again as my back hits the ground. The sparks from the explosion transform into a blinding light hovering above me, a spotlight that grows weaker as the helicopter lifts higher into the air. Sam barely glances down as she laughs with Graham, their faces turning away.

I yell Sam's name and try to reach out to her, but something holds me down. A woman's body on top of mine, her knees straddling my waist and pinning me to the ground. Her hands surprisingly strong, forcing my shoulders flat; tongue teasing, slowly moving up my chest. A quick intake of breath as she finds what she's looking for and cuts into me, blood spilling out of her mouth and tickling, trickling down my neck.

My hands at her waist, I try to push her off, but she's too strong. I try to use my legs as leverage, and lift my hips to shift her weight. It works for a moment – she disengages and sits back, startled; a little flustered. But my struggle only excites her and she leans down to my face, nipping at my lips, pushing my mouth open until her tongue touches mine and I can taste my own blood. She somehow stretches her tiny body the full length of mine – covering every inch of me until I can no longer move.

I feel her laugh before I hear it, muffled against my throat as she moves back to the part of me she now owns and she slips her teeth inside me again. I didn't know it was possible to feel so much pain – how could I not have felt it before? – but I refuse to cry out. It's the only thing I have left to control as my body bucks against her, muscles and nerves trembling and twitching as my life drains away. Even my mind betrays me and I start to give in. Someone is begging – "Harder. Deeper." I detest this weak, pathetic man. I guess I should at least feel sympathy for his pain, but he deserves what he gets. He has only himself to blame.

I sense the tears more than feel them; fight against them with all my will, not wanting her to know that she has taken everything from me. Not wanting to give her that satisfaction. Trying to remember the exact moment I gave up.

Too much thinking; the physical pain is so much easier to bear.

I welcome death, freedom finally within reach – so achingly close. But she possesses me, brands me with a sharp nail down my jaw, not drawing blood because there's so little left. She throws her head back and scratches her own neck and it sprouts to life. All I see – hear, smell, feel – is blood. It permeates every sense before I even taste it. With more strength than I knew I had left, I pull her to me and drink hungrily. My hands roam her body and I feel every thread in her shirt, every pore on her skin, every strand of her hair.

I want to taste her. Devour her. Start with her lips and work my way down. I know I should fight against this, but I don't have it in me. This is who I'll be. This is what I lost. This is how I lost it.

This is all that's left.

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Buffy came awake slowly, her head pounding. That was never good. In her experience a headache that you woke up with was one you couldn't shake for the rest of the day. A day she hoped wouldn't be as bad as the day before.

What a miserable day.

What a shitty, sodding, bloody, fucking, miserable day. And if anyone heard her say that they would know exactly how awful it was because she never swore.

She shifted and a heavy hand fell across her chest. The one part of yesterday that she wouldn't mind remembering. He was on his side facing her. She had missed this – waking up with Riley next to her, the sun streaming in across his pillow. His hair was shorter now, but it still turned gold in the light. Glistening. She brushed his cheek with the back of her hand; it was wet with tears. That surprised her. He had seemed so in control the whole week he had been back, but maybe there was something behind the facade. Maybe she wasn't the only one who had lost her way.

His hand moved down her body, sending chills up her spine. He grabbed her roughly and with his other hand, pushed her hand away from his cheek.

"Don't," he whispered, new tears appearing on his face.

Buffy was surprised by the strength of his grasp, the way he clutched at her almost desperately with the hand holding hers, while still pushing her away with the other. "Hey there. It's o.k.," she said, lacing her fingers through his, trying to read his face, seeing only pain. "Riley, wake up. It's a dream."

He was struggling, fighting her. Then suddenly all resistance was gone and he melted against her, clinging to her hand, burying his face in her neck.

This was no good. No good at all. It brought back too many memories; too many things she had tried to put out of her mind – some because they were much too painful to deal with, and others because they were much too nice. She wasn't ready to confront "nice" yet. Just making it through each day took so much effort; she couldn't afford to actually dream.

"Please," he murmured.

Or at least she thought that's what he said – his mouth was against her neck and she couldn't hear him clearly. And it was so very hard to concentrate with his warm breath tickling her neck and his lips grazing her skin. She was glad he had stayed in the shirt and pants all night because if he had been wearing boxers only she would have had them off in two seconds, even if he was still asleep.

"Just take me."

O.k. It may have been a whisper but that one had been pretty clear. Well this was certainly a dilemma. For one thing, she had heard him cry out Sam's name – that was what had first woken her up; and for another, he was still asleep. With anyone else she would have doubted that, but Riley wouldn't play games like this. And the tears were real, flowing more freely as he withdrew from her and seemed to give in to whatever demon he was fighting.

She looked at him closely and decided she preferred seeing him in pain because at least that meant he was alive, in body and spirit. This was different, complete surrender. Even in his sleep she could see there was no fight left. And he was so still; too still. "Riley?" she asked, tentatively reaching her hand out to his cheek.

It was as though he sensed it, because he suddenly grabbed her wrist right before she touched him. His hand found her other wrist and he pulled her to him, his arms slipping around her as their bodies came together.

"Riley," she said, a little more forcefully, but not quite enough to wake him up. She knew she should – she *so* should – but being in his arms felt so right. She leaned her head against his chest, closing her eyes as he held her tightly. Only for a minute, she told herself. Only until that happy, safe feeling went away.

Happy. There was a word she hadn't used in a long time. Not since… No – think present, not past. How his touch brought her to life in a way that was beyond physical. A sense of optimism. A well of strength. A lightness of spirit. Things she had been missing so long she had forgotten they were possible.

So different than Spike. Spike was a drug. A syringe full of adrenaline shot directly into a heart that wanted to stop beating. Jolting her body back to life when all systems screamed surrender. A drug she needed to find the strength to make it through each day. But along with the drug comes the shame and guilt with a healthy dose of desperation mixed in. Wanting so badly to feel something, anything. Letting her conscience sleep while he did the things he did. While she did things right back.

Not that her conscience was doing a very good job right now, either, because as her body came alive with the thoughts of what she and Spike had done together, her imagination began to run wild – focusing on the way Riley felt against her; intoxicated with the memory of how he made her feel and the anticipation of rediscovering him.

It would probably be a good idea to not be lying here like this right now, she thought, pulling her head away from his chest. "Ri-" she started to say as his head fell to her shoulder, mouth dangerously close to the scar on her neck. A scar that always been an issue for them – at first because she avoided it, anything Angel-related leaving her raw. And then because Riley avoided it, once he discovered how it came to be there.

With Spike she had discovered that any touch in that vicinity was quite the turn on. And that was certainly the case right now as the light sensation of Riley's breath sent shivers down her back. Oh, God, that feels good, she thought as Riley's hand slid from her waist to the small of her back.

O.k., so why was this wrong again? Maybe another talk with Tara was in order. The last one hadn't ended quite so well, but this one had much better potential. Then again, why exactly did she feel a need to rationalize this? After all she was the one who said she needed time. Riley would jump into bed with her in a heartbeat. Case in point.

No. No, no, no. There was a reason he was being all noble and good and decent and so thoroughly-annoyingly-Riley. Because she had asked him to. Because she had wanted to figure out how to be on her own. Not relying on Angel, or Riley, or Spike. Or Giles or Willow or Xander for that matter. Well, not Giles any more, because he had left her, too. Like Angel had and Riley probably would again.

Well there's a way to kill the mood. Which in this case was actually a good thing. Because there was no mood – Riley was asleep for God's sake. If this was going to happen, he was going to be wide awake so he could fully appreciate every little thing she'd be doing to him.

Not that she was saying it was going to happen – most certainly not. But if it were…

All right, Agent Finn, time to wake up. She pulled her shoulder away, expecting his head to fall to the pillow, but instead he shifted, his knee slipping between her legs as his mouth came up to meet hers; one hand on her thigh now, and moving back up, the other cupping the back of her neck and pulling her into a kiss. A hard, rough, take no prisoners kiss that made her all tingly inside.

Tingly and… Wait, she thought, as she sensed him hesitating and starting to pull away. Please don't go. She didn't want it to stop. She leaned towards him, deepening the kiss, pulling him closer.

Whoa. Easy girl. This is wrong. Major wrong with a capital "W." Asleep, remember? Well, maybe not any more – this was one hell of a kiss for someone of the sleep persuasion. But even if he wasn't -- *especially* if he wasn't – this wasn't the way she wanted it to happen. Not after a night he spent watching her go through some horrendous withdrawal after being jabbed by a demon. Not when she was all achy and sweaty, visions of a bad slaying experience all too fresh in her mind.

Right. And when exactly would that be? When didn't she come home with some type of blood or guts or all around ickiness, thanks to some creature or other? Or Doublemeat Palace. Because that was her life. Which right now pretty much sucked. Slayage or drudgery, pick one.

Not that there was much of a distinction these days. Not that she even had the choice – her choices were few and far between. So if she *chose* to have hot, sweaty sex with a man who she was in love with once and, if she were in a particularly honest mood she'd have to say that she might still be just a little bit in love with, then, "What the hell is the matter with that?" She snapped her mouth shut as she suddenly realized she had said that aloud. Very adamantly.

"Oh, God, Riley," she said as his eyes opened. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to wake you up." A blush rose up her cheeks as she realized that her hands were quite well situated around his ass at this very moment. And she would be removing them, thank you very much, because they really belonged in a nice safe place like, well, maybe just resting lightly on his arm. Except it was hard to move the hand that was under him so she'd just have to leave it right where it was. No choice about that when you came down to it. "Well, actually, I did. I really, really did. But there were a lot of things running through my mind and I was going to get to it really soon. So no sermons – o.k.? I really don't want to hear them," she said, working herself up to fuming.

Their faces were so close that their eyelashes were touching. And she was practically talking into his mouth, an odd sensation – not unpleasant, just odd. Not surprising either, considering they had still been kissing when she started talking. Well, shouting.

"Nice to know I can still piss you off first thing in the morning," Riley said, pulling away, the full realization of what had happened just hitting him.

He had known he was kissing Buffy the moment their lips met, but at first it seemed part of the dream: a new, happy ending where his fingertips were grazing Buffy's skin; the taste of her on the tip of his tongue. Not the other desperate ending that Sam had had to pull him out of on so many mornings, the ending where he faded into that dark oblivion of the dream. The dream he thought he had finally gotten rid of.

"Sorry about that," he mumbled, thoroughly embarrassed as he extricated his hands from the tangle of her top and pulled it back down to her waist. He wanted her so much it hurt, but not like this. Not after the dream.

She nodded, reluctantly pulling away from him as well. "Is that part of your normal morning routine? With push-ups and power bars and all?"

"Gotta start the day right," he said, trying to pass it off as a joke but not quite managing. He knew that there was more than just the kiss, but he didn't know exactly what it was. He had asked Sam to tell him one day and then stopped her almost as soon as she started. It was too hard. From then on it was off limits, the only thing ever acknowledged was the kiss, and only because it was the way they had woken up so many mornings.

And the tears – tears he had tried to convince himself were Sam's. Couldn't use that excuse any more.

So now there were two people who had seen him like that. Granted, the two people who knew him better than anyone else in the world, but still. Two more than he would prefer. Actually, three, counting Graham, but Graham hadn't experienced the kissing part, thank God. Almost got a broken wrist when he made the mistake of trying to wake Riley up that first night, but no kissing. After that, Graham had taken to keeping a canteen next to his pillow and would fling it across the tent at Riley as soon as the thrashing and mumbling started. New subject.

"How about you? Any visions? You're not going to beat me or anything, right?" he asked.

"I don't think so," she said, smiling. "A little bit of a headache, but otherwise situation normal." She didn't have to add the rest of that line, she thought as her voice faltered on that last word.

Even through her smile, he could still see her eyes shut down when they were coming up on guarded territory. "Right. You don't want to talk about it." At least it didn't sting the way it used to.

"No," she said, for once glad that he tended not to push things. "And you? Does that happen a lot?"

He sat up, his feet on the floor, his back to her. "It used to."

Everything about it pissed him off – from the fact that he couldn't control it to the fact that it was so damn literal. Even his dreams couldn't be dark and mysterious. Well, dark maybe. But at least if it had been symbolic with hawks turning into clocks or cornfields under murky water he could have spent some of that time trying to figure it out; but instead, from the first time it happened he had had to live through it all, over and over again.

The night after they touched down in Belize was the first night it happened, recurring every night after that for four months. The same dream without fail, although the Sam part was new. Just one more thing to ask forgiveness for.

She reached her hand out to his back, feeling his muscles tense as she touched him. "Does it still?"

"First time in a while," he said with a bitter laugh. One night with Buffy and it all came back. And it wasn't even a night *with* Buffy. Clearly he had some more working through to do.

"What made it stop?" Buffy asked, knowing full well what made it start again.

Some nights Sam would just hold him; others, she would take the kiss and make it her own, often quickly progressing into something hungry and raw. More brutal than passionate – nothing nice about it. Not what he thought sex should be but exactly what he had needed. What she had needed too – the Peace Corps wasn't exactly the enriching experience Sam had been hoping for.

He bent down to find his shoes and busied himself tying them. "Sam," he said simply. The first night he and Sam slept together was the first night he had been free of it. After that, it hadn't taken much to convince Graham to find another tent – Graham hated keeping secrets from the rest of the squad and wasn't totally on board with the office romance as he called it, but he was as tired of the dream as Riley was. It was his first full night's sleep in four months, too.

"Oh," she said, watching the blush climb up the back of his neck. "Oh," she said again, as she realized what the blush meant, and she jumped out of the bed, suddenly feeling a need to have more clothes on. She knew that Sam had been on his mind, but she had been joking when she asked if it was part of his normal routine. That was a little more insight into their relationship than she wanted. Of course, he probably felt the same way when he walked in on her and Spike.

"Riley…"

"Buffy…"

They both spoke at the same time, turning to face each other.

Riley swallowed hard. Admitting weakness had never been a strong point of his. "I'm sorry you had to see that. I would have warned you if last night had been…" Had been what, exactly? About sex? About love? What did you expect when you jumped into that bed with her?

"In case you hadn't noticed, I didn't exactly get the bad end of the deal," Buffy said, smiling at the way he looked up at her; the look he always gave her when she said something that surprised him. "I mean, o.k., a little weird with the whole insider's view to the Finns' bedroom. Or tent. Or wherever you guys actually slept in the jungle. But," she said as she leaned back against her dresser, "I can see why you might want to wake up that way."

How did she always manage to say something that completely aroused him? Even in this highly uncomfortable situation. He had already taken more cold showers in the last week than he did throughout all of high school.

Buffy ducked her head, trying to hide her smile. He hated when she called him cute. And he knew she thought the cuteness quotient shot way up when he was speechless. It didn't happen often, but when it did…

"Are you hungry?" she asked, deliberately not looking at him as she grabbed pajama bottoms out of the drawer. She was blushing which only made him blush more. It was already too easy to be with him again. She was starting to think how nice "nice" was. They knew each other too well not to know what the other was thinking. She needed to not be in the same room with him and a bed.

"Willow makes a mean omelet, and I can already smell the bacon," she said. "That's a sign that she's feeling extra guilty about the antidote thing, which may also mean cinnamon rolls. Of course, I feel double extra guilty about trying to kill my friends, so it may mean pancakes, too. If you don't need to be at Commando Central right away, that is," she said, her legs now safely covered by sushi.

Good, he thought. Babble was good. Getting dressed was good. The bare skin on Buffy's legs was not. Or rather, it was. Much too good. "I should really go home, get some clean clothes." Get the hell out of here before I make an even bigger ass out of myself than I already have.

"Come back," she said, not wavering. She didn't have to add the "it's an order" part. It was clear from her tone.

Riley wasn't sure why his answer was so long in coming. Sam had been right; this was what he wanted. She may also have been right about Buffy still feeling something, although Riley wasn't totally confident about that, despite knowing exactly what she had just been thinking. It wasn't the sex part of their relationship that had been lacking; it was the love part that had always had the big question mark.

He had said that he could handle whatever decision Buffy made, but now he wasn't so sure. If ever there was a time to cut his losses, this was it – before breakfasts, and Scoobies, and dinners, and card games, and being a part of it all again. Because he could still walk away, a little bruised maybe, but not broken. Heart still intact.

Who was he kidding? His heart would never be intact again. If she was going to throw him a bone, he was going to take it. "O.k.," he said, hoping his voice hadn't betrayed him too much. Breakfast probably didn't have life-altering meaning for her.

She smiled, relieved, and walked towards the door. This was harder for him than it had been for her, she thought. When her life came crashing down around her, she still had so much. Giles had been her foundation, Dawn and Willow and Xander and Tara had been the beams keeping her sheltered, and Spike the secret attic where she could hide away and shut out the rest of the world.

When Riley's life had crumbled, the house had come down with it; nothing was left standing. The fact that he had gotten out alive and been able to rebuild the walls around him was a miracle, and she would not tempt fate by throwing that gift away. She had lost too much and even though it terrified her, she wasn't ready to give up on this again. Funny that she faced death every day without it seeming to affect her, but this – taking a chance at life – it seemed like a bigger risk than anything else she had ever done.

"Scary," she whispered, stopping suddenly as she was hit with a sudden flash of understanding.

"What?" he asked, concentrating more on not tripping over her than on what she had actually said.

"Horseback riding scary," she said softly, gazing at Riley with a directness that he found unsettling.

"We're going horseback riding?" Riley asked, completely bewildered. "I thought you said you'd never do that again." She had called it the "Buffy Summers Summer Adventure," their long weekend up in vineyard country. He had persuaded her to go riding on a whim as they drove past the stable. The horse she rode was nicknamed, "Granny"; it was the oldest, slowest horse Riley had ever seen and yet it terrified her.

Shaking like a leaf, unable to speak, knuckles stark white against the leather reins – as close to panic as he had ever seen her. She wouldn't cut the ride short though, glaring pointedly at the ten year old girl in front of her when he suggested it; but it had taken a few glasses of wine and a good forty minutes before she stopped shaking. A week later, he saw her jump into a group of six vampires without a second thought.

A study in contradictions. The Slayer part he could handle – not that she ever got that, but he knew that at least was true. He had never had any trouble understanding the steely warrior inside. It was the Buffy part, however, that got him into trouble. The beautiful, soft, amazing girl part that was still a mystery to him. And what being scared out of her mind had to do with anything that had happened this morning was completely beyond him.

"No. I didn't think I could, but I might be ready now," she said with a slow smile before turning away from him.

TBC in Part 2

Go to Part 2.