*****

I'm putting the crazy thoughts out of my mind, as I walk through the ruins of Sunnydale High School with a backpack slung over my shoulder. Turning into Riley's makeshift camp, my stomach does that weird little flip that I've grown accustomed to every time I'm this close to him. Hell, every time thoughts of him enter my head.

He turns and looks at me, the emotion in his eyes cutting through me, because he was hoping for Buffy, not me. I can feel the disappointment as he looks down. "Do you know if she's back yet?"

I swallow, trying to tear my eyes away from his face. "L.A. Woman? Haven't heard from her. She'll probably come here first thing, though." I can smell him the whole way over here. Its not unpleasant, just a mixture of sweat, that earthy aroma that penetrates into you when you camp out, and some lingering fabric softener that must have seriously permeated those fatigues if its still evident, two or three days later.

"Hey, who's your buddy?" Tossing the backpack to Riley, I try not to think about the possiblity that he's so tired of the camoflauge that he'd just change right here. He's in the army after all. He's showered with bunches of guys, and I have to look away when I start drifting to locker room fantasies.

I smirk at Riley, hiding my thoughts so well that I surprise myself. "So you don't have to be G.I. Joe while your civvies are getting washed." Gesturing, hoping. "Try those on. You'll feel like a new man."

Riley examines the bright blue outfit, as I watch, secure in the knowledge that this particular outfit will restore my dented masculinity. No one could arouse any sort of desire in this godawful ensemble. He shakes his head "Would this man have a bright red nose and big, floppy feet?"

I join in the banter, words and wants tangling in my head as I grimace at him. Something of my inner turmoil must have translated itself into my face, because he apologizes. The honey soft gruff of his voice, the apology washes over me. "Hey, I'm sorry. That's the cabin fever talking."

I look around, purposely avoiding his bedroll. Too much potential there, too many things I want, tumbling onto the canvas, stripping his dirty clothes off, the potential of cleaning him with my tongue. So, I survey the area, "But as post-apocalypse-splendor goes . . ."

Riley smiles, "I've done wonders with the place." I think that I'd like to do wonders with him. I find myself considering what he'd say if I told him about his rather comfortable place in my mind, but all that comes out is a limp agreement. "Yeah."

He shakes his head, still lost in his fears, the worries about Angel. I know what he's thinking, having spent a good two years of my life contemplating Buffy and Angel. "Still . . The sooner Buffy gets back, the better I'll feel."

He sinks down, back resting against the blackened wall, and his discouragement is so palpable that I want to hug Riley, reassure him that I *know* that Buffy would never choose Angel over him. "You and me both, big guy." I choose the safe path, picking my words carefully, all camaraderie and empathy, hoping that he doesn't realize my unintentional double entendre.

Riley lifts his head. "I take it you're not an Angel fan either?" I shrug. "Well, it's not like I hate the guy. Just, you know . . the guts part of him." Riley fights hard with his essential nature, the goodness, fairness warring with the instinctive hatred of someone that has caused his girlfriend so much pain. "Can't blame you. But to be fair, it's not him you hate. It's the curse." And I'm lost, no words to express how I understand. He looks at me, confused a little. "Right?"

I'm suddenly starting to understand that there's something wrong here. And this whole thing is starting to frighten me even more than the first time I touched myself and thought about what his hands would feel like in place of mine. When did I stop thinking about his mouth on me and start caring about his feelings and I don't want to think about that any more. Buffy's suddenly the safest topic of conversation, because what if I open my mouth and my thoughts and feelings and words start spilling out? "What did Buffy tell you?"

He sits down on the cooler. I recognize that defensive posture, and the empty blankness of his voice because I think I invented them both, "On Angel? Everything. More than I wanted to know sometimes. She loved him. He turned evil. He, uh, killed people. She cured him. He left. Interesting little curse."

"One moment's happiness." I know that I'm referring to Angel's curse, and so does he, but I'm thinking about how I'd give up this new friendship, this comfortable ease of talking that Riley and I have just developed, if I could just walk over and run my hands over the toned body that's hidden by his bulky uniform. That one moment, would be worth all the friendship in the world, but I know that I don't dare do it, and I turn my attention back to conversation.

He's looking confused. "What do you mean?" I look at him, with sympathy. "You know, it's his trigger. Angel's an okay guy if he's mopey and sad and brooding, but if you give him even one second of pure, real pleasure . . ."

I know how that hurts, thinking of someone else touching the person who rules your dreams. And even worse, I'm hating Buffy just a little bit, for so many things. For having the chance to do the things that I'll never be able to, touching this beautiful man, and for caring so little about him and his feelings that she could turn around and run to Angel in the middle of his crisis.

He doesn't hear my mixed up thoughts, only the words I say, and I'm suddenly astray. He doesn't seem to understand what went on. He says, "And that sets him off." I nod, thinking he's finally got it. "Only in the big ol "kill your friends" kind of way. And you know what makes Angel happiest? I'll give you a hint. It not creme brulee."

I'm welcoming the flood of creme brulee images, because wanting to touch Riley, taste him, that I can explain, dangerously perhaps, but it's something. Caring about him, wanting to soothe away the pained ridge that furrows his forehead; that's something that goes a little further than I want to think about. So, sitting here, picturing painting Riley with swirls of custard, I can live with that, but I realize that his moment of dealing is going on far too long.

He speaks with an awful sort of comprehension "Buffy." I shrug, feeling bad for him, thinking about his girlfriend having sex with a vampire, but at the same time feeling sorry for myself. I splay my hands in a sort of "there you go", hoping that we've exhausted this topic, so I can go home, escape from this magnetic attraction to a boy that I know I shouldn't even be thinking about.

His next words are rasped out, laced with so much pain that I do a double take, shocked. "Sex...with Buffy." I don't know what to do, aghast that Buffy would share so much, but leave out the little bit that would explain the whole thing. "She . . . kind of left that part out, huh?"

I wish the floor would open up and swallow me. I've just made this boy's limbo existence even worse, and he clearly doesn't want the kind of comfort that I'm desperate to give. He's thinking only of Buffy.

He's shaking his head in denial. "Yeah, she did. That explains a lot of things that . . I wish weren't explained." I'm trying really hard to make it better, not to mention the fact that I'm realizing that Buffy just might kill me for filling in the gaps that *she* chose to leave. "Hey, man. That's all ancient history."

His words are saturated with sarcasm and a sort of hopelessness and I hate Buffy again, for disillusioning him. "She went running to L.A. to bone up on her history." How I can I restore his confidence, his faith? All I know is that I want to shake Buffy for letting her fascination with Angel hurt yet one more person.

So I shake my head and let the assurances roll. "No! I'm sure it's boneless. She just needs to make sure everything's okay. She's probably back already." And I can see that its not working, that he's wondering why she would abandon him if she cared so much, leaving only her clownish sidekick to amuse him.

Knowing it's hopeless, that I'm standing right here in front of him and he doesn't even see me. "You'll feel a lot better when you see her." And I wonder what comfort I can possibly give him. I'm not what he wants, I'm not five feet tall, blonde and most of all, female. He speaks, so weary and bereft of any sense of solid ground. "I guess we'll see."

And my heart breaks for him. I get to my feet, saddened by the damage that I've done, the destruction that follows me around. Gesturing toward the door, I move to leave, sensing that he wants to be left alone, and I'll give him that. I'll leave him to his rationalizations, knowing that he'll find a way to deal with it, because who wouldn't to be with Buffy?

But my feet betray me, and I make a detour on my way out, dropping to my knees beside him. I pray that he interprets it as a friendly gesture, one that I'd make to anyone that had just received such a blow, and I hug him. And I hate myself just a little for reveling in the contact, as his hands grasp my back quickly, absorbing what small comfort I can give. Soon, too damn soon, he releases me, and I pull back quickly, thanking my body for not betraying me.

I'm turning and walking away, no words spoken, managing a friendly wave goodbye and an empathetic glance, and I fight the urge to look back at him. I walk back home to meet Anya, and maybe lose myself just a little bit in someone that wants me.

*end*