*****
I'm thanking whatever gods there are that I won't have to listen to drunken, clumsy stumbling above my head; I'm lost in that pleasant realization until Riley finishes fooling around with our boxes and stands next to me.
I've spent most of the initial packing consciously ignoring the way his muscles ripple under that clingy t-shirt. As he crosses his arms, standing next to me, it becomes impossible.
He finally speaks, his adorably goofy grin breaking out. "Getting nostalgic?"
I grin. "I don't know. At first it's just a place, then you start to make memories, and ... then you're like, that's where Spike slept, and..." I'm pointing and talking, ignoring my forbidden thoughts. I'm shaking my head, realizing how glad I am to be leaving. "I really hate this place."
Pulling the rest of my thoughts out of the gutter, I pick up some boxes and prepare to move them. In the background I hear Buffy talking to Anya. Now Anya, there's good incentive to drag my thoughts out of the Riley-gutter. Although I'm pretty sure there's a special section of hell reserved for me, forever cursed to lust after Buffy's boyfriends.
My mind wanders and now I'm cursing Riley for his earlier offhand comments about locking my twin and myself in a room and experimenting on us. Both of my halves would have signed that waiver, and smiled during any pain that Riley would have chosen to inflict. Shifting on my feet, I squash down the fantasies that haven't become familiar enough not to pop up in my head at unwarranted intervals.
Buffy's voice penetrates the haze I'm losing myself in, pulling me back to the task of moving.
"Anya. I see you've joined the non-sling-wearing crowd." I can hear the question in Buffy's voice. I know that she's wondering why Anya's sitting there, leafing through a magazine, while everyone else helps.
"Yes, I'm feeling better. And I anticipate many years before my death. Excepting disease or airbag failure." Anya's chirping and pleasant, and I love her. She's great. There's something intoxicating in being with someone who revels in you, who lives and breathes for your approval. She's learning quickly enough, the little tricks, subtle machinations. Until she masters them, she's simple, someone to drown these unwanted thoughts.
"That sounds nice." Buffy saunters off with her box, giving up on Anya's help.
Shaking my head at Anya's cluelessness, I finish packing my box and walk over to the princess.
"Ooh! Presents?"
It doesn't surprise me that she thinks I'd take the time out of my busy morning of packing and moving to go and purchase her a present. I realize how much I've spoiled her, guilty for my roving thoughts, and that makes me feel a little snappish. "Not unless you want my collection of Babylon 5 commemorative plates. Which you cannot have. I just thought you could help carry a little." I know I've spoken more forcefully that I intended.
Anya's looking at me with her patented pout, the one that makes me putty in her hands. "Me? Buffy has super strength. Why don't we just load her up like one of those little horses?"
I was wrong to feel guilty. "Anya. Please." I know the irritation has filtered through when she slides off of the stool and grabs the box.
"Fine. I'm just your slave." There's genuine hurt in her eyes and I watch her walk away, knowing that I'm going to pay later tonight for what she'll see as my unreasonableness.
I'm standing there staring again, and I know that Riley's gonna start wondering why I'm not bothering to help either. Yeah. It's his fault for making me fantasize about laboratories and tests. Riley in a lab coat, testing my, uh, reflexes.
This is a danger zone, 'cause words are dangerous. I realize *that* too often when I'm picking and choosing them so carefully around him. The most profound things are said so simply that they just slip out.
Denial. It's an ugly word, a cloudy mirror. I've not looked myself straight in the eye for a long time, preferring to see my reflection in the eyes of the others. I gauge my success by their approval, and right now I'm seeing the compassion in Riley's eyes. He's familiar with unreasonable women and their lack of logic.
"How is it that she can always make me feel SuaveXander's left the building?" I quirk an eyebrow, a hand raised in pure frustration.
He's being comforting. "You two have your friction, but ... she digs the whole package. It's obvious." I wish that he'd comfort me in a way that truly matters. I'm lost in the camaraderie and the impossible dream of telling him how I really feel, the reason why Anya is sometimes such a burden.
She loves me totally and completely. Unconditional love is made all the more terrible by the conditions that it imposes and suddenly, I'm struck with an odd sort of wistfulness. I can remember when things were easy, when my life was going according to plan. The plan wasn't exciting, but it had the ease of certainty and a soft, threadbare comfort.
I'm forcing myself to speak, determined not to let this moment of confidence slip away just yet. "Still, I do envy you sometimes. I mean for the sanity. Not that I'm still into Buffy. Not that I ever was." Not that I was ever into you. I'm clenching my jaw, worried that the words might slip out.
"Hey, I'm well aware of how lucky I am. Like, lottery lucky. Buffy's like nobody else in the world. When I'm with her it's like ... it's like I'm split in two. Half of me is just ... on fire, going crazy if I'm not touching her. The other half ... is so still and peaceful ... just perfectly content. Just knows: this is the one."
The tangled jumble of words is the most Riley's really ever spoken to me, and I love the expression on his face. He's a million miles away and right now it'd be the most natural thing in the world to trace the curve of his jaw, look deeply into his eyes...
"But she doesn't love me." The quiet pain shatters my daydream, and I feel guilty for having those sort of thoughts when he's carrying a load of pain that heavy.
I'm staring at him, blankly. There are so many words that would be appropriate, right now, and I can't seem to find my voice. I could tell him that it's obvious that Buffy worships the ground that he walks on, that he's got a wonderful body, a great personality.
Hell, I'd tell him that I love him, if it would make that blank, hopeless look fade. Those are the words that I've got to guard against, and I'm pathetically grateful when Buffy walks back in.
She bounces up to him, "Got something else for me to carry?"
I blink and the emptiness is gone, and he's back to being the wonderful boyfriend again. "Uh, you can help me pack this." He gestures at the box.
"Sure."
Buffy stands on her tiptoes as he leans down to kiss her. I'm staring, and I need to break away before it becomes obvious. Buffy'll turn to me with a smart ass grin and reprimand me for being a voyeur, and I can't help but envy them their ease, their simplicity. They're perfectly matched, blond on blond. They make a perfect portrait, except for one thing.
Riley should be kissing me.
~fin