Buffy climbed the steps slowly, her senses so much in overdrive that she could practically feel the air shift as Riley came up the stairs behind her.

This was impossible. Completely impossible.

Riley was alive and well and living in Boston.

Not only living in Boston - living just a few miles from where Dawn had lived for years, a few miles from where Buffy had visited on countless occasions. He'd been here almost as long as Dawn had; almost this whole time.

Alive.

Not, in fact, 'missing in action and presumed dead' as Buffy had been informed via a terse letter from some government official whose name she'd long since forgotten.

'Missing in action and presumed dead.' Cold, hard words that had become permanently etched into her brain.

Words that were nearly impossible to get around, despite Angel and Willow stressing 'presumed' instead of 'dead' in well-intentioned but ultimately inadequate attempts at comfort.

Well, not completely inadequate, Buffy supposed. After a time she'd even let herself believe it: that Riley was still in Black Ops, off in a jungle somewhere, doing what he loved to do. With the woman he loved. It was so much easier to think that than to ... presume.

But she had never expected to see him again.

She had certainly never expected to be standing in his house -- to be meeting his children. Or to be wearing his clothes, smelling that sweet, familiar mix of Tide and Downy and something that she was sure was some special Heartland laundry secret. A secret she had tried desperately to figure out after Dawn had washed the sweater Riley had left behind.

It wasn't really Dawn's fault -- she'd actually thought she was doing Buffy a favor. How could she have known that the sweater hadn't carelessly been tossed between the nightstand and the bed, but instead placed there deliberately?

Very deliberately, in fact. Out of sight so as not to remind Buffy of the tears she had poured into it deep in the night; within arm's reach because no matter how much she could otherwise occupy her mind during the day, the empty bed made it impossible to ignore that part of her foundation was gone.

There was the sound of Riley clearing his throat, and Buffy realized she'd come to a stop. She wasn't sure how long she'd been standing there at the top of the stairs. Though it probably would have been more effective for Riley to have actually put his hand on her arm or shaken her shoulder, she wasn't really surprised that he hadn't. Since that moment in the drugstore he'd obviously made a pact with himself not to touch her.

She, on the other hand, wanted to do nothing but. She was holding herself back - it had been impossible to ignore the way he'd tensed the few times she'd crossed his boundaries. Still, she had this need to reassure herself that he was not merely some figment of her imagination; that he was made of muscle and bones and skin. The warm and tingly rush she'd gotten the few times she actually made contact certainly didn't hurt.

Did he feel it, too? This current of energy crackling around them?

He'd obviously felt something. He certainly had been all for the hugging -- in an involved, full body kind of way. There was clearly an effort to keep her at a distance, however. Whether that was because his interest was purely physical and he just wasn't the kind of guy to give in to that, or because there was something entirely different going on, she couldn't be sure.

Then again, he might just be annoyed at her because of that dumb 'desk job' comment she'd made. Nice going, Buffy.

She reached out and turned the knob, pushing the door and stepping out once she realized the rain had stopped. The moment she cleared the threshold, her mouth dropped open.

The house had to be at the very top of Beacon Hill, otherwise it would have been impossible to have this particular view. Views, rather, in every direction. Right in front of her, was the Charles River, a midnight blue ribbon winding its way through the city, its borders the two wide city streets packed with cars returning home from an evening of fireworks. The water -- still churning in the wind -- caught the headlights in such a way that the river looked like a blanket of stars, rippling and sparkling below.

Tearing her eyes away, she turned and saw the trees majestically marching up the center of Commonwealth Ave. Further to the left were the bright lights of Newbury Street, the lush Public Gardens, and the pasture that now went by the name of Boston Common; the downtown skyline with the black expanse of Boston Harbor looming behind it. A final left brought her full circle: past the golden dome of the State House, to the tall, silver masts of the bridge that marked the mouth of the Charles.

It was breathtakingly beautiful. She felt like she'd been plucked out of real life and dropped gently into a snow globe. In a magical kind of way, not kitschy. And, of course, being that it was July 4th, there was no snow.

He was standing with his back against one of the wide railings that lined the perimeter of the deck, his eyes twinkling as he watched her. Despite the warm smile on his face, he held his arms tightly folded against his chest. "Nice, huh?" Turning, he rested his elbows on the railing. “Brighton’s that way." He pointed up the river. "Seven, maybe eight miles.”

Seven miles. That was nothing. That was like a quick run before breakfast.

Well, if breakfast started at eleven and she'd already had something to eat.

She walked over to where he stood at the railing. “Not that far.”

“No," he answered quietly. "Not far at all.”

There was a huskiness to his voice, and when he looked down at her she thought - for just a second - that he might actually reach out to her. He did nothing of the sort, however, instead turning abruptly and walking over to one of those outdoor kitchen set-ups that you only ever saw in magazines.

A roof covered the area, and there were full walls to the back and one side. The front and other side were open, making it easy to move the lounge chairs and small tables from out on the deck to underneath the protection of the structure's roof. In fact, it looked like someone had done that very thing, placing two of the lounge chairs just far enough in to have stayed mostly dry in the evening's storm - Jack and Riley's mom watching the fireworks? From up here, they would have been spectacular.

“You want something to drink?” Riley was standing in front of the sink. He bent down and pulled out a drawer; when he straightened up, he was holding two bottles of beer in his hand.

Of course -- magazine-layout-outdoor-kitchens wouldn't settle for normal standing up refrigerators. They would have to have the Sub-Zero pull-out kind.

She realized he was apologizing for the lack of other options, mumbling something about having to restock up here. Buffy was about to say, Isn't that the butler's job? For once, however, she managed to keep her mouth shut. He was already uncomfortable enough; she didn't need to make any more comments about the house.

“Beer's fine,” she said, coming over and sitting down on one of the wooden chairs. She stretched her legs out in front of her. "Thanks."

Riley pulled open another drawer, this time pulling out a bottle opener. “So, do you still see Willow and Xander?”

It hadn't escaped Buffy that the distance he was keeping from her was more than just physical, so it shouldn't have surprised her that even here, as they sat alone on his rooftop, the questions he was asking were very deliberately not about her. And yet it kind of did. He'd always been so much more, well, interested in her. Even -- or maybe especially -- when he'd visited Sunnydale with his wife. “Not as much as I’d like. Willow lives in Chicago. She’s a professor at one of the universities there. Xander’s still in Sunnydale.”

Opening the beers, he asked, “How was the wedding?”

Xander and Anya's, he must mean, seeing as the last time she'd seen Riley, the wedding had been almost upon them. "The wedding never happened. Xander left Anya at the altar."

"Xander left Anya at the altar?" Riley repeated, smiling as he shook his head. "He stood up a vengeance demon?"

Laughing, Buffy reached out to take the bottle from Riley's outstretched hand. “It took a while, but she forgave him. And once Xander figured out his whole hang-up was the actual being married thing, they worked things out. They’ve got two adorable kids. Six and four."

Riley sat down in the chair next to her, a safe three feet away. “Tell him I said hi.”

Buffy glanced at him, hesitating for a moment, wondering if what she was about to say was too presumptuous -- Riley wasn't exactly sending out any I-can't-wait-to-see-you-again-soon signals. Deciding not to care, she said, “You can tell him yourself. They’re coming out in a few weeks -- bringing some stuff I had in storage. I’m sure he’d love to see you. He never liked any of my other boyfriends.”

Riley grinned. “He has good taste.” He took a swig of beer. “Giles?”

She supposed it was a good sign, his not completely negging the suggestion. On the other hand, he hadn't exactly jumped on the idea. That was o.k.; the night was still young. “Fell in love with a woman younger than me which was, of course, scandalous. They have a six-year-old daughter and Giles is in absolute heaven -- except when he’s complaining about being old enough to be her grandfather.”

Laughing, Riley leaned back in his chair. “I never would have called that one.”

“No." Buffy smiled. "None of us did.”

She turned her head so that she could see him full on, not just out of the corner of her eye. If he caught her looking, so be it. Maybe that would jumpstart this conversation - move them past the thing about just being uncomfortable exes; get them to the part where they used to be friends. Riley didn't notice, though. His gaze was fixed on something far away; his attention not even close to being on her.

Of course, when he finally asked, “And you?” she realized that he hadn't been distracted or uninterested at all; he'd just been working up to a question he wasn't really sure he wanted answered.

That was something Buffy could understand -- she found herself putting a lot of stock in the fact that neither he nor his date seemed to have too much invested in their evening together. The words 'second' and 'chance' seemed to be knocking on the door to her brain and she found herself hoping that they'd come in.

No, Buffy. Last time you let that idea start to gel, you looked up to see his wife. Don't read into it; just answer the question.

She realized his eyes were on her and she had to turn away. She was actually going to be honest; if it was still a sensitive subject, she couldn't quite bear to see the hurt. “Spike and I were together for a while."

Riley seemed to be o.k. with that; at the very least, there wasn't any shock -- no change in breathing, no tensing up. Thank you, Slayer senses, for the Riley-biorhythm check. "We had some really good years and a couple of really bad ones. He and Dawn are still in touch, but I haven’t spoken to him in a while." Looking up, she continued, "There’ve been a few guys since then; nothing serious. You?”

There was a guarded look on his face. "You mean other than the various dates Sarah's set me up on over the years?" Though he smiled and said the words lightly, it was clear that it wasn't the benignest of topics. Standing up, he went over to the railing, his back to her as he leaned forward. “No one since Sam.” His voice was so quiet that she had to concentrate hard in order to make out the words. The sadness, however, came through loud and clear. “After you and her, no one ever really seemed that interesting.”

She wanted to go to him; just wrap her arms around him and make the hurt go away. That probably wouldn't have been too well received, though. Instead, she answered, “Tell me about it. I finally just had to admit to myself that I like men who kill things. Besides, most guys just don’t understand me. I got tired of trying to explain it to them.”

He looked back at her. “You mean there’s an actual explanation?”

“Very funny.” She stood up and walked over -- not close enough to make him move away from her again, but not too far, either. The railing was wide enough for her to sit on; she hiked herself up so that now she was facing him. “How long has it been? Since Sam...”

“Eight and a half years.” He took a long drink of beer. “So, how goes the slaying? I didn’t think you’d ever leave Sunnydale. And please don’t tell me there’s a Hellmouth in Boston.”

She decided to let him get away with the unsubtle change of subject. For now, at least.

"God, no," she said, laughing. "At least, not as far as I know." She put her bottle down on the railing next to her. "I work for Angel now. I’m his East Coast representative, in case you know anyone who needs an investigator with extra special skills.”

“You quit?" There was surprise in Riley's voice. "I didn’t think you could do that.”

“I didn’t either. Faith got out of jail and came back into the fold. There was this whole trial thing in London and Giles got me some special dispensation because there were two active Slayers." Leaning forward, she clasped her hands together. Buffy had to admit - she was beginning to regret her decision to sit so close to where he was standing. She had underestimated the arousal factor. The veil seemed to have dropped a bit from his eyes, and she was having a hard time not looking into them. "The Council actually agreed. I have no idea how Giles did it, but I'll be forever grateful.”

“Do you miss it?” Riley asked.

“Nightly patrols? Regular apocalypses?" Much more nonchalantly than she actually felt, she answered, "I get enough action to keep me happy. And every once in a while they send me out to do some training or back-up when a new Slayer is called. The Council is much easier to deal with now that they pay me.”

Being well aware of the rules of the game, Riley softly said, “So Faith…”

"Yeah," Buffy answered, looking down. That one was still hard to take. “Seven years ago. About a year after she got out. There have been three since then. The current one is pretty good. Two and a half years.”

Riley shook his head. “And these kids are fifteen.”

Though she remembered him always having been amazed by that little tidbit, it was clear that at the moment the only thing he was thinking about was his fourteen-year-old daughters.

“Seems so young, doesn’t it?" Buffy said. "It didn’t then.”

He obviously didn't agree. “Yes, it did.”

She smiled, but didn’t answer. As long as they were calling each other on things, however: “Why do you change the subject whenever I ask about Sam?”

For a moment, she thought she'd made him angry. Until he grinned and said, “Busted, huh?” He looked away. “Habit, I guess.”

Speaking of habits, Buffy wasn't exactly the one to let things go. She probably shouldn’t ask, and yet... “How did it happen?”

Riley finished off his beer and put the bottle on the ground, taking his time in answering her. In fact, she was kind of shocked that he actually did.

“Helicopter crash. Killed three straight out; one guy was touch and go for a while but he died two weeks later. Graham was there. Took him a year to learn how to walk again.”

Despite his words, Riley seemed oddly unaffected. Detached almost, as though he'd told the story a million times and he wasn't about to let a million and one hurt him. There was something, though, that he couldn't quite hide; something that made her think the recap didn't cover the whole story.

She waited for him to continue. When he didn’t she said, “And?”

He looked up in surprise.

Buffy smiled. Of course he wouldn't have expected her to notice. She hadn't exactly been the noticing type. Not when it counted, at least. She shifted a bit; moved a little closer, saying, “Not so self-involved any more. Angel actually trained me pretty well – I’m much better at listening these days.”

“Great," he answered dryly. "Now you pick up that skill.” There was a sad smile on his face. Ironic and eyes all twinkling.

“I’m waiting,” she said.

He muttered, “Didn’t learn much about patience, however.”

“Trying to change the subject again?” She kept her voice light.

The deepening sadness in his eyes made her almost regret the push. Almost. After all, this was the kind of thing old friends were for, right? She was just enough a part of his life to understand where it hurt, but not enough for it to come back to haunt him - if he never wanted to see her again after tonight, he didn't have to.

“Stupid fight before she left," he said, looking away. "Can’t figure out why I was so angry now. I understand why she was.”

It wasn’t too hard to guess what the fight was about -- she certainly knew him well enough. Knew that no matter how many miles someone traveled, it was always hard to overcome the beliefs you grew up with. “The desk job. You wanted her to be the one who took it."

"I wanted her to be the one who didn't die," he snapped. Then, clearly aware of how defensive he sounded, his voice grew quiet. "It was one of those things you say in the heat of it all, just to make someone mad." He paused before adding, "But I was too damn proud to give in. Biggest mistake I ever made in my life. Thought I couldn’t top the one I made with you. Turns out I was wrong.”

When he looked up there were tears in his eyes. His hand was right there, resting on the railing next to hers. How could she not reach out to him? She couldn't help it any longer. “Riley...”

She supposed it wasn't a shock that he pulled his hand back. The only real surprise was that he didn't walk away; and that he actually kept talking.

“It took a few months for it to fully hit. I totally lost it at Jack’s first birthday party. It was the first time they let Graham leave the hospital. Saw him in that wheelchair and whammo." The detachment was back; there was even a touch of that self-deprecating thing he was so good at. "Handed Jack over to my mom and barely made it upstairs. It wasn’t pretty. Mom’s been here ever since. My dad retired two years later and came east. There you have it.” He spread his hands open wide. “No more secrets.”

“I don’t know what to say,” Buffy said quietly. “I’m so sorry.”

He picked up his beer bottle and tossed it across the deck, sinking it perfectly into the trashcan. There was the sound of the glass shattering. “Yeah. So… Eight and a half years. The first three were hell. It’s gotten better.”

“Thus all the women in your life.” Now, Buffy, why would you go and say that? There was nothing but wrong there.

Irritated, he answered, “I’ve got plenty of women in my life.”

“Your kids, your mom, Graham’s wife. Seems you’re missing a biggie.” And, no, she had absolutely nothing invested in the response to that.

“You, too?" He seemed to be looking around for something else to throw. "I don’t need anyone else trying to fix me up. I’m perfectly-”

“Happy," she finished for him. "Yeah. That’s what I tell them, too. Doesn’t necessarily mean it’s true.” If she had to be perfectly honest.

“So why aren’t you?" He folded his arms in front of his chest, the smile on his face saying, Dare 'ya. "Happy, I mean.”

She hesitated. Hadn't quite expected him to actually throw the question back at her. Riley didn't ask questions. Everyone knew that.

“Thinking about changing the subject?” he said, his smile broadening. “Unh-uh. Your turn.”

Talk about busted. Darn it. She shrugged. “I’ve been in love three times. I know what it feels like. I don’t want to settle.”

“Three times, huh?” Though his arms stayed folded, he turned so that he was leaning sideways against the railing, facing her. “You’ve got me beat by one.”

She got caught up for a minute, lost in his eyes, thinking about how much she wanted to kiss him.

Stop thinking about kissing him.

It wasn't exactly her usual practice to jump on someone the moment he entered her vicinity, even if he happened to be among the small club of men that she'd had an actual relationship with.

O.k. So maybe it was a little. And her body wasn't doing anything to help -- was instead busy making the point that it never had the chance to properly say good-bye. Never had that one last tender kiss, one last caress. Not even a run-of-the-mill hug.

Sure there had been an almost moment that night he'd come back to Sunnydale, standing there at the dam. A moment which had been rudely interrupted by the appearance of Sam. And then there was the thing on the floor of Spike's crypt. Not a thing, really; that wasn't even an almost-moment. That was just a reminder of how much she'd let go, how badly she'd screwed up her life.

Now? The near kiss they'd had in the drugstore did nothing to ease the ache. Really - all she wanted was good-bye. Really, really. Just good-bye. The fact that she was at a point in her life where the whole second chance thing had such better odds? She wasn't even going to entertain the thought. No siree.

She made herself blink and look away. “I should probably tell you I’m sorry for asking, but..." Well... "I’m not.”

He grinned. His arms didn't seem to be folded quite so tightly anymore. "You know? It actually feels good to talk about her. I don’t much, not to an adult at least.”

Buffy realized that she was fidgeting - running her hands down her thighs towards her knees, letting her feet kick against the railing. Very deliberately, she rested her hands alongside of her, flat on the railing. "You talk to your kids about her? You don’t avoid answering their questions?”

He shook his head. “I swore to myself the night Sam died that I’d never hold anything back from my kids. And these days I pretty much say what’s on my mind no matter how dumb it sounds. Learned that lesson the hard way.”

Good policy, she thought. Especially because it opened him up to the question, “What’s on your mind right now?” -- asked more meekly than Buffy thought she was capable of. With a little too much interest in the answer.

“Set myself up for that one, didn’t I?” He said it almost under his breath, as though he were laughing at himself. Placing his hands on the wide railing, he looked past the buildings to the river. “I’m thinking that it was really nice to talk to you about Sam. That it's been too long since I've done that." He hesitated and then bowed his head, adding softly, "And that it seems like a total betrayal of her memory, but all I want to do right now is kiss you.” He turned to Buffy. “It’s all I’ve wanted to do since the moment I saw you.”

Oh.

Heart suddenly lodged in throat, and... Oh.

Her eyes locked onto his. Just good-bye. "Yes, please."

She reached out blindly for his hand, bringing it to her lips before letting go. She turned her head to follow as his hand traveled slowly up her jaw.

Oh, yes. Warm and tingly and... Yes.

He threaded his fingers through her hair, asking, “You o.k. sitting there on that railing?”

She had a feeling that wasn't really the question on his mind. “Shhh,” she replied. "Come closer." She pulled him by his shirt until he was standing in front of her, his face only inches from her as her knees straddled his waist. “I’m fine," she whispered. "More than fine." She smiled, shivering when his hand found its way to the back of her neck. "Really good right now.”

Her eyes closed as he leaned in, his lips brushing hers so lightly that she wasn’t sure if he had actually kissed her before he pulled away. She opened her eyes to find him staring at her.

“Buffy,” he said quietly, before looking away. “It’s been so long. I’m not sure if I remember how to do-”

Buffy put her hands on his face and drew him to her, her hands moving to his hair as their lips connected. After a moment’s hesitation, his hands were on her waist, on her hips, and his mouth opened. It didn’t take long for his tongue to find all the old, familiar places.

Who was she kidding? Forget good-bye. Hello. This was definitely hello.

She sighed as he pushed closer against her, one hand around her waist, holding her tightly, the other trailing down the front of her shirt, tracing the curve of her breast.

Reaching up under his shirt, she ran her hands up then back down the center of his chest, letting her fingers come to a stop right above the button of his shorts. He stopped kissing her abruptly, and leaned his forehead against hers, gasping as she found the zipper and pulled it down, reached inside to touch him.

“Wait,” he said, grabbing her hand, though he didn't pull away. “We can’t do this here.” He seemed to be finding it very hard to talk. “The kids… They could…” He nodded toward the stairs. “Any minute.”

Oh, right. Kids. That was a new twist.

Speaking of twists, she thought she'd let her hands play a bit before granting his-

He pushed away from her, and fumbled with his zipper, pulling it back up. “Shit. Buffy,” he said, obviously trying to catch his breath. “Eight fucking years. Touch me again and…”

"Really?" she asked, surprised. "This whole time you haven't...?"

The shrug he gave her was apologetic almost; his eyebrows raised in the most innocent of ways. Lamely, he offered, "I've been busy."

"Busy," she restated. Uh-huh. She eased off the railing and walked past him, grabbing his hand and pulling him after her. "Oh, we're going to have so much fun."

"Buffy..." he said, following slowly, warily looking at the door heading downstairs.

She stopped and turned, not letting go of his hand. She took a step closer, her breath catching as she could feel the heat radiating off of him. She'd forgotten what that heat felt like. Tilting up her head, she found her voice suddenly unreliable. "Come," was all she managed to get out.

There was a moment of heavy silence before his mouth twitched, and a smile came alive in his eyes. "Take me." See your double entendre and raise you one.

She grinned and put her hand to his face, her finger tracing his lips. "Wherever you want to go."

The smile traveled from his eyes to his mouth. He shook his head - that laughing to himself thing again. When he looked towards the door, though, his face got serious. "O.k.," he said, quietly. Setting his jaw, he repeated, "O.k."

Everything looked different this time as she followed him through the house - back down to the third floor, past the kids' doors, down to the second floor, into his room.

He opened the door and gestured for her to go first, muttering, "This is so not what I expected to be doing tonight." Closing the door and locking it behind him, he leaned against it and smiled. "You?"

"No." She walked across the room and sat down on the bed, bouncing a little. It seemed softer than it had earlier. Bigger. "Not quite."

Riley looked at her for a second, then his eyes roamed the room. He pushed off against the door and went into the bathroom.

She sat still for a few minutes, listening to him rummage around for something, then for a few more minutes, listening to nothing. She finally stood up and walked over to the open door. He was sitting in the chair that went with the dressing table, staring at the open medicine cabinet, his elbows resting on his knees.

Buffy went over to him and closed the cabinet. "There aren't any in there."

He leaned back in the chair, a mix between guilt, surprise, defensiveness, and annoyance. Guilt for obvious reasons -- they were in his and Sam's bedroom after all. Surprise, she assumed, because she knew he'd been looking for condoms. Defensiveness, most likely, because he didn't have any. Annoyance, because the only reason she'd know that was if she'd gone through his medicine cabinet in the first place. Which, o.k., she had. But she had practically lived with him for a year; she felt that gave her certain rights.

Well, no. It gave her no rights at all. Especially after sixteen years.

"I can't help it," she mumbled. She was an investigator after all.

At least he was smiling now, albeit in an irritated, smirky kind of way. He didn't resist, though, when she bent down and kissed him, ever so gently. In fact, his arms went around her and he pulled her down to his lap, tightening his grip, as though he'd lose her if he didn't hold on.

She had no intention of going anywhere. She didn't even want to move. All she wanted to do was let the warmth surround her, to get reacquainted with the things that she'd tried to make herself forget all those years ago. His arms, for example; arms that could encase her and keep the rest of the world at bay. His legs so much longer, hands so much bigger than hers, that she felt like a girl whenever he held her -- like a normal, innocent, whole-life-ahead-of-her girl.

And his scent... It was intoxicating. In the kind of way that probably wouldn't mean a thing to anyone other than her. It was just so...human.

Not the subtle, carefully crafted mix of colognes that Angel wore to cover the smell of death that would otherwise cling to him. Though Spike had never bothered with cologne, the smoking served the same purpose. And it wasn't an entirely uncalculated move to wear so much leather that even without it on, the air around him always held a hint of it.

Honestly? She had absolutely no problem with any one of those things. Each was part of what made Angel and Spike the men she loved. But Riley had always been different.

Not in a bad way, though; not at all. Riley probably considered cologne a waste of water. Leather? Not quite. Smoking? She couldn't imagine.

Riley's scent was pure warm-blooded boy. Baseball and apple pie, with just a tinge of Twinkie. The fresh smell of soap and shampoo; a slight touch of shaving cream. Tide and Downy. Life. The heart-beating, coursing-through-his-blood kind, not the cereal.

"Are you smelling me?"

His voice startled her, coming, as it did, so close to her ear. His laughter was just barely contained, betrayed only by his chest tightening suddenly against her.

"Not smelling," she offered weakly. "Breathing you in."

"Mmm," he said, smiling and closing his eyes. "Much more romantic."

"Yes," she whispered. She pulled his head down so that his lips were just touching hers. "Exactly."

The kissing was different, too. The warmth, once again; the taste.

She sat back a little, giving herself enough space to maneuver and turn so that she wasn't just sitting in his lap, but instead was straddling it. He put his hands on her waist and pulled her closer, his hips lifting slightly to meet her. She inched forward, feeling his grip tighten and his body tense as his breathing grew uneven.

"Eight years, huh?" Her whisper was accompanied by a bit of a thrust. She liked that it made him groan. Before they got any further however...

She eased off his lap, holding onto his hands until the last possible second. His eyes were on her as she reached behind her and felt for the switches - lights on dim, fan on high. She could hear the faint sound of the movie playing below them; she figured it would be a good idea to do anything possible to muffle the sound. “Shower on or off?” she asked.

Running his hands through his hair, he answered, "Um, on, I guess.” He looked like he was just starting to consider what it meant to have her here, locked away in his room. Actually, he looked a little nervous.

Walking to the shower, she glanced over at him. "I don't bite."

Leaning forward, he grinned. "Too bad."

Buffy smiled. Now that was more like it. She turned her attention to the shower.

You'd think that it would be easy enough to turn on a shower. Not in the Finn Architectural Digest household, however. First of all, it was huge, with a marble floor and walls of smooth granite and glass. There were about a billion faucets not to mention the nozzles that were everywhere: big and small ones that slid up and down along tracks -- kind of normal; a huge oval -- almost the size of your average tub -- hanging from the ceiling. Not normal. "What's that one do?"

He stood up and came over. "It's kind of like rain."

Reaching past her, he turned on one of the faucets and the water began to drop gently to the floor. Not 'kind of' like rain -- exactly like it. Like he had his own little piece of sky right at his fingertips.

"Oh." Because of course that was what everybody needed. "What - no waterfall?" It seemed to be the only thing missing.

He turned another faucet. There was a soft gurgling sound as the granite she was facing turned into a wall of water.

She looked at him. "You're kidding."

Riley shrugged. "Sam liked to be comfortable."

Um, yes. So it seemed. Odd choice then, to choose a job where she spent a lot of time in jungles.

Understanding Buffy's hesitation, Riley added, "She liked the job, just thought that home should be different."

Apparently.

Buffy kicked her shoes off and, skirting the indoor rain, she walked across to the waterfall wall. They had something like this in one of the malls near Sunnydale; she'd always wanted to see what it felt like. She reached her hand out and let the water fall over it. It felt exactly like she thought it would -- very cool. Except, actually, warm. Perfectly so.

She turned her back to the wall and leaned against it, tilting her head back, and letting the water spill over her face and down her neck. Putting her hands flat against the wall, she raised them slowly, a stand-up snow angel. It was the nicest sensation, the water pressing down as she lifted her arms up. She looked up at Riley. His eyes had changed. The hesitation was gone, his nervousness was history. The only thing she could see was desire. Hardcore. The wet t-shirt thing probably wasn't hurting. She beckoned to him.

He was in front of her within seconds, lifting her up, and pushing her back against the wall as her legs went around him. She pulled his shirt over his head, lifting her arms as he did the same to hers. Reaching behind her, he unclasped her bra and pulled it off, dropping it to the floor. His lips went down to her breast and she cried out.

“No noise,” he said, clasping his hand over her mouth.

Right. Kids. “Sorry.” She slid down his body slowly, letting her fingers trail down his chest. His nice, warm, smooth chest.

Her mouth followed, savoring the taste of the water on his skin. She could feel his muscles quiver under her tongue, tighten as she stopped right above his waist, her lips poised above the button of his shorts. “You ready for this?” she asked, looking up at him.

He looked down at her, then leaned his head back against the wall. “This is going to take all of five seconds.”

Not if I can help it, sweetie. Oh, no.

This time he didn’t stop her as she unbuttoned and unzipped his shorts, pulling them off of him. She had no idea when he'd taken off the shoes and socks he'd been wearing up on the roof; nor, at the moment, did she care. She'd rather take a few seconds to appreciate how nicely the boxer-briefs he was wearing fit him. And then a few more seconds to run her tongue over the front of them, smiling as he gasped. That was all, though. She wasn't going to waste time on that. Boxer-briefs gone.

Much better.

Now, the five seconds thing... There was a certain benefit to having exes with a combined history of, oh, three hundred-plus years; she'd learned quite a few things. Like how to move her mouth in such a way that five seconds seemed like pure heaven. And where, exactly, to apply the pressure in order to ensure that heaven lasted, well, a lot longer than five seconds.

She couldn't hear much above the sound of the water, but it wasn't hard to tell how he was responding as he stood above her: his breaths were fast and shallow; his legs and arms were clenched so tightly that she could feel his muscles quake in protest as the minutes ticked away. He seemed to be standing only through sheer force of will. That and twenty years' worth of experience in forcing his body to do things it wasn't meant to do.

He moaned her name and she decided it was time to let up on the pressure, time to allow him some release.

Almost immediately after she pulled her hand away - letting her fingers trail slowly down the inside of his thigh - his hands went to her head, fingers tightening in her hair as he tried to push her head away. He should know by now - she didn't take orders. To her that was just a signal to take him down.

She drew him in further, teeth and tongue stopping their motion only once she was drinking him in.

“Buffy…" His knees finally gave way and he pulled out of her mouth, sliding down the wall until he was sitting on the marble floor, his face even with hers, his legs on either side of her. "That was…” He shook his head as he seemed to run out of words.

Good. That was the reaction she was hoping for. She sat back, smiling.

“Hey,” he whispered huskily, reaching for her. “You’re not going anywhere.”

Before she realized what he was doing, he'd put his hands on her hips and lifted her so she was standing. Stripping away the rest of her clothes, he pulled her to him. His mouth was on her, teasing her with nips and licks that had no right to feel nearly as good as they did. She gasped and fought not to cry out.

Standing over him and placing her hands flat against the wall, she felt the water trickling down her arms, flowing down her shoulders and back. It brought waves of warmth over her skin from above at the same time his mouth created its own heat, a fire that radiated up through her -- an incredibly fulfilling combination.

She was more than happy to continue along those lines, this low-key, puddle of yum kind of feeling. Except then his tongue found a particularly sensitive spot - one she belatedly remembered him finding for the first time quite a while ago - and...

Oh, my. She sucked in some air.

Oh, my mind-blowing my.

She felt one finger, then two, slipping inside her, while his tongue worked its way around and around. She fell against the wall. “Oh, God… Riley…” Her hand dropped to his head and she pushed him into her, holding him there as the spasms came over her and she shuddered almost violently. He slowed down the pace as she began to come down, gasping for air, her body still trembling.

“Umm, yeah…” She slid down so she was sitting in his lap, collapsing against him as she caught her breath. “Very…mmm.” She could happily stay here forever - his arms around her, the water running over them, their sodden clothes lying around them just getting more sodden.

After a few minutes, Riley took her hand. “I can’t believe we just did that.” He looked down at their entwined fingers. “I can’t believe you’re here in Boston.”

Her thumb idly stroked his hand. “Here to stay,” she said. For the first time since she'd moved here, she found that the words sounded full of promise.

He put his hand through her hair, pushing it off her face. “The movie’s going to be over soon. We need to get dressed.”

“O.k.,” she said, not moving. “Can I borrow a toothbrush?”

“Toothbrushes I have,” he muttered. "Condoms, I'll have to get." He moved her off his lap and stood up, walking away from her.

Pausing in the middle of the shower, he lifted his face to the rain, giving Buffy the impression that there was still something he needed to wash out of his head. Or maybe he was just feeling refreshed, the promise coming alive for him, too.

He disappeared out of the shower, shutting off the water as he left. Through the glass wall, she watched him pull two towels off a bar on the wall, putting one around his waist. He threw the other one to Buffy.

As she stood, he asked, “So I, uh, was one of the three, right? Guys you loved?”

She dried herself off and wrapped the towel around her. “Uh-huh,” she answered, sad that he had to ask. Happy, however, that she might actually get the chance to make that up to him. Walking out of the shower, she followed him to the sink and hiked herself on the counter. “You think your kids will like me?”

“Yep.” He handed her a toothbrush.

“Good. Because I was thinking I might like to come around again.” The words made their way out of her mouth without her brain having anything to do with them.

It was occurring to her that the water was falling away, showing that the iceberg this tip was attached to was pretty big. It surprised her a little that that didn't scare her.

No, make that - it surprised her a lot.

And yet she found herself feeling an excitement she hadn't felt in ages.

She added, “I mean, if that’s o.k. with you.”

“Uh, yeah. I'm pretty sure I can manage.” He grinned as he started to brush his teeth.

She leaned back against the wall, toothbrush still in hand. “So this is kind of complicated. Four kids, your mom and dad, meddling friends and sisters…”

Riley nodded. “Could be a bumpy ride -- you think you’re up for it?” At least, that's what she thought he said -- it was kind of garbled due to the tooth-brushing thing.

Ye of little faith. “I’m a Slayer. We’re tough.”

He put his toothbrush down. “You’ve never had to deal with fourteen-year-old twin girls.”

Maybe not, although she'd spent enough time training teenage girls to have learned a thing or two.

She reached up and put her hand on the back of his neck. Before he had a chance to rinse his mouth, she ran her tongue over his minty-fresh lips. “Riley," she murmured. "Shut up and kiss me again.”

Being the kind of man who took orders well, that's exactly what he did.