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Riley sat up slowly, careful not to wake Buffy. He looked at the clock. 2:13 a.m. Damn. He was hoping it was at least four, four-thirty - late enough that he could go for a run and then shower and get dressed, all the while pretending that he meant to get up that early.

It had started off innocently enough, all Ozzie and Harriet like, Katie asking, 'Would you like anything for breakfast, Dad? Are bacon and eggs, o.k.?'

Perfectly happy to make it myself, but, sure, Kate, if you're offering. That would be just fine.

'Coming right up, Dad. Anything else you'd like? I can make you some coffee. Or orange juice. How about some fresh-squeezed orange juice?'

Sitting back, pretending to read the paper, but instead watching Kate bustle around the kitchen - frying up the butter, cracking the eggs against the bowl.

Yes, Kate. In fact I am. Seems to me, though, that you might be going somewhere with this. Want to fill me in?

Here we go with that thinking thing. Never - never - a good thing. Not this early in the morning.

A henna tattoo? What's a.? Oh, right. Those things that Indian - as in 'India' Indian - brides got painted on their wrists and arms before their weddings.

Bam! Time/space continuum ruptures. Ozzie and Harriet morph to Ozzie and Sharon. Happy, sweet, and, yeah, o.k., manipulative - but only-in-the-normal-kid-way way - Kate is replaced by full-blown teenage temper tantrum Kate. With whom, despite Dawn's observations, Riley'd had the opportunity of making the acquaintance on more than one occasion.

Slam! as the plate crashes down. 'It's not like they're permanent, you know. They'd be gone by the time school starts.'

'I am fourteen after all. I can make my own decisions. It's not like I'm a little kid.' Crash! The orange juice comes dangerously close to spilling over the rim. Smash! Take your coffee and like it. 'Most of my friends aren't even asking their parents.'

Shit. Shouldn't have said that out loud. After fourteen years of fathering you'd think it'd be easier to keep the big old mouth shut. Maybe we could go back to the bacon and eg-

'Kate!' Deep breaths. Try to stay calm. Try to remember that this has nothing to do with henna tattoos and everything to do with saying good-bye. Try to stop it from escalating any further and bring the tension back down. Just reach out and touch her shoulder and say, 'Not now, o.k.? When I get back.'

The nice thing about escalation, though, was that it tended to deflate pretty quickly with a little distance, and by the time the whole clan had dropped him off at the Base, Kate had apparently forgiven him. At the very least she was speaking to him, which was good enough for him. Jack wasn't, but Jack never did that well on the good-bye thing.

So maybe not a totally peaceful morning; not atypical though, and it really could have gone either way. Riley had been hoping for up. He'd actually been foolish enough to expect it, seeing that every other morning for the past two weeks had been pretty damn good - waking up with Buffy's name on his lips; occasionally, even, with her in his arms.

Riley looked down at Buffy lying next to him. She seemed to be sleeping soundly, 'seemed' being the key word - outward appearances were rarely to be trusted when it came to Buffy.

Which is why he shouldn't have been so caught off guard when, this morning, the question finally came, the question about Sam that had taken him completely by surprise even though he'd spent the last two weeks expecting it. Even though he'd known he was in trouble the second he saw Buffy get out of Graham's car - irritated and agitated in a way she rarely was.

She'd had every right to ask - absolutely no doubt about that; and, since the moment he saw her the day of the fireworks, he'd known it was a question he'd have to answer. He just hadn't realized how hard it would be. It was one thing to know the question would come and to know that it was a question he could answer.

It was another thing entirely to answer it when all the guilt and anger and love and hate got stirred up and swirled around. Kind of like back home when you tried to fish in Ballard Creek but then the dogs would run through and dredge up all the mud. Bye-bye fish. For a little while at least.

So, yeah, he'd known it was something he'd have to answer, just never expected the dogs to run through; never expected it to get quite so murky.

But also, surprisingly, an incredible relief. Finally getting it out in the open. Finally talking about the elephant in the room. Airing out the old wounds; taking the bandage off and exposing the raw, broken skin for the first time in ages.

Getting to the next step, to where the healing begins. The part where absolute care and delicacy is required because there's still the potential for scarring. Have to handle it with the utmost care because if you stray even too much.

'Maybe we would have lasted. Maybe we would have helped each other figure things out.'

This is the part where the music's supposed to start playing. Where the sun sets and the credits roll and you know you're supposed to deliver the line - that perfect line - where you wrap it all up with a clever remark and a smile in your eyes and a passionate kiss. Cut. That's a wrap. End of story.

But it's not 'end of story.' Hell, no. Instead you realize there's all this blood around. The stitches didn't take. The cut didn't heal.

Suddenly you're stuck doing triage, trying to stop all the other wounds from opening up - the ones so much a part of you that you've barely even noticed they still exist. Everything's bleeding, and it just won't stop.

It's raw and it's fresh and it hurts like hell. And you can't quite see through the haze to the light on the other side. Not right away at least.

You go through the motions. You deal with the bullshit bureaucracy; you put out the fires. You go on with the day and you do your job. You wonder what it all means.

The hemorrhaging stops, but the blood still seeps out. And you have to decide: can I do this again? Can I bear it one more time? Am I strong enough now? Was I ever?

He got out of the bed and reached down for his boxers. Pulling them on, he glanced down at Buffy, afraid he'd woken her up. She sighed and rolled over, but her breathing remained steady. His eyes swept the room as he looked for the rest of his clothes.

With Sam it was different. He never had to worry if the stakes were too high because they'd built up the stakes together. Gradually. Higher and higher until they'd reached the point where it no longer mattered how far down the ground was - they'd grounded each other.

Not so with Buffy, he thought, finding his shirt and looking back at the bed as he put it on. Buffy started out on a higher plane. In her own world. Sometimes she let you up there with her - for a moment, maybe two. But you were never really safe; you were always the one standing on the edge. Always waiting for the fall. When you fell in love with Buffy, you fell a long way down.

So you think about that for a while. You think about that first night outside her house and telling her you play for keeps. You think about that night in her bed, and the night after. About how she's in your head now, doing battle with the memories of your wife, the obligations to your kids, the promises you've made to yourself.

You think about how she's different now, and you are, too. How she says, "I love you." How you say it back. You think about how you've spent the last two weeks knowing you could spend the rest of your life with this woman and you think she might feel the same way. For some reason that doesn't scare you. It should but it doesn't. And you wonder why.

At first you think you're older now. You've done it before. It wasn't the end of the world even when your world ended. You're a veteran. You've loved more than you've lost. The end result is worth the pain.

But then you realize that's not it at all. Not even close. It occurs to you that you've been planning all along. You've considered every possibility. You've established a perimeter; defenses are in place and you're good to go. No need to worry about how high the stakes are because this war's on the ground. It's not going airborne. There's no scenario that allows you to truly fall.

Not that way. Get your mind out of the gutter, boy. Granted, hard not to think like that when she's lying naked in the bed, and the sheet has fallen across her body in a way that emphasizes that very fact.

Before you know it, you're swept up in the wind and the ground falls away. The perimiter fades; the defenses go down. It's time to make a choice. Are you ready? Are you strong? Can you bear to go so high?

Aw, come on, he thought, looking around the room. Where the hell were his pants?

You think and you think some more and you finally decide. Things are looking up. You're ready for the sky.

You let that thought sit for a while. You let it take hold. And it mostly feels right. But there's still one thing left. The elephant in the room. Two, in fact. To her it's a marriage; to you a betrayal. An unanswered question. An unforgivable sin.

A hell of a day. A draining, taxing, exhausting - but not really that bad when you got down to it - day.

So why was it impossible to sleep? Why had sleep eluded him for the past, oh, two and a half hours?

Stupid question; easy answer. Too much thinking. His mind had started running at eight o'clock this morning and hadn't stopped since.

Running. Let's get on with it. So what if it was only two-thirty in the morning?

Great. Two-friggin'-thirty. Even that amount of angst hadn't had the decency to take up a full half hour.

Honestly - who really cared if it wasn't the right time of night to be up and head out for a run? Who'd even know?

Well, o.k., the guys on the squad. It wasn't like he advertised the fact, but somehow they knew. They were somehow well aware that his sleeping habits were worse than the average four-month-old. They actually had a name for it: the Finn Patrol. Every once in a while, being the - sometimes annoyingly - stand-up guys that they were, some of them would even decide to come along. At first it was because Graham would send someone after him, just to make sure that he wasn't doing anything stupid. Like, say, the kind of stupid where you'd leave your beautiful girlfriend lying in bed while you went out and got your blood sucked.

After a while, though, Graham left him alone, realizing that it was just the way things were now, and any middle of the night meetings between Riley and the vamps were purely coincidental and entirely antagonistic. Therapeutic, too - after all, the best way to chase the demons away was to actually chase the demons away. Or kill them. That also worked.

Riley scanned the room, still looking for his pants, smiling as he remembered how he'd barely closed the door behind them when Buffy had him up against the wall, her hands pushing his shirt up, her mouth eagerly moving up towards his neck. She always had loved to dance, always loved what came afterwards. Said it got her all worked up and, unlike with patrolling, there was no kill to get rid of the extra energy.

Not that he was complaining. Not after today. Not after thinking he'd never have that again.

Given everything that he'd dredged up today, it probably shouldn't have been a surprise he'd been so quick to think it was over. It shouldn't have been, but it was: that wasn't the way he dealt with things now. Not anymore. Not ever, actually, except for a brief, three-month period in which he'd thrown his life down the drain. No - it wasn't his way. It wasn't the way he led his life.

And he'd clearly been under the wrong impression for most of the day. Drastically wrong - by about a hundred and eighty degrees. But say he hadn't been wrong, say she hadn't been so forgiving - would he really have let her go? Let her walk out of his life the way he'd walked out of hers so long ago? Since - apparently - he really had been the one to walk out - she hadn't just let him go.

His eyes were drawn back to the bed, and he sat down, reaching out to push a strand of her hair away from her face.

'I didn't expect the helicopter to be this big. The other one was much smaller.'

A curveball? Not really. More like a Pedro Martinez fastball zooming towards your head at ninety-seven miles per hour.

On the surface, it meant absolutely nothing. He'd moved on, built a life. A really good life. Four amazing kids that he still thanked God for every day. Every single day. A wife who he'd loved without question; without questioning - never doubting how much she'd loved him.

In spite of Buffy? Because of her? He'd never really been able to figure that out. Never really tried to. Once he met Sam, he'd tried not to think about Buffy at all in fact. After a while it had even worked - funny how having two infants around could obliterate every thought that passed through your head. Coherent speech - gone; adult conversation - a luxury. Everything revolved around these little creatures and just physically getting through the day - all past life ceased to exist. Even Buffy became a distant memory.

Well, o.k. That was total bullshit. But he'd gotten past her. Had put things in perspective: without her he wouldn't have known how love tasted. Without her he wouldn't have known how rare it was. He was grateful for that. Without Buffy, there wouldn't have been Sam. He hadn't wanted to fall in love again - not at all; but when it came knocking, he opened the door.

He'd been glad Graham had decided on a chopper to take them to Quetico, because it saved him from having to say anything to her after her revelation. Not that he could have even if he'd wanted to - she'd rendered him speechless. Utterly without words.

Finally - there was a laugh. As though he could actually process in one day something that had shaped everything he'd done for the last sixteen years. He may have gotten past her, but he'd never gotten over her. Not completely.

Yeah. Mostly in a good way, now that the shock had worn off. Knowing that she'd come after him. That she'd cared enough to at least try and pick up the pieces, at least try and salvage what he'd so brutally destroyed.

That she'd loved him. She really had loved him. Now there was something worth getting your thoughts around.

Granted - it wasn't exactly what he'd been going for. She'd been everything to him; he'd never been that for her. But he'd been something.

On a cosmic level, everything had changed; everything had shifted. The planets had realigned. One of the defining moments of his life wasn't so defined after all.

On the other hand, nothing really changed on the day-to-day. He was still right here on Earth. Lt. Colonel Riley Finn. Father of four. Husband of the late Samantha Addams Finn.

If that little gem had been dropped fifteen years ago? He'd thought about that, too. Would like to think that it wouldn't have changed the day-to-day back then, either. But he couldn't say that. If he'd known that then? Well, "father of four" probably wouldn't be on the resume; and it would probably read "ex-" instead of "husband of."

Not because he would have left Sam and lived happily ever after with Buffy. It was highly unlikely he'd ever have left Sam; and even if he had, it was more unlikely he'd have lived happily ever after with Buffy. But the seed would have been sown. The roots would have taken hold. And pretty soon his marriage would have looked the way a sidewalk does when the trees get planted too close: buckled and ruptured.

So, yeah - fifteen years ago, every facet of his life would have been affected. Today - not so much.

Damn, he needed to get out of this room, he thought, standing up again. Get some fresh air before his head exploded. Because it felt like everything was closing in.

To be perfectly honest, none of this was unusual, not the sleepless nights thing and not the closing in on him thing, although that at least didn't happen every night. That whole claustrophobic, running out of air, everything crashing down on him thing only happened the night before a big job. Middle of the night before, to be more accurate.

He used to love this time - when the adrenaline kicked in. When the "Dad" plaque came down and the "Soldier" one went up. Just one of the guys again. A little slice of freedom.

When Sam was alive, he didn't feel quite so guilty about it because he knew she got the same rush. It wasn't about leaving the kids behind, it was more about being able to choose. To have some control, or at least the illusion of it.

Without her, though, so much changed. Every choice had so many more consequences. All control was gone. In its place was a sense of darkness and doom. Incredible grief. Overwhelming responsibility.

Most days that all faded into the background. Most days, but not all. Not on the days when he was headed out into the field.

If it were just him, it wouldn't matter; hardly at all. But it wasn't just him. It was Kate and Annie and Liam and Jack, each of them now old enough to know that his job had its risks. Old enough to ask him who'd be taking care of them if something happened. To try and pin him down on the exact day and time he'd be home, hoping that would somehow guarantee his return. To elicit promises about ice cream and ballgames so they could focus on that and not on the fact that their father was away.

He answered their questions and gave them his schedule and made promises he prayed to God he could keep, all the while trying to ignore the creeping shadow of gloom and doom. Trying to ignore that he had absolutely no control over what would happen. No control over how well - or not so well - they were handling this.

Damn, he needed to stop thinking like this. Get out into the night air and get his heart going louder than his brain. Not an abnormal way for him to be heeling. Except for the fact that he couldn't find his friggin' pants. That wasn't usually a problem for him.

Oh, right. Over by the window. Where Bufy had peeled them off - God, so slowly - pushing him back into the chair and, well. Yeah. There were his pants.

He crossed the room, bending down to pick up the phone they'd knocked off the bedside table. Didn't remember doing that, but it could easily have happened when she'd. Ouch. Shit. Well, bonus. Shoes, too. He picked up his pants and pulled them on, trying to rid his mind of these incredibly unproductive thoughts, especially the ones about his kids in the - hopefully very unlikely - event of his not coming back.

Would losing both parents screw up their lives entirely? Or had he managed to instill enough strength and foundation that they'd be able to deal with it and move on? Was it even possible to move on? Or was he the worst father ever because the fact that that was even a consideration wasn't enough to make him quit and find some job where a taser and crossbow weren't as much a part of operations as a pen and post-it notes?

He grabbed his shoes off the floor, and sat down, tightening and tying up the laces.

Man, he hated the night before a job. Once he was out there - tracking it down, whatever it was. Once he was out there, he'd be fine; always was. But the night before always sucked. The night before was when that feeling came, that knife in the gut - the one that said *this* is the job you won't survive. *This* is the demon that will get you. Call your kids, hear their voices one last time; let them hear yours. Tell them how much you love them and hope that it will be enough to last a lifetime. Send a prayer up to your wife and tell her you're coming home.

Good question. Heaven, hopefully. Wasn't entirely confident about that given some of the things he'd done. Nothing on the scale of Angel or Spike, by any means, but there were certainly those things of which he wasn't proud. For example, sleeping with a woman you knew you'd be staking at the end of the night - which side of the line did that fall on? Conquering evil? Or premeditated murder? You make the call.

And then there were the little things. Wanting what Graham had with Sarah. Desperately wanting Buffy back in his life. Kissing her in front of all those people as though she belonged to him; not only taking possession, but getting a thrill out of the fact that this incredible woman wanted him - in her bed, in her heart. And she wanted everyone to know it.

Buffy sat up, the moonlight shining on her bare shoulders as she said, "What in the world are you thinking about?"

The look she gave him clearly indicated that that answer wasn't even close to being acceptable. "Stuff?" she repeated.

She got out of bed and came over to him. "You want to talk about it?" she asked.

She closed her eyes as he stroked her hair. She asked softly, "Do you think we could have lasted? Could have helped each other through?"

Yeah, he'd been thinking about that, too. "No," he said, mostly certain of his answer. "I don't." Not the way he was back then. Not the way she was. "Do you?" he asked.

She shook her head reluctantly. "Probably not." She shifted in his lap; took his hand in hers. "Do you think we have a chance now?"

He pulled back so he could see her face. The expression in her eyes was wary, vulnerable. Well, he thought. Time to fish or cut bait. Dogs are gone and the water's clear. He said, "I think I might be ready. You?"

He ran his hands down her back, kissing her, and feeling the dark shadow recede.

Breaking away, she pulled back and said, "I'm sorry you never knew that I was there that night. I don't regret not telling you, but I wish you could have known."

When he didn't respond, she said, "So this is kind of a theme with you - waking up in the middle of the night?"

"Pretty much," he said. She was so close that he could feel her eyelashes brushing his cheek, her breath on his lips as she spoke.

Running her finger down his chest she said, "Then maybe you should start waking me up, too, so you can have some company."

"Done what?" Buffy asked innocently, knowing full well that he was referring to the enthusiasm with which she and Riley had attacked the rapids they'd all gone through a few miles back. Not that Harry had actually seen them in the rapids - protocol appeared to be letting the first boat go on ahead, radioing back for the others after the path had been successfully traveled. Or so Riley'd said.

It seemed like a pretty dumb idea to Buffy - risk the lives of your two lead people so that the others would know the best way to go - but apparently, as she'd found out over lunch several hours later, it was a practice they'd established after losing an entire squad in Chile.

Of course, it shouldn't have been Buffy and Riley taking the lead, as Riley well knew, which was why he hadn't given Graham a chance to order him to let someone else go first but instead had glanced over his shoulder at Buffy, raised his eyebrows in a silent question, and charged ahead at her smile and nod.

"He's going to get someone killed," Harry muttered. "You're not experienced enough to be canoeing this area."

Buffy barely noticed what Harry was saying, her attention focused on Riley, who was now standing across the clearing, directing the men in their examination of the area. His hand kept wandering to his shoulder, pulling the t-shirt away from his skin. He caught her staring at him and smiled, laughing at himself as he shrugged uncomfortably.

She grinned and looked away. She hadn't meant to scratch him quite so badly. Just got a little too caught up in things.

"It's irresponsible of him," Harry continued. "We could have gone around the rapids - I would have taken you."

Harry's idea had been for him and Buffy to go several hours out of their way to avoid this section of river. Buffy had declined, quite politely she thought. She had actually hoped that Riley would step in and tell Harry that the team should stay together no matter what, but she was noticing some major differences in Riley this time around, one of which was that he was being incredibly careful not to do anything that she might construe as overprotective, something she had been so adamantly against all those years ago. It surprised her that there was a part of her that missed it.

On the other hand, back then she didn't think he would have looked at that particular section of the map - the one that may as well have been marked with a skull and crossbones - and turned to her with eyes gleaming as the roar from the rushing water overtook them.

Much easier said than done, she thought, as the canoe had rocked from side to side, the back end shooting up in the air as they went through a series of falls. She almost lost her paddle twice, kept herself in the boat only through sheer willpower, and could now understand why the waterproof packs had to be strapped in, something that had seemed ridiculously unnecessary during the preceding week when the most action they'd had was a thunderstorm on their third day in.

But, God, what a rush: relying almost purely on instinct to stay afloat. Trusting your life to the partner you couldn't even see half the time, either because there was too much spray or because you couldn't take your eyes off the river's twists and curves, off the boulders and low-hanging branches that seemed to have come alive, eagerly waiting for that one unfocused second to swallow you in.

Minutes seemed like hours, and when they were finally shot out into an unbelievably calm cove, her entire body started to twitch, betraying the tension she'd been holding in. Arms, legs; muscles she hadn't even known she had.

They were both breathing heavily, concentrating on guiding the boat up to the rocky beach as Graham's voice came over the com-cam. 'Proud of yourselves, aren't you?'

Buffy figured the only reason they didn't get chewed out was the nearly twenty years of friendship between the two men, plus the fact that the deed was already done. She climbed out of the canoe, stretched and sat down, not caring that she was sitting in several inches of water - she was so wet already, what did it matter?

'Left side of the river is easier on the boats,' Riley said into the mic of the com-cam.

She listened as Graham and Riley proceeded to give details to the others; marveled at how much Riley had taken in - she couldn't remember much about the course they had just come down except that it was brutal. Graham at least had the benefit of watching it on cameras and, presumably, was able to replay it if necessary.

Ignoring the rocks cutting into her back, she slowly lay down, pulling the com-cam off her head and letting the gentle waves wash over her. She turned to Riley as he climbed out of the canoe and took his own com-cam off, reaching for the one she was holding in her hand and depositing them both onto one of the seats. Letting the tide do most of the work, he guided the canoe further up the shore and let it rest there, its weight providing a natural anchor.

'Can we do that again?' she'd asked, smiling lazily at him as he sat down next to her.

Before he'd had a chance to answer, she reached up and pulled him down, attacking his mouth with the same energy she'd devoted to the river half an hour earlier. He happily responded, and within minutes, she felt his bare skin against her, inside her. His teeth skimmed her neck; she clenched her jaw and closed her eyes, forcing the groan back down her throat, highly aware of the com-cam mic in the boat behind them.

"Huh?" she said, trying to focus on the present and what Harry was saying rather than the way she had clutched Riley's body, burrowing her head into his chest and, yes, her nails into his back, as she came.

Harry replied as though he were talking to a two-year-old. "I said, it's downright irresponsible and I think you should tell-"

She cut him off with a curt, "Are you still concerned about whether I can handle the physical demands on this job, Harry? Or are you worried about your own capabilities?"

The com-cam crackled. "Give him hell, Buffy," said Graham, who appeared to have forgiven her and Riley for their reckless detour into debauchery. Not that he'd actually been privy to the debauchery part, but she was pretty certain that their being incommunicado for the half hour it took for the rest of the team to reach the cove hadn't been lost on him.

Not bothering to hide her smile - it had been Harry's choice not to be tethered to the communications gear, so she felt no guilt whatsoever about him not being able to hear Graham's comment - she said, "We've got work to do."

It was the fourth crime scene they'd hit in the last few days, and by now it seemed routine: while Riley and his team surveyed the area - in this case, the location in which victim number six had been found - Buffy and Harry's job was to find the pictographs in the area.

As Fred had explained them, the pictographs were aboriginal rock paintings found in twenty-eight locations throughout the Park. Because of an agreement between the Park administration and the Lac La Croix First Nation, there were no published photographs of these symbols. Willow felt very strongly that the symbols found on the bodies were ancient - much older than the four or five hundred years that the pictographs had been in existence; but she still wanted pictures from the crime scenes just in case there was any correlation.

Harry had initially been reluctant to show Buffy where the pictographs were located in relation to each crime scene, but after being reminded by Riley that they could easily find them on their own thanks to the "See the Pictographs!" map that was sent out to every tourist requesting information, he had conceded.

He led her to a small clearing fifty yards away from where the rest of the team was concentrating their efforts. She crouched down and brushed a plant away. "Graham - are you getting this?"

She added a sprig of sage to the pile at the base of the pictographs as she had promised Willow she'd do. It had seemed silly at first, but as each day passed and they progressed further into the Park, further away from civilization, Buffy felt a greater connection to the ground she was standing on. With eagles soaring and the pines towering overhead, she was more than happy to pay homage to Mother Earth.

They started back towards the others, and she wasn't a bit surprised when, for the fourth time in as many days, Harry launched into his speech about how he thought it was bad luck for her to be photographing the pictographs, no telling what could happen if she offended the-

"What was that?" she asked sharply as she heard a popping noise through the woods.

"Should we be wearing orange or something?" she said, trying not to let the wariness come out in her voice.

Riley could see the concern in her eyes. She had told him about being shot, about how Tara had died, and he knew that she hated guns. Hated anything she couldn't fight. His first instinct was to reach out to her, comfort her, but he quickly decided that was probably the worst thing he could do. The past few weeks had clearly proven how much more she was willing to let him in to the things she was thinking and feeling, but he couldn't imagine something that would please her less than his hand on her shoulder right now.

"Same old, same old," Riley replied. But he hadn't really expected anything different. The cases were so old that there wasn't much hope for anything in the realm of physical evidence. Didn't mean he wasn't going to send the men out to comb the area, just that he wouldn't be surprised if they came back empty-handed.

As Graham had said the week before, this whole op was best viewed as a recon mission. The more they learned now, the better prepared they'd be to respond to the next incident. Riley's main concern at the moment was getting the lay of the land, seeing if there was anything about the various crime scenes that connected them.

So far, nothing jumped out at him. The scenes were similar, but not enough for Riley to issue a warning for men over six feet tall to avoid clearings with two pine trees and a big rock or something like that. And he wasn't getting any demon vibes - usually he could tell if something was nearby, but there were no nests, no lairs, nothing that was sitting just out of sight, watching and laying a trap for the next requisite widower to row or stroll by. Nothing except the rangers, that is - Jeff and his boys, who seemed to appear just around every bend. Irritating as hell, but not exactly sinister.

For the moment then, they'd need to be content with recording every inch of every scene, transmitting the images back to Command where they'd be analyzed in every way possible - the types of wildlife, the distance from the water, the number of trees; hell, the angles from the top of each tree to the ground below. Everything and anything that could be reviewed would be. In addition to the images they were collecting here, Wendy was back in Boston, gathering satellite photos of each scene in the two weeks preceding and two weeks following each disappearance and the discovery of each body.

"We're good," Graham said as the last of the images came in. "You've got, what, a few more hours of daylight? Do me a favor? Stay away from the rapids, o.k.?"

"They were on the way," Riley protested, but he couldn't help but smile as he watched Buffy sit down on a rock next to Brady. She looked up at him and grinned.

"Right," Graham said. The 'like hell' was clearly implied. "I'm heading out for dinner. Tamura's on for the rest of the night."

Riley groaned. "Tell him if he insists on listening to Neil Diamond not to broadcast it over the com-cams."

"Shouldn't have taken the lead on those rapids, Ri," Graham said laughing. "No telling the price you'll have to pay. Have a good night."

"Count on it." If for no other reason than that in about an hour's time, the team of eight - ten really, when counting Harry and the guide, Joe - would be splitting into two. For some unknown reason, Harry was willingly going with Brady's group, leaving Riley with Buffy, Brooks, and Morris for the next few nights. And Joe - Joe was so quiet and unobtrusive that it was almost as if he wasn't there.

Riley had expected a bit more of a protest from Harry, especially considering that for the past week he had seemed to take Buffy on as his special project, sticking to her like glue. The kind you didn't want to get on your fingers - Crazy Glue or whatever it was called. Buffy had taken it in stride, her only rebellion being the refusal to ride with Harry, staying in Riley's boat instead. Which, although it hadn't yielded many opportunities like the one after the rapids earlier that day, provided the only times they were able to be alone together, and Riley was grateful for her silent strength - there was something about this mission that just wasn't sitting right with him. The uneasiness from the night before they set out hadn't gone away like it usually did.

It could have been because there wasn't anything out there to fight, or maybe because it was the first time in a long time that he'd been out in the field with a woman he loved, worried about her safety despite the fact that this particular woman was better at this than anyone else in the world. Regardless of the reason, having Buffy right beside him helped.

And it was strangely intimate, communicating mostly through looks and touches. The reasons were different - choosing not to broadcast everything you were saying over the com-cams as opposed to having your voice silenced by the Gentlemen - but he couldn't help but remember that night on the street. God, what was it - seventeen years ago? He could still feel the fire burning. Grabbing her and kissing her with no words getting in the way.

"Pack it up!" he shouted, watching as the team gathered the few physical specimens they'd found and put away the equipment. After conferring with Brady for a few minutes and agreeing to meet up at the base of Sturgeon Lake in a few days time, Riley climbed into the boat with Buffy and pushed off shore.

They parted ways with Brady's squad an hour later, and by the time the sun set, Morris had scouted a good place to set up camp for the night. Their troll lines had actually worked, and dinner consisted of fresh trout accompanied by wild greens, courtesy of Joe.

Brooks prodded the campfire with a stick before sitting back down. "Beats freeze-dried lasagna any day."

"Next time remind me to bring marshmallows," Buffy said. She was stretched out on her stomach, head resting on her hands. The warmth and crackling of the fire was so soothing it was putting her to sleep.

She was starting to get used to days without demons - it was very possibly the longest she'd gone without a slay since the summer after her sophomore year of high school, but surprisingly, she wasn't missing the kill. Not when there were satisfying days like this: seven hours of canoeing, the highlight being half an hour on the rapids - good for the body; a stolen half hour with Riley - good for body and soul. Add in an excellent meal and enjoyable company?

"So we're starting to grow on you," Brooks said. "Thinking of joining the team?"

"Sure it's not the fact that we go to work in a place where you have to hang your food up in the trees so the bears don't get it?" Brooks asked.

"Try patrolling the sewers every day for almost your entire high school career. There are definite advantages to a place without indoor plumbing. Hey," she said, looking up and smiling as Riley sat down next to her. "Anything new?"

"Not much," Riley said, shaking his head. His usual practice was to call in to Command after dinner - see if anything new had come in. "Wendy sent a message from Willow. She said the pictographs have been helpful. Not enough to decipher all the markings, but she's making headway. And she's meeting with some medicine man in a few days. Might have more after that." He looked around. "Where's Joe? Isn't it early for him to take off?" The guide tended to disappear for the night, reappearing the next morning before breakfast, but he usually waited until everyone was ready to turn in.

It was quiet for a few minutes before Morris turned to Buffy and asked, "Have you really been doing this since high school?"

"Got called when I was fifteen," she said, smiling as she opened her eyes. Despite his words, the look on his face wasn't challenging at all, just incredulous. "Been doing it ever since."

Buffy shifted so she was sitting up. She pulled her knees to her chest and wrapped her arms around them. "It wasn't really a choice."

"Would have quit. Definitely. Back then at least." She threw a stick into the fire.

"Yeah. A lot younger though." She laughed as she watched Morris try to take this all in. "That's the same look Riley had on his face when he first found out."

Riley smiled. "You gotta admit - it's not the easiest thing to get a handle on."

Buffy's face fell. That look on Angel's face was hardwired into her brain; no matter how hard she tried to rid herself of the image, it would never go away. "A vampire. He was someone I. knew."

"Anyone up for coffee?" Riley said, cutting Morris off. It was hard enough for him to even think about Forrest; forget talking about it. He could imagine what it was like for Buffy, even after all these years.

Riley sent a silent thanks to Brooks for responding to the lame coffee diversion. He must have noticed the look on Buffy's face, too; Morris, however - a little younger and a lot more clueless - was clearly about to ask more questions. Riley managed to steer the conversation to more general things and for the next couple of hours they traded stories back and forth with Buffy, ghost stories shared over a campfire - probably the same thing other hikers were doing all over the park. Except these stories were real.

They didn't bother to set up tents that night - it was late in the summer and it had been dry enough that the bugs weren't that much of a problem. Sleeping bags around the fire would work just fine.

Buffy waited until Brooks and Morris were asleep before inching close enough to Riley for him to hear her whisper, "Thank you."

"I love you," she said, kissing his hand before tucking it under her head. "Good night."