Title: Christmas in Belize
Author: Krissy
Email: pinkbunney4@cs.com
Summary: Riley reflects on his last days in Sunnydale.
Disclaimer: "Buffy the Vampire Slayer" and Riley Finn are the sole property of
Twentieth Century Fox, Mutant Enemy, and Joss Whedon.  I own nothing.
Notes: Feel free to archive, however e-mail me first, please.  Spoiler warning
for the Season Five episode, "Into The Woods".  **,** indicates past memory.

He tipped his head back and swallowed another mouthful of tequila, then another, the local swill burning a path down his throat that threatened to erase his will, his memory. He put the bottle, less than half-full , on the small night table by the bed, within reach. Above him, the ceiling fan barely stirred the thick, heavy air and the late afternoon sun seared through the slats in the shutters, slender shafts of fire that he could feel from the relative comfort of his bed.

Sometimes, he imagined that he had let Sandy or the other one, the nameless one, turn him into a night creature. He would pass his hand through the sunlight and pretend that the flesh bubbled and blackened and fell off his bone in chunks of steaming gore.

He imagined that the crucifix on the gate of the Catholic chapel across the square was an abomination and he would grasp it in his hand and close his eyes, willing it to fry his soul. The cool brass remained his betrayer and he would open his eyes to see the other men, the soldiers, staring at him, amused and annoyed at his increasingly bizarre behavior.

He reached over and grasped the neck of the tequila bottle, but didn't bring it to his lips. His stomach rebelled and he swallowed tightly, willing his gorge away. He hadn't touched his first drop of alcohol until he had enlisted and even then, he had rarely indulged, ever the straitlaced soldier. The pious one.

Now, he rarely allowed an hour to pass without taking a drink and he was always drunk by this time of the day. Time enough, still, to sleep it off and get ready for the next night's demon-raid. He wondered what she would think, what she would do. Would she be disgusted by the depths to which he had fallen? Would she be concerned?

Hell, would she even *care*?

Two voices, speaking in bastardized Spanish, screamed at each other in the next room. Always the same, the same words, the same fight. Always the same, followed by the sound of flesh on flesh as she was beaten into silence, broken only by sobs and promises and the inevitable sounds of making up.

And, he lay on the bed and listened to the combative lovers lose themselves in their pain and imagined that he was immortal. Above the pain. Above the emptiness in his soul.

Finally, he lifted the bottle to his mouth and wrapped his trembling lips around the sticky neck, the sickly sweet liquor joining the rest souring in his stomach. As always, her face taunted him, the soft full lips twisted in disgust, the green eyes hazy with a film of angry tears.

Of all the people he thought would understand, he thought she would. She was the Slayer, the one chosen to bear the cross. And she had willingly, even eagerly, joined in a vampire's sinful embrace. She knew the taste of blood and the exquisite agony of offered oblivion, yet she had turned away from him in shock and loathing.

The rhythmic soft squeak of rusted bedsprings and the breathy moans of desire from behind the wall of his room sent his mind skittering like cockroaches from sunlight, into the hidden and secret shame of their last night together.

**Skin like silk, smooth and golden, marred only by the pale stripe of her tan line, shifted against his body, leaving rivers of fire in its wake. Legs parted eagerly, insistently, welcoming him home. She was aggressive this night, anxious to erase the stench of fear that had so recently visited this house. Pulling him down, into her, inside molten fire, he had come home. And she whispered in his ear, "Never leave me..."**

So, of course, like all the men in her life, he had. Before the sheets had grown cold from their lovemaking, he had slipped from their comfort and pulled on his clothes and, leaving her in sated slumber, fled into the streets and raced towards the cold hunger of *her*.

She wasn't Sandy. The first. A pretty, dark-haired girl in expensive clothing. She had been someone's daughter, or friend, or lover. Someone cherished and loved. Then, she wasn't. She had taken him to a dark alley and sank razor-sharp teeth in his neck and he almost, *almost*, gave in to the darkness hovering at the edge of his soul. But, visions of tumbled gold curls and sun-warmed skin brought him to his senses and Sandy was no more than a crimson puddle of Godforsaken demon, scattered to the cleansing wind.

But, the next...she was special. Had she still been human, she would have been less than she was now. A junkie whore, gorging on blood for money, too weak to take what she wanted, what she needed. He had been repulsed by her when Whip had called her forth from the shadows. She wore her vampire face as if she had always been that way, never human. She had looked at him hungrily, an orphan on Christmas, given the biggest, best gift in the grab bag. She had licked her lips, an almost reptilian motion and he had gotten hard from the very sight of her. And he *craved* it.

So, it was to her he always returned and she waited for him only.

She had taken him upstairs and led him through the refuse to a darkened room. He stood, impatient, as she sank with surprising grace to a bare mattress on the floor. Amber eyes glowed in the dim light filtering through the smudged window. And she held out her hand, slender, beckoning fingers leading him to damnation.

She was beautiful to him. Her skinny body had curled, catlike, in the crook of his arm and she had spent many minutes simply licking the inside of his elbow, softening the skin until it felt swollen and yielding.

Then, with her buttocks pressing against the bulge in his jeans, she had bitten down. Fangs slid through moist skin with virtually no pain. For a moment, he was bitterly disappointed. He had wanted that pain to remind him of his quest, but seconds later, she had drawn on his arm and pleasure, hot and thick like soured honey, exploded in his body and he spilled in his jeans from the sheer unexpected joy of it.

Beyond passion. That's what he had called it. With Buffy, his life, his only love, passion had enveloped him, gathered him in a sweet embrace.

But this, this was *need*. Not passion, but obsession. The taste of blood filled his mouth and he realized he had bitten his tongue. As she sucked on the wound in his arm, he had rubbed his injured tongue over the roof of his mouth, letting the salty drops trickle down his throat. Trying to imagine, somehow, the hunger she felt for this. Why she craved it. He wanted a taste so that he could understand his beloved and the shadows in which she walked.

Dislodging the woman at his arm, he pushed away, catching his breath. She turned and stared at him, her eyes softening. She was fond of him, he could tell, the way she would curl in his arms, her cold, seeking fingers smoothing over his chest, his neck. They would linger at the scar from Sandy's bite and she would smile faintly, then press her lips to it. Now, she sat back and watched him as he stood and removed his sweater, then, with only the briefest hesitation, his jeans and underwear.

Her eyes gleamed saffron then, suddenly eager for a gift she'd not yet received. Rising to her knees, she reached for him, drawing him to her mouth and inside, cool, moist tongue curling around his swollen flesh.

Bracing one hand on the wall for balance, he looked down at the dark-haired vampire as she feasted on him, taking him deeper than he had ever been taken, deeper than Buffy's untutored attempts had ever managed. He squeezed his eyes shut as unbidden scenes of the night's earlier activities invaded, tears slipping down his cheeks. He groaned, misery etched in the sound, as he spilled all hopes for Buffy's absolution down the grasping throat of the demon-animated corpse at his feet.

He jerked out of her mouth, wincing at the scrape of her teeth on the tender flesh. Grabbing her by her dirty hair, he pulled her to his other arm.

"Make it hurt, bitch."

**And so she had, tearing into his forearm with all the viciousness of a pit bull, shredding the skin and leaving him with the knowledge that he'd never be able to bare that arm to Buffy again, for she would see the mark of his fall...**

Now, on Christmas Eve in Belize, two weeks later, he absently rubbed the healing wound on the inside of his arm and let tears fall unchecked down his cheeks. How far the mighty fall, he thought, how far. He missed her, so much the pain was nearly unbearable. She would be unwrapping presents soon; perhaps in the chilled pre-dawn hours, she would think of him with affection, with memories of more pleasant times eclipsing the filth of their last moments together. Perhaps, when she unwrapped the tiny black velvet box he had placed under the tree only days before the descent, she would remember him fondly.

He placed the now-empty tequila bottle back on the nightstand and picked up another item. He lay the gun on his bare stomach, briefly enjoying the weight of it. Then, he swiftly advanced a shell into the chamber, before his nerve failed him.

He closed his eyes, for the last time, and let her beautiful face accompany him. For Buffy was the reason he lived and without her, there would be no more sunshine.

The bells tolled for midnight Mass at the Chapel of Santa Magdalena and the streets were filled with villagers and tourists alike. A single gunshot echoed in the cool, still air, going mostly unnoticed by the crowd, drowned out by the call to worship. A few, hearing the shot, crossed themselves and moved a little swifter towards the safety of the sanctuary. No one gave any thought to the ebbing life of the lonely soldier in the little hotel across the square.

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