Family Ties

by Samantha4

Buffy and Riley's love lives on in their children.

Family Ties

The road stretched out in front of him and his eyes followed its length as it tapered and disappeared into the horizon. He grasped the steering wheel tightly in his fingers and arched his back against his seat, trying to relieve the strain caused by the long drive. The sign on the side of the road spoke of promises of food and gasoline, of respite from the drudge of interstate travel only eight miles ahead.

He was reluctant to stop; the importance of completing his journey called to him. But the rumbling in his stomach, the fullness of his bladder, and the fact that the little orange needle was dangerously close to the "E" on his fuel meter persuaded him to pull his car onto the exit into the rest stop.

Turning off the ignition, he pocketed his keys as he opened the door and stepped out. Instinctively, he stretched his limbs and squinted into the noonday sunshine. Taking in a deep breath of warm spring air, he headed into the building, the soft sounds of his sneakers on the asphalt serving as an accompaniment to the thoughts in his head.

Not wanting to lose too much time, he made the rounds inside—a bathroom stop and a few minutes in the snack bar line—before making his way back to his car. Another fifteen minutes passed as he waited his turn at the gas pumps before he eased his car back into the flow of traffic on the interstate. All in all, he had only spent 30 minutes off the road. There was still plenty of time to make his destination before it got dark and he became too tired to drive.

Reaching over, he turned up the volume of the radio and re-tightened his grip on the wheel. The sounds of the music, though, did little to drown the millions of thoughts that flitted through his mind.

Several times he had thought about turning back. But a promise was a promise. And he always kept his promises.

***

//The heat of the surrounding jungle enveloped them like a blanket. Agent Finn crouched in the foliage, his camouflage clothes clinging to his skin, the paint on his face streaked with sweat.

He and his squad had been patrolling for a small group of demons that had escaped their attack three days ago. The enemy had evaded them until now. They had pinpointed the demons' location to a two-mile radius. Agent Finn's squad was assigned to keep an eye on a village a few yards below them. Surveillance had revealed nothing out of the ordinary occurring in the village. In fact, it had been very quiet.

Riley sighed softly and shifted his weight, his knees starting to ache from being in a crouching position. Drawing a sleeve across his brow, smearing the paint even more, he wiped away the sweat that was stinging his eyes. He turned to face the source of the rustling behind him. Riley furrowed his brow and hissed crossly, "What is it, Private?"

The young private regarded his superior with respect. "Sir, Davis just saw something suspicious in the southern section of the village. He thinks it's something you should see."

"Very well," Riley replied, motioning to his second-in-command to take over his position as he got up and quietly followed the young soldier to where Davis was crouching, looking through a pair of binoculars at the village.

"What is it you saw, Corporal?" Riley asked.

The young, brown-haired man looked at Riley and raised an eyebrow. "I saw some movement a few moments ago. Two figures bustling from one building to another. It was actually the first movement I have seen since we got here. Then, there was a sort of hissing noise after the two figures disappeared again." He held the binoculars out to Riley.

Taking the binoculars, Riley put them to his eyes and gazed down at the place where the Corporal pointed. Nothing. He did a sweep of the immediate surrounding area and found more of the same. He sighed again, the futility of his squad's assignment weighing down on him, and was about to hand the binoculars back over to the Corporal when he saw it. Movement. Then another hissing sound—soft but distinct.

Handing the binoculars back to the Corporal, Riley gave the enlisted man a few brief instructions, then headed back to his perch at the front of the squad. He crouched down again and held up his hand, signaling to the soldiers behind him to follow him as he made his way down the hill towards the village.

The brush crackled beneath their boots as they spread out along the hillside. When they reached the edge of the village, Riley held up a fist and crouched in the high grasses that grew along the periphery, scanning the huts that were scattered throughout the village for their target. Seeing nothing immediate, he motioned the squad to once again follow him as he headed deeper into the village.

Once they had stepped foot into the village, chaos erupted. The enemy they had been tracking poured out of every hut around them, ambushing the soldiers in a barrage of stones and various other objects. Their characteristic hissing grew louder, intensifying with every second.

The soldiers fired their weapons at the demons that approached them, resorting to direct hand-to-hand combat when necessary. The battle continued for what seemed like an interminable amount of time and when the dust settled, it was obvious that the good guys had won. Lifeless demon bodies were strewn throughout the village and the tired and slightly bruised soldiers stood around catching their breaths, looking around the now quiet village and at each other.

The silence that followed the battle descended upon the spent soldiers and the men started milling around collecting the bodies for disposal. However, the morbid peace of the moment was interrupted when a surprising yet familiar sound cut through the air, piercing the quiet.

The sound of a baby crying.

The men looked around at each other, shocked looks adorning their faces. Riley held up a hand and said, "Mitchell, come with me. Everyone else, stay here and finish what you were doing."

Turning on his heel, he began walking towards the sound, Sgt. Mitchell following close behind. What they found when they entered the hut was horrifying. The dead bodies of several people littered the dirt floor of the hut, the flies that collected in the small residence just as stifling as the humidity.

Reflexively, Riley and Mitchell covered their noses with their arms and walked further into the small structure, towards the sound of the crying. In the southwest corner, a tiny bundle wriggled. Stepping over the body of a woman who Riley assumed was the baby's mother, he looked down at the child and pushed the blanket out of the way to reveal the tiny cherub-like face.

"Son of a bitch," he muttered. "This child is an orphan because we were hanging out 50 yards away doing absolutely nothing! We stood by watching as this child's entire family was murdered!" He was enraged and he turned around to look at Mitchell over his shoulder, balling his hands into fists.

Mitchell stood silently, having nothing to offer his commanding officer. He just shrugged.

Riley looked at him a moment longer before turning back to the baby, who was still crying. Not knowing what else to do, he reached down and gently picked up the baby, cradling it in his arms. The child immediately quieted. Looking down into the child's tiny face, Riley smiled.

"Sir," Mitchell said from behind him. "What should we do now?"//

***

She was panicked. The most important event in her young life to date was in less than three hours and *nothing* was going right. Her dress had a slight tear along the seam; she hadn't noticed that before. Plus, she had gotten her shoes that afternoon and discovered that they didn't match her dress. The lady that was supposed to do her hair and makeup was late and she thought she saw the beginnings of a pimple on her chin. It was horrible.

Willow found the sulking girl and leaned against the doorframe, an amused look on her face. "What's the matter?"

"Everything," Allison answered, her arms crossed over her chest.

"It can't be that bad," Willow soothed. She walked over and sat on the edge of the bed.

The girl looked into the soft green ones in front of her. "No. It's worse. The Valentine's Dance is in a couple hours and everything is a disaster. I'm not going."

Chuckling, Willow shook her head, reminiscing briefly about her own pre-dance experiences many years before. "Of course you're going. You'll go and have a great time. Now cheer up. Tell me what's wrong and I'll try to fix it. Okay?"

Her smile was infectious and caused the unhappy girl to cheer up. Smiling slightly, she sat up. "Thank you."

"Don't mention it. What am I here for if it is not to make you happy?" Willow giggled and took the young girl's hand. "Come on."

***

//The rain was falling in sheets, quickly flooding the streets in places where drainage was less than adequate. Few roamed the city, most people choosing instead to stay out of the downpour.

One of the few that was out in the rain, however, was a certain petite blonde whose job it was to destroy all things demon-like, come rain or come shine. Buffy pulled the hood of her raincoat tighter around her face and continued her patrol through the park. Rarely did she find any creatures in this kind of weather, but she couldn't dismiss the possibility. It would be just her luck that she would decide not to patrol and someone would die at the hands of some evil creature.

She shrugged off the tiny pools of rainwater that had collected in the folds of her coat and continued to walk, ignoring her growing discomfort. Slayers couldn't afford to be sick and she took a deep breath and trudged through the muddy puddles that lay in her path.

In the weeks since Riley's departure, she had immersed herself even more in the business of patrolling. It was the one thing that she could be sure of, the one constant she could count on. Sure, she couldn't predict what might jump out at her in the darkness. But she always knew that she could handle herself and that the odds were in her favor that she would emerge victorious.

Squinting through the downpour, Buffy felt a sudden wave of dizziness wash over her and she stopped to get her bearings. She bent at the waist, her hands on her knees. Water poured down around her and splashed on the ground beneath her boots. She swallowed down the bitter taste of bile that rose in her throat, puzzled at the recognizable but rare taste of nausea.

A few moments later, her dizziness was gone and she straightened, her hand over her mouth. She felt chilled and miserable and decided to call it a night, turning and heading out of the park towards her house.//

***

He had been driving for two hours and the long stretch of road that lay ahead of him had not gotten any shorter. He alternated looking at the car in front of him and at the landscape to either side. The thoughts that had been plaguing him since he left home were still swirling inside his head. He couldn't shake the sound of his father's voice.

It was odd that he was feeling depressed about being an orphan. He was eighteen years old—an adult. He shouldn't feel like an orphan just because his father was dead. Only young children were orphans—people who never had much time with their parents or never knew their parents at all. His father had been in his life for as long as he could remember. But still, it didn't seem like long enough. There was still so much he wanted to say, to do with his father. And now it was too late. There was no more time.

He was an orphan. No mother, no father. Alone.

So that was why he felt even more compelled to fulfill his promise. As long as he was on the road in search of the answers to his father's inquiries, it was as if his father was still with him.

He looked at his watch—the one his father had given him for his eighteenth birthday—and groaned. Almost ten hours had passed since he had pulled out of the driveway of his home. And there were still a few hours left to his journey.

At least to the first part of it.

Rubbing the back of his neck, he continued to drive.

***

//"Riley, you can't be serious!" Graham's usually quiet voice boomed through the tent.

Riley looked at Graham through clear, but tired, eyes. After a moment of silence, he spoke, his soft voice a stark contrast to Graham's. "I have never been more serious about anything in my entire life." His eyes never left Graham's face.

Graham stared at him open-mouthed, a look of disbelief coloring his features. "And how do you plan on pulling this off? I mean, getting that child out of this country may prove a tad bit tricky, don't you think?"

"Not at all," Riley answered calmly. He stood and walked over to where the tiny baby was now sleeping soundly on a cot. Looking down at the baby's peaceful countenance, he smiled, then turned to face Graham once again. "Because the military is going to help me."

"In your dreams, Finn," Graham said sarcastically, shaking his head. "The brass is never going to go for it. They already bent the rules to get you back, they're certainly not going to assist you in taking an orphaned baby back to the States. This child," he said, motioning to the sleeping baby, "is not your responsibility. It is the responsibility of the Belize government."

Riley crossed his arms over his chest and stood tall, his feet spread apart at shoulder's width, looking at Graham through determined eyes. "This baby is not an 'it', Graham. He is a human being. And he's helpless. Have you taken a good look around this country, Graham? It's third-world at best. What do you think would happen to a child who is left in the care of this government? Try to imagine that."

Silence descended upon the tent. The two men stared at each other wordlessly, the lack of words speaking volumes. The sound of the baby stirring captured Riley's attention and he walked over to him and sat down on the edge of the cot, scooping the baby into his arms.

Graham watched as Riley soothed the fussy baby, amazed at the ease with which this tough soldier dealt with the child. And he also noticed something else. Riley was different when he held that child, when he looked into that tiny face. The light that had been missing from his eyes ever since they left Sunnydale seemed to spark whenever he looked at the baby. And his smile, which had been conspicuously absent during the past few weeks, had made a long-overdue appearance ever since he found the boy in the village.

Watching his friend, Graham realized that Riley didn't belong with them. He was no longer military material. His body may be in uniform in Belize, but his heart certainly wasn't. Riley Finn was no longer a soldier, though he was still great at acting like one.

"Riley," Graham said softly, stepping towards him.

Pulling the blanket tighter around the sleeping baby, Riley lifted his eyes to meet Graham's. "If you're going to try to talk me out of this, save your breath. I've made up my mind."

"I know," Graham said. "That's not what I was going to say. I just wanted to say…if you're sure about this…I'd like to help if I can." A small smile crossed his lips.

Riley returned the gesture. "Thanks."//

***

"You look beautiful, sweetheart." Joyce's words were sincere and tinged with emotion. She smiled and wiped the tears from her eyes.

"Gram," Allison groaned, rolling her eyes slightly. "Come on, don't cry."

Joyce looked at her granddaughter, shaking her head. "I can't help it, honey. You just look so lovely…so much like your mother." Her voice trailed off and her eyes got a faraway look momentarily, as if she was remembering something from a long time ago.

Allison squirmed uneasily when she noticed the look of nostalgia cross her grandmother's face. It used to happen all the time—Joyce would wax sentimental frequently—but now the instances were few and far between. They usually only happened on special occasions now—holidays, birthdays. "Gram," she prodded gently, putting a hand on Joyce's arm.

Joyce turned her eyes towards her granddaughter, an absent smile curling her lips, then seemed to suddenly snap out of it, her gaze clearing and her recognition of Allison surfacing. "I'm sorry," she said softly, touching Allison's cheek with her fingers.

"It's okay," Allison replied, giving her grandmother a close-lipped smile.

Joyce nodded and took Allison's hands in her own, stepping back to give the young girl a good once-over. "You really do look lovely, Allie. Danny is a lucky boy to have such a pretty girl going to the dance with him."

Squirming, Allison said, "Thank you. And his name is Doug, Gram." Pulling out of Joyce's grasp, she went to the bed and picked up her purse. "He'll be here any minute," she added excitedly, grinning widely.

Twenty minutes and a thousand camera flashes later, Allison had her arm linked through the strong arm of handsome, young Doug Marshall and was on her way to the Valentine's Day Dance.

***

//They were all laid out in a neat little row. One was pink, one was blue, one had a plus, one had two lines. Different signs that all represented one conclusion.

Two pairs of widened eyes—one green, one hazel and shiny with unshed tears—stared at the evidence in silence. Willow placed a gentle hand over Buffy's now trembling one and looked closely at her clearly shocked best friend. She didn't know what to say. Over the past few weeks, she had watched Buffy close herself off almost completely. It seemed as though Riley's departure had been the final blow. But recently, Buffy had started to emerge again. It was as if she had finally started to let go of the pain that losing Riley had caused her, as if she was finally accepting the fact that he was not coming back. And now this.

"No," Buffy whispered hoarsely, grasping Willow's hand with her other one, turning her head to look into the compassionate ones of the redhead.

"Buffy," Willow said softly, trying to offer her friend some comfort, "it'll be alright."

A moment of silence fell upon the two young women. Finally, Buffy let go of Willow's hand and stood up, walking to the window and looking out. The sunlight that streamed through the glass bathed the dumbfounded woman in a golden glow, contrasting the way she felt inside. "What am I going to do, Will?" she asked, finding her voice. She started fiddling with the hem of the curtain.

Standing, Willow walked over and stood behind her friend, placing a soothing hand on her shoulder. "I don't know, Buffy. But whatever you decide, I'll be there for you. We all will." She gave Buffy's shoulder a gentle squeeze.

When Buffy turned to gaze at her friend over her shoulder, the tears she had been trying to hold back rolled down her cheeks. Then it all began to really sink in and she started to shake, reaching for Willow and holding onto her tightly, burying her face in Willow's shoulder.

Willow just stood there, arms around her inconsolable friend, at a loss for what to do to help.//

***

The "Now Entering California" sign was like a gift from the heavens. Smiling widely at his own reflection in the rear-view mirror, he let out a loud sigh of relief. The sun had set completely about a half-hour before and the realization that he was on the last leg of his journey was encouraging.

He yawned and forced his eyes to stay open. The intermittent lights of the interstate were replaced by the constant glaring illumination of neon signs and the harshness of high beams. Yawning again, he reluctantly decided to find a place to stay the night. He really wanted to keep going, but he still had quite a way to go, and he reasoned that it would be better to get there alive than it would be to get there quickly.

Numerous motels of various price and quality lined both sides of the road. He rejected the Bambi Motel, the Palm Bay Inn, and any motel that had an hourly rate. A Holiday Inn Express loomed just a short distance away and he pulled into its driveway, finding an open spot near the entrance.

Taking a moment of pleasure in being able to stretch his legs again, he looked up at the sky and was disappointed to find that the stars were not visible. He could barely make out the moon through the glare of the city lights. Swallowing his dismay and stifling another yawn, he shut the car door and looked at his watch. It was only 8:15, but he was absolutely exhausted.

He opened the trunk and pulled out his bag, slinging it over his shoulder and shutting the trunk with a thud. Entering the lobby, he walked up to the front desk and smiled warmly at the clerk.

"Excuse me," he said. "I'd like a room, please."

The young man looked at him squarely and gave him a cordial grin. "Certainly. Single room?"

"Yes, please."

Checking the computer, the clerk looked back up at him. "Lucky for you, we have one available. Name?"

"Ben. Ben Finn."

***

//It had taken a lot of persuasion and the tolerance of many a lecture, but Special Agent Riley Finn was once again a civilian. Graham had risked his own career in order to get a helicopter to take Riley back to the States. And even then, they only agreed to take him as far as the Texas border.

Riley stood in silence, his duffel bag at his feet and the sleeping baby boy in his arms. He wasn't sure what he was going to do once he got home, how he was going to take care of the child. All he knew was that he had to keep him. He couldn't bear the thought of leaving the child behind. There were so many things that he didn't know and if truth be told, he was positively terrified. But as he looked into the child's face, at the peace in his tiny little countenance, he swallowed his fears and knew that he was doing the right thing.

"I still can't believe you're doing this," Graham commented from beside him.

Smirking down at his friend, Riley replied, "Me either, really." He chuckled softly. After a moment of silence, he added, "I…I want to thank you for everything you've done to help me, Graham."

Graham looked up at Riley. "Don't mention it."

"No, really. You didn't have to. I can't tell you how much I appreciate it." His words were spoken softly and were made even softer by the sound of the helicopter approaching.

The two men waited wordlessly as the helicopter was lowered onto the ground, the rhythm of the propeller blades reminiscent of a time a few weeks before when another helicopter had brought Riley to this place. But it was different this time. This time, he wasn't leaving his heart behind. This time, he was taking it along.

Graham picked up Riley's bag and walked with him to the door of the chopper, tossing it inside. He shifted nervously, at a loss for words. "Look, Riley," he said loudly, above the din of the engines. "I just want to say good luck." He smiled slightly and held out his hand.

Riley looked at his friend and took his hand, squeezing it tightly. "Thank you." He smiled widely.

Nodding, Graham stepped back and watched as Riley crawled up inside the chopper and sat down. As the helicopter lifted off, Riley looked down at Graham and waved goodbye.

He was going home. Home to Iowa.//

***

The night had been magical, Allison told her grandmother when she got home. Joyce had smiled and thought about how everything was always so magical when you're a teenager. Life was still so full of hope and promise. Everything was still so new and shiny and ready to be discovered and experienced.

That's the way it should be.

That's *not* the way it was for her own daughter.

Joyce hadn't really thought about Buffy in a long time. Sure, Buffy crossed her mind everyday, but she hadn't really stopped to reminisce in a long time. But seeing Allison all dressed up, so happy and full of life, a smile—once the initial panic had subsided—plastered on her beautiful face, just served to bring all those precious memories of Buffy back to the surface.

Willow had stayed for a couple hours after Allie had left for the dance. She could sense that Joyce was sad and she could guess why. Seeing Allison all spiffed up had taken her slightly aback as well—back to a night many years before when Buffy had desperately tried to have her one normal high school experience and had risked her life to make sure that everyone else had one as well. She and Joyce talked a little, but mostly they just sat in silence, remembering—remembering many of the same incidents, only from a different point of view.

Climbing the stairs one seemingly steeper step at a time, Joyce slowly made her way to the top, shuffling down the hall in her old robe and fuzzy slippers towards her room. She stopped midway down the hall and peeked into Allison's room—Buffy's old room. The thin slice of dim light from the hallway fell across the young girl's sleeping face and Joyce's heart ached momentarily over the thousands of times she had checked on Buffy in the same manner. And the many times she found an empty bed where her daughter was supposed to be. Buffy had come back every time, sometimes a little worse for wear, but always in one piece. Every time but one, actually.

Shaking off the memory, Joyce smiled at the sight of her granddaughter and the peace that adorned her face. Allison meant the world to her; she would die before she would let anything happen to her. Of course, she had made the same promise to her daughter and look what happened. But that was different. Buffy had no choice, her life was mapped out for her before she even had a chance to make her own way. But Allison had nothing but the future ahead of her.

Quietly closing the door, Joyce sighed and headed to her own bedroom.

***

//Buffy sat on the porch swing, absently pushing it back and forth with her toes. Her hands rested gently on her protruding middle, her fingers spread apart as far as they could go. Under one of her hands was pressed a worn snapshot, wrinkled over the months by the careless and frequent handling of it. She always kept it close by to remind her—remind her of what she had lost and what she still wanted. Lifting her hand, she gazed at the image that was forever imprinted on her memory.

The smiling face of Riley Finn stared back at her, the sun behind him, his hair messed up by the breeze that had been blowing. She remembered taking that picture. It was at a picnic, during one of her non-Slayer, non-apocalypse times. Riley was a few feet away, laughing about something, when she had taken the picture. He didn't even know. It was one of her favorite pictures of him; the shot revealed the immense honesty he had and the loyalty and kindness he always displayed.

She had pulled out the picture more and more these past few months. At first, she was angry—she often was filled with moments of blinding rage followed immediately by bouts of deep sorrow. Her roller coaster of emotions began the moment she saw the helicopter fly away and hadn't stopped. The times she was angry were the times when she saw the world with crystal clarity—she sought out things to kill and did so with frightening efficiency. The times when she was overcome with sadness were the times when she took longer than necessary to kill a vamp, when she took more abuse than was normal. It was hard to think about defending her life when all she wanted was to end it.

Things had gotten better over the months. Her mood swings weren't as polar, which was surprising considering her condition. But she had something to live for now, something—someone—to focus all of her attention on. Sometimes she would lie in bed at night and think about her baby. Would she be healthy? Would she have her eyes and Riley's smile?

Patrolling, of course, was out of the question. That responsibility had shifted to her friends. Willow, Xander, Anya, Tara, Giles, and even Spike formed a strange but effective alliance that had been successful so far in keeping the demon population in check.

Stretching, Buffy stood up and rubbed her lower back, grimacing slightly at the dull ache that had decided to take up residence there. She walked to the edge of the front steps and leaned against the column, looking out into the night and wondering where her friends were, wondering how they were faring, and wondering where in the world Riley was. Yes, she still wondered about him. She couldn't help but wonder; she was carrying around a constant reminder of his existence.

She closed her eyes and pressed the delicate silver cross she still wore around her neck between her fingers. Briefly, she said a short prayer, a habit she had acquired soon after she had discovered she was pregnant. Usually she relied on her fists and her feet to ensure that everything turned out the way it was supposed to be. But that was no longer an option. Prayer was all she had left.

That, and hope.//

***

Ben sat at the small, round table in the corner of the room. The yellow glow from the lamp behind him cast his shadow over the various items strewn across the table. Immediately upon entering his room, Ben had showered and changed into his sleeping attire, which consisted of a t-shirt and boxers. At the moment, he was perusing the pages of an old, cloth-covered book whose pages were covered with his father's neat and angled handwriting. He had meant to fall right into bed—Lord knows he was tired enough—but when he laid down, all he could think about were those pages full of the unknown.

His father's journal lay open on the table, a third of the pages already read, some of them twice. The ink was smudged in a few places, reflective of the book's age and the fact that many of the entries were written during his father's time in Belize. Ben was moved by the sincerity of the words that filled the page, though not shocked. He always knew that his father was an emotional man. Nor was he shocked by the content of some of the pages—he knew there was more to the world than just what was on the surface. He could recall many stories when he was a child that his father would tell him, stories that at the time he thought were fairy tales but later discovered were true. And he also knew he was adopted. His dad never kept it a secret. But it didn't matter; he always knew he was loved. And now he had written confirmation of that fact in front of him.

January 28, 2001

Ben is finally asleep. Sometimes I think he cries just to aggravate me, like he finds amusement in keeping me up at night. I swear when I look into his eyes, I can see awareness and recognition. A spark of trust and comfort. I could be seeing things; he is, after all, just a baby. Maybe what I'm seeing is a reflection of what is in my own eyes.

Sometimes I love him so much that I can't even remember what my life was like before I found him. And I thank God every day for giving me this child, my son. He is my light, my second chance. With him, I can try to make up for everything I ever did wrong in my life.

Ben scanned the page again and again, a lump rising in his throat. Finally, he turned the page.

February 14, 2001

It's actually been a few weeks since I have written in this journal. It's harder and harder to find the time. Ben has been sick, nothing too serious, but enough to make his erratic sleeping patterns even more erratic. The doctor gave me some drops to give him every four hours, so I have to make sure I set the clock to remind me.

And guess what? Yup, it's Valentine's Day. The day for love and lovers. I know it's dumb and extraordinarily cliché, but I am depressed because I'm all alone on the "most romantic day of the year."

I find myself wondering what she's doing. Is she fighting? Is she sleeping? Is she laughing? Crying? I hope she's not crying. I could never stand it when she cried, not even when I imagined her crying.

I miss her. Still. With every inch of my being. Sometimes I can push her to the back of my mind and get through a whole day without thinking about her too much. She's always there, though. She's a part of me, even now.

It would be so much easier to hate her. It takes a lot more energy to keep loving someone who doesn't love you back than it does to hate them. But I could never hate her. Not even after all the pain she has caused me.

Reading over what I've just written, I have realized that I haven't even written her name. I don't know why. If I had the time and the inclination, I might try to figure it out. But right now, I'm tired. So I'll just finish up and go to bed. Here goes.

I know you'll never read this, but I'm going to write it anyway. I keep remembering the one Valentine's Day we spent together. How perfect and non-violent it was (haha). I gave you roses and chocolate and wrote you a cheesy poem: "Roses are red, violets are blue. You're sweeter than sugar and a good kisser, too." God, that was bad. But you loved it. We spent the whole evening together and capped it off with some good old-fashioned lovin' (wink). And I just want you to know, wherever you are, that I love you.

Happy Valentine's Day, Buffy.

That's all for now. Time for Ben's medicine.

The words were starting to blur and even though he wanted to keep going, Ben knew he

had a big day tomorrow. Reluctantly, he closed the book and pushed away from the table, stretching his arms and yawning. He walked to the bed, pulled down the covers, fluffed the pillows and laid down.

Reaching over to flip off the lamp, he looked up at the ceiling and muttered a short prayer. "Amen," he said as he closed his eyes.

***

//His eyes were red from lack of sleep and his body ached to the bone. He hadn't had a chance to rest since the plane touched down in Iowa almost a week before. The latest addition to the Finn family had come as a surprise to everyone and so far, the adjustment period was in full swing. And no one had to adjust more than the baby himself.

Riley did not regret for a moment that he had brought the child home. Nor did he regret that he had to leave the Marines behind for the second time in order to do so. Every time he looked at the tiny little person, he felt a rush of joy, a rush of unconditional love. It still surprised him just how quickly he had fallen in love with him. His parents were shocked by his decision to raise the child but had not tried to deter him. They too had lost their heart to the sweet child as soon as they laid eyes on him—especially his mother.

The last six days had been focused on the baby—getting him settled in, making sure he had everything he needed. The mania had passed, replaced by an eerily calm stillness. The quiet almost unnerved Riley; he had grown unaccustomed to peace over the last several months. The jungle had been filled with noises—even when they weren't fighting. And the house over that last week had been nothing but a buzzing hub of action.

But now it was quiet. Peaceful. Riley sat at the kitchen table, his head resting in his hands. He sighed heavily, letting his shoulders relax. The respite from the hectic pace his life had taken on of late allowed him time for reflection. His life had changed drastically for the second time in less than a year.

He had a son now. That certainly was a drastic change. He finally had someone to help fill the void in his heart. The void that had reduced in size very little over the months. The void left by her.

Buffy. That name filled his exhausted mind and he pressed the palms of his hands into his eyes. He had managed to avoid thinking of her for most of the time since he had been back, his thoughts preoccupied with his son. But now, in the quiet stillness of his parents' kitchen, she came rushing back.

He swallowed hard and lifted his weary head, his eyes landing on the phone perched on the wall. It would be so easy to get up, to pick up that phone, to dial her number, to hear her voice. Then he shook his head. It wouldn't be easy. It would be the most difficult thing he had had to do in his life.

So instead of calling her, he continued to sit, his drained mind swamped with memories of her face.//

***

Allison Summers descended the stairs almost two at a time, a vibrant smile across her face. She giggled as she skipped into the kitchen, giving her grandmother a quick kiss on the cheek. "Morning, Gram!" she exclaimed happily as she picked up a piece of toast from the counter and nibbled on the corner.

Joyce looked at her granddaughter, an amused smile quirking her lips. "Since when are you so cheerful this early in the morning?"

Plopping down on the stool beside the kitchen counter, Allison swallowed down a sip of orange juice before answering. "Gram, it is just *the* most romantic day of the year. And rumor has it that Doug has something special in store for me today!" Her smile widened as another giddy laugh escaped her throat.

Joyce just smiled and shook her head. Ah, to be young again. She could barely remember being a teenager and her own daughter…well, she never had a chance to be a teenager. She was always too busy saving the world. In her granddaughter she saw the same fire, the same tenacity, the same big heart. But there was one difference—Allison had a future. She didn't have to fight every day of her life. She could live and be happy and have the life that her mother never had.

"Well, you deserve everything he gives you and much more. You're the most precious girl in the world, sweetie." Joyce smiled once again as she set a plate of eggs in front of her.

Allison rolled her eyes and smiled. "Gosh, Gram. You don't have to be so mushy. But in the spirit of Valentine's Day, I will forgive you." She gave her grandmother a wink and shoveled a forkful of fluffy scrambled eggs in her mouth.

Breakfast was over quickly and in no time, Allison was flying out the front door, on her way to school.

***

//The pain shooting through her abdomen was excruciating. She sat up in bed, cold sweat trickling down her brow, her breath coming in short gasps. Spreading her fingers across her protruding belly, she squeezed her eyes shut against the pain. In all her years of fighting, she had been wounded many times in many interesting ways. But she had *never* experienced anything like this.

She swung her legs to the side, making her way to the edge of the bed, steadying herself with her hands. That's when she felt it—her sheets were soaked where she had been lying. Oh God. Another wave of blinding pain washed over her and she cried out, screaming her mother's name.

Eleven and a half hours later, an exhausted Buffy lay in bed staring down at her feet—feet she could actually see for the first time in months. A strange mix of emotions washed over her—relief, sorrow, elation, and fear. Her mother had been by her side through the whole process and now she couldn't believe that it was over.

She had a daughter.

Buffy had only had a brief moment with her newborn baby girl before the nurses whisked her away. But all she had to do to see her was close her eyes. She had every one of her daughter's features memorized—the tiny creases around her eyes, the pudginess of her fingers and toes, the distinct pitch of her cries.

She tasted her tears before she felt them, reaching up instinctively to wipe them away. She had just given birth to the most precious person in the world; she had another person to love in her life. All of her friends were there. Even her father was there. And still she felt alone.

Because *he* wasn't there.

She hadn't spoken his name aloud since she had found out about the baby. It was like the pain wasn't real unless she put a voice to it. A nurse had come in and given her some paperwork to fill out for the birth certificate. Buffy had stared at it, pen in hand, and hadn't written a single word. Instead, she had set it aside in the drawer to the nightstand beside her bed.

Thinking once again about those papers, Buffy reached over and pulled them out of the drawer, setting them on her legs and absently fiddling with the chain that attached the pen to the clipboard. She took a deep breath and squeezed the pen between her fingers, pressing the ballpoint against the page and starting to write.

Child's First Name. Buffy and Willow had debated at length on this issue and had finally agreed to Allison. Buffy printed the letters neatly in the box provided.

The next item was Child's Middle Name. Without hesitation, Buffy filled in the space with the name Marie. The result of yet another discussion with Willow.

"Summers" filled the remaining box where Child's Last Name was required. There was no question in her mind that she would give her child her last name. No question at all.

The pen moved quickly across the paper as she filled in the easy information—Child's Sex and Date of Birth, Mother's Name and Date of Birth. The next items were the most difficult ones.

Buffy gripped the pen tighter as she held it poised over the paper, reading the words over and over again: Father's Name. His name bounced around inside her head, begging to be written on his daughter's birth certificate for posterity. But she hesitated. The name that had plagued her thoughts so many times over the last few months just wouldn't flow from her brain and onto the paper.

She closed her eyes and saw her daughter's face—she had *his* eyes, *his* mouth. And yet she still couldn't bring herself to actually put her paternity on paper. Finally, she opened her eyes, took a deep breath and wrote the only thing she could: Unknown. She stared at the word where his name should be, letting it sink in that she had just permanently deleted him from his daughter's life.

And she started to sob.//

***

Ben opened his eyes. A slice of bright yellow sunlight cut through the opening in the curtains and fell across his eyes. He squinted and sat up, yawning.

Reaching for his watch, he studied the face and waited for the tiny numbers to come into focus. It was a little after 10:00am. He had planned to be on the road by now. Quickly, he stood up, his joints popping as he moved across the room towards the bathroom. Standing at the sink, he leaned against the counter and stared at his reflection.

"Today's the day, Dad," he said aloud softly, reaching down to turn on the faucet and bending to splash cold water on his face. He let the water drip from his face as he gripped the edge of the sink tightly in his fingers.

The cold, icy tendrils of fear gripped him. He wanted to keep his promise; he needed to do so. But he was so uncertain about the whole thing. He didn't even know where she was. All he had was an address—an address from almost twenty years ago. It wasn't much, but it was a start.

His greatest fear was that he would find her and she would slam the door in his face. He was aware of how things had ended between she and his father.

Another splash of water and a deep breath calmed his nerves and he brushed his teeth and turned from the sink to get dressed, his mind on the task that lay before him.

***

// "A-Are you sure?" Riley asked hoarsely, choking on the words. His mind was reeling and he gripped the arms of the chair to try to stop the room from spinning.

Dr. Morgan looked at Riley closely, leaning towards him across his desk. "I'm afraid so." His voice was grave as he spoke.

Silence filled the office as Riley absorbed the news. He couldn't believe what he had just heard. Bone cancer most likely caused by long-term exposure to high doses of toxic chemicals. It didn't take a genius to figure out where all that exposure came from—the Initiative. Professor Walsh's secret experiments—the ones that were supposed to make him stronger, to help him live forever—were now slowly killing him. Or maybe not so slowly. Riley looked into the doctor's eyes, steadily holding his gaze. He swallowed and took a breath, asking in a low but clear voice, "How long?"

The doctor's brown eyes softened and he sat back slightly in his chair, studying the expression of the younger man in front of him. There was a lot of sorrow behind his eyes—too much for someone so young—and the last thing he wanted to do was add to it. But he never lied to his patients and he wasn't about to start now. "Your condition is very advanced, Riley. If you had come to us sooner, I might have more encouraging news."

"How long?" Riley asked again, louder. His eyes never left Dr. Morgan's face.

A brief pause segued into the doctor's reluctant answer. He steepled his fingers under his chin and looked at Riley over his fingertips. "Six months. A year at the most."

Riley's body visibly slumped into the chair as he slowly exhaled. He set his jaw firmly, biting the inside of his cheek to keep from crying. A year. That's all he had left. It wasn't enough.

The faces of everyone he loved flashed across his mind—his parents, his sisters, his son. Oh God, his son. How was he going to tell Ben? He was only sixteen; he wouldn't understand. Another face—a face he hadn't seen in years yet was still as clear in his memory as the day he last saw it—flashed through his mind. Buffy. He had always intended to see her again, even if only for a moment. Now he never would. He would never see her again.

He bit down hard on the inside of his cheek and tasted the coppery tang of blood. Unshed tears were beginning to sting his eyes and he blinked them back, focusing his eyes once again on the doctor as he whispered, "Thank you, Doctor." Pushing himself with obvious effort from the chair, he crossed the spacious office in three long strides and walked out.

It wasn't until he was securely locked in the last stall of the men's bathroom that he allowed himself to cry.//

***

"So I was all psyched for this wonderful surprise that Doug was supposed to have for me, right? Well, we meet up by my locker after homeroom like we always do and I'm all ready for my gift, when he hands me this envelope. He had written my name on it and had drawn a little heart around it. So now I have huge expectations and so I tear open the envelope. And what's inside? Two tickets to an LA Lakers game. Basketball tickets! My wonderful Valentine's Day surprise was basketball tickets! Can you believe it?" Allison looked incredulously at her friend Susan as she finished relaying her horror story, her eyebrows raised in lingering disbelief.

Susan gaped at her best friend and shook her head. "So what did you do?"

Allison's expression became even more shocked. "What do you mean what did I do? I threw them in his face!"

"What did he do?"

Allison sniffed disgustedly. "Get this. He looks at me all confused and says, 'You don't like them? I'll have you know these are *courtside* seats, thank you very much. And they weren't cheap!' He looked so offended. The boy gets me basketball tickets for Valentine's Day and *he* has the nerve to get offended?"

"Unbelievable," Susan muttered, shaking her head. Then, "Guys."

"Tell me about it," Allison muttered in agreement. After a moment she asked, "So, what did Chad get you?"

"Absolutely nothing! He tells me after first period today that he doesn't believe in Valentine's Day. He says he thinks it's all a conspiracy between the candy makers and Hallmark to make money and that he wants no part of it. I just think he's cheap." Susan cast a sideways glance towards Allie, the two girls breaking out in giggles.

When the laughing had ceased, they leaned against each other and sighed. "Valentine's Day sucks," Susan muttered hopelessly.

"Yeah," Allie agreed. "I sure hope mine gets better soon."

***

//Buffy had a bad feeling about this. Something wasn't right. Her hair had been standing on end ever since she left her house, as though someone or something was following her. But every time she turned around, there was nothing there.

It was the middle of summer and yet she felt chilled. She pulled her coat around her shoulders and continued to walk into the darkness, keeping a straight path into the dimmest shadows. All of her strongest inclinations told her to turn around and run back home, to tuck her daughter in and watch her eyelids flutter as she dreamed her little girl dreams.

But she couldn't. Motherhood had given her a lot of things, but it had not given her an escape clause from her destiny. Nothing could ever do that. Sometimes when she looked at Allison, she felt so extremely selfish for bringing that child into the world—into her world. It wasn't fair, she would say to the God she didn't want to believe in but did despite herself. Why would You give me such a precious gift that You know I cannot keep? She tried not to think about what her calling meant, but it ate at her every day. Her luck was running out and soon she wouldn't have any luck left.

She knew she was going to die.

The sound of a twig snapping behind her stopped her in her tracks and forced her to turn around again, her eyes squinting slightly as they searched the darkness for her invisible stalker. Again, she saw nothing.

That is, until it was too late.//

***

Ben eased the car onto the narrow side street, his eyes scanning the house numbers. He must be close; the numbers were getting closer and closer to the one he was looking for. His palms were starting to sweat and he gripped the wheel tightly to keep his hands from slipping.

There it was—the house he had been searching for. On the mailbox out front hung a small wooden sign that had the name "Summers" burned into it. Either it was an uncanny coincidence, or she sill lived there.

Ben pulled over to the side of the road and stopped his car, staring out the passenger's side window at the house. His eyes traced the length of the front walk, continued up the porch steps, and rested on the front door. The answers to his father's inquiries were behind that door and he dug deep inside himself for the courage to get them.

Taking a deep breath, he reached down and undid his seatbelt, then turned and pushed open the door. He got out of the car and peered through the sunlight at the house, a house that suddenly seemed bigger. Reaching in and pulling his bag from the backseat, he flung it over his shoulder and slammed the door shut, the harsh sound of the heavy door closing against the frame filling his ears.

He laid his palms flat against the roof of the car as he looked at the house again, trying to rehearse what he was going to say when he finally got to the door. But his mind was too busy racing to focus. So instead, he pushed away from the car and slowly started walking towards the house.

The steady rhythm of his shoes against the sidewalk marked the seconds away as the sound of his pounding heart echoed in his ears. Ascending the porch steps slowly, he stopped in front of the door. He closed his eyes, said a short prayer, opened them again, and raised his tightly clenched fist to the door, giving it four solid knocks.

He waited. After a long moment, he raised his fist again, prepared to knock again, this time louder. But just as he was about to make contact with the wood, the door swung open, revealing an attractive older woman with a curious expression on her face. She surveyed the young man standing in front of her, noticing the bag he had slung over his shoulder.

"I'm sorry, but I don't want to buy anything," she said, casually wiping her hands on the blue and white dishtowel she held in her fingers.

Ben looked at her, his brow furrowing slightly at her comment. Then he realized what she meant. He motioned to the bag on his shoulder. "Oh no, ma'am. I'm not a salesman. I'm here to see Buffy Summers. Does she live here?"

The blue and white dishtowel fell into a heap on the floor.

***

//The palms of his thin hands were clammy. He lay on his back, his head sinking into the pillows, his silvery blonde hair dark with sweat. Swallowing hard, he licked his dry lips.

"Son," he whispered, his voice cracking. He held out one of his thin hands towards the young man at his side. "Come closer."

Trying to smile, Ben took his father's hand, holding it in both of his. "Yes, Dad. What is it?" he asked softly, leaning in.

The older man smiled weakly at his son and then broke out into a fit of coughing. After a few moments, he calmed enough to speak again. "Ben. I need you to do something for me. I don't have a lot of time left."

"Don't say that, Dad. Please don't say that," Ben pleaded, feeling a lump rise in his throat.

"Ben, listen to me," Riley said sternly, pushing on the mattress with his elbows to prop himself up. "You are 18 years old now. You are old enough to understand the truth. I am dying. I know that. And you know that." He paused then and stared into his son's sad brown eyes. "I need you to be strong, Ben. I need you to be the man I know you can be."

Bowing his head momentarily, Ben took a deep breath, letting it out slowly as he turned his eyes once again to his father's. "I'll try, Dad," he said softly, nodding.

"That's all I can ask, son." Another pause, another grasp of hands.

Less than a week later, his father was dead. Ben knew the time was coming, he knew his dad hadn't had much time left. But still, it came as a shock when Millie, the in-home nurse that had been caring for his father, rushed into his room one morning and told him his father had died in his sleep.

Ben took it upon himself to take care of all the arrangements, knowing that his grandparents weren't up to the task. He recalled the look on his grandmother's face as she watched her only son slowly wasting away—it was a look of helplessness and sorrow. And her softly spoken words echoed through his mind over and over again—"A mother is not supposed to outlive her child. It's not natural."

The funeral was simple, just as his father would have wanted. His dad never did like too many people fussing over him. A few of his old friends from high school and work came to pay their respects. His parents were there, his mother clutching her husband's arm tightly, fighting back the tears. Both of Riley's sisters were there, their husbands and children in tow. That was all.

He was buried in the bright Iowa sunshine next to his grandfather, the skip in generation between them glaringly obvious to all who were present. It did not go unnoticed that Riley had gone before his time.

The rest of the day was a blur as everyone gathered back at the Finn home for the reception to share their memories of Riley and to reminisce on happier times. Laughter danced throughout the house interrupted briefly by short bouts of tears. Everyone was trying so hard to be strong for Riley's only child.

But Ben didn't notice. While everyone was downstairs wrapped up in their own memories, drowning their sorrows in wine and filling their stomachs with hors d'oeurves, he was upstairs in his father's study, sitting at his father's desk and staring out the same window his father used to gaze out of.

He ran his hands along the smooth, lacquered surface of the old wooden desk and closed his eyes, trying to remember his father sitting there doing the same thing. When he was younger, he used to slip in and play on the floor behind his father's chair as his dad wrote diligently. His dad used to write all the time, even more so after he got sick, until he could no longer sit up or hold a pen.

Suddenly, the need to see his father's words consumed him and he opened his eyes and reached down to pull open the drawers along the side of the desk. A few odds and ends filled the lap drawer and the small top drawer on the side. But when he pulled open the bottom drawer, he found what he was looking for. An ornately carved wooden box sat in the bottom of the drawer and Ben reached in and pulled it out, setting it on the desktop. When he opened it, he found letters—hundreds of letters—all addressed to the same woman in his father's small, neat handwriting.

Taking one off the top, he opened it carefully and started to read, not caring that he probably wasn't supposed to be reading them. His father's words poured off the page. They were so full of sincerity, so full of regret, so full of love. He had obviously been devoted to this woman.

He read a few more of the letters, each of them full of sweet sentiments and pleas for forgiveness. Then he folded them up neatly and placed them back in the box where he had found them. He knew what he had to do.

Closing his eyes, he pressed his fingers into the grain of the beautiful wooden box and made a promise to his father.

He would find her. He would find her and tell her that she had had his father's undying love until the end.//

***

Joyce stared at the young man, mouth hanging open slightly, eyes unblinking. Her hands started trembling and she balled them into fists, pressing them to her sides. This young man couldn't be older than Allison; he should be calling on *her*. But the name he uttered sounded nothing like "Allison."

"Did you say Buffy Summers?" she asked softly, trying to control her voice.

Ben nodded, noticing the sudden change in expression on the older woman's face. "Yes, ma'am. Is she here?"

A long pause passed between them before Joyce found the strength to shake her head. "No… S-She doesn't live here anymore." She took a step back and grasped the edge of the door, moving to close it, to push this unexpected reminder of the past into the past.

Ben saw that she was going to close the door and stepped forward, placing his hand flat against the door. "Do you know where I can find her? It's very important that I speak with her."

Joyce stopped, staring out the narrow opening of the half-closed door. Tears welled in her eyes. "Brookfield Cemetery. She died 15 years ago."

The news hit Ben like a ton of bricks and he stood unmoving in his place on the porch, his hand still on the door. A moment passed and his hand fell limply to his side. His eyes softened as he gazed at the sad old woman. "I-I'm sorry. I didn't know. Forgive me," he whispered, turning and starting to walk off the porch. Her soft words stopped him midway down the steps.

"Who are you? And what did you want with my daughter?"

Turning to face her once again, he smiled slightly, trying to ease the tension. "My name is Benjamin Finn. I'm here on my father's behalf."

Finn. Joyce knew that name. It was a name that had not been spoken in years, but had never been forgotten. "Riley…" she muttered absently.

"Yes. Riley Finn's my father," Ben concurred. "You remember him?" He regained a little of the hope he had lost a moment ago. Stepping back up onto the porch, he gave Joyce a hopeful look.

"Remember him? How could I forget?" Joyce replied, looking into Ben's eyes.

***

//"Allie, honey, *please* stand still. I need to fix your hair. Please, for Aunt Willow?" Will pleaded with her goddaughter.

Three-year-old Allison Summers stood in front of the mirror, squirming under Willow's hands, making faces at her. "I want Mommy to do it!" she exclaimed impatiently.

Willow stopped what she was doing and slid her hands down the tiny blonde head until they rested heavily on the strong little shoulders. She bowed her head briefly, then brought her eyes up to look into Allison's big hazel eyes as they reflected in the mirror. "Your mommy can't do it, sweetheart. We talked about this, remember?" Willow prodded gently.

Allie was silent as she stared at Willow in the mirror, then nodded slowly after a moment. "Mommy's in heaven," she answered softly.

"That's right. She's in heaven, but she's in your heart, too. She's watching over you right now, smiling at how pretty you are and how you'd be even prettier if your hair was all fixed." Willow smiled at her and squeezed her shoulders gently.

Allie thought about that for a moment, then smiled widely. "Okay. You can fix it." She giggled and stood perfectly still.

"Thanks, Allie," Willow said, moving her hands once again to the little girl's hair.

Fifteen minutes later, they were on their way to Buffy's funeral.//

***

The makings of tea were strewn about the coffee table, the full cups left mostly untouched. Joyce had invited the young man in, making herself busy in the kitchen gathering tea and cookies and whatever else she could find to postpone the inevitable conversation. But now, there they were sitting on the couch in silence.

It was mid-afternoon and the golden sunlight poured through the window behind the couch, casting their shadows over everything in the room. Joyce held an old picture of Buffy in her hands, running her fingers along the frame absently as her eyes scanned the room. He had been there over an hour and in that time he had told her the short-short version of his story. He told her about Riley. And he told her about his posthumous promise to find Buffy.

Joyce had offered very little in return, content for the moment in listening to his story, taking comfort in the fact that there was another person out there who could share her pain. Ben had lost someone very close to him as did she.

"This is…was Buffy. Taken not long before she died," she said finally, realizing that she had not yet shown the photograph to the young man. She held it out for him to take.

Ben grasped the picture in his fingers and smiled as he looked at it. "She was very beautiful," he commented sincerely, looking up to meet Joyce's eyes.

"Yes, she was," Joyce replied, mirroring his small smile. "She will always look that way to me."

"I can see why my father loved her so much," he said, hoping that didn't sound too shallow.

Joyce looked at him squarely then, a brief flash of anger darkening her eyes. A part of her still blamed Riley for all the pain that Buffy felt after he left. But looking at this young man now—Riley's son—she found it hard to hold on to all that blame. Ben had come a long way to speak to Buffy, had risked a lot by coming there. He must have had good reason to take such a risk.

Besides, it was all in the past. What did it matter now?

"Did he speak of her often?" Joyce asked carefully, her eyes holding Ben's in a steady gaze.

Ben shifted in his seat and shook his head. "Not to me, he didn't. But she's mentioned a lot in his journals. On almost every page. And then there are his letters."

"Letters?"

"Yes. I found them after he died. He had them carefully packed away in his desk. There were hundreds of them, each addressed to your daughter. They even had stamps on them." He reached down to the floor next to his feet and pulled his bag into his lap, opening it and pulling out a thick stack of letters and handing them to Joyce. "They date back almost nineteen years. The most recent one is from two months ago. Then, I think, he got too weak to write."

Joyce flipped through the letters carefully, studying the way her daughter's name was written neatly on the center of each envelope. There was no return address on any of them. Perhaps he thought she wouldn't read them if she knew they were from him. That is, of course, if he had actually sent them.

The most recent one was on the bottom of the stack and Joyce grasped it tightly between her thumb and forefingers, setting the others aside. The handwriting was more angled, more rushed, very much less legible than that on the other letters. She looked up and caught Ben's eyes. "May I?" she asked gently.

"Of course," Ben answered, nodding at the letter she held in her hand.

Carefully, Joyce lifted the flap and pulled out the folded pieces of paper, opening them and starting to read.

Dear Buffy,

It'll be your birthday soon and I want to wish you the best. I want you to know that I am thinking about you. I have never stopped thinking about you. Not a day goes by that you don't pass through my mind.

Lately though, you've done a lot more than pass through. I can't get your face, your voice out of my head. I miss you terribly and I wish that I had the courage and the strength to contact you. Especially now.

I'm dying, Buffy. There, I said it. I'm dying and the one thing I want before I go is your forgiveness. I need you to forgive me for leaving you all those years ago. There have been many times when I have tried to call you. I have actually had the phone in my hand and your number on my fingertips. But I have never gone through with it. Big, strong Riley Finn afraid of a simple phone call. Because I was afraid you'd hang up on me. Or worse, that you would no longer be there to answer my call.

I don't even know if you're alive. Perhaps you've moved on and forgotten all about me. For your sake, I hope so. I hope you're happy.

All I do know is that I still love you. That love burns in my heart just as bright as it did the day I left.

I'm tired now, so I'm going to go. Just know that I'll be thinking about you.

All my love,

Riley

Joyce stared at the letter in her hand, the words now swimming on the page. A huge lump formed painfully in her throat and she struggled to swallow it down. "I had no idea," she whispered weakly.

"They're all like that," Ben replied. "He never stopped loving her."

Joyce could only nod silently, pressing her knuckles against her lips.

The silence that descended upon the room was broken by the sound of the front door opening and a voice yelling, "Gram, I'm home!"

Joyce looked up, her eyes widening. She hurriedly folded the letter back up and slipped it back into the envelope, wiping at her eyes as she turned and called to her granddaughter, "Allison, could you please come in here for a moment?"

A moment later, a pretty, energetic young woman bounced into the room, a curious smile on her face. "What is it, Gram?" she asked as her eyes fell on the handsome young man on the couch next to her grandmother.

"Allie, honey," Joyce said softly, studying her granddaughter closely. She looked briefly at Ben and at all the letters on the cushion next to her, then returned her gaze to Allison, who continued to look at her expectantly. "There is someone I'd like you to meet," she continued. She took a deep breath, steeling herself to reveal the secret that Buffy swore her to keep. Motioning to the young man beside her, she looked into Allie's eyes and said slowly, "This is Ben. Your brother."

***

The warm summer sun bathed the two teenagers in light as they stood next to each other. Allison looked up into Ben's face and smiled nervously. It had taken all of her courage just to get this far.

"Go ahead," Ben assured her. "It's alright."

Allison nodded and took a deep breath, holding it for a moment before letting it out slowly. Then she knelt down and set the flowers down on the neatly trimmed grass in front of her father's headstone. She read the words on the pinkish-gray marble: "Riley Finn. Beloved Son, Brother, Father, and Friend."

She stared at the word "Father" for a long moment. Her whole life, she had never had a father. She had Xander and Giles and her grandfather. But she never had a father. And now she did. His name was Riley Finn.

Kissing her fingertips, she pressed them firmly against the headstone, warm in the sun. "Hello, Riley. It's me, Allison. Your daughter."

She squinted up into her brother's face and smiled.

The End