Spoilers Up: to Season 5 episode Into the Woods, Disclaimer: Nope, they are not mine, though I sure wish they were. Thanks: To Jen'fr for the beta read and encouragement. I almost didn't finish this but you gave me the courage to.

Notes: This is a prologue for the fic The Red Man. It can be found in the above archives. I guess I had a few more things to say about Riley's time in the jungle.

Contemplation – Prologue to The Red Man

His wrists were spider webbed with veins. Blue ones, some thick and noticeable, that stood out from the rest of his skin. Others were finer, barely on the surface. He found himself looking at them at times, or contemplating them when he was somewhere he couldn't look at them. He had nice toned, tanned skin, but on the inside of his arm you could easily trace the veins from the palm of his hand all the way up to his elbow and beyond. Initially he had been preoccupied by the bite marks left by the vamps he had visited. As they healed they itched and they reminded him of things he didn't want to think about. Now, well now, he focused more on his wrists.

Since leaving Sunnydale Riley had become quieter, more solemn, less likely to smile and rarely, if ever had anyone heard him laugh. He knew Graham was keeping an eagle eye on him and a part of him didn't mind. It was nice that someone cared because right now he sure as hell didn't.

The afternoon lay before him, no recon planned, a free day after a week of heavy fighting. Gathering up some beer from supply, Riley had left the others to their communal drinking and headed out on his own. He setup under a palm tree, with a wide-open view of the beach and ocean. The clear blue sky, the bright sand and sun it looked like a tourist haven and not the edge of a military base.

Stripping his gun, laying the pieces out on the towel next to his pack, Riley proceeded to polish and clean each piece lovingly, all the while focusing on not thinking. It was easy to do once you learned how. You put everything away and focused solely on what was before you. You set a rhythm, drank your beer, cleaned your gun, polished your boots ... and if you got done before the sun went down you either did it again or started in on Graham's. It was simple really. Any thoughts that flickered by of the past or the future, you immediately found a more difficult task to do, or at times like this – when there was nothing difficult to do – Riley thought about his wrists.

He had been giving them a lot of consideration. Maybe less time now that they were involved in serious fighting, but they kept him occupied. He questioned whether he could do it – whether he would allow himself that selfish luxury. He also liked that it hurt to think of it. At first considering his wrists, the blue veins, what type of blade he would need to use – it had hurt his heart. It made him want to cry. He began to think about it more when he realized he didn't really feel much of anything else or when he had moments where thinking about other things made him feel even worse. Since he got on that helicopter in Sunnydale something had shut off. Sure, he could say - I am angry at Buffy, I am angry with myself. I am hurt, I feel bad, I am confused. I don't know why I did what I did. But, if anything he was numb. And, there was a part of him that was so raw, so untouchable he couldn't bear to even glance at it.

Instead, he thought about his wrists. It wasn't so much that he stared at them as that he contemplated what it might feel like. He wondered if it would help – would he feel better? He found he couldn't think about it long, as his mind, knowing it wasn't right, would skirt around the idea and seize on something more appropriate or healthy to focus on. But, he knew why he came back to it time and again. He needed to feel something and even fear and despair were better then nothing. He also knew from his psychology course work that it was his way of dealing with his pain. Old coping skills just weren't working. He couldn't handle it right now. Not in its concentrated, all-or-nothing form. This way he got a dosage of the pain and was able to process it, even if it wasn't pain necessarily connected to the real issue he was working so hard to avoid.

In a way it had become a familiar itch that he simply needed to scratch in order to make sure he was alive. He would remember his last fight with Buffy. And then think about the thick blue vein that ran the length of his forearm. He would remember that she had turned her back to him and walked away at the end. Or, that she hadn't wanted to hear him, hadn't wanted to deal with him when he first walked into the workout room. His mind would shy away from that memory and he would suddenly find himself considering the subtle color changes in skin on his wrist. He would remember how he asked her to hit him at the end – dared her even. And his mind would spring to thinking about his wrists as his the painful memories overwhelmed him.

He realized early on during his few completely detached moments that he had asked her to hit him because he so desperately wanted to make a connection with her. She related to things by hitting them. It was then that she paid attention. But she didn't hit him. She wouldn't even let him touch her. She had refused to listen – to even try to understand. And he didn't blame her, not really. Buffy hadn't hit him, he knew, not because she didn't have the urge to, but because he wasn't worth it. He had failed her and when it came right down to it she really didn't care all that much about him anyway. He had known that, or at least had been afraid of it. When he got on the helicopter back in Sunnydale his fears were confirmed and he was sure. She didn't care, she never had and he had never really touched her as she had him.

That was the memory Riley could not contemplate - ever. Only once, on the long flight to Belize had he really thought about it. That was the night Graham had taken his gun and without a word let him know that it was not going to be an option. A few days later while he was packing medical gear for their first expedition Graham had returned the gun with a look, a nod and a soft, concerned smile. Riley knew he was on probation but that he was still trusted to do his job.

Oiling the stock of his rifle Riley set it aside to begin work on his pack. He liked to repack too. To make sure everything was there, filled up, ready for use. He was the team's designated medic and he took pride in always having extra of everything on him, as well as having the medical supplies the men needed in the field. They were what he cared about now. He focused on them, and on what their needs were. If he could keep them alive and fighting he was doing the right thing, he wasn't letting anyone down. He liked that he was needed here. It helped.

Laying his pack down, fully stocked, next to his and Graham's guns Riley finished off his lukewarm beer and looked out across the ocean. The waves were beginning to come in harder as the wind picked up. There was a storm brewing out on the horizon. Looking down at his arm, Riley turned it over and gazed down at the noticeably softer and lighter-colored skin. He could go back to the bunkhouse in another hour to escape into sleep. Any sooner and Graham would make him join the rest of the men. Riley wasn't up for that; he didn't want to try to interact with them. So for now, he thought about his wrists.