Body

Disclaimers, etc., in Chapter 1 --

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THE QUALITY OF MERCY

by Yahtzee

Yahtzee63@aol.com

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Chapter 8: "For Her"

Riley stares at his image in the bathroom mirror. Amazing, the things he takes for granted every day -- his life, his heartbeat, his reflection.

He's spent most of the past six months trying not to look too closely at his own face, his own eyes. But he can do it now, and even though he doesn't like everything he sees, he's grateful not to take the ability for granted any more.

The t-shirt he's wearing now is one of Angel's, plain white cotton, exactly what he would buy for himself. Angel insisted that he take it; this morning was all about Angel being in hyper-considerate mode, at least until Riley told him to knock it off. Angel seemed more relieved than annoyed, but he did persist in giving Riley the t-shirt. Although Riley would be fine with wearing what he's had on the past few days, Angel seems quite certain that a fresh change of clothing is in order today.

And maybe he's right at that.

Riley finishes combing his still-damp hair, grabs his jacket up from the chair and heads to the lobby. As he descends the Hyperion's grand staircase, he sees Angel working in the office, pulling out manila folders. "Whatcha looking at?" he calls.

Angel doesn't look up. He would, of course, have heard Riley long ago. "Checking some old files. Trying to figure out how they were organized."

"Aren't files usually in alphabetical order?" Riley says as he walks up to the counter. "Or is that not a vampire thing?"

"It's not a Cordelia thing," Angel says. The name is vaguely familiar to Riley -- someone Xander used to date, maybe? -- but the sadness in Angel's expression keeps him from asking further.

Angel seems to shake off his reverie, takes in the fact that Riley is wearing his jacket, ready to go outside. "Headed out?"

"Yeah. I've got a place in town -- a room in a hotel. It's not much." This is the simplest way Riley can think of to say that he's been living in a dive, and that it's a miracle his stuff hasn't been stolen a long time since. "I'm just going back to grab my stuff, pay up my last week's rent."

"Weekly rents are not one of the signs of a good neighborhood," Angel says. "You were risking your life even when you slept."

No doubt about that. Riley says, "I probably should have thanked you for saving me from that vampire back when you actually did it."

"You were too busy passing out at the time."

"Thanks," Riley says, but he's smiling. The shadow of a grin on Angel's face reminds him a little of the way Graham or Forrest used to tease him, back in simpler days. "I mean it."

"I guess I should thank you," Angel says. "I needed to think about somebody besides myself for a while. I've been trying, but -- it's easier when someone's actually here to be thought about. Is that making sense?"

"Kinda. This is about your friends? The ones you used to work with?" When Angel nods, Riley says, "What happened?"

"I let them down. I stopped doing what I needed to be doing, left them behind so I could chase after --"

The quiet goes on for a long time. Finally, Riley says, "Chase after what?"

"I thought I knew," Angel says quietly. He is no longer looking at Riley; his eyes are focused on something in the distance, in the past. "But now --" A moment longer and he shakes his head, turns back to Riley. "Need anything else?"

"Two thousand dollars in cash, a vintage Ferrari and a rubdown by the Laker Girls," Riley says. "But I'll settle for a ride to my place."

"Bright, sunny day out there," Angel says. "Friends don't let friends drive aflame."

"You keep a phone book," Riley points out. "I was thinking I'd call a cab."

Angel hands over the phone, stands close enough to Riley to supply the Hyperion's address when needed. After Riley hangs up, he expects Angel to ask something basic about when the car will arrive, but he doesn't. After a moment's pause, Angel simply says, "I figure it's up to you, how much to tell her."

"What's that?" Riley has no intention of telling his mother any of this, ever.

"Everything that's happened here," Angel says. "Buffy's got to know at least some of it, eventually. But that's really between the two of you now." The muscles of his jaw are tense beneath his seemingly calm face. "You can decide what to tell her, when to tell her. I'm staying out of it."

Riley stares at Angel in complete disbelief. "You think I'm going back to Sunnydale?"

Angel stares at Riley in complete disbelief. "You aren't?"

"I'm going back to Iowa. To my parents. They've been worried sick. I -- I haven't called much, and when I did --" Riley trails off, thinking about his mom's jittery gossip about his high-school classmates, his dad's too-jovial questions about basketball games Riley's supposed to care about. He's known they were hurting, but instead of alleviating their pain, he's used it to add onto his own. That stops today, too. "Anyway, I'll figure out what to do once I get there. For now I just need a little time to touch base."

"But after that, you'll go to Sunnydale," Angel says matter-of-factly.

"I might end up passing through one day," Riley says. "There's some stuff I should say. Some apologies I'm really overdue for. But if you mean that I'm going back to Buffy -- no. I'm not."

Angel frowns -- not in anger, but just in total incomprehension. Riley realizes, with something halfway between envy and pity, that Angel literally cannot envision a reality in which a man who had loved Buffy could go back to her, but would choose not to. It doesn't compute.

Finally, Angel says, "If you think she wouldn't forgive you, you're wrong. If she could forgive me, then --"

"It's not that," Riley says. "Buffy and I never --" He pauses for a minute; it hurts to admit this to Angel -- hell, it still hurts to admit it to himself -- but at this point, the least of what he owes Angel is the truth. "Buffy never loved me. And I don't think I ever understood her, not really. I thought I had her figured out, but the more time that goes on, the more I see I was wrong."

Angel is quiet again, but this time his hands are literally gripping the edge of his desk. Finally, so roughly that his voice shakes, he says, "You're wrong."

"That's what I was saying --"

"No. I mean, about Buffy never loving you. She does love you. She told me so, when she was in L.A. last spring. She told me that she really trusted you, and that she loved you."

The confession spills out of Angel like blood from a wound, and for one moment, Riley feeds off it -- Buffy loves me, she loves me, she told Angel she loves me. It cost Angel to say this, cost him dearly, and for a moment that just makes it all the sweeter --

-- and then Riley remembers Buffy turning away to stare out the passenger-side window, brushing off his questions, rolling over to sleep on the far side of the bed. The truth is stronger than words.

"You guys were fighting, weren't you? When she told you that?" When Angel nods, Riley sighs. "She'll say anything during a fight."

"Yeah, I know," Angel says. "But I don't think she would have said that if she didn't mean it."

"If she'd meant it, she would have said it to me, too, don't you think?"

"But you have to --"

"Angel, no," Riley says. He can't stand it anymore -- the desperate earnestness of Angel's words, the painful echo of his own lost hopes. "I get that you're trying to do the right thing here. But I'm right about this. I was with her for a long time, and if she'd ever loved me -- if I'd even been able to convince myself she might love me -- it would be different. But it's not."

Angel is looking at him sadly now; he believes Riley at last. Riley laughs once, a half-sigh, and says, "You could have her heart, but not her body. I could have her body, but not her heart. Who's got it tougher, huh? Me or you?"

"Neither of us," Angel says quietly. "It's hardest for her."

Riley is surprised by that, by the truth of it. In all his misplaced anger, he's never stopped to think about how confusing and painful this all is for Buffy herself. Angel can't think of anything else.

A couple years ago, Riley read a magazine article about Nelson Mandela that talked about the decades the man had spent in a jail cell. Once Mandela was free, and the president of his country, he could have lived in any sort of place he wanted. But Mandela chose for his room a replica of his jail cell -- apparently, after so many years, nothing else felt like home.

Riley has come to think of his memories of Sunnydale, of Buffy, as being a kind of prison he had walled himself into. For the first time, he realizes that Angel has done this too -- but for him, the prison is also a home. He's more comfortable there, with his old memories and old regrets. And Angel will keep that prison ever ready and clean and new, always prepared to welcome another chapter, another day.

But as far as Riley's concerned, one year in jail is enough.

"Then she deserves a fresh start," Riley says quietly. "So do I. And -- and so do you."

It's Angel's turn to laugh ruefully. "I don't get a fresh start."

And, to judge by what Riley's heard of Angel's curse, this much is true. "I'm sorry."

"It's okay," Angel says. "I mean -- I know what you meant."

The cab honks its horn, and Riley shrugs the jacket a little more tightly around himself. He looks into Angel's eyes, but isn't sure what to say. Angel ruined his life and saved it. Angel has wounded him and healed him. Riley never expects to see Angel again, unless they're both up against the end of the world. There's not really a Hallmark card for the occasion. To judge by Angel's own silence, he's similarly stumped.

Finally, Riley says, "Take care of yourself."

It's a simple enough phrase, but for some reason it seems to strike a chord. "I will," Angel says. "You too."

Just as Riley turns toward the door, the phone rings, and he glances over his shoulder to see Angel picking up the receiver. Seconds later, Angel's face lights up in a smile the likes of which Riley had never, ever thought to see on his face. "You're sure? No, no, that's great. I mean, Wes, I'm really -- okay, sure, we can talk about it, whenever -- well, whatever works for Cordy -- okay, okay. Do you want to use your new offices, or will you -- Oh, no. Coming back here would be great. Just -- great."

Never too late to start over, Riley thinks. Not for Angel. And not for me.

He smiles as he walks out into the new day, into the light.

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THE END

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The quality of mercy is not strained;

It droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven

Upon the place beneath. It is twice blest;

It blesseth him that gives and him that takes...

Though justice be thy plea, consider this:

That, in the course of justice, none of us

Should see salvation. We do pray for mercy,

And that same prayer doth teach us all to render

The deeds of mercy. -- William Shakespeare, "The Merchant of Venice"

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