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Disclaimer: Not mine. All hail the wonderful Joss-man for his creation of these characters. I just play with them for a while.
Author's Notes: Please note that this is my first time writing from a Riley POV, so any flaws with his characterization and suggestions on how to refine it would be appreciated. Flames, as always, will be dealt with harshly.
SPOILERS: Minor reference to the flashback of Becoming Part I
It’s been a long day. Actually, that’s an understatement. It’s been a horrible day. Today we buried my wife.
If Buffy saw me moping like this, she would hit me on the arm and tell me to stop being so dopey. "Suck it up, Finn," she’ll say while silently laughing at the fact I’m rubbing my arm, right on the spot she hit me. She loved that. It made her laugh, the fact that even if she held back I would still bruise. With most other girls, this would bring along wounded pride but then, Buffy’s not like most other girls.
It’s such a cliché, but it’s so true. And I didn’t mind that she could pretty much kick my ass and twenty other guys’ with the flick of her wrist. Whatever made Buffy happy, made me happy. And right now, I know she would be sad to discover how I’ve been taking the news. When I’m all alone and wallowing in self pity and memories, I sometimes have to look over my shoulder to make sure that she doesn’t come into the room and start yelling at me once she sees what I’m doing. It’s stupid, and painful, but it’s a reflex. She hated anyone mourning. Especially over her.
But Buffy’s not here. This funeral was thrown for her, for the memory of her. My beautiful, caring, charming, lovely, and perfect wife is dead. And I’m left alone, her widower.
We were married five years ago, in a beautiful ceremony on the beach, dusk per her request. She was even kind enough to invite Spike who, despite his grumbling, made the effort to attend, bring us a present, and even give a toast at the reception. Those two loved each other in their own way. None of us realized it, but it was there.
We never really realized it before, up until she died. That’s when we let go of a lot of things, and showed them to everyone she cared about. On the eve of her memorial service, the Scooby Gang plus Tara and myself gathered one final time to share our memories - essentially, the pieces we have left - of her. Angel wasn’t in attendance; Cordelia said he would be coming for the funeral, but it was still fresh for him. "And of course, he blames himself," she sighed with some sadness. If I were the bigger man, I would have called him up and told him there was nothing he could have done, nothing any of us could have done. But I’m not the bigger man.
Joyce was kind enough to allow us to hold the reception in her gallery. In fact, in honour of Buffy, she set up a show filled with sketches of her, pictures of her doing her every day things, of photographs and paintings she loved. And at the center of it all is a hand drawn portrait of her, bearing the title ‘Sun Goddess’.
It’s a lovely sketch, drawn with charcoal and completed with watercolours. I’ve never seen this one before; Joyce must have had it specially sent in. Maybe Hank had it. Just looking at the strokes, at the careful attention paid to detail, makes me ache for her.
She’s laughing in this one, her mouth open and face glowing with mirth. She seems younger in this one, too, so innocent, so pure. From her pre-Slayer days? It could explain some things, though not all. So much of her personality is projected from this portraiture I almost expect to hear her giggle floating past me.
"Beautiful, ain’t she?"
His brogue is very thick. I didn’t even realize he was there until he spoke up - good lurker, I guess. He stands just a bit shorter than me, wearing a worn, brown leather jacket and black everything else. Almost up for the occasion, I suppose.
He’s expecting an answer.
"She was," I nod sadly, swirling around the glass of scotch in my hand. Another thing Buffy would hate to see me do - drink. Especially at funerals. Doing what we do, we attend a lot of them, and almost always I’m tempted to drink to help wash the pain away, at least for a little while. But she would sit dutifully by my side, holding my large hands in hers, and guide me away from the bar. She’d say we had enough problems without me ending up a drooling drunk. That’s my Buffy, always perceptive. But somehow, today, I can’t bring myself to listen, or put down the glass. Today we buried my _wife_, the love of my life. It’s not easy being strong when your strength has disappeared.
There’s a lot of people here today, but no Angel. At least, I haven’t seen him yet. Even Buffy’s former Watcher - Wesley Wyndham-Price, I recall - attended, sending his condolences to a grief-stricken Giles. They’re over by the bar right now, in fact, mourning the loss of another Slayer.
And this is the part where Buffy would demand when I got so bitter. I miss her.
"Ye can tell he really loved ‘er," the man comments, nodding his head. "Even if I didn’t know him, it’s still pretty obvious."
"What do you mean?" My heart’s not really in the question, just idle conversation to pass the time with, conversation that doesn’t really matter to me. It’s all up for show anyway. It worries them when I play the part of grieving husband too well.
Swirl, shake, drink. It’s always the same. "Can’t you see it, man? The way he just... draws her, so captured. It’s almost as if the tool took a life of its own, and he was just there to hold it."
"Do I know you?"
The man shakes his head, then extends his hand towards me. I accept it and shake it firmly, noticing the way he grips. It’s habit. "Nah man, don’t think so, unless the little chicky’s been mentionin’ me to all her friends. I’m Doyle."
"Nice to meet you, Doyle. I’m Riley, Buffy’s husband."
Immediately, he blanches, withdrawing his hand while fumbling for something to say. "I uh... I didn’t mean what I said back there." He holds up his own glass, presumably filled with scotch, and shakes it, rattling the ice cubes inside. "It’s the drink talkin’! I’m just a crazy drunk man."
This I have to laugh at. Buffy always had the most interesting friends. "I understand. I get that way too," I tell him, taking another sip from my drink. "I just wish I knew who drew this. He obviously knew Buffy well."
"He did. The man’s a freakin’ hero, saved her life a coupla hundred times. My boss introduced them. Well, sort o’." He takes a large gulp, then continues, his eyes watering over just a little bit. I think it’s from the alcohol. "More like he introduced him to her without her knowin’. Tricky one, he is."
Just keep asking questions, act like I understand what he’s talking about. My heart hurts, and when that happens it’s all I can really think about. It’s a sort of selfish-thing I’ve taken on lately, one most people would think I have the right to. Buffy wouldn’t.
But the same fact keeps bringing me back to the land of the sorrowing... Buffy’s gone.
"Who’s your boss?"
"Whistler."
Whistler? Where have I heard that name from before? I’m pretty sure it’s some ski resort, but I could be wrong. Or maybe I’m like Doyle, and it’s just the scotch talking. I like scotch.
"Well, at least it’s good to know that there’s a piece of his love preserved in here for all time." He lifts his glass in a toast then brings it to his lips, tipping it back so the liquid flows freely down his throat. "Be seein’ ya, man. Nice meetin’ with you." With a final raise of his glass, Doyle turns on his heel and begins to walk towards the door, breezing right by Cordelia. She doesn’t even move, despite the fact she’s looking right in his direction. Even from the distance, I can see the stains left by her tears.
I turn back to the painting, and this time study it closely. I can see what Doyle is talking about... and I hate to. This is my wife. A woman I’ve worshipped, and loved, and made love to, and everything else for the past five years. And in paying my last respect to her, this stranger points out that a portrait capturing everything wonderful about her is sketched by a man who loved her deeply, almost as much as I did, as I do.
‘Sun Goddess.’ It’s a strange, but fitting title. Buffy Summers, the light of the world, who burned the brightest, but half as long. And now she’s gone.
There’s a scripted ‘A’ in the very bottom corner of the picture, partially hidden beneath the gold frame. I know who it is. From the moment I met Doyle, I think I’ve known. Angel.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see Joyce scurrying around, tending to the guests. I touch her arm and stop her, noticing the frenzied look in her eyes. "Joyce, who submitted this to the gallery?"
She smiles, stopping and taking a moment to admire it. "A friend of Cordelia’s, although she wouldn’t say. It’s stunning. She even offered to let me keep it, as a tribute to Buffy. Isn’t it beautiful?" I nod, and she spots someone she needs to talk to again, excusing herself.
For the first time, Angel and I are on the same wavelength. We both love the same woman, and now, she left us both.
I tip the scotch back, swallowing the contents. It’s empty now, and there’s nothing else to do except head over to the bar for another drink.