Title: Another Peaceful War
Author: Mariner
Rating: General
Spoilers: All of Season 4, especially "Primeval."
Distribution: FINNatics; anyone else, PLEASE ask first.
Feedback: Yes, please.
Summary: Riley returns to Iowa after his debriefing, and finds he has some trouble coping.
Notes: The title of the story and quotes at the head of each chapter are from various Warren Zevon lyrics. Big thanks to Sunny and to my husband Keith for beta reading.

Disclaimer: Riley, Graham, Buffy, and all other elements from "Buffy: the Vampire Slayer" belong to Mutant Enemy, Fox, and WB. Only the original elements of the story belong to me.

I wake up in a cold sweat, shaking, and can't immediately remember where I am. So I make myself hold still and breathe deep until my heart stops pounding and my surroundings register. I'm in a plane, and the "fasten seatbelts" light is on above my head. We seem to be flying through some turbulence, which is probably what woke me up. I'm grateful for it.

"Young man, are you all right?" The elderly woman in the window seat gives me a concerned look. "Are you going to be sick?"

"I'm fine," I tell her, but my stomach is churning and my whole body feels clammy, the clothes sticking to my skin. She offers me her bottle of Evian, and I take a few sips. It's luke warm and has a stale, plastic-bottle taste, but it does settle my stomach a bit. I mumble a thank-you and lean back in my seat, glancing at my watch. A little over an hour before we land in Des Moines. That's not so bad. I can stay awake for an hour. And maybe it will be better when I'm home.

The dreams started when I arrived in DC, and it seems like every night they get a little worse. No use telling myself that it's not how it happened, that Buffy's fine, that I helped her, dammit. Every night, my brain keeps playing out worst-case scenarios. Exercising myself into exhaustion at the hotel gym didn't help. Neither did the booze in the mini-bar. By the time the debriefing was over, I was a wreck. If someone asked me now, I don't think I could say what questions I answered, what papers I signed, what promises I made. The night before I was scheduled to fly back to California, I found myself standing out on the balcony at two in the morning, looking out at the Potomac and the city lights beyond, afraid to sleep. And I knew I couldn't go back, not like this.

"I'm homesick," I told Buffy on the phone. "I haven't seen my folks since the Christmas break. I just want to spend some time with them. And... I guess I need a little time to myself. Away from Sunnydale."

"I understand." Buffy's voice sounded small and lonely, and I just knew she was hearing "away from Sunnydale" as "away from you." "It's okay. Take all the time you need."

"I love you," I said. "I miss you. I'll be back as soon as I can, I swear."

"I'll wait," she promised. "Call when you can, okay?" And then, just as I was hanging up, almost too softly to hear: "I love you too."

I almost called her back to say I changed my mind. I wanted to be with her so badly. I just knew it would all be better if she was there. The dreams would go away if only I could hold her while I sleep. Even now, remembering her voice, I find myself thinking that I could probably get a flight from DesMoines to LAX, and catch the bus from there... but that would be an escape, not a solution. And it wouldn't be fair to her. Buffy Summers already has the weight of the world on her shoulders, I can't make her responsible for my sanity, too. I need to work this out on my own, so that when I come back I can be a support and not a burden.

I keep telling myself that as I wait for the plane to land.

We arrive on time, miracle of miracles. A tinny voice welcomes me to DesMoines International Airport as I pry myself out of the cramped economy seat. I pull down my neighbor's bag, then my own, and listen to my knees creak as I disembark the plane.

Dad and Stephanie are waiting for me at the gate. Dad's got a button-down shirt and a jacket on, so I know he was teaching earlier. Steph's wearing jeans and a purple sweatshirt with a unicorn on it. She's got matching purple sneakers, earrings and barrettes, and a purple backpack with silver and gold stars painted all over.

"Hey, Dad. Hey, Squirt." I give them each a hug. The top of Steph's head bumps my chin. Seems like every time I see her, she gets another inch taller. At fourteen, she's already almost as tall as Dad. "Good to see you. Mom working the night shift again?"

Dad nods. "She tried switching, but you know how it is."

"I know." Mom's a surgical nurse at Iowa Lutheran, and it's hard for her to switch shifts on short notice. Dad teaches history at Drake, so his schedule's more flexible. That makes the whole family accounted for -- my other sister, Elizabeth, is in Paris for the summer on a student-exchange gig.

I have no luggage to pick up, so it's only a few minutes before we're all in the car, heading north on Route 69 toward Ankeny. I know we're passing familiar landmarks as we go, but it's almost eleven o'clock and the moon is a narrow crescent, so all I can see out the window is blackness, broken by the occasional gas station sign or illuminated billboard. Steph bounces in the back seat, chattering excitedly about school, friends, summer plans, anew mall going up over on Creekview, a boy in her dance class who looks just like Leonardo DiCaprio... I try to pay attention, at least enough so I can nod at the right times, but all I can think about is that sometime soon I'll have to tell them I'm not in the Army anymore.

It's not like they'll disown me or anything. My parents have always supported my career, just like they support Elizabeth studying biochemistry and Steph wanting to be a ballet dancer. I could say I wanted to be a ballet dancer, and they'd be like, "great, son, here's your tutu, the lessons start tomorrow." The Army is no big deal to them. But it's always been a big deal to me, and they know it, and they'll want to know why I left. And I have absolutely no idea what to tell them.

My parents' house is in a cul-de-sac at the end of a quiet street just north of Sunset Park. The driveway light must be busted again, because it doesn't go on when we pull in. The night is so quiet I can hear the crickets chirping, and the stillness makes the hair on the back of my neck stand up. My imagination fills the darkness with demons waiting to pounce. When Steph gets out of the car before Dad and I do, I want to yell at her to get back, keep close, stay where I can protect her. It's stupid, of course. Demons like big, crowded cities with high murder rates, places where anonymous victims can disappear without too much fuss. They don't come to small towns like Ankeny unless there's a Hellmouth to draw them.Still, I listen tensely for unexpected sounds as I follow Steph to the front door.

Nothing happens. No vampires molest us on the front porch, nothing jumps out from behind the door when Dad opens it, no monsters lurk in the living room. But I don't completely relax until the door closes behind us.

Steph wants to stay up and watch TV, and Dad reminds her it's a school night. I leave them to argue about it while I lug my bag upstairs. The guest room's gotten a new coat of paint since my last visit, a big improvement on the horrid puke-yellow color it used to be back when it was my room, but otherwise it all looks the same: faded green carpet, calico curtains, my grandmother's Jewel Box quilt on the bed. I'm unpacking my clothes into the bureau when Dad comes in.

"You need anything?" he asks. I shake my head. He sits on the edge of the bed and watches while I stack my t-shirts in a neatly folded pile in the top drawer. "So how long will you be staying?"

I want to make some joke, maybe ask him if he's trying to get rid of me already, but I'm just not in the mood. "I don't know. A while."

"Well... how long's your leave?"

So now I have to tell him. No chance to put it off till morning. I stare at the wall in front of me while I put the words together in my head. Nice wall. Good paint job. I could stand and look at it all night.

"Riley?"

"I'm not on leave." I tear myself away from the endless fascination of white paint and make myself actually look at my father. "I've resigned."

"Resigned?" He looks just like I knew he would -- shocked, confused, worried. "You've left the Army? Just like that?"

"Yeah." I become fascinated with the paint again. "Just like that."

"Why?!"

"It's... I guess it's just not for me anymore. I'm going to concentrate on school. Finish my thesis. Get a real job." I try to be light and casual about it, but I can hear the hollow ring in my voice. Dad hears it too, because the frown lines in his face deepen. He gets up from the bed and stands next to me.

"Eight years, and suddenly you guess it's not for you? I've never heard you say a single bad thing about the Army. You even liked *boot camp.* What happened?"

"I changed my mind."

He puts a hand on my shoulder, making me turn and look at him again. "Riley... are you in some sort of trouble?"

"No." God, I hate lying to him. "It was an honorable discharge."

He doesn't look at all reassured by this. "Maybe we'd better talk in the morning."

"There's nothing to talk about!" I yell. "It's done. I'm out. Deal with it!" We stand there for a moment, just staring at each other, until I slam the drawer shut and flop down on the bed. "I'm sorry, Dad. I didn't mean to shout. I'm just tired." That's not actually true. I feel wired, jumpy, and wide awake despite getting maybe two hours of sleep a night since I left Sunnydale. But it makes for a handy excuse.

"I understand," Dad says mildly. I feel lower than pondscum.

"I'm sorry. But I really don't want to talk about it, okay?"

"Fine; if that's how you really feel."

I keep my hand over my eyes until I hear the door click shut behind him, then sit up to take off my jeans and shirt. I start to fold them too, until I remember that civilians are allowed to be sloppy, and dump them on the floor by the bed. Look at me, I'm a rebel.

By the light of the bedside lamp, I peel the bandage from my left shoulder and look at the scar beneath. It's half-healed already. The skin around it is still red, and it hurts when I lift my arm, but there's no swelling and the stitches can probably come out in a couple of days. It should've taken much longer, weeks, maybe even months, but I guess I don't heal like normal people anymore. I smear on the antibiotic ointment the doctor gave me, put on a fresh square of gauze and fasten it with bits of cloth tape, climb under the covers and click off the light.

In my dream I'm strapped down, naked, on an operating table in a brightly lit room. There are people standing in a circle around me, dressed in surgical gowns and masks. They all seem familiar somehow. I feel I should recognize their faces even behind the masks, but I don't. They're talking among themselves in hushed voices, too soft for me to make out the words. When I try to ask them what's going on, I discover that I can't speak. I can feel my lips moving and my throat working, but no sound comes out. I pull at the straps, but they hold fast.

Dr. Walsh appears. She's got a mask on too, but I know it's her. She holds her hand out, and someone puts a scalpel in it. "Be a good boy, Riley," she says, and slices down toward my heart.

I wake up on the floor, the quilt tangled around my legs. For a while I just lie there, dazed, wondering if anyone's going to come running to checkup on me. But everything's quiet, and eventually I grip the edge of the mattress and haul myself up to a sitting position. It takes me a minute or so to disentangle myself, another minute to find the bedside lamp by feel and turn it on. Light floods the room, and I feel a moment of giddy relief before the anger kicks in. This is ridiculous. I'm a grown man. A soldier. Okay, ex-soldier. I've killed demons. I don't need a goddamn night-light. I climb back into bed, click the lamp off, and pull the plug from the wall for good measure.

The sun is rising by the time I fall asleep again.