Adam
Copyright November 2-11, 2000 by Matthew Haldeman-Time
Rating: NC-17 for male-male sex
Pairings: Wesley Wyndham-Pryce/Riley Finn, Lindsey McDonald/Graham Miller
Disclaimer: "Angel" and "Buffy," with their related characters and themes, belong to Joss Whedon and others, not to me. I make no money from this venture.
Dedication: This slashfic is for Ewan McGregor. Also for the poor underrated characters listed above, as well as the actors who play them. Also for my many relevant egroups.
Wherein someone finally appreciates Wesley, and there isn't nearly enough sex, but at least the author gets his revenge on Darla.
Notice: Angel said that Wesley was with a bleached blond, and everyone on the lists started to talk about who the blond was. Almost everyone said Spike, although there was a little speculation about Oz. Well, I hate to do what everyone else does, so I got my own idea. Hence the Wesley/Riley pairing. Then I read the beginning of a Wesley/Faith story on UCSL, and that gave me a second pairing, Lindsey/Graham. (It made sense at the time, okay?) I put them together and got this story. Spoilers for almost everything through "Buffy" season four and "Angel" season one, except that Angel never cut off Lindsey's hand. Then, there are the basic premises of "Buffy" season five and "Angel" season two, except that I altered the timelines about a week.
He had washed, of course. Still, Angel had smelled a "bleached blond." Was it the peroxide that Angel smelled? The peroxide alone? Surely not. Therefore, Angel must have other clues.
And Buffy had been by not so long ago...and Buffy might have had a similar scent on her. Not the peroxide, but...the rest.
Could Angel smell something on him? Had Angel smelled it on Buffy? Could Angel remember the first instance of the smell and connect it to the second?
What if Angel knew?
Well, what if Angel knew? Angel might hate him for somehow betraying Buffy. Angel might be glad that he'd somehow betrayed Buffy. Angel might hate him for somehow betraying Angel. Angel might not care.
Angel didn't seem to care about much these days anyway. Off in his own world, more so than usual. Wesley had been worried at first; now, well, now Wesley was just mad. Angel was in trouble, and being completely arrogant and self-centered about it. Wesley wasn't part of Angel's "family," as Cordelia once had said, nor was he Angel's friend. He wasn't even Angel's employee, or wasn't treated like one. He was dismissed and ignored and not even considered.
He was sick and tired of being underappreciated. He'd made a complete mess of everything in Sunnydale, but L.A. was supposed to be his second chance. He'd made worthy contributions here. But now he was valueless once more.
But he had someone who valued him. Someone cared about him after all.
Once upon a time, Wesley had been in the hotel, the new center of Angel Investigations. Angel was upstairs sleeping (surprise, surprise), and Cordelia had just stepped out for lunch. Wesley was left alone, standing at the counter, paging through one of his favorite books, Jincostanza's Collected Lectures on the Habits of the Demon Kind. Hopelessly outdated, but fascinating nonetheless. He enjoyed learning how demon theory had developed, and Jincostanza's-
The door opened, and Wesley tore his eyes from a paragraph on the feeding habits of the Grikurl. He saw, coming down the steps and toward his counter, a tall young man, long-legged, broad-shouldered. Light hair too dark to be straight blond. Open, honest face.
"Hi. I'm looking for Angel."
"I'm sorry, he's not available at the moment."
"Is Cordelia around?"
"She's just gone to lunch. Perhaps I could be of assistance?" Great, now complete strangers were discounting him. Oh, wait, that was nothing new.
Blue eyes narrowed, then smiled. "You're Wesley."
"I am Wesley Wyndham-Pryce," he agreed, surprised. "And you are?"
"I'm Riley. Riley Finn. From Sunnydale." Riley offered a strong hand, so Wesley shook it.
He was trying to place the name. It sounded familiar, but they'd never met. Oh... "You're Buffy's boyfriend."
"That's me," Riley confessed with a slightly self-deprecating smile. "You work with Angel, and you're a - - you used to be a Watcher."
"That's right."
"Maybe you're the best person to talk to, then. Could we talk?"
"Certainly." He closed the book and set it aside, ushering Riley over to the small sitting area of the lobby. They sat on the sofa, Riley leaning forward, hands clasped, elbows on knees. "You've come from Sunnydale to ask about Angel?"
"He's such a huge part of her past that he's still in her present. He's part of her. But she won't talk about it, and I don't want to..." Riley gave a nervous chuckle and hesitated. "I don't want to know about their relationship. I thought that I did. But maybe I just want to know about him. What he's like. And you work with him now, so you know what he's like. And you're a Watcher, you were Buffy's Watcher, you must know about how he used to be."
"You want to know about Angel and Angelus," he interpreted.
"Angelus?"
Wesley frowned, surprised. "Riley, what have you been told?"
"He's a vampire from the eighteenth century, he and Buffy had a grand romance, he's cursed, he turns evil if he's happy, he went to Hell and came back."
"Nothing about Angelus, his childer, what he's actually done?"
"No." Riley seemed puzzled.
It wasn't Wesley's place to spill all of Angel's dark past to Riley, or to anyone. But he respected Riley's need to know, need to understand. So he told Riley what he could of the Scourge of Europe, Darla and Penn and Drusilla and William the Bloody, Whistler and Doyle, Angelus and Angel and all other incarnations.
Riley was an intelligent audience, alert and inquisitive. Wesley was grateful; he rarely had any chance to hold a real conversation anymore. Cordelia and Angel were smart people, but they weren't interested in discussing anything with him that let him flex his mental muscles.
Hours later, Riley left. Cordelia returned. Angel slept. Wesley went home.
The following afternoon, when Wesley checked Angel Investigations' e-mail in-box, he found a message for him from Riley. The message thanked him for taking the time to speak to Riley and acknowledged the potentially uncomfortable situation that Riley had put him in, also noticing Wesley's very well-mannered defusion of that uncomfortableness.
Wesley tried to remember the last time anyone had shown him such warm respect. He couldn't.
Maybe he was loathe to lose sight of even simple human contact from someone who didn't dismiss him out of hand. Maybe he appreciated someone polite and intelligent. Maybe he had enjoyed Riley's company. Whatever the reason, he replied to Riley's message with something along the lines of how he'd appreciated getting to meet Riley, how he wouldn't mind hearing how everything was going in Sunnydale (after all, Buffy was the Slayer and he had been her Watcher), etc. Riley responded with something equally banal yet at the same time warm, friendly.
Two days later, while Angel slept and Cordelia was at an audition, Wesley was on the office computer in a chatroom discussion on Jerilsie demons. He suspected that RINK543 was a Jerilsie demon, but he wasn't sure how to ask politely. Suddenly the phone rang. It was such a rare occurrence at Angel Investigations that Wesley almost didn't answer, certain that it would be nothing more than a sales pitch or wrong number. Still, they were supposed to help the hopeless, or whatever their new slogan was, so he picked up the receiver. "Angel Investigations." He was not, simply not, going to say any slogan. He still had some self-respect.
"Wesley? This is Riley Finn."
"Hello, Riley."
"We're having a bit of a problem here, and I'm hoping that you can help. What do you know about Jerilsie demons?"
Wesley blinked. "What specifically do you need to know?"
"How to kill them. We've ruled out stakes, snapping their necks, and setting them on fire. Working by trial and error really isn't working. Actually it's quite painful."
Wesley started typing, mentally going through his library, and said, "Has Mr. Giles looked in Demonic Legends from Outer Mongolia?"
"That's a book?"
"It's a bit esoteric. Give me a moment."
"I've never seen anything with dripping blue horns."
"All Kreon demons have those."
"It's a Jerilsie."
"Jerilsie are Kreon. The Kreon are a classification. Jerilsie, Hamonym, Creatha, Bmmnrwka, Ka-kith'a, M'mratha - - all of those demons are Kreon demons. They share features such as the - - ah, yes. Tell Mr. Giles to use the Jimini Curse of the Dreaded."
"Spell that."
"J-I-M-I-N-I."
"Jimini Curse of the Dreaded. That'll kill it?"
"That will heat its stomach lining to five hundred degrees Fahrenheit, and that will kill it."
"Are you sure?"
"I've never done it myself."
"Okay. Thanks, Wesley."
"Riley."
"Yeah?"
"May I ask why you're calling me?"
"You mean why me or why you?"
"Both."
"We can't figure it out, and I knew you'd be able to help."
"And no one else thought of asking me."
"They're used to working within their private system."
"I understand. Tell Mr. Giles to try the Jimini Curse of the Dreaded."
"Thanks, Wesley."
The following evening he received an e-mail message from Riley detailing the adventures of the Slayerettes v. the Jerilsie demon. He wrote back telling Riley about the Jerilsie in the chatroom, who'd been excommunicated from the Jerilsie community for refusing to follow the Jinnap tradition and was secretly seeking vengeance. Then Riley wanted to know about demon communities, and he asked after a briefly referenced pulled muscle, and Riley asked whether he knew anything about a Caleemrich Jojo'kiah, and Wesley gave Riley his personal e-mail address instead of Angel Investigations' and explained that Caleereich Jojo'kiah and Kalimrich Jojo'kiah were very different, and he needed to know which Riley meant. After a week of this electronic conversation, Riley asked whether Wesley were free Thursday.
Thursday, Wesley left Cordelia and rode his motorcycle to a glaringly American diner half an hour outside of L.A. He joined Riley in a booth, wondering what English, ex-Watcher, rogue demon hunter, lackeys of atoning vampires conversed about with Midwestern ex-Marines. They shared a certain loss of innocence; they'd both started out with very clear-cut plans for their lives centering around a zero tolerance policy on demons, then realized that what stood behind those plans wasn't what it seemed to be, so they'd both walked out of their jobs and out of their lives into an ambiguous space. Now they were redefining their ideas, reshaping their futures.
What else did they have in common? They were tall and blue-eyed, they weren't certain where they stood with the people in their lives, they'd been assigned positions of respect in strict hierarchies once but now had fallen and found themselves shoved aside as though all that they'd been, all that they'd done, was for nothing.
After the diner closed and they were forced from their table, Wesley and Riley stood outside talking for another few hours, even in the dark and abandoned parking lot.
"I'd better go," Riley said. "I've got some driving to do."
"It was good to see you, Riley."
"You, too," Riley said. "What are you doing for Halloween?"
"Not much, I'm afraid. Halloween is a notoriously slow night among the demon population, so I don't expect to be working."
"You want to meet?"
"You won't be having a get-together in Sunnydale?"
"No. Giles is giving everyone the night off, so Tara and Willow are doing something special together, Anya's making Xander stay home because of whatever happened last year..." Riley shrugged with a small smile. "I'm free."
Wesley noticed that Riley very definitely had not mentioned Buffy's plans. Which meant either that Riley didn't know Buffy's plans, or knew what they were and hadn't been included in them. Well, he would be glad to see Riley again, Halloween or not, with Buffy's permission or not.
Therefore, five days later, Wesley opened his apartment door to admit Riley. He stopped short, stared, and felt a slow, wide smile start.
"Don't say anything," Riley said, ducking his head, holding up one hand, moving past Wesley and into the apartment.
"Were you attacked by demons or a mad hairdresser?" Wesley asked, unable to stifle an actual giggle as he closed the door again. He turned, looked over Riley from head to toe, and had to lean against the door to keep from rolling on the floor in laughter.
"Look, it was a bet, all right? I'm supposed to look like...this for a few hours. Then it's right back to normal, and we'll all be grateful for that."
"And what do you win with this bet?"
"Money."
"A few million in cash, I hope."
"Are you finished laughing?"
"Not just yet." Wesley tried to stifle his giggles, but couldn't possibly.
Riley ran a hand over the disarrayed white-blond spikes of his hair. "Can I sit down or something?"
"I don't know, can you? In those pants?"
"They're not that tight."
Wesley gave a most ungentlemanlike snort of disbelief.
"I had no idea leather was this..."
Wesley smiled, straightening away from the door. "It is rather, isn't it?"
Riley's eyes widened in pleased surprise. "You've worn leather?"
"For about half of last year. Quite an experience. I'm sorry, my manners - - please, have a seat. May I get you some tea?"
"Oh, no thanks," Riley said, sitting at one end of the sofa. Wesley took the other end. "Do I really look that bad?"
"Not bad, but it's certainly a different look for you. How many people you know have seen you like this?"
"Just Graham. He's the one who made the bet with me."
"You didn't think that Buffy might...enjoy the view?"
"She has more important things going on right now," Riley said.
Wesley asked, quietly, "It's over, isn't it?"
Riley gave a very sad almost-smile. "Yeah. She cared about me a lot...when I reminded her to. And I was good for..."
Wesley nodded.
"Is that a Slayer thing?"
"Yes," Wesley said. "It manifests differently in each Slayer, but it is a 'Slayer thing.'" Riley had been with Faith once, after all, so he didn't need to explain further. "I'm sorry, Riley."
"She has her whole...destiny. And I know that she thinks that she's just a normal young woman with the same needs as a normal young woman, but she's the Slayer, she can't just have an ordinary relationship. And I'm the definition of Joe Ordinary."
"Decked out in leather. How permanent is that hairstyle?"
"The spikes are gone ASAP. The bleach...we realized that the bleach is more permanent than we thought, a little too late. So I'll be super-blond for a while."
"Did you and Graham have a disagreement over the past few days, or is he holding a grudge from the past?"
"I think he just likes to make me look like an idiot on general principle."
"He must be an excellent friend."
"The best."
"I'd like to meet him."
"He's actually going to be in L.A. on Friday. I'll tell him to stop by the hotel."
"What's he doing in L.A.?"
"I'm not supposed to ask."
"Ah." Riley had told Wesley that Graham was still with the government, and that to preserve the friendship, Riley and Graham didn't discuss Graham's work. It sounded like a difficult kind of friendship to Wesley, but Riley seemed committed to it. It might have been the only thing left in Riley's life that left Riley smiling, so Wesley wasn't going to naysay it.
They talked demon theory and recent slayings and Angel's behavior and Spike's behavior and everything else until they were drinking tea and arguing whether Hinreya-kosos tended toward social anxiety disorder, and then they were kissing and Riley's mouth was warm and slightly sweet from the tea, and the leather was soft under Wesley's hand, and Wesley had to ask, "How much longer do you need to wear this to win the bet?"
"Ten hours."
"Can we work around it?"
"You can take off your clothes," Riley suggested. And he looked into those beautiful warm blue eyes, and he knew what he wanted.
"Would you like a tour of my apartment?"
"Sure," Riley said.
He rose and tugged at Riley's hand, leading Riley straight back to the bedroom. He pulled Riley into the room and turned, shoving the door closed and pushing Riley back against it. "Bedroom."
"It's nice," Riley said.
"Would you like a tour of my bedroom?"
"Sure."
He pulled Riley along again, taking off his glasses with his free hand and dropping them on the bedside table. He pushed Riley down onto his bed, kneeling astride Riley's hips, pushing Riley back flat against the mattress. "Bed."
"It's nice," Riley said, and pulled him down for a kiss.
Thus began one of the most intense nights of Wesley's life-to-date. Naked, spread across his bed, while a wholesome cornfed Midwestern American extremely earnest young man dressed in a tight black T-shirt, tighter soft black leather pants, and black motorcycle boots licked him...all...over...
Later, he realized that since Riley's mouth had been everywhere on his body, most likely Riley's newly peroxided hair had left its scent everywhere, too.
After his third orgasm, he fell asleep. He awakened to a soft, low whisper at his right ear. "I have to go, Wesley. I'll come back later. I love you." And then a tender kiss on his lips and by the time his brain struggled back to reality he was alone.
Then he got to work, half of him on happiness overload and the other half screaming at him to run for his life. And no one noticed a thing, except for Angel's comment about the scent of peroxide and Cordelia's surprise about the existence of his sex life.
When he got back to his apartment, he checked his e-mail. Nothing. But his answering machine was blinking at him merrily. Certain that it was a wrong number hang-up, he pressed the button, blue eyes closing.
"Hi, Wesley. It's Riley. Riley Finn. Hey!"
"Wesley, this is Graham Graham Miller, Riley Riley Finn's friend. You have some explaining to do. See you Friday."
Wesley played it two more times. Then he ate, listened to it again a few times, and went to bed, where he masturbated twice, slowly, coming into his hand.
Thursday, he checked his e-mail so many times that Cordelia barred him from the computer. When he got home, bone-weary and splattered with demon goop, he headed straight for his answering machine. He replayed the first message, then heard, "Hey, Wesley, it's Riley. I'm sorry about, um, Graham's... I feel like I'm ten years old." Pause. "We're going to be around on Friday, so we'll stop by-"
"Is that your real call or are you still practicing?" Graham's voice asked.
Wesley played it twice more. He couldn't help but smile.
Friday, Wesley tried to get Cordelia out of the hotel without being obvious. Finally, she said, "I'm going to take the day off. If you're inviting some bleached blonde chick over to use this hotel for non-business hotel purposes, do not let me know about it. You'd better hope that Angel doesn't wake up and I don't have a vision or something."
Just after three p.m., the front door opened and a broad-shouldered, strong-jawed young man in Riley-style casual dress walked down the stairs. Riley was right behind him, closing the door, looking toward Wesley with a nervous smile.
"Wesley."
Wesley came around the counter and shook his hand. "Graham."
"Wesley, Graham. Graham, Wesley," Riley introduced.
"We got it," Graham said, glancing around the lobby. "Where's...Angel?"
"Sleeping," Wesley said.
"He do that a lot?" Graham asked.
"It's three in the afternoon," Riley said. "Not a big hour for creatures of the night."
Something in Riley's answer made Wesley notice a slight tremor of tension.
"You get a lot of clients here?" Graham asked.
"Enough to keep us in fighting trim," Wesley said.
Graham returned his full attention to Wesley. "I have some business to take care of. Can I leave him here?"
"Excuse me?" Riley asked.
"Great. I'll pick you up at six," Graham told Riley, turning for the stairs.
"Where are you going?" Riley asked.
"Don't ask," Graham said, and was out the door.
Riley looked at Wesley. "Hi."
"Hello. Would you like some tea?"
"Yeah, thanks."
Riley's kisses were as sweet as he remembered. Riley's tongue was as thorough as he remembered. Uncovered, Riley's body was an expanse of masculinity, beautiful satin skin and long limbs. Licking Riley's nipples produced gasps, stroking Riley's pelvic bone produced giggles, and mouthing Riley's balls produced the weakest groan. Riley's cock was gorgeous, flushed dark and standing proud, cut and just enough to make Wesley's jaw ache.
By six, they'd showered and redressed and were pretending to be talking over tea. Graham returned, a bruise on that strong jaw.
That was a significant day
for Wesley. Uppermost, of course, was the fact that it was his second
turn in bed with Riley, and the first time that he'd gotten Riley undressed
and under his hands. Also important was that it was the last day
of Angel's long slumber.
To what? To explain to his best and only friend just what the fuck was happening?
Well, okay, so he should talk to Riley. But he didn't understand what was happening, either.
Where had his first mistake been? What had gone wrong first? If he retraced his steps, could he find the turning point and change it all? Couldn't he go back and fix his life?
The Initiative had been a big part of it all. Then the Initiative had ended. Riley had gotten out, at least somewhat. And Graham had stayed, working with what remained, keeping Riley out of it.
Angel had come to the Initiative's attention. Angel was a big-name vampire, number one on the planet. The Initiative had already neutered the second-best, Hostile 17, so why not get rid of Angel, too? Everyone did his research and realized that maybe leaving Angel unharmed but under watch would be good. After all, he was working on their side, it would seem. And they weren't strong enough to want to risk bothering someone who might do some good. So they set up some surveillance.
Angel was going along really well, kicking demon ass, ridding L.A. of some ugliness. Then, suddenly, his performance failed. He went into a semi-hibernation. Curious, they did some investigating. They found Wolfram & Hart. They found Lindsey. They found Darla.
The interesting thing was that Graham had found Lindsey a while before that. On a dark L.A. summer night. And a completely uncharacteristic one-night stand had turned into an equally uncharacteristic romance. He spent two months with his every thought revolving around soft-soft lips and thick hair and tight nipples and a tighter ass and a voice like sex. He drove into L.A. for long nights of carry-out cartons and watching TV until Lindsey finished paperwork; they made love on the softest bed Graham had ever known and made out against every available surface and some nights he got to sleep in Lindsey's bed before driving home, and when those times came he slept as close to Lindsey as possible, the two of them wrapped up as one, breathing together. And sometimes Lindsey fingered over the spikes of his hair and said something that skirted dangerously close to "I love you," and sometimes he breathed those three words into Lindsey's skin, hoping that Lindsey hadn't quite heard.
Graham had known that Lindsey was a lawyer. And Lindsey talked about a few cases. But he'd never realized exactly what Lindsey's work was, who Lindsey really worked for, what Lindsey's place in his life really was.
Lindsey worked for the enemy. Lindsey was the enemy.
Lindsey was dangerous to Angel. Graham had been ordered to help Angel. Darla was Lindsey's project, and Graham had to get rid of Darla once and for all.
They weren't stupid enough to storm the offices of Wolfram & Hart. They were stupid enough to storm the safehouse where Darla was kept. Half-demon footsoldiers came out of the woodwork to fight back, but they weren't what bothered Graham the most. What bothered Graham the most was that when he ordered his team in to attack, Lindsey was there. And Lindsey was the one who called in the reinforcements. And Lindsey had seen him, seen him, looked at him and recognized him, blue eyes full of shock, before doing it.
He killed Darla himself, personally. Then he paged headquarters, where spells were going to be cast to ensure that she was never raised again. They'd learned a few things, like that sometimes you needed to fight magic with magic.
They weren't there for Lindsey. They weren't there to kill henchmen, although that was a nice side effect. They were there for Darla. And they got her.
But Lindsey, before turning tail and running, called for more help, and ordered them to attack, and Graham could have died, could have been fucking killed dead dead dead dead dead because Lindsey, his Lindsey, his beautiful Lindsey who knew that he liked to have his earlobes sucked, ordered his death.
He didn't get three little words from Lindsey. He got four.
"Kill them! Kill him!"
Him. No question who "him" was. Graham was the leader, the one leading the charge, the one who came in and killed Lindsey's pet project.
They tried to kill him. They did kill two of his men, which he did not take kindly.
He picked up Riley and went home. Three weeks passed. He drove back to L.A., dropped Riley off at Wesley's, and drove on to his destination.
Lindsey. Lindsey McDonald. Self-centered, self-serving, sadistic Lindsey McDonald. Graham knew who this man was now. And Lindsey was afraid. Afraid of him. Blue eyes darting, feet backing up one yard then two, Lindsey was afraid.
Graham closed the apartment door behind himself, locked it.
"What do you want?"
"I want an apology."
Confusion flickered over Lindsey's face. "An apology?"
"Tell me you're sorry. Tell me that you're sorry and mean it."
A long pause. "I'm sorry."
"For what?"
"What do you want?"
"Tell me why you're sorry."
"I'm sorry that you killed Darla."
"She was evil."
"She was human."
"I did what I had to do."
"Why not kill me?"
"I killed her so I wouldn't have to kill you."
"Should I thank you?"
"Would you know how?"
A stand-off, glaring blue to blue. Jaw clenched, fists clenched, betrayal in the air.
"Do you know what you've done to my career?" Lindsey asked.
"Your career is fine. They need you and they know it."
"They don't need me."
"I need you. And you told them to kill me. You ordered my death."
"I knew you'd survive."
"The fuck you did."
"I had to tell them to kill you. You did what you had to do, and I did what I had to do. I knew you'd live, and I couldn't just-"
"You did not! They could have-"
"Graham!" Lindsey shouted. "I know!"
"You know what?"
Blue eyes narrowed. "You... You really thought I'd have you killed? You think I'd-"
"You did!"
"Come here." Lindsey started towards the bathroom. "Come here," he insisted. Graham frowned and followed, not trusting. Lindsey pulled a handheld mirror from a drawer and said, "Take down your pants."
"Hell no."
"Just do it. It's nothing I've never seen."
Seeing it was the least of Lindsey's experience there. Graham wondered about his own sanity and opened his jeans. Lindsey wasn't satisfied until he was naked from the waist down. Then he put his foot up on the toilet and Lindsey held the mirror down near his groin. "Look." He looked. Lindsey brushed his pubic hair out of the way, which made his cock twitch, and then he saw something. A mark. A dark, curving, twisting line, small but definitely there.
"What the fuck is that?"
Lindsey let go and looked at him. "It's a tattoo."
"Where did I get it?"
"My guess is, from your secret military group. You started out in the Initiative, right?"
"How'd you know that?"
"We've done some research. I've done some research. I think that the Initiative tattooed you. It's a mark of immortality."
"What?"
"It's not permament. Twenty years after it's given, it wears off. And you'll age naturally."
"What?"
"For the next twenty years - - or nineteen years, since you've-"
"What?"
Lindsey took his jaw in two hands, looking into his eyes. "Graham. You can't be killed. That's why I told them to kill you. I knew that they couldn't. I thought that you knew, too."
"They did this to me."
"Makes you a much better soldier."
"But the others...Forrest..."
"Was black. They don't do this sort of thing to just anybody."
"Oh my god. Riley. I have to..."
"I thought that you knew, Graham."
"You never said anything."
"I didn't think that I was supposed to know. I wondered what it was, and I looked it up. It made me wonder just what sort of ex-Marine I picked up in that alley."
"Did you know I was coming after you?"
"Not until the last time."
The last time. Two nights before he'd killed Darla. He'd come here. They'd made love again and again, and he'd held onto Lindsey for as long as he could. He'd left while Lindsey was sleeping, without saying good-bye, for the first time.
"You knew that we were on opposite sides."
"Yes."
"They won't kill you. Not while I'm here."
"That gives me another nineteen years, anyway."
"How could that give this to me? What makes me special? How could they not tell me?"
"Ask them. They'll say that they kept it from you for your own good. But you know that they did it selfishly. People keep secrets for their own interests."
"I didn't tell you that I was coming to kill Darla."
"You fucked up my life."
"I'm not sorry. She never should have been raised."
"You're on Angel's side?"
"He's doing some good. We'll keep an eye on him."
"And on the firm."
"On Wolfram & Hart. And on you specifically."
"I'm flattered."
"You could help me."
"I can't turn double agent. I have enough trouble with the mind readers already."
"They'll know that you're having an affair with someone from the other side?"
"Yes."
"Are we going to keep seeing each other anyway?"
"Yes."
"Can I introduce you to a friend of mine?"
"Riley Finn?"
"You did do your homework."
"This might be easier if we just tell each other things instead of getting information behind each other's back."
"But no double agent stuff."
"You don't want to tell me anything, and I don't dare tell you anything. Work-related. We can share personal information, if you find it interesting."
"I find you very interesting."
"Good."
Lindsey was warm and soft and silky and hard and Graham's cell phone rang in his jeans on the floor. Shit. "Hold on." Lindsey made a disgusted noise and backed off a little. Graham dug out his phone. "Miller."
"Graham. It's Riley. I was...there's...did you ever notice anything...I..."
"Wesley found your tattoo, didn't he?"
"Do you have one?"
"I just found out about it ten minutes ago."
"Is it from the Initiative?"
"It has to be."
"Wesley says..."
Right. Former Watcher. Probably recognized its significance on sight. Wesley probably would have noticed it earlier, but Riley'd been stuck in Sunnydale recently. "Yeah. Twenty years?"
"Nineteen, now."
"It'll make it easier for you to help Buffy now, since you know."
"Yeah. Graham?"
"Mm."
"What are you doing that you just noticed your tattoo?"
Graham chuckled. "There
are a few things I should tell you."