Fic: Grid Systems (Riley/Graham) NC17
This is not for the Buffyverse lyric wheel. It was supposed to be, but I changed my mind. This is its own little guy.
Title: Grid Systems
Rating: NC17
Pairing: Riley/Graham
Notes: Not beta read. It's experimental for me.
*
They say that New York City's meatpacking district has been cleaned up, renovated. People--many of them upstanding--live here now. That's what they say. Graham doesn't think it's been cleaned up enough and he has the thought, as he hurriedly crosses the West Side Highway and carefully keeps an eye on the figure two blocks ahead, that "they" should really bring that Giuliani guy back. Because Graham's been to Times Square, and he's heard the stories of what that neighborhood used to be like, and it's far more of a success story than the meatpacking district.
The streets are only slightly confusing in this section of town. During his infrequent visits here, Graham's learned that they're easier to navigate in midtown, more difficult in downtown. New York City is supposed to be a grid city, but there's some kind of convoluted mathematical formula one has to do to find out where on 42nd building number 235 is (down near Second Avenue, and it's home to Pfizer Pharmaceuticals; Graham knows this because his team had to clear out a passel of Orl spawn out of the gym's steam room after the president of the company called on a government contact for assistance).
Graham prefers the achingly perfect grid of Chicago. It's beautiful, in a way, but he wouldn't ever say that aloud. Impossible to become lost when an address can provide a person definite, relative, and proximate locations all in one fell swoop. It makes Graham's military heart pound a little faster, his military breath come a little quicker.
The figure up ahead ducks down a side street, and Graham picks up his pace, jogging lightly so that he can make it to that corner before his quarry turns again.
The drawback to Chicago's precision is that it makes covert following a little more difficult. There aren't nooks and crannies to dodge into should the life form you're following suddenly decide to look back. In that respect, New York City is better, and the downtown neighborhoods are choice.
But, really, of all the places Graham and his team have been stationed since leaving Sunnydale, Graham's favorites are the remote locations. Jungles and deserts and rainforests. Sure, it makes the job harder; it sucks to track demons through undergrowth, in leaved canopies, across sand that rearranges itself as capriciously as the wind blows. And, yeah, there are inherent dangers in all of those places; things like tarantulas the size of dinner plates, poisonous scorpions, or deadly snakes.
There aren't any Bite Houses in the remote locations, though, and Graham thinks that makes up for all the other stuff.
When Graham turns the corner, Riley is standing ten feet down the block, leaning against the side of a building, quite obviously waiting for Graham.
The first time Riley pulled this--lazed around and let Graham just saunter up to him--Graham was embarrassed. He actually blushed, which made him feel like even more of an eighteen-year-old idiot recruit than being caught did. But Riley is the CO for the very simple reason that he's better than the rest of the team, so Graham doesn't feel so bad anymore when Riley notices that Graham is following, when Riley does things like wait, or circle around and scare the ever loving shit out of Graham by screaming "boo" right in Graham's ear.
And when Graham analyzed the pattern he realized it's a good sign when Riley does things like this. It means that Riley's aware, that Riley's not counting down some inner autodestruct sequence. It means that Riley went out walking and looking because he was tempted, not because he was determined.
Graham stops a few feet from Riley, who doesn't look up from his inspection of the cracked concrete at his feet. Next to Riley, Graham feels like a shadow of his own self. He and Riley are both tan skinned and sandy-haired and blue-eyed. They're both military men with muscles and rigid posture and intimate knowledge of a variety of deadly weapons that include their hands and--in Riley's case--legs. But Riley is taller and broader, and not dissimilar to the brick wall that he's leaning against.
"Ferry ride," Riley says, and his voice is like dragging tender skin over raw brick.
Graham nods and they walk back up to the West Side Highway. Graham knows there's probably an easier, shorter or more direct route to the ferry terminal from their current location, but finding that route would require them to think and strategize and discuss and then move. On nights like this, it's not the journey that matters, but the destination.
Riley doesn't measure his stride to fit Graham's shorter one and Graham falls one and a half steps behind Riley. It used to bother him in the beginning, back when Riley first joined the team again. Graham would huff deliberately, would aim significant sideways glares at Riley. None of which made a damn bit of difference, so Graham learned to live with it. Maybe even learned to miss it when Riley was married to Sam and was softer and more accommodating for a while.
The wind off the river is whipping around them, harsh and cold and stinging. Neither of them tucks their jackets tighter around their bodies. Riley because the arctic February air is probably warmer than he is at the moment, and Graham because he's too focused on Riley to bother. The traffic and street lights keep catching Riley's face and Graham watches it get more flushed with every block they walk, with every blast of wind. Riley's eyes water from the cold at one point and Graham has to look away from the parody of tears before he screams or does something else equally ridiculous and useless.
Graham remembers a time when there might have been actual tears on Riley's face, which Graham would have cringed away from, would have been embarrassed by, would have pretended he couldn't see. If Graham thought that there was even a remote possibility that Riley was about to cry, could actually still cry, Graham would be the one crying. Out of sheer relief, like coming down from the fear induced adrenaline rush he's been in the midst of since he caught sight of the bite marks two days after Riley jumped into the helicopter in Sunnydale.
What Graham can't remember is when the possibility of Riley's tears became so far-fetched that Graham didn't ever count on them appearing ever again. Graham just knows that one night in San Francisco Riley went out walking and looking, and he didn't notice that Graham was following. Graham could feel his own heart beating in his throat, and in his mind each beat was another second that drew Riley one second closer to autodestruct, and Graham had to tackle Riley to the ground five feet from the Bite House. When Graham snarled his hands in the tangle of jacket and shirt material at Riley's collar, slammed Riley against the pavement, that's when he saw it.
Riley's face, like some brick wall. Riley himself like some impenetrable construct of carefully placed bricks and precisely applied mortar, fit together by Riley's own desperate hands. Graham would have cried then, for everything that was no longer in Riley, of Riley, just plain *Riley*. But he felt like he'd just been tazered into stillness, numbness, blankness, emptiness, and it seemed cruel to cry in front of Riley now that Graham knew--even if only for a shocked moment or two--exactly how incapable Riley was of anything like tears anymore.
That was two years ago and it was the last time Graham looked Riley directly in the face; since then it's been in profile, or out of the corner of Graham's eye.
Riley makes a right off of the Highway, not bothering to see if Graham notices. It's a precise turn made on the ball of Riley's right foot, and Graham mimics the motion, the precision, and maintains that one and a half step differential, without having to consciously think about it. They've taken dozens of walks like this already and somewhere around the fifth one, Graham started naturally attuning himself to Riley.
He likes to tell himself it's only on nights like this that he's constantly aware of Riley, only during these walks that Graham watches so closely that he can anticipate Riley's movements before they're made. He doesn't really believe that, so he tells himself instead that it's because they work on the same squad. He doesn't really believe that, either, but the knot he gets in his stomach makes him turn his thoughts elsewhere before he can find the real reason.
They navigate the short, jutting streets of the financial district and get to the Whitehall Ferry Terminal. There's a long pathway leading up to it and there are small clumps of people walking together, individuals drifting towards and away from one other in that endless big city paradox that's all about not wanting to be alone but not trusting anyone around. Graham falls another two steps behind Riley when the female half of a handholding couple wanders in front of him, her arm stretched full out as her companion tries to tug her back while she laughs.
Graham is suddenly aware of the continent of distance that exists between him and Riley, which remains vast even on the rare occasions when they brush against each other in ordinary life. Graham feels off-balanced, has a surreal sensation of being the only real person in the world, in the universe. Things around him spin while he reminds still and steady. He chokes on air that he takes in but doesn't know what to do with next. His hand shakes when he runs it through his hair and tugs at a fistful of it to ground himself. It doesn't work, and Graham still feels like he's been broken down to miniscule molecular particles that *are* but can't be sensed in any way by anyone else.
Graham's legs are still, Graham himself is still, and that's a bad thing. It's something like survival instinct that gets him moving again, has him taking jerking, halting, rushed steps to the doors. Once there, he stops, not sure why he isn't continuing on, but then he blinks--clears away the chaos--and sees that Riley is there and Graham has stopped exactly one and a half steps from him. Graham's stomach knots more painfully than it ever has before, almost has him bending over in pain when he actually looks at Riley's face. Because Graham thinks that's what his own face looks like right now.
Riley turns away first and opens the door; it hits Graham on the shoulder, jars him back a few inches, and there's a shocked gasp from one of them. Some ephemeral terror takes hold of Graham because he doesn't think that he was the one who gasped. He thinks it was Riley--the brick wall construct who isn't and doesn't and can't and hasn't for the past two years.
By the escalator, Graham steps on the back of Riley's heel and Riley stumbles forward before switching direction and taking the stairs up to the terminal level. Graham curls his hands into fists, digs his short nails into his palms and swallows dryly. He wants them to turn around, hail a cab, and retreat to the safe house. Wants them to bunk down and wake up tomorrow and have everything make sense again. Instead, he waits until Riley has climbed five steps before he himself starts up.
The terminal itself is brightly lit, Spartan in design, and crowded with people who are staring up at the clock that counts down to the arrival of the next ferry. Graham can only glance at the clock for a brief second before he has to look away and fight back a wave of nausea, which gets worse when he realizes that he is once again at Riley's side, just one and a half steps away.
Despite the lack of planning that went into this ferry ride, they've arrived at the same time that the boat has. The loading doors on the left open and people start squeezing through as soon as there's barely enough room. Even though Riley and Graham have both managed to walk the crowded streets of Beijing without once being jostled, they are shoved to and fro, into and away from each other, as they shuffle through the doors and down the platform to the boat.
The ferry has three levels, and when they get to the staircases, just inside of the ferry itself, they come to a skidding halt, feet and heads pointing in different directions, an awkward uncertainty that lasts until they are swept forward on the current level by the crowd and cast adrift at the other end of the boat entirely. There's a brief return of synchronicity then; each of them paw a door open and step out onto the observation deck.
No one else is out here, even though the view of the Statue of Liberty at night--all lit up and majestic--will be breathtaking. Everyone else will plaster their faces to the windows, or press their cameras to the Plexiglas, because it's freezing out here and it'll get colder once the boat starts moving.
Graham and Riley stand with their legs braced, ready for the eventual forward motion. That damnable one and a half steps of distance is still in place and Graham lifts his chin, unlocks his legs, and takes two very deliberate steps away. He knows for sure this time that the gasp isn't his, because his jaw is clenched shut and he hasn't inhaled or exhaled since he decided to move.
"Graham," Riley rasps, and Graham's not sure if Riley is pleading or warning. He just knows that, either way, Riley sounds desperate. The ferry horn blasts then, loud and long and lingering. Graham moves further away, to the railing, his hands gripping it so tightly that his knuckles are white.
The proximity to Riley during these walks is about keeping Riley close by and in sight to prevent him from doing something stupid that he'd regret later. Graham is suddenly, disconcertingly aware that he is digging his hands into the railing so that he doesn't erase the five feet of distance between them, even though they're on a boat, sailing away from the shore and the only Bite House in all five of New York City's boros.
They spend the half hour ferry ride to Staten Island in a silence that stays thick and fraught. Water is stung from Graham's eyes by the wind but he doesn't look to see if the same has happened to Riley. When the boat is docking, and people are streaming onto the deck to disembark, Graham realizes that it had to end at some point. He maybe always knew that, one night, Riley wouldn't be tempted and lured, that the need would ebb until it became a vague ache that Riley could cope with just fine. Once again Graham doesn't know how or when it happened, just that it has.
An announcement comes over the loudspeaker, tells them that this boat will be returning to Manhattan immediately, so Graham and Riley move to the edges of the crowd, on opposite sides of the deck with their backs to railings. They let the mass of people shuffle off the boat and when they see the first few eager people coming down the ramp to board, they turn and make their way to the opposite end of the boat, to the other observation deck.
They don't maintain the too-close proximity but they aren't two awkward strangers, either, when they walk. It reminds Graham of their days on campus in Sunnydale; yeah, they were soldiers, but they were also just friends, just two guys.
Graham's lost track of Riley in relation to himself, of himself in relation to Riley, though he knows Riley is on the deck with him. Their perfect grid has been skewed and Graham will consider what that means later. When the ferry horn blasts, Graham takes a breath through his nose, and exhales through his mouth. It's the first time since the horn blasted on the way to Staten Island that Graham's unclenched his jaw, and it aches dully.
"I haven't wanted to for months," Riley says. His voice is *right there*, and Graham is startled first at the shock of hearing it so suddenly and so close, and then by the words themselves.
"Then why?"
There are a lot of questions packed into those two words: Why haven't you wanted to? Why haven't you said so? Why haven't you gone back to how you used to be? Why did you keep going out? Why--
Graham's stomach clenches and he stops thinking of any other possible questions.
Riley is standing so close that, when he shrugs, his shoulder brushes Graham's. "You," Riley says quietly.
"I don't understand."
"You don't have any ideas? Not even one?"
"Apparently not," Graham says and brings a hand up to rub absently at his hurting stomach with a fist.
"I went out fifteen times when I was with Sam, and every single time I made it all the way. Every single time I got bit. She caught me seven times after the fact, never once before."
Graham has to peel back layers of history and years and reference points to understand this, but he does. Two and a half years ago, in a safe house in Argentina, the entire squad heard Sam yelling at Riley about a mark on his arm. Sam was a patient sort, understanding, and even as everyone pretended they weren't hearing anything, they all knew it couldn't have been the first or even the fourth time that Sam had found a bite mark.
Her words were judgmental, humiliating, like she'd gone through every other verbal weapon in her arsenal and was down to desperation and guilt. Graham punched a hole in the wall downstairs, and he wanted to go up there and stand between Riley and Sam and tell Sam: no, this is not how you do it, this is the worst way to do it, this is the way that will send Riley out searching sooner rather than later, can't you see what this does to him?
That was when Graham knew that Sam couldn't be trusted with Riley, that Sam wasn't careful enough with him, and Graham should never have thought otherwise, should never have left it--left Riley--in her hands. So Graham went back to watching, noting, cataloging, following in impartial silence, and he never did say anything to Sam because from that moment on Sam had become nothing in Graham's eyes.
A month later, the squad moved on to Brazil and Sam didn't come with them. Five months later the divorce papers caught up to Riley in San Francisco.
So Graham's not surprised at how often Riley went out looking, given Sam's reaction that day. But he is surprised by how often Riley followed through. In all the time Graham's followed Riley, there've only been five times Riley was hell bent on really doing it, five nights when Graham had to drag the larger man away.
"Guess how many times I made it out on your watch that you didn't know about," Riley says, and his voice is sharp and commanding, his tone so forceful that Graham answers without protest because that's what he's been trained to do when his CO asks him a question.
"Five? Ten?"
"None."
Graham bends over the railing, pressing forward so that his stomach is jammed against it, like he's trying to keep something from chewing its way out through his gut. The upper half of his body is no longer buffeted from the wind by the boat itself and he staggers to the side at the force of it, bumps into Riley, who puts a hand at the small of Graham's back to steady him.
Riley leans forward, his hand digging into Graham's back through layers of wool and flannel and denim to keep Graham from moving away. When Riley speaks, his voice is like crumbled mortar, and it's so close to Graham's ear that he can hear it over the roar of the wind, the pounding of the water. "How many times did I go all the way on your watch, Graham?"
If Riley never made it out without Graham following, then they both know the answer: none. Graham never let him, no matter that one time he had to chase Riley into a dilapidated house in Columbus, stake the vamp whose fangs were just an inch away from Riley's wrist, and then tranq Riley before he could beat the shit out of Graham in desperation.
Riley moves behind Graham, hands latching onto the railing on either side of Graham's waist, bracketing Graham between Riley and the railing. Between a wide, strong, brick wall and a maelstrom of wind and water that will tear Graham apart if he isn't careful. Graham is shaking now, heavy shudders that make his teeth shatter and his knees threaten to buckle.
"When you found out your mom was sick," Riley says and Graham squeezes his eyes shut, hangs his head and bites back a scream. "When Dillon took that fall on your part of the London mission. When you had to stake that vamp that looked like a kid." Riley leans over, moulds his chest to the curve of Graham's back and puts his mouth right at Graham's ear. "I went out on those nights for you, not for me."
Graham does scream then, a shrill noise that the wind carries away before anyone inside of the boat can hear it. "Jesus Christ, Riley," Graham begs. "Don't do this. God, just--don't."
"Why are you scared?" Riley whispers, his breath hot and moist against Graham's skin. He shifts his hips forward, and Graham feels it, feels Riley, jutting against him, hard and warm in a way that their multiple layers of clothing can't disguise.
If Riley's like a brick wall, then Graham's always thought of himself as plaster over drywall--seemingly sturdy but so very vulnerable to focused force.
Riley lets his body fall over and against Graham's like deadweight, wraps his arms around Graham's chest so that Graham can't move his arms, and Graham is pinned, Graham is trapped, Graham can't escape one and a half steps away to a place that's close but not too close.
"Why are you scared?" Riley repeats.
"Because it's you," Graham chokes out and there are more reasons in those three words than Graham could ever expound on even in his own head, because to do so would mean that he knows the underlying question, knows what's happening here, what's been happening for a long time now. Even though the proof that he knows all of that is pressed against him right now.
Graham feels a wave of anger, fury. Not because Riley has him pinned over the railing, but because Riley's construct has deteriorated, has lessened, and it's not fair--it's not fucking fair--that out of the blue, all of a sudden, Riley is doing this to him. Graham wasn't ready, wasn't prepared, and he's goddamn sick and tired of Riley sneaking up on him.
One of Riley's hands moves, slides down Graham's chest, to the side and wedges itself between Graham and the half-wall beneath the railing. And when Riley's hand palms Graham through coat and shirt and jeans, Graham realizes for the first time that he's hard, that his own dick is hard and heavy and leaking at the tip. Riley slides his hand up to the tip, then down to the base, and then Riley's palm goes still and his fingers curl back, around Graham's balls.
Riley isn't a construct anymore, but he's not the Riley that Graham used to know, has ever known. He's a new Riley who gets hard against Graham's ass, who cups Graham's own hard dick in a way that doesn't feel like it's about sex. Instead, it seems more about reassurance, solidarity. The tension Graham's been riddled with leaves him suddenly, sags him further over the railing, and the twisting of his stomach eases away in small increments. He's not worried by how much further he's hanging over the void of wind and water now that he's relaxed, because Riley is there, holding him down. Graham wonders if this is how Riley felt on those nights when he was tempted and Graham was only and always one and a half steps away.
When Graham rights himself, Riley moves with him, until they're both standing, wholly on the safe side of the railing. Riley's dick is against the small of Graham's back, and Riley has to bend slightly to keep his hand cupped around Graham's balls. It has to be uncomfortable for Riley, but Graham doesn't encourage him to move, because Graham threw his damn back out carrying Riley's tranqued body from that house in Columbus, and that was a lot more than uncomfortable. And also because Graham knows where he is in relation to Riley, where Riley is in relation to himself, where they both are in relation to everything else, and his heart pound and his breath comes in gasps.
Graham's eyes slide closed, his head falls back against Riley's shoulder, and Riley loosens the arm still around Graham's chest. It shifts to Graham's midsection with a movement like a caress, Riley's hand unfurling so that his palm is pressed right where that painful ache used to be in Grahams' stomach. Graham's own arms are hanging at his side, his hands twitching with uncertainty.
"You're thinking too damn much," Riley says and Graham can hear the smile in the words, can feel the smile itself against his skull when Riley rests his face on top of Graham's head.
Graham's never been accused of that before. He's been lauded for thinking just enough, for balancing thought with action in the most successful combination possible. But that was on missions, and this isn't a mission, Riley isn't a mission, and Graham realizes that he has been thinking too much by way of trying so hard not to think at all. By trying so hard to forget the dreams he's been having, the wetness in his shorts when he wakes up, the face and body that's been sneaking in when he jerks off while wide awake, and the real reason why he's been so attuned to Riley.
"Not sure how to stop," Graham admits, and his voice is gruff with confusion.
But Riley knows. He rubs the length of Graham's dick--up, down; up, down--fingers wrapping around it, and Graham isn't thinking of anything at all now, and he's not trying not to think, either. Graham just is, and one hand flails behind him, grabbing hold of Riley's thigh. The other comes up to grab onto the hand that Riley has on Graham's torso.
Riley's mouth latches onto Graham's neck, lips trailing along the length of it, tongue flicking out to taste every other inch. "Yes," Riley sighs, and the word against wet skin makes Graham's back arch instinctively, which shoves him against Riley's dick.
Graham feels Riley's groan, a tight and coiled and controlled vibration in Riley's chest that never makes it to Riley's lips. The hand on Graham's dick clenches in response, so Graham pushes back again. And again. He rocks back and forth between Riley's hand and Riley's dick, and when Riley starts thrusting against him, he wants to laugh, he wants to cry, he wants to scream, but he settles for baring his teeth and shoving back harder than before.
And Graham thinks a moment later that he's spent months waiting to feel Riley's teeth against his neck, digging in, clamping down, holding on. It brings Graham up on his toes, takes his head to the opposite side in an offering that he'd never make to anyone else. Riley's palm is rubbing at the head of Graham's dick, digging in past clothing, clamping down, holding on, bringing dappled colors to life behind Graham's closed lids. He grinds back against Riley's dick, and Riley stoops down so that he's against Graham's ass again, and it's so goddamn perfect, with the wind and the water and the railing and Riley's hand and Riley's dick and Riley's tongue now sliding along Graham's jaw.
It's perfect and Graham's eyes open, roll back, and he makes a garbled noise and comes, wet heat pulsing out of him, pooling in his shorts.
"Yes," Riley grunts. And again, "Yes." Over and over, "Yesyesyesyesyes--" Until coherence is lost to a strangled scream and he freezes against Graham.
Graham wishes dazedly that there'd been skin, that he could have felt Riley's dick jerk against him, shoot onto his bare flesh, and he wonders if he'll ever get that chance. Maybe this is the only time. Worse, maybe it wasn't but this is how it will always be, good little soldiers abiding by "don't ask, don't tell" even to themselves and each other.
Riley's hands are trailing along Graham's arms, the motions calm and gentling, like Graham's a spooked horse. Which maybe he is, because he feels wide-eyed and trembling, like he could bolt or collapse at any moment. By the time the doors open and people start coming outside in anticipation of docking, Graham is steady again, even if he's still wondering.
They aren't jostled when they disembark. They keep one and a half steps between them. It's just like it was before, but not, and Graham finds himself smiling and giving Riley sidelong glances that Riley always meets with a smile of his own. They make their way down the various ramps to the street and pause for a moment. Graham wants to take a cab, because any minute now the wind is going to make its way under his coat and the come in his pants is going to freeze his damn balls off. But Riley wants to walk, Graham can tell. They share a glance and then make their way on foot, retracing their path through the financial district to the West Side Highway.
Less than a quarter of the way back to the safe house, a funnel of wind curls up under their coats and Riley and Graham both go still, shudder, and then curse at the same time. Riley shrugs in defeat and they hail a cab. Graham gives the driver a set of cross streets that are five blocks from the safe house.
It's been hours since Graham's been truly warm and the blast of warm air from the heater in the cab is making him feel heavy and tired. His head lolls against the seat back and he slips into a zone of comfort that's like the state a body drifts in before sleep claims them.
Graham's brought back to awareness by a prickling of his skin that's followed by Riley shifting closer, decimating the distance between them until they're touching. Graham can see their wavering, distorted reflections in the safety glass partition in front of them that separates them from the driver.
He sees Riley's head turn and he doesn't stop to think, just turns his own head. And they're face to face again. The second time tonight, the second time in two years. Riley is flushed with blood from having coming in out of the cold and Graham finds that crying is the last thing on his mind now that this moment is here, now that Riley's back to being human again.
Riley's lips are cold and dry when Graham brushes them with his own, but on the inside Riley's mouth is hot and wet as sin. They pull back at the same time, faces so close that it's impossible to focus their eyes.
The cab stops and Riley fumbles in his wallet, shoves cash through the partition, and then they step back out into the cold night. It takes fifteen minutes and a circuitous route to traverse the five blocks to the safe house. Inside they nod at Dillon, who's on watch, then head upstairs.
Graham is turning to the left, towards the room he bunks in with Dillon and Harroway, but Riley wraps a large hand around the nape of Graham's neck, jerks his head meaningfully in the direction of his own room, which he has to himself--a perk of being the CO.
"Okay," Graham rasps. "For tonight."
Riley's hand holds him stronger, tighter, more secure. "Not just for tonight."
Graham takes a breath, lets it out. Takes another. Nods. "Okay."
.End
ETA: If it's experimental fic that I post quickly, chances are it's written for someone and I'm too nervous to say anything until said person comments on the fic (see Spring Haze). So, um, it's now safe to say that this is is for Her Larness' birthday, which was ages ago, because I luff her.
Title: Grid Systems
Rating: NC17
Pairing: Riley/Graham
Notes: Not beta read. It's experimental for me.
*
They say that New York City's meatpacking district has been cleaned up, renovated. People--many of them upstanding--live here now. That's what they say. Graham doesn't think it's been cleaned up enough and he has the thought, as he hurriedly crosses the West Side Highway and carefully keeps an eye on the figure two blocks ahead, that "they" should really bring that Giuliani guy back. Because Graham's been to Times Square, and he's heard the stories of what that neighborhood used to be like, and it's far more of a success story than the meatpacking district.
The streets are only slightly confusing in this section of town. During his infrequent visits here, Graham's learned that they're easier to navigate in midtown, more difficult in downtown. New York City is supposed to be a grid city, but there's some kind of convoluted mathematical formula one has to do to find out where on 42nd building number 235 is (down near Second Avenue, and it's home to Pfizer Pharmaceuticals; Graham knows this because his team had to clear out a passel of Orl spawn out of the gym's steam room after the president of the company called on a government contact for assistance).
Graham prefers the achingly perfect grid of Chicago. It's beautiful, in a way, but he wouldn't ever say that aloud. Impossible to become lost when an address can provide a person definite, relative, and proximate locations all in one fell swoop. It makes Graham's military heart pound a little faster, his military breath come a little quicker.
The figure up ahead ducks down a side street, and Graham picks up his pace, jogging lightly so that he can make it to that corner before his quarry turns again.
The drawback to Chicago's precision is that it makes covert following a little more difficult. There aren't nooks and crannies to dodge into should the life form you're following suddenly decide to look back. In that respect, New York City is better, and the downtown neighborhoods are choice.
But, really, of all the places Graham and his team have been stationed since leaving Sunnydale, Graham's favorites are the remote locations. Jungles and deserts and rainforests. Sure, it makes the job harder; it sucks to track demons through undergrowth, in leaved canopies, across sand that rearranges itself as capriciously as the wind blows. And, yeah, there are inherent dangers in all of those places; things like tarantulas the size of dinner plates, poisonous scorpions, or deadly snakes.
There aren't any Bite Houses in the remote locations, though, and Graham thinks that makes up for all the other stuff.
When Graham turns the corner, Riley is standing ten feet down the block, leaning against the side of a building, quite obviously waiting for Graham.
The first time Riley pulled this--lazed around and let Graham just saunter up to him--Graham was embarrassed. He actually blushed, which made him feel like even more of an eighteen-year-old idiot recruit than being caught did. But Riley is the CO for the very simple reason that he's better than the rest of the team, so Graham doesn't feel so bad anymore when Riley notices that Graham is following, when Riley does things like wait, or circle around and scare the ever loving shit out of Graham by screaming "boo" right in Graham's ear.
And when Graham analyzed the pattern he realized it's a good sign when Riley does things like this. It means that Riley's aware, that Riley's not counting down some inner autodestruct sequence. It means that Riley went out walking and looking because he was tempted, not because he was determined.
Graham stops a few feet from Riley, who doesn't look up from his inspection of the cracked concrete at his feet. Next to Riley, Graham feels like a shadow of his own self. He and Riley are both tan skinned and sandy-haired and blue-eyed. They're both military men with muscles and rigid posture and intimate knowledge of a variety of deadly weapons that include their hands and--in Riley's case--legs. But Riley is taller and broader, and not dissimilar to the brick wall that he's leaning against.
"Ferry ride," Riley says, and his voice is like dragging tender skin over raw brick.
Graham nods and they walk back up to the West Side Highway. Graham knows there's probably an easier, shorter or more direct route to the ferry terminal from their current location, but finding that route would require them to think and strategize and discuss and then move. On nights like this, it's not the journey that matters, but the destination.
Riley doesn't measure his stride to fit Graham's shorter one and Graham falls one and a half steps behind Riley. It used to bother him in the beginning, back when Riley first joined the team again. Graham would huff deliberately, would aim significant sideways glares at Riley. None of which made a damn bit of difference, so Graham learned to live with it. Maybe even learned to miss it when Riley was married to Sam and was softer and more accommodating for a while.
The wind off the river is whipping around them, harsh and cold and stinging. Neither of them tucks their jackets tighter around their bodies. Riley because the arctic February air is probably warmer than he is at the moment, and Graham because he's too focused on Riley to bother. The traffic and street lights keep catching Riley's face and Graham watches it get more flushed with every block they walk, with every blast of wind. Riley's eyes water from the cold at one point and Graham has to look away from the parody of tears before he screams or does something else equally ridiculous and useless.
Graham remembers a time when there might have been actual tears on Riley's face, which Graham would have cringed away from, would have been embarrassed by, would have pretended he couldn't see. If Graham thought that there was even a remote possibility that Riley was about to cry, could actually still cry, Graham would be the one crying. Out of sheer relief, like coming down from the fear induced adrenaline rush he's been in the midst of since he caught sight of the bite marks two days after Riley jumped into the helicopter in Sunnydale.
What Graham can't remember is when the possibility of Riley's tears became so far-fetched that Graham didn't ever count on them appearing ever again. Graham just knows that one night in San Francisco Riley went out walking and looking, and he didn't notice that Graham was following. Graham could feel his own heart beating in his throat, and in his mind each beat was another second that drew Riley one second closer to autodestruct, and Graham had to tackle Riley to the ground five feet from the Bite House. When Graham snarled his hands in the tangle of jacket and shirt material at Riley's collar, slammed Riley against the pavement, that's when he saw it.
Riley's face, like some brick wall. Riley himself like some impenetrable construct of carefully placed bricks and precisely applied mortar, fit together by Riley's own desperate hands. Graham would have cried then, for everything that was no longer in Riley, of Riley, just plain *Riley*. But he felt like he'd just been tazered into stillness, numbness, blankness, emptiness, and it seemed cruel to cry in front of Riley now that Graham knew--even if only for a shocked moment or two--exactly how incapable Riley was of anything like tears anymore.
That was two years ago and it was the last time Graham looked Riley directly in the face; since then it's been in profile, or out of the corner of Graham's eye.
Riley makes a right off of the Highway, not bothering to see if Graham notices. It's a precise turn made on the ball of Riley's right foot, and Graham mimics the motion, the precision, and maintains that one and a half step differential, without having to consciously think about it. They've taken dozens of walks like this already and somewhere around the fifth one, Graham started naturally attuning himself to Riley.
He likes to tell himself it's only on nights like this that he's constantly aware of Riley, only during these walks that Graham watches so closely that he can anticipate Riley's movements before they're made. He doesn't really believe that, so he tells himself instead that it's because they work on the same squad. He doesn't really believe that, either, but the knot he gets in his stomach makes him turn his thoughts elsewhere before he can find the real reason.
They navigate the short, jutting streets of the financial district and get to the Whitehall Ferry Terminal. There's a long pathway leading up to it and there are small clumps of people walking together, individuals drifting towards and away from one other in that endless big city paradox that's all about not wanting to be alone but not trusting anyone around. Graham falls another two steps behind Riley when the female half of a handholding couple wanders in front of him, her arm stretched full out as her companion tries to tug her back while she laughs.
Graham is suddenly aware of the continent of distance that exists between him and Riley, which remains vast even on the rare occasions when they brush against each other in ordinary life. Graham feels off-balanced, has a surreal sensation of being the only real person in the world, in the universe. Things around him spin while he reminds still and steady. He chokes on air that he takes in but doesn't know what to do with next. His hand shakes when he runs it through his hair and tugs at a fistful of it to ground himself. It doesn't work, and Graham still feels like he's been broken down to miniscule molecular particles that *are* but can't be sensed in any way by anyone else.
Graham's legs are still, Graham himself is still, and that's a bad thing. It's something like survival instinct that gets him moving again, has him taking jerking, halting, rushed steps to the doors. Once there, he stops, not sure why he isn't continuing on, but then he blinks--clears away the chaos--and sees that Riley is there and Graham has stopped exactly one and a half steps from him. Graham's stomach knots more painfully than it ever has before, almost has him bending over in pain when he actually looks at Riley's face. Because Graham thinks that's what his own face looks like right now.
Riley turns away first and opens the door; it hits Graham on the shoulder, jars him back a few inches, and there's a shocked gasp from one of them. Some ephemeral terror takes hold of Graham because he doesn't think that he was the one who gasped. He thinks it was Riley--the brick wall construct who isn't and doesn't and can't and hasn't for the past two years.
By the escalator, Graham steps on the back of Riley's heel and Riley stumbles forward before switching direction and taking the stairs up to the terminal level. Graham curls his hands into fists, digs his short nails into his palms and swallows dryly. He wants them to turn around, hail a cab, and retreat to the safe house. Wants them to bunk down and wake up tomorrow and have everything make sense again. Instead, he waits until Riley has climbed five steps before he himself starts up.
The terminal itself is brightly lit, Spartan in design, and crowded with people who are staring up at the clock that counts down to the arrival of the next ferry. Graham can only glance at the clock for a brief second before he has to look away and fight back a wave of nausea, which gets worse when he realizes that he is once again at Riley's side, just one and a half steps away.
Despite the lack of planning that went into this ferry ride, they've arrived at the same time that the boat has. The loading doors on the left open and people start squeezing through as soon as there's barely enough room. Even though Riley and Graham have both managed to walk the crowded streets of Beijing without once being jostled, they are shoved to and fro, into and away from each other, as they shuffle through the doors and down the platform to the boat.
The ferry has three levels, and when they get to the staircases, just inside of the ferry itself, they come to a skidding halt, feet and heads pointing in different directions, an awkward uncertainty that lasts until they are swept forward on the current level by the crowd and cast adrift at the other end of the boat entirely. There's a brief return of synchronicity then; each of them paw a door open and step out onto the observation deck.
No one else is out here, even though the view of the Statue of Liberty at night--all lit up and majestic--will be breathtaking. Everyone else will plaster their faces to the windows, or press their cameras to the Plexiglas, because it's freezing out here and it'll get colder once the boat starts moving.
Graham and Riley stand with their legs braced, ready for the eventual forward motion. That damnable one and a half steps of distance is still in place and Graham lifts his chin, unlocks his legs, and takes two very deliberate steps away. He knows for sure this time that the gasp isn't his, because his jaw is clenched shut and he hasn't inhaled or exhaled since he decided to move.
"Graham," Riley rasps, and Graham's not sure if Riley is pleading or warning. He just knows that, either way, Riley sounds desperate. The ferry horn blasts then, loud and long and lingering. Graham moves further away, to the railing, his hands gripping it so tightly that his knuckles are white.
The proximity to Riley during these walks is about keeping Riley close by and in sight to prevent him from doing something stupid that he'd regret later. Graham is suddenly, disconcertingly aware that he is digging his hands into the railing so that he doesn't erase the five feet of distance between them, even though they're on a boat, sailing away from the shore and the only Bite House in all five of New York City's boros.
They spend the half hour ferry ride to Staten Island in a silence that stays thick and fraught. Water is stung from Graham's eyes by the wind but he doesn't look to see if the same has happened to Riley. When the boat is docking, and people are streaming onto the deck to disembark, Graham realizes that it had to end at some point. He maybe always knew that, one night, Riley wouldn't be tempted and lured, that the need would ebb until it became a vague ache that Riley could cope with just fine. Once again Graham doesn't know how or when it happened, just that it has.
An announcement comes over the loudspeaker, tells them that this boat will be returning to Manhattan immediately, so Graham and Riley move to the edges of the crowd, on opposite sides of the deck with their backs to railings. They let the mass of people shuffle off the boat and when they see the first few eager people coming down the ramp to board, they turn and make their way to the opposite end of the boat, to the other observation deck.
They don't maintain the too-close proximity but they aren't two awkward strangers, either, when they walk. It reminds Graham of their days on campus in Sunnydale; yeah, they were soldiers, but they were also just friends, just two guys.
Graham's lost track of Riley in relation to himself, of himself in relation to Riley, though he knows Riley is on the deck with him. Their perfect grid has been skewed and Graham will consider what that means later. When the ferry horn blasts, Graham takes a breath through his nose, and exhales through his mouth. It's the first time since the horn blasted on the way to Staten Island that Graham's unclenched his jaw, and it aches dully.
"I haven't wanted to for months," Riley says. His voice is *right there*, and Graham is startled first at the shock of hearing it so suddenly and so close, and then by the words themselves.
"Then why?"
There are a lot of questions packed into those two words: Why haven't you wanted to? Why haven't you said so? Why haven't you gone back to how you used to be? Why did you keep going out? Why--
Graham's stomach clenches and he stops thinking of any other possible questions.
Riley is standing so close that, when he shrugs, his shoulder brushes Graham's. "You," Riley says quietly.
"I don't understand."
"You don't have any ideas? Not even one?"
"Apparently not," Graham says and brings a hand up to rub absently at his hurting stomach with a fist.
"I went out fifteen times when I was with Sam, and every single time I made it all the way. Every single time I got bit. She caught me seven times after the fact, never once before."
Graham has to peel back layers of history and years and reference points to understand this, but he does. Two and a half years ago, in a safe house in Argentina, the entire squad heard Sam yelling at Riley about a mark on his arm. Sam was a patient sort, understanding, and even as everyone pretended they weren't hearing anything, they all knew it couldn't have been the first or even the fourth time that Sam had found a bite mark.
Her words were judgmental, humiliating, like she'd gone through every other verbal weapon in her arsenal and was down to desperation and guilt. Graham punched a hole in the wall downstairs, and he wanted to go up there and stand between Riley and Sam and tell Sam: no, this is not how you do it, this is the worst way to do it, this is the way that will send Riley out searching sooner rather than later, can't you see what this does to him?
That was when Graham knew that Sam couldn't be trusted with Riley, that Sam wasn't careful enough with him, and Graham should never have thought otherwise, should never have left it--left Riley--in her hands. So Graham went back to watching, noting, cataloging, following in impartial silence, and he never did say anything to Sam because from that moment on Sam had become nothing in Graham's eyes.
A month later, the squad moved on to Brazil and Sam didn't come with them. Five months later the divorce papers caught up to Riley in San Francisco.
So Graham's not surprised at how often Riley went out looking, given Sam's reaction that day. But he is surprised by how often Riley followed through. In all the time Graham's followed Riley, there've only been five times Riley was hell bent on really doing it, five nights when Graham had to drag the larger man away.
"Guess how many times I made it out on your watch that you didn't know about," Riley says, and his voice is sharp and commanding, his tone so forceful that Graham answers without protest because that's what he's been trained to do when his CO asks him a question.
"Five? Ten?"
"None."
Graham bends over the railing, pressing forward so that his stomach is jammed against it, like he's trying to keep something from chewing its way out through his gut. The upper half of his body is no longer buffeted from the wind by the boat itself and he staggers to the side at the force of it, bumps into Riley, who puts a hand at the small of Graham's back to steady him.
Riley leans forward, his hand digging into Graham's back through layers of wool and flannel and denim to keep Graham from moving away. When Riley speaks, his voice is like crumbled mortar, and it's so close to Graham's ear that he can hear it over the roar of the wind, the pounding of the water. "How many times did I go all the way on your watch, Graham?"
If Riley never made it out without Graham following, then they both know the answer: none. Graham never let him, no matter that one time he had to chase Riley into a dilapidated house in Columbus, stake the vamp whose fangs were just an inch away from Riley's wrist, and then tranq Riley before he could beat the shit out of Graham in desperation.
Riley moves behind Graham, hands latching onto the railing on either side of Graham's waist, bracketing Graham between Riley and the railing. Between a wide, strong, brick wall and a maelstrom of wind and water that will tear Graham apart if he isn't careful. Graham is shaking now, heavy shudders that make his teeth shatter and his knees threaten to buckle.
"When you found out your mom was sick," Riley says and Graham squeezes his eyes shut, hangs his head and bites back a scream. "When Dillon took that fall on your part of the London mission. When you had to stake that vamp that looked like a kid." Riley leans over, moulds his chest to the curve of Graham's back and puts his mouth right at Graham's ear. "I went out on those nights for you, not for me."
Graham does scream then, a shrill noise that the wind carries away before anyone inside of the boat can hear it. "Jesus Christ, Riley," Graham begs. "Don't do this. God, just--don't."
"Why are you scared?" Riley whispers, his breath hot and moist against Graham's skin. He shifts his hips forward, and Graham feels it, feels Riley, jutting against him, hard and warm in a way that their multiple layers of clothing can't disguise.
If Riley's like a brick wall, then Graham's always thought of himself as plaster over drywall--seemingly sturdy but so very vulnerable to focused force.
Riley lets his body fall over and against Graham's like deadweight, wraps his arms around Graham's chest so that Graham can't move his arms, and Graham is pinned, Graham is trapped, Graham can't escape one and a half steps away to a place that's close but not too close.
"Why are you scared?" Riley repeats.
"Because it's you," Graham chokes out and there are more reasons in those three words than Graham could ever expound on even in his own head, because to do so would mean that he knows the underlying question, knows what's happening here, what's been happening for a long time now. Even though the proof that he knows all of that is pressed against him right now.
Graham feels a wave of anger, fury. Not because Riley has him pinned over the railing, but because Riley's construct has deteriorated, has lessened, and it's not fair--it's not fucking fair--that out of the blue, all of a sudden, Riley is doing this to him. Graham wasn't ready, wasn't prepared, and he's goddamn sick and tired of Riley sneaking up on him.
One of Riley's hands moves, slides down Graham's chest, to the side and wedges itself between Graham and the half-wall beneath the railing. And when Riley's hand palms Graham through coat and shirt and jeans, Graham realizes for the first time that he's hard, that his own dick is hard and heavy and leaking at the tip. Riley slides his hand up to the tip, then down to the base, and then Riley's palm goes still and his fingers curl back, around Graham's balls.
Riley isn't a construct anymore, but he's not the Riley that Graham used to know, has ever known. He's a new Riley who gets hard against Graham's ass, who cups Graham's own hard dick in a way that doesn't feel like it's about sex. Instead, it seems more about reassurance, solidarity. The tension Graham's been riddled with leaves him suddenly, sags him further over the railing, and the twisting of his stomach eases away in small increments. He's not worried by how much further he's hanging over the void of wind and water now that he's relaxed, because Riley is there, holding him down. Graham wonders if this is how Riley felt on those nights when he was tempted and Graham was only and always one and a half steps away.
When Graham rights himself, Riley moves with him, until they're both standing, wholly on the safe side of the railing. Riley's dick is against the small of Graham's back, and Riley has to bend slightly to keep his hand cupped around Graham's balls. It has to be uncomfortable for Riley, but Graham doesn't encourage him to move, because Graham threw his damn back out carrying Riley's tranqued body from that house in Columbus, and that was a lot more than uncomfortable. And also because Graham knows where he is in relation to Riley, where Riley is in relation to himself, where they both are in relation to everything else, and his heart pound and his breath comes in gasps.
Graham's eyes slide closed, his head falls back against Riley's shoulder, and Riley loosens the arm still around Graham's chest. It shifts to Graham's midsection with a movement like a caress, Riley's hand unfurling so that his palm is pressed right where that painful ache used to be in Grahams' stomach. Graham's own arms are hanging at his side, his hands twitching with uncertainty.
"You're thinking too damn much," Riley says and Graham can hear the smile in the words, can feel the smile itself against his skull when Riley rests his face on top of Graham's head.
Graham's never been accused of that before. He's been lauded for thinking just enough, for balancing thought with action in the most successful combination possible. But that was on missions, and this isn't a mission, Riley isn't a mission, and Graham realizes that he has been thinking too much by way of trying so hard not to think at all. By trying so hard to forget the dreams he's been having, the wetness in his shorts when he wakes up, the face and body that's been sneaking in when he jerks off while wide awake, and the real reason why he's been so attuned to Riley.
"Not sure how to stop," Graham admits, and his voice is gruff with confusion.
But Riley knows. He rubs the length of Graham's dick--up, down; up, down--fingers wrapping around it, and Graham isn't thinking of anything at all now, and he's not trying not to think, either. Graham just is, and one hand flails behind him, grabbing hold of Riley's thigh. The other comes up to grab onto the hand that Riley has on Graham's torso.
Riley's mouth latches onto Graham's neck, lips trailing along the length of it, tongue flicking out to taste every other inch. "Yes," Riley sighs, and the word against wet skin makes Graham's back arch instinctively, which shoves him against Riley's dick.
Graham feels Riley's groan, a tight and coiled and controlled vibration in Riley's chest that never makes it to Riley's lips. The hand on Graham's dick clenches in response, so Graham pushes back again. And again. He rocks back and forth between Riley's hand and Riley's dick, and when Riley starts thrusting against him, he wants to laugh, he wants to cry, he wants to scream, but he settles for baring his teeth and shoving back harder than before.
And Graham thinks a moment later that he's spent months waiting to feel Riley's teeth against his neck, digging in, clamping down, holding on. It brings Graham up on his toes, takes his head to the opposite side in an offering that he'd never make to anyone else. Riley's palm is rubbing at the head of Graham's dick, digging in past clothing, clamping down, holding on, bringing dappled colors to life behind Graham's closed lids. He grinds back against Riley's dick, and Riley stoops down so that he's against Graham's ass again, and it's so goddamn perfect, with the wind and the water and the railing and Riley's hand and Riley's dick and Riley's tongue now sliding along Graham's jaw.
It's perfect and Graham's eyes open, roll back, and he makes a garbled noise and comes, wet heat pulsing out of him, pooling in his shorts.
"Yes," Riley grunts. And again, "Yes." Over and over, "Yesyesyesyesyes--" Until coherence is lost to a strangled scream and he freezes against Graham.
Graham wishes dazedly that there'd been skin, that he could have felt Riley's dick jerk against him, shoot onto his bare flesh, and he wonders if he'll ever get that chance. Maybe this is the only time. Worse, maybe it wasn't but this is how it will always be, good little soldiers abiding by "don't ask, don't tell" even to themselves and each other.
Riley's hands are trailing along Graham's arms, the motions calm and gentling, like Graham's a spooked horse. Which maybe he is, because he feels wide-eyed and trembling, like he could bolt or collapse at any moment. By the time the doors open and people start coming outside in anticipation of docking, Graham is steady again, even if he's still wondering.
They aren't jostled when they disembark. They keep one and a half steps between them. It's just like it was before, but not, and Graham finds himself smiling and giving Riley sidelong glances that Riley always meets with a smile of his own. They make their way down the various ramps to the street and pause for a moment. Graham wants to take a cab, because any minute now the wind is going to make its way under his coat and the come in his pants is going to freeze his damn balls off. But Riley wants to walk, Graham can tell. They share a glance and then make their way on foot, retracing their path through the financial district to the West Side Highway.
Less than a quarter of the way back to the safe house, a funnel of wind curls up under their coats and Riley and Graham both go still, shudder, and then curse at the same time. Riley shrugs in defeat and they hail a cab. Graham gives the driver a set of cross streets that are five blocks from the safe house.
It's been hours since Graham's been truly warm and the blast of warm air from the heater in the cab is making him feel heavy and tired. His head lolls against the seat back and he slips into a zone of comfort that's like the state a body drifts in before sleep claims them.
Graham's brought back to awareness by a prickling of his skin that's followed by Riley shifting closer, decimating the distance between them until they're touching. Graham can see their wavering, distorted reflections in the safety glass partition in front of them that separates them from the driver.
He sees Riley's head turn and he doesn't stop to think, just turns his own head. And they're face to face again. The second time tonight, the second time in two years. Riley is flushed with blood from having coming in out of the cold and Graham finds that crying is the last thing on his mind now that this moment is here, now that Riley's back to being human again.
Riley's lips are cold and dry when Graham brushes them with his own, but on the inside Riley's mouth is hot and wet as sin. They pull back at the same time, faces so close that it's impossible to focus their eyes.
The cab stops and Riley fumbles in his wallet, shoves cash through the partition, and then they step back out into the cold night. It takes fifteen minutes and a circuitous route to traverse the five blocks to the safe house. Inside they nod at Dillon, who's on watch, then head upstairs.
Graham is turning to the left, towards the room he bunks in with Dillon and Harroway, but Riley wraps a large hand around the nape of Graham's neck, jerks his head meaningfully in the direction of his own room, which he has to himself--a perk of being the CO.
"Okay," Graham rasps. "For tonight."
Riley's hand holds him stronger, tighter, more secure. "Not just for tonight."
Graham takes a breath, lets it out. Takes another. Nods. "Okay."
.End
ETA: If it's experimental fic that I post quickly, chances are it's written for someone and I'm too nervous to say anything until said person comments on the fic (see Spring Haze). So, um, it's now safe to say that this is is for Her Larness' birthday, which was ages ago, because I luff her.