guinegreer | inbox for saltburnt;

( As he ices over, becomes the Riley he is now - and not who he was - his phone comes to life beside him. It's her.

Was it always? Could it have ever been? She's the what if he lives with every day. He could be an entirely different person, or at least he thinks so. He doesn't do regrets, not any more. Too many lives have ended. He's lived a thousand lifetimes, it feels like.

But, still, he can't help but think of that shitty dive bar. The two dollar beers. Her smile. The back of his pick-up. And her hotel.

He doesn't know what possesses him, but he answers. ) Would you accept butt dial as an explanation?

( Does he need to explain himself? Will she even recognize his voice? ) Technically, hand dial if there's such a thing. Greer. ...Hey.

[ Right when she thinks the call is going to finally go to voicemail after all, there's a pause in sound — a shuffle of movement, and then a voice, coming through the speaker, deep and unmistakable.

Greer nearly drops her phone. At the very least, she succeeds in spilling red nail polish on the desk she's seated at, which is going to be a bitch for Giles to get out later.

Her mind is whirling with countless different responses — relief, confusion, and something all too close to longing — so she settles for something safer and much less damning, her voice adopting the sort of arch, frosted tone she takes whenever she's debating moronic pundits on CNN. ]

How did you get this number? [ Try as she might to mask her surprise, it's still there — she's not using the same phone she'd had all those years ago, but maybe she should know better than to underestimate his capabilities. She's well aware of the kind of work he's in; she's followed his exploits, even though she'd deny it outright if asked. ]

We're all connected to the same network.

( It's cold and as brief as she says it. It's being here. Saltburnt. Probably a way of everyone being able to stay in touch, or mingle. From what he was told, and the research he did, Saltburnt is about the connections made. And they encourage connecting. )

I worked for Embry Colchester.

( And the president. And after a beat. )

The invitation.

( And, her conversation not being private. )

G. Dot. Galloway. It had to be you, didn't it.

( In every fucking definition of the word, right? He doesn't mean it like that, either, and the more he says, the less the cold former army ranger comes out. And the small town, small fish Iowa roots show through. )

[ It's a perfectly logical explanation — so logical, in fact, that Greer's initial panic, entirely spurred by the mere sound of his voice in her ear, begins to subside.

If she's flushed now, it's out of a brief swell of embarrassment; she hadn't considered the possibility that their hosts would be encouraging more socializing in this vein, but it aligns with everything she's come to know about the Balfours, including their notorious reputation. ]

I'm aware. [ Sharp, though it's a bit more dulled than her initial response — and revealing, in terms of her awareness of his proximity to the White House, if only for a time. ]

I'm not sure I could say the same for you... Frank, was it? [ Referencing the caller ID she hadn't recognized, when she'd initially decided to try his number. ]

Is this some new security standard I've never heard of?

( You play the hand you're dealt, as it were. )

Costner. The Bodyguard.

( A standard, if he's honest. He liked the older movies, but that one always had a timeless sensibility to it. He likes how firmly planted tongue is in cheek. )

It's been a long time.

( Since us. Since the army. Since everything else. Why is tjis hard. He shouldn't have said anything. He's no longer that starry-eyed dumb kid. He never will be again. Fuck.

He licks his lips, taking a seat on his bed next to his suitcase. Running a hand through his hair, he glances at the man in the mirror. He's not the same. )

Cute.

[ Though it gives her more of a hint about what he's been up to since leaving the Service — when it became harder for her to follow his exploits, to pick him up in the background of various photographs in the newspaper or hovering during the occasional presidential address broadcast. Not that she'd been looking, of course.

The question then becomes who he's protecting now, if he's here — some rich friend of the Balfours, no doubt. Someone who pays well and doesn't probe too deeply.

Her breath snags, briefly, when he references all the years that have passed since she even found herself in a position to pick up his call. (Maybe if she'd known it was him, she wouldn't have.) ]

Did something happen? [ Something that compelled him to reach out to her now, of all times. She has to consider that possibility, rather than the one where he's called for a reason she isn't willing to interrogate all that closely. ]

( He never left a big footprint, until joining the secret service. It's 0 - 100 in being front and center in a way he was never truly comfortable with. But, Ash Colchester likes you uncomfortable. A completely different memory flashes in his mind and he stands, crossing to the door to his shared bathroom, closing it deliberately.

It's such a broad question.

Yes. War is real. People die. And he discovered he's good at killing someone when necessary. And then when not. And then life got structured. Rigid. And suddenly, he had all the time in the world. He learned he didn't like working for an agency, but himself.

But, he's not about to go down his resume. )

The usual. The military is a pipeline to what comes next. Here is what came next.

( After a few stops, stumbles, and a lot of borderline illegal activity. It is what it is and money is money. People use you up and leave you for dead. Better to be ready.

Or, disappear with it in the first place. You can't take it with you. )

I'm fine, though. Tip top. Shape. Not hurt, or anything. You?

Not for everyone.

[ What's the saying? About the number of soldiers who wash out before they reach their fullest potential? Greer has enough military connections in her family, or in friends of family, to know that not everyone ends up on a direct track to becoming part of the President's personal security detail.

But then again, Riley was always the type to be more modest about his exploits, regardless of whether he succeeded at being the exception to the overall rule. ]

Fine. [ An echo of his words, she thinks, is certainly safer. ] Clean bill of health, and all that.

[ If he's been paying any attention to the gossip rags lately, though, he'll have seen the headlines — about her breaking off her engagement to Sheamus, with all of the invented reasons splashed across glossy magazine pages. Some of them are a little closer to the truth than she'd like to admit. ]

A summer abroad beats sky-high temperatures in the DMV. [ She tries to make it sound casual — like it was her decision to retreat from public life in Washington for a few months, rather than more of a strategy to lay low while the worst of it dies down. ]

Let me guess: you're working.

Good to hear.

( Good to hear?

He doesn't pay too close attention to anything like that, beyond glancing down at the checkout line. Maybe he caught a glimpse, but didn't let himself read about her. He doesn't get to. She's not Gwen. He called her that the first time he'd met her because she was blonde and he was working his way through old Spidermans. Her wit. Her quickness. She was Gwen Stacy.

Not that he could ever measure up to Peter Parker.

He tried. )

The DMV? Renewing your license?

( For the summer? Forget it, he was always bad at humor, wasn't he. )

You'll see me around, standing at attention. It's work. She's a handful. ( But nothing he can't handle. God, she felt good in his arms. And she could handle him. Steer him away from his macho frat bravado. She's probably the reason why he became a feminist. Is that giving her too much credit? ) I think it's a two-for-one deal, but he didn't ask. ( Not that he ever does. ) I guess this means we'll be seeing each other around.

[ It's awkward between them — there's no way around it, not when she once envisioned herself wearing his ring, becoming Mrs. Riley Finn, vowing to love and honor and cherish if not always obey.

(Not when he'd once been so insistent on taking her to a hotel room for her first time, but she'd pulled him down against her, atop the blankets spread haphazardly over the bed of his truck, and pleaded, wanton and desperate, until he'd taken her right then and there. When he'd pulled out, and seen the blood on the condom, he'd apologized so profusely, sweet boy, but she'd kissed him, licking into his mouth until he hardened against her thigh again.)

But something in her chest twists, tightens, when he mentions someone else — not by name, which might be for the best. If she knew, she'd spend all night digging into everything she could, needing to know who this woman is, who's capable of changing the tone of his voice like that. ]

Will we? [ If he's on the job, she doesn't anticipate that he'll be able to engage her all that directly, but maintaining some form of distance is how she's protected her heart all these years. ]

Buffy's -- she'll be everywhere. So, I'll be everywhere.

( Billy's only kind of his responsibility, he thinks.

It's impossible not to crash back into the memory of their first time. Of how eager she was. He treated her so delicately, but she wanted him more than anyone else ever had. She was the dream. But, so was serving his country. And he couldn't do both. Or, so he believed.

He was beneath her. Not to her pedigree. A grunt. A nobody in boot camp beaten down and remolded into their image. Eight weeks apart changed everything. For him. He never apologized. )

Her name's Buffy. She's training for the olympics. ( Her body's a weapon, not quite like his is.

He wants to tell her more, that she just lost her mom. She's intense in a too much way and she throws herself at him - and anyone else. But they aren't friends. He has few friends like that. When does he talk about himself, anyway. ) What are the odds.

[ Greer's first impulse is to say something along the lines of who the hell names their kid Buffy? — but she bites it back. It's petty, and beneath the kind of woman who is much more accustomed to heads turning whenever she walks into a room. This is what she becomes around him, a reversion to the girl who allowed things like jealousy to get the better of her.

She's convinced herself, in the years since, that it never would have worked between them — not long-term. He'd always thought of her as something precious, something to be handled delicately, and she hadn't been able to voice the fact that she wanted him to hold her down, to pin her between rough thrusts and a hand wrapped around her throat, to grip a constellation of fingertip bruises into her hips so she could map them on herself later.

If he learned half of what she'd done in bed since getting to Washington, it might result in a few more gray hairs. ]

Maybe it was only a matter of time. [ Before their paths crossed again, before they ended up back in each other's orbit. She hasn't seen him in the flesh yet, but it's incredibly unfair that the sound of his voice still conjures a faint pulse between her legs, a subtle echo of her own quickened heartbeat. And then she gets a somewhat terrible idea. ]

Are they keeping you on the clock 24/7, or will you be in a position to buy me a drink one of these nights?

Edited 2025-06-01 19:54 (UTC)

( That they both ultimately want the same thing might mean it never would have worked and it took getting into the white house of all places to explore that side of himself. He saw a girl he loved, a girl he could take care, but he also saw an equal. A kindred spirit. )

More like, 20/7.

( He'll be able to be off the clock. To sleep - when sleep doesn't elude him.

That said, and is implied, he has the time. And he is more than willing. Why can't he say that. He was so young. So was she. Things happened how they should. Or had to. He's a man of absolutes. )

I'll buy a drink. We've come a long way from $2 beers.

[ When she flings out the suggestion, she's fully anticipating that he'll find a way to politely decline — that he'll come up with a list of all the reasons why they shouldn't. It's more surprising, then, when he doesn't.

It's equally surprising when he makes her laugh — a soft, kind of breathless chuckle, but a laugh nevertheless. ]

We have, haven't we? [ Even if she doesn't voice it as a question.

Suggesting he meet her tonight would come off as too desperate for her liking; besides, they have the black-tie dinner to attend, and he's likely occupied with having to ensure various rooms have been secured on behalf of his newest client. ]

Tomorrow night. Anywhere but the piano bar. [ Because she suspects Ash and Embry have already staked their claim there, and she'd rather not run into them when she wants to enjoy her night for once. ]

I like the piano bar.

( Or, he would. He's looking forward to it. It's not often a house has its' own piano bar. He's a man of the classics, but he can acquiesce. )

Wherever you want, Gwen.

( He'll be there, like that old song.

He drops his head back against the closed door, listening to her breathe. Pushing him to say anything else.

He doesn't miss her. He's far too old for that. But, maybe he misses what was. What they could've been. The ghost of a good thing lost. If it was ever theirs to have in the first place. )

I should go. Finish unpacking. Post up.

( Get to work. Case the grounds. Earn his keep. Run into so many unexpected faces. )

Thanks for calling back.

( He hates himself. Who thanks someone for that? It's fine. )

Then you can case it ahead of time.

[ Just to be sure. She's well aware that Embry is hard at work attempting to find guests for whatever debauchery is being organized on behalf of the president, but that doesn't mean she's eager to find herself in the position of plaything — even if there is one, very small part of her that would fuck Ash, or even Embry, if she was feeling especially self-destructive.

She hums once, softly, at the old nickname; his dangles on her lips, but goes unspoken. ]

I've gotten worse butt dials.

[ And now, if nothing else, she's getting a free drink out of it — even if she's already picturing exactly what to wear, how to look her most devastating, by the time she finally walks into that bar. Selfishly, she wants to see if she can make his jaw drop, like old times. ]

Goodnight, Riley.

Hand.

( Kind of.

And she remembers his. Probably also his butt, and he, hers. )

Goodnight, Gwen.

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