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[ 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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