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bethynyc who wanted Graham/Riley h/c after a bad mission
“I won’t help you commit suicide,” Graham says. His left arm hangs uselessly from a dislocated shoulder, and his BDUs are stiff with dried blood. In the distance, he can hear the choppers coming for them. Riley won’t look him in the eye. Graham says, “You want to die, fine. Eat your weapon, and leave me the fuck out of it,” and then they’re both running under the whirling blades and lifting into the sky until the jungle is a green, tangled blur beneath their feet.
Riley avoids Graham for days, and that’s just fine with him. Graham reports a version of what happened that won’t send Riley packing stateside; he’s got Riley’s back in that, if nothing else. While he waits, Graham writes a letter to his Gran and beats Jefferson at poker three times and field strips his P-90 until his fingers cramp. Sure enough, before the week is out, Riley comes slinking into his bunk with a bottle of some local hooch. He still won’t look Graham in the eye.
“I’m sorry,” Riley says, holding out the bottle like an offering, like a shield, and Graham doesn’t have the heart to tell him that the words don’t mean anything anymore.
They drink in silence that is broken only by the metallic sounds of insects and the drip of rain on the thick canopy of leaves above them. They drink until Graham’s anger has mellowed and all he’s left with is the warmth in his gut and an ache where it doesn’t belong.
Sometimes, Graham wishes that Buffy knew just exactly what a wreck she left of Riley, just how efficiently she stripped him down to desperation, and then he has to tamp out viciously the part of him that’s glad she’ll never know anything about Riley ever again. Graham doesn’t often indulge himself in this train of thought. It’s counterproductive and stupid and the kind of risk he stopped being able to afford once he signed on that dotted line. But now, with Riley’s fingers curled around brown glass, his throat working as he swallows, bruises just starting to fade on his cheekbones—it’s the sort of thought that Graham can’t help.
And when Riley finally does look him full in the face, his eyes wet and his mouth twisted into something ugly and pained, Graham can’t help reaching out with shaking hands to hold onto what he’s always known will never, ever be his.
“You fucking asshole,” Graham says into the curve of Riley’s throat. “You son of a bitch,” he says into Riley’s mouth.
Riley shudders beneath Graham’s fingers as Graham breaks him apart and puts him back together again, over and over. He looks like he's in pain, like Graham's hurting him each time he touches Riley's sweat-slicked skin, and Graham thinks maybe he is. After, when Graham can't even hear the rain over his own ragged breaths, Riley takes his hand--one scarred palm to another--and they lie awake in the dark, wet night so very far from home.
bethynyc who wanted Graham/Riley h/c after a bad mission“I won’t help you commit suicide,” Graham says. His left arm hangs uselessly from a dislocated shoulder, and his BDUs are stiff with dried blood. In the distance, he can hear the choppers coming for them. Riley won’t look him in the eye. Graham says, “You want to die, fine. Eat your weapon, and leave me the fuck out of it,” and then they’re both running under the whirling blades and lifting into the sky until the jungle is a green, tangled blur beneath their feet.
Riley avoids Graham for days, and that’s just fine with him. Graham reports a version of what happened that won’t send Riley packing stateside; he’s got Riley’s back in that, if nothing else. While he waits, Graham writes a letter to his Gran and beats Jefferson at poker three times and field strips his P-90 until his fingers cramp. Sure enough, before the week is out, Riley comes slinking into his bunk with a bottle of some local hooch. He still won’t look Graham in the eye.
“I’m sorry,” Riley says, holding out the bottle like an offering, like a shield, and Graham doesn’t have the heart to tell him that the words don’t mean anything anymore.
They drink in silence that is broken only by the metallic sounds of insects and the drip of rain on the thick canopy of leaves above them. They drink until Graham’s anger has mellowed and all he’s left with is the warmth in his gut and an ache where it doesn’t belong.
Sometimes, Graham wishes that Buffy knew just exactly what a wreck she left of Riley, just how efficiently she stripped him down to desperation, and then he has to tamp out viciously the part of him that’s glad she’ll never know anything about Riley ever again. Graham doesn’t often indulge himself in this train of thought. It’s counterproductive and stupid and the kind of risk he stopped being able to afford once he signed on that dotted line. But now, with Riley’s fingers curled around brown glass, his throat working as he swallows, bruises just starting to fade on his cheekbones—it’s the sort of thought that Graham can’t help.
And when Riley finally does look him full in the face, his eyes wet and his mouth twisted into something ugly and pained, Graham can’t help reaching out with shaking hands to hold onto what he’s always known will never, ever be his.
“You fucking asshole,” Graham says into the curve of Riley’s throat. “You son of a bitch,” he says into Riley’s mouth.
Riley shudders beneath Graham’s fingers as Graham breaks him apart and puts him back together again, over and over. He looks like he's in pain, like Graham's hurting him each time he touches Riley's sweat-slicked skin, and Graham thinks maybe he is. After, when Graham can't even hear the rain over his own ragged breaths, Riley takes his hand--one scarred palm to another--and they lie awake in the dark, wet night so very far from home.
