Last Rites
Things used to be simple. Black and white. Good and Evil. G-d and Country. Boys and Girls.
Black and white got him bruised and battered and damn near killed when they collided in a haze of grey and made the line between Good and Evil get fuzzy. He's stopped going to church, he's not sure how he feels about his country, and even if he knows how he feels about the girl, his feelings aren't the ones that make or break things.
Riley looks over at Spike, and realizes he envies the enemy almost as much as the enemy envies him. Spike is Psych 101 simple, driven by his id. He wonders again why they've let this particular Hostile live. Buffy'd probably tell him it was "complicated" or something like that, some excuse that rings false to Riley's ears. And everything Spike's said tonight is true.
Buffy doesn't love him. He's not monster enough for her. "I'm the guy," he says again, trying to put more strength in the words. "I'm the guy, and it eats you up, doesn't it?"
A shrug and the bottle's tossed back Riley's way. "Course it does. She deserves better than you, you know."
The whisky stings, cheap and bitter in his throat, but he drinks it anyway. He stares at Spike, who stares back, cocky even through the obvious pain, teeth bared in a pleasant sneer. Riley feels old, tired, lost, and he takes another swallow, tosses the bottle back to Spike. "Kiss my ass," he says, wrenching his head around so all he sees are the dark stone walls.
He hears the clink of glass on rock, and knows Spike's set the bottle down. There's a rustle, a muffled groan, and then soft words without breath are hitting his ear. "Well, if that's the way you want to play it."
He's not prepared for Spike suddenly twisting him around until he's flat on his stomach, or for Spike's hands tugging at his pants until they're off and discarded, and he's sure as hell not prepared for the feel of a cool, damp mouth on his ass. He feels a rush of adrenaline and a surge of something that might be need as the mouth goes lower, hands parting his cheeks and that tongue going where tongues, in Riley's world, were never meant to go.
It's not the first time a vampire's made him hard, just the first time one of them took this route to get him there. Spike probably doesn't think Riley has it in him to go this low and enjoy it, but Spike doesn't know him very well. Flickers of motion over tender skin fly through him like electric shocks, and he starts to shake and sweat. He lashes out blindly with his feet, connecting and sending Spike off balance, and, more importantly, off of him.
Sprawled on the floor, sneer intact, Spike laughs at him. "You still smell like her, which I guess makes you the next best thing."
With a growl, Riley pulls Spike up and looks him dead in the eye. "And you're small and blond." It takes a moment for the implication to sink in, and while Spike's busy puzzling it out, Riley returns the favor with the pants. "On your knees, Hostile," he orders.
Spike drops, but not without another bark of laughter coming out of him. "Didn't know you had it in you."
"I don't," a pause as Riley bends down between Spike's splayed thighs, his still-hard cock brushing against Spike's raised ass. "But you will."
Reasonable's now more than just a couple exits back: it's crossed the state line and gone into hiding. This is stupider than going to those vampires, stupider than falling in love, stupider than anything he's done since leaving Iowa, and he doesn't care. Riley pushes his cock inside Spike's ass, knowing full well that it's as big a mistake as he could possibly make, as low as he could humanly go, and that it still won't be low enough.
This is something else he's never done, never thought of doing; Spike shifts to take him in deeper like it's something he's done any number of times. Riley finds himself thinking clinically about the differences between what he's doing now and what he's used to doing. It's primarily a difference in sensation; this is tighter, forcing him to go slower, to hold back when holding back is the last thing he wants to be doing.
Riley closes his eyes and tightens his grip on Spike's shoulders. He can feel the sharpness of bone through his palms, digging into the skin. Can feel the slide of his own sweat against skin that only gets wet by artificial means. Spike smells like smoke and whisky and nothingness. Oblivion. Riley stops holding back.
When it's over, he collapses, like his body can't hold up under the weight of his actions. Spike slides out from under him without a word, and from the corner of his eye, Riley can see him walk over to where he left the bottle. He picks it up, takes a swallow, and offers it to Riley, who has pulled on his pants and managed to sit back down on the ratty couch. Riley takes it, trying to wash the memories out of his brain.
"Well, now I know what she's so willing to give up, and I can't say as I blame her." Spike's in full control again, and Riley's stopped wondering how that happened.
"Fuck you," he says, finishing off the whisky and throwing the bottle to shatter against the wall.
"You already did that. Wonder what Buffy would say if she found out?"
As a threat, it's not particularly effective. "You wouldn't tell her, and even if you did, it wouldn't change things." Riley faces the knowledge he's tried to avoid, and tastes the truth in his next words like poison even before he forces them out. "It's over," he finally says. "You've seen to that."