Title: Circling in Suds
Fandom: Buffy the Vampire Slayer/Angel
Pairing: Lindsey McDonald/Riley Finn
Summary: Listen to the water, vaguely familiar, like your heart between the covers at night.
Notes: Post-series for both, with no regard for the comics.
Serrana was the newest recruit on the Fortaleza base, and as such, she got stuck with giving Riley the tour of the facilities. One Initiative base was pretty much the same as the next, though, so Riley pretty much tuned out until midway through the their walk past the holding cells.
"--kept yelling about an angel or something, but he clammed up whenever we asked him what he wanted." Serrana gestured widely as she talked, so she almost clocked Riley in the head when he stopped. "Sir?"
Riley cleared his throat. "About that last subject--"
"Sorry, sir." Serrana settled into a formal posture, though he'd told her not to stand on ceremony. "The subject should not be referred to as 'he.' Subjects are not human."
"Not that," Riley said, gently. "You said something about Angel."
"Yes, sir." Serrana gestured to the holding cell up ahead. "You could ask the subject yourself."
Riley strode forward, peered between the iron grid at the man-shaped being seated in the corner. "What do you want with Angel?"
The figure didn't stir.
"According to reports," Serrana said, "he manifested at the edge of a favela. The locals claimed the sky ripped open and he fell through in a burst of light."
"Did anything fall out with him?" Riley asked.
"No, sir," she said. "Just him. No clothing, no weapons. We picked him up about an hour later, and he seemed pretty woozy. Knocked a couple of soldiers around pretty good, though."
Riley nodded, then stepped closer to the bars. "My name is Riley Finn. Why do you need Angel?"
The figure lunged at the bars. "That bastard was supposed to kill me." In the light, his hair was revealed as long and matted, and his eyes dark enough to look bruised.
"What's your name?" Riley asked. "Are you vampire?"
"My name is Lindsey McDonald," he said, and spat on the floor, "and I don't know what the hell I am anymore."
In the days and weeks that followed, Riley managed to shift McDonald's accommodations to somewhere less filled with manacles. It took three favors and twelve batteries of tests before anybody believed McDonald didn't have any special powers--"Not anymore, anyway," he had growled--and Riley was reluctant to just call Angel up and ask.
McDonald's room had no windows, no outlets, no breakable objects, and no inner doorknob. Riley visited every day, the security camera whirring above the door. "I'll ask you again," he started, one midnight, "how did you get here?"
"I wrote the fine print," McDonald replied, "and I goddamn made sure hellfire wasn't an option." He stretched out on the bare mattress on the floor, his arms folded behind his head. The T-shirt and scrubs he wore were worn but clean, and his feet were bare. "I didn't specify the means. It didn't seem important."
"The means," Riley said, "are the only things that can get you out of here. Cooperate."
McDonald rolled to look at Riley. "Is that right?" He looked up at the camera, then swung off the bed, strolled over until he was flush with Riley, underneath the camera. "I'd cooperate with you. Not," he glanced up again, "them."
Riley took a deep breath and considered rank, seniority, and expedience. "What exactly does that mean?" A leer preceded McDonald's answer, and Riley tried not to grin back.
"Get rid of the camera," McDonald said. "I want to piss in privacy."
Riley resisted the urge to glance down, between them. "And?"
"And a six-pack of beer, ice-cold." McDonald responded. "This hole is even hotter than hellfire."
At that, Riley couldn't help but laugh.
Four days and seven beers later, Riley sat slouched with his back against the door of McDonald's room, snickering as McDonald compared the mastubatory habits of extra-dimensional demons. Their shoulders pressed together, and when Riley twitched his foot, the toe of his boot nudged McDonald's instep.
"I swear, man," McDonald said, shaking his head, "I have never looked at Elmer's Glue the same again."
Riley tipped his head back to drain the last of his beer, and when he dropped the can, McDonald's hand settled on his chest, palm warm against Riley's sternum.
"Hey, I, uh," Riley said. "I'm married."
McDonald's laugh was brief and low. "Would she mind this?" The pressure increased against Riley's chest, and McDonald's breath was hot against Riley's throat. Riley groaned, then jerked upward when McDonald's hand slid low and lower, pressing against his belly before wrapping around his cock.
Riley thrust, almost involuntarily, and that's when McDonald kissed him.
"Yeah," McDonald murmured. His mouth was hot, though slightly stale from the beer, and it didn't matter when his tongue was sweeping against Riley's own, and Riley pushed his hips up hard, his hands fisting in the cloth covering McDonald's thighs.
When McDonald fell back, Riley bowed, tried to follow. Then his brain caught up with his body, and he blinked, confused and aching-hard.
"So would she mind?" McDonald asked again. His expression was shuttered, almost blank, but his throat pulsed as he swallowed.
Riley's gaze dropped to his crotch, where the scrubs tented over his erection. "I don't know," he answered honestly.
As Riley watched, McDonald dropped his hand into his lap and began to pump lazily. "I'd ask," he said.
"Yeah." Riley scrambled up, tugging his own clothes into order again. "I will."
As Riley exited, McDonald called out, "Thanks for turning off that camera." His voice was rough, and his breathing quick.
Riley didn't look back, but raised a hand to acknowledge. McDonald laughed, and the door slid shut.
A/N: Title and summary adapted from Walter Griffin's Old Men and Laundromats. Link courtesy of breathe_poetry.