Riley closed the phone with an irritated snap, more than a little rankled by the badgering lecture he'd received from Miller, poking around where he wasn't wanted. Bad luck is what it was. He'd been doing a routine sweep of the factory and had caught Riley stumbling out of it, sweaty and pale and wobbling from minor blood loss.
There'd been judgment, sure, but what really stung was the understanding. The… tolerance.
It was as though once he'd found out about Buffy—once they'd all found out who she was and what she was—everyone in his troop had been counting the days towards his inevitable meltdown.
The near heart attack he'd practically volunteered for hadn't helped with that image.
They didn't understand. None of them did. He felt so betrayed. Betrayed and angry and out of control. Really, how was he supposed to compete with her past? Every man with a beautiful girl on his arm knew what it was like to have the shadow of an ex hovering at the edges, waiting to sweep her back the moment anything got a bit rocky. But dammit they weren't supposed to be eternal, powerful, undying entities of pure evil!
And he wasn't stupid either. He could recognise that wicked little glint in Spike's eye a mile off. Third one would be the charm, maybe? Angel-Dracula-Spike. Buffy could have a whole evil trio of undead lovers.
Riley swallowed down a sour lump of bitterness, revulsion rolling through him as he slammed the Summer's door shut behind him.
The suck house helped. In a strange, unclean sort of way it felt like maybe he wasn't so replaceable. Wasn't as weak as she thought he was.
Maybe I should let one of them turn me, he thought angrily, obviously not meaning it. Not really. And yet the thought clung a little too tightly…
He stopped on the sidewalk, taking a steadying breath in the sunshine.
No. Don't go down that road again.
But maybe he should take Graham up on his offer. A new troop, a new project. Undercover down in San Diego, a new hotbed of demon activity was waking up and they needed someone with experience to lead the mission.
Maybe he could persuade Buffy to go with him-
With a flinch of anguish, he recognized that as an impossibility. She would never go to San Diego. She wouldn't leave the Hellmouth. Wouldn't leave the monsters, nor the family she had here. Monsters and family. Why did the two rank at the same level of importance to her!? And he was so far down the ladder he was practically scraping the dirt…
His arm itched hotly under the bandage and he covered it with a hand, giving it a squeeze to feel the sting in the muscle beneath.
One more night. Just once more and he'd put a stop to it.
Once more and he'd quit.
She wouldn't even have to know.