Combat Comfort:
Prologue
Author: Clarity
Disclaimer: Joss. Is. GOD. I just try to interpret his works.
Summary: After S5, Riley stops by Sunnydale. When he leaves again, a certain soldier-possessed Zeppo tags along.
Rating: R, but just for language. Eventually will involve NC-17.
Spoilers: 'The Gift' and much of S5, esp. 'Into the Woods'; 'As You Were' and an altered S6.
Author’s Note: I read this really great Xander/Riley slash called 'You Can't Go Home Again' by Syrenslure. I spent the next week wondering what would have happened if Xander just gone with Riley. Then I decided to write it myself. I think I've just found the basis of what being a ficcer's about.
Author's Note 2: The prologue is now completely rewritten. I didn't like it. I think I need a beta to point these things out to me before I post stories. If anyone is interested in helping a pushy, picky, neurotic obsessive-compulsive author with a prediliction for big words and semicolons, give me an email.
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February 26, 2002
Mechanically, Buffy took another order. Punch in the food selections, ring up
the total, open the cash register. Take the money, punch the amount into the cash register,
make the change it told her to. Pray it isn’t broken, because she’d unblinkingly turn over
the entire night’s take if the machine so ordered. Big smile, have a nice day, next
customer. Sometimes, on nights like this, she wondered if Willow really had gotten the
spell wrong, if she were just the Buffybot with a few tech improvements and a handful of
memories, and no one had bothered to tell her. Mostly, on nights like this, she didn’t
think much at all. Welcome to Doublemeat Palace, can I take your order? Thank you
and have a nice day.
The fat, balding man in the tee shirt moved down. Buffy tapped the top of the
cash register to get the attention of her next customer, a of young man all in black and
leather jacket, who was talking on his cell phone at a three-quarter turn away from her.
He made a fluttering, ‘hold-on-a-minute’ gesture with his left hand.
“I’m just saying that I don’t think this is a good idea.” Pause. “Yeah, I know
we went over this in the car. I just...” A longer pause.
“Um, sir?” a harried-looking mother behind the two men tried to interrupt as
she kept a firm grasp on the hand of her struggling six-year-old.
“Just a minute. Huh? No, not you...I’m...It’s not a question of trust. I trust
you. I just also happen to worry for you. I don’t like you in dangerous places without me
to watch your six.”
“Hey, what’s the holdup?” The line was backing up between the man, but he
didn’t seem to notice.
“I know I’m overprotective. It’s part of my charm. Look, I want you to meet
me on the corner of Carolina and Stuart in ten minutes, okay? I’m getting dinner. Huh?
Oh, salt and grease, topped with more salt and grease, and a small serving of salt and
grease on the side. I’d say you owe me, but I have the sneaking suspicion that your
arteries will all clog shut with a solid wall of grease before you get a chance to pay me
back. Yes, I am picking up on your sense of humor. Love you too. Take care.”
Buffy wasn’t altogether sure why the ‘love you’ did it. Yes, she’d heard that
voice say those words a thousand times, but never like that. With her, they’d been
passionate, emotional, and heartfelt. Every time she’d heard those words in that voice, it
was as though she were being begged to believe them. Now, dropped casually at the end
of a phone conversation, it was as if whoever was on the other end of the line already
knew beyond a doubt that the sandy-haired man flipping shut his cell phone loved her. It
had never been like that with her.
And it had absolutely never been ‘love you too’.
So maybe it was the contrast. Maybe it was the world of difference in the tone
that made it feel as though she’d just been punched in the gut. She wasn’t sure. But
whatever it was, at that instant, hearing those three little words tagged onto the end of the
conversation she’d been barely listening to with an idle ear, she knew, beyond a shadow
of a doubt, who the man in front of her was. So when his blue eyes met hers and widened
in shock and recognition, Buffy could turn her artificial fast-food-worker smile into a
wry, sad curve of lips that didn’t reach her own eyes.
“Hey, Riley. Welcome to Doublemeat Palace. Can I take your order?”
NEXT
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