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Male Bonding
By spikeNdru, December 2003
Thanks to Rear Admiral DuGalle for his unwavering interest in Riley and the Sprigel writers; they made me wonder what did happen to Riley after he left Sunnydale. This provides one possible answer.
Joss, ME, 20th Century Fox own all the characters, I’m just borrowing them. I changed the episode order in some places to benefit the story.
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Riley was at loose ends. Intellectually he understood the reasons for mandatory leave; he had a Master’s degree in Psychology after all, but emotionally, he was not a happy camper. He liked being busy. He liked the adrenaline rush he got from fire fights. Your standard, garden variety kill or be killed mission necessitated *all action, no talk*, and *no talk* also meant *no think*. But after clocking a certain number of months of field time, one was expected to take some leave. He had managed to put it off twice, but the third time wasn’t a charm and so he found himself in Mexico on vacation.
He had been here a week and already was bored stiff. And he still had two weeks to go before he could return to his unit. He had better find something to do before the urge to charter a plane to Sunnydale *just to see how things were going* overwhelmed him.
In the jungle, he had pushed his body to its absolute limits, leading to being able to fall asleep at the drop of a hat. Here, he had no such distractions. He walked, he ran, he climbed, he worked out . . . and he still had too much time to think. About the only thing he hadn’t tried was getting drunk. Here he was, stuck in the land of cheap tequila; might as well give it a shot.
He entered the first bar he saw and slid onto a stool at the bar. The place was empty at this hour and the bartender immediately appeared. The plan was to get drunk, so Riley ordered a bottle of tequila, and grimaced as the first shot burned its way down his throat. The second shot wasn’t quite as bad and a nice feeling of warmth began to spread out from his stomach.
“You are American?” the bartender asked.
“Born and raised,” Riley answered and threw back another shot. “You?”
“Pylean,” answered the bartender. “But I spent a little time in LA before coming here.”
Sipping his fourth drink, Riley leaned his forearms on the bar and asked, “How’d you end up here?”
The bartender sighed. “It was because of a girl. . .”
“It’s always a girl.” Riley extended his hand. “Riley Finn.”
The bartender shook hands. “I am called Groo.”
Riley finished his drink and poured another. Reaching for a second glass, he poured one for Groo also.
“Tell me about your girl. . .”
Groo’s smile lit up his whole face. “She was kind and beautiful and funny. She was a Princess.” His smile faded. “But she didn’t love me like I loved her.”
Riley nodded and poured them each another drink. “Seems to be a lot of that going around.”
Groo nodded sagely. “I tried to be what she wanted, but it wasn’t enough. She loved another.”
Riley wobbled a bit on the barstool and decided nodding wasn’t such a good idea. “Me too! Jus’ couldn’t compete with her las’ boyfriend. Too normal, too whitebread!”
“Too boring and wholesome.”
“Why d’all the good girls always go for the bad boys?” Riley wondered, pouring two more drinks. “Why do they want dark. . .”
“And broody. . .”
“Billowy coat, king of pain. . .”
“Soulful. . .”
“Vampires. . .”
“Like Angel!” They finished in chorus and stared at each other.
“Your girlfriend left you for Angel?” Groo asked hopefully. If Angel was involved with someone else, maybe he’d have a chance with Cordy.
“Nah. She an’ Angel had broken up by the time I came along, but I don’t think she ever got over him.”
Riley and Groo spent the next half hour commiserating with each other and getting progressively drunker.
Putting on a whiny, teenage girl voice he borrowed from Dawn, Riley commented, “It’s always *Angel, Angel, Angel*!” Off Groo’s puzzled look he continued, “Guess you’re not a fan of the Brady Bunch. . .’f ya’were you’da got that ref . . . refrance . . . reference. See, the girl nobody noticeshes always says *Marsha, Marsha, Marsha*”
“Tha’s ush! We’re the Marsha,” Groo agreed.
“Yep! Jus’ a couple ‘a. . . No! We’re not the Marsha. . . We’re the Jan. Angel is the Marsha!”
“Who’s Jan?”
“She’s the girl . . . th’ invisible girl. The one who can never compete wi’ Marsha.”
“Are we invisible?” Groo leaned very close and looked at Riley. “You’re not invisible. I can see you. I can see two’ve you. You have four eyes and two noshes . . . you’re not a demon, are you?”
“Nah. M’not a demon. Thash why I’m here with you ‘stead’ve with her. *The girl needs shom monster in ‘er man* an’ I’m not *dark* ‘nuff.”
“Angel’s dark.”
“An’ broody.”
“Very broody.”
“Angel’s a demon.”
“Yesh . . . I know. I fought him in Pylea when he wash a demon.”
“D’you fight demons, too?”
Groo said proudly, “I fought whomever I needed t' fight to defend my people. I wash their champion . . . I wash the Groosalugg!”
“Wha’s a Groosalugg?”
“A mighty warrior. . . a champion . . . but I fell in love with the Princess an’ came to be with her and she cut my hair and dreshed me up in his clothes!”
“Whosh clothes?”
“Angel’s.”
“Did’ja get t’wear the billowy coat?”
“No. No billowbee coat for Groo. Jus’ Angel. Angel gets the willowby coat.”
“An’ Spike. Spike has the bes’ coat.”
“Whosh Spike?”
“Don’ wanna talk about Spike. Don’ like Shpike. Shpike thinks he’sh in love with my girlfrien’.”
“You have a girlfrien’? Wha’she like?”
“She likes Angel.”
“Oh. Sho does mine.”
“Wha’s your’s name?”
Groo leaned over and patted Riley on the head. “Already tol’ you. . .” He poked his finger into his own chest. “I’m GROO. ‘Member?”
“No . . . the name of your girl.” Riley poured more drinks.
Groo thought for a minute. “Cornucopia.”
“Tha’s a nice name . . . like a basket ‘f fruit. Mine’s Buffy.”
“Muffin?”
“No. Not Muffin. Maybe. What’d I shay her name was?”
“You shed *Muffin*.”
“Okay.” Riley poured more drinks. Groo must have added another bottle at some time, because they were apparently halfway through a second bottle of tequila.
“A toast! Les’ toast to Muffin and Corn . . . Cornucopia.”
“To Corny an’ Muffin!”
Groo refilled their glasses. Riley picked his up, “To Xanderer.”
“Whosh Xanderer?”
“He’sh m’frien’. He hates Angel an’ Shpike.”
“Me too.”
“Me three.”
“You f’got to tell me why I hate Shpike.”
“He thinks he’sh the *Big Bad*. . . but he’sh not. He’sh a skinny, litt’l whiny blond stalker who won’ shtay away from Buffy.”
“Whosh Buffy?”
“My girfrien’.”
“Does Muffin know?”
“Know what?”
“ ‘Bout Buffy.”
Riley sighed and tried to process what Groo was saying. After a long minute he gave up and tried to remember the point he was trying to make.
“W’ were gonna toast t’Xander.”
Riley refilled the glasses and they both solemnly clinked them together, spilling half the contents in the process.
“Whosh Xander like?” Groo asked.
“He likes Anya.”
“Ish she blonde?”
“Shometimes she ish and sometimes she’s not. She hash diff’rent color hair ever’ time I shee her. Like Oz.”
“The Wizard?”
“Nah. The werewolf.”
“Oh.”
“Buffy’s blonde.”
“Cornelia had beautiful dark hair, but then she liked Angel an’ she dyed it blonde.”
“Angel mus’ like blondes.”
“Yesh. Let’s fix ‘im up with Anya.”
“Naw. Anya’s my frien’ Xanderer’s girl, ‘member?”
“Oh. Lesh fix ‘im up with Shpike.”
“Naw. Shpike hates Angel too.”
The door opened and a beautiful blonde entered the bar. Riley and Groo looked at each other with identical gleams in their eyes.
“Lesh fix her up with Angel and we can get our girlsh back!’ Groo suggested.
Riley gallantly attempted to stand, but rather spoiled the effect by clinging to the bar with both hands.
“Schuse me, Mish. Can we offer you a drink?”
The blonde smiled. “You certainly may,” she said in a soft, seductive voice. “Thank you.”
“Are you with anyone?” Riley asked.
She arched a lovely eyebrow. “Does it look like I’m with anyone?”
“Good.” Said Groo. “Caush we had a great idea.”
Riley added, “We wanna hook you up with thish guy we know. Well, he’sh not really a guy, but we figured out he likes blondes an’ we think you’d be perfect for Angel.”
“Angel?”
“Yesh. The girlsh we both like sheem to be more innereshted in Angel than us, but you’re so beautiful, he’d prob’ly like you better an’ leave our girlsh alone. So, you wanna meet Angel?”
She threw back her head and laughed. “Oh, dear boys, you have no idea how much.”
She picked up the bottle of tequila and drained the rest of it. With another tinkling laugh that sounded like wind chimes in a light breeze, she stood, her shawl slipping to reveal her heavily pregnant body.
“Such amusing boys . . . this is your lucky day. . .” and blowing them each a kiss, Darla headed out into the velvet Mexican night to take them up on their offer. Yes, that’s exactly what she’d do . . . go to LA and see Angel.
The End
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