Chapter Text
2000
Sunnydale, California
Warehouse
Inside the dim, cavernous warehouse, Buffy stood rooted to the concrete floor, Xander’s words pressing down on her chest like tidal waves. One after another, they crashed into her, suffocating, relentless. His voice still lingered in the air, but already it had carved itself deep inside her, replaying with merciless clarity.
She felt split apart. Anger still burned hot in her veins, scalding at Riley’s reckless betrayal, his idiotic decision-making that cut her trust to the bone. And beneath it, worse—an ache so heavy it hollowed her out. Mourning. Not just for what was lost, but for what might never be. For the fragile, bright future she had glimpsed and already half-convinced herself she could not deserve.
And now, of all people, it was Xander standing here—Xander, who had so often been her ballast in moments like this—talking her down from the ledge she hadn’t realised she was clinging to. His words were merciless in their honesty. Riley was leaving. Black ops. Brazil. She might never see him again. The choice stood stark before her: forgive him and hold on, or let him slip into the dark and out of her life.
The thought clawed at her. A part of her yearned for release—for the clean break, for freedom from the endless tug of heartache. To let him go, to watch him find a woman who could give him the kind of love he wanted without reservation, without ghosts. But another part of her—a desperate, grasping part she hated—ached to cling to him, to keep him as hers, even if it meant smothering him with love she had always been too afraid to show.
Maybe Riley was right. Maybe she had always kept him at arm’s length, her fear of being broken again driving her to build walls too high. Angel had wrecked her. His love had burned through her, a firestorm that left only ash and mistrust in its wake. No one could ever eclipse that kind of love, not really. No one would ever clear that impossible bar. But Riley… Riley had something Angel never could offer. A future. A life beyond the shadows. Stability. Children, maybe. Growing old. Things Buffy never let herself want—things she told herself she didn’t deserve.
Her eyes lifted, brimming, lashes wet and trembling. The unshed tears blurred the edges of Xander’s outline until he seemed almost ghostly in the dim light. She breathed his name, a whisper cracked by desperation.
“Xander…”
“Run,” he replied, simple and absolute. He knew. He had always known.
Her heart lurched. Before she could think, her body obeyed. She tore past him, pushing against the heavy warehouse door until it banged open, metal screaming against metal. Cold night air hit her face as she broke into a sprint, legs eating up the distance. Her breath burned, chest rising like a war drum. Teeth clenched, she vaulted fences and tore down alleys, faster than fear, faster than doubt.
In the distance, above the heartbeat roar in her ears, came the sound. Helicopter engines. The thunderous whip of blades slicing the air, carrying him away, each rotation spinning her window of hope smaller and smaller.
The roar of the helicopter’s blades whipped the night air into a frenzy, scattering dust and leaves in chaotic spirals across the cracked tarmac. Floodlights cut harsh beams through the dark, illuminating the small clearing where the chopper crouched like some great, impatient beast straining to be unleashed.
Riley stood just outside the open bay door, his broad shoulders hunched, an expression of dread carved deep across his face. He fixed his gaze on the line of trees at the far end of the clearing, willing her to appear. Every shadow, every shift of the branches was a cruel taunt. His chest tightened until breathing hurt, hope curdling into despair with every second she did not come.
Behind him, Graham leaned casually against the doorframe of the helicopter, arms folded tight across his chest. He watched Riley with a mixture of sorrow and quiet loyalty. He understood his friend’s desperation; understood the cost of waiting here while Major Ellis seethed in silence. Time was being wasted—missions did not pause for miracles—but Graham said nothing. Not yet.
When Ellis caught his eye and gave the barest of nods, the unspoken order was clear. Graham straightened, unfolding himself from the doorway. His boots scraped the concrete as he crossed to Riley, the weight of the moment pressing down.
Riley glanced at him, swallowing hard, panic raw in his eyes. He couldn’t leave. Not yet. He turned back to the trees just as a bush rattled. His heart surged, pounding with wild hope—only to collapse in on itself when a squirrel darted out, skittering away into the night.
Defeated, he exhaled a heavy breath, shoulders sagging. He nodded once, hollow, and began to turn away with Graham beside him.
And then—
“Riley! Riley!”
The voice carried over the roar of the blades, muffled but unmistakable.
He spun, disbelief flooding him. From the shadows, Buffy emerged, sprinting straight for him, her golden hair streaming behind her. For an instant he thought it must be a dream, some cruel mirage conjured by longing. But then she was in his arms—warm, real, alive—as she leapt into him, her body colliding with his in fierce, desperate need.
Her arms locked around his neck, her forehead pressed to his, and then her lips found his in a kiss that silenced everything—the helicopter, the soldiers, the waiting world.
“I’m sorry,” she gasped against his mouth, tears streaking her cheeks. “Oh, god, I’m so sorry.”
“Me too,” Riley murmured, brushing her hair back with trembling fingers, staring at her as though afraid she might vanish. “You’re here.”
“I couldn’t let you go without… Don’t go,” she begged. “We can try to—”
Overcome with joy, Riley laughed through his disbelief, cradling her face in both hands. “I was an idiot. I…” He faltered, casting a glance back at the helicopter. “I need to talk to them.”
Buffy followed his gaze, her heart sinking at the sight of Major Ellis and Graham waiting in the background. Slowly, she uncurled her arms from him, letting him go.
Moments later, the engines quieted, blades slowing. Riley returned with a small, wistful smile and tugged her gently from the helipad. They found an empty picnic bench in the shadows, away from the others.
They sat close, knees touching, hands apart. The silence between them carried the weight of everything unsaid.
Buffy’s voice cracked softly as she met his gaze. “You’re still going.”
Riley stared at his laced fingers, then nodded. “I have to. Our problems aren’t going to be solved overnight, and the distance won’t make them easier, but…”
“You have to go,” she finished for him, the words steady despite the sting in her chest.
“I need this,” he admitted, lifting his eyes. “I can’t keep following you around like I have been. I need to find my way again.”
She nodded, her throat tight. She did understand. If he stayed, they would only destroy each other.
Her hand trembled as she reached up to his cheek, fingertips brushing the clean, familiar line of his jaw. “I love you.”
It was the first time she had spoken it aloud. The words did not explode inside her as they once had with Angel; they settled into her like a balm, steady and quiet. Safe.
Riley froze, eyes widening with disbelief, then joy. Elation rushed through him, the ache of longing answered at last.
“Write to me,” she whispered with a fragile smile.
“I will come back,” he promised fiercely. “Six months. That’s it.”
“Easy peasy,” she tried to joke, though her eyes brimmed.
He grinned, kissed her again with hungry passion, and when they broke apart, he rested his forehead against hers. “Meet me here in six months.”
Nodding, she let her eyes fall shut, clinging to his hands as though her touch could anchor him.
When he rose, she walked with him back to the helicopter. They lingered on the edge of goodbye, lips pressed together one final time, hands refusing to part until the last possible moment.
Graham watched from a distance, a small smile touching his lips. Riley had found both his purpose and his woman—and Graham, ever loyal, was glad for him.
As the helicopter lifted into the night sky, Riley sat beside him, still gazing down at the shrinking figure of Buffy. A disbelieving smile tugged at his mouth. “She came.”
Graham chuckled, clapped his shoulder, and looked away.
Below, Buffy stared upward, her hair whipping around her face in the downdraft. She didn’t feel the wind or the noise. She felt only the steady thrum of her own heartbeat, alive with relief and fragile hope. For now, one crisis had been averted.
But in the shadows of the not-so-distant future, heartbreak waited like an old, unwelcome friend.
One Year Later
The six months Riley had promised stretched, taut and merciless, into a year. What was meant to be a brief mission bled into seasons that came and went without him, leaving Buffy with only his letters to cling to. Each one carried a piece of him—ink pressed hard into paper, terse sentences softened by moments of raw affection. Through those letters, she learned fragments about the group he had joined, a covert military operation forged from the ruins of the Initiative. They called themselves Ghosts .
Unlike the Initiative, this was no secret experiment buried under a college campus. The Ghosts were soldiers who stalked demons across borders, a black-ops unit committed not to harnessing darkness but to destroying it. Buffy read his words with a strange detachment at first, stunned to realise that there were others—men and women like Riley—fighting the same war she had been waging since fifteen. Entire teams hidden in shadows, mirroring her mission, bleeding in foreign jungles and war-torn cities. It unsettled her. Comforted her. Isolated her further.
In that year, heartbreak came home. Her mother slipped from her, taken after complications from the brain surgery that had given them all such fragile hope. Joyce’s absence was a raw wound Buffy carried every day, its ache compounded by the crushing responsibilities that followed.
Glory had risen in the wake of her grief, a Hell-God draped in glamour and madness. Buffy had fought until her body broke, until her will was all that remained. With the Scoobies at her side, she had clawed and bled to keep her sister safe. Their desperate resistance stretched Glory thin, forcing her to miss her one window—the single chance to open the portal back to her hell dimension. Dawn had lived. Buffy had lived. Sunnydale still stood. But the price of survival weighed heavier with every dawn.
Through it all, Riley’s letters became her lifeline. At first, they arrived regularly, each envelope stamped and scarred from travel, a whisper from across oceans. Then, slowly, they thinned. Weeks passed between them, then months. Sometimes her own letters vanished into the void, unanswered.
Buffy told herself it was because he was on the move, always chasing shadows through jungles or deserts, cut off from any way to reach her. She prayed that it was the reason. But at night, in the silence of an empty house, darker thoughts curled around her like smoke. She imagined him gone—broken, captured, or buried in some nameless corner of the earth.
The last she had heard, he was still in Brazil. Missing you. Loving you from a distance. The words had been tender, but her instincts—the Slayer’s instincts—whispered otherwise. Somewhere deep inside, she already knew. A dread lodged in her chest, heavy and cold, told her that something was coming.
The first day of the newly rebuilt Sunnydale High was chaos. The house pulsed with movement and noise as Buffy hustled Dawn through the morning routine, a flurry of forgotten books, hairbrushes, and last-minute complaints.
In the kitchen, Buffy circled the counter island like a soldier in the trenches, tucking a sandwich into a crumpled brown paper bag. Her voice carried, sharp and impatient.
“Dawn, let’s go!”
From upstairs came the inevitable delay: “Coming!” Dawn called, still wrestling with her hair in the bathroom mirror.
The doorbell rang, slicing through the noise. Buffy froze for a beat, then dropped the bag onto the counter with a sigh. She hurried through the dining room and into the foyer, her voice lifting as she wrapped her hand around the door lever.
“Dawn, Xander’s here! You’re going to be late.”
“I’m comfortable with that,” Dawn’s dry reply floated down from above.
Buffy rolled her eyes, the familiar irritation tugging at her mouth. But when she opened the door, the words died in her throat.
Black boots.
Her gaze snagged on them, polished leather gleaming dully in the morning light. Slowly—almost against her will—her eyes climbed the rest of him: fatigues, a heavy belt cinched tight around his waist, the breadth of his chest straining against military fabric. And then she reached his face.
Icy blue eyes met hers.
Graham.
The air punched out of her lungs. For a heartbeat, she could not breathe, blink, or even think. Her pulse hammered so violently in her ears that she could barely hear the world beyond her own body. The foyer seemed to tilt, narrow, and collapse inward.
His expression was grim. Sorrow carved across his features, softened by a restraint that only made it more unbearable. He didn’t speak. He didn’t need to.
She already knew.
Dread pressed its full weight onto her shoulders, threatening to crush her where she stood. Buffy sucked in a sharp breath, bracing herself, summoning whatever strength remained in her body for the words she feared were about to leave his mouth.
The news she had been dreading.
Chapter Text
Buffy opened the door wider without a word. Graham stepped inside, pulling the black beret from his head as though removing a weight. The house smelled faintly of coffee and laundry soap, lived-in and warm—the kind of place Riley had described to him in letters as homey, welcoming, hers . Graham felt the pang of recognition and loss, even though it was his first time standing in it.
His jaw flexed as Buffy guided him into the living room. She gestured toward the couch, and he obeyed, sinking onto it with the stiff posture of a soldier out of his element. Buffy settled into the chair opposite, the coffee table between them a fragile buffer neither was ready to breach.
The silence stretched.
Buffy studied him, noticing the exhaustion etched into his face, the hardening around his eyes, the faint new crease on his forehead. He looked older than a year should have made him. Graham, hunched forward, stared down at his hands dangling loosely between his knees, unwilling to meet her gaze.
Finally, her voice broke the silence. It was soft, raw. “Please… just tell me.”
Graham inhaled, steadying himself, then lifted his eyes. “There was a nest of Suvolte demons. Rare. They breed by…” He cut himself short, shaking his head. “It’s not important.” His voice was low, grave, almost too gentle for what followed. “Riley went in with a small team and, uh… no one came back out. We haven’t heard from them in… weeks.”
“Weeks?” Buffy’s voice cracked with sudden, wild hope. “Th-that means there still could be a chance—he could be alive, or hurt, or—or—”
Graham flinched at her desperation. He had lived in that same fragile space of denial, begging command for another search. But they had shut him down before he could even gather a team. His gaze dropped, heavy with guilt, as he forced out the words.
“Command has classified Captain Finn as killed in action. Search and rescue is suspended indefinitely.” The words came clipped, cold, the tone of official channels. But his eyes softened, and his voice broke back into something human. “I’m so sorry, Buffy. He’s dead.”
From his breast pocket, he drew out two polished silver dog tags. They glinted in the weak morning light as he laid them on the coffee table.
Buffy reached out with trembling fingers. The tags were cool against her palm, the punched letters swimming through the blur of tears filling her eyes: Finn, Riley J. Below that, the sterile details of identity—DoD ID, blood type, Christian. She traced the ridges of his name with her thumb, the simple truth of his existence reduced to cold steel.
“Keep them,” Graham murmured. “They belong to you.”
Buffy swallowed her anguish, tried for a smile, but it faltered. Her voice was almost a whisper. “Thank you.”
And then the moment shattered—Dawn’s shoes clattered down the stairs, her hurried footsteps filling the house. Buffy straightened instantly, plastering on a mask of composure so fluidly rehearsed that Graham was struck by it. How many times had she hidden devastation behind that same mask?
Buffy tucked the tags into her pocket just as Dawn appeared in the doorway.
“Oh, hey, ready?” Dawn chirped, then stopped, her eyes flicking to the unfamiliar man on the couch. “Who’s that?”
Before Buffy could fumble for an answer, Graham rose, extending a hand with a pinched, polite smile. “I’m Graham Miller. I’m a friend of Riley’s.”
“Oh?” Dawn’s eyes lit with interest. “Is Riley back?”
The question drove straight through Buffy’s chest. Tears pricked her eyes, but before Dawn could press further, a knock sounded at the door. The interruption was a mercy.
Buffy turned quickly, wiping at her cheeks as she opened the door. Expecting Xander, she was stunned to see Giles on the porch. Relief surged—until he caught the ache in her eyes, and his smile faltered.
“Giles,” she greeted softly, leaning in for an embrace.
Before she could reach him, three girls pushed past into the house as though they owned it.
“Nice place. Bit of a mess,” said one with a thick cockney accent, tossing her bag onto the floor.
The second girl smiled wordlessly, slipping inside without pause.
The third, older and dark-haired, lingered in the doorway just long enough to give Buffy a cool once-over. “This is a Slayer?” she scoffed, before striding inside.
Buffy blinked at the intrusion, her confusion snapping toward Giles. He sighed, apologetic. “Sorry to barge in. We have a slight apocalypse.”
Buffy’s body felt stretched thin, her grief now colliding with this new chaos. The girls roamed her living room with wide-eyed curiosity, throwing occasional glances at Graham, who shifted awkwardly, clearly feeling he had stumbled into something he didn’t belong in.
“I need to take Dawn to school,” Buffy announced, grasping at the nearest excuse to escape.
“Buffy, aren’t we going to—” Giles began.
“It can wait until I get back,” she cut him off, sharp with desperation. She could not face an apocalypse. Not yet. Not on top of this. One crisis at a time. “Dawn, let’s go.”
Dawn frowned, sensing the strain. “But what about—”
“Xander will meet us there,” Buffy said quickly, not even thinking about logistics. She just needed out.
“I can, uh, drive you,” Graham offered, his voice steady, careful.
Buffy turned to him, her eyes glassy but grateful. “Thank you.”
Together, she ushered Dawn out, tossing a final word over her shoulder to Giles: they would talk later.
Graham was the last to leave, closing the door behind him. The three of them walked to the black SUV parked at the curb. Buffy slid wordlessly into the passenger seat, her gaze fixed ahead, her hands folded tightly in her lap. Dawn chattered on in the back, her voice bright and oblivious, while Buffy sat silent—unmoving, unblinking, staring into the blur of the world beyond the windshield.
And Graham, stealing a glance at her profile, felt the crushing weight of what he had just brought into her home.
The drive to the high school passed in silence—at least, for Buffy. Dawn filled the air with her chatter, words tumbling one over the other, but they washed over Buffy like static, never quite reaching her. She sat stiff in the passenger seat, hands folded tight in her lap, eyes fixed on the blur of streets sliding by outside the window.
Graham, recognising the void she had withdrawn into, stepped in where she could not. He answered Dawn’s questions, humoured her tangents, offering the kind of mild, steady responses that kept the girl from noticing how absent her sister was. His voice was low, unhurried, a buffer between Dawn’s bright insistence and Buffy’s silence.
Every so often, his gaze flicked to Buffy. She hadn’t moved, hadn’t spoken, but he could almost hear the grind of her thoughts. She was a storm contained in a body too small to hold it: grief for Riley, shock at the strangers in her home, the sudden return of Giles, the looming weight of yet another apocalypse. He wondered how she managed not to shatter under it.
When they pulled up to the kerb outside Sunnydale High, Graham shifted the SUV into park. Dawn was already pushing the back door open before the vehicle had fully settled. Buffy blinked, shaken loose from her stupor as she rolled down her window.
“Oh, Dawn—” she began, her voice reaching, maternal and strained.
“I know!” Dawn groaned, reciting the familiar litany with theatrical exasperation. “You never know what’s coming. The stake is not the power. To Serve Man is a cookbook. I love you. Go away.” With a dismissive wave of her hand, she shouldered her bag and stalked off toward the school.
Buffy rolled the window back up, the glass sliding shut on her sister’s voice. She leaned back into her seat, exhaustion pressing into her bones.
Graham didn’t speak at first. He knew better than to force it, knew that grief had its own pace. Still, the silence stretched taut between them until it felt like a third presence in the cab of the SUV.
At last, it was Buffy who broke it. Her voice startled him, not because of its volume, but because of its quiet resolve. “How long are you in town for?”
The question caught Graham off guard. He turned his head, studying her profile—her eyes still fixed forward, her expression unreadable. A dozen answers warred inside him. As long as you need me. Until command calls me back. Until you tell me to leave.
But each one felt wrong. Too heavy. Too raw. Too much.
He exhaled slowly, his hands tightening on the steering wheel. “Long enough,” he said finally, the words steady but deliberately vague.
And though she didn’t look at him, he saw her lips press together, a flicker of gratitude softening the hard line of her face.
The apocalypse Giles had warned of did not keep to whispers. It reared its ugly head in the form of a Turok-Han—a primordial vampire, all brute force and malice. It tore through Sunnydale like a living nightmare, cutting down the newly gathered Potentials one by one. Even Buffy herself had nearly been broken beneath a collapsed wall, gasping for breath under bricks and dust.
In the face of it, Graham could not walk away. Not now. Not with her standing bloodied and surrounded, shouldering the weight of too many lives. She insisted she had it handled, her voice hard, defiant—but Graham had seen enough battlefields to know when someone was drowning. There was no bravado in the hollows under her eyes, no comfort in the way her shoulders bowed.
Between them, something unspoken began to form. She didn’t ask for him to stay, but she didn’t send him away either. And he, in turn, took her silence as permission. Gratitude flickered in her eyes, brief and unguarded. It was enough.
He called in favours, pulled strings, and gathered a handful of his Ghosts—a small, sharp unit of men who trusted him with their lives and who, by extension, would trust Buffy. Soldiers and Slayer, fighting side by side.
When he told her his decision, it was away from the crowded din of the dining room. They had fallen into a rhythm of private conversations, snatched moments just for them, buffered from the noise of Scoobies and nervous Potentials.
“Aren’t you needed back out in Brazil—or the desert, or wherever you were?” Buffy asked, her voice edged with bitterness she didn’t quite mean.
Graham met her gaze steadily. His reply was simple, grounded. “Here. This is where me and my men are needed.”
And then, breaking protocol and restraint both, he set a hand on her shoulder. Warm. Steady. A promise. “We’ve got your back.”
Buffy’s eyes lifted to his face. She searched him, as though trying to read a language she only half-understood. He was Riley’s friend, Riley’s brother-in-arms. To let him in, even a little, felt like betrayal—and yet it didn’t. It felt like something else. Something smaller, more fragile, that she didn’t dare name.
The apocalypse was a distraction, yes. But Graham’s presence was something different: an anchor. A reminder that Riley had been real, loved, and that someone else carried that loss too. They mourned together, quietly, when no one else could see. And between that mourning, something uncertain flickered, too small to examine but too insistent to ignore.
“I’ve got an idea,” Buffy said abruptly, breaking the moment before it could stretch too thin.
She turned, leading him back into the dining room where chaos waited. The Scoobies, the nervous Potentials, Giles with his inscrutable frown, and now Graham’s unit—all crammed together, waiting for direction. The Slayer and the soldier entered side by side, the faint shadow of an understanding between them.
Chapter Text
Buffy stood with her arms crossed, her stance all authority and steel, refusing to waver beneath the tide of nervous complaints from the Potentials. She ignored the tight concern etched into Giles’ brow, the silent questions in Xander’s eyes, the anxious flickers on Willow’s face. Her gaze remained locked—unyielding—on Graham.
His expression was maddeningly unreadable. But Buffy had begun to learn him, to decode the faint, almost imperceptible signals he gave away: the twitch of his brow, the way his jaw set when he disagreed. She saw it now, plain as day.
Their eyes met. Neither blinked. A battle without words, a contest of endurance, a silent conversation stretched tight between them. He disapproved. She knew it. And though he would never undermine her in front of others, she wasn’t about to let him off that easily.
“Say it,” she broke the silence, her voice commanding enough to pull every set of eyes in the room back to her.
A flicker of annoyance crossed Graham’s face. He folded his arms, reluctant. “I didn’t say a word.”
“You didn’t have to,” Buffy countered, sharp and unwavering. “That glum expression says it all. So say it.” She gestured, as if opening the floor to him.
His weight shifted, visibly uncomfortable. “Maybe not here,” he murmured, a soldier trained in protocol, in never questioning command in front of subordinates.
But Buffy wasn’t interested in protocol. She lifted a brow, her tone dismissive. “You mean not in front of the next generation? No time to coddle them. Welcome to the war room, guys.” She swept her gaze across the assembled faces, then fixed back on him. “So—talk.”
Heat crept into Graham’s voice as he cleared his throat, annoyance mixing with embarrassment at being cornered. “I just think… a contained area like the one you’re imagining is a bigger risk than we need to take.”
Buffy smirked, the glint in her eyes sharp. She’d known exactly what his objection would be. “Then it’s a good thing I was thinking about a bigger contained area.” Her confidence was measured, deliberate. “Have a little faith in me, Graham.”
The fight went out of him almost immediately. He realised he had underestimated her—again. Feeling more than a little foolish, he let out a breath and dipped his head. “You’re the boss, Boss.”
“Damn straight,” Buffy shot back, the smirk still tugging at her mouth.
For the first time in what felt like forever, Graham laughed. A genuine, unguarded sound that cut through the tension like sunlight breaking storm clouds. It was brief, but it shifted the air in the room, and in that moment something passed between them—something noticed.
From the sidelines, Dawn’s eyes narrowed with suspicion, a sister’s instinct pricked. Willow, too, caught the subtle undercurrent—the unspoken ease between Buffy and Graham, the strange gravity of two people bound by grief and something else they hadn’t yet named.
Whatever it was, it was enough to spark questions they wouldn’t voice. Not yet.
Night fell heavily over Sunnydale, and shadows stretched long across the Summers’ street. Inside the house, nerves ran high. Graham had already dispatched his Ghosts outside, instructing them to hold position, invisible in the dark. No engagement. Not until the signal. The Potentials didn’t know. Dawn didn’t know. But Buffy did.
Dawn stood at the blinds, stomach twisted in knots, peeking out into the night. Her voice trembled. “Guys? Something’s happening.”
Another girl pressed in close, eyes wide with terror as the Turok-Han emerged from the shadows—its hulking form cutting through the dark, its growl low and hungry. “Oh, my God…”
“Here it comes,” Buffy muttered, arms folded across her chest, her calm mask firmly in place. Her gaze flicked to Graham, a silent signal.
He answered with a subtle click—two taps on his comm. Outside, the Ghosts shifted, peeling away from the house, heading toward the trap they had prepared.
The Turok-Han reached the porch, pounding its fists against the door, each blow rattling the frame.
The Potentials gathered in a huddle around Willow, panic rising in waves. Willow’s lips moved quickly, drawing on the earth’s pulse. “ Caerimonia Minerva, saepio, saepire, saepsi. ”
Andrew squeaked, voice cracking. “Um, deflector shields—deflector shields up!”
Buffy’s eyes cut sharply toward the witch. “Willow—”
The door exploded inward with a crash of splinters. The Turok-Han lurched forward, teeth bared—only to slam against the sudden flare of Willow’s barrier. Her eyes went black as the spell surged through her. “ Saepio impedimentum! ”
A glowing wall of energy shimmered in the foyer, holding the monster back.
Buffy frowned, reading the strain etched into Willow’s face. “Will—”
“It’s— it’s strong,” Willow gasped, sweat beading her temple.
“Hang on, Willow,” Buffy urged, buying time, her voice steady despite the pounding in her veins.
The Potentials’ fear rose higher. Graham leaned close, his hand brushing Buffy’s elbow, his voice low, steady. “We’ve gotta make a move.”
Buffy nodded once, sharply. She raised her voice, command cracking through panic. “Run. Everybody run.”
The group scattered toward the back, Graham and Xander leading them through the night. Bringers swarmed from the dark, eyes branded with their hideous sigils, weapons raised. Steel clashed against steel as the Ghosts fell in to meet them.
Kennedy, a Potential, loosed her crossbow, a bolt thudding into one Bringer’s chest. Graham swung his axe in a clean arc, but his opponent lunged, grappling him. The Bringer forced him down, teeth bared, blade pressing in—but Graham surged up, driving a knee into its chest, wrenching the battle axe free. With a brutal cry, he split the Bringer open, the body collapsing at his feet.
On the porch, Buffy emerged like a storm. She caught a Bringer from behind, slit its throat in one fluid motion, and hurled the corpse aside, clearing a path. “Move!” she barked, waving the group through.
Behind them, Willow’s barrier flickered, then shattered. The Turok-Han roared, bursting into the night after them.
“Come on!” Buffy ordered, sprinting forward.
From the shadows, Graham’s Ghosts swept in with ruthless precision, cutting down the remaining Bringers in a coordinated strike—steel flashing, gunmetal cracking bone, the last of the cultists falling before they could regroup.
The Scoobies and the Potentials fled up the street, Graham running beside them, axe dripping with blood.
“Okay, those guys were new,” Graham panted, scanning the shadows.
“I don’t see them anymore,” Xander said, chest heaving. “Guess they’ll save us for old snaggletooth.”
“Where is the Turok-Han?” Willow asked, her voice thready, eyes darting.
Buffy glanced at Graham. He gave a sharp nod—the Ghosts were already on the move, fanning out into position, setting the snare she had designed.
“Time to split up,” she announced.
Molly’s eyes went wide with panic. “Split up? We’re splitting up? Is that wise?”
Buffy’s gaze didn’t waver. “Graham, take everyone and find a safe location.”
“I know a place,” Xander chimed in, eager for purpose.
Dawn clutched Buffy’s arm. “What are you gonna do?”
“Gonna try to slow the Turok down,” Buffy said evenly. “Lead him away from you guys. Get him to chase me.”
“No!” Dawn protested, fear cracking her voice. “It’s too dangerous—”
Graham gently pulled Dawn back, steady but firm. “Time to go, Dawn.” His eyes lingered on Buffy, filled with both worry and faith. “Be careful.”
Buffy only nodded. She watched them go, Graham’s hand still on Dawn’s shoulder as he steered her away. Then she turned back, her mask snapping into place, her focus sharpened to a knife’s edge.
The Turok-Han emerged from the dark at the end of the street, its hulking frame waiting in the silence.
Buffy squared her shoulders. Her heart thudded once, hard.
Then she ran.
She leapt, kicking it square in the chest. It didn’t move. The impact threw her back, landing her hard against the pavement. Pain jolted through her spine, but she scrambled up, a bottle of holy water already in her hand.
As the Turok-Han lunged, she smashed the glass across its face. Steam hissed, flesh burning. It roared, staggering back—only to seize her throat in its iron grip and slam her through a car window. Shards rained around her as she choked against its hold.
The holy water sizzled in its flesh, but the monster’s strength did not falter.
Buffy gritted her teeth, blood in her mouth, glass in her hair. She wasn’t done.
Construction Site
The construction site loomed like a skeleton of half-built steel and concrete. Scaffolding rose jagged against the night, tools and machinery scattered across the dirt. Graham helped the girls down carefully from the rafters, steady hands guiding them. He caught Dawn as she slipped, setting her firmly on her feet.
“Come on, people, we gotta move,” Xander barked, clambering down the scaffolding with his battle-axe still gripped tight.
Andrew hesitated, peering over his shoulder at the long drop beneath him. “I’m moving. Climbing’s not my thing. I’ve got an inner ear condition.”
“Is falling your thing?” Xander snapped, his patience fraying. “Because if you don’t pick up the pace, I’ll come up there and drop your ass myself.”
“Way to keep up morale in a crisis.” Andrew jumped down with an exaggerated yelp, brushing invisible dust from his sleeve. “No wonder Buffy’s the leader.”
“Some leader,” Kennedy muttered under her breath. Graham’s eyes cut toward her, a dangerous glower silencing any further complaint. He said nothing, but the message was clear: no one disrespected Buffy in front of him.
“This is crazy,” Kennedy continued anyway, bitterness leaking out. “That vamp is gonna kill Buffy, and then it’s gonna come after us. For all we know, it’s killing her right now.”
Another Potential swallowed hard, staring past them. “Or it could skip that part and come straight here…”
Her voice trailed into a whimper as the group turned to see the Turok-Han, stalking forward from the shadows, growling low and hungry.
Kennedy fumbled to load her crossbow, but Graham stepped in, his presence commanding. He lowered her weapon with a firm hand. “Don’t. Stand down.” His voice carried to the Potentials—and through his comms to his men, waiting unseen.
Suddenly, floodlights blazed to life, flooding the site in stark, white brilliance.
And there she was. Buffy stood high on a ledge, arms crossed, mouth a hard line. A general before her troops.
“Buffy?” Dawn gasped, relief and fear tangled in her voice.
“What’s she doing?” a Potential whispered, clutching the scaffolding.
“Just watch,” Willow said quietly, her tone reverent. “It’s show time.”
She herded the girls higher up the scaffolding to watch. Andrew clung to the bars, wide-eyed. Graham gave a curt hand signal—his Ghosts melted into stillness, standing down to observe.
Buffy’s eyes locked on the Turok-Han, her voice ringing with grim certainty. “Looks good, doesn’t it? They’re trapped in here. Terrified. Meat for the beast, and there’s nothing they can do but wait.” She somersaulted down into the arena, rising in one fluid motion. “That’s all they’ve been doing for days. Waiting to be picked off. Having nightmares about monsters that can’t be killed.” She advanced, gaze hard as steel. “But I don’t believe in that. I always find a way. I’m the thing that monsters have nightmares about.”
A strange pride surged through Graham’s chest as he watched her—commanding, fearless, radiant in the floodlights. A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth despite himself.
“And right now,” Buffy said, circling the beast, “you and me are gonna show them why. It’s time. Welcome to Thunderdome.”
The Turok-Han lunged. The fight was brutal, raw. Buffy fought with all her skill and fury, but the monster was relentless, shrugging off blows that would cripple any vampire. The onlookers winced with every strike it landed, watching her hurled across the site like a rag doll.
Piecing it together, Dawn turned to Willow, eyes wide. “This—you planned this. Letting the barrier fail, bringing us here. You, Graham, Xander, Buffy…”
Willow only nodded, gaze fixed below.
On the ground, Buffy crashed against scaffolding, knocking Kennedy’s crossbow loose. Graham’s instincts screamed to intervene, but he forced himself still. This wasn’t about rescue. This was about belief. The girls needed to see her win. He needed to see it, too.
Buffy snatched the fallen crossbow, firing directly into the Turok-Han’s chest. The bolt quivered in its heart—it barely paused. She grabbed a length of pipe, wielding it as a staff, then a pickaxe, anything she could get her hands on. The monster slammed her through walls and scaffolding, unrelenting.
Over Graham’s comms, a soldier’s voice cracked through. “It’s killing her. I’ve got a shot. Just give the order.”
His jaw clenched. Every muscle in his body screamed to step in. But watching her, watching the sheer defiance in her battered body, he understood. She didn’t need saving. She was rewriting the battlefield.
“Stand down,” Graham ordered, his voice sharp, unwavering.
Buffy, bloodied and gasping, seized the arrow embedded in the monster’s chest, ripped it free, and drove it into its eye. The Turok-Han roared, dropping her. She struck back, fists and boots pounding, barbed wire looped around its throat, dragging with Slayer strength until its head tore free.
The Turok-Han collapsed into dust.
Silence fell heavily.
Buffy straightened slowly, hands braced on her knees. She turned to face them all—friends, Potentials, soldiers. Her chest rose and fell, but her voice carried steady.
“See?” She brushed ash from her hands. “Dust. Just like the rest of ’em. I don’t know what’s coming next, but I do know it’s gonna be just like this. Hard. Painful. But in the end, it’s gonna be us. If we all do our parts, believe it, we’ll be the ones left standing. Here endeth the lesson.”
From the shadows, Graham smirked, admiration burning bright in his eyes. She was bruised, bloodied, extraordinary. It struck him fully then—though maybe he had known all along—how Riley could have fallen for her, how any man could.
She was powerful. She was resolved. And she was breathtaking.
No wonder Riley had thrown his world into orbit around her.
She was gravity itself.
Chapter Text
In the weeks after the battle with the Turok-Han, something quiet shifted between Buffy and Graham. It wasn’t sudden, not a spark or an explosion—it was slower, gentler, the kind of closeness that crept in unnoticed until it was simply there.
They began spending time together beyond the confines of the “war room.” Away from her friends, his soldiers, the Potentials. Away from the endless talk of apocalypse and death. What began as short exchanges turned into long walks, and conversations stretched thin into the night.
They wandered Sunnydale’s main street, shoulders brushing, the backs of their hands occasionally grazing. Each accidental touch sent small jolts racing up their arms, neither daring to comment.
He told her about Chicago—the flat winters, the hum of the city, his stubborn loyalty to the Cubs despite a century of heartbreak. She teased him mercilessly, but the way his eyes lit up made her smile. Buffy, in turn, shared the story of the first vampire she’d ever killed, her voice low with remembered nerves. “I missed the heart,” she admitted, almost embarrassed. Graham’s laugh rang out, surprising and warm, and she realised she liked the sound of it.
He told her about enlisting after high school, about finding his place in the uniform, about the day he met Riley and Forrest in boot camp. His voice softened, his eyes shadowed, and though he didn’t say Riley’s name, it hung between them. She didn’t push. She didn’t have to.
She asked about Brazil, careful, tentative. He gave her the fragments he could, unclassified pieces of missions, vague shapes of nights spent in jungles, running on adrenaline and instinct. And she listened, even when silence stretched between the words.
They spoke of Riley only in hints, never directly, as though naming him would sour the fragile lightness they had carved out together.
What they had found was not quite love, not yet, and not entirely something else. It was companionship. It was understanding. It was the solace of being seen, of talking about nothing and everything until the world outside faded.
It was something they had both been craving.
The hiss of brakes echoed through the dim terminal as the charter bus doors creaked open. “Sunnydale. Watch your step. Next stop…” the driver announced.
The last passenger to step down was a young African-American girl in denim overalls, a backpack slung over one shoulder. She looked around tentatively, nerves sharp in her eyes, then moved between the hulking buses toward the main building.
The sign overhead read: Overland Charters. The doors were dark, locked, and lifeless.
Anxiously, she turned to the payphone, yanked free the dangling book, and flipped rapidly through the pages. Sunnydale… Soter–Sullivan. Her finger ran down the column—until she hit torn paper. The page she needed had been ripped clean out.
The hairs on her neck rose. She froze.
A presence.
She looked up. A black-robed, hooded figure—eyeless, monstrous—stood just a few feet away. A Bringer.
Her breath caught as she stumbled back, the phone book slipping from her hands. Two more emerged from between buses, knives glinting in the fluorescent wash of the terminal lights. She pressed herself against the wall, panicked, breathing fast, until she slid down to the ground, cornered.
And then, like a sudden storm, the two Bringers behind her were lifted off their feet and hurled violently apart. Buffy stood revealed, fierce and unflinching.
The third Bringer fled—straight into Graham, who stepped from the shadows. His fist cracked across the robed man’s face, dropping him hard.
Steel clashed again. A Bringer lunged at Buffy with his knife. She caught his wrist mid-strike, twisting sharply, and drove the blade into his partner’s chest. As the stabbed Bringer collapsed, she pivoted, kicking him aside, then grappled the first until his neck snapped clean.
One tried to flee. Buffy’s eyes tracked him like prey. “Hey!” She snatched a knife from the ground and hurled it. “Try picking on someone my own size.” The blade struck true, burying deep into his back. He fell in a heap.
Brushing dirt from her jeans, Buffy approached the girl still crouched in terror. “Rona, right?”
The girl nodded mutely, eyes wide.
“I just got word you were arriving.” Buffy offered her a hand.
“You’re her!” Rona gasped as Buffy pulled her up.
“Her is me,” Buffy said with a shrug.
“Buf!” Graham’s warning bark cut through the night as another Bringer charged him from behind. He swung with his baton, but the robed figure overpowered him, hurling Graham into Buffy.
She crashed to the ground, sprawling across his chest. For a heartbeat, they froze—faces close, noses almost brushing, their ragged breaths mixing.
Buffy’s eyes widened; she pulled back quickly, rising and offering Graham her hand. He gripped it, pulling himself up.
Rona turned in circles, taking in the fallen Bringers strewn across the lot. “You know, I thought—they told me I’d be safe here.”
“Right,” Buffy said, trying not to dwell on the heat of Graham’s body beneath hers. “Well, you are. I mean… you will be. Safer. With me around.”
“That’s good,” Rona muttered.
“Next time you’re attacked—” Buffy started.
Rona froze, panic flaring. “Whoa, whoa—next time? You’re saying I’m gonna get attacked again ?”
“Welcome to the Hellmouth,” Buffy deadpanned.
Rona glanced at Graham, hoping for reassurance. His mouth twitched into a smirk, his eyes still dancing with the echo of that near-collision. “Let’s get you to the house,” he said vaguely, sparing the girl harsher truths.
Rona shook her head, falling into step beside Buffy.
Graham trailed a few paces behind, his smirk lingering. His mind replayed the moment—Buffy’s weight against him, her breath warm on his cheek. For a split second, it had been too much, too dangerous.
Stop, he ordered himself. Clamping it down hard. She was his friend. She was Riley’s girl.
Nothing more.
1630 Revello Drive
The living room was dim, crowded with sleeping bags and restless bodies. The Potentials were huddled in uneven rows, nerves keeping them awake. Andrew lay cocooned in a blanket, muttering under his breath. On the couch, Xander rested with an arm thrown over his eyes, pretending to chase sleep but looking more resigned than restful.
Buffy stood framed in the French doorway, arms folded tight across her chest. Beside her, Rona shifted awkwardly, eyes wide, and in the foyer Graham leaned against the wall, thumbing at his mobile device, posture tense but watchful.
“You guys are all still up?” Buffy asked, a note of surprise in her voice—but not much. No one here slept easily. Not anymore.
“Ah! Who needs sleep?” Xander grumbled, flashing her a tired, lopsided smile.
Buffy gestured to Rona. “Everybody, this is Rona.”
The room stirred, the Potentials offering murmured greetings. Giles appeared through the back entrance, adjusting his glasses. “Molly, why don’t you show our new houseguest where the kitchen is? I’m sure she’s hungry after her travels.”
Molly jumped up, still clutching a bag of potato chips. “Fair enough. I’m a bit peckish meself.”
Rona frowned. “Bit what?”
“That’s English for hungry, ” Anya explained, fussing with a sleeping bag.
“Oh, here I thought hungry was English for hungry,” Rona muttered, trailing Molly toward the kitchen.
Buffy crouched to help Anya spread bedding on the floor. “She had a welcoming committee,” she said quietly.
“So The First knows the Potentials are on the move,” Xander sighed, rubbing at his face.
“Yes,” Giles said grimly, folding his arms. “I must warn the coven to be cautious.”
Buffy straightened, frustration written across her face. “The First’s always gonna be one step ahead of us, Giles. I need to know how to stop it. No—hurt it. I want to hurt it real bad. Tell me how.”
“I—I don’t know, Buffy.” Giles removed his glasses, rubbing his temple. “I’ve exhausted every source left to me. The Watcher’s records are all we have.”
From the doorway, Graham spoke, his voice measured. “I tried making contact with a few CI’s the Ghosts have in the field. See if they could dig up anything in the community.”
“They’re a community now?” Xander quipped. “What’s next, the Ladies’ Auxiliary?”
Anya rolled her eyes.
Graham smirked faintly. “The ones that don’t attack.” He met Buffy’s eyes, apologetic. “But they didn’t know anything we don’t already know. Sorry.”
Buffy approached him, hugging her arms tighter across her chest as though restraining herself. For a moment, she wanted to reach out—smooth the sour look from his face with her hand. Instead, she said softly, “Thank you for trying. At least we know the Turok-Han can be killed.”
He gave a small nod, stepping back toward the foyer. “I’ll have my guys keep a perimeter. Just in case more Bringers circle back.”
“You really don’t need to do that,” Buffy said, following him to the door.
He pulled it open, pausing to look at her. In that moment, he saw past the steel of the Slayer. He saw the exhaustion shadowing her hazel-green eyes, the wear in her frame. She hadn’t slept—really slept—since the day he’d first appeared at her door with the worst news imaginable. The same day she’d learned the world was breaking again.
“Sleep easy,” he told her, the words more a vow than advice.
She lingered in the doorway as he descended the steps toward his waiting men. For the first time in longer than she could remember, Buffy felt the weight on her shoulders ease, if only slightly. Graham’s presence was steady, grounding. A quiet strength she hadn’t realised she needed—until now.
She wasn’t carrying it all alone anymore.
The months blurred together in blood and exhaustion—strategy meetings, last-minute plans, battles that cost too much. Faces were lost, one by one, until the weight of it pressed heavily on Buffy’s chest. Faith in herself faltered. Faith in those around her wavered.
Except in one.
Graham was steady. Always steady. He stayed at her side with quiet loyalty, offering words that were never loud, never forced—but true. He reminded her to believe in herself, because he already did. Somehow, this man she had barely known in Riley’s shadow had become her closest confidant. With him, she didn’t have to perform, didn’t have to carry every ounce of weight alone. He was just there. And it was enough. It was what she had fallen into without realising—what she needed.
When the endgame came, he didn’t hesitate. His Ghosts fought in the Hellmouth alongside the Scoobies and the newly awakened Slayers, conjured into power by Willow’s spell. Soldiers and chosen ones, side by side, against the endless tide.
And then the ground began to collapse.
The second phase of the plan unfolded in chaos as Graham rallied survivors toward the waiting helicopters. His voice carried above the din, sharp and urgent. “Get in! In! In!”
Dust choked the air. Concrete groaned as buildings buckled. Graham turned, searching through the haze for Buffy. She wasn’t there.
“Graham! Get in!” Dawn screamed from inside the chopper, fear widening her eyes.
His chest tightened. Every instinct told him to wait. But the ground was giving way, fire and rubble consuming everything. With no choice left, he climbed aboard as the helicopter lurched upward.
His eyes scoured the wreckage below. Come on, Summers. Come on.
And then—there she was.
Buffy burst through the cloud of debris, sprinting across the collapsing rooftops of the shopping mall, the scythe gleaming red in her hand. The helicopter lifted higher, the distance between them widening as buildings crumbled behind her.
Her jaw clenched. She leapt rooftop to rooftop, each one falling away just as her boots pushed off.
At the edge, she launched herself into the void. Graham lunged forward, his arm extended. Their hands collided, her grip iron around his wrist, though careful not to break bone. With a roar of effort, he hauled her up and over the edge.
She landed hard against him, breath ragged, heart hammering. He didn’t let go. Not this time. He pulled her in tight, holding her as though she might vanish. His hand rose instinctively to her face, thumb brushing dirt from her cheek, tucking a stray lock of hair behind her ear.
Her eyes met his—soft, exhausted, alive.
Buffy exhaled, the fight finally leaving her body. Their foreheads touched, breaths mingling in the narrow space between them. It wasn’t a kiss, wasn’t a promise—but it was something. A moment carved out of the ruin below, raw and real.
Below, Sunnydale caved in on itself. Streets and homes and memories swallowed whole, sucked into the Earth. The Hellmouth collapsed, and the town was gone.
But she was still here. With him.
Notes:
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Chapter Text
In the year that followed, the gang had crossed the Atlantic to London. The city’s grey skies and ancient stone bore witness to their new purpose: rebuilding the Watchers’ Council from the ground up. Buffy, now in Travers’ old chair, carried the mantle of Director, with Giles beside her as second-in-command.
The first task had been keeping the Ghosts tethered to the Council. Buffy had no intention of letting Graham slip back into the shadows. Under his leadership, the Ghosts were folded into the Council’s structure, their missions shifting to escorting young Slayers, protecting convoys, and securing fractured supply lines. In this strange new world of power and responsibility, Graham became her anchor.
Their bond had grown quietly, insistently. He was not just the soldier at her shoulder, but the one she turned to when the burden pressed too heavily. A steady nod from him outweighed an entire room of agreements. He managed chaos with ease, earned Giles’ trust, and slipped into the Scoobies’ circle without forcing his place. Somehow, he belonged.
Even Xander gravitated to him—pub nights, video games, banter that carved out an unlikely camaraderie. Buffy suspected Graham was more accepted than Riley had ever been.
People noticed, of course. The closeness. The stolen glances. Something had shifted after Sunnydale’s fall, and no amount of denial could disguise the pull between them. The attraction hummed beneath the surface, impossible to ignore. Graham knew he either had to speak or live forever with the ache of “what if.”
That night, walking her home from the pub, he’d barely managed to keep his composure. Every brush of her shoulder, every glint of light on her hair felt like it might undo him.
They moved in step, his hands buried in the pockets of his jeans, her arm swinging loosely beside him. Buffy, reading him as only she could, caught the tension in his silence.
“You’ve been weird all night,” she said, eyes sharp on him.
“I haven’t been weird,” he muttered, grimacing at the obvious lie.
“You’ve been quiet—even quiet for you.” Her frown deepened. “What gives?”
They stopped at her door, the cold night pressing in. Graham, towering over her yet feeling oddly small, tried to deflect. “Nothing, Summers. Unlock the door. It’s freezing out here.”
Buffy rolled her eyes, fishing for her keys. “You’d think a Windy City boy would be used to a little winter chill.”
“Ha. Ha.” His voice was dry, but his heart was pounding.
Inside, the hush of the townhouse wrapped around them. He shut the door, unbuttoned his jacket, and wordlessly hung her coat away. When he turned, she was closer than he expected—so close he felt the heat of her body. In the dim lamplight, her eyes were unmistakable. Desire flickered there, the same he had shown her countless times.
Something inside him snapped loose. His hand lifted of its own accord, cupping her cheek. He bent down and captured her mouth in a kiss—tentative at first, but steeped in longing. She pressed her palms to his chest, sliding up to loop around his neck, anchoring him to her.
For a heartbeat, it was everything. Then the voice came—Riley’s ghost, betrayal, restraint. Graham tore back just enough to breathe. “We can’t,” he rasped, eyes fixed on her parted lips.
“You’re right,” Buffy whispered, though her voice was raw. Stopping felt wrong.
They parted, reluctant, a gulf yawning between them, though neither wanted the distance. Buffy’s hands twisted nervously. “I feel like I’m hurting Riley for feeling this way.”
Graham exhaled, relief and torment mingling. “What do you feel?”
“Awful,” she admitted. Her voice cracked, then steadied. “Because I feel better with you than I have in a long time.”
His shoulders sagged, the words dragging themselves free at last. “When I’m with you, Buffy, I don’t think I’ve ever felt better and worse at the same time. I can’t stop thinking I’m betraying Riley, but I can’t get rid of these feelings. And a part of me doesn’t care. All I want to do is kiss you.”
A silence hung heavy, thick with want. Buffy stepped forward, tilting her chin up, her breath brushing his skin. “Then kiss me.”
The restraint shattered. His mouth found hers again, fierce now, urgent. She rose onto her toes, arms clinging as his hands slid down her sides, hesitating only a moment before gripping her thighs and lifting her. She wrapped herself around him, the kiss deepening until it was almost violent in its hunger.
Pressed to the wall, Buffy’s fingers traced the sculpted lines of his arms, ignoring the voice that warned this was madness. Graham was beyond thought—he only knew he couldn’t deny her. Couldn’t deny himself.
He carried her to the bedroom. Clothes fell away in a trail behind them, each barrier discarded in the quiet frenzy of hands and mouths. Soon, they were bare, pressed together, standing in the dim light with nothing between them but heat and need.
On the bed, they tangled desperately, mouths meeting again and again, until the urgency gave way to something slower, deeper. Graham cupped her face as he kissed her, tender now, reverent, while Buffy’s fingers threaded through his hair, pulling him closer, arching beneath him. Graham pressed her down into the bed, his weight solid above her, their bodies moulding as though they had been made for this one collision.
They moved together unhurried, foreheads pressed, breaths mingling, silence thick with emotion. Every look, every touch carried what words could not. Guilt, longing, relief—woven into a rhythm that was theirs alone.
The rhythm they found was unhurried, almost aching in its slowness, as if prolonging the moment could hold off the inevitable. Foreheads rested together, their mouths seeking each other again and again, kisses deepening with the same pull that guided their bodies. Words were unnecessary; every glance, every tremor of touch carried what they both had buried for too long.
The intensity built gradually, like a tide rising past restraint, until the pace quickened of its own will. Their breaths tangled, voices breaking in gasps and murmurs, and the world beyond the two of them vanished into heat and motion. Buffy clung to him, arching into every thrust, while Graham held on as if letting go would undo everything they had just begun.
When release came, it tore through them both in a rush of relief and abandon. The force of it left them shuddering, clinging, calling each other’s names in broken whispers. For a long while afterwards, they stayed entwined, neither able nor willing to pull away, hearts thundering in the same frantic rhythm until at last it slowed into quiet peace.
Chapter Text
Five Years Later
The alarm went off at six, shattering the soft cocoon of silence. Graham rolled onto his side and smacked at the clock with a groggy hand, muttering under his breath. He exhaled heavily, rubbing at the corners of his eyes as thin fingers of light slipped through the curtains.
Beside him, Buffy stirred with a quiet moan and shifted closer, her body moulding instinctively against his side. Her leg draped lazily over his, her warmth seeping into him. Graham’s arm slipped around her shoulders, drawing her closer still. She tucked her face into the crook of his neck, breathing in rhythm with him.
When she tilted her face up, he opened his eyes to meet hers. She was tousled, drowsy, and beautiful. He brushed a strand of wild hair from her cheek, his thumb lingering there, and kissed her softly—unbothered by the morning breath, caught only by the intimacy of it.
Buffy’s laugh burst through the kiss, bright and irrepressible. Graham grinned and, in a swift movement, rolled with her, pressing her back into the sheets and settling between her legs. She caught his head with both hands, threading her fingers into the short bristles of his hair, keeping him close.
For a moment, he simply looked at her. The dim light carved shadows across her face, softening the sharpness of her features. She smiled back at him, her hand rising to trace the rough line of his jaw. The look they shared said more than either could bring themselves to put into words.
Graham lowered his mouth, kissing her with a tenderness that deepened by degrees until she was breathless beneath him. She gasped softly when his lips trailed lower, his mouth finding the curve of her neck, the delicate hollow of her collarbone. Buffy arched into him, laughter dissolving into whispered pleas for him not to stop.
Every brush of his hands, every shift of his body, seemed deliberate and unhurried. She clung to him, fingers tightening in his hair, back arching, her breath coming in uneven bursts.
A few moments later, Graham sat back, abandoning her breasts to the cool air. Buffy hardly noticed—her body was already writhing, panties tangled around her knees as his fingers drove into her, curling and retreating, stroking deep inside while his thumb circled her clit with maddening precision.
Then he shifted, lifting her legs onto his shoulders, settling between her thighs with deliberate intent. His lips pressed soft kisses along the sensitive inside of her thighs, pausing just long enough to make her tremble with anticipation. When he finally touched her with his mouth, it was featherlight—teasing, infuriating.
“Graham…” she gasped, frustration breaking in her voice.
As though he’d been waiting for it, he pressed harder, lips sealing over her aching clit before his tongue flicked against it in quick, devastating strokes. Buffy arched off the bed with a sharp cry.
“Oh God!”
Her release ripped through her, waves crashing one after another, shaking her until she couldn’t hold still beneath him. She was slick with heat, and Graham devoured it greedily, drinking her in like a starving man, tongue sweeping up and down, dragging over her clit with each relentless stroke.
Soon she was thrashing wildly, babbling incoherently, the pleasure too much to contain. Another orgasm tore through her, leaving her shuddering and boneless. Graham didn’t stop until she sagged against the mattress, breathless, trembling.
Only then did he move back up her body, kissing as he went, leaving a trail of heat across her skin until they were face to face again. Buffy seized him, fisting the back of his head and crushing his mouth to hers in a violent, desperate kiss.
When he finally broke free just long enough to murmur against her lips, his grin was wicked. “G’morning.”
Buffy burst into laughter, the sound breathless and giddy, before rolling him onto his back and straddling his hips, settling over him with a look that promised she wasn’t close to finished.
In the bathroom, steam still curled from the shower, clinging to the tiled walls in a light haze. Graham stepped out, water sliding in rivulets down the hard planes of his chest. He reached for a towel from the hook, patting his skin dry with lazy precision. Behind him, Buffy stood at the mirror, utterly composed amidst the fog, her blouse—silky and light gold with a subtle beige sheen—catching what little light the morning offered. Its puffed sleeves and her high-waisted, fitted pencil skirt gave her an air of quiet sophistication, polished and neutral, yet undeniably commanding.
She leaned closer to the mirror, steadying her hand as she coated her lashes with mascara. Her eyes flicked briefly, catching Graham in the reflection as he casually ran the towel along his thighs, utterly unselfconscious as he dried himself. The sight of him—solid, bare, still damp from the shower—did not distract her hand, though her lips twitched faintly at the corner.
Graham wandered to her, towel looped loosely around his neck, ends trailing across his chest, and pressed his lips softly to the back of her head. The gesture was fleeting, instinctive. He offered her a lopsided smirk as he reached past for his toothbrush, his wink reflected in the mirror like a shared secret. Turning, he leaned back against the edge of the sink, his forearm resting across the flat expanse of his stomach, his presence filling the space. Watching her finish the delicate sweep of mascara over her other eye, he felt desire stir again, sharp and sudden.
It was nothing unusual—this was their morning. The same ritual repeated countless times over the last five years. It wasn’t grand, nor ostentatious, but there was something grounding in its constancy. They didn’t parade their love, never had to; it lived in the small glances, the weight of routine, the wordless ease of knowing.
As he brushed his teeth, Graham bent to spit into the sink, and Buffy leaned into him, lips pressing softly against his shoulder. He smiled around the toothbrush, standing taller as her arms slipped easily around his waist, claiming him without thought.
“You want curry tonight?” he asked, voice casual, though his fingers betrayed him. He let them trail over hers, lingering at the base of her left hand. Thoughtfully, almost absently, he ran the pad of his forefinger over the space where the diamond ring he’d bought lay hidden in his dresser, imagined now in its rightful place around her finger.
“Mm, heaven,” she murmured with a smile, eyes drifting closed.
They had never rushed. The future had been a quiet, steady conversation between them for years—threaded through glances, murmured at night when the world fell silent. They were content. They were in love. And for all the battles they had fought, both together and apart, perhaps that was the most extraordinary thing of all.
Buffy still marvelled at how easily it had come—telling him she loved him. With Graham, it hadn’t felt like betrayal, as it once had, nor had it been torment, tangled in pain and sacrifice, as it had with Angel. With Graham, it had felt natural, unforced—a truth that belonged in the open, spoken without hesitation.
He steadied her. Grounded her. In the chaos that never seemed to end, Graham was the anchor that tethered her to the surface. With him, she didn’t feel fractured or weighed down by shadows. She felt whole.
Buffy knew, without doubt, that she truly, completely loved him.
Just as they had for the past five years, Buffy and Graham strode into the Watchers’ Council headquarters arm in arm, pausing at the grand entrance to collect their morning coffees. The Council’s new home stood on the South Bank of the Thames, an austere Edwardian Baroque structure with towering stone columns and sweeping staircases that seemed to have been plucked out of another century. Its great façade rose just beyond Westminster Bridge.
They exchanged warm smiles, lingered for a whispered word, then parted ways at the base of the sweeping grand staircase, she ascending toward her office and he descending toward the specialised paramilitary wing in the basement.
Tall bookcases marched along the walls, but their severity was softened by the touches Buffy had insisted on—vases of fresh lilies set on the shelves, pale cream drapes drawn back from the windows so the light spilled golden over the floorboards. The tall windows looked out across the South Bank of the Thames, the city’s grey softened by the warm glow of her space.
Her desk, long and polished, sat angled in the corner, its dark wood broken by a small crystal lamp with a rose-tinted shade, a framed photo of herself and Graham, and neat stacks of Council files. The photograph captured them wrapped in one another, laughing softly beneath the folds of a coat, foreheads nearly touching—an intimate, unguarded moment that radiated comfort and belonging. Adjacent stood a sitting area Buffy had curated herself: blush-toned couches with soft throws draped carelessly, deep chairs upholstered in muted sage, a low marble-topped coffee table with a bowl of sugared almonds and a scattering of glossy fashion magazines. The air carried the faint scent of vanilla and old paper, elegance woven into history, making the office less war room, more sanctuary.
She sat at it now, posture taut, fingers flying across the keyboard as lines of reports flickered on the screens.
The door opened behind her. She heard it—an instinctive twitch of the ears—but her eyes didn’t lift from the screen.
Her voice carried, brisk and distracted, the clipped cadence of someone endlessly in motion. “Andrew,” she said, assuming her assistant had slipped in, “reschedule the meeting with the German ambassador for tomorrow at…” she flicked her gaze to the calendar, “…three p.m. And tell him—” her fingers tapped as she spoke, “—that I’ll send over the revised Slayer rotation myself.”
Silence followed. Not the shuffle of Andrew’s eager compliance, but something heavier. Stillness, like the air thickened.
Then a voice. Deep. Familiar.
“Buffy.”
Her body went rigid, her fingers suspended uselessly above the keys. Slowly—reluctantly—she raised her eyes.
There, framed by the doorway, stood Riley. Older. A scar carved above his left eye, his uniform the weathered black of the Ghosts, worn into him by years of survival. His eyes carried exhaustion, disbelief—haunted blue that once belonged wholly to her.
“Riley…” The word broke from her in a whisper. Her breath caught hard in her chest, the room tilting with the vertigo of seeing him again—alive, impossibly alive.
Chapter Text
Buffy stared at Riley in disbelief, her eyes wide and unblinking. For what felt like a century, she sat rooted to her chair, every muscle locked, breath caught in her throat. At last, she gathered herself, pushing the chair back in a sharp scrape and rising to her feet.
His gaze swept over her with a look that was equal parts adoration and relief, as though the sight of her alone was enough to tether him back to life. He could not quite believe she stood there, real, her beauty undimmed from the last moment burned into his memory—the helipad in Sunnydale, their final goodbye.
The clack of her heels struck against the polished floor, the sound ricocheting off the high walls, too loud, too close. Each step vibrated in her ears, her pulse quickening as she moved towards him with a slow, cautious tread, as though he were a mirage that might dissolve if she touched him.
She halted before him. He loomed above her, his familiar height unchanged, but the hardness that shadowed his eyes had softened, joy and sorrow wrestling there, unshed tears brightening his lashes though none dared fall.
“H-how,” her voice cracked with astonishment, confusion, grief. “Is this possible? Th-they said you were dead.”
A small, trembling smile tugged at his lips as he stepped forward. “I thought I was,” he admitted, lowering his gaze to the floor, jaw set tight with memory. “I was captured,” he added, voice rough, unwilling to unravel the rest—not yet. “I’m here now. I’m alive.”
He exhaled as though releasing years of buried breath, then took another tentative step. His hand rose, almost shy, and he twined a lock of her long blonde hair around his finger, needing the proof of her physicality beneath his touch. Then, unable to resist, he pulled her into a crushing embrace, clinging with a desperation that bordered on feral, as though releasing her would cast him back into the grave.
“Oh God…” The words tore from him, raw, broken, almost a sob. “I thought I’d never see you again.”
Buffy remained rigid in his arms, her mind racing with a thousand frantic thoughts. The heat of his body, the familiarity of his scent, the press of his strength—it was achingly known, cutting straight into old wounds. Once, this embrace would have shattered her; once, she had lived and bled for the man holding her. And yet, beneath that flood of memory, her heart surged elsewhere.
Graham.
The name struck like a blade, stealing her breath. Graham, whose love came without torment, whose steadiness had never demanded sacrifice. Graham, who had her laughter, her mornings, her trust. She had once loved Riley—safe, familiar, comforting in a way she had needed then—but that love had dimmed with time, outgrown like a second skin. With Graham, it was sunlight, quiet, effortless. And now, pressed against Riley’s chest, Buffy felt that sunlight dim, threatened, as though she were betraying the man who had made loving her simple again.
Did Riley know? Could he see it in her eyes? What would happen when the truth unfolded—when past and present collided?
Her arms trembled in hesitation, caught between two lives: one she had mourned, and one she had finally begun to live. To hold him back was to betray Graham; to push him away was to wound Riley all over again. She stood trapped, heart split clean in two, as his grip only tightened, desperate and unyielding.
Reaching the top of the stairs, Graham glanced at his watch—half six. The day had dragged, a grind of drills and discipline, boot camp for the latest wave of Slayer arrivals. His body ached, his uniform still carrying the bite of cold steel corridors, but his mind was elsewhere. He had promised Buffy they’d get takeaway and settle in with her favourite winter ritual: The Cutting Edge . She had a soft spot for ice skating; in truth, he had been planning to propose on the rink at Hyde Park before the season was out. That thought alone had carried him through the day.
Turning down the wing toward her office, Graham passed the familiar hum of Council halls, the scent of polished wood and stone dust lingering in the air. He expected to find Andrew buried in his comics at the desk outside Buffy’s door—but Andrew startled upright instead, eyes wide, as if caught mid-crime.
The comic clattered to the floor. “Buffy’s in a meeting!” he blurted, panic fraying his voice.
Graham narrowed his gaze, checking his watch again. He knew Buffy’s schedule as well as his own. “That was an hour ago.” His voice dropped, iron-edged. “What’s going on?”
He made for the door, but Andrew slid in front of it, arms out as if sheer awkwardness could pass for authority.
Graham stilled, one brow rising. He exhaled slowly, trying to temper the irritation prickling his spine. “Andrew, what are you doing?”
The young man flailed for composure, leaning against the desk as if casual posture could erase the panic in his eyes. “N-nothing. Why—why would I be doing anything?”
Andrew swallowed, but no answer came. Graham didn’t press further. He brushed past without another word, his chest tightening as he shoved the office door open.
Inside, the world shifted. For a heartbeat, he thought his mind had conjured it, a hallucination born of fatigue. Buffy, in the arms of another man. Not just any man— Riley . His best friend.
The room tilted. His breath hitched, caught between disbelief and dread. Buffy’s wide eyes met his across Riley’s shoulder, her face stricken.
“…Riley,” Graham rasped, his voice raw, the name tearing from his throat before he could stop it.
Buffy flinched. Riley turned at the sound, relief breaking across his scarred features, his hand still resting possessively on her shoulder. “I’m back,” he said simply, as if those two words could bridge years of absence and death notices.
Graham stood rooted, his lungs aching for air. He forced himself forward, soldier to soldier, instinct stronger than confusion. Riley embraced him in a crushing hug, the kind meant to speak of brotherhood. Graham stiffened, his body a wall. His hand eventually lifted, a perfunctory clap to Riley’s back, but his eyes never left Buffy.
Relief and betrayal tangled like barbed wire in his chest.
“Surprised doesn’t feel like a big enough word,” he managed, shaking his head. His throat was dry, his voice splintered. “Colonel Ellis said you were KIA. They called off the search and rescue. What the hell happened, man?”
Riley’s jaw clenched, the shadows in his eyes deepening. He lowered his voice, the weight of it pressing. “I’ll explain later. I just wanted to see you. Both of you. I couldn’t get here sooner.” His glance slid to Buffy, softening with something Graham could not bear to name. “I was in the hospital for a while. Recovering. Then I heard what happened to Sunnydale…” His gaze drifted around her office at last, awe mingling with exhaustion. “What is this place?”
Buffy steadied herself, forcing calm into her voice. “The Council. Rebuilt.”
Riley blinked, impressed despite the hollows beneath his eyes. “You’re… the head of it?”
Before Buffy could answer, Graham spoke, pride slipping through the restraint in his tone. “She’s the director.”
Buffy ducked her head, a shy curve of lips tugging at her mouth, but Riley missed the quiet spark that passed between them.
He nodded, still processing. “Wow. Buffy, that’s… amazing.” His gaze shifted, finally, to Graham. “What about you? Are you still with the Ghosts?”
A pause. Then a measured nod. “I am. But I’m not black ops anymore—I run the paramilitary wing now.”
The words landed heavily. Riley stilled, his expression flickering. For the first time, he looked behind, as though the years had sprinted past him while he was trapped in survival. Pride and jealousy warred in his eyes, though only Buffy noticed the fracture.
Her chest constricted. The tension was pulling the room too tight, choking her. She sought Graham’s gaze, speaking through silence the way only they could. His jaw shifted, a curt nod in return, subtle enough that Riley didn’t see.
“I’m famished,” she announced, too brightly, desperate to puncture the heaviness.
“Yeah,” Graham said, tone clipped. “Buf, you and Riley take the car outside. I’ll grab food on the way to—uh— your place.”
Buffy shot him a sharp glare, almost outing them, but he held firm.
Riley arched a brow, suspicion stirring. “You know where Buffy lives?” The thought unsettled him more than he wanted to admit. Graham, in her space. Graham, sharing pieces of her life that once had been his.
“Yeah,” Graham said, stumbling slightly, forcing a thin smile before making a quick exit.
Buffy felt Riley’s eyes on her, the weight of questions forming unspoken. Her voice was steady, masking the storm inside. “We’ve become friends. Let me get my coat.”
She slipped into her long herringbone wool, the fabric a shield, buying a breath of space as Riley’s gaze followed her—suspicion flickering, but words unspoken.
Rosewood House
Rosewood House stood with the quiet poise of Belgravia’s finest townhouses, its façade a harmony of white stucco and pale cream stone that seemed to glow in the London dusk. Four storeys rose with measured elegance, each window tall and symmetrical, their black wrought-iron balconies adorned with trailing ivy and pots of pale roses that gave the home its name. The entrance was understated yet commanding — a glossy black door framed by fluted Corinthian columns, polished brass fittings catching the lamplight, a fanlight etched with a delicate rose motif above. Two steps led up from the pavement, flanked by clipped box hedges in iron planters.
A soft sheen of history clung to the building, its Georgian lines softened by Buffy’s touch — fresh blooms in the window boxes, lace curtains filtering the glow of lamps within. Yet beneath that grace lingered strength: the tall, defensive railings and a military neatness in how the house presented itself to the quiet square. Set on a leafy terrace off Chester Row, it whispered refinement without arrogance, its beauty both romantic and resilient — much like the couple who called it home.
But tonight, the house was no sanctuary. Graham pulled up hard against the kerb, making record time through London’s narrow streets. His heart hammered as he leapt from the car and sprinted up the stone steps, every second counting. At the black door, the same polished brass fittings that usually welcomed him now seemed to glint with accusation. He dug into his pocket, fumbling for his keys, then shoved the door open with a force that rattled the frame. He had less than five minutes — five minutes to strip their life from sight, to erase the fragile evidence of him and Buffy that lay waiting inside.
Inside, Rosewood House was every bit the sanctuary Buffy had made of it. Warm oak floors stretched beneath his boots, softened by pale rugs, the air faintly perfumed with vanilla and candle wax. Modern furniture kept the lines clean, but her touch was everywhere — throws folded over the back of the sofa, candles half-burned on the mantle, books stacked in casual little towers near the fireplace. It was a home, lived in and loved. Their home.
Graham didn’t see it that way tonight. He moved like a soldier clearing a house, precision overtaking sentiment. His eyes scanned the living room, finding threats not of violence but of memory. A framed photograph of him and Buffy at the Tower of London. Another of them crammed inside a red phone booth, cheeks pressed together in laughter. On Tower Bridge, windswept and grinning. The London Eye, her head resting against his shoulder, his arm snug around her shoulders. Every picture was a declaration, a confession carved in light and glass: this was their life, their intimacy. Evidence.
His pulse slammed in his ears as he tore them down one by one, the glass rattling in their frames. He stacked them hard and uneven on the coffee table, each rip from the wall a betrayal of everything he wanted to protect.
Then he darted for the stairs, two at a time. The bathroom first. He swept his toiletries into a bag with a sweep of his arm — shaving cream, cologne, razor — though in his haste, he missed a toothbrush Riley would later notice.
The bedroom was worse. Her scent clung to the air, lavender and skin cream. The duvet was still rumpled from that morning, the lingering trace of where he and Buffy had made love. Graham yanked open the wardrobe and pulled shirts, pants, socks, even clothes still clinging to hangers, shoving them into a gym bag with frantic hands. Desperation made him sloppy; drawers half-emptied, shoes mismatched, a tie dangling out as the zip caught. It was erasure by violence, an undoing of five years in the span of minutes.
And still, it felt like he was already too late.
Graham sprinted down the stairs, every nerve alive to the growl of a car engine pulling up outside. Fuck. Panic surged hot in his chest as he tore down the hallway and out through the back door. He hurled the duffel and shopping bags—stuffed with photographs and fragments of their life together—into the garbage bin, desperate to erase any trace. But in his haste, he missed a few pieces, the smallest details that could damn them both.
The sharp click of the front door opening cracked through the silence like a gunshot. Graham stilled, forcing his breath back under control. He re-entered through the back, sliding into the corridor with the soldier’s precision he’d never quite shaken.
In the foyer, Buffy stood with Riley, her face a perfect mask of calm. But Graham saw the tiny falter, the fraction of a heartbeat where relief gave her away before she smoothed it over with that brittle everything’s fine smile he knew too well. Riley, oblivious, saw only the surface.
Riley’s gaze swept over the townhouse, his eyes widening at the sight. The place bore Buffy’s unmistakable touch: a softness, feminine yet refined, sophistication whispered in every detail. Candles guttered faintly on the mantelpiece, pale throws softened the clean lines of modern furniture, and the air carried the warm trace of vanilla and old books.
“Wow,” Riley murmured, stunned. “This place is beautiful, Buffy.”
A ripple of discomfort moved through her, the strangeness of another man— this man—standing in the home she had built with Graham. She forced brightness into her voice. “Yeah. I, uh, like it a lot.” Thanking the Powers That Be for the steadiness in her tone, she added lightly, “Come on in.”
As she took Riley’s coat, her eyes flicked instinctively toward the sitting room, then down the hallway, hunting for Graham.
He appeared in the kitchen doorway a moment later, slightly flushed, breath uneven despite the calm front he wore. Buffy caught it immediately, clocking the too-fast pulse in his throat. Riley missed it.
“Empty-handed?” Riley asked, brow raised. “No food?”
For a second, Graham blinked—he had forgotten the flimsy excuse. A stiff chuckle broke from his chest. “I, uh, ordered it. It’ll be delivered.” He rubbed the back of his neck, already thumbing at his phone, pulling up what he knew Buffy would want without needing to ask.
He dropped onto the couch, adopting a slouched, casual ease. But to Riley, the familiarity in Graham’s movements was not lost. His eyes flicked back to Buffy, testing, calculating. She ducked the weight of it, her smile practiced and bright.
“How about a quick tour?” Riley asked suddenly, angling for time alone.
Buffy’s heart lurched. She glanced toward Graham, whose subtle nod told her the upstairs was clear. Drawing in a steady breath, she turned back to Riley with a smile that cost her more than she wanted to admit. “Sure. C’mon.”
She led him deeper into the house, and behind them Graham exhaled long and low, as though releasing a breath that had been chained in his chest for hours. The fragile triangle pressed tighter with every heartbeat, and he knew—this was only the beginning.
In the dining room, they sat at the table in a parody of normalcy. Plates, glasses, polite smiles — all of it a mockery. Nothing was normal. Not anymore. Riley was back from the dead, and what he didn’t know was that his world — everything he thought he knew — had been turned upside down. The woman he once loved, the woman he still looked at like she was the centre of his orbit, had built a life with his best friend. A life he couldn’t even begin to imagine.
Riley watched them both with a soldier’s suspicion, scanning for the fracture lines. He wanted to be glad — his best friend and his best girl still in each other’s lives. But the way they shared a glance that lingered too long, the way they picked up the ends of each other’s stories as if they were stitched together — it gnawed at him. How much time had they really spent together?
“Buffy?” Dawn’s voice rang from the foyer.
Relief broke across Buffy’s face for a heartbeat before dread set in. Dawn had no idea Riley was back. And she definitely didn’t know Buffy and Graham we’re hiding their five-year, steady, lived-in love from Riley. “In—in here!” Buffy called, hesitant, her eyes darting to Graham, who mirrored her unease.
A moment later, Dawn stepped into the doorway, froze, and gaped. “What the—” Her eyes bulged at Riley. “Did Willow do a spell again? Like that time she made everyone forget who they were? Remember? The crystals? Spell gone kablooey?” She rolled her eyes when silence met her. “Whatever. You’re alive. How are you alive? Weren’t you dead?”
“Thank you, Dawn,” Buffy ground out, glaring daggers at her sister.
Riley, softened by shock, broke into a smile. “Wow. Dawnie… look at you. You’re not a kid anymore.”
“Dawn’s interning at the British Museum,” Buffy said quickly, with a burst of pride she couldn’t quite rein in. “Thanks to Giles.”
“Giles… the gang is still around?” Riley asked, guilt flickering across his features. They’d been good to him, always, and yet in his singular drive to reach Buffy, he hadn’t thought of them once.
“Yep,” Buffy nodded.
Riley turned to Graham, squinting. “And you’re, what, part of the gang now?”
Graham’s reply was measured, vague. “In a way.” More than in a way — he was family, deeper in than Riley had ever been. But Riley didn’t need to hear that.
Dawn’s gaze flicked between the three of them, her frown deepening, the whole thing reading like a telenovela. She lingered, unwilling to miss even a drop of drama. “You don’t know that they’re—”
“—Going to be so surprised when they see you tomorrow,” Buffy snapped, cutting her off with a glare sharp enough to draw blood. “Right, Graham?”
“So surprised,” Graham echoed flatly, though his tone carried little conviction.
Still uneasy, Riley leaned across the table, his hand brushing Buffy’s. The contact seared Graham’s composure, but outwardly, he remained stone. “Hey… I’m spent. Do you mind?” Riley’s voice was soft, almost tender, directed only at Buffy.
Her smile cost her. “My bedroom’s upstairs. To the right.”
Rising, Riley nodded to them both, then to Dawn. “G’night. It’s good to see you.”
“Yeah. Right,” Dawn muttered, her tone sharp with implication Riley failed to catch.
They watched him climb the stairs, silence stretching until his footsteps faded. Then Dawn turned, eyebrows arched to her hairline. “What the hell?”
“Go home, Dawn,” Buffy snapped, dragging her by the arm to the front door.
“You guys are so screwed,” Dawn said with a wicked grin, stepping outside.
“ Go ,” Buffy ordered, slamming the door shut.
She exhaled hard, leaning against the wood. When she opened her eyes, Graham was there, watching her.
“She’s right,” Buffy murmured, her voice low, raw. “We’re so screwed.”
He didn’t argue. They both knew someone was going to bleed when the truth surfaced. And that someone was sleeping upstairs — in their bedroom, on his side, where the sheets still carried the weight of him and Buffy together. Graham swallowed hard, jaw tightening. “I can’t stay here.”
For a moment, Buffy forgot Riley even existed upstairs. Confusion crossed her face. “What are you—oh. Right. Duh. Where will you go?”
“Xander’s maybe. Or your office couch.” He shrugged, resigned. “It’ll be okay.”
Her eyes searched his. “Will it?”
Graham didn’t answer. He didn’t need to. The silence between them was heavier than words.
Buffy climbed the stairs, each tread dragging with guilt and dread.
When she reached the bedroom, her breath caught. Riley was there, sitting on the edge of the bed— Graham’s side —his shoulders bowed, eyes fixed on the London night beyond the window.
She moved softly across the room, the quiet fall of her steps barely breaking the stillness. For a moment, she only watched him, the soldier she had once loved, returned from the grave but carrying the weight of it in every line of his face. Slowly, she sank onto the mattress beside him, close enough that he felt her presence.
Her hand found his, tentative but steady. His grip tightened, rough with unspoken need, but she held firm, not yielding, not inviting more. She recognised the haunted look—trauma she knew too well—and let her thumb brush gently across his knuckles, an anchor rather than a promise.
Chapter Text
No words came at first—only the thick, charged silence of two scarred souls, their breaths threading into the hush of the London night. The room seemed to listen with them: the faint tick of the clock, the muted hum of the city beyond the glass. Buffy’s throat worked before sound emerged, her voice low, raw at the edges. “What happened, Riley?”
He turned to her slowly, as though every movement cost him. His eyes searched hers, desperate yet wary, but her gaze did not flinch. There was compassion there, yes, but beneath it a quiet line drawn—gentle, unyielding. She would give him comfort, even friendship, but the part of her that could love like that… it belonged to someone else now.
His shoulders stiffened, and when his voice came, it was broken, ragged. “I escaped.” His hands flexed as though the dirt and blood still clung to them. “Just me. I kept running… running until I found a village. They took me to a hospital. I wasn’t well. Not here.” He touched his temple briefly, eyes glassy with shame. “I didn’t want you to see me like that. So I told them not to tell you. Not until…” He tilted his head back, breath catching. “Until I was better.” His voice cracked on the apology. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry for what I put you through.”
For a long moment, Buffy only studied him—the man she once loved, battered and frayed, yet still standing before her. Compassion softened her features. She lifted her hand, warm against his cheek, guiding his face gently toward her own. “You’re alive,” she whispered, voice steady though her heart was not. “Don’t worry about the rest. Sleep.”
He leaned into her touch, clinging to it like a drowning man, though guilt still smouldered in his gaze. With aching slowness, he lowered her hand from his face and held it in his lap, staring at the delicate lines of her palm as though trying to memorise them. “What about tomorrow?” he asked, voice barely audible.
Buffy faltered, the words lodging like thorns in her chest. Tomorrow was the very thing she could not promise him. Her smile came small, tender, masking the knots inside her. She could not bear to wound him further—but every hour they withheld the truth, the sharper it would cut.
“We’ll figure it out,” she said at last, guiding him gently back against the mattress.
Riley’s head sank into the pillow—Graham’s pillow. Buffy eased down beside him, curling softly against his back. He clasped her arm to his chest with a weary kind of devotion, his breathing slowing as exhaustion claimed him. She lay still, listening to the rise and fall of his body until it drifted into sleep. Yet her eyes remained open, fixed on the window where the sky stretched black and unyielding. Her thoughts reached outward, aching for Graham, wherever he was. A breath escaped her lips—quiet, guilty, and voiceless in the dark.
Riley barely slept. He lay rigid on his back beside Buffy, eyes tracing the faint cracks in the ceiling as the first edges of dawn pressed at the curtains. Her perfume lingered on the sheets, the same familiar scent he remembered, but now it carried something different—something he couldn’t quite name. It unsettled him, like hearing a voice you know too well slip into a foreign cadence.
His gaze slid to Buffy. She slept deeply, her face softened in repose, utterly at peace. For a moment, he simply watched her, aching with the comfort of her nearness, yet gnawed by the sense that he had returned to a life that had gone on without him. Restless, he slipped soundlessly from the bed.
The closet door yielded with a faint creak. Dresses and blouses, neatly hung, greeted him in a quiet parade of colour and fabric. He reached for one, fingertips brushing the sleeve before lifting it from its hanger. Bringing it close, he inhaled her scent, closing his eyes as it filled him—warm, familiar, grounding. But the act felt almost illicit, as though he were trespassing into something that was no longer his. He replaced the garment with care, the weight in his chest heavier than before.
In the ensuite, Riley flicked on the light. The room gleamed with tidy efficiency, each surface clear, each cabinet neatly stocked. He opened one drawer, then another—skincare bottles, folded towels, the quiet marks of order. His gaze fell on the sink. Two toothbrushes rested in the holder. He stared at them, a slow frown settling across his features. One was hers. The other… he lingered, heart ticking faster, unease coiling low in his stomach.
Snapping the light off, Riley returned to the bedroom. He stood in the doorway, watching Buffy sleep, framed in the silver wash of early morning. She looked untouched by everything that weighed on him. For a long moment, he simply stared, suspicion tugging at the edges of his mind, whispering questions he wasn’t ready to voice. Then, jaw tight, he turned away and slipped quietly from the room.
Riley wandered the townhouse in silence, his footsteps muffled against the warm wood floors. The house breathed of Buffy—her touch in every detail. Yet the longer he lingered, the more it seemed like he was walking through a life already lived without him.
On the mantle sat a framed photo of Buffy grinning beside Willow and Xander, their arms thrown around her shoulders, joy frozen in the lens. Beside it, Joyce Summers smiled from another frame, her gentle presence reaching across time. Riley paused there, his throat tightening. These were the anchors of Buffy’s world—the pieces of her heart he remembered—but the edges felt sharper now, as if he were an outsider looking in.
An hour slipped by, dawn spilling fully into day, gilding the pale walls with light. Riley sat motionless on the couch, his gaze unfocused, caught somewhere between memory and the strange present he had returned to.
The creak of the stair drew his attention. Buffy descended quietly, wrapped in the softness of morning, her hair still tousled from sleep. She spotted him and hesitated, then crossed the room and settled beside him on the couch. Without a word, she reached for his hand resting idly in his lap, her touch warm, steady.
“You’re up early,” she murmured, searching his face.
“I couldn’t sleep.” Riley’s eyes lifted to hers, lingering, full of the adoration of a man who had once loved her with everything he had. “God, you’re pretty.”
Buffy smiled softly, though the warmth in her chest was quickly knotted by guilt. She tried not to let it consume her.
Riley blinked, the haze of his trance breaking. He turned his head fully toward her, lips lifting into the faintest smile. The weariness didn’t leave his eyes, but for a moment, with her hand in his, the heaviness in his chest eased.
Watcher’s Council
The Watcher’s Council library held its usual hush, the scent of leather and dust mingling with the faint warmth of lamplight. Shelves stretched into shadow, lined with volumes that had seen centuries, and at the far end, Giles’ office door stood ajar.
Around the long oak table, the Scoobies sat rapt, their faces pale in the glow as Riley spoke. His voice was low, steady in places and fractured in others, as he recounted his survival — the endless running, the villages, the hospitals, the madness that had almost broken him. Each word left the group stunned, torn between awe and unease at the cost of his return.
Buffy stood off to the side near the tall windows, Graham a few feet away, both careful to maintain the distance. They did not look at each other; the air between them was taut with everything unspoken.
From his office doorway, Giles watched. His glasses dangled loosely in one hand, the other brushing at his brow as he studied Buffy. He saw her mask — the way she held herself too still, too composed, and the shadow of guilt that haunted her. Then his gaze shifted briefly to Graham, whose jaw was clenched, his shoulders set like a soldier braced for fire.
Quietly, Giles slid his glasses back on, saying nothing, but the look in his eyes made clear he had read more than she wanted him to. He understood her desperation to keep silent about the truth, at least for now.
And still Riley spoke, his story spilling into the library’s silence, while the tension between Buffy and Graham bled into every corner of the room.
“Well,” Giles cleared his throat, stepping further into the library, “after a strenuous journey, we are glad to have you back, Riley.”
Appreciative, Riley gave a firm nod. “Thank you, sir.”
It was awkward — Giles had never shared with Riley the same easy familiarity he had with Graham. Over the years, that bond with Graham had grown naturally, forged in quiet loyalty and the shared foundation of Buffy’s best interests. With Riley, there had always been distance, a polite respect that never quite deepened. Still, the Watcher managed a polite smile. “Yes, well. I’m sure you’d want some time to get acclimated.”
“Actually,” Riley folded his arms across his chest, posture braced like a soldier on standby, “I’m feeling pretty restless. Is there something I can do here?”
Giles slipped his glasses back on, the gesture a deliberate pause as his eyes flicked between Buffy and Graham. With a small nod, he said, “I’m sure Graham has a position for you.”
Graham cleared his throat, his tone neutral but clipped. “Yeah. I can find something.”
“That’d be great,” Buffy added quickly — almost too quickly.
Riley faintly smiled at his best friend, a flicker of relief softening his features. The thought of purpose steadied him, though there was something strange beneath it. No matter the role Graham found, no matter the camaraderie offered, their dynamic would never be the same. Riley felt the weight of that difference like a stone in his chest. “Just like old times, huh?”
Graham hesitated — just long enough for his eyes to flick to Buffy in a silent, lightning-fast exchange. He forced a thin smile. “Yeah.”
Buffy glanced at her watch, seizing her escape. For the first time, she was thankful for the relentless demands of her title. “Say, look at the time. I’ve gotta go.”
“So soon?” Riley frowned, confusion etching into his brow. “Where do you have to go?” He asked, still uncertain of what Buffy’s life entailed now as a Director rather than just a Slayer.
“I’ve got a meeting with the German ambassador.” Her heels clicked softly against the wood floor as she stepped closer. Leaning in, she pressed a quick kiss to Riley’s cheek. “It shouldn’t be too long.”
Riley smiled faintly at the gesture, warmth creeping into his chest. For the first time since arriving, he allowed himself to believe that maybe, just maybe, he and Buffy would find their way back to what they had. That everything would be okay.
Across the room, Graham shifted almost imperceptibly. He schooled his features into neutrality, but the sting landed anyway — sharp and undeniable, a gut-punch he couldn’t quite conceal. Buffy’s gaze flicked to him as she pulled away from Riley, and just for a heartbeat, her eyes apologised where her lips could not. Guilt, longing, regret — all crammed into that split second before she turned and left, leaving both men suspended in the silence she carried in her wake.
Chapter Text
Days blurred into weeks, and life settled into a cruel parody of normality. Graham had made the couch in Buffy’s office his makeshift bed, the springs biting into his back each night. When his watch alarm buzzed at dawn, he rose stiff and aching, dragging himself down to the basement locker rooms near the training facility. The shower was brisk, punishing, as if cold water could steel him for another day of endurance.
By the time he climbed the stairs, coffee in hand, he walked straight into the sight he dreaded most: Buffy and Riley, stepping through the door together, hands linked, laughter soft between them. The sound lanced through him like a stake.
For five years, he had lived at Buffy’s side — not just her lover but her partner, her anchor, the man who held her when the nights were long. They had spoken of futures, of what came after endless battles. A ring still sat hidden away, waiting for the moment he’d ask her to be his wife. All of that felt suddenly like smoke, intangible in the morning light.
Now, Riley had been placed as Field Commander, Operative Liaison. The role suited him — respected, vital, the soldier’s soldier. He trained with the younger Slayers, deployed beside them, filled the role of big brother in combat boots. But the position kept him constantly at Buffy’s side, orbiting her world again, and it was killing Graham by inches.
What gnawed most was the performance. Buffy laughed at Riley’s jokes, leaned into his touch, smiled as if she’d never forgotten how. To anyone else, it was a love rekindled, effortless and sure. Even Graham almost believed it sometimes. Almost.
But then — across a room, in the instant Riley turned his head — her mask would falter. Her gaze would find Graham, raw and unguarded, brimming with the truth she could not speak: I only want you. Desperate, silent, pleading. If he blinked, he’d miss it.
And then the mask slid back into place. She laughed louder, clutched Riley’s arm, and performed the lie like armour.
The coffee in Graham’s hand turned bitter, ash on his tongue. He dropped it into the bin untouched, the taste of her absence already choking him.
Buffy caught sight of Graham slipping down the corridor, his shoulders tight, jaw set. She glanced behind her to make sure no one was watching, then veered off course, ducking into the same hallway.
“Graham—” she whispered, but before the rest could form, he moved.
In one swift motion, Graham pulled her into the nearest broom closet, shutting the door with a muted click. The narrow space was thick with dust and the scent of cleaning chemicals, shadows pressing in. He said nothing at first, only pressed his forehead against hers, breath ragged, as if words would shatter the fragile silence holding them together.
Buffy’s hands clutched at his shirt instinctively, the world outside suspended. In here, there were no façades, no lies performed for Riley’s sake, no Council politics. Just the truth of five years, burning and undeniable between them.
Her heart hammered. She should pull away, she knew that. But instead, she let herself breathe him in, if only for a stolen moment.
Dim light seeped in through the cracks, painting thin slivers across the cramped space. Buffy and Graham stood close, pressed together by necessity—and by choice. The walls closed around them, but it wasn’t the broom closet that felt suffocating. It was the weight of everything unsaid.
His hand found her waist, not bold but desperate, a soldier clinging to his anchor. Buffy’s breath hitched, her forehead brushing his.
“I hate this,” she murmured.
His jaw clenched. “I know.” His fingers tightened against her waist, as though refusing to let go.
Riddled with guilt, Buffy exhaled a broken sigh. “I mean, I’m so grateful Riley’s back and alive but…” The words died, too cruel to voice aloud.
“I know.” His eyes opened, gaze burning down at her face, understanding her without question. He caught her hands in his, dwarfed by his own, his mind wandering treacherously—wondering if she touched Riley the way she touched him now. His voice cracked. “You guys haven’t—”
Her head snapped up, offended but gentle. “No. Of course not.”
“I mean, I get it.” He tried to mask the ache, but nightmares plagued him—images of Riley’s hands on her, Riley’s cock inside her. “It’s… it’s Riley,” he said bitterly, as if that explained everything.
Buffy cupped his face in both palms, forcing him to meet her eyes. She brushed her lips to his in a kiss of reassurance, tender but searing. “I’m your girl. And I’m going to stay that way. I love you. Never doubt that.”
Relief cracked through him, fragile but real. A faint smile ghosted his lips. “I love you too.”
Their mouths found each other again, urgent now, hungry—what began as a stolen moment igniting into something fierce and desperate, the release of everything daylight denied them. Her body ached for his touch, for the weight of him against her, the solace she had claimed for five years. But here, in this stifling broom closet, it felt too small, too degrading for the breadth of their love.
She pulled back, breathless. “We can’t hide in a broom closet forever.”
“But it’s so cosy,” he deadpanned, and she laughed despite herself, tension breaking for an instant.
Her hands rested on his chest, her gaze lifting, solemn again. “We have to tell him. Sooner or later.”
“Or,” he shrugged, fingers toying with the fabric of her blouse, “we could just run away. Never look back.”
She shook her head, firm. “He deserves the truth.”
Graham knew she was right. He hated it, but he understood. So he silenced both their thoughts with another kiss, deep and consuming, as if the world beyond the door didn’t exist.
The hinges groaned softly as the door cracked open. Graham slipped his head out first, scanning both directions. Empty. He stepped into the hall, then glanced back and extended his hand.
Buffy hesitated only a beat before slipping hers into his. He drew her out with the careful steadiness of a mission extraction. Their hands lingered, reluctant, fingers brushing with quiet intimacy in the dim corridor light.
At the far end of the hall, Riley ascended the staircase. He froze mid-step, catching sight of them—his girlfriend and his best friend—just as their hands slipped apart. For an instant, he saw it: the charge between them, the connection. Then it was gone, fingers separating too quickly.
Riley lingered in the shadows, brow furrowing as suspicion stirred.
Buffy and Graham, oblivious, walked the other way, shoulders brushing, voices too low for Riley to catch.
His jaw tightened as he watched them fade down the corridor, unease hardening into something colder.
Chapter Text
Riley lay awake long after the corridors had quieted, shadows shifting across the ceiling of the guest quarters. Sleep refused him. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw them—Buffy and Graham—too close, too natural, like threads already woven together long before he’d stepped back into their world.
The image wouldn’t leave him. Buffy’s hand slipping into Graham’s, the way their shoulders brushed, the ease of it. It gnawed at him. He’d been blind not to see it before, blind and stupid.
His stomach turned as his mind betrayed him with images: Buffy tangled in Graham’s sheets, her hair spilling across his pillow, their bodies fitting together with a familiarity that had nothing to do with chance. Their life together unfolded behind closed doors, the kind of rhythm that only years could build.
And yet… how could he blame her? He’d been gone. Dead to her. Of course, she would move on. She deserved happiness, even if it wasn’t with him.
But with Graham? His best friend? That was the knife that twisted, cruel and unrelenting.
Riley pressed the heel of his hand against his eyes, fighting the ache rising in his chest. He needed to know. Had Buffy been seeing someone all this time? The thought festered, corrosive. Every glance between her and Graham, every silence too heavy, every laugh that came a little too easily—suspicion coiled tighter around him.
And it was killing him.
In the early evening, Buffy slipped quietly into the townhouse. The day had stretched her thin, leaving her nerves frayed. She dropped her keys into the ceramic bowl by the door, the metallic clink echoing in the silence. Shrugging off her coat, she hung it in the closet, exhaling a long, weary breath.
She longed for Graham—his arms, his calm, the simple comfort of his presence—but reminded herself he wasn’t here. Not tonight. The hollow ache of his absence was sharper now, the lie between them and Riley stretching tighter by the day. They were caught in limbo, and the longer they kept the truth buried, the more poisonous it became.
What even was the truth? That grief had drawn them together? That love had blossomed, impossibly, in the ashes of loss? Buffy couldn’t remember where her life ended without Graham and began with him. He was her anchor, her constant, the rhythm her heart had learned to follow. How could she explain that to Riley—how could she unravel years of love in a single confession?
She padded down the hallway into the sitting room. Riley was there, seated before the mantelpiece, his shoulders hunched, gaze heavy on the photographs displayed above. Something in his posture stopped her short. Suspicion carved lines across his face, his jaw tight, his eyes shadowed with doubt.
“Hey,” she said softly, her voice carrying into the room. He flinched at the sound, startled. “Sorry it took me forever to get home, my meetings—”
The way Riley looked at her rooted her to the floor. His gaze was raw, filled with anguish and something darker—disgust, confusion, grief.
Her brow furrowed, dread prickling along her skin. “Is everything okay?”
“You tell me.” His voice was low, deliberate. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, fingers laced together as though holding himself steady. After a pause, he nodded, resolve hardening. “Can I ask you something?”
Buffy felt her chest tighten. She already knew what he was going to ask, the question she had been dreading since his return. “Sure.” She forced her tone even, moving to sit beside him, though every muscle in her body screamed to flee. “What’s up?”
He turned, their knees grazing. His eyes locked on hers with desperate intensity. “Please, be honest with me. I can take it.”
“Okay, now I’m concerned.” She tried for composure, but her pulse thundered in her ears.
His expression hardened, accusations blazing just beneath the surface. “I need to know.”
Her throat went dry, the mask she wore trembling under the weight of his stare.
Riley’s voice softened, but each word cut deep. “I know five years is a long time. A lot can change. I’ve changed. You’ve changed—” A faint smile ghosted across his lips. “For the better,” he added. “But people change, that’s my point. So I’d get it if you moved on to… someone else. I was dead, after all.”
Buffy’s heart pounded. This was it. The moment. The chance to tell him, to stop hiding. Her lips parted—then failed her. Her courage crumbled.
“I-I’m exhausted,” she stammered, hating the cowardice in her own voice. “Really beat. We can talk about this in the morning.”
Riley studied her carefully. His jaw clenched, suspicion confirmed by every flicker in her eyes. He had fought against the thought for weeks, trying to ignore the cracks, the stolen glances, the easy familiarity between Buffy and Graham. He had clung to the naïve hope that his return meant a second chance, that he and Buffy could repair what had once been theirs. But now—now it felt like a blade driven into his chest.
For an instant, he wished himself back in that hellish demon prison camp. Anything but this. Anything but the sight of his girlfriend’s guilt and the truth of his best friend’s betrayal.
He reached out, laying a hand on her knee to stop her retreat. His voice dropped, hoarse with exhaustion and quiet fury. “Just tell me. The thoughts, the images—they’re killing me.”
Tears welled in Buffy’s eyes. She swallowed hard, her voice breaking into a whisper. “We thought you were dead.”
We. The word slammed into him like a hammer. His suspicions solidified into truth. His chest constricted.
“We? You and… Graham.” It wasn’t a question.
Her silence was enough.
Riley’s breath caught, his face shattering with grief for a heartbeat—before rage ignited, scorching away the sorrow. He lurched to his feet, anger coursing through him like fire.
He spun, scanning the townhouse with new eyes. Graham was everywhere—in the subtle rearrangements, in the absence of certain photographs, in the faint trace of a life carefully hidden before his return. He felt sick. Sick that he hadn’t seen it sooner. Sick that this house, this home he thought he could reclaim, belonged to them.
He turned on her, betrayal written across his face. “I’ve been sleeping in his bed. For weeks .”
“Riley—”
The nightmare images clawed back into his head—Buffy in Graham’s arms, their bodies entwined in that very bed. He could barely form the words. “You’ve been sleeping with my best friend behind my back?” His voice broke, jagged with anger and anguish.
Buffy’s chin lifted, tears streaking her cheeks. She would not let him reduce this—reduce Graham, reduce their love—to something base. “It wasn’t like that. It was more than that.”
“More?” He barked a bitter laugh. “What was it then? Tell me, Buffy.” His shadow loomed over her where she sat small on the couch. “Is it love?”
She said nothing. She couldn’t. Because the answer would kill him.
Riley staggered, breath ragged, fury and grief colliding in his chest. “I can’t… I can’t do this. Not right now.” His voice was low, strangled.
He stormed toward the front door.
“Riley, wait—where are you going?”
“Anywhere but here.”
“Riley—” Her voice cracked.
He spun on her, eyes blazing, the words tearing out of him. “I’ve been sleeping in your boyfriend’s bed. I can’t even look at you.”
He wrenched the door open, slamming it behind him.
Buffy stood paralysed in the echo of his absence. Tears slipped silently down her cheeks. Relief and heartbreak knotted together in her chest—the truth was out, but Riley was gone.
She pressed trembling hands to her face, sobbing quietly into the silence. What a mess.
Watcher’s Council
The training facility echoed with the steady rhythm of fists against canvas. Graham drove each punch into the heavy bag with controlled precision, the smack reverberating in the cavernous room. Sweat trickled down his temples, his chest rising and falling in steady bursts, as though punishing the bag might drown out the weight pressing against his conscience.
The metallic clang of the door cut through the silence. It opened and closed with deliberate force, drawing Graham’s attention.
He stilled, gloved fists lingering against the bag, before slowly turning.
Across the wide expanse of the training room, Riley stood. Fury radiated off him in sharp waves, his jaw clenched, eyes burning with betrayal. He didn’t need to say a word—Graham knew instantly. The truth was out.
For a moment, neither of them moved. The distance between them crackled, thick with five years of absence, a lifetime of friendship, and one unforgivable betrayal.
Graham dropped his gaze, his expression carved in resignation. He tore the wraps loose from his hands, the fabric falling limp in his grip. Turning his back briefly, he exhaled a weary sigh, shoulders heavy. When he finally spoke, his voice was quiet but steady, carrying across the room.
“Do you wanna talk about it,” Graham asked, unwrapping the last strip from his wrist, “or did you come here to kick my ass?”
“Both,” Riley seethed, stepping forward, fists clenched until his knuckles blanched. “But mostly, I want to kick your ass.”
Breathing deep, Graham faced his best friend, sorrow written in the lines of his face. He wasn’t sorry for Buffy—never for Buffy—but he hated that Riley found out this way. “We thought you were dead, Ry,” he said quietly.
Riley barked a bitter laugh, hollow and sharp, a sound torn from the pit of him. The truth of that excuse hurt more than he wanted to admit. He should’ve called Buffy. He should’ve told her about the hospital, the state he was in—but his pride had strangled him. The idea of her pity, of her soft eyes looking at him broken, had been unbearable. And now here they were.
“Yeah, that’s exactly what Buffy said,” Riley muttered, pacing the mat, his fury building with every step.
“Because it’s the truth.” Graham’s arms folded over his chest, his eyes following Riley like a soldier tracking a target.
Riley stopped dead, turning on him. Anger surged like a storm breaking its banks. “How long did you wait before swooping in? Before stealing my girl?” His voice cracked, veins ridged along his throat and temples.
“Stealing?” Graham arched a brow, almost incredulous. “You think she was yours to lock away in a glass case forever? Ry, it’s Buffy . She’s… Buffy. How long did you really think it would be before someone loved her?”
“So that was your plan?” Riley’s voice was thunder, shaking with betrayal. “I’m gone, so you just cut in?”
“You were dead!” Graham’s voice rose, frustration leaking into his tone.
“How long?” Riley stepped closer, trembling with rage. “How long after I ‘died’ did you start fucking my girlfriend?”
Graham clenched his jaw so hard it ached. He forced the words down, his self-control hanging by a thread. Riley was lashing out, gutted and bleeding inside, but if he pushed any further, if he dragged Buffy through the dirt—Graham wouldn’t stand for it. No one, not even Riley, spoke of her that way.
“Riley—”
Buffy’s voice cut through the air, sharp and trembling.
Both men turned. She stood in the doorway, her face pale, anxious—but almost relieved they hadn’t already torn each other apart.
Riley pointed at Graham, venom dripping from every word. “Graham was just about to tell me how long you two were sneaking around.” He flicked his gaze back to Graham, waving him on. “Go on.”
Graham’s eyes found Buffy’s across the room, a brief, unspoken connection. And that was enough to break Riley.
“Don’t look at her!” he exploded, jabbing a finger toward him. He stormed forward, heat rolling off him in waves. “Don’t you dare. God, Graham, I feel sorry for you. Because when this is over, you’re gonna need friends—and you won’t have a single one .” His pacing grew frantic, fury ripping through his chest. “I don’t understand how the two people I trusted most in the world lied to me.”
His glare locked on Graham. “So what is this? You bored, you confused, or just malicious?”
“It was more than that,” Graham said, quiet but unyielding.
“More?” Riley’s laugh was ragged, edged with disbelief. “Don’t tell me this is love.”
“Yes,” Graham said without hesitation, the word sharp and steady as a blade. “We’re in love.”
Riley staggered back as if struck. He turned to Buffy, desperate, broken. “Tell me that isn’t true.” His voice was raw, pleading.
Buffy’s breath shuddered out of her. No more lies. “It’s not something that happened overnight,” she whispered.
Riley’s world splintered. His voice cracked, eyes wet. “How could you do this to me?”
Graham stepped forward, his face hard but protective. “If you need someone to blame, blame me.”
Buffy shook her head, her heart breaking at his instinct to shield her even now. “It was both of us,” she said firmly, her gaze locked on Riley.
Riley’s chest heaved, his eyes darting between them. His voice was hollow, strangled. “I can’t.” He shoved past Buffy and stormed out, the door slamming so hard it rattled the frame.
The silence that followed was brutal. Buffy stood rooted to the spot, gutted. Graham rubbed his hand over his chin, exhaling a long, heavy breath. He finally turned to her, the weight of consequence in his eyes. He knew what he’d lost.
Maybe his best friend. Maybe forever.
The weeks that followed were thick with silence. Riley had buried himself in work, his absence both a relief and a punishment. He avoided them—sidestepping hallways, cutting short conversations, vanishing before dinner. It was easier to face hostile strangers in the field than the sight of Buffy and Graham together.
When Graham finally came home late one night, the house felt foreign to him, like walking into someone else’s life. The familiar scent of Buffy’s shampoo lingered in the air, and in the living room, she stood, carefully placing frames back on the shelves. Their life. The ones they had hidden the night Riley returned.
The smile that should’ve accompanied such an act was gone. Her expression was solemn, her hands delicate but hesitant, as though each photograph weighed too much.
Graham dropped his keys on the counter, the sound loud in the stillness. Their eyes met briefly, a spark of longing flickering before guilt drowned it.
Tension clung to every corner of the house. They moved around one another like shadows—close enough to touch, but unsure if they were allowed to. The air between them was thick with what they couldn’t say: when was it safe to laugh again? To curl up on the sofa together? To kiss without thinking of Riley’s face in that training room?
They shared a home, but it didn’t feel like living. It felt like holding their breath.
In the bedroom, Graham passed his dresser. The top drawer sat slightly ajar, revealing the velvet box hidden within. A diamond ring. Dust had begun to gather on its edges, a quiet testament to everything they’d lost in the span of weeks.
The future they had once talked about so easily—marriage, family, a life together—now felt like a dream belonging to someone else.
And as Buffy switched off the living room lamp, leaving the house in muted shadow, Graham wondered if love could survive under so much guilt.
Watcher’s Council
Buffy sat at her desk, chin resting in her hand, eyes fixed on the window, though she wasn’t really seeing the view beyond it. Her thoughts wandered, heavy and tangled, until the quiet sound of a throat clearing pulled her back.
She turned, startled. Riley stood in front of her desk. She hadn’t even heard the door open.
Her breath caught, and she rose quickly to her feet, nerves buzzing under her skin. “Riley,” she murmured, uncertain.
“Can we talk?” he asked.
Buffy nodded, gesturing toward the sitting area. The couch sat like a silent witness between them—the same couch Graham had slept on for weeks while they kept up the pretence of normality for Riley’s sake.
They sat down, opposite ends, a coffee table creating more distance than it bridged. The silence pressed in.
Riley was the first to break it. His voice was low, tired, and raw from being rehearsed too many times. “I just… I don’t understand.”
Buffy laced her fingers together, searching for words. Words that could explain without wounding him further—though she knew that was impossible. “When you… disappeared, we thought you were dead. I thought you were dead. I grieved you.”
Riley’s jaw tightened. His eyes flicked away. “But Graham? How?”
Buffy inhaled deeply, as though the truth itself was heavy in her lungs. “He was there. Not in a convenient way—he was a friend. He fought beside me. We’d talk about you. It was comforting, having someone who knew you like I did.” She paused, eyes lowering. “But at some point… we couldn’t ignore there was something between us. I don’t know when or how, but it was there. We felt awful about it. We tried not to…” Her voice faltered, guilt dragging her gaze to her hands.
“Do you love him?” Riley’s question cut through the space between them, direct and fragile. He needed to hear it. Needed her to say it.
Buffy hesitated, not because she doubted, but because she dreaded the pain it would cause. At last, softly but with certainty, she said, “Yes. I love him.”
The silence that followed was crushing. Riley sat rigid, his face unreadable, absorbing the words as if they were blows. Finally, he exhaled. “Five years is a long time to be with someone.” He said it not as an accusation, but as a dawning truth. This had been her longest relationship—longer than what they had ever shared.
“We would’ve never happened if…” she began, then faltered, her throat closing on the cruelty of the thought.
“If I hadn’t ‘died’,” Riley finished for her, a bitter laugh escaping him. “Yeah. I guess it was better when I was gone.”
The words struck her, because she couldn’t deny them. In his absence, she had mourned him, laid him to rest in her heart, and then moved on. With Graham, life had been clearer, steadier. Less fractured.
“I really did love you, Buffy,” Riley said, as if clinging to some last ember of hope.
Her eyes softened with sorrow. “I loved you, too.”
The past tense landed between them like a knife. Riley felt it, though he managed a small, broken smile. “You and me were never meant to be.”
“I’m sorry,” she whispered, the words catching in her throat. She meant them—truly. She had never wanted to hurt him. He deserved someone who could love him the way she loved Graham.
“Yeah,” Riley said quietly, rising from the couch. “Me too.”
He turned and walked out, the door shutting softly behind him.
Buffy sat frozen, staring after him. She didn’t know what came next—whether Riley would remain at the Council and try to endure the sight of her and Graham together, or if he’d leave, back to the Ghosts or anywhere else the world would take him.
The only thing she knew for certain was that nothing would ever be the same again.
The sun had long slipped behind the horizon, leaving the river Thames a restless sheet of steel, rippling with the last traces of colour from the sky. The air carried a damp chill, heavy with the mingled scents of silt, stone, and the faint tang of petrol drifting off the water.
On the broad steps that descended toward the embankment, Graham sat hunched forward, elbows braced on his knees, his hands hanging loosely between them. He stared at the current with an intensity that belonged to someone searching for answers in its endless flow. The noise of the city—distant traffic, the low groan of a passing barge, the calls of gulls circling overhead—faded into a muted hum around him.
The door behind him opened with a groan, spilling a brief shaft of light across the steps before it closed again. Buffy moved quietly into the night, descending toward him. The chill bit through her coat, the stone beneath her boots cold and unyielding. She hesitated for only a moment before settling beside him, mirroring his posture, arms draped over her thighs, her eyes following the river’s restless path.
For a long while, they simply sat together, silent figures framed by the sweep of the Thames. The city continued on around them, indifferent, yet the stillness between them carried its own gravity.
Graham’s hand shifted first, the rough brush of his knuckles grazing hers before his palm turned to find her own. Fingers entwined, his thumb traced the familiar line of her skin, grounding them both in the fragile certainty of touch. He lifted her hand slowly, pressing his lips against the centre of her palm.
“We really made a mess of things, didn’t we?” he said, a dry laugh escaping him—though the sound carried no humour. The wreckage they had left behind was undeniable. If only they had been honest from the beginning.
Buffy leaned into him, resting her chin lightly against his shoulder as her eyes studied the weary lines of his profile. “It was bound to happen,” she murmured.
He turned his head to her with a strange, searching look, but remained silent.
“Riley being alive…” she exhaled a long, heavy sigh, her chest tightening with the truth of it. “That was a curveball neither of us saw coming.” Her hand lifted to his cheek, her thumb brushing over the coarse bristles of his stubble with quiet affection. Her voice softened, steady and sure. “I choose you, Graham.”
His eyes lit with something raw, a mixture of disbelief and awe. Relief washed over his face, tangled with devotion so fierce it seemed to steal the breath from his lungs. He loved her with every part of himself. If it meant losing his best friend, so be it. If it meant letting the whole world burn, he would, as long as she was still his.
Quiet and unguarded, Buffy whispered the truth she had carried for so long. “I’ve given you my heart. Everything I have. I choose you.”
He caught her hands in his, kissing each finger as if they were sacred. Then, turning toward her, he drew her closer until their foreheads almost touched. His lips brushed hers, a kiss too long denied, filled with the weight of survival, loss, and everything they had fought to hold on to.
Pulling back just enough to look into her tearful eyes, he asked, his voice hushed but threaded with warmth, “You know what this means, right?”
A watery laugh slipped from her, fragile but bright. “What?” she breathed, smiling through the catch in her throat.
“It means you’re stuck with me, Summers,” he grinned, leaning in, brushing the tip of his nose against hers.
Buffy’s breath caught. She reached for him, her hand finding the line of his jaw, her thumb brushing across his cheekbone. He leaned into it instinctively, and when she drew him closer, their lips met—an unhurried kiss, heavy with everything they had not said.
Unseen at first, a figure lingered in the shadows of the doorway. Riley stood there, a duffel bag slung over his shoulder, the faint light from inside the building framing him in silhouette. His gaze fixed on them, unblinking, as if willing the image to vanish. But it did not. What he saw was not guilt nor secrecy, but love—undeniable, unashamed, and it broke something inside him.
After a long moment, Riley turned away. His boots echoed hollowly against the stone as he disappeared into the building’s corridor, the sound swallowed quickly by the night.
On the steps, Buffy and Graham remained—two figures against the restless flow of the Thames, their silence saying more than words ever could.
END.
Notes:
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