A Hard Life by Tara Keezer

Story Notes: If you aren't familiar with Spider Robinson's Callahan stories, I envy you for what you have yet to experience, and I pity you for not having had the chance to enjoy them yet. Lady Sally runs the world's best bordello. It's located in Brooklyn, just across the river from the United Nations. I've moved the timing of Callahan's Lady up by close to 30 years or so, and in the BtVS 'verse, it takes place about two years after "Chosen."

*

It was Wednesday night, and at Lady Sally's House, that meant I was the featured entertainer. Musically speaking, that is. Lady Sally didn't play favorites with the artists when it came to the other types of entertainment offered in her House.

I was about two-thirds of the way through The Beatles' Blackbird when I happened to look up and see him standing there, gaping at me as though I'd somehow managed to grow a third head. I didn't know why he was so surprised. It wasn't as if he didn't know I could play guitar and sing. He and Buffy had teased me unmercifully after that episode of theirs at Lowell House.

I finished the song, then begged off one more encore, claiming the need to get a drink. The crowd in the Parlor dispersed readily enough, though it still took me a good ten minutes to work my way to where he stood at the bar.

My pint of ale in hand, I turned to him and said, "What's a nice Iowa boy like you doing in a place like this?"

Riley clenched his jaw briefly before responding, "Could ask why a nice British gentleman is playing guitar in a whorehouse."

When he didn't continue, I said, "You could, but you haven't. Am I to assume you don't want to hear the answer?"

He slammed his shot, and without looking at me, he said, "Don't much care."

Riley had never really struck me as the type to whine, pout or sulk — I often thought that was the reason he never quite clicked with Buffy and the others — so to see him standing there so closed off was bewildering. A piece of gossip Dawn passed on came back, and I frowned at the memory.

I touched his arm gently. "What happened, Riley? Where's your wife? Sam, isn't it?"

He turned his self-righteous Midwestern glare on me. "Does Buffy know you play guitar in a whorehouse?"

It was the second time he'd used the word, and I was becoming rather annoyed. Yes, Lady Sally's House was one of ill-repute — a brothel, if you will — but it was the finest brothel in the world.

One deep, cleansing breath later, I said, "Lady Sally's House bears about as much resemblance to a whorehouse as Buckingham Palace does to a tenement. The correct term is brothel, and I would be greatly obliged if you would use that word instead."

He shifted slightly, the dull blush shading his cheeks giving me hope that the Riley Finn I remembered was still in there. "Mister —"

"My house name is Ripper," I said, interrupting him firmly, but gently. "As for Buffy, I doubt that she knows or cares that I'm an artist."

Riley's blush deepened as he took in my slight emphasis on the word "artist." Given that he would have been schooled by Lady Sally on her interpretation of what a prostitute is, it was hardly surprising to see him do an imitation of a goldfish.

"I thought you just —" He waved in the direction of my guitar, which I'd left on its stand, and tried to continue with, "Not that you were a — a —"

"A 'whore'?" About to take a swallow of my ale, the absurdity of the situation and conversation hit me suddenly, and I started giggling. A glance at his face turned my giggles into a chortle.

Looking quite abashed, Riley attempted to maintain his dignity, but it was a lost cause. He started chuckling, and soon the two of us were laughing with one another as we never had before.

Unfortunately, his mirth didn't last long. Whatever grief he was feeling reemerged with a vengeance.

"I have to go," he said, abruptly turning for the front door.

I took hold of his arm before he could get very far and said, "Don't. Please don't leave. Talk to me?"

He looked around the Parlor, at the happy guests of the world's best party, and said, "I can't. Not here."

I tugged gently on his arm and directed him to the wrought iron staircase that led to the second floor. "We can go to my studio. It's quiet there."

He followed along, neither questioning nor objecting, so I was rather astonished at his behavior after we entered my studio and I closed the door. Before I could offer him something to drink, he had me pinned against the door and was kissing me hard.

Though the affair was a mashing of lips against teeth and moderately painful, I allowed it to continue without protest. His wasn't the action of a rapist. Instead, it was the action of a man who was himself in a great deal of pain and who sought whatever comfort he could find.

After a few moments, he eased back enough that I could take control of the kiss and ease the tone of it into the consolation he so desperately needed. I teased his lips with mine, and when they loosened up, I used my tongue to beg entrance to his mouth. It didn't take long for him to get into the proper spirit of the thing, and I was pleased to hear his small whimpers. They told me that I was beguiling him from his black mood and bringing him back to a brighter place.

I wrapped one arm around his waist so I could rub his back, and I wish with all my heart I could say I did just that. The problem was that my baser instincts took over at that point and guided my hand to his arse so that I could pull him closer. It had long been a point of quiet interest amongst the Scoobies as to what Buffy had ever seen in Riley beyond the promise of normalcy. Being on the receiving end of one of his half-hearted kisses, I could easily see why she kept him around for as long as she did.

Sadly, my sense of responsibility reasserted itself and reminded me that no matter what else I might do with him that evening, my most important task was to treat him as what he was — a client in pain.

With a great deal of regret and mental gnashing of teeth, I ended the kiss and said softly, "What happened, Riley? Where's Sam?"

His jaw tightly clenched, he bit out, "She's dead," before coming back in for another hard, almost brutal kiss.

Again, I allowed it, and again, his essential decency made him ease off enough for me to take control of it. This time, however, my hand remained in the small of his back, and I rubbed it gently as the kiss ended naturally.

I tried to ignore the fact that he was half-hard already and wouldn't require much encouragement to get even harder. Further, I tried to ignore my own aching erection. He really was a talented kisser.

He pulled back from me with a look of absolute bewilderment, seeming confused as to what exactly was happening. As I continued to look into his eyes, I amended that judgment to thinking he really was confused about what had just gone on. While I understood all too easily how grief could make one do things that were completely against character on the face of it, I still mourned the fact that it was unlikely he would allow me to do anything about his arousal, let alone my own.

I guided him to the couch and had him take a seat while I poured a small dose of brandy for him. He could certainly do with its bracing effects, and I could do with a chance to settle down and convince my cock that really, nothing was going to happen any time soon.

I sat next to him and winced slightly as he tossed back the brandy. It was an excellent vintage, and it was absolutely wasted on him. I should have known better than to give it to a grieving man.

Before I could ask what happened, he started speaking, as if to a review board of some sort. "We were following up on rumors of a Columbian drug lord using Harchzk demons in his security force." I winced when he mentioned the Harchzk demons, anticipating what he was about to say. "When we arrived, I discovered that the initial reports were wrong. He had Fyarls on staff."

"I take it your original plan had to be scrapped," I said, taking his glass from him when he looked at it, trying to understand why it was empty. I got up to pour another drink for him — straight bourbon this time — then brought it back and sat down again.

He swallowed it whole without so much as a blink, and that worried me more than anything. I'd given him the closest thing to rotgut Lady Sally would permit in her House, and it should have made him cough at least a little.

Riley continued his narrative, speaking dully. "I left Sam in charge of our unit and went back to HQ for silver blades. When I got back —"

"Riley —"

His face tight, he continued, "When I got back, they were dead. All of them."

When he looked at his glass this time, I took it from him and set it on the end table before grasping his hand. "I'm so sorry. How long ago did this happen?"

His head was still down when he answered, "Five months."

As horribly mawkish as it seemed, the question had to be asked. "Have you allowed yourself to mourn at all?"

This time, his kiss was meant to shut me up and punish me for daring to ask the obvious. I've no doubt it would have proceeded on to rape or near-rape if I'd permitted it, but I had no interest in allowing Riley to add to the guilt he already felt over the death of his wife. I used a move Buffy had never quite been able to master and put him on the floor in a rather nasty and effective hold.

His look of surprise would have been comical under other circumstances. After all, a young man of thirty or so as well-muscled as he was couldn't reasonably expect to be overpowered by a man in his fifties. Worse for him, I was able to keep him in that position. On the bright side, it did seem to jolt him out of his guilt for a bit.

"How the hell did you manage that?" He continued his ineffective struggling and added inaccurate commentary about my parentage.

As patiently as I could, I answered, "I trained Buffy for five years, and before that, I trained two potentials. Did you honestly think I could manage that without knowing what I was doing?"

He blinked and said stupidly, "Oh."

"Yes. Quite. If I let you up, are you going to try that again?"

He blinked again, but this time, it was because his eyes were filling with tears. Given how much he was fighting them, I strongly suspected it was the first time he'd cried since Sam's death. I waited until he was crying too hard to stop himself, and then I pulled him up and took him to the bed. I felt it would be easier to hold him if we were supine, and it would certainly lead to a more comfortable night for me if he ended up falling asleep on me after he cried himself out. Once I arranged us just so, I held onto him as tightly as I could manage and whispered words of encouragement and solace, of condolence and comfort.

It was a long time before he cried himself out, and it was an even longer time before I dropped into an uneasy sleep with him.

~*~*~

When I awoke a few hours later, Riley was spooning me, and he was pushing his groin into my arse in a gentle, insistent rhythm. My cock and hips were fully awake before my brain was, and they responded with a happy affirmative to the question he hadn't precisely asked.

I rolled over with a groan, vaguely remembering that Riley was a damn fine kisser, and I found that to be the understatement of the year. When he was enthusiastic, he was a world-class kisser, having an innate understanding of just how lips and tongue should work together. I relaxed into his need, happy to learn what I could from his technique as I started to undress him.

There were a few more scars on him than I remembered, though that was hardly a surprise. I found one pucker scar that spoke of a rare bullet wound, and I found another one whose shape suggested a claw had been involved. He groaned into my mouth every time I traced the raised tissue on his chest and stomach, so I made it my mission to find every one of his scars once his shirt was removed.

"Mister — Gi — Ripper — What —?"

It did my ego no end of good to hear him become incoherent when I managed to open his trousers enough to slip my hand around his cock. Sadly, I was no longer in touch with any of the Scoobies, so I wouldn't be able to collect my bet from Xander that Riley was the type to go "commando." He'd been certain the soldier was too conservative to go without pants.

I stopped kissing his face long enough to say, "It's comfort, Riley. It's part of grief to need this affirmation of life. Won't you let it happen?"

His hips thrust forward again, and he said, "I've never — I don't know if —"

Keeping hold of his cock, I used my other hand to pull his head down for another kiss. When it ended, I rolled us over so he was on his back again. "You need to be inside someone, Riley. Someone who understands your life and your loss. Let me be that person for you."

After a long, tense moment, he nodded slightly, and I smiled reassuringly as I had him lift his hips so I could remove his trousers as well as his shoes and socks. I stood up at that point so I could get undressed as well, but before I returned to the bed, I pulled condoms and lubricants from the side table.

"It's very simple," I said, tearing open the condom wrapper so I could sheath him.

I got my first good look at his cock then, and I thought there was another reason Buffy had kept him on for so long. It wasn't particularly long, but it was wider than my own, and I thought it would stretch me nicely going in. The main thing would be to make sure he controlled himself long enough to give me time to adjust.

Once the condom was on, I dribbled lubricant over it and used my hand to keep him interested in the proceedings. "The main thing is to remember that I won't have as much give as a woman would have. You'll need to go slowly to allow my muscles to relax, and the best way for you to judge that is to use your fingers to lubricate me first."

Though his eyes darkened with desire, there was an underlying hint of panic to his voice when he asked, "Lubricate you?"

I offered him a latex glove, but he batted it away when he sat up to take the tube from my hand. As long as he didn't have a problem with bare fingers going in, neither did I. Moving forward, I stopped when I was on my hands and knees and encouraged him. "Go ahead. See for yourself. And don't be stingy with it, alright?"

A wry and wholly unexpected smile flittered across his face, and he said, "No stinginess with the lube. Check."

I started to chuckle, but it turned into a moan as Riley did exactly what I'd told him to and then some. Hardly a shocker, that. He couldn't have reached his rank in the Army or his position at UC Sunnydale if he'd been slow on the uptake. He used the time to tease my anal ring, and I used it to enjoy myself rather thoroughly.

"Any time you're ready —" I choked off what I was saying, because apparently my final permission was all he'd been waiting for.

Christ, but he felt good going in. There was a slow, steady burn as he moved carefully, and it was all I could do not to push back and envelop him completely. Happily, it wasn't terribly long before he was all the way in, and it was even less time for the two of us to find our rhythm.

With both his hands on my hips and my own keeping me propped up, I didn't get any kind of immediate relief. Of course, the way he felt, I doubted I would need much beyond the friction of air to come.

"Jesus, Riley —"

"God, you feel good," he said, bending over my back to bite at my shoulder. With the change in position, he took the time to think of my needs, and he wrapped his hand around my cock.

Our pace increased, and against all my private rules, I came before my partner did. At least, I think I did. It was a close call, that. It's entirely possible that my orgasm precipitated his. Either way, we were both a content, sweaty mess, trembling from the aftershocks.

I held him inside as long as I could, but he was fairly insistent on withdrawing so he could collapse beside me. It seemed like a good idea, and I followed suit, dropping into a deep, dreamless sleep.

~*~*~

The next morning, I woke alone in my studio, with only a note from Riley.

"Dear Giles," he wrote. "I don't know how or why I ended up here last night, but I do know it was probably the best thing that could have happened to me. You helped me say goodbye to Sam, and I can't ever thank you enough for that."

I blinked away a bit of moisture from my eyes — damn Robin for not dusting well enough in here — and continued reading. "The thing is, and it's killing me to write this, but the thing is, having sex with a man just isn't my thing. It never has been. Only now, I think it should have been. I'm confused, and I know if I stayed to talk to you, I'd only get more confused, because we sure as hell wouldn't talk."

My nose was starting to run a little. As kiss-offs went, this was one of the better ones I'd received, but it was still a goodbye. "I'm not sure why you're working at Lady Sally's or what happened between you and Buffy and the others, but I don't think they'd be happy to know you don't believe they care about you."

Oh fuck.

"I'll be getting in touch with her in a couple of days to let her know where you are and what you're doing, so if you want to run again, here's your chance. Otherwise, maybe you'll find out they really do care. Anyway, thanks again. I'm going back home now, to see my folks and to do the kind of grieving they expect me to do. I couldn't have done this without you. Sincerely, Riley Finn."

Fuck, and double fuck. I hoped to every god and goddess I could think of that I was right about Buffy and the others not caring about me, because I didn't relish the notion of them descending en masse to rescue me from a life I enjoyed so very much.

.End