Who: Riley and Xander Where: Cat and Fiddle When: Sunday, 7:00 PM What: Impromptu shop talk over drinks Status: Complete Rating: Probably nothing past PG-13
All things considered, the past few days had been productive...but frustrating as well. Despite a few minor flesh wounds and the tenuous nature of Riley's exit, the Wolfram and Hart op had been an admittedly qualified success, having brought back a small treasure trove of information that confirmed there was indeed more going on here than the government had initially suspected. Unfortunately, despite repeated examinations of Wolfram and Hart's stolen files on Buffy, and ongoing intel provided by the listening devices and hacked camera feeds provided by the rest of his team, specifics were still elusive, and not everything he saw was encouraging. That was okay, though...well, okay except for the impending apocalypse part. The important thing was that the gesture he'd made had satisfied his superiors in Washington, and he was now relatively free to pursue the facts in a manner of his choosing.
Having made that choice, it wasn't overly hard to find the man he sought; Buffy and her inner circle had been under varying degrees of surveillance ever since Sunnydale literally dropped off the face of the earth, which had only intensified in light of recent developments. And this bar had been identified as the local favorite to a number of them, among other employees of Wolfram and Hart. That did, of course, mean that going in himself presented some risk, but he judged it minimal. There was, so far as he knew, only one person inside right now who'd know his face, and none of the Alpha or Beta level threats (Mostly high level magic users, or confirmed Slayers/super vamps, respectively.) were there. Besides, at Graham's insistence, he carried a walkie in his jacket pocket, and a quick double tap of the send button would summon an extraction team within a minute, provided the concealed weapons on his person weren't enough.
Thus feeling reasonably secure, Riley pushed the door open, and quickly scanned the room. It seemed he was in luck; hopefully that was a trend that would hold. There at the bar, dark head of hair, plaid shirt. The man in question seemed otherwise unremarkable, but that was largely because it wasn't until he'd slid into the unoccupied stool next to him that the patch covering the man's left eye became visible.
"Whatever this man's drinking," he explained to the bartender "it's on me. And I'll have a Sam Adams, please." Once the All American, always the All American. Only as the bartender walked off to the tap did he turn to his right with his typically open and friendly smile. "Hey, Xander. How's it going?"