Shards of Glass

[madimpossibledreamer]

Main Points:
Buffy/Devil May Cry
Chapter Summary: They'll have to tread carefully for this one.
Word Count: 1854
Rating: Teen

          She realizes along the way that she actually has absolutely no idea where she’s going.  Fortunately, she remembers, in vivid detail, where Xander was coming from, the night he…
          She swallows.  Carefully not thinking about it, thank you very much.  If she just keeps heading in that direction, eventually she’ll get there.
          She spots the rustic door first.  The wood is ancient and probably reclaimed, but the inside isn’t just open to the elements like she’d assumed.  The building isn’t shaped like you’d expect, but then, they probably just bought the space.  There definitely is a sign with an old-fashioned feel proclaiming it to be the Gold Rush (the letters are painted gold, too, how cute).  As she jogs closer, she realizes she’s wrong, because someone has definitely thrown somone out the front window, if the scattered glass and pieces of broken wood out front is any indication.  There’s a clear view of the interior, which is more of what she’d expect.  It’s all wood, for one thing, with the requisite tables for people playing cards and chairs tipped over.  They look hand-crafted, which is a pity, because a lot of them are broken.  She grabs the handle and pulls (carefully), and there’s those swinging saloon doors.  The entrance has a pickaxe, a pan, and some spurs mounted on the wall between the sets of doors, which lead out to within arm’s reach of the bar.  Probably usually well-stocked, but right now a lot of the bottles are missing or smashed.
          “Excuse me, miss, you can’t come in.”  A police officer she’s never seen hurries over to her.
          “I got a call,” she explains, looking around curiously, but she doesn’t see anyone.  There’s a door behind the bar that’s smashed, but it looks like nobody got into the empty office.
          “It’s fine, Morris, she’s a private eye, on behalf of the victims,” Alisha’s voice comes through strong and comforting.
          “You were quicker than Davis,” the voice that had spoken over the phone greets her.  “Now why can’t we get you all the time?”
          “I’ll make sure to tell him you said that,” she responds, and yeah, there’s the barest hint of amusement in the tall man’s face.  Thank goodness for Slayer senses.  They tell her everything—like the fact that the alcohol hadn’t been, as she assumed, for this Lorraine person.  Nope, it was for the guy himself, who seems to have fought with a glass monster and lost.
          The girl who waves is in an old-fashioned saloon style dress (and she takes a moment to be amused at the point that, oh yeah, why is she confused again, it’s not like they’re going for a theme or anything), sitting in one of the few remaining chairs and icing her knuckles.  “We’d give you something nonalcoholic on the house, but uh…we appear to be missing most of our stock.”  She already likes this lady.
          “Excuse me, what was your name again?”  The other cop’s staring, narrowed eyes.  Best to disarm that bomb as soon as possible.
          “Finley.”  Because Jennifer won’t mind her borrowing her name, now.  They were friends at one point, before all the vampire stuff.  It’s not like she’d even know.  “Jenny Finley.”
          Morris is still staring at her.  “Why do you look familiar?”
          “I’m sure I have no idea,” she states brightly, smiling at him, and after a moment he looks away.
          “Jenny, please stop harassing my partner and come over here,” Alisha asks from what sounds like a room further back, and she’s more than happy to take that lifeline.
          She follows the sound down the corridor, and blinks when a door swings open from what looks like just a small alcove to the right opposite the restrooms.  “I’ve always wanted to experience a secret…door….”  Her voice trails off as she takes in what’s on the other side—Alisha, kneeling by a young mother cradling her silently crying daughter.  Two people, check, possibly clients, check.
          The mom looks up with an almost challenging expression.  “You’re not Xander Davis.”
          “No, I’m not, but I am one of his partners in the business.  I happened to be the first person the barman got ahold of.”  She ditches the airhead completely, but it looks like that barely reassures the lady—not that she blames her.  That could’ve been me, is the next disturbing thought her brain assaults her with.  On the run, with her mom an overly suspicious shell and herself a crying mess.  No thinking.
          “We wanted to place the Dowells into protective custody, but Jane here,” she inclines her head at the mother, “…wouldn’t move until she spoke to Davis.”
          “Who are these people?” Morris complains, and Alisha sighs, massaging her forehead.  Buffy sympathizes.
          “And still is going nowhere.  You can’t prove you work with him, can you?”  She’s terrified, and lashing out at the people that are only trying to help.
          The unfortunate part of it all is that she can’t.  Not as it is.  If the lady’s seeking out Xander’s help, she probably is being chased by demons, or something.  It wouldn’t be proof, considering she could be making it up, but if they weren’t in the presence of one person not in the know, they could maybe talk about the last case.  It’s a standstill.
          And then she hears him before she sees him, the sound of the doors, the cheerful “hey, Gabe, Lorraine, it’s a mess in here isn’t it?”, the “hey, sir, you can’t go in there!” from Morris.  Good ol’ Morris.
          And then Xander appears in the doorway, waving at her, happy to see her as always.  And he’s got the sword strapped to his back, the one he favors.  She knows no one would notice if they’re not looking for it, and sometimes, if he’s concentrating, even if they are, but it’s still jarring.  “I knew I should’ve had those business cards printed.”  His gaze travels over the lady and she’d swear he turns a little paler when he sees the kid.  More seriously to her, “I got your note.”
          “Figured you’d just miss it.”  Though if the lady’s this cautious, is she really going to take Xander’s word he is who he says he is?
          “Hey, I’m an investigator, I have some observation skills.”  He goes, slowly, to lean against the table, carefully not crowding mother or child, softer, more normal-person smile on his face than she’s seen.  He lets them watch his movements and keep him in sight, like that skittish pony she’d gotten to ride when she was six.  “Hey, I’m Xander Davis.  I hear you’ve been looking for me.  Those sketchy Buddhist monks on the streets wouldn’t happen to be here for you, would they?”  Even his tone is changed, softer and gentler than his usual.
          The sudden intake of breath tells them everything they need to know.
          “Garcia gave me your name.”  She’s still posturing, trying to make herself bigger.
          “Ohh, that must’ve been that time with the squirrels.”  He must feel Buffy and Alisha’s incredulous looks, because he’s not even looking in their direction but smiles slightly.  “I’ll tell you later.”
          “Squirrels,” Alisha repeats to herself, looking amused.
          “If the stories he told are any indication, you’ll be able to protect me from my ex.”  She’s evaluating him now.
          “He’s more impressive than he looks,” Buffy adds.  Xander sounds mock-injured with that “Hey!”, while the girl starts giggling through her tears, and even the mother softens slightly.
          “I’m willing to go with the police, as long as you accompany us,” she insists, and he nods, respectfully.  He’s had better eye contact this whole time, interestingly; normally he hates it.  He’s being more polite than he had with Tristan, which is kind of ridiculous but that’s Xander for you.
          “I think that could be arranged.  You pick our ride.”  He’s even being deferential.  Buffy kind of wishes she had a camera.
          “I like the pretty cop lady,” the kid finally speaks, wiping her cheeks a little, and Xander transfers his gaze to her, giving her an encouraging smile, before glancing at the mom again, who just nods brusquely.
          “The little lady gets what the little lady wants.”  As he brushes by Buffy, he whispers, “Sorry.”
          Oh yeah, she needs to share her made up name or it’s gonna be a little obvious.  “Jenny Finley,” she whispers back, and he looks blank for a moment, but only a moment.  Louder, “Eh, Morris and I are gonna be best buds.  We’ll get statements.”  She’s just surprised he noticed.  As he goes she follows, eyeing the furniture before deciding sitting on the counter is probably the safest option.  “I’ll talk to, er, Gabe and Lorraine first?” 
          “Now you’ve got her doing it,” the man complains (probably doesn’t go by the nickname, huh?).
          Alisha helps herd the two behind them.  “You can’t come, Morris.  Someone has to drive the other car back, and unless you’re willing to trust one of the private eyes with it…”
          Buffy puts on her most innocent smile.  “You really, really don’t want this guy to drive it.  He’s disaster behind the wheel.”  She makes no promises about her own abilities.  (Honestly, she thinks she’s good, but she doesn’t know for sure.  She hasn’t seen enough for a comparison—just enough to know she’s better than Xander.)
          He shrugs easily.  “When she’s right, she’s right,” he agrees easily.
          The little girl runs up to him and grabs his hand.  “Your nails are pretty, mister.  I didn’t think boys did their nails.”
          Xander glances back toward her, and this time he’s not acting embarrassed or upset.  There’s just a fond pride there.
          “You shouldn’t let someone tell you boys can’t be pretty, or girls can’t be strong.  Look at your mom; I bet she’s the strongestest in the whole world, right?”  From the feel of it, he’s still flustered.  Aware, not wary, but he did lose control there, just for a bit.  Not a trace of it shows on his face or body language.
          “Wow.  You really are a private eye, mister.  You see everything.”  The mother Dowell seems torn between protectiveness and joy, seeing her daughter happy for probably the first time in a bit.
          Xander’s slowed his pace to match the girl’s.  “Actually, I had help—my new partner there, who is also very good at nails and her job—did them.  They fit my outfit, don’t you think?”
          They pass through the swingy doors, Xander actually having the self-control to let the kid push them and giggle to herself, rather than doing it himself like a big kid.  She hasn’t seen him do it yet, but she knows he does.  “They do,” she agrees, and turns back to hit the doors again, grinning at Buffy.  “You’re really good, lady!”
          “Thank you!  I’ve had years of practice,” Buffy responds, smiling and waving at the girl, who giggles and pulls Xander out the second door.
          “Thank you, and I’m sorry.”  And then the woman is pushing through the doors, eager to keep the kid in sight—not that that’s any surprise.  She’s limping, just slightly.
          It’s a start, anyway.