Mutual Respect
Oct. 4th, 2021 06:38 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
madimpossibledreamerMain Points:
Buffy/Dresden Files Crossover
Chapter Summary: Xander lets his frustration about their newest case get the better of him.
Word Count: 1641
Rating: Teen
When Steel appears at my elbow (Stars, he’s got to stop doing that, it puts me on edge every single time; he pulls it off better than Wesley who has actual stealth magic at his disposal and it’s entirely unnatural for a vanilla mortal), he’s frowning with disapproval. I start to put together an entire ‘look you might own the city and a lot of the people in it but you didn’t actually put together the guest list so I have a total right to be here’ speech, but he beats me to the punch by saying something completely unrelated. “I’m surprised to see you take part in the banquet table.”
I blink and glance first at the glass in my hand then the actual table I’d been stuffing my face at, ignoring the look the waiters were giving me. I usually make a beeline for the buffet table. It’s not out of character at all. Among other things, I can eat as much as I want and it’s not murder on my wallet. And big magic requires calories. I might look a little adorably befuddled, given the amusement on his face when I glance back at him, but I’m giving myself a break on that front. Research, unfortunately, often requires late nights. “Why? Would you poison it?”
“Not here,” he promises quietly. I get the feeling what he’s really saying is some combination of ‘no’, ‘that’s communal and therefore would be untargeted and clumsy’, plus ‘my plan to kill you is much more elaborate’, but it’s good enough for me. I down the entire glass in one go, and I don’t miss the slight widening of his eyes. The weird bit is that he, for one second before he manages to tuck that away, looks downright shaken.
“You’re not usually the type to drink. Should I prepare for anything specific?” His tone is cool as usual, but the way he’s fiddling with his sleeves suggests he’s probably checking his knives. He’s not wrong for several reasons. Alcoholism runs in the family, and that way is of the bad. I like having spells on hand, and many drugs, particularly the depressant types, slow down reaction time and how readily spells respond to a wizard’s desires. Plus I’m a bit of a paranoid bastard with bad memories of the time I went to one club, so all of that leads to a lack of desire to impair myself like that.
“I’m not expecting anything today, or I wouldn’t.” Mostly, it was that the research of the kind I’d been doing was the sort that had me waking up screaming from all the residual trauma I couldn’t shake, and I really needed to actually sleep for a night before I started hallucinating. Of course, drugs, albeit legal ones, probably wouldn’t help with anything but conking out in a potentially dangerous way. On the other hand, I do have a self-destructive streak. I try to rein it in, for Willow’s sake and a bit of Giles’, but it comes out every now and then. Besides, I’d already tried the usual sleep aids (potion, melatonin, over the counter sleeping pill, given that I can’t just wander into a hospital or clinic) and no dice.
I blink a little in confusion as he takes the empty glass out of my hand gently and sets it down. I’m too surprised to be indignant. “What, I can’t be a noir protagonist?”
“Unless you take up smoking as well—which I don’t advise, nasty habit—no, you can’t. At least, not in the hardboiled tradition. Neo-noir, perhaps.” He pauses. “I realize I am hardly one of the people you’d be liable to take advice from, and I might be overstepping my bounds. Feel free to tell me in colorful terms to disappear, and I’ll do just that—after making sure to inform one of your friends of your location. But did you intend to drink that much?”
I actually have to think about the question, which is a bit of a clue in of itself. I shouldn’t be having that much trouble thinking. “I’m not sure how much I drank, but I ate a lot, too. That’s supposed to help.”
He nods and tries not to look too concerned.
“Relax. I’m not going to burn down your building. I’d probably be just like the meme and say ‘this is fine’ and fall asleep,” I inform him, and yeah, I’m not sure how I got here but I’m probably drunk. My thoughts are not exactly staying in my head, which is a little unfortunate. They’re ridiculous enough when I don’t voice them out loud and I’m the only one who can think about how silly they are.
“I’m more concerned about you falling asleep, fire or no, and not waking up again,” he explains, guiding me to one of the overly expensive couches.
I’m kind of docile as I follow him, which clearly worries him, too, but I trust he’s not going to try to kill me. Not with this weird protective streak he has going on. I just tend to feel better about being contrary because guys like him shouldn’t get used to having all their own way.
“’s weird you care.” I really should shut up. I just don’t quite manage it. “I mean, you’re all you, and I’m me.”
He sets aside the worry for a moment to be amused. “I’m afraid I don’t quite follow.”
“You’ve probably seen a mirror. You don’t need me to say you’re good looking, with those cheekbones and eyes and that well-fitted suit that brings out your eyes.” I say that, but while he doesn’t have a trace of it on his face, he suddenly exhudes a smug aura. Weird. He probably hears stuff like that all the time. I’m nobody special. And, I mean, yeah, some of it probably isn’t legit but just sucking up to him, but still, nobody’s gotta go out of their way to lie about his looks. He has them. “You could be a model if you weren’t too busy being the most fair if ruthless crime boss the city’s known. And when you’re not being your inner wolf, you’re being nice, and I can’t figure out your agenda.” I yawn and stretch out, and through some combination of my figuring out belatedly and his good reflexes we manage to avoid me hitting him in the process. His hand on my skin is nice, even if my hands are calloused and have six different healing scratches from this week and my skin’s all dry. I mean, I’m pretty sure he’s just checking my breathing and circulation, but it’s still nice. The issue, mostly, is that I relax around him, even if I know, intellectually it’s a bad idea. And that bothers me. Particularly when I don’t deserve it, like right now, when I’m not getting anything worthwhile done and have apparently managed to somehow get drunk. “And I’m me. I mean, I figure my soul looked pretty pathetic and triggered your code of conduct, or whatever, but…”
For one moment his eyes turn icy, murderous even, and his fingers tighten on my wrist, enough to make me wince. Instantly, he lets go.
“My apologies,” he mutters, polite as ever. “But you are not pathetic. I can always lecture you about why, if you wish.”
I shiver a little, and he instantly starts taking off his suit jacket, wrapping it around my shoulders. I’m pretty sure the extra scrutiny is to make sure I’m not turning blue or whatever. Like his eyes. “Eh, whatever, lay it on me.” I’m genuinely curious.
“I would dearly like to get my hands on whoever ruined your sense of self-esteem,” he murmurs to himself. I’m pretty sure I wasn’t even meant to hear that. That’s the most utterly polite deadly threat I’ve heard, and the most terrifying part is, I’m pretty sure he means it. “You might ignore this particular input as my self-selected acquaintances, but it is a broad selection. And I have never met anyone as recklessly selfless as you. This does not make you pathetic. And while you may not be the battle wizard powerhouse, you still have a power that far surpasses many of those I deal with on a daily basis. You’ve had numerous setbacks, but that makes you human, not an object of pity.”
He smiles. “You are one of few people I respect.”
I shiver and lean into where his hand is lingering on my shoulder, a comforting warmth. I don’t feel like I should be taking his opinion into account, but then, this guy has seen my soul. If anyone’s an expert on me, it’d be Steel. Not the person I would’ve chosen, but then again…okay, maybe this is all a trick to get me on his payroll, but he’s smart enough to know that using the truth is the most devastating weapon at his disposal. He might be a jerk who makes his living off the suffering of others, and even if he’s trying to make it ‘cleaner’, he’s still the most dangerous mortal in the city. Even knowing all that…he’s not bad at this whole reassuring thing. Or looking after the weepy drunk, apparently.
With anyone else, he probably wouldn’t hesitate, but in my case he keeps checking in with me on little things like getting one of his minions to fetch me a glass of water and on calling a friend to come pick me up.
It’s probably how pathetic—nah, wait. I’ve just heard a pretty good lecture on why I shouldn’t be using that word to describe myself. …I’m too tired to think about this. However I look, it’s enough to spare me, because Willow doesn’t even give him a lecture when she shows up to collect me.
Buffy/Dresden Files Crossover
Chapter Summary: Xander lets his frustration about their newest case get the better of him.
Word Count: 1641
Rating: Teen
When Steel appears at my elbow (Stars, he’s got to stop doing that, it puts me on edge every single time; he pulls it off better than Wesley who has actual stealth magic at his disposal and it’s entirely unnatural for a vanilla mortal), he’s frowning with disapproval. I start to put together an entire ‘look you might own the city and a lot of the people in it but you didn’t actually put together the guest list so I have a total right to be here’ speech, but he beats me to the punch by saying something completely unrelated. “I’m surprised to see you take part in the banquet table.”
I blink and glance first at the glass in my hand then the actual table I’d been stuffing my face at, ignoring the look the waiters were giving me. I usually make a beeline for the buffet table. It’s not out of character at all. Among other things, I can eat as much as I want and it’s not murder on my wallet. And big magic requires calories. I might look a little adorably befuddled, given the amusement on his face when I glance back at him, but I’m giving myself a break on that front. Research, unfortunately, often requires late nights. “Why? Would you poison it?”
“Not here,” he promises quietly. I get the feeling what he’s really saying is some combination of ‘no’, ‘that’s communal and therefore would be untargeted and clumsy’, plus ‘my plan to kill you is much more elaborate’, but it’s good enough for me. I down the entire glass in one go, and I don’t miss the slight widening of his eyes. The weird bit is that he, for one second before he manages to tuck that away, looks downright shaken.
“You’re not usually the type to drink. Should I prepare for anything specific?” His tone is cool as usual, but the way he’s fiddling with his sleeves suggests he’s probably checking his knives. He’s not wrong for several reasons. Alcoholism runs in the family, and that way is of the bad. I like having spells on hand, and many drugs, particularly the depressant types, slow down reaction time and how readily spells respond to a wizard’s desires. Plus I’m a bit of a paranoid bastard with bad memories of the time I went to one club, so all of that leads to a lack of desire to impair myself like that.
“I’m not expecting anything today, or I wouldn’t.” Mostly, it was that the research of the kind I’d been doing was the sort that had me waking up screaming from all the residual trauma I couldn’t shake, and I really needed to actually sleep for a night before I started hallucinating. Of course, drugs, albeit legal ones, probably wouldn’t help with anything but conking out in a potentially dangerous way. On the other hand, I do have a self-destructive streak. I try to rein it in, for Willow’s sake and a bit of Giles’, but it comes out every now and then. Besides, I’d already tried the usual sleep aids (potion, melatonin, over the counter sleeping pill, given that I can’t just wander into a hospital or clinic) and no dice.
I blink a little in confusion as he takes the empty glass out of my hand gently and sets it down. I’m too surprised to be indignant. “What, I can’t be a noir protagonist?”
“Unless you take up smoking as well—which I don’t advise, nasty habit—no, you can’t. At least, not in the hardboiled tradition. Neo-noir, perhaps.” He pauses. “I realize I am hardly one of the people you’d be liable to take advice from, and I might be overstepping my bounds. Feel free to tell me in colorful terms to disappear, and I’ll do just that—after making sure to inform one of your friends of your location. But did you intend to drink that much?”
I actually have to think about the question, which is a bit of a clue in of itself. I shouldn’t be having that much trouble thinking. “I’m not sure how much I drank, but I ate a lot, too. That’s supposed to help.”
He nods and tries not to look too concerned.
“Relax. I’m not going to burn down your building. I’d probably be just like the meme and say ‘this is fine’ and fall asleep,” I inform him, and yeah, I’m not sure how I got here but I’m probably drunk. My thoughts are not exactly staying in my head, which is a little unfortunate. They’re ridiculous enough when I don’t voice them out loud and I’m the only one who can think about how silly they are.
“I’m more concerned about you falling asleep, fire or no, and not waking up again,” he explains, guiding me to one of the overly expensive couches.
I’m kind of docile as I follow him, which clearly worries him, too, but I trust he’s not going to try to kill me. Not with this weird protective streak he has going on. I just tend to feel better about being contrary because guys like him shouldn’t get used to having all their own way.
“’s weird you care.” I really should shut up. I just don’t quite manage it. “I mean, you’re all you, and I’m me.”
He sets aside the worry for a moment to be amused. “I’m afraid I don’t quite follow.”
“You’ve probably seen a mirror. You don’t need me to say you’re good looking, with those cheekbones and eyes and that well-fitted suit that brings out your eyes.” I say that, but while he doesn’t have a trace of it on his face, he suddenly exhudes a smug aura. Weird. He probably hears stuff like that all the time. I’m nobody special. And, I mean, yeah, some of it probably isn’t legit but just sucking up to him, but still, nobody’s gotta go out of their way to lie about his looks. He has them. “You could be a model if you weren’t too busy being the most fair if ruthless crime boss the city’s known. And when you’re not being your inner wolf, you’re being nice, and I can’t figure out your agenda.” I yawn and stretch out, and through some combination of my figuring out belatedly and his good reflexes we manage to avoid me hitting him in the process. His hand on my skin is nice, even if my hands are calloused and have six different healing scratches from this week and my skin’s all dry. I mean, I’m pretty sure he’s just checking my breathing and circulation, but it’s still nice. The issue, mostly, is that I relax around him, even if I know, intellectually it’s a bad idea. And that bothers me. Particularly when I don’t deserve it, like right now, when I’m not getting anything worthwhile done and have apparently managed to somehow get drunk. “And I’m me. I mean, I figure my soul looked pretty pathetic and triggered your code of conduct, or whatever, but…”
For one moment his eyes turn icy, murderous even, and his fingers tighten on my wrist, enough to make me wince. Instantly, he lets go.
“My apologies,” he mutters, polite as ever. “But you are not pathetic. I can always lecture you about why, if you wish.”
I shiver a little, and he instantly starts taking off his suit jacket, wrapping it around my shoulders. I’m pretty sure the extra scrutiny is to make sure I’m not turning blue or whatever. Like his eyes. “Eh, whatever, lay it on me.” I’m genuinely curious.
“I would dearly like to get my hands on whoever ruined your sense of self-esteem,” he murmurs to himself. I’m pretty sure I wasn’t even meant to hear that. That’s the most utterly polite deadly threat I’ve heard, and the most terrifying part is, I’m pretty sure he means it. “You might ignore this particular input as my self-selected acquaintances, but it is a broad selection. And I have never met anyone as recklessly selfless as you. This does not make you pathetic. And while you may not be the battle wizard powerhouse, you still have a power that far surpasses many of those I deal with on a daily basis. You’ve had numerous setbacks, but that makes you human, not an object of pity.”
He smiles. “You are one of few people I respect.”
I shiver and lean into where his hand is lingering on my shoulder, a comforting warmth. I don’t feel like I should be taking his opinion into account, but then, this guy has seen my soul. If anyone’s an expert on me, it’d be Steel. Not the person I would’ve chosen, but then again…okay, maybe this is all a trick to get me on his payroll, but he’s smart enough to know that using the truth is the most devastating weapon at his disposal. He might be a jerk who makes his living off the suffering of others, and even if he’s trying to make it ‘cleaner’, he’s still the most dangerous mortal in the city. Even knowing all that…he’s not bad at this whole reassuring thing. Or looking after the weepy drunk, apparently.
With anyone else, he probably wouldn’t hesitate, but in my case he keeps checking in with me on little things like getting one of his minions to fetch me a glass of water and on calling a friend to come pick me up.
It’s probably how pathetic—nah, wait. I’ve just heard a pretty good lecture on why I shouldn’t be using that word to describe myself. …I’m too tired to think about this. However I look, it’s enough to spare me, because Willow doesn’t even give him a lecture when she shows up to collect me.
