The Runaround

[madimpossibledreamer]

Xander is delusional as he is totally a damsel in distress.
i feel xander so hard rn and i prewrote this

Main Points:
Buffy/Dresden Files Crossover
Chapter Summary: Xander is exhausted and suspicious of help.
Word Count: 2172
Rating: Teen

 

        I like food.  That’s kind of an understatement, I know.  So it seems odd that I’d turn food down.
        But I’m also aware of the magical world.  Have to be, being a badge-carrying wizard and all.  True, accepting food might mean the person offering you said food is required to give you only the finest in hospitality.  It also could be a trap, forcing you to stay in the Underworld or Sidhe lands.  So it’s important to question the circumstances around the food before you just go biting in.
        Right now, the circumstances are these: a client, who I’m considering-but-not-really-considering hexing for giving me the most annoying case I’ve ever had the displeasure of working, hired me to deliver a briefcase to a third party.  They’d said they were concerned about other people trying to steal said briefcase, but were annoyingly sparse on the details.  Honestly, I probably should’ve pressed them more, or even turned it down, or maybe pawned it off on Willow.  Though who am I kidding.  I always take the annoying jobs, on the grounds that I have a better control of my temper than my lovely tree-named friend and am much less likely to set the city on fire in my impatience and displeasure.  The fact that I’m already contemplating burning things means that if Willow were here instead things would probably already be on fire.  She’s better off dealing with the murderous ghost, anyway, given that she can actually fight it properly.
        Not that I’m good with fire-magic, unlike her.  I’d still try my hardest to commit arson, because I’ve been given the runaround for six hours in the middle of the summer, and I’d dressed ready for a fight.  So I’m hungry, thirsty, practically melting, and my patience is steadily getting thinner and thinner.  As promised, I haven’t looked inside or attempted to scan the thing, though the longer I’m given the runaround the more tempted I am to look, because longer this goes, the sketchier it gets.  Also, no fight has materialized, I haven’t been followed, as far as I’ve been able to tell, nothing.
        And then Steel appears in his fancy limo and opens it and just…holds out a pulled pork sandwich.
        I stare at the sandwich.  Then at him.  Then at the sandwich again.  He’s a hallucination, he’s a Sidhe or something, or he’s getting way too good at this stalking thing.  I’m thinking the first two are more likely, given that even if he is stalking me there’s absolutely no way he would know I was daydreaming about one.
        “It’s not a bomb,” he states politely, and, well, at least the voice is spot on.
        I consider that statement for a moment.  It’s true, technically, but only in the most literal of ways.
        It might be a bad idea, confronting ‘him’.  A Sidhe lord might attack me for spoiling his ‘game’.  But I’m in no mood to play, and the prospect of an actual slugfest cheers me up even though I know I’m in no shape for one.
        “Look, just because the ‘Pretty Boy’,” I actually pause to put air quotes around the phrase, which visibly amuses him, “…and I shared a soulgaze does not mean he can read my mind.  That’s not how any of this works.”
        He blinks, regarding me, then the sandwich, and the artfully scarred eyebrow raises as he smiles at me.  He’s got the smile down, too, too pretty for his own good.  Or for my peace of mind.
        “Would you prefer if I offered you a ride to the food?” he offers, and I nearly give in before I remember the briefcase in my hand.  He is really far too good at that.
        “I can’t be sure you weren’t the one my client warned me about.”  I’m half convinced it’s really him, though.
        He sets the sandwich back down inside the car, and I hope he doesn’t hear my stomach grumble in protest.  But then he gets out, and I swallow as he prowls closer like the white wolf he is.  The dark blue pinstripe really is doing wonders for his eyes, isn’t it.
        “I don’t suppose I could give you my word?” he asks, emphasizing the charm in every word, and it takes my brain a moment to even process.
        “The word of a mob boss.  Hmm.” I make a show of considering it.  “I don’t think so.”
        And then he steps in close, close enough I can feel the heat of his body and his breath caressing my ear, and part of my brain just panics.  This could be a trap! It yammers, even as I’ve frozen in place as he places a warm, gentle hand on my arm.  If he’s a Sidhe, he’s putting you under his spell!  If it’s really him and you’ve been playing keep-away, this is the point where he’s going to steal it!
        “I, William Pratt, promise you I am not going to steal that briefcase from you, nor will I order a subordinate to do so.  Now, would you stop being so stubborn and accept my help?”
        Belatedly, I realize I should be protesting like my usual, but I’m a little too stunned.  I’m not questioning anymore.  This is Steel.  I’ve never heard his real name before, but I’ve seen his soul, and the Name slots into place like a piece of a jigsaw puzzle.
        But why the hell would he be telling me?  He knows exactly what I could accomplish with that.  It’s part of the essence of a person, and having heard that from the horse’s mouth, a wizard can connect it to a person’s soul to do some nasty, nasty things.  Just like blood or hair.  Even a relatively offense-challenged one like me could do some damage, because it’s like one big shortcut.  A catalyst helping get over the energy of activation, or so Miss Kalderash would put it.  Wizards are more sensitive to the emotions in a person’s voice than most people, which is part of why we’ve got such a hair-trigger temper—insults that go right over most people’s heads are blatantly obvious to us—and the precise tone and emotion with which a person says their own name tells us a whole lot more about the person and their soul than most people realize.  Words are power. 
        Correction, spoken words are power.  Written words lose something in the translation.  Still useful, but much, much less so.  It’s part of why dealing with demons is so dangerous, other than, you know, the obvious.  Most people messing around with that only read the name in a book, so it’s far more like grabbing a venomous snake by the tail than having a grasp of the essence that can keep those fangs away from you.
        Sure, he’s probably fairly sure I wouldn’t do anything with it, and for good reason—killing someone or controlling them with magic are no-nos, and despite my protests and dislike of his work, my track record says that I wouldn’t misuse it, but even then, that’s one hell of a trust exercise. 
        Sure, he’s probably taken some precautions.  Ordinarily, I wouldn’t say anybody but a wizard could manage that, and even then nothing but the basics.  Most wizards at gatherings bring along someone else to introduce ourselves or use the spell equivalent of those ‘hello my name is’ stickers unless we’re foolhardy or reckless, because wizards also tend to be paranoid and like to take precautions.  This is Steel, though, and he’s got a Valkyrie on the payroll, so who knows what he could accomplish.  I wouldn’t put security measures around his own name past him.  Giving the timing of when he got known as Jacob “Pretty Boy” Steel, I’m guessing his use of a fake name is more than just a supernatural precaution, too—knowing his real name could get him in mundane trouble, too.
        He pulls back just enough to meet my eyes with a fearless, knowing blue, and all I manage is a faint, “You’re certifiable,” to which he grins slightly.
        “Well, Mr. Kaplan?” he asks, moving back to just within arm’s reach.  He looks unfairly unrumpled.
        “I’m trying to wrap my head around your angle.”  Whoops, I hadn’t meant to say that out loud.  He tries to look hurt, but it’s a little ruined by the fond look in his eyes.
        “My ‘angle’, as you put it, is a desire to not have you drop dead from heat exhaustion in this weather.  Our city would be all the more worse for it.”  In the short term, sure.  But there has to be a long-term plan involved, too, because Steel is constantly playing chess.
        Maybe to get me to trust him and possibly gossip about Willow?  The thought hurts a little, but it’s plausible.  He’s not the type to let romance get in the way of work, but the fact that she’s a wizard fully capable of taking care of herself—and rescuing him at minimum, should he find himself in harm’s way—might be enough to tip the cost-benefit scales.  Because this is a risky move, the sort most wouldn’t dream of making, but he’s doing it because it’s worth it to him.  And my best friend’s the only thing I can think of who would be worth that long-time calculation on his end.
        I close my eyes to avoid meeting his gaze.  It’s so rare that I usually indulge, but I can’t quite stomach it right now.
        “Maybe I wasn’t clear enough when we met, but given that you keep throwing yourself into dangerous situations, I feel like I should probably warn you again.  Not that you’ll listen, because no one listens to Zathras, no.”  I swallow and try to keep my tone light.  “You’re not Willow’s type.”  She’d made that pretty clear, but I think she also finds him amusing, and there’s something there she’s not telling me.  “You tick her off, and she’s liable to use that shovel technique on you.”
        I startle, eyes flinging open, as a gentle hand—that same one—places itself on my arm and doesn’t move.  “Consider me warned.  However, she is not here.  You are.  Let me help you, please.”
        It’s the ‘please’ that gets me.  I don’t think I’ve ever heard him say that word before.
        And then my hunger and my thirst and my exhaustion hit me all at once, and I sway.  He steadies me, a little concerned.
        “Food?” I plead, best pleading look I can muster on display, and he looks a little amused.  It’s fair enough.  That was part of the point, anyway.
        “Will you explain why you were so suspicious of a sandwich?” he asks as he retrieves it and hands it to me.  I stuff my face before it even occurs to me to ask how long ago he’d gotten this.  To my surprise, it’s still warm, the kind of warm that says he might’ve just gotten this before he found me.  Honestly, he was probably looking for me specifically to give it to me, although I’m not sure how he’d known I needed food or where to find me.
        “I’d been thinking specifically about pulled pork, and then you showed up,” I explain, mouth full.  Given the way he looks more amused, I’m guessing he understood me, but I can’t be sure.  “Given that I didn’t wish you into being, I was pretty sure you had to be a Sidhe.”
        I swallow the bite and smile brightly, leaning against his car and probably getting dust and grime all over it, and he nods like it doesn’t particularly bother him in the slightest.  “I was informed you enjoyed them, and the employees you barged in on mentioned you seemed to be in a bad mood.  I thought a favorite might appease the wizard’s wrath.”
        I ponder that for a second before nodding.  “Good thinking,” I respond, as I finish it off, and then wince, mentally calculating exactly how much time I’d wasted on this little break.  “Frell, I was supposed to make it to the next location in half an hour.  Think Wood could manage to get me there on time?”
        “I believe we could manage a detour, yes,” he agrees, opening the door and holding out a hand to help me in.  Like I’m some damsel in distress.  Still, I’m feeling magnaminous because of the sandwich and water bottle I can see sitting on the seat, so I let him play gentleman and help me in.
        He’s a little disappointed I’m not confiding everything about this little scavenger hunt, but he’s still willing to help out anyway.  I’m tempted, but I’d given my word, so I can’t just go and tell him no matter how helpful he’s being, and it’s certainly a lot nicer to be doing this with company and air conditioning.  I’m prepared to explain if my client gets upset, and if they don’t take that, that just makes the whole exercise all that much more suspicious.