Title: Your Back to Mine

Author: Jedi Buttercup

Disclaimer: The words are mine; the worlds are not. I claim nothing but the plot.

Rating: PG-13.

Summary: B:tVS, Dresden Files. I was more than an hour late for our arranged meeting at McAnally's. Fortunately, Buffy was amused. 2000 words.

Spoilers: Fusion-fic. B:tVS/Dresden Files; post-series and during "Small Favor".

Notes: Request fic.

I was more than an hour late for our arranged meeting at McAnally's. Fortunately, Buffy was amused.

My girlfriend took one look at me, snow-dampened, exhausted, and suffering from the obvious effects of a broken nose upon my already imperfect features, and the corners of her mouth turned up in a smirk. Not the cruel kind, that shows amusement at another's pain; but the sympathetic kind, that meant she knew exactly how I felt from past experience, and couldn't believe I'd gotten myself into such a scrape since the last time she'd seen me. She stood up as I wended my way through the carved columns toward her table, then took my ungloved hand in one of hers.

"I'd kiss you, but I'm afraid I'd bump your nose," she said, wryly, lifting her other hand to brush over my cheek. "Do I want to know what the other guy looks like?"

What did I do to deserve a woman like that, you might ask? The answer is, not a blessed thing. Some days she's my sole reason to believe that Somebody Upstairs actually does give a damn about me, more than for what I'm worth against the Other Side in a fight.

"Make that guys, plural," I shrugged, then shed my coat and its dusting of snow so I could wrap her up in a hug, dropping my chin to the top of her head. Her hair smelled of vanilla, warmth, and home: all things I could use more of at the moment.

Time spent with the Carpenters-- which was how this whole mess had started out, less than twenty-four hours before, and seemed likely to continue with the Denarians involved-- always reminded me how grateful I was not to be alone anymore. We might not live together, might not even see each other five days out of seven, sometimes more or less depending on apocalypse seasons; but Buffy and I had made a mark on each other, tied the energy of our lives together in ways both intimate and lasting. I still had trouble using the word, but it was love, no question about it; I'd had verified proof of that from my half-brother the incubus, who was still smug about realizing how deep I was in before I did.

"Thank you for coming," I said. "Sorry I was so late; the situation upgraded from faerie assassins to Judas' pocket change making a play for power since I called."

"Harry, that was four hours ago," she objected, pulling back to give me an unimpressed look.

"What can I say?" I shrugged, sheepishly. "When I'm on, I'm on." She might usually have warning that all Hell was about to break loose in her line of work, but I usually got dropped into the deep end with very little warning. Fortunately, I thought fast on my feet.

She shook her head at that, then raised a hand. "Mac? Another lemonade and a glass of the bitterest ale you've got," she ordered, sweetly.

I clapped a hand over my heart at the shot; though it being Mac, his winter pale ale was still some of the best beer to be found anywhere on Earth. Enough so that I occasionally wondered-- if mostly in jest-- whether he might have retired to run a pub on Accorded Neutral Ground from some other, more well-known identity... like, say, Giobniu, the Celtic god with a sideline in feasts, including brewing the Beer of Immortality. It's more possible than you might think: a lot of the powers of ancient days have been forced to adopt more mundane public identities to survive the rise of technology and diminishment of religion. But I'd never do him the discourtesy of actually asking.

I might not always show it, but courtesy takes on a lot more importance when dealing with folks who can flatten you with a thought. There's just usually something at stake that matters to me more. Fortunately for my taste buds, nothing had yet trumped the consumption of truly excellent beer.

"Make that two!" I called, then explained more quietly. "I asked Murphy to show up an hour and a half after you; I thought we could sneak in a little time together before we had to get down to business."

"Typical," she sighed; but she accepted her glass and sat down at the table again with an expectant expression. "So dish, then. What do I need to know before the cavalry arrives?"

"You are the cavalry," I assured her.

Then I told her. The summary version, given time constraints, but I left as little out as I could. Summer out for my blood and John Marcone's; the Denarians getting to Gentleman Johnny before Titania's goons could; Queen Mab demanding my intercession on Marcone's behalf; Marcone's people breaking down into factions; Murphy's people picking up on the action; and last but not least, one Harry Dresden blackmailing the Wardens into intervening by implying Mab would close the White Council's access to the Ways if we didn't call the Nickleheads on the carpet for violating the Accords.

Buffy whistled at that. "I didn't know it when I was just a Slayer, but the Accords are the reason we're trained to use muscle-powered weapons instead of heavier firepower, and why we traditionally either stake out a hotspot like a Hellmouth that nobody wants under any one faction's control, or roam between the Accorded Powers' chosen domains picking off their rogues. As long as our actions stay small-scale and hold up the balance overall, they don't give a damn if the Watcher's Council saves a few human lives here or there, otherwise I would have risked starting a war every time I lifted a stake." She grimaced. "We've been lucky the last few years that everyone's been paying more attention to the war between the Red Court and the White Council than what the Slayers have been up to; my learning curve has been pretty steep since I took over, and I've lost enough people already to magical politics."

I took her hand again, squeezing gently. "Ditto," I said.

The difference was, I hadn't learned fast enough, and got myself backed into a position where I had just one choice left: sacrifice Susan, or start a war. Which had, of course, been no choice at all.

"Anyway. So that's where I'm at. I do have plenty of backup; it's not like I'm walking into things alone, this time. But I could really use your help, if Cleveland House can spare you for a few days."

Buffy broke into a smile, green eyes twinkling. "Harry. Don't be ridiculous. You had me at faerie...."

The door to the pub slammed open hard enough to bounce off the wall behind it. Then a gray-furred gruff, big enough that he had to duck down and turn partially sideways to fit through the frame, never mind straightening up once he got inside, followed the sound into the room.

"You were saying?" I muttered, sotto voce, as it scanned the room with golden, alien eyes.

Buffy clapped a hand to her mouth, stifling a giggle, as the giant gruff's focus settled on us.

It realized who I was first; whoever had called the gruffs down on my head had apparently called down the entire clan of them, not just the more person-sized thugs who'd attacked me at Michael's house and chased me up a building downtown. It crossed the room with a heavy, awkward tread, breaking at least one ceiling fan with its horns as it slunk through a space at least two feet too short for it to stand up in, rectangular pupils fixed on my face the whole time. Then it glanced at my companion-- and smacked its skull against the ceiling again in indignation.

"Slayer," it bleated in a deep voice. "Thou wouldst keep company with this wizard, who has dared employed the bane against mine younger kin?"

"I would keep company with my boyfriend, on Accorded Neutral Ground," she replied, cheerily baring white teeth in the gruff's direction as we got to our feet.

He grunted. "The Accords alone keep his neck unbroken, his skull uncracked."

"And yours," Buffy agreed. "Don't think I don't know what your brothers did to earn themselves a taste of iron. You want him, you go through me."

The gruff stared at her impassively, then swung his gaze to me. "Thou'rt less of a man than I thought, to hide behind such a one as this. Hast thou no honor? Dost not even speak for thyself?"

The longer he stood there, the ranker the air got; but I was too entertained by the big gruff's reaction to my pint-sized girlfriend to hurry the conversation along. I simply spread my arms-- one hand clasped around my staff, just in case-- and smirked at him, as if to say, 'bring it'.

"We are at odds, Friend of Winter," he tried again, voice rumbling angrily. The thees and thous fell out of his speech as he continued, moving from such familiar to more formal terms of address, not always a good sign when dealing with the Fae. They do love their old-fashioned language, partly because it allows them to apply shades of meaning that mortals don't always pick up on anymore. "Do you then intend to continue as you have begun?"

"I sure as hell don't intend to concede," I shrugged, having already made my point.

Then another pint-sized blonde walked through the door behind the gruff, and the conversation got even more interesting.

Luckily, most Fae are no more well-versed on the exact responsibilities of 'mortal shield bearers' and what jurisdiction they can claim than, well, the average wizard. In the end, it backed off, and left the three of us eyeing each other with bemusement.

"Dresden?" Murphy finally broke the tableau. "Do I even want to know what that was all about?"

I pushed the second pale ale over to Murphy with a wry expression, then nodded my thanks to Mac as he brought us a fresh round of black labeled bottles: the really good stuff.

"It's a long story," I warned her.

She took a deep pull of her beer, then eyed Buffy and I again with resignation. "So talk," she said. "And so help me, if you try to play the wizard card...."

"Trust me, I'd help you kick his ass if he did," Buffy assured her with a conspiratorial smile, a statement Murphy appeared to accept at face value.

I did not pry into the details of that slowly growing friendship, given how rough Buffy's past experience with cops had been and how little positive experience Murphy had with denizens of the weirder world. But whatever common ground they'd found, her presence seemed to diminish Murphy's tendency to assume the worst motives from me... and mine to react with overly defensive stubbornness... and I was grateful for it. Murph was a good friend; but our frames of reference were different enough that we'd come to odds over misunderstandings more than once.

We didn't have time for that now. Thomas and Molly were waiting in my brother's obscene gas-guzzler of a truck, and at some point we'd have to meet back up again with Michael, Sanya, Gard, and Hendricks, too. Preferably before the Archive and her escort arrived to officially call the Denarians on the carpet for disrespecting the first mortal Freeholding Lord. Who, I had to admit, might not be a friend-- but didn't deserve what would happen to him in their care, either. Both for his sake, and for what his loss would mean for our city.

The thought reminded me of all the gray-hat allies Buffy had accumulated over the years, and I had to wonder what she'd make of the man if they ever met. I wasn't sure whether to hope it never did, or wish I could sell tickets.

"As fun as that would be," I cleared my throat, "let's move on."

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