Fic: Day One
Title: Day One
Fandom: Dresden Files
Spoilers: Restoration of Faith
Rating: PG
Summary: Karrin Murphy, meet Harry Dresden. He's sane, we promise.
Written for Harry/Murphy, prompt 19, Cranky.
EDIT: Comments are now disabled on this post because the fucking spammers won't leave it alone. If you left me one here, rest assured that I have it saved. They made me very happy. :D
Officer Karrin Murphy eased around the corner of the house, gun out, trying to watch the back door and the shrubbery and the fence ahead of her all at once in the scant light of the half moon. Everything looked quiet, but that was hardly an indicator of whether it actually was. She resisted the urge to shiver—it was summer and not remotely cold or windy—and stayed in place, letting her eyes adjust to the night.
Something rustled to her right, and her attention snapped to the shrubs. A prowler, the dispatcher had said. She and Carmichael had been closest. The woman who lived here had been too terrified to even let them in; instead she’d babbled something about the backyard through the crack in the door and then slammed it shut.
Carmichael. Where was he, anyway? He was supposed to be going around the other side of the house, or that’s what he’d said, anyway. Had he caught their perp? She’d have heard something if he had…
Another rustle, from somewhere to her left. She darted a glance that way, tried to keep her eyes on both spots at once. The one to her right was getting closer. Where the hell was Carmichael?
“Police!” she shouted, the sound of her own voice steady and reassuring. “Come out with your hands up!”
Nothing, except that rustling to her left stilled briefly. The air seemed to go quiet and heavy, the light dimmed, and she sucked in one quick, panicked breath before the world exploded into motion.
“Down!” someone shouted. A man launched himself from the bushes to her left (rustle number two, she noted absently) and tackled her to the ground, though he managed somehow to keep most of his weight off her. Her gun went flying. Something from her right roared; someone screamed.
The man rolled off her, thrust his palm flat into the air, and yelled, “Fuego!”
A gout of flame, actual fire, burst from his palm and impacted—something. She really only registered “huge,” “green,” and “teeth” in the few seconds the fire lasted.
The thing flew across the yard and hit the fence with a splintering crash that didn’t quite drown out its roar of pain. Murphy resisted the urge to cover her ears and scrabbled for her gun.
The man got to his feet much faster than anyone that tall should manage, and faced the thing, his stance determined. “Piss off, you bastard,” he said. “Stop bugging the police, they’ve got better things to do.”
Her groping hand found her gun, not far away, and she grabbed it, rolled to her feet. Just in time, too—the thing had launched itself at the man, and before he got through more than “Fu—“ he was down, rolling under its bulk and avoiding those teeth.
Murphy aimed carefully. The last thing she and Carmichael needed was a civilian death on their record.
Three quick shots and one dead thing later, she holstered her gun, propped her hands on her hips and leveled her best glare at the skinny man just now getting to his feet.
“Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t arrest you for interfering in an active investigation.”
The man tilted his head, as if confused. “I just saved your life,” he said. “How’s that for you? Thanks for the assist, by the way, Officer…” He trailed off, inquiringly.
“Karrin Murphy,” she said, not very graciously. “Who are you?”
He made a passable bow from the waist, which had the unfortunate effect of irking her even more. Another chivalrous bastard. “Harry Dresden. I thought you looked familiar.”
She blinked. “Excuse me?”
Actually, now that she thought of it, he did look familiar. There couldn’t be that many tall, skinny bastards around, especially not in coats that belonged on the set of El Dorado. Memory clicked. She snapped her fingers, and said, “The Astor perp.”
“Hey, now, Faith kidnapped herself,” he said, mildly. “I helped bring her home, that’s all.”
“Uh-huh. What are you doing here?”
Dresden grinned, teeth flashing suspiciously white in the moonlight. “Killing that.” He nodded at the thing. “All in a day’s work for a wizard, sadly.”
Murphy blinked again, and eyed him, skeptically. “Run that wizard part by me again.”
He sighed, and in a patient tone that spoke of endless repetitions, said, “I’m a wizard. Kinda like Gandalf, not like Dr. Strange. Subtle and quick to anger except I’m not real subtle. I kill things like that troll on the bridge and this guy here.”
She flicked her eyes from him to the thing and back to him, and raised an eyebrow skeptically even though she wasn’t sure that he could actually see it. “…really.”
“My hand to God.”
Well. She had seen the troll. And he had shot fire from his hand. Murphy decided she wouldn’t think about the philosophical implications at the moment, and instead asked, “So just what the hell is that thing?”
Dresden opened his mouth, closed it again, shuffled in place for a moment, and muttered something that she didn’t catch.
“What?”
He cleared his throat, and only a little louder, said, “It’s a Whangdoodle.”
Murphy stared at him. “You’re not serious.”
“I didn’t name the goddamn thing,” he muttered.
“A Whangdoodle?” Her voice scaled up rather embarrassingly.
He sighed. “Yeah, a Whangdoodle. This isn’t helping my case for sanity any, is it.”
“Not in the least.” Oh, God, the paperwork for this case was going to be a nightmare. Three shots fired, a small novel of forms to fill out for each one, and explaining the perp on the report was going to be a bitch and a half.
She looked up at the tall bastard. He was going to be a headache, wasn’t he.
Finally, finally, Carmichael came puffing around the corner, gun out and flashlight bobbing. “Murph, you okay? I heard gunshots.”
“Fine,” she said, not taking her eyes off Dresden. “Where the hell were you?”
“Across the street like I said,” he said, his voice faintly incredulous. “This our perp?”
She refrained from pointing out that he had said “the other side” and failed to specify of what. “No. That’s Harry Dresden. The perp…” She trailed off.
The thing was gone. There was only a pile of goo where it had been.
Dresden, following her gaze, said, “Oh. Yeah. That happens. Sorry.”
Murphy sighed. Oh, yeah. Headache.
