Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The tiny New Jersey dive was packed for a Wednesday night, dimly lit, noisy, and full of the energy of human bodies in close company, just the way Gabe liked it. He’d learned from years of experience that bars were the best place to conduct his wholly unusual business. Anonymous enough, but lots of witnesses in case something went wrong. And the more people, the less chance of ending up with a couple of broken ribs.

Besides, alcohol was the only way to handle this job—well, one of many ways, but one thing was certain. You sure as hell couldn't do it sober.

He took a sip of his drink as he scanned the room for his client. He wasn't hard to differentiate from everyone else in the bar, but then again his clients never were. The host he was using was in his late 30s, a Wall Street type - tanned, attractive, wearing an expensive suit and walking with an awkward, stiff gait. Someone less knowledgeable might not have been able to place it, but Gabe knew was because he wasn't quite used to being human yet. His expression suggested he was already vaguely pissed off, too, more than usual, so Gabe took another swallow of his drink while his client leaned on the bar next to him as casually as he could.

"You're interrupting my search for the perfect margarita," Gabe said flatly, staring straight ahead. Casual voices, avoiding eye contact – he felt like a drug dealer sometimes.

"I'm guessing you're the man I'm looking for," said his client.

"You wearing Westwood?" Gabe asked. "Someone's eager."

"Watch yourself, broker," the other said, his tone now icy. "Just preparation."

"You assume a lot."

"If you've got what you swore to me you've got, it's not an assumption at all."

"You assume I'm going to give it to you at all."

"We agreed, five thousand—"

"I know what we agreed." Gabe swirled his drink. "I'm still deciding."

A breath hissed through the man’s teeth. "All you power brokers, you're all the same, aren’t you? Acting like you got the keys to the goddamn universe.”

"Treating your broker like shit isn't going to lower your chances of getting fucked over," Gabe reminded him. "And by the way, thinking your wealth is exclusive won't help your business life in general."

"You think you're fucking special? I can get this—"

"And don't try the 'I got ten more like you' thing on me. You and I both know damn well you can't find anything like this downstairs. And I could give this to anyone I wanted, in exchange for things that are probably a lot more interesting.” He set his drink down and looked his client in the eyes for the first time. “So you can keep it up and I'll find someone else who has use for a shapeshifting power, which I'm sure won't be hard, or we can get this thing done and you can be one of the most powerful demons on earth. Your choice."

The demon was quiet. "Five thousand?" he said finally.

"Six and you're golden."

The demon scowled. "Even in the underworld, you're pond scum."

The side of Gabe's mouth twitched. "You saying there's a special place in Hell for me?" He picked up his drink to finish it off, setting down the empty glass before getting up, stretching, and turning to his client with a small smile. "Because I've known that for a long time."

The bathroom door swung closed, and Gabe let out a breath of relief. As good as he was getting at acting tough and callous and devil-may-care these days, doing power transfers still scared the hell out of him, no pun intended. He turned the faucet on and splashed a little water on his face, to moderate success: this shitty bar bathroom wasn't a Neutrogena commercial, after all, but it did sort of sober him up. He took a steadying breath and stared down into the dirty off-white of the sink for a minute.

When he looked up into the mirror, Pete Wentz was staring back at him.

Gabe jumped back about a foot, smacking his elbow into a paper towel dispenser and cursing loudly. "Jesus," he said, rubbing his elbow, "every fucking time."

The image of Pete in the mirror grinned. "Evenin', stud."

Gabe rolled his eyes. No matter how much he was used to demons communicating by mirror, he doubted he was ever going to like it. "You know how much I hate this shit, Wentz." He ran a hand through his curls and blinked hard a couple times. "Why can't we just use cell phones like normal fucking people?"

"You know how much safer leylines are. And besides, this one seriously needs to be kept on the DL."

"Everything I do needs to be kept on the DL," Gabe muttered. Pete ignored him.

"Not to mention," Gabe pressed, "I was with a client. Not thirty seconds ago. You're getting reckless."

"I'm careful, I'm careful. I knew he was gone. And this definitely can't wait."

"Alright, shoot. But make it quick."

"Okay, so you know how Hell has been trying and failing for ages to get their hands on some sacrificial fodder for this whole bringing-back-Hell-on-Earth thing they've been fixated on?"

"Yeah."

"Well, they think they’ve finally found something potent enough."

Gabe tore off a paper towel. “Sure they have. What is it this time?"

"His name's William Beckett, he's an art history major at Columbia Chicago, and he's turning 21 tomorrow. And any demon who knows what's what is out for his blood."

Gabe rubbed the bridge of his nose. "Christ. Are you sure this is legit? I mean, there've been rumors in the past, right? Tons of them. And it's always a false alarm, the blood's never powerful enough."

"That's what I thought too, at first. But it's the real fuckin' deal. The Source is sending her best and brightest."

"But why him? What's so special about him that every demon in Hell is tripping over themselves to get to him?"

"That's what I've been trying to figure out. It's driving me crazy. The best thing I could come up with is that, I don’t know, he was born under a blue harvest moon or something? And I'm guessing he's got virgin blood, too, but that still doesn't strike me as powerful enough to kickstart the Apocalypse."

"You're right. That's bizarre."

"But anyway. That doesn't really matter. Whatever he has, Hell wants it bad, and it's your job to make sure they don't get it."

Gabe stared. "Back up. You're telling me it's suddenly on me to go get this kid?"

"Before a bunch of demons do, yes. Get him and bring him to me. Preferably as fast as possible."

"I have a job too, you know."

"Yes, one that comes with infinitely fewer risks than mine. It’s dangerous enough for me to even be talking to you right now, let alone bringing you two here after you get him. If I put one more toe out of line than absolutely necessary I'm finished. Along with everything else. Everything we've worked for." Pete paused for a minute. Gabe, knowing he still looked doubtful and more than a little belligerent, glanced away from Pete's gaze.

"Gabe, this is the first real threat we've had to deal with. Hell can't win this one. If they do, we're in serious danger of losing the war. And the Earth."

"Alright, fine, fine, don't get all serious on me. I'll do it."

"Knew I could count on you, Saporta. Best place to head for is probably Columbia Chicago. Try not to look too suspicious."

"As if. What's the name again?"

"William Beckett."

"William Beckett," Gabe repeated, rolling the name around in his mouth. "Okay. I guess I'll get going."

"Alright. Good luck, princess."

"Go choke on a dick."

"Love you too. Wentz out."

Gabe pulled his coat on and made his way to the back door of the bar, vague thoughts of William Beckett and the Apocalypse and whether or not he could handle the drive from Jersey to Chicago in one go on his mind. As he stepped out into the alley, he happened to glance down. The demon he had transferred the shapeshifting power to not fifteen minutes ago was lying dead, slumped against the brick next to the Dumpster, a wound clearly made with a blessed blade visible on his chest. The skin around his eyes was burned with what Gabe could only assume to be holy water.

Apparently another broker had been there tonight.

Gabe shoved his hands in his pockets and kept walking. It wasn't his problem. The guy had been an asshole anyway.