If you don't look at it too closely, it's almost a real fic!
This is, essentially, so utterly ridiculous that I'm not even bothering to have it beta-ed. How ridiculous, you ask? It was based on a Nora Roberts/JD Robb novel. Yeah, that ridiculous.
It's also not even a complete story (resolving the mystery? Ha! I scorn your resolutions! Also your plots! What are these plots of which you speak?), which is why I'm just posting it to my LJ instead of any fic communities or whatnot. It is, however, bandom, which is pretty neat, since I've been writing a lot of figure skating fic (Johnny Weir!!!) for the wintergameskink kink meme.
Ahem.
Some Scenes From a Story About Detectives and Stuff
William/Gabe
based on the ...In Death series by Nora Roberts writing as JD Robb, which for the uninformed is basically about a hot detective named Eve who solves crime and stuff (in the future! there are flying cars!) and has a relationship with a smoking-hot zillionaire named Roarke (one name; also, he has a Dark Past, just like Eve). And... really, that's pretty much all you need to know. William and Gabe are only shallowly based on Eve and Roarke, but then again, this is a pretty shallow snippet.
The first time William met Gabe, he ended up arresting him. It probably says a lot about both of them that, four years later, they get married.
--
When Pete gives him the news, all William can do for a moment is stare. When he gets over that, he groans. Loudly. "You're kidding me."
"Nope." Pete looks way too pleased by this turn of events. Pete, William reflects for neither the first nor, likely, the last time, is an asshole. "Serious as the grave. Come on, time's a-wasting. Is your deathtrap still in the shop? Do you need a car?"
"I do not need a car," William mutters, only just barely managing to keep himself from slamming his head onto Pete's terrifyingly-cluttered desk. Why Pete has crumpled sheets of nanopaper all over, William has no idea; everything in the department is submitted electronically. And nanopaper is supposed to be crumple-resistant, in any case, so what the hell. "And it's not a deathtrap."
Just because it has an inconvenient habit of breaking down in incredibly heavy traffic and occasionally glitching so that it can't hover more than five feet above the ground doesn't make it a deathtrap. It just makes it the best car William can afford on a detective's salary, at least if he wants to keep eating and living in an apartment with working electricity and running water.
"Whatever you say, Bill," Pete says, grinning and leaning back in his chair with his hands linked behind his head. "Say hi to Gabe for me."
William snorts. Pete isn't fooling anyone; he and Saporta Flit all the time. They'll probably send at least ten messages back and forth while William is still driving over to Saporta's freakishly large mansion. Seriously, one man, one woman, one butler and one chef do not need nearly that much room. "Tell him yourself, Captain. Or did you two have another lovers' spat?"
"Aww, Bill, you wound me," Pete retorts, clasping his hand to his chest. "You know I'm saving myself for Patrick Stump."
"Waiting for all those chemicals down in the morgue to finally get to his brain?" William asks, mock-sympathetically. "I know it must be hard for you to be so patient."
"One day," Pete promises, looking off dreamily. "One day." William sighs, and Pete's attention - and his obnoxious grin - snap back in full force. "What are you waiting for? Go talk to your boyfriend. I know you want to."
William could retort. Really, he could. This is just important, and probably can't wait for him to snark at Pete for any longer, which is why all William does is roll his eyes and toss Pete a sloppy salute before sliding out the door.
--
The first time William went to Gabe's (absurdly large) house, he felt that the decor suited the inhabitant. Walking in, he was smacked in the face with color, as opposed to the shades of ivory and gold touted in the fancy interior decorating magazines William inevitably paged through every time he went to see his doctor. The designer had clearly not paid any attention to what other people might think. It was fairly opulent, as well, but at the same time weirdly comfortable, in the way that William was pretty sure the sofa had cost more than twice what he paid monthly for rent, but it was definitely a sofa for sitting, not just ornamentation for the living room.
(Having crashed on the couch since then, he can say authoritatively that it's softer than some beds he's slept on.)
Really, though, what caught his eye were the snakes.
One snake, mostly: the huge sculpture that wound its way around the entrance hall, serving as a coat rack, an umbrella holder, a frame for a mirror, and an end table. The theme continued throughout the house, though, subtly, as embroidery on cushions or prints hanging on the walls. They weren't overwhelming, but they were definitely there.
It was appropriate, William thought at the time, given that there was something very ophidian about Gabe. Not that he seemed cold, most of the time - William actually could have stood for Gabe to be a little less warm to William, since William was there to investigate a case and not to get hit on - but William had looked him up, and Gabe had a habit of slithering out of all questions about his past. It was as if he hadn't existed before he started buying companies and went down the path that led to him being one of the world's richest men.
William knew all about bad pasts, but that meant he also knew that people didn't just appear out of nowhere and create a company that spanned most of the universe. No matter how well you reinvented yourself, there had to be something to reinvent in the first place.
--
"It's good to see you again, Mister Beckett," Ryland says, ushering William in. He's always so unfailingly polite that William can never tell whether or not he means it. William probably shouldn't care - just because these visits are becoming a regular occurrence doesn't mean he should let himself get used to them - but he likes Ryland, despite himself. He's efficient, loyal to a fault, and sasses Saporta regularly.
The sarcasm disappears whenever anyone besides William is there as well. William has an inkling of what that might mean, but he tries not to think about it too much. It freaks him out a little.
"You too, Ryland," he says, glancing around warily. It looks like Ryland is leading him to Gabe's secondary office, and the fact that William knows that is probably a bad sign.
"Gabe," Ryland calls out once they're in the hallway. "Mister Beckett is here to see you."
Saporta throws himself out of the office, a tall blur of neon colors and unbridled energy. Sometimes, William thinks, it's easy to forget that Saporta is one of the most respected, and occasionally feared, business men in the galaxy. William's seen Saporta snap into serious mode, though, eschewing all goofing around in order to take care of business, whether personal or professional. Gabe can't fool him anymore.
"Detective Billiam!" he says enthusiastically, draping one arm over William's shoulders and squeezing. "To what do I owe the honor?"
William carefully disentangles himself, letting gravity take care of Saporta's arm. "I'm here on business," he reminds Saporta.
"I figured. You never come here just to say hi. What's up with that, Bilvy? I'm starting to feel neglected." He grins. "Want to go down to the kitchens? I can get Suarez to make you some tea. Or coffee?"
God, William is tempted. Saporta's kitchen is stocked entirely with real food, and his chef, Alex, refuses to let anything be made with a replicator. William really can't right now, though, and not just because he decided last week that he would get spoiled if he kept on letting Saporta feed him. (He will, though, and then what will happen when he stops running into Saporta? Withdrawal, he's pretty sure, will be messy and painful, and he'll end up waking up four nights out of five with a craving for real sushi that will never be filled.)
"It's important," he says, shaking his head, and Saporta sobers up, looking at William intently. William's been stared at before, at press conferences and during interviews, but it never feels quite like it does when Saporta is the one watching him. If it doesn't affect his ability to do his job, though, it doesn't matter.
"Okay, go," Saporta says.
"A week ago, we found a boy - a man - on top of the Midtown Apartment Complex," William begins. He pauses; Saporta is already nodding.
"Comatose, right?"
It shouldn't be surprising. Saporta probably owns the fucking Complex. "He woke up today," William says, enjoying Saporta's surprise. It's nice to know something he doesn't. "He asked for you."
Saporta's eyebrows raise. "Why? Who is he? And why do I get the honor of a personal visit from you?"
"He doesn't know why," William says, shoving his hands in his pockets. "He has amnesia. He can't even remember his own name."
"Shit," Saporta replies, which sums up William's feelings on the matter pretty nicely.
--
The problem, of course, is not just that their amnesiac, formerly comatose John Doe is an amnesiac, formerly comatose John Doe who was found on the roof of an apartment building without a wallet or a shirt. The problem isn't even that there's no video or digital record of him getting onto the roof in the first place, even though that's supposedly impossible.
The problem is that the Chicago PD has access to the Universal Identification Database, which is the most sophisticated and far-reaching identification system of human civilization, and this guy isn't in there at all. No fingerprints, no DNA, no facial recognition, no anything. He doesn't know who he is? Yeah, neither does anyone else. Not even Saporta.
Which is fair, because the John Doe doesn't seem to recognise Saporta, either.
"This is Gabe Saporta," William explains patiently. "You were asking for him."
John Doe shrugs helplessly. William and Saporta got there too late, even driving one of Saporta's shiny, ridiculously fast cars; John Doe is already starting to fall asleep again, his eyes slipping shut, eyelashes casting shadows against his cheeks. "Sorry. Don't know why, or who. Just knew -" He tries, and fails, to stifle a massive yawn. "- just knew I needed..." His eyes close, and William thinks he's asleep when he suddenly mumbles, "Gabe Saporta, Victoria Asher. Gabe Saporta, Victoria Asher."
"What?" William asks, but it doesn't do any good. The young man - he can't be older than William, it just isn't possible - is asleep. William turns to Saporta again, since sometimes he turns out to be surprisingly helpful. "Victoria Asher, your business partner?"
"I don't know any other," Saporta says, frowning as he taps a few keys on his handheld Symbiote. "Concussion, amnesia, cracked rib..."
"Are you hacking into the hospital records?" William asks disbelievingly. "In front of a police officer?"
Saporta grins disarmingly. "You going to turn me in, Officer?"
"I should," William mutters. "It would serve you right." It would serve no point, though. Saporta would just be out on bail in five seconds, and he'd probably just enjoy being handcuffed.
"Love you too, Bilvy," Saporta tells him.
William sighs. "My name is not Bilvy."
"Billiam?" Saporta asks, with a grin just as obnoxious as Pete at his worst.
"Detective Beckett," William insists, even though it's probably a lost cause at this point.
"Gabe," Saporta retorts, quick as a flash.
"What?"
"Gabe," Saporta repeats. "You call me Gabe, and I'll call you Detective Beckett."
William frowns. "That's not -"
"Not what, Billycheeks?" Saporta asks, and that one is so hideous that William just barely manages to hold back his shudder.
"Fine!" he says quickly, before it somehow gets back to Pete and Carden, who would never stop calling him that. "Fine, Gabe."
Saporta - Gabe - smiles. "Now doesn't that feel better?" It sort of does, but William's damned if he's going to admit it. Gabe continues, "What about this dude?"
"What about him?" William wonders, glancing over at the sleeping figure on the bed, a bluish bruise stretching from his temple to his cheekbone.
"Are you just going to keep calling him John Doe? That's what you call dead guys, man. He needs a nickname or something."
"Actually, Patrick gives all the dead John Does names," William corrects absently. "E7 was Esteban." He mostly remembers that one because he was assigned the case two months ago; he solved it in about a week. The drug dealer who had offed Esteban had left his own DNA everywhere. The only tricky part was tracking him down.
"Then we'll give him a nickname, too," Gabe insists, glancing at the screen of his Symbiote. "He's... number N8, okay. That's easy. We'll call him Nate. It suits him."
"If you say so," William agrees, looking down at Nate's face and wondering what the hell is going on behind those closed eyes that could have led him to call for two of the most influential business people in the universe.
He also wonders just how much time this means he's going to have to spend with Gabe in the near future, and why that thought doesn't irritate him nearly as much as it should.
It's also not even a complete story (resolving the mystery? Ha! I scorn your resolutions! Also your plots! What are these plots of which you speak?), which is why I'm just posting it to my LJ instead of any fic communities or whatnot. It is, however, bandom, which is pretty neat, since I've been writing a lot of figure skating fic (Johnny Weir!!!) for the wintergameskink kink meme.
Ahem.
Some Scenes From a Story About Detectives and Stuff
William/Gabe
based on the ...In Death series by Nora Roberts writing as JD Robb, which for the uninformed is basically about a hot detective named Eve who solves crime and stuff (in the future! there are flying cars!) and has a relationship with a smoking-hot zillionaire named Roarke (one name; also, he has a Dark Past, just like Eve). And... really, that's pretty much all you need to know. William and Gabe are only shallowly based on Eve and Roarke, but then again, this is a pretty shallow snippet.
The first time William met Gabe, he ended up arresting him. It probably says a lot about both of them that, four years later, they get married.
--
When Pete gives him the news, all William can do for a moment is stare. When he gets over that, he groans. Loudly. "You're kidding me."
"Nope." Pete looks way too pleased by this turn of events. Pete, William reflects for neither the first nor, likely, the last time, is an asshole. "Serious as the grave. Come on, time's a-wasting. Is your deathtrap still in the shop? Do you need a car?"
"I do not need a car," William mutters, only just barely managing to keep himself from slamming his head onto Pete's terrifyingly-cluttered desk. Why Pete has crumpled sheets of nanopaper all over, William has no idea; everything in the department is submitted electronically. And nanopaper is supposed to be crumple-resistant, in any case, so what the hell. "And it's not a deathtrap."
Just because it has an inconvenient habit of breaking down in incredibly heavy traffic and occasionally glitching so that it can't hover more than five feet above the ground doesn't make it a deathtrap. It just makes it the best car William can afford on a detective's salary, at least if he wants to keep eating and living in an apartment with working electricity and running water.
"Whatever you say, Bill," Pete says, grinning and leaning back in his chair with his hands linked behind his head. "Say hi to Gabe for me."
William snorts. Pete isn't fooling anyone; he and Saporta Flit all the time. They'll probably send at least ten messages back and forth while William is still driving over to Saporta's freakishly large mansion. Seriously, one man, one woman, one butler and one chef do not need nearly that much room. "Tell him yourself, Captain. Or did you two have another lovers' spat?"
"Aww, Bill, you wound me," Pete retorts, clasping his hand to his chest. "You know I'm saving myself for Patrick Stump."
"Waiting for all those chemicals down in the morgue to finally get to his brain?" William asks, mock-sympathetically. "I know it must be hard for you to be so patient."
"One day," Pete promises, looking off dreamily. "One day." William sighs, and Pete's attention - and his obnoxious grin - snap back in full force. "What are you waiting for? Go talk to your boyfriend. I know you want to."
William could retort. Really, he could. This is just important, and probably can't wait for him to snark at Pete for any longer, which is why all William does is roll his eyes and toss Pete a sloppy salute before sliding out the door.
--
The first time William went to Gabe's (absurdly large) house, he felt that the decor suited the inhabitant. Walking in, he was smacked in the face with color, as opposed to the shades of ivory and gold touted in the fancy interior decorating magazines William inevitably paged through every time he went to see his doctor. The designer had clearly not paid any attention to what other people might think. It was fairly opulent, as well, but at the same time weirdly comfortable, in the way that William was pretty sure the sofa had cost more than twice what he paid monthly for rent, but it was definitely a sofa for sitting, not just ornamentation for the living room.
(Having crashed on the couch since then, he can say authoritatively that it's softer than some beds he's slept on.)
Really, though, what caught his eye were the snakes.
One snake, mostly: the huge sculpture that wound its way around the entrance hall, serving as a coat rack, an umbrella holder, a frame for a mirror, and an end table. The theme continued throughout the house, though, subtly, as embroidery on cushions or prints hanging on the walls. They weren't overwhelming, but they were definitely there.
It was appropriate, William thought at the time, given that there was something very ophidian about Gabe. Not that he seemed cold, most of the time - William actually could have stood for Gabe to be a little less warm to William, since William was there to investigate a case and not to get hit on - but William had looked him up, and Gabe had a habit of slithering out of all questions about his past. It was as if he hadn't existed before he started buying companies and went down the path that led to him being one of the world's richest men.
William knew all about bad pasts, but that meant he also knew that people didn't just appear out of nowhere and create a company that spanned most of the universe. No matter how well you reinvented yourself, there had to be something to reinvent in the first place.
--
"It's good to see you again, Mister Beckett," Ryland says, ushering William in. He's always so unfailingly polite that William can never tell whether or not he means it. William probably shouldn't care - just because these visits are becoming a regular occurrence doesn't mean he should let himself get used to them - but he likes Ryland, despite himself. He's efficient, loyal to a fault, and sasses Saporta regularly.
The sarcasm disappears whenever anyone besides William is there as well. William has an inkling of what that might mean, but he tries not to think about it too much. It freaks him out a little.
"You too, Ryland," he says, glancing around warily. It looks like Ryland is leading him to Gabe's secondary office, and the fact that William knows that is probably a bad sign.
"Gabe," Ryland calls out once they're in the hallway. "Mister Beckett is here to see you."
Saporta throws himself out of the office, a tall blur of neon colors and unbridled energy. Sometimes, William thinks, it's easy to forget that Saporta is one of the most respected, and occasionally feared, business men in the galaxy. William's seen Saporta snap into serious mode, though, eschewing all goofing around in order to take care of business, whether personal or professional. Gabe can't fool him anymore.
"Detective Billiam!" he says enthusiastically, draping one arm over William's shoulders and squeezing. "To what do I owe the honor?"
William carefully disentangles himself, letting gravity take care of Saporta's arm. "I'm here on business," he reminds Saporta.
"I figured. You never come here just to say hi. What's up with that, Bilvy? I'm starting to feel neglected." He grins. "Want to go down to the kitchens? I can get Suarez to make you some tea. Or coffee?"
God, William is tempted. Saporta's kitchen is stocked entirely with real food, and his chef, Alex, refuses to let anything be made with a replicator. William really can't right now, though, and not just because he decided last week that he would get spoiled if he kept on letting Saporta feed him. (He will, though, and then what will happen when he stops running into Saporta? Withdrawal, he's pretty sure, will be messy and painful, and he'll end up waking up four nights out of five with a craving for real sushi that will never be filled.)
"It's important," he says, shaking his head, and Saporta sobers up, looking at William intently. William's been stared at before, at press conferences and during interviews, but it never feels quite like it does when Saporta is the one watching him. If it doesn't affect his ability to do his job, though, it doesn't matter.
"Okay, go," Saporta says.
"A week ago, we found a boy - a man - on top of the Midtown Apartment Complex," William begins. He pauses; Saporta is already nodding.
"Comatose, right?"
It shouldn't be surprising. Saporta probably owns the fucking Complex. "He woke up today," William says, enjoying Saporta's surprise. It's nice to know something he doesn't. "He asked for you."
Saporta's eyebrows raise. "Why? Who is he? And why do I get the honor of a personal visit from you?"
"He doesn't know why," William says, shoving his hands in his pockets. "He has amnesia. He can't even remember his own name."
"Shit," Saporta replies, which sums up William's feelings on the matter pretty nicely.
--
The problem, of course, is not just that their amnesiac, formerly comatose John Doe is an amnesiac, formerly comatose John Doe who was found on the roof of an apartment building without a wallet or a shirt. The problem isn't even that there's no video or digital record of him getting onto the roof in the first place, even though that's supposedly impossible.
The problem is that the Chicago PD has access to the Universal Identification Database, which is the most sophisticated and far-reaching identification system of human civilization, and this guy isn't in there at all. No fingerprints, no DNA, no facial recognition, no anything. He doesn't know who he is? Yeah, neither does anyone else. Not even Saporta.
Which is fair, because the John Doe doesn't seem to recognise Saporta, either.
"This is Gabe Saporta," William explains patiently. "You were asking for him."
John Doe shrugs helplessly. William and Saporta got there too late, even driving one of Saporta's shiny, ridiculously fast cars; John Doe is already starting to fall asleep again, his eyes slipping shut, eyelashes casting shadows against his cheeks. "Sorry. Don't know why, or who. Just knew -" He tries, and fails, to stifle a massive yawn. "- just knew I needed..." His eyes close, and William thinks he's asleep when he suddenly mumbles, "Gabe Saporta, Victoria Asher. Gabe Saporta, Victoria Asher."
"What?" William asks, but it doesn't do any good. The young man - he can't be older than William, it just isn't possible - is asleep. William turns to Saporta again, since sometimes he turns out to be surprisingly helpful. "Victoria Asher, your business partner?"
"I don't know any other," Saporta says, frowning as he taps a few keys on his handheld Symbiote. "Concussion, amnesia, cracked rib..."
"Are you hacking into the hospital records?" William asks disbelievingly. "In front of a police officer?"
Saporta grins disarmingly. "You going to turn me in, Officer?"
"I should," William mutters. "It would serve you right." It would serve no point, though. Saporta would just be out on bail in five seconds, and he'd probably just enjoy being handcuffed.
"Love you too, Bilvy," Saporta tells him.
William sighs. "My name is not Bilvy."
"Billiam?" Saporta asks, with a grin just as obnoxious as Pete at his worst.
"Detective Beckett," William insists, even though it's probably a lost cause at this point.
"Gabe," Saporta retorts, quick as a flash.
"What?"
"Gabe," Saporta repeats. "You call me Gabe, and I'll call you Detective Beckett."
William frowns. "That's not -"
"Not what, Billycheeks?" Saporta asks, and that one is so hideous that William just barely manages to hold back his shudder.
"Fine!" he says quickly, before it somehow gets back to Pete and Carden, who would never stop calling him that. "Fine, Gabe."
Saporta - Gabe - smiles. "Now doesn't that feel better?" It sort of does, but William's damned if he's going to admit it. Gabe continues, "What about this dude?"
"What about him?" William wonders, glancing over at the sleeping figure on the bed, a bluish bruise stretching from his temple to his cheekbone.
"Are you just going to keep calling him John Doe? That's what you call dead guys, man. He needs a nickname or something."
"Actually, Patrick gives all the dead John Does names," William corrects absently. "E7 was Esteban." He mostly remembers that one because he was assigned the case two months ago; he solved it in about a week. The drug dealer who had offed Esteban had left his own DNA everywhere. The only tricky part was tracking him down.
"Then we'll give him a nickname, too," Gabe insists, glancing at the screen of his Symbiote. "He's... number N8, okay. That's easy. We'll call him Nate. It suits him."
"If you say so," William agrees, looking down at Nate's face and wondering what the hell is going on behind those closed eyes that could have led him to call for two of the most influential business people in the universe.
He also wonders just how much time this means he's going to have to spend with Gabe in the near future, and why that thought doesn't irritate him nearly as much as it should.