Summary: Five first impressions that didn't really surprise Wes, and one that did. Demon!Wes AU. Oneshot.
Warnings: Not really any warnings. Prejudice against demons I guess? This is the moment Wes falls in love. (though he doesn't know it yet). Kind of non-linear timeline.
Disclaimer: I neither own nor am affiliated with Common Law in any way.
Because you can never have enough 5+1 demon!Wes stories, and it goes with 'Deals With The Devil' as sort of an origins/beginning set of fics.
OOOO
First Impressions
"I believe that first impressions are very important."
—F.W. de Klerk
XXXX
1.
Captain Mike Sutton is short, round, and seemingly unperturbed by the demon sitting on the other side of his desk. He has a tiny sand garden on the corner of his desk, the rake resting pleasingly at an angle, the sand striated with grooves. The gentle susurration of waves crashing on a shore emanate from the sound machine in the corner of the room. The entire office appears to have been made as comforting and soothing as possible.
Wes has never felt more on edge in his entire existence. And he's been in Hell.
He clenches his hands in his lap and takes several breaths he doesn't need and very resolutely does not flash black eyes in his discomfort.
"So," Captain Sutton says after a small eternity has passed, flipping a page in the file before him. "You want to be a cop?"
Deference to superiors, at least, is something Wes learned a long time ago. "Yes sir."
The human's head comes up, one eyebrow going up. He nods to himself, looks at the file again, then abruptly sits back, lacing his fingers over his belly. "Gotta say, a lot of people are nervous about you, Mr. Mitchell. They don't like the idea of a demon on the police force."
"I know." Wes knows all too well how people feel about his career shift, from the scorn and derision from his demonic brethren to the concern and suspicion from the humans around him. A demon, wanting to work on the police force? Absurd.
But this wouldn't be the first time Wes has done something considered absurd, and no one else's feelings make him want to do this any less.
Captain Sutton's suspicion, at least, seems to be on the curious side, rather than hostile or fearful. That's…encouraging.
The captain hums thoughtfully, studying him. "Some people are saying it's a trick. That this is a ploy, a way to get on the right side of the law and tear everything apart from the inside out."
Wes grits his teeth and forces a smile. "If I were planning something, do you really think I would have applied to work here, admitting what I was? That'd be a pretty stupid way to start something."
"True." The captain steeples his fingers under his chin. "Very true." He pauses. "There are also people who are worried that you will…slip while in the field. That you'll…go a little too far."
"I went through the academy, just like anyone else," Wes points out. "I know what my role is. And I've been reading the rules, laws, and regulations. I know what lines I can't cross."
"Laws and regulations?" Sutton questions. "Which ones?"
"All of them."
"All of them?" The captain's eyebrow goes up again. "Really?"
"I have a very good memory." Wes takes another slow breath, purposefully relaxes his hands and lays them flat in his lap. "Look, sir. I graduated the academy, I passed every psych eval and assessment thrown my way. I can do this."
The captain exhales, leaning forward to pick up the rake from the sand garden. "Why?"
Of all the questions Wes expected to hear, that one simple question throws him. He's not sure why; considering how hard it's been to get to this place, being asked why really should have occurred to him.
Seeing his surprise, the captain says, "Law is a very lucrative business for demons, so I hear. Your kind is very good at it." He runs the little rake through the sand, moving in a straight line from one end of the sand garden to the other. "So why become a police officer, where you have to enforce the law, rather than circumvent it?"
Wes doesn't say anything—not because he doesn't have an answer, but because, for one brief moment, he has the strangest inclination to tell the man the truth.
And the truth is that there's something different about him. He's not the same as his brethren, who are content to defend liars and murderers and cheats—there is something in him that rejects the humans who share so many traits with the denizens of Hell. He is, in some ways, strange, and that is the reason he wants to try policing; it is so far from what a demon would normally do that perhaps it will become the right choice for him.
He is tempted, but he holds his tongue. Revealing that much would expose him, make him vulnerable, and Wes learned a very long time ago that the only way to protect himself is to never, ever be vulnerable.
So he leans back and shrugs, a thin, wry smile twisting his lips. "I was bored."
The captain nods thoughtfully. "I see. Alright then." He reaches into his desk, pulls out a golden shield and pushes it across the desk. "Everyone says I'm making a huge mistake here, but I'm going with my gut. I hope you don't disappoint."
Wes eyes the badge, not reaching out. It's his turn to ask, "Why?"
"Because." Sutton taps the file, Wes's file, with one finger, smiling oddly. "Says here you've been doing pro bono work the last few years."
"So?"
"So." Again, that smile, like the captain knows something Wes doesn't. "I find that…interesting." He leans back, laces his fingers across his belly once more. "Welcome to the team, Mr. Mitchell."
Wes wraps his fingers around the shining badge.
XXXX
2.
"Hold the elevator!"
Wes obligingly sticks his arm out, the elevator doors gently bumping open once more. A brunette trots inside, brushing her hair behind her ears, and gives him a small smile. "Thanks," she says, settling in beside him. Wes nods vaguely, and the doors silently slide shut.
One thing that really annoys him about humans is that so many of them feel this constant need to fill silence with words. Not even meaningful words—they like small talk. Wes had never realized it was such a common problem until he took his own body. To be fair, the vast majority of humans who call a demon at the crossroads get right to the point to get their deal over with. And it's not like demons are such a chatty bunch anyway.
So when he notices the brunette eyeing him from the corner of her eye, studying him, he waits. It's only a matter of time before she says something.
Sure enough, they've barely passed the second floor when she turns and asks, "Are you new?" She nods at the box in his hands. "What department?"
The polite thing to do, Wes has learned, is to just answer, rather than ignoring the question.
Sometimes, Wes really hates the polite thing to do.
Stifling an exasperated sigh, Wes shifts his box and replies, "Robbery-Homicide." Then, because it's the polite thing to do, he holds out one hand. "Wes Mitchell."
The change is instantaneous. She recoils, entire body going tense, staring at him with wide eyes like he just grew a second head. "Wes Mitchell," she says, and her voice cracks a little bit.
Wes says, very quietly, "Ah," and wraps his hand around his box once more.
The rest of the elevator ride is spent in a tense, uneasy silence. The woman keeps shooting him these little sideways glances; Wes keeps his eyes on the numbers panel and focuses very hard on not doing anything threatening or inhuman.
As soon as the elevator stops, the woman is out in the hall before the doors fully slide open. Wes counts to five and follows at a more sedate pace, watching her disappear through a door down the hall.
So. Obviously she knows. And fear isn't exactly an unusual reaction when people know. It's better than a lot of reactions out there, honestly. At least there was no hostility in her actions.
But boy, it's going to be interesting if everyone in the department has the same reaction.
Wes takes a deep breath, tightens his grip on his box, and steps inside.
(Later, he asks Travis who the brunette woman is. Travis barely glances up before saying, "Oh, that's Amy. Not my biggest fan, let me tell you."
"Oh?" Wes feels a wry grin twist his mouth. "Nor mine."
Travis glance up at that, eyes sharp, studying him. But then he smirks, shrugs, and simply says, "Looks like we've got that in common, then.")
XXXX
3.
"You'll like Randi," Travis says as they head towards Narco, "she's awesome. And Hudson is great."
"Mm-hmm," Wes hums absently, following his partner with vague disinterest down the hall. "I get the feeling you only like Randi so much because she's one of the few women who will talk to you after you broke up with her."
"It was a mutual breakup," Travis retorts, jabbing a finger Wes's direction. "And that is only partly true, okay, she's great."
"Uh-huh," Wes says dryly, rolling his eyes. All Travis has been talking about the past hour is how great Randi is, how amazing and cool she is, and Wes is still trying to decide if this is more or less annoying than dealing with all of the other people Travis has dated and then broken up with. Most of them, at least, Travis doesn't go on and on about.
And then there's Hudson, Randi's partner, who Travis loves even more than Randi—Hudson is sweet and Travis loves Hudson and Travis would totally have Hudson as his own partner "No offense Wes, not that you're not great and all, but he's HUDSON okay," so maybe that's the part that's actually annoying Wes.
He's not thinking about it too deeply.
(Jealousy is a very demonic emotion, there's nothing unusual about it, but it's not always a very human emotion. At least not one that's present in healthy human relationships, according to what he's read online. Wes is trying.)
On the bright side, they reach Narcotics, so Wes doesn't have to hear any more about how great Randi and Hudson are. On the downside, now he has to actually meet Randi and Hudson. Joy.
Wes sighs and follows Travis into the room.
The first thing he notices is that, despite Travis only being a few steps ahead of him when they entered, Travis is now halfway across the room, kneeling and making cooing noises.
The second thing he notices is that Travis is making cooing noises at a dog. A rather large black-and-tan dog.
The third thing he notices is that the only other person currently in the room is a woman, hair pulled back from her face, smiling fondly at Travis and the dog. He steps close enough to hear Travis saying to the dog, "—missed you, Hudson," and Wes freezes where he's standing.
"Travis," he says sharply, which is, in hindsight, a mistake. Because it makes the woman and the dog look up at him. The woman merely frowns a little, but the dog—
The dog bristles, a low, rumbling growl in his throat.
Travis pulls back, looking down at the dog. "Woah, Hudson, what's going on?"
The woman snaps a short command, but the dog ignores her. From the corner of his eye, Wes can see how much that startles her; he doesn't break eye contact with the dog to fully look at her face.
He can feel a rumble in his throat, wanting to respond to the dog, to the challenge laid before him—it takes effort to keep the sound from escaping.
Slowly, Travis climbs to his feet. "Wes?" he asks, baffled, making a move to step toward him, but the dog darts between them, stiff-legged and angry, still growling.
Wes clenches his hands behind his back, bites back the snarl caught in his throat, and takes a slow, cautious step backwards, towards the door. "I'm going to wait in the hall," he says evenly, calmly, ignoring the question in Travis's voice.
"Wes!" Travis calls again, but Wes simply steps back into the hallway and closes the door, letting out a soft exhalation. After a moment, he can hear raised voices coming from the room he just left, Randi upset and questioning, Travis confused and placating.
If he listened hard enough, if he stretched his senses, he could hear what they're saying. Instead, he closes his eyes and leans his head against the wall.
It's a few more moments before Travis steps out, mouth a thin, tight line. He closes the door firmly behind him before stepping in front of Wes, arms crossed. "So," he says, almost conversationally, "what the hell?"
Wes sighs, but doesn't open his eyes, doesn't lift his head. "Dogs don't like demons."
"That was a bit more than not liking, man."
"Don't know what to tell you, Travis. Dogs just…really don't like demons."
There's a pause, Travis contemplating this, probably going through past interactions, tiny moments when he'd walk by a dog on the street and the animal in question simply…froze. Or growled, or tried to run away.
The reaction depends on the dog. Randi's dog, a K-9 dog trained for attack…well. It could have been worse than merely growling at him.
Travis lets out a little breath. "I sort of thought you just didn't like dogs."
"I don't." Now Wes opens his eyes, looks at his partner. "I mean. Hellhounds are kind of cool. But regular dogs…" He shrugs.
"Oh," Travis says, biting his lip. There's a look on his face, a little troubled, a little surprised, and Wes feels a hot flash of anger spark through him. Sometimes, he thinks that Travis forgets that Wes is a demon, that the world reacts differently to Wes than to Travis or anyone else he knows—somehow, he thinks Travis somehow manages to put the thought out of his mind like it doesn't matter, doesn't make a difference at all. Wes wishes he could forget so easily, and it makes him envious, so envious it pisses him off.
(Envy, anger, those are things he knows all too well, and god, is he tired of it.)
Travis huffs out a breath, dropping his arms. "Okay. Well, I guess I'd better…" He jerks his thumb towards the door.
"Yeah." Wes gives him a wry little smile. "I'll wait out here."
Travis opens his mouth, like he maybe wants to say something, but what is there to say? After a second, he just turns and goes back inside. He's quiet when he returns, relaying what Randi said but saying little else for a good half hour.
Wes doesn't try to break it.
XXXX
4.
The first few times Wes meets Jonelle, they're in the middle of a case, getting what they need and then hightailing it out of there because Travis is scared of her or something. Wes doesn't get much of an impression of her, beyond that she's competent and matter-of-fact.
The first time he really meets Jonelle is when he wakes up in the morgue, after having been snatched by hunters and exorcised for the very first time. This is what his new life means, he thinks with a grumble, he never had to deal with this kind of crap when he was hiding his nature—or when he was a lawyer, no one wants to get on the bad side of lawyers, and he's still grumbling when he sits up and hits his head on the top of the cold storage drawer.
He curses, feeling above him for the handle of the drawer. Then he realizes that there's no reason to be able to open the drawer from the inside, after all most of the time the bodies aren't crawling out of the drawer, so he curses again and concentrates.
This has never been his best talent, but after a few moments he manages, telekinetically pops the latch and the door opens an inch. Wes rolls over and pushes the door open, awkwardly easing the drawer out because the last thing he needs is to fall flat on his face trying to get out.
When he sits up he notices Jonelle, standing there staring with wide eyes. He blinks at her, checks to make certain his eyes are the right color, and swings his legs off the side of the drawer.
"I don't suppose you have my clothes, do you?" he asks politely.
The tray falls from her hands. Wes sighs quietly, expecting her to start freaking out, because this is what happens, usually, people always start freaking out.
Instead, her eyes light up, and she rushes forward, standing just inside his personal space.
"So you can just come back to your body?" she asks, words coming out in an excited rush. "We thought exorcisms, you know, got rid of you forever. You are Wes, right?" she asks, a slight frown tugging her face.
Wes is a little startled by the question, and blinks. "Yes…"
"Oh, good." Jonelle smiles, relieved. "I'd hate to be the one to tell Travis some other demon hijacked his partner's body."
"Where is Travis, by the way?" Wes asks, rather politely, he feels.
"Oh, I'll call him, don't worry." Jonelle waves a dismissive hand, then leans toward him. "What's it like?"
That's how Travis finds him fifteen minutes later, sitting on an autopsy table in a pair of borrowed blue scrubs, being bombarded with a barrage of questions by the scientist. Wes answers some of the questions, ignores the rest, but her curiosity is a persistent thing and Wes has never been gladder to see his partner come through the doors.
Honestly, her curiosity and questions are one of the more positive reactions he's gotten to this sort of thing. But that doesn't mean he wants to become a science experiment for her curiosity, so it's still a relief when he and Travis can finally make their escape.
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5.
"Hold it right there!"
Wes freezes in the doorway, not because of the sprightly redhead pointing a bright yellow water pistol at him, or the stern command in her voice, but because of the way Travis instantly tenses and slides almost casually in front of Wes. It's a clear difference in their usual dynamic, where Wes is the one standing in front of Travis, protecting him, and Wes is…quite annoyed by it, actually. He should be the one standing in front of Travis; Travis is soft and human and mortal, and Wes is much better at taking anything anyone dishes out.
He's trying to decide if he should say something or just move Travis out of the way when his partner snaps, "What are you doing?" and it takes Wes a second to realize Travis isn't talking to him but to the computer tech they've come to meet.
(To be fair, Travis has used that tone on Wes a lot, typically when Wes has accidentally crossed or breached some human boundary he didn't even realize was there.)
The girl—Kendall, Travis said her name was, in that delighted leer which meant he was excited to meet new people—plants her feet and scowls, which probably isn't as intimidating as she thinks it is.
"I know who you are," Kendall announces, which would be a lot more ominous if she weren't, like, five feet tall. Wes sighs quietly and glances at his watch, wondering how long this is going to take. They do have things to do here…
"And who," Travis says dangerously, "are we?"
"You are Travis Marks," Kendall says, then nods at Wes. "And that's Wes Mitchell."
"Very good," Wes says dryly, moving to step past Travis. "But we really need to be going, so—"
"Stop! Stop, stop!" Kendall shouts, and Travis practically shoves Wes back as the water pistol comes up again, and Wes gives in with a sigh and retreats back to the doorway.
"What the hell is your problem?!" Travis demands, sounding, frankly, a lot more pissed off than Wes would have expected, considering this is a small, cute female Travis hasn't yet slept with.
Kendall waves a frantic hand behind her, at her lab. "I just don't want him messing up my computers, okay!"
There's a long, surprised beat of silence.
Wes blinks. "What."
"Look," Kendall says, almost desperately, "I have no problem with you, okay, I don't. I'm actually really impressed with your arrest record, you guys are great. But there's a lot of delicate equipment in here and all my computers are programmed just the way I like and I don't want you messing that up. That's all."
Travis gapes dumbly. Wes blinks again. "What," he repeats. He feels it's a fitting sentiment here.
"Because you're a demon," Kendall explains, "and you'll make my computers fritz, and I just can't have, okay, it's nothing to do with you, personally."
This time, Travis is the one who, just for good measure, throws in one more, "What?"
Wes frowns. "Why would I fritz out your computers?"
Kendall pauses. "Because you're a demon. And your…energy…stuff makes electronics act funny."
Wes raises one eyebrow at her. "Excuse you, I'm not an angel."
"Okay, clearly we have a misunderstanding happening here." Travis intervenes, stepping between Wes and Kendall once more. "Wes doesn't do anything to electronics. Hell, he's the best at Google-fu in the squad room."
Kendall hesitates, the water pistol dropping. "Really?"
"Angels make electronics fritz," Wes informs her. "They're annoying that way."
"Oh." She drops the water pistol to her side, color suffusing her cheeks and embarrassment practically wafting off her. "Oh, this is awkward. Please, come in." She steps back, making room for the two of them to come in. "Wow. I am so sorry about all of this."
"It happens," Wes says flatly, stepping inside.
Meanwhile, Travis is scowling at the water pistol, snapping, "What are you thinking, anyway, waving holy water around like that?" To which Kendall holds up the toy gun and says, "No, no, this is just tap water. Are you kidding, holy water is expensive, I can't just go sticking it in a water pistol," and off they go.
Wes looks at his watch again with a little sigh. They've already wasted five minutes on this little misunderstanding here. From the sounds of the conversation starting up between the two of them, they're probably going to be here another ten.
"Humans," he mutters under his breath, and goes to find a place to sit.
XXXX
+1.
The room goes silent when he steps through the doors. Wes pauses, looks around the many faces, full of anger, suspicion, fear, and his hands tighten on the edges of his box. It takes an effort to keep his eyes from flashing black, to keep his spine from curling into a defensive, serpentine curl. No need to scare off the locals when they're already on edge.
(It was much easier back at the law firm, where a good quarter of the staff were demons and no one carried guns. But, he reminds himself, this is what I wanted.)
Chin held high, back ramrod straight, Wes steps into the room, moving towards the only empty desk in sight.
Behind him, a slow murmur starts up once more, much more subdued than it was before he walked into the room. He can only assume they're whispering to each other about him; he purposely doesn't listen.
Perpendicular to his desk is a second, messier one, and the man sitting there stares at him with unabashed curiosity, expression flat aside from a slight frown tugging at his lips. "You're my partner?" he demands, sounding unaccountably disappointed.
Wes can feel annoyance rising, and he bites the inside of his cheek to keep from letting it show. Still, he can't help being a little snippy when he says, "It appears so." Setting his box down with a little more force than necessary, he asks, "Were you expecting something different?"
"No, it's just…" Wes's new partner frowns. "No. No, no way, this can't be right."
Wes hisses out a breath through his teeth. He's gotten so good about hiding his nature, disguising the things that make him other, but so many people just know. "Yes, I am a demon. Didn't the captain tell you that?"
"Well, yeah." New Partner wags his head back and forth a couple of times, still frowning. "I was just expecting someone a little more…demonic. The blond hair and big blue eyes says 'America's Golden Boy' more than 'demon from Hell'." He holds out his hands Wes's direction. "I mean, come on. A suit? You're gonna be a tight ass, aren't you?"
Wes can feel his annoyance draining away, taken over by amused surprise at this man who is not anything what Wes expected. Instead of fear, or suspicion, of even a vague wariness, he's disappointed that Wes isn't stereotypically dark and brooding and evil.
Wes is…not certain how to take that.
"Sorry," he drawls, "I left my horns with my other suit."
New Partner throws his head back and chortles, and Wes blinks. He's…never had someone laugh at him like this before, utterly delighted and joyous. It's a happy sound, and Wes isn't certain he's ever had something so positive aimed his way.
When demons laugh, it's a cold, bitter thing, scornful and relishing in other people's pain. When humans laugh around demons, there's always an element of restrained tension, uncomfortable. But when this human laughs, it's free, unfettered, a wild, vibrant thing.
He's intrigued.
"Well, baby, you'll just have to bring them tomorrow, then, huh," New Partner says, grinning.
Wes blinks, intrigue being overshadowed by annoyance once more. "Wes Mitchell. Not 'baby'."
"Oh, well, excuse me," New Partner says, rolling his eyes. "Told you, tight ass," he grumbles under his breath, but he's still grinning so Wes isn't entirely certain how to take that. Before he can decide, the man leans forward, holding out his hand. "Travis Marks. Your partner, obviously."
Wes slides his hand into Travis's, gives him a few solid shakes, but when he goes to take his hand back, Travis doesn't let go. Wes could easily break free, of course, a mere human's grip is nothing compared to a demon's but…for the moment, he stays.
Travis leans forward, eyes shining, and lowers his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "Seriously, though, man. Can't you look a little more demonic? I mean, you're not even wearing black!"
Wes looks down at his pale grey suit with a mild frown, then looks at Travis's eager face. If it were anyone else, he'd withdraw, tell them to back off and go to his seat.
But Travis is excited to be working with a demon. He's not acting like anyone else Wes has ever met. And he laughed, shining and pure, and for that…
Wes glances around to find that almost everyone has returned to their own work. Leaning in, he blinks, once, black flooding his sclera, holding Travis's gaze for a good five seconds. Then he blinks again, returning his eyes to blue.
Travis's own blue eyes go wide, mouth falling open. "Cool," he breathes, hand tightening around Wes's.
Then he smiles, shining like the sun, and something in Wes's heart constricts in the most pleasant of ways.
OOOO
The +1 section is based on/inspired by a tiny ficlet written by autisticwesmitchell (as allthatisbizarre), back when demon!Wes was being thought up with mizufallsfromkumo. Taken and remixed with permission, and, as always, thank you for letting me play in your sandbox. I love this series so damn much, okay.
I hope you enjoyed this! I like it quite a lot. Comments, reviews, and constructive criticism are always welcome.
Until next time~!