DISCLAIMER: I, in no shape or form, own The Cab (title: Risky Business), Fall Out Boy, the idea of vampires, or any other Fueled By Ramen band mentioned herein. This is my second shot, as stated, at a vampire fic, since the first one completely flopped. The warnings for this story are: language, boylove, vampirism, violence (later on), and maybe some other things that may pop up. Reviews make me totally happy, and I'd appreciate if you'd let me know if this is a horrible, sad excuse for a story or a good one. And yes, I may have taken the general idea from the ex-CBS show, Moonlight, but that was an awesome show! This is sort of like paying homage, since they canceled it and all.


When you think of vampires, what's the first thing that comes to mind? Is it dark alleys and sharp fangs, or is it insatiable hunger and that feeling that someone's always lurking behind you in the shadows on your walk home from work? Either way, vampires aren't all what they're cracked up to be. I should know. After all, I am one. You'd never know, though. I've been alive for a hundred years and trust me, there's more to the world than you think.


The morning sunlight streamed in through the floor-to-ceiling windows in the apartment, casting patterns on the modern chrome kitchen, winding metal staircase, and crystal gas fireplace. The über-sleek apartment seemed too full and yet too empty at the same time. It was decorated with the taste of a refined woman, and somehow still held onto the air of a bachelor.

A certain chill hugged the windows overlooking the sleepy Chicago skyline, telltale signs of the oncoming winter. Bird no longer twittered as the sun gave its first few meager rays, but if someone listened hard enough (which, in reality, wasn't very hard at all), there was a symphony of car horns far below in the streets as commuters made their way to work.

A door upstairs opened and out stumbled Pete Wentz, looking haggard and tired, his black hair skewed messily around his face. His skin was tan in color, although it had a paled look, like someone that had been locked inside for a long time. He had gotten enough Boo Radley jokes for his lifetime, truthfully. All he had on was sweatpants slung low on his jutting hips, showcasing a tattoo above his waistline.

Pete was a vampire hunter extraordinaire, a self-proclaimed savior for the modern generations. Despite his job occupation, he had a secret that he rarely ever told anyone: he was a vampire himself. He could swear sometimes that if you looked up irony in the dictionary, his name would be right next to it. Bill Beckett had also said, more than once, that if you looked up arrogant and asshole, Pete's name would be there too.

Bill, someday, was going to actually die, Pete swore on it.

Besides that, Pete was an average man to most people, and sometimes to himself if he stopped thinking long enough. He lived in his lavish apartment in the north side of Chicago, close to where he had grown up. He did his taxes and kept the neighborhood clean of vandals. The only thing he was missing, though, was someone to do it all with.

He knew that maybe he wasn't totally stable. Even as a little kid, Pete had struggled with depression and insomnia, and unfortunately a thing such as a turning didn't quell those feelings, instead making them, if possible, worse, since obviously vampires don't sleep.

It wasn't exactly as if he could go out onto the dating scene. There were regulations for his kind, and it got especially suspicious when one didn't age at all. Not that he wouldn't love to have a significant other; the human memories of past boyfriends stayed hazily in his mind, flitting in and out of his consciousness like bleary butterflies. He just never found another vampire that gave him that tug he had always hoped he would feel someday.

Rejection had been a foreign thing to him up until seventy-one years ago, when he was turned. Since then, he'd grown too used to being alone with only his own thoughts, and surprisingly, he wasn't crazy. Yet.

Some of his friends would say otherwise, but Pete held firm that he was nothing more than eccentric. He could probably describe himself in a dictionary full of words, but, like everything else in his life, it just didn't fit.

He had money; he knew that he'd never have to work again on the day he officially turned ninety. When he was turned, he'd decided to use his supernatural powers for good, so he'd become a private investigator. It wasn't always vampires that he killed, but humans who deserved to feel the cold bite of death.

Pete wasn't a killer, in terms of vampire or human. He solved mystery cases, cold cases, brought back home missing children, stopped bank robberies. There was only the exception with the men or women who did what they did and got a thrill out of it. The ones who never stopped, even after being caught two, three times. They were the ones Pete sought out and always caught for good.

After having been alive for a hundred years, the world started to lose its shine. Nothing in the news surprised Pete, since he had seen it coming for years now. With the way that the world had changed since the early twentieth century, he had no doubts that civilization's failure to understand the importance of certain natural resources that were in no way indefinite would be their downfall.

He stretched, opening his mouth wide to reveal just the tiniest hint of fang that hadn't yet retracted due to his morning thirst. They weren't extraordinarily long, per se, but a glimpse of them was almost always enough to send a human running, horrible images of Dracula dancing in their heads. They were also easily hid, though, so that he could talk freely without anyone suspecting. Disguise was a vampire's greatest friend.

The sun didn't bother him too much. He couldn't go out in it for too long, especially if it was hot, but he didn't burst into ashes or anything when he did. He wasn't too fond of it, anyway.

It wasn't just his vampire side that liked the dark; he had always been like that, ever since he was a little kid. The night just held a certain kind of sereneness, something that wasn't attainable during the day. It made him feel safe, even when he wasn't, like he was being wrapped in a thick velvet blanket.

When Pete slept, it was in a bed. There were no stupid clichés about coffins or closed spaces. He was a tiny bit claustrophobic, so he was more than glad that nothing like that was necessary.

Common knowledge was that vampires didn't sleep, which they didn't. They had no pulse, no way to get tired or feel like they were. But they did, however, need to replenish their strength when they went long periods without drinking, which was something Pete did often.

His strict moral standards were that he would never kill a human for food, no matter how bad it got. And living in Chicago, it was hard to find any wild animals to kill. So, he befriended the local mortician, who in turn gave him bags of donated blood to quench his thirst. It also helped that said mortician was also a vampire.

The kitchen was only a few seconds walk from the living room, but on this chilly November morning, that short walk felt like a mile. Pete closed his eyes and groaned before walking into the kitchen, going to the cabinets where tall glasses of all shapes and sizes were lined. Pushing a few of them aside, he opened a secret door, pulling out a pitcher of blood. He poured some into a tumbler and closed the door again.

There had to be a way to hide the blood he drank on a daily basis, although the disguise wasn't completely necessary. Humans didn't drop by too often, so being found out wasn't really a big issue. Tipping the glass back, Pete savored the flow of sweet blood down his throat.

He set the half-empty glass down, swallowing and relishing the taste that swirled around his taste buds and quenched that burning hunger inside him in a way only blood could. Food was a thing of the long-ago past. He could barely remember a time when he wasn't dependent on animal or human blood to keep him sane.

It was at that moment that his phone in the kitchen decided to ring, snapping him out of his reverie, and Pete glanced at the caller ID before answering.

"Hey, Bill," he said brightly, stripping off his boxers as he walked into his room. Bill normally called his cell phone, so Pete figured that he had left his iPhone off overnight. Walking upstairs into his room, he went and checked, finding out that he had indeed turned it off. He opened his closet and began rummaging through clothes as Bill talked.

"Hey, Pete." Bill Beckett's voice was as bright as Pete's, if not more, and Pete knew that Bill and Adam Siska were doing just fine. He felt a pang of nostalgia as he slipped a shirt over his head and struggled with jeans that were two sizes too small.

He hadn't had a relationship since Mikey had run off with Frank, and that was the late seventies, if not earlier. It wouldn't have worked out anyway, because eventually Mikey would have caught on that Pete didn't age a day over twenty-nine. He'd like to think that it would have, though. Keep a sliver of hope that maybe he wasn't so impossible at all.

"To what do I owe this early-morning call?" Pete asked after dressing, walking over to the window in his room that overlooked the city.

Bill laughed. "Remember how I told you that Adam worked at that news website, Buzzwire?"

Pete rolled his eyes. Of course he had heard about Adam's work. By now, he couldn't decipher what he had learned about him and what he hadn't. He was half-tempted to yell at Bill to shut up, tell him that he didn't care about his boyfriend and what the hell he did. "Yeah," he replied instead. Just because he was bitter didn't mean everyone else had to be.

"Well," Bill interrupted Pete's thoughts. "He met this kid, you know, real young and shit, says he's straight out of college. Anyway, this kid is a real genius. He writes and reports for Buzzwire, and he even writes music in his spare time. Adam's read some of his stuff, and I'm telling you, Pete, you've got to meet him."

Pete raised an eyebrow. "What makes you think I'd even want to meet him in the first place?"

"Because you never shut up about how much you want a boyfriend, so don't feed me lies."

Bill's voice was so deadpan that Pete had to laugh. "I guess you're right," he replied. "When should I meet this wonder boy?"

Bill paused. "Come in tonight? The place is always still somewhat busy then," he mused. Typical cover; a busy place means more distraction, meaning less eyes on the both of them. Pete wasn't dumb to the fact that they both gave off this aura of superiority, even if they looked completely human from the outside.

More often than not he turned heads when he walked into the room, whether it was his eternal beauty or how he held himself with the confidence that you only see in people who have done it all and seen it all. Pete had to give in on Bill's offer, so he smiled and pressed the phone between his ear and shoulder as he zipped up the hoodie he had thrown on.

"Sounds good."


Pete strolled into the office not too long after seven. Looking around, he noticed that, for almost after hours, it was, like Bill had said, somewhat busy. He weaved his way through a spider web of cubicles until he heard a familiar voice shouting his name.

He turned, lopsided grin on his mouth, as he caught an armful of a skinny Bill Beckett, flashing almost out of nowhere, a blur of bony limbs and brown, curly hair. "You were right," Pete said as a way of greeting.

Bill raised an eyebrow, unfolding himself from Pete's smaller frame. Pete continued, "This place is way too busy for this time of night."

Bill laughed. "I know, right?" He placed his hand on Pete's shoulder as they walked. "Just down here," he muttered, turning left before stopping where a boy, who hardly fit the description of twenty-four, with thinning red-blond hair was sitting hunched over paperwork, a flat-screen Dell across from him, files open to a few crime scene photos. Bill cleared his throat and the kid jumped.

"Oh, i-it's you," the boy said, cheeks flushed. Pete told himself that that blush was not endearing in anyway and found the wall to be rather interesting as Bill introduced him to the boy. Pete just barely caught the kid's confused reply of, "But I know who you are, Bill," and Bill's exasperated, "Not me, Patrick, him."

Pete looked over, noticing Kid-Called-Patrick's blue-green eyes on him. A sudden feeling of nervousness washed over him and he looked down, self-consciously running his tongue over his now-concealed canines. He recognized this kid, although he wasn't sure how or why.

"So you're Pete," Patrick finally said. Pete, still uncomfortable under Patrick's heated gaze, nodded.

"What do you do for a living?" Patrick asked, tapping his pencil on the wood top of his desk. Pete could tell from the way that he asked the question that he had a slightly condescending air about him, something that just didn't seem right on someone so cherubic. But Patrick didn't seem to mind being either malevolent or putting people on the spot.

"Uhh." Pete stalled, trying to think of a quick way to avoid saying what he really did. "I-I write, I guess." Patrick raised a blond eyebrow, almost like he knew Pete was lying. Instead, all he said was, "Oh, really? What do you write?"

Shit. "Oh, poetry. You know, lyrics and whatever." Not exactly a lie; he did write poetry, if his late-night ramblings could even be called that. Just not for a living.

Patrick looked at him intensely, still tapping his pencil. "Uh-huh. Are you in a band, Pete?" There was something about the way he said Pete's name; it still kept that condescending air, and now it sounded mocking as well.

But this boy with the pale looks of an innocent angel just didn't fit the description of rude. I don't even know his last name, Pete thought, and then said, "No, I'm not. Writing just releases emotion, you know?" He hoped to God that he was a convincing liar, because inside his head this was an act worthy of a bad B-movie. Not to mention that what he was saying sounded completely unbelievable and most definitely thought up on the spot.

He was unaware that he was twisting the end of his hoodie into an unrecognizable mess with his hands until Bill nudged his shoulder. Pete looked down and felt the strong urge to blush, although the blood in his veins didn't pump anywhere. He released the material.

Patrick nodded; oblivious to Pete's nervous fidgeting. "Emotion. I get it. You're an angst writer, huh?" His lips quirked in a know-all grin, like he was daring for Pete to call him out on what he just said.

Really, Pete knew way better than to let comments like that get to him. He'd gotten them all through school and all through his life up to now, especially by those who knew him for who he really was. He crossed his arms over his chest and stared haughtily at Patrick. "Like you could write any better, being stuffed inside this cubicle all day," he snapped.

Patrick leered at him. "That's just the thing. I'm stuffed inside this cubicle all day with nothing else to do."

"What about this thing you've got called a job?"

"Have you noticed that this basically is my job?"

"Yeah, well. Fu—"

Bill stepped in before it could get any worse. "Maybe we should go, Pete," he said tersely. His eyes shifted back and forth, almost like he was expecting one of them to attack. Or me, Pete thought glumly. That's how people saw him; a vicious, evil monster. Even Bill, who knew better, still looked at him sideways whenever his temper flared up. After all these years Pete just... gave up and tried to ignore the people around him.

Instead, something lit up inside him, a forgotten bubble that held some sort of truth. That voice. Pete had definitely caught a few of Patrick's reports, but he'd never actually seen the kid. He recognized Patrick's voice from quiet mornings when he'd actually gotten around to opening up Buzzwire's site and listening to reports.

"I've seen you before," Pete said before he could stop himself. Patrick gave him a quizzical look that quickly morphed into one of disgust.

"Yeah, and that's not creepy at all," Patrick replied, crossing his arms over his chest.

Pete shook his head. God, did he need to spell it out? "No, I mean on the internet. On Buzzwire. I've seen a few of your stories." Well, it was okay to lie a little bit. He'd heard him. Close enough.

Patrick's face slowly softened. "Yeah… Still. You shouldn't be so pedo-ish when you meet new people."

A laugh bubbled up in Pete's throat, but he held it back. There was still something mysterious about this whole situation, and back in the recesses of his mind he remembered a time, nineteen years ago, when he'd rescued a little boy from his ex-boyfriend, Mikey Way.

Mikey wasn't the one who turned him, no. That was probably the only thing he didn't hate him for. But Pete would never forgive him for kidnapping the kid—who, he almost refused to admit, very possibly could be Patrick—and then running off with Frank Iero. Worse yet, though, was that Mikey had still been human at the time.

"Hey. Hey. Pete." Fingers snapping in front of his face woke him out of his thoughts. When he opened his eyes, Patrick's blue-green ones were centimeters from his. He blinked in surprise.

"Uh. Hey," he said stupidly. The motors in his head appeared to have stopped working, to his embarrassment.

Patrick stared at him. "Are you okay?" he asked with the concern one usually saves for someone in the mental hospital. Pete managed a nod.

"Yeah. I was just… you remind me of someone."

Patrick furrowed his brow and was silent for a few seconds. "Now that you say it, you kind of do look like someone. Have we met before?"

Yes, Pete wanted to say, but all he said was, "Nope."



"I've got it. A crime scene."

Pete smiled and again said no. "Maybe I've just got one of those faces."

Patrick didn't seem happy with the answer, but he let it slide. "Maybe," he muttered. He turned back to his computer just as Bill tapped Pete on the back and said, "We need to go," quietly into his ear.

Before he had a chance to say goodbye, Bill was whisking Pete away, not stopping until they were outside the building. Bill faced him, hands on his hips and a fire in his eyes.

"What the hell was that about?" he hissed, voice dangerously low.

"What, Patrick?" Pete asked. Bill nodded stiffly. Pete narrowed his eyes. "Jesus, chill. He just looks so familiar. Like someone I've met before but forgot."

A low snarl built in the back of Bill's throat, and for a second Pete was taken aback at his friend's display of anger. "Don't get attached," Bill growled.

Shocked, Pete didn't even get to edge a word in before Bill was gone and he was left standing alone in a parking lot, a head full of unanswered questions and the nagging feeling that Patrick was somehow a missing piece in his life.


R&R? It's much appreciated. :)