Dynamite
The demon is six feet long, and it looks like a scaly red Chihuahua with five inch horns and big fucking teeth. Lots of them. Faith isn't sure what it's doing in the bank, unless someone's been taking their cues from Andrew's stories of his days as a so-called super-villain, but then, she doesn't really care, either. She doesn't need to know why the thing's here in order to kill it -- and oh, boy, is she going to kill it. Not only has it interrupted what was supposed to have been a simple trip down town, but it also decided to crash through the doors just after she'd spotted the most fuckable guy she's seen in months. He's dark-haired and handsome, with flashing green eyes that hint at just the right amount of danger -- yeah. The Chihuahua-thing is going down. Maybe she'll be able to take advantage of Green Eyes' gratitude after she saves his ass.
Faith reaches for her knives, wishing that she'd thought to bring something bigger -- then throws herself flat onto the floor as the unmistakable thunder of machine-gun fire erupts behind her, accompanied by a whoop of excited laughter. When she rolls over onto her back, Green Eyes is standing over her, pointing what looks like a tommy gun at the demon and grinning like he just won the World Series.
Unfortunately, the bullets only serve to make the thing angrier, and it charges him with a roar. Faith grabs it as it passes her and tosses it into a wall, then rolls to her feet, knives in hand.
"Bullets don't work," she shouts, hoping that Green Eyes can hear her over the screams of the civilians and the demon's snarling roar.
He seems to have gotten the message, though, because he throws away the tommy gun and reaches into his coat for a set of his own blades, long, deadly things that are closer to short swords than proper daggers.
"Better!" she shouts, and they have time to exchange excited, adrenaline-mad grins before the demon is on them.
Green Eyes is no Slayer, but he is well-trained. He handles his daggers like he was born using them, and he and Faith between them make short work of the demon. After it's all over, he looks down at the still-twitching corpse with a considering expression on his face.
"Well," he says. "That was interesting." He's got a great voice, rich and a little smoky, a voice designed to say dirty things and sound good doing it. Those pretty, pretty eyes look up at Faith, sparkling with equal parts excitement and appreciation. "In fact, I'd say that my whole day just got a lot more interesting."
"Did it now," she purrs, awarding him extra points for being able to flirt so coolly over a dead body, especially one that smelled like the one at their feet is starting to. "Does that include the trash removal I'm about to shanghai you into?"
"Mm," he says appreciatively. "I haven't been shanghaied in years." And he gives her that dazzling grin again, sticking his hand out over the demon's body. "I'm Cory."
"Faith," she said. When she gives him her hand, he doesn't shake it; instead, he brings it to his lips and kisses her palm in a gesture as flamboyant as it is natural.
"It's an honor," he says, sincerely enough that she has to wonder how much he knows about Slayers, as though his coolness under demonic onslaught hasn't already proven that he's at least somewhat in the know. He's still bent over her hand, and the movement of his lips, his breath warm on her palm, sends an almost liquid shiver along her spine.
"We'll see how much of an honor you think it is once we've gotten rid of Chihuahua-boy here," she says, ultra-cool to cover just how much Cory is rattling her. He's electric, gleaming, and she can't help wonder what he'll look like mussed and dirty, that expensive shirt torn, fedora gone, dark hair falling sweaty over his forehead while those green eyes glaze with pleasure...
Faith shakes herself out of the momentary fantasy and bends to pick up the demon by its tail. Cory grabs it around the neck, and the two of them haul the thing out the back door of the bank, pausing only for Cory to pick up his tommy gun and sling it over his shoulder. Together they heave it into the dumpster, and Cory reaches into his pocket and pulls out what looks like --
"Is that-"
"Dynamite?" Cory asks cheerfully. "Yup." He lights the fuse and tosses it into the dumpster, then pulls her back into the bank and closes the door behind them. "It comes in handy," he adds, just as the explosion from outside rattles the door in its frame. He doesn't give her any time to reflect; instead, he grabs her wrist and pulls her out into the alley. "Time to go, gorgeous," he says, just as Faith hears the first wail of an approaching siren.
She doesn't argue; just follows him pell-mell down the alley and over a fence at the end of it, then onwards, through a backyard route that he must have mapped out in advance, because he takes the various obstacles sure-footedly, without a pause to see where he's going. He's fast, too, with the ground-eating pace of a trained runner that always takes weeks to drill into new Slayers. At some point, someone took the time to teach Cory how to use his body as effectively as possible -- and he cuts her line of thought short, pulling her into another alley and stopping, cocking his head to listen in a way that reminds her a little bit of Spike.
"I think we lost them," she says, or starts to say, because before she can get three words out, Cory is there, one hand reaching up to tangle in her hair while the other grabs her wrist again, pulling her in close. He kisses like he's spent years practicing, like he's serious about it, hard and dirty and a little bit desperate, adrenaline-mad and lust-filled. He tastes like liquor and electricity, and when she kisses him back he makes an appreciative noise in the back of his throat before pushing her up against the wall. When they separate, they're both breathing hard, and his eyes are dark in a way that she knows is echoed by her own.
"Much better than robbing banks," he says breathlessly. "And that's not something I say often."
"Robbing banks?" she asks, raising an eyebrow.
"It's a living," he says, and gives her that charmingly roguish smile again. "A fun one." And then he's kissing her again, while beside them a police car screams its way towards the bank they just left.
"You've got a real adrenaline thing, don't you?" Faith manages to get out, while Cory's lips are busy trailing fire down her neck to her collarbone.
"Don't you?" he asks, and when she catches his eyes she can tell that he already knows the answer.
"It's a living," she says, throwing his own words back at him. She's surprised to see his eyes flicker with something that looks almost like sorrow, and realizes that he knows exactly what she is. "Of course, you already knew that, didn't you?"
"I've been around the block a few hundred times," he says easily, and his eyes are laughing again. "Enough to recognize a Slayer when I see one."
"And what are you?" she asks, because he just might mean that few hundred thing literally, and kisses him again. He's delicious, is what he is: temptation on two legs, and she's going to be seriously pissed if he answers 'demon' when she lets him go.
"I'm a thief," he says, when they stop for breath. "A good thief."
"Does that mean you're good at your job, or that you're not evil?"
"Definitely not evil," he says seriously. "As for the other -- come back to my hotel room, and I'll prove to you that crime does indeed pay." His slow grin changes the line from corny to captivating, and Faith can't help the answering smile that slides onto her face. The next kiss goes beyond scorching and into the realm of 'take me now', and Faith is more than a little dazed when he lets her go.
"Oh, yeah," Cory says. "Much better than robbing banks."
Author's Notes: God, I need sleep. And to not be at the airport. That would be nice. Feedback is always welcome.