Chaz x Striker

Assassin's blood pt3

Morning in Wrath was always a little crueler than in the other rings. The sun didn't rise so much as blaze, burning through the haze of dust and smoke that hung low over the hills. But inside the little motel kitchen, things were quieter. Not peaceful—not with the constant hum of cicadas and the distant groan of livestock—but quieter than usual.

Chaz hummed as he rummaged through the cupboards, pulling out whatever looked halfway edible. He wasn't much of a cook. Never had been. His skills were more in the direction of making a mess or charming someone else into feeding him. But Striker had been through hell the last few nights, and Chaz figured he could at least try.

He cracked a couple of eggs into a pan, splattered oil everywhere, and immediately winced as the edges went from "just right" to "burnt to hell" in under a minute.

"Damn it..." Chaz muttered, waving the smoke out of his face with a dish rag. "It's just eggs! Why the fuck is this so hard?"

From behind him came the sound of soft boots hitting the counter. Striker had perched himself there, long legs dangling, arms crossed, silver eyes half-lidded with exhaustion but glimmering with amusement.

"You're gonna kill us both with that pan, darlin'," Striker drawled, tail flicking lazily against the cabinet.

Chaz turned his head, flashing a sheepish grin. "Don't suppose you're volunteering to save breakfast, sugarfangs?"

Striker slid down from the counter with fluid ease, moving like the predator he always was, even in a worn grey shirt and sweatpants. He didn't say anything—just took the spatula from Chaz's hand with practiced calm, nudging him aside with his hip.

"Step back, shark," Striker muttered, flipping the eggs with a flick of his wrist. The smell of smoke began to fade, replaced by something actually edible. He cracked another egg, sprinkled in a little spice from a jar Chaz didn't even know they had, and in minutes the pan looked less like disaster and more like breakfast.

Chaz leaned against the counter, watching, grinning like a fool. "Show-off."

"Survivor," Striker corrected, not looking up. His pale hair fell into his eyes, and he brushed it back with a flick of his wrist. "Didn't always have the luxury of anyone else cookin' for me. Learned quick or starved."

There was no bite in his tone, but Chaz felt the truth in it—the edge of Striker's past that always lingered under the surface. So he didn't press. Instead, he stepped closer, sliding his arms around Striker's waist as the smaller demon worked at the stove.

Striker stiffened briefly, instinctively, then eased when he realized it was only Chaz. He leaned back slightly against the shark's chest, still keeping one hand steady on the pan.

"Ya tryin' to distract me?" Striker asked, voice low, though Chaz could hear the faintest trace of amusement.

"Maybe," Chaz chuckled, pressing a kiss to the back of his neck. "Maybe I just like watchin' you do your thing. Ain't a damn thing you touch that you don't make better."

Striker snorted, shaking his head, though his mouth twitched at the corner. He carefully slid the eggs onto two plates, setting them down on the counter. "Breakfast. Edible. Unlike whatever char you were servin' up."

Chaz grinned, not letting go. His hands stayed on Striker's hips, holding him close. "Fair enough. I'll leave the cookin' to you. Guess I'll just have to find other ways to keep you busy."

Striker finally turned his head, giving him a sideways look with those sharp yellow-green eyes. "Other ways, huh? Should I be worried?"

"Not unless you hate fun." Chaz grinned wider, lowering his voice as he kissed the side of Striker's throat, just under his jaw. "You got any jobs today?"