Disclaimer: I don't own Buffy, Angel or Riddick, all are the properties of their respective creators and no profit is intended from this work of fiction
Author's Note: This is an old fic, resurrected for this site and I know it needs some work. There are parts that just don't seem to flow... but I love the pairing, so here it is!
"I don't think you should be touching that."
Faith looked up and raised an eyebrow when Gunn spoke. He was leaning in the doorway, watching her.
"And what makes you think I care?" she asked. Gunn crossed his arms over his chest and gave her an exasperated look.
"You know things around here never turn out to be just harmless little trinkets, so put the damn necklace down before something happens," he growled. She glared and ran her thumb over the red jewel that sparkled like fire in the center of the silver pendant. Her gaze was drawn to the center of it, where the sparks inside seemed to be moving... swirling... it looked almost like a black hole, or a portal of some sort. She leaned closer and heard Gunn's shouted curse just as she fell, drawn into the swirl of light, which had suddenly grown large enough to swallow her whole.
"Angel!" The cry left her mouth seconds before she landed hard on a metal floor. She gasped at the blow and scrambled to her feet, dropping immediately into a fighting stance and looking around for an enemy.
"Believe me, honey, I'm no angel," came a deep, gravelly voice and she spun around. He was leaning on the doorjamb with both hands, his eyes covered by dark goggles, his mouth twisted into a wry smirk. He was built like a pro wrestler and all those muscles shifted under darkly tanned skin when he lowered his arms and took a step toward her. He wore a tight black tank top and black pants made out of some kind of heavy cargo material; just tight enough that she could tell his legs were as sculpted as the rest of him. Big black boots, similar to the ones she herself wore, laced up to mid-calf, but still, when he moved, he was silent. She knew that type of grace. It was that of a hunter, a predator, and she felt the tension sing through her blood in anticipation of a fight.
"Who the fuck are you? Where am I?" she demanded.
Amusement laced with curiosity flickered through his eyes and Faith glared. She just knew he was thinking how cute it was that she thought she stood a chance in hell against him. She hated being underestimated.
"Damned if that isn't a good question," he said, taking another step toward her. "How'd you get on this ship?"
"Ship?" Faith looked around her, eyeing the cool metal walls, the panels of blinking lights and the small porthole. She moved a little closer and looked out, gasping when she saw nothing but stars in an impossibly black sky. Space.
"Holy shit," she breathed, feeling her knees go weak. She spun around to face the man.
"Who are you?" He smiled, slowly, taking hold of his goggles and lifting them so they rested on his head. He was within a few feet of her by then and her breath hissed in, sharply when he looked at her with shining silver eyes.
"Richard B. Riddick. This is my ship."
He seemed to be waiting for something, some kind of reaction, but the name meant nothing to her.
"And what year is it, Mr. Richard B. Riddick?" she asked, carefully. He blinked, surprised, but quickly covered his reaction.
Faith sat down quickly on the floor, suddenly dizzy. The last thing she remembered thinking was how much she hated it when Gunn was right.
She was intriguing. Dark hair that fell in waves to just past her shoulders, brown eyes that flashed when she was angry, or afraid. High cheekbones, a mouth made for kissing and a body that was firm and soft in all the right places, he decided, as he laid her down on his bed. He cocked his head to one side, studying her. Most women- hell, most men- would have run away at the mention of the name Riddick. Racking up a body count of 57 confirmed and almost as many suspected kills tended to create a reputation that reached far and wide. This girl hadn't flinched, hadn't reacted at all. The crouch she'd dropped into when she'd realized she wasn't alone had been automatic, a reflex that came from years of training in some form of martial arts. The way she moved, the muscles that rippled under that so soft skin, the light scarring that marred her throat and wrists said she was a fighter. A warrior of some kind. A hunter? Interesting.
Her clothes were strange to him, but there were plenty of planets and people out there he had yet to see. Her boots were much like his own, but smaller, of course. Her pants were tight, black and a little bit shiny, almost like vinyl, but he had the feeling this wasn't a man made material. Something about the way it clung to her form, the way it whispered when she moved told him it had once been alive. Leather. From a cow. That was hard to come by. Her shirt was cotton, he guessed, white and lightweight enough that he could see the outline of her bra beneath it and cropped just above her navel. Across her right bicep was a tattoo, something similar to the tribal designs of old Earth.
Intrigued he leaned closer, breathing her in. She smelled like woman, soap and a little bit of fear, but under that was something else. Something that made him draw back and stare hard at her face again.
Steel, blades, blood. The scents lingered in his nose and he let his gaze wander over her small form. She was beautiful, but far from harmless. This one smelled like him. She smelled like death.