The demon didn’t mean to save the hunter’s life. In much the same way that one orders from the suspiciously cheap hot dog stand (even though they really should know better), the demon didn’t think - he just acted.
The demon’s name is Brian. And no - it isn’t short for anything. A demon’s name doesn’t have to be an unpronounceable smorgasbord of consonants that beg to be spat when spoken. Sometimes, a demon is named Brian. Just Brian, thank you very much.
Brian, wearing cargo shorts, his favorite scoop necked t-shirt, flip flops, and a white puka shelled necklace, was on his way to the laundromat, minding his own damn business, when he was assaulted in broad daylight.
His assaulter was tall, lanky and wore their long dark hair pulled back in a tight, dramatic ponytail. Brian didn’t catch exactly what they said, but it was something along the lines of: “Foul demon, blah blah, return to the Hell from whence you came, blah blah blah, by the power of God, or whatever.”
And then Brian’s laundry basket was upturned, his clothes were spread halfway across six and sixty-sixth Avenue, and the dramatic hunter was knocking an ornate metal cross against Brian’s chest.
“Ow,” said Brian. “That hurts, you know.”
The hunter was looking at him in a way that suggested they thought Brian should be in flames by now. Or at the very least smoking.
“It does hurt?” The hunter asked, their kohl rimmed eyes narrowing in confusion.
“Only because you’re repeatedly smacking me with it,” Brian snapped, and slapped the cross away.
Giving the hunter a suitably withering look, Brian stepped into the street to begin collecting his dirty laundry. His tighty whities were currently being run over by by a sputtering Vespa. How entirely humiliating.
“I hope you’re happy,” Brian grumbled, snatching up the blackened underwear. “I’ll be lucky if I get this stain to lift.”
The hunter, who’d followed Brian into the road was gaping dumbly. “I - I don’t understand?”
“Shocking,” Brian muttered, and bent to snatch up his plaid onesie pajamas.
“You are a demon?” they asked, and turned the cross over in their hands, as if inspecting it for flaws. “It’s never failed to banish an evil creature before.”
Brian glanced at the hunter with a sneer. “Oh that is just so species-ist! Just because I’m a demon, I have to be evil, do I?
“Not last time I checked!” Turning with a huff, Brian picked up his flamingo themed socks. He was reaching for his bell bottom trousers when he heard the telltale squeal of rubber on asphalt.
He didn’t need to look up to know what was about to happen. Releasing his laundry (which tumbled onto the road once more), he whipped around and reached for the stupid, awful, dumb-faced hunter. He snagged their collar, and with a mighty tug, dragged them out of the path of the roaring truck.
The truck, tires smoking, slowed for a the barest moment before barreling onward.
“Eyes on the road, asshole!” Brian shouted at the shrinking taillights.
Meanwhile, the hunter stood beside him, stiff as a rake. Their hands were frozen, clutched around the ornate cross, and their black rimmed eyes were comically wide.
“I’m going to pick up my laundry. Again. Since you’re too dumb to avoid being hit by a car, I suggest getting off the road.”
The demon hunter swallowed once, and then blinking, roughly shook their head. A look of horror was slowly dawning on their features. “You…do you have any idea what you’ve done?”
Brian couldn’t believe this. “I saved your life? After you assaulted me with a blunt weapon and tossed my clothes all over the road.” He gestured sharply with the hand in which he held his ruined underwear.
“You don’t get it!” The hunter snapped, and Brian had to admit they looked truly upset. “Do you know anything about the Hunter laws?”
“Because you saved my life, I’m bound do stay by your side until I can repay the favor.”
Brian frowned at that, his underwear now dangling limply in his grasp. “I respectfully decline?”
The demon hunter shook their head.
