Chapter Text
Dante wakes up feeling like crap.
“I knew it was a bad idea! Didn’t I say it?”
“You haven’t stopped saying it.” Trish's voice is somewhere to Dante's left.
Keep quiet, Dante. You know how this goes. Let them tire each other out, don't give them a reason to round on you.
Lady’s voice slices his poor little head. “What are you smirking about?”
“Just… thinking about how I’m enjoying your company.”
She stomps, looking about ready to punch his teeth out. But the important thing, is that she doesn't. She's showing some spectacular restraint. You gotta reward that shit; positive reinforcement, they call it. “Thanks for not hitting me,” he says. “I’m injured, you know.”
She refuses to be positively reinforced. “Is that why you haven’t been answering your phone?”
“I’ve been back five minutes, gimme a break.”
“It’s been two days .”
That probably explains why he feels like crap then, huh. At least all those nasty cuts have healed up by now. Sleeping is like time travel that way. “Two days , huh. What took you so long?”
Lady’s eye twitches. “Trish," she mutters, like she's admitting a weakness.
Dante is so, so grateful. “Thanks, Trish.”
“You’re welcome, honey.”
She’s probably put him into more debt again. Whatever, couldn't pay it all off even if he wanted to. But you know what? That's the beauty of the shop. Not many people know this, but it's actually just a little box that's enchanted with demonic debt.
You see, at rare, magical times of year, when the harvest has been plentiful and the goddesses feel kind, it manifests a flushable toilet and warm showers, and the people rejoice. Truly, Dante has much to be thankful for today.
Trish steps into his space, blocking the light.
“Has he woken up?”
He glances down. Yep, that's Vergil's hair going up his nose, alright. Smells like literal Hell. He rises and falls with Dante's chest. The coat hasn't moved from its vigil.
Dante shrugs. “Dunno. I’ve been out.”
It sets him on edge. The Sons of Sparda, weakened and unawares, just waiting for any passing demon to steal the complete set.
Trish hums.
Lady sputters. “You— you actually just went to sleep, with him right there, no handcuffs or nothing? You do realise how ridiculously stupid that was, right?”
Privately, he's gotta admit that Lady has a point. Fighting Vergil was always like fighting a cornered animal. Quiet little thing minding his own business, until all of a sudden he gets it in his head that you wanna mess with him. Dante used that to his advantage, of course. How else was he supposed to get Vergil to play?
“Eh." Vergil's dangerous, but he's not Dante. As he is now, he's not even worth poking. They gotta look out for each other, even if they're only doing it to kill each other, right? Or whatever their deal is.
“He did insist on fairness, even as an Angelo," Trish says. Yeah. He had, hadn't he. Dante remembers.
“Oh, yeah. He’s a real ethical guy. He killed hundreds of people, but he must've given them all a fair go. They definitely had a chance.”
Dante smiles. "Ladies, you're both right."
It could've been messy. A forgotten scene plays out: Dante holding Vergil down against the living room couch. Vergil thrashing, kicking, biting, shouting. He was sorry for upsetting Mom, but not for fighting Vergil. In hindsight, Dante really had been a menace.
Trish picks a claw filament out of Vergil's hair. Her eyes flicker with curiosity. "I wonder..."
She tugs. Dante's coat falls to the floor. Her wrist freezes in Dante's grip, but it's too late.
Trish hisses. Lady gasps. The coat lays crumpled apologetically just out of Dante's reach. Lady wordlessly presses it back into Dante's palm, and he drapes it back over his brother's blackened form. Trish is sheepish, at least.
“What was that... stuff?” Lady asks, covering her mouth.
Dante beckons Trish to quit pretending to wipe at a smudge on her shoulder. She juts out her chin, but drops the pout. "Demonic remains. He reeks of Hell."
"Yeah, I kinda figured," Dante sighs. "Couldn't go shopping for clothes, so he made do."
"It serves a practical purpose, I think. Like this, he is... undetectable."
Lady wrinkles her delicate little nose. "Great. Your brother decided to hide his stink by rolling around in shit. Not even demons wanna go near him now."
Guess this explains the peace and quiet.
Vergil's quiet, measured steps echo in his mind again. Deliberate movements had faded in and out of Dante's vision. A playful nudge; the wet pop of half-healed clusters in his lungs, the spray of blood low in Dante's throat. A silent scream. The sword slid out. In Vergil's eyes: hatred, then release.
Trish kneels at Dante’s feet. “Would you allow us to help?”
“Not sure what you can do about it.”
Vergil's always been quiet, but this is something else. He's cold. All the stuff that a body's supposed to do even on reserve settings is eerily missing. His eyes don't twitch, his skin won't warm, and his heart barely beats. After two days, these aren't good signs.
“A bath might speed up his healing," Trish says, gently.
“And he’ll smell better, too,” Lady adds.
“Sorry, ladies, but you can’t help with that.”
“I’ve seen boy parts before, Dante. Don’t be childish. Unless there’s something about your identical brother you don’t want us to see?" He keeps his face still until Lady loses interest in that line of thought. She’s not seriously gonna oggle his brother when he can’t even resist, right? That’s too far, even for her.
“Children, children. Dante only needs an extra pair of hands to take care of business until the situation improves. Lady, didn't you once say that you could run Devil May Cry in your sleep?”
“Trish!” Lady whines.
“That’d... be nice, actually."
Lady shuts her mouth, growling. “Fine! We’ll do it. But it’ll cost you.”
“Whatever. Just leave me enough money to eat.”
“You could afford to eat if you didn't live on takeaway.”
“Just doing my part to support small businesses.”
Dante is thankful, deep down in his angry little heart. Much as they disrupt the peace of Dante's little box, he's not sure how long he would've spent watching the windows turn dark without their pestering. Aimless, just waiting for a match to strike.
He brushes a feather-light finger across his brother's ankle, but nothing happens. He doesn't even flinch. Lifeless.
Dante swallows the lump in his throat, and carries the body upstairs.