Chapter Text
The Days without her
The shop was too quiet.
It wasn’t the kind of quiet that asked for peace. Not the after-a-fight kind. It was something hollow. Something that echoed.
Dante sat behind the desk, feet on the scarred wood, same way he always did. But the glass was empty. The bottle was still full.
He hadn’t turned the jukebox on in three days.
She hadn’t slammed the door when she left. No shouting. No dramatics. Just silence. The kind that stuck to your ribs.
Now he found himself listening for her anyway.
Not for footsteps. Not a knock. Just… a shift. Her hand on the doorknob. The faint sound of gear hitting the floor. The scrape of her boots across tile.
Nothing came.
Dante exhaled through his nose, leaned back until the chair creaked in protest. He stared up at the same crack in the ceiling he always saw when he didn’t want to think too hard. It didn’t help this time.
Trish had dropped by yesterday.
Didn’t say anything at first. Just handed him takeout and a long look.
“She’s not dead, if that’s what you’re worried about,” she said as she leaned against the doorframe. “Bleeding? Probably. Avoidant? Absolutely.”
He didn’t ask how she knew. Just nodded and kept eating.
Today, there was nothing to do. No jobs worth taking. Nothing loud enough to drown it out.
He got halfway through cleaning Rebellion before he stopped. Just stared at the blade, motionless, like it might tell him something.
It didn’t.
A week passed. Then two.
Morrison called about a job near the southern coast—messy, fast, low payout. Dante took it anyway.
Too easy. Too short.
He didn’t stop driving afterward.
The roads blurred. Towns passed. Motels all looked the same. Rooms with bad wiring and bloodstains under the carpets.
He kept expecting to hear her next door. Kept half-turning when the vending machine clicked. The silence wasn't unfamiliar. They’d gone without talking before.
But not like this.
Not after.
Not with the ghost of her mouth still burned into his.
Back at the shop, Trish eventually stopped checking in.
Not out of spite. Just tired of seeing him not say anything.
He didn’t tell her what happened.
She knew.
He caught himself once—late at night—folding her favorite blanket and setting it on the couch.
Didn’t even realize he’d done it until he stood back and saw it laid out neatly. Like she might come in and collapse onto it without a word.
He left it there.
Didn’t touch it again.
Three days later, he drove to Enzo’s.
Not for work. Just habit.
The place still reeked like cigars and spilled beer. The couch looked the same.
He didn’t sit on it.
Just leaned against the doorframe for a while. Stared at the spot where she’d once bled onto the cushions and said, “Don’t go.”
And he hadn’t.
He never had.
The days stretched.
Then blurred.
"Something Like Light"
A town with too much sun. A job gone sideways. No one nearly dies. Somehow, that’s the miracle.
The warehouse stank of sulfur and singed copper.
Lady ducked behind a rusted crane column as another demon lunged—misshapen thing, more teeth than body, already dripping ash from a few solid hits. She fired once, clipped its shoulder. It shrieked, then folded inward with a wet, collapsing noise that stuck in her teeth.
She didn’t move right away. Just stood there, breathing. Counting.
Four left. No—five.
Too many for one person. Not for her.
A shape dropped beside her.
Trish.
“Cute party,” she said, reloading calmly, lightning still crackling off her fingers.
Lady didn’t respond.
They moved together—fluid, efficient. Not like her and Dante. Nothing ever was.
With Trish, there was no sync. No silence that spoke for them. Just sharp edges grinding together in the same direction.
The last demon fell, twitching, and the air went still.
Lady wiped her blade clean on her thigh and sheathed it. Her fingers trembled slightly. She hated that.
Trish gave her a look. Didn’t say anything. Just walked over to the loading dock and sat on the edge, kicking dust from her boots. “You gonna tell me what’s going on,” she said eventually, “or should I keep pretending you didn’t almost take my head off three minutes ago?”
Lady said nothing.
Trish sighed, pulled a cigarette from behind her ear, and lit it with a flick of her hand. “You know,” she said, exhaling smoke into the broken moonlight, “I didn’t think I’d have to be the one to say it.”
Lady finally looked at her. “Say what?”
“That you miss him.”
Her jaw locked. “I don’t.”
“Sure.”
“I’m just tired.”
“Of fighting?”
“Of this conversation.”
Trish smiled around the cigarette. Didn’t push.
That was the worst part.
Trish never pushed. She just waited.
Lady sat down across from her, back to a cracked crate, one hand over her ribs. She hadn’t let them heal right. Didn’t care.
They sat in silence for a while.
The warehouse creaked with old wind and the echo of dying things.
Then Trish said, softly, “He hasn’t touched the jukebox since you left.”
Lady didn’t answer.
Didn’t flinch.
But her fingers curled slightly where they rested on her knee.
“I didn’t come here for a report,” she muttered.
“No,” Trish agreed. “You came here to bleed.”
Another silence.
Then, quieter:
“You’re not the only one who’s tired.”
Lady closed her eyes.
The air smelled like burnt blood and rain.
The motel room was all static and flicker—one light above the bed, buzzing faintly like it couldn’t commit to being useful. Somewhere behind the wall, the pipes screamed and rattled as though protesting their own existence.
Lady lay on the bed, boots off, jacket draped over the back of a chair. Her shoulder was wrapped in gauze, stained through but not dripping. Her breathing had evened out, but it was the kind of rest that looked like resignation, not sleep.
Trish sat in the corner, perched on the room’s only other chair. She hadn’t changed yet. Still had blood on her knuckles—most of it not hers. She was watching the rain crawl down the windowpane like it might spell something out.
She didn’t look over when she finally spoke.
“You don’t let people stay.”
Lady didn’t move. “People don’t offer.”
“I didn’t ask.”
“Didn’t tell you to stay either.”
“You didn’t have to.”
Silence crept in again, thicker than before. Trish turned slightly, just enough to see the outline of Lady’s back through the thin sheet. She was still curled inward. Like the room was too loud even when it was quiet.
“You know,” Trish said slowly, “you’ve been throwing yourself into jobs like they’re confessionals.”
Lady’s voice came out rough. “Better than therapy.”
“You’re not talking to anyone.”
“Exactly.”
Trish leaned her head back against the wall. Let the beat hang long enough that it nearly dissolved. Then:
“I used to think you were trying to die.”
Lady didn’t respond.
Trish’s voice dropped. “Now I think you’re just scared of what happens if you stop fighting.”
Still nothing.
But her hand twitched.
Not a flinch. Not deflection.
Just… a shift.
Something inside her bristling at the truth.
After a while, Lady turned her face toward the pillow. “You’re not gonna let this go, are you.”
“Nope.”
A pause. Then, dry, soft:
“You’re worse than him.”
Trish smiled. “Probably.”
Lady didn’t tell her to leave.
Didn’t build the wall back up.
Just closed her eyes and let the silence be something other than punishment.
And that was new.
The diner booth was sticky.
Lady sat on the far side, one leg draped over the other, arms crossed. She still had soot on her face and blood dried on her shoulder—not hers, this time. She hadn't bothered to clean it off before they sat down.
Trish dropped into the seat across from her with a satisfied grunt, cradling a chipped mug of coffee like it meant something.
“You know,” she said, stretching one leg under the table, “I thought you were gonna eat that grenade.”
Lady arched an eyebrow. “It wasn’t a grenade. It was a cursed pressure ward.”
“Right,” Trish said, nodding solemnly. “The polite kind of explosion.”
Lady snorted. Just once. Then picked up her glass of water and took a sip, ignoring the smug look Trish gave her.
The job had been messy—but not tragic. No close calls. No hospital trips. No demon bile in the lungs. Just a lot of running, some sharp shooting, and Trish yelling “LEFT, NO YOUR OTHER LEFT” at just the right time.
Lady hated admitting it, but it was nice having backup.
Not like Dante.
Different.
Calmer. Less charged.
She could breathe without wondering what it meant.
The waitress came by—late teens, heavy eyeliner, name tag that said "SALEM" in cracked glitter letters. She gave them a once-over and blinked at the scorched sleeves and open wounds.
“You guys... hunters?”
Trish grinned, raising her coffee like a toast. “Bounty girls. Union rates.”
The girl snorted. “Cool.” She slid the check onto the table. “Y’all smell like fireworks and grave dirt.”
“Romantic,” Lady muttered.
Salem smirked and walked off.
There was a pause. Then—light, easy:
“She likes you,” Trish said, already reaching for her wallet. “Bet she’s got a demon kink.”
Lady blinked, caught off guard.
Then—
She laughed.
Not a scoff. Not a breath. Not a smirk pretending to be a joke.
An actual, startled, ugly laugh. The kind that snuck up and tripped her mid-sentence.
It hit fast. One sound, low and full and rough, punching out of her like it hadn’t seen daylight in years.
She clapped a hand over her mouth halfway through, eyes wide like she couldn’t believe it had happened.
Trish froze.
Then—grinned. Not a tease. Not a smirk.
Just a grin. Warm.
“Well damn,” she said softly. “There you are.”
Lady blinked again, trying to collect herself, but the damage was done. Something in her chest felt loose. Shaky. Like something had broken in the best possible way.
She reached for her water again, shaking her head.
“Shut up,” she said.
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You’re thinking it.”
“Thinking what?” Trish asked innocently. “That the great Lady of blood and vengeance is capable of joy? Nooo.”
“Dead,” Lady said, pointing at her. “You’re dead.”
“You ever let yourself have a good day,” Trish said mildly, “the world’s not gonna end.”
Lady almost answered. But something about the smug tilt of Trish’s head pulled a noise out of her—short, involuntary, halfway between a bark and a cough.
Her face changed—just subtly, but the shift was total. From half-amused into still. Closed.
Like a curtain being pulled. Her jaw tightened. Her shoulders reset.
And that, Trish thought, was that.
The silence between them stretched. The warmth from before was gone—cooled into distance.
Trish didn’t press. She knew the rhythm by now.
And Trish, trailing just a step behind as they walked toward the bikes, didn’t say a word about it.
She just looked at her—like someone watching a fire they didn’t want to spook.
And she thought:
He would’ve wanted to see this.