Chapter Text
"You Should Take Her Dancing"
“Hey, Dante,” Trish called from the kitchen. “When’s the last time you got laid?”
He didn’t even glance up from where he was cleaning Ebony’s grip. “When’s the last time I threw someone out a second-story window?”
She padded in barefoot, a stolen mug in hand—one of his, the obnoxious red one with the chipped rim. “Is that a threat or a confession?”
“Depends on how long you keep talking.”
Trish leaned against the doorway, hips cocked, watching him work. “You know, for a guy who spends half his life surrounded by deadly women, you’ve got a real phobia of emotional vulnerability.”
Dante set the gun down. Click. Precise. Like it mattered more than whatever was coming next.
She didn’t stop.
“I mean, come on. You and Lady—what is that?” Her voice softened, no teasing now. “You act like being happy might kill you.”
He rubbed a hand down his face, slow. “It’s not like that.”
“Then what?” she pressed, stepping closer. “Because I’ve seen it, Dante. The way you breathe different when she’s around. Like your ribs remember what they’re for.”
Still, he said nothing.
“She shows up the same day every year. Like clockwork. You never talk about it. Never ask why. You just—wait for her. And when she’s here? You act like touching her might break whatever it is you’ve been carrying.”
He stood abruptly, moved to the desk, shuffled through useless papers.
“You done?”
“Not even close.” She perched on the edge of the table, eyes narrow. “You planning to say something before you lose her completely?”
His jaw flexed. “I’m not—”
“If you’re not gonna step up, maybe someone else should.”
He looked at her then. Sharp. Immediate.
“What the hell does that mean?”
“I mean,” she said, slow and deliberate now, “she deserves someone who sees her. Who tells her. Who doesn’t treat her like some memory they’re scared to touch.”
The words hit. Too close.
“You don’t know what’s between us.”
“Then tell me.”
He opened his mouth, but nothing came out.
“Dante,” she said gently, “what the hell happened between you two?”
He hesitated. Not because he didn’t remember—he remembered too clearly.
“She turned her head,” he said.
Trish blinked. “What?”
He exhaled. Shaky. Frustrated. “The day we met. I leaned in. Just... I don’t even know what I was doing. But I was gonna kiss her. And she turned her head.”
Trish tilted hers. “That’s it?”
“That’s it,” he echoed, hollow.
“Dante. Come on.”
“You weren’t there,” he muttered. “You didn’t see how she looked at me. Like I crossed a line. Like I should’ve known better.”
“That was ten years ago,” Trish said softly.
“Yeah. And every year since, she comes back. We sit. We drink. She doesn’t talk about it, and neither do I.”
“You think that’s rejection?”
He finally looked at her. Tired. Guarded. “Isn’t it?”
Trish stepped closer. “That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard.” Her voice gentled. “She wasn’t saying ‘no, never.’ She was saying ‘not right now.’”
He looked up at her then, jaw set, expression unreadable—but his eyes? Raw. Wounded. Hopeful, maybe. Just a flicker.
“Tell her,” Trish said. “She’s not some porcelain doll. If she didn’t want you near her, she wouldn’t keep coming back. And she damn sure wouldn’t keep trying to flirt with you like she doesn’t want to climb out of her skin every time you look at her.”
He stilled. “She’s not—”
“Oh my god,” Trish said, exasperated. “She’s doing everything but carve it into your walls in blood, and you’re over here crying about a missed kiss when you were both nineteen and suicidal.”
That earned a real sound out of him. A bark of disbelief. A rough, breathless laugh.
“She wants you, you idiot,” she said, voice gentler now. “Maybe not in the fairytale way. Maybe not in the ‘ride off into the sunset’ kind of way. But she chooses you. Every time she walks through that door.”
He didn’t speak. Didn’t breathe.
“Question is,” she finished, “are you gonna keep hiding behind a ten-year-old silence, or are you finally gonna ask her to stay?”
He glanced toward the window, where the streetlights had started to come on—soft yellow halos in the dusk. He looked like a man waiting for a storm he knew was coming.
“She’s coming tonight, isn’t she?”
Dante nodded once.
“You’re not the only one scared of screwing this up,” Trish said, walking past him and giving his shoulder a firm, reassuring squeeze.
He heard her before he saw her.
That familiar knock—short, clipped, like she wasn’t sure she wanted the door to open, like maybe she was hoping it wouldn’t.
Dante didn’t move for a second. Just stood there, watching the door like it might punch him in the gut if he opened it too fast.
He didn’t need to ask who it was.
When he opened it, the rain was already drying on her shoulders. She wasn’t soaked, just misted enough to look like a ghost half-formed under the weak streetlight. Black jacket, dark jeans, no umbrella. Same sharp posture. Same unreadable expression.
But her eyes, God, her eyes were tired.
They always were these days.
“…Hey,” Lady said, voice low and even.
Dante didn’t answer right away. Just stepped back and let her in.
She paused in the doorway like she might change her mind, then crossed the threshold.
Inside, the jukebox was still on—something slow and smoky, not loud enough to cover the quiet.
Dante shut the door behind her and leaned against it. “You’re early.”
Lady raised an eyebrow. “Didn’t realize we were doing scheduled heartbreaks now.”
He smirked faintly. “Figured you’d make me wait another hour or two.”
“I almost did,” she said softer. “Didn’t want to be here if it was going to be like last time.”
Dante flinched—not visibly, but it was there, the twitch in his fingers, the way his weight shifted as if he wanted to run.
“I know,” he said.
She looked around—same chaos, same ghosts—but her gaze landed on the half-full whiskey bottle on the counter. She walked over, poured herself a glass without asking, and sat on the worn arm of the couch.
Dante stayed by the door.
“You always this jumpy when I show up?” she asked, taking a sip.
“Only when you bring bad weather with you.”
Lady scoffed. “You’re not that delicate.”
“No,” he said, eyes locking with hers, “but you are.”
She blinked hard, the glass still in her hand.
“Fuck you,” she said automatically. No heat behind it.
“Fair.”
Silence tightened around them, wound too far and seconds from snapping.
Lady looked into her drink. “Trish called me.”
Dante tilted his head. “Is that so?”
“Said she was bored. Asked if I wanted to go dancing.”
He snorted. “Bet she did.”
Lady finally met his eyes. “You don’t want her to, though. Do you?”
He held her stare without blinking. “No.”
That stopped her.
“Why not?” she asked quietly.
Dante crossed the room slowly, step by step, like walking into a trap he’d set himself. When he reached her, he didn’t sit, just stood over her, gaze sharp but not cruel.
“Because I’m tired of pretending,” he said.
Her breath caught.
Then he knelt before her—close, too close—and her body stiffened as if it didn’t trust itself.
“I’m tired of being careful,” Dante murmured, voice low and raw. “Tired of acting like I don’t look for you in every room, like I don’t know every scar you’ve got and still think you’re the strongest damn thing I’ve ever seen.”
She swallowed hard.
He reached for her hand, brushing his fingers against hers just once—a test.
“I thought maybe it was better if I stayed safe, the guy who shows up, cracks jokes, leaves before it’s real.”
“You’re not safe,” she said, voice shaking.
“No,” he agreed.
That was when she moved—a tilt of her head, a shift forward, barely registering. But enough for him to lean in the rest of the way.
No urgency. No rush.
When his lips touched hers, it was soft, reverent, like a truth spoken out loud for the first time.
And just like that, everything changed.
The kiss ended because it had to, not because either wanted it to.
Lady drew back first, just enough that their breath stopped mingling. Her lips parted slightly, as if she hadn’t meant to stop. But she had.
Dante didn’t move. His hands stayed braced on his knees as if he didn’t trust himself to reach. His eyes were wide open—no mask, no grin, just raw, aching clarity.
She looked at him like she’d seen something she wasn’t ready for.
“…That was stupid,” she said too softly to sting.
“Yeah,” he replied, equally quiet. “Really fucking stupid.”
Neither moved.
The jukebox hummed low and bluesy in the background—a song they wouldn’t remember the name of but would hear in echoes years later and never admit what it reminded them of.
Her hand hovered near his before she curled her fingers into her palm. She stood slowly, as if unsure her legs would hold. Dante watched but stayed seated.
“You’re not gonna make some joke?” she asked, breaking the silence.
His voice was hoarse. “I don’t think I can.”
That surprised her more than the kiss.
Lady stared at him—the man she’d trusted with her life, hated and missed in the same breath, turned to when she had nowhere else to go. He’d always been infuriating, infuriatingly there. And now he was looking at her like she’d become something sacred.
She couldn’t breathe.
“I should go,” she said, reaching for her jacket on the couch.
He didn’t stop her, but his jaw clenched as if the words were physically caught there.
She shrugged on the jacket in silence, eyes averted.
But when she reached the door, he stood.
“Hey.” His voice was steady—lower, still him.
She paused, hand on the knob.
“You coming back tomorrow?” he asked.
A beat.
“Yeah.”
She didn’t look back when she stepped outside into the chilled night air, but she stood there for a long second, just breathing.
Inside, Dante sat back on the couch, head in his hands.
Just once, he let himself smile.
Not the cocky one. Not the guarded one.
Just the kind that hurt a little.
She arrived later than he'd expected.
Dante had told himself he wouldn’t wait. Told himself he’d keep busy—clean something, fix a gun, check the books he never opened.
But he didn’t move much from the couch all day.
He just replayed the moment. Again. And again.
So when he heard her knuckles against the wood, barely audible over the hum of the city outside, he didn’t act surprised.
He opened the door like he’d only just stood up, even though his boots were still on and the light was already dimmed to the level he knew she liked.
Lady stood there in a different jacket—leather, not cloth. Her hair was pulled back rough, like she'd given up halfway. Same boots, though. Same sharp eyes, more guarded than the night before.
“Hey,” she said, voice neutral.
“Hey,” he returned, and stepped back without asking.
She walked past him, not brushing his arm but close enough that he felt the space shift. Her eyes flicked around the room like she expected it to be different.
It wasn’t.
He watched her take in the untouched whiskey bottle on the counter, the same record humming low on the jukebox. The same everything.
She didn’t comment.
“I wasn’t sure if you’d come,” he admitted, finally breaking the silence.
“I wasn’t sure if I should.”
He didn’t ask why she did anyway. She didn’t offer.
Instead, she walked toward the weapons rack and picked up one of the pistols she’d left there months ago. She checked it absently, the familiar rhythm of her hands soothing whatever tension had settled in her spine.
“I cleaned that one last week,” Dante offered.
She glanced at him, arching a brow. “You? Cleaning something?”
“Desperate times.”
A ghost of a smirk tugged at her mouth. It didn’t quite land.
She set the pistol down and turned back to him.
“You gonna pretend last night didn’t happen?”
“I was hoping you’d pretend first,” he said, then rubbed the back of his neck, suddenly sheepish. “But I’m not great at forgetting.”
Lady’s voice dropped, quiet and tired. “Me neither.”
The silence grew heavier than before—less brittle, more real.
He took a slow step forward. “You wanna talk about it?”
“No.”
He nodded. “Okay.”
Another beat passed before she added, “But I’m not running.”
And that made him pause. His chest tightened in a way he didn’t expect.
“…Good,” he said, softer. “’Cause neither am I.”
Lady let out a shaky breath, and for the first time that night, she actually looked at him. Really looked.
Whatever she saw there, it made her shoulders drop a little. Not in defeat—just enough to show she’d been carrying something heavy, and she was finally putting a piece of it down.
He moved first this time. Sat on the edge of the desk and gestured for her to join him.
She did, standing close, not touching.
They didn’t talk about the kiss.
They didn’t need to.
Instead, he handed her a gun oil rag from the pile nearby, and she took it with a wry smirk.
They worked side by side, polishing old weapons like nothing had changed.
But everything had.
And when her hand brushed his by accident—just once—neither of them pulled away.
The first knock didn’t land.
Or maybe it did, and they both ignored it.
Dante was sitting too close to Lady on the couch, her leg pressed against his as they passed a dismantled shotgun back and forth in slow, practiced silence. His arm brushed hers with every handoff. Her knee wasn’t pulling away.
Neither of them spoke. But the silence between them wasn’t empty anymore—it was crackling.
Then the door burst open.
Not kicked in. Not dramatic. Just… uninvited.
The Trish kind of entrance.
“Well, well,” she called out, swinging the door shut behind her with a flick of her wrist. “Am I interrupting something criminally domestic?”
Dante froze.
Lady didn’t.
“Trish,” Lady said, calm as a knife. “What are you doing here?”
“Checking on my favorite emotionally stunted hunter. And Dante too.” She sauntered in, boots clicking, trench fluttering behind her like she’d caught a wind no one else felt. Her eyes landed on the mess of guns, whiskey, and tension.
She gave them both a look. Sharp. Knowing. Amused.
Dante scowled. “Don’t you knock?”
“Don’t you lock your doors when you’re about to combust from mutual pining?”
Lady coughed, visibly unamused.
Trish flopped into the armchair across from them like she owned the place. “You know, it’s sweet how hard you two are trying to pretend you’re not fused at the soul. But I’m just here for the show. Don’t mind me.”
Lady reached for another gun to clean. “Then don’t talk.”
“Ouch,” Trish replied, faux-wounded. “And here I was thinking of taking you out, Lady. Showing you a real good time. Since Dante here’s so busy playing the emotionally unavailable martyr with tragic eyes routine.”
Dante snapped his head around so fast, his neck cracked.
“Trish.”
She batted her lashes. “What? Just making plans. You seem content to brood and breathe her air like a creeper.”
Lady, despite herself, actually snorted. Her shoulders relaxed for a second.
Dante groaned. “For the love of—Trish. We’re not—this isn’t—”
“Oh, please,” Trish drawled. “You two are basically married in demon hunter years.”
Lady didn’t deny it.
Dante stood up, half-charged, torn between throwing Trish out and throwing himself into traffic. “Look, whatever you think you know—”
“I know exactly what’s going on,” she said, cool and calm now. “You kissed her.”
Silence. A heavy one.
Trish smiled slowly, like a cat that’d found the cream and the mouse.
“…Didn’t you?”
Lady went still.
Dante’s jaw clenched. “That’s none of your business.”
Trish leaned forward, predatory now. “It is if you plan to screw it up.”
That shut him up.
Lady stared at the dismantled parts in her hands, quieter now, more fragile than she liked. “We’re handling it.”
“You’re not handling anything. You’re dancing around it like teenagers who think no one can see the fire.”
Neither of them spoke.
Then Trish stood. Smoothed her jacket. Gave them both a look that was less smug now—something gentler behind it.
“I’m not here to ruin it,” she said softly. “I’m just… reminding you that you don’t get a lot of chances like this. Not in our world.”
She walked to the door, paused, and looked back over her shoulder.
“When you’re done pretending the world hasn’t shifted under your feet, maybe try holding hands or something.”
Then she was gone.
Lady looked up at Dante, jaw tight. “She’s always like that?”
“Only when she likes you.”
“…Shit.”
He reached for the last piece of the gun between them. Their fingers touched.
This time, neither of them moved away.