#dmc fic

Lady claws her way back towards the mirror, her hands slamming into the glass. Beyond the threshold, Dante is still turned from her, he and Vergil impossibly far away. 

“Dante!” Her fists beat on the surface, causing ripples to spread out before her. Her other self is still frozen in time, and she watches a tear spill over her lower eyelid and roll down her own cheek.

He can't hear her. Nobody can hear her.

She blinks and suddenly the glass is so cold it's burning her fingertips. It's no longer a mirror, and she finds herself staring into ice and frost. Silvery hair suspended in fluid, a breathing apparatus stuck on Dante's face, his eyes closed in a permanent deep sleep. 

In the reflection of the tank, she sees another Lady. She sits in a chair at the center of the room, slumped over with her head in her hands. Lady jerks away, squeezing her eyes shut. She's not letting this fucking thing use this against her too. She simply won't look at it.

Gloved hands seize her, one at the neck and the other encircling one of her wrists, thrusting her forwards until she slams against the surface of the mirror once more. Lady shouts, eyes flying open out of instinct.

“So much time spent talking to a glass tank, and yet you refuse to see yourself.”

Straining, she reluctantly watches herself through the glass. The other Lady– perhaps her real self, perhaps not– stands there, bloodstained and passive, red glittering off the golden DarkCom logo and dripping down the white and navy of her bodysuit. Unfathomable quantities of bloodshed, all for a fucking badge.

It feels suffocating. It makes her skin itch. The thing behind her smirks.

“If you hate that uniform so much, why don't you take it off?”

A note of panic registers in Lady's brain before pain sears over her abdomen. Claws tear across her middle, shredding through both the Kevlar and her flesh. She thrashes against the Rabbit and he suddenly releases her, spinning her around and throwing her to the floor.

He hums a jaunty tune as he advances on her, his smile so wide it almost rips the seams around the back of his neck. Lady scrabbles backwards, nausea sticking to the back of her throat and choking down whatever she was about to say. A hand encircles her ankle and drags her back, and then the Rabbit is gleefully tearing away parts of her body armor, casting it off into the darkness.

Her breastplate is thrown aside, his claws shredding the front of her bodysuit, her skin splitting apart like ripe fruit. She cries out, struggling uselessly as he peels away the material, twisting away as the open air chills her bare flesh, and then shivering in pain as her own fresh blood warms it again, flowing in hot rivulets down her limbs.

“Ah, there you are.”

She glares up into the soulless pits of the Rabbit’s eyes, and the mask smiles wider. Her blood pounds, her own heart like thunder in her ears– but behind the sound, there is something else. Something mechanical, yet just as rhythmic and wet.

Those claws plunge into her chest and the pain is like nothing else, forcing an agonized scream from her lungs that ends in a choked gasp. The Rabbit carves into her slowly, prying open her sternum, the bones of her ribcage yielding for him with a series of thick cracks. Her eyes sting, lips agape in shock, her own blood sharp on her tongue. The hand that isn't buried in her chest comes up to cradle her face in a manner that is almost affectionate. The Rabbit drinks in her anguish, savoring it, reclaiming it– literally, as his mouth fits to the shape of hers, his tongue rolling past her lips, dipping inside to taste her blood. She doesn't have the strength to resist.

She hears him hum into the twisted mockery of a kiss, satisfied as he pulls away to speak against her mouth. “It won't hurt for much longer, Arkham.”

His thumb presses a tear away, stroking along her cheek in comfort. A lie, but perhaps no more of a lie than she's been told all of her life.

Her organs squelch as his fingers glide through them. That mechanical pumping grows louder, and she sees a dim and hauntingly familiar red glow. The Rabbit then pulls upwards, and in his palm he cradles a device made of metal and wreathed in red tubes in the place of where her heart should have been. 

The beating of wings pursues them. The Rabbit turns and slams the door behind him, hearing the shriek of the single secretary that had managed to make it halfway through, cutting her off at the waist. Her upper half smashes into the ground and rolls to a lifeless stop.

The Rabbit hits the scorched earth with just as much grace, the two bodies with him sliding away. He hears Dante grunt somewhere off, feeling his unstable demonic energy polluting the already polluted air. For a moment, the Rabbit just lies there staring at the sunless sky, watching the dark clouds swirl above them. The pressure on his lungs is immediate and immense, but it is also familiar and grounding.

With a groan, he pushes himself up. The Lieutenant– Commander– Lady's blood is currently sharper in the air than anything else. He glances over to where she lies in a heap, her heartbeat weak, her breathing weaker. The dry earth beneath her quickly becomes saturated with her blood, her eyes barely open and staring at nothing.

Good riddance.

And yet all the Rabbit feels is apathy when he looks at her. Apathy, and then a fresh wave of resentment. Perhaps it's more spite than anything that compels him to push himself up and make his way over to where Dante is kneeling in the dirt. Why should she take the easy way out when that path had been denied to him again and again?

Dante's trigger crackles over him like a live wire, rapidly repairing the damage to his body, his breathing shuddering out of him as he seems to come back to himself. His claws dig into the ground, scouring deep tracks as he snarls and seethes. The Rabbit eyes the leather hide of his arms; no chance he was going to push a needle through that.

“Dante, you need to release your trigger so I can draw your blood.” The Rabbit says, stopping before him. Dante's head snaps upwards, the burning pits of his eyes focusing on him, a wordless animal snarl spat in his direction. The Rabbit resists the urge to roll his eyes, though perhaps it's somewhat understandable why that particular request would elicit such a sharp reaction.

“She will die if you don't.” The Rabbit points to Lady, and he sees the sight of her broken body lodge somewhere in the rational part of Dante's brain, his gaze faltering. Distrust, anguish, and a fresh wave of white hot fury that nearly scalds him where he stands. A choked, rattling cry leaves Dante's throat, either from his wounds or from sheer despair.

“I can't…!” 

The Rabbit frowns, taking him in. His demonic energy is overpowering– highly unstable to the point that he can't control it. A heightened emotional response is understandable, but surely he could simply release the built up energy? Especially if Lady's life was on the line.

“The clock is ticking, Dante.” The Rabbit knows Lady would bleed out in a matter of minutes if he didn't do something. “I thought you cared for this woman.”

He steps over to her prone form, kneeling down so he can assess her, and that nearly sends Dante into another frenzy.

“DON'T TOUCH HER!” He bellows, his voice thrumming through the Rabbit’s entire body, causing him to freeze with his arm half outstretched towards Lady. He lingers like that for a moment, and then pulls his hand back, rising to his full height once more.

“I see.” He watches Dante as Dante watches him, coming to the realization that the half-breed before him isn't himself. Not entirely. He hasn't been for the past few days, at least for as long as the Rabbit has seen him, carving little parts of himself away to stuff into the creature that currently has a hold of his body.

And he understands then what this thing wants, the way it leers between him and Lady, but it's anger isn't entirely focused on him. No, it's reflexive, defensive– hungry.

The Rabbit smiles then. There is no humour in it. “This woman tortured you. Betrayed you. Spit in your face at every turn.”

Dante flinches, something fragile cutting a horrid dissonance through the harsh features of his devil's countenance. Another growl rumbles in his throat, one of warning.

“Stop.”

The Rabbit will not stop.

“Threw you in a DarkCom vault to rot.” He spreads his arms wide. “By all means, you should want her dead as much as I do!”

“STOP!” A burst of hot air washes over him as Dante also shoves himself to his feet, his wings flaring out, blazing with crimson light. The Rabbit doesn't even flinch at the threat display.

“No.” He glares back at Dante. “No more running away.” 

In some ways it feels ironic being the one to try and force Dante to release his trigger instead of goading it into overtaking him. In others, nothing has truly changed. It still falls to him to try and get this insufferable brat to see the truth.

“You will feel it. Everything she did to you.” He crosses forward the few paces it takes him to go toe to toe with Dante again, heedless of the danger he poses. “No more hiding like a scared, spoiled child. Embrace it.”

Claws encircle both of his shoulders, their sharp points digging into him hard enough to draw blood. They lift him off the ground, Dante pulling him close.

“I'll fucking kill you!” His voice echoes through the wastes of Makai. “I'll rip you apart, you SCUM!”

“Will you? Go on then. I'm waiting.” The Rabbit holds his gaze, curious if this would truly be the end of him this time. “You've done it before. What's stopping you?”

Dante’s claws dig in harder, like he actually would rend him in two again, making him clench his teeth, but the pain is nothing. He doesn’t flinch, doesn’t look away, and Dante doesn’t follow through on his threat. “Bury me again. It won't change anything. She will still have wronged you. That wound was struck too deep, too personal. It won't make you forgive her.” 

Another wounded noise escapes Dante, like the Rabbit had shoved a sword through him, puffs of steam pouring out of him in rapid breaths. His grip tightens, and the Rabbit tastes blood as one of his claws pierces his lungs. He exhales a pained laugh. None of this satisfies him. It didn’t the first time either.

“Does she make you feel as though you belong, Dante? Is she a new home to you?” His voice drops to a quiet, gentle croon. “When she's panting beneath you, whispering words of affection into your ear, do you believe her?”

Dante’s eyes widen, a tremble running through him– of rage or anguish, the Rabbit can’t tell at this point. The devil tenses, and the Rabbit thinks that might have been the final straw, but then– finally, at long last– the truth.

“No.”

“Feel it.” The Rabbit hisses. Dante suddenly and sharply thrashes his head, letting out another tortured roar.

“NO…!”

“FEEL WHAT I FEEL!” The Rabbit bellows back at him. Dante drops him then, like he had been stung, his claws digging into his own head instead. Molten tears cut tracks down his face, the sobs lodging in his throat. His trigger dissipates in a flesh of fire, traces of it still shimmering over his skin as he falls to his knees.

Dante, human once more, stares into nothingness as his arms fall to his sides, utterly despondent, tears dripping off of his jaw and splashing onto the scorched earth. The Rabbit watches him, spitting blood off to the side and feeling his internal organs mend themselves. 

He says nothing, reaching into his pocket and withdrawing one of the syringes he had taken from Lucan’s medical wing. He kneels down before Dante, reaching out to take one of his arms and pushing the sleeve up so he can find the vein. He meets no resistance as he fills the syringe, watching the red liquid he had once coveted to the point of ruin, worthless to him now.

Like she was a young wife, then a young mother, then disregarded her entire life. Her husband isn't interested in her, spends all his time with his "Bible" study men's group. Her three sons are all grown and left the house, and they haven't looked her in the eye since they were teens.

This kid drops into her walled garden in the middle of the night and she wakes up because the chickens are going crazy. He's confused, he's scared, he's covered in blood. She coaxes him into her kitchen -- there is so much blood. But she gets his crusty coat and shirt off of him and he's perfect, not a scratch on him. Overhead, she hears her husband getting out of bed, so she does something not totally rational, she grabs her kitchen knife and scratches him across his taut stomach, just enough to make him bleed. When her husband comes in, she's got her bandages out, wrapping him up tight. He's hurt, she tells her husband. We need to tell the hunters. The demons might still be out there.

Her husband helps her move him to her youngest's old room, the one in the attic. Helps her bind down his wrists and ankles. So he doesn't hurt himself, she tells him.

The next several days she tends to the boy. When his wound closes, she opens it again, tho he protests vociferously. You need to, she tells him matter of factly. I can't take care of you if you're not sick.

He's not much for conversation: weird and quiet, and when he does speak, he's mean. He doesn't need this, he tells her. He's not human. He needs to go.

No, she tells him. What he needs is someone to look after him.

She brings him food and clean water, checks and changes his perfectly clean bandages, tells him about how poorly he's taking care of himself, how slowly he's healing, how if he's good boy, if he eats all his soup and sleeps all through the night, she'll bring him some cake --it's fresh, you know. Lemon with a sugar crust. Her children all used to love it.

He looks stricken, but he does it. Eats all his soup while she watches, smiling serenely. Lets her tuck him in. Gives her his hand when she asks for it and pares down his ragged nails til their trim and smooth.

You're crazy, he tells her

I think I have clothes that will fit you perfectly, she tells him

She keeps him for two weeks, and he learns what pleases her. Letting her wash him, comb his hair, change his bandages which cover up nothing but smooth skin. Lets her watch him eat, watch him sleep, read to him out of the novels she gets from her women's groups, the ones they sell at drug stores on the mainland.

Lets her kiss the bread crumbs from the corners of his mouth after lunch, wipe his chin. Good boy, she calls him, rubbing circles into his back when she pulls him into her arms. Such a pretty, pretty boy

He doesn't leave. He doesn't know why he doesn't leave.

Isn't it nice to be looked after, sweetie? she asks him. He doesn't reply.

Nobody's touched him like this since Eva. Nobody's touched him without violence.

When she lingers one night washing between his legs. He tries to hide it, but Oh sweetie, she says, let me take care of that for you

Her body is soft. He doesn't take long.

The next morning she kicks him out. You don't need me anymore, she tells him. She doesn't look at him

She's in denial about the pregnancy, even when she gets thick around her middle, and she has to let out her bodices, but she is that age. Her cycles have been erratic.

When she finally acknowledges it, it's too late to pull any of the old women's tricks. She has to find someone to take care of it. She can't let her husband know, the neighbours, her sons. She can't.

She dies on the abortionist's table. The baby doesn't.

Vergil thinks back on this whole thing as a harmless but embarrassing incident in his checkered past. He doesn't want to tell Dante bc he doesn't want Dante to tease him about it.

He doesn't expect Dante's incandescent rage. I'm sorry, he says, clutching at Vergil's hand. I'm sorry, Jesus, I'm sorry.

Basically: Dante asks and Vergil accedes to returning to earth -- something explicitly of a Persephone situation, except they're both Persephone. During the discussion/negotiation/compromise (which I imagine takes place over many nights of pillow talk), Vergil expresses that he is reluctant to return to earth bc humans have not been particularly kind to him. They are uncomfortable around him and he is uncomfortable around them. Besides, he says awkwardly. He doesn't know anybody there.

Dante talks to him about all the things he missed, being on the run: music, food, good company. Clean water. Sunlight, routine. And anyway, Dante knows a ton of people. Vergil doesn't have to worry about that; Dante will make his introductions.

Vergil agrees to go not because of any particular persuasion. Dante's asking and it's for something that Vergil can give him. That's enough of a reason.

So when they go back, Dante's so happy he's bouncing off the walls. Vergil's here, they're both safe, it's everything he ever wanted. He immediately knuckles down: working, cleaning, making his house not just comfortable but nice. He cleans out the spare room so Vergil can have his own space (even if he never sleeps there); he puts up shelves for him; he splashes out on a ridiculous house robe (that comes to function like lingerie for them.) It's important to him that Vergil like it here, not just tolerate it here for Dante's sake.

Anyway, in typical Dante fashion, he decides it'd be most expedient to introduce his brother to everyone at once. Invites go out around town: friends, rivals, colleagues, clients, exes -- everyone that he's had any kind of relationship with over the years. He's gonna show his brother everyone who's mattered; he's gonna show everyone his brother.

The night before, Vergil fidgets, tense and hunched, slid nearly off the edge of the bed. Dante skates his palm over the bunched muscles of his shoulder. "We can cancel," he says. "It doesn't matter that much."

Vergil shakes his head. "No. That'd be too much work."

"Not really." Mouthing at his neck. "We'd just hang a sign on the door."

Sighing. "It's fine." Leaning into him. "Don't fuss."

"Not fussing." Muffled. Groping across his chest. "Trying to get some."

Turning, breathing past his parted lips. "Don't you think of anything else?"

"Not if you're gonna prance around looking like that."

"Like what?"

"Like you."

Afterwards, lying next one another, air drying:

"I'll embarrass you."

"You? You won't. You couldn't."

"I will."

"I embarrass myself. You tell me all the time."

"I don't mean it."

"It's still true. I'm not a serious person. Nobody who knows me thinks I'm a serious person. But everybody knows about you."

"How?"

"You were all I talked about. For years. Even when I wasn't talking about you, it was always about you. Like a hole in my chest. Everybody could see it, even if they were too polite to bring it up. Now they'll finally get to meet you."

Offended. Dry. "The hole in your chest?"

"The heart that was supposed to be there."

"Hard to live up to. It's a lot of expectation."

"You'll exceed them. You always do."

"I don't know what you want me to do. I don't know what you want me to say."

"You know that thing we used to do. Sneak out of the house, catch a lift into town, park ourselves on a bench somewhere and make up stories about the people we saw."

"We had to. We didn't have the English to understand what they were saying."

"You were always really good at it. You could always pick out the detail I'd miss."

"You were funnier. The voices."

"You don't have to worry about the voices. I'll do the voices. You just have to watch. Say hi to anyone who wants to say hi. Be polite"

"I'm always polite."

"Exactly. See? Nothing to worry about. Watch. See how miserable I was without you."

"Dante." Gathering him, tucking him in close. Mouthed, almost silent. "Nothing without you."

"I know. Me too."

"Lost."

"Lost."

"Love. Te amo."

"Yeah. Mellite. Carissimi."