[ Private to Lady // questionable filter? what's that? ]

Hey, we're headed in your direction.

this is the best vacation ever.

So, Dad's staying here then?

You know, I think I'm gonna go take a vacation for a while.

[ There was a rental waiting for them, and Dante dimly lit by the neon sign of Devil May Cry. He seemed indifferent. This would be the first time that he'd seen his father since the attack of his mother. He grinned ironically at the thought of another family reunion. ]

So, babe, how's it feel to have the bathroom all to yourself?

[ filter: locked // hackable, but he won't appreciate it ]

So it's been 3 days.





Right. Can't wait to see what kind of shit you have in store, Vergil.

This had been coming, and when he avoided it, it usually went away. It could have been like one of those times, either replying with "who knows" or "yeah, yeah" were usually the outs that he tended to take (he switched the two around occasionally to remain unnoticed). It was a rare occasion where he decided that, in all his generosity, that he'd play along with her for a while, and give her the attention that she wanted. He was never against spoiling his girls, but he usually kept that to himself. They both knew he was a pushover when it came to them.

Kadaj was right in a few ways that he wouldn't admit to the kid. Nothing like the extremes that he spoke of, but he saw the shadow of his mother in Trish. Even in some of the simplest things that she did, he caught himself staring at her, not for reminiscent of beauty, but for her few habits that reminded him so much of his mother's. In some ways his own childishness got the best of him, and when Trish would go out on a date, or flirt with someone, he'd immediately imitate the act with someone else to cause the same jealousy in her that he knew it caused in him.

He laughed when he caught himself doing it.

Dante trailed down the staircase of the office, his eyes going from the desk to the door, around the trophies of demonic appendages and antique weaponry. He yawned, scratching the back of his head, "Hey Trish, you can come out now," his voice carried through the office.

[ The jukebox was playing something from the early nineties, it sounded suspiciously like Nirvana beneath the static of the ancient device. On the couch, like he'd forgotten all about the visit, he was napping. Boots were resting on the couch, crossed at the ankle, as the older man lounged behind them, his face beneath the chapel of a fashion magazine. The breath in his chest swelled with a snore as Cobain sang, "I just want you to know that I don't hate you anymore." The old ceiling fan squeaked in tune with his slumber. It was apparent how quiet the office really was today. ]

since we have some time to kill.

( not cut ic )

matadoro. what about you, bro?




keep the olives off of it in case I want some.

It hadn't sunk in yet, even though he had talked, reminisced, and joked with his father. It still hadn't penetrated anything but the memory of a few hours prior. Dante kept himself distant, as he always did, caring enough to reveal his presence, but still too detached to do anything but sit at his desk, his feet on the desk. He watched Trish come to and fro, bitch at him (her words slowly mangled together into something that sounded like "blah blah blah blah Dante, why did you blah blah blah?") and he'd nod as if he weren't somewhere else entirely. Small things she did reminded him of his mother. Right now, more than ever.

But she was dead.

So when the realization hit him for the thousandth time, he'd sit up and pinch the bridge of his nose like he was trying to get over a hangover from night before. Trish was taking it (what had been dubbed as "it" was the presence of his father) better than either of them. Just like it was no big deal. Like he hadn't been mad for what felt like centuries. Like it hadn't subsided, like it was still a fresh wound rubbed with salt. After the whole Temen-ni-Gru thing and then the Mallet Island thing, and between Mundus and Vergil he got over it. It was easier to like someone when they were dead, because they weren't there to constantly remind him of what went wrong. The image of Sparda he had in his mind (a bright, noble demon, raising his sword to protect humanity) was washed away. There was nothing that could be done, at least, not now.

It wasn't like him to think this much. He broke his thoughts (memories) with a yawn, stretched his arms above his head and leaned back on his chair for a nap. Vergil still said that he wanted to see him. Dante had the feeling that Trish and Nero were right (it was more than just a feeling, it was that ingrained instinct he had as a human—something his mother had given him), that was Sparda. He could pretend all he liked, but the outcome would be the same. It wouldn't be a family reunion without a little bloodshed, would it?


.
.
.
He could hear Vergil's voice say, "...'And when he had moved on, I entered along the deep and savage road.'" Then there was his inquiring eyes; and Vergil struggling, but managing, to look much older and much more mature than Dante.