[Fic: Devil May Cry] "On and on"
Feb. 11th, 2008 12:35 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
rocknloadTitle: On and on
Author: Brittany
Fandom: Devil May Cry
Words: ~500
Summary: [one shot; DxT] Dante wonders what Trish was up to, during the events of DMC4.
Author's Notes: No, this is Dante doing it wrong.
*
“So, who’d you have to fuck to get in with those guys, anyway?”
It’s been three weeks since Fortuna, but Dante doesn’t have to say what he means and Trish doesn’t have to ask. He’s not even looking her way, his boots are propped on his desk and he’s flipping through a magazine
She would think he’s joking, should think he’s joking—she can’t even say how she knows he’s not joking, even if he’s talking with the same easy smile he’s had on his face since the pizza arrived.
She smiles right back. She wants to laugh, but she’s never gotten the hang of that; she sounds flat and predatory whenever she doesn’t mean it, and this is one of those times. “Dante, you want me to kiss and tell?”
“Yes.”
Trish never hesitates, it’s just not what she does, but Dante’s not direct, not ever, and look at him, now—not that she can, he’s got his face buried behind the pages he’s turning faster than she thinks he can read. So it’s a few seconds before she says a thing him, and she spends the time idly sucking on the tip of her thumb.
He glances up.
Which is what she’s waiting for, because fuck if she’s going to answer him until she gets a good look at his eyes.
“You know how it is,” she says, smirking widely. “Show them the sword, flash them some tit, some ass—”
“You picked a hell of an outfit for that.”
“—offer them a son of Sparda, and they’re eating right out of your hand.”
She leans up against his desk, and she briefly considers shoving his feet back onto the floor—but she has no idea if that’ll inject some humor or break the illusion they were both working so hard on, here. She doesn’t do it.
He tosses the magazine onto the desk. “Not a bad plan. Hell, if I hadn’t been looking for you—or if I hadn’t bothered to glance above the neck—”
She rolls her eyes and casually makes a swipe at his head; he tilts his head to avoid her backhand, and her fingertips graze his hair.
“Hey! Throw on that kind of getup, you gotta expect—”
She leans forward and down and pecks him on the lips, and he doesn’t dodge that.
“Don’t worry, cowboy,” she says, stepping back and crossing her arms. “I was looking out for you, and you’re a little hard to miss.”
Dante’s eyes are wide, but only for a second—no, half of that. And then his face is back to the same grin he’d given her the night she’d driven a motorcycle through his front door. It’s a complete non-reaction, when he oughtta be sitting up and paying attention.
Instead, he shrugs. “I do what I can,” he says, reaching for his magazine.
Trish studies him for close to a minute; nothing changes.
When she chuckles, it sounds fake, but that’s not what’s important, here. She leans back against the desk, sucking on her fingertip again, watching him pretend to read. The conversation’s dead, the tension’s high, and Trish is positive she’s getting better at being human every second she spends in here.
Faking a laugh isn’t that far off from telling little while lies now, after all, was it?
She can’t take any of it, anymore.
“I’m going out,” she says. “Don’t wait up.”
He turns the page. “That’s a change.”
“We get a lot of those, around here.”
He doesn’t look up as she walks out, and Trish doesn’t expect him to. Maybe she’s not getting the hang of humanity; maybe she’s just getting the hang of him.
Which doesn’t mean she wouldn’t like a surprise, every once in a while.
*
Author: Brittany
Fandom: Devil May Cry
Words: ~500
Summary: [one shot; DxT] Dante wonders what Trish was up to, during the events of DMC4.
Author's Notes: No, this is Dante doing it wrong.
*
“So, who’d you have to fuck to get in with those guys, anyway?”
It’s been three weeks since Fortuna, but Dante doesn’t have to say what he means and Trish doesn’t have to ask. He’s not even looking her way, his boots are propped on his desk and he’s flipping through a magazine
She would think he’s joking, should think he’s joking—she can’t even say how she knows he’s not joking, even if he’s talking with the same easy smile he’s had on his face since the pizza arrived.
She smiles right back. She wants to laugh, but she’s never gotten the hang of that; she sounds flat and predatory whenever she doesn’t mean it, and this is one of those times. “Dante, you want me to kiss and tell?”
“Yes.”
Trish never hesitates, it’s just not what she does, but Dante’s not direct, not ever, and look at him, now—not that she can, he’s got his face buried behind the pages he’s turning faster than she thinks he can read. So it’s a few seconds before she says a thing him, and she spends the time idly sucking on the tip of her thumb.
He glances up.
Which is what she’s waiting for, because fuck if she’s going to answer him until she gets a good look at his eyes.
“You know how it is,” she says, smirking widely. “Show them the sword, flash them some tit, some ass—”
“You picked a hell of an outfit for that.”
“—offer them a son of Sparda, and they’re eating right out of your hand.”
She leans up against his desk, and she briefly considers shoving his feet back onto the floor—but she has no idea if that’ll inject some humor or break the illusion they were both working so hard on, here. She doesn’t do it.
He tosses the magazine onto the desk. “Not a bad plan. Hell, if I hadn’t been looking for you—or if I hadn’t bothered to glance above the neck—”
She rolls her eyes and casually makes a swipe at his head; he tilts his head to avoid her backhand, and her fingertips graze his hair.
“Hey! Throw on that kind of getup, you gotta expect—”
She leans forward and down and pecks him on the lips, and he doesn’t dodge that.
“Don’t worry, cowboy,” she says, stepping back and crossing her arms. “I was looking out for you, and you’re a little hard to miss.”
Dante’s eyes are wide, but only for a second—no, half of that. And then his face is back to the same grin he’d given her the night she’d driven a motorcycle through his front door. It’s a complete non-reaction, when he oughtta be sitting up and paying attention.
Instead, he shrugs. “I do what I can,” he says, reaching for his magazine.
Trish studies him for close to a minute; nothing changes.
When she chuckles, it sounds fake, but that’s not what’s important, here. She leans back against the desk, sucking on her fingertip again, watching him pretend to read. The conversation’s dead, the tension’s high, and Trish is positive she’s getting better at being human every second she spends in here.
Faking a laugh isn’t that far off from telling little while lies now, after all, was it?
She can’t take any of it, anymore.
“I’m going out,” she says. “Don’t wait up.”
He turns the page. “That’s a change.”
“We get a lot of those, around here.”
He doesn’t look up as she walks out, and Trish doesn’t expect him to. Maybe she’s not getting the hang of humanity; maybe she’s just getting the hang of him.
Which doesn’t mean she wouldn’t like a surprise, every once in a while.
*
