she was dante's guide into paradise, wasn't she? (first in the trilogy)
Dante didn't even know her full name. He didn't bother to ask. She was great for business, she kicked ass with the best of them, and damn if she wasn't really hot. With the money she helped him bring in, they even changed their ad in the yellow pages, two-color and everything: Devil Never Cry.
They worked well together, that much he did know. She always knew which way he was going to attack, which guns he'd use. And, hell, she'd be right where he needed her, Sparda like a sharpened dream, slicing sweetly down. Even with Nightmare, she'd duck and roll just right, a blur of sleek black spandex and blond hair.
The way she'd shift her weight, light on the balls of her feet, twirling his sword around? Yeah. Dante wasn't much on words on the best of days, but his throat would go dry, watching her fingers tighten on the hilt, watching her pinning some devil to the ground with the blade clean through its chest. Fuck yeah.
In his years in the business, Dante had never imagined having a partner. Even Vergil, he had to admit, would have been a pain, never at his back so much as at his throat.
...Not that he didn't miss Vergil. And not that Trish didn't keep him on his toes. He just never got around to consciously admitting that he might have liked to try it. With Vergil, that is. Being partners.
He'd never been able to picture Vergil with a sword-- like Trish, with his sword. Well, that wasn't entirely true, sure he'd pictured it. He'd just never figured it was very feasible. Vergil's hands curling around a blade, ignoring the blood dripping off his fingers, twisting Sparda deeper into a demon's heart. Vergil cocking a handgun and feeling the satisfying report of a well-aimed shot, broad shoulders rocking with the kickback. Vergil hefting a sword and spelling devil-runes in the air with the sharp edge of it. Heh. That one especially. Vergil writing eloquent invisible curses with his blade while he killed, best of both worlds. Bet he would have been good at it. Bet the look on his face would have been something like Trish's, eyes half-lidded, unfocused, a cry on his lips...
Right. Entirely more likely that Vergil would just have raised an eyebrow, and made that little noise in the back of his throat when he was impatient about something. And handed Dante back the sword with a look of distaste.
It wasn't just grief, picking up half a pendant ice-cold in numb fingers. It was wondering what the hell kind of Dark Lord could make a man over in his image, to make his brother fight like /that/. The fury of hell behind the strength of his arm, and dark cold nothing in his eyes.
Devil never cry, Dante.
Nelo Angelo had called out, when Ebony and Ivory had finally kissed him goodnight. He wouldn't say he'd recognized the voice, though maybe he wanted to. But he did think he understood the sound. He just hoped he'd been a good fight, standing tall and kicking till the end. Vergil would have appreciated that, if nothing else.
Trish would often cry out like that, when she made a kill. It was a lot like-- well, no, he'd have to say it was better than sex. Not that the sex wasn't excellent. But business... business was everything. It was revenge, yeah, and it was good clean blood on your hands and the knowledge of a job well done. But mostly it was the familiar weight of a weapon in your hands, sated on violence, and slow sweet satisfaction in your veins. Perfect.
Which was definitely one edge Trish had over Vergil. She knew how much he liked it, the fighting. She knew what it did to him. With the heaviness of his sword almost overbalancing her, the arc of her spine like a loaded spring, the curves of her fine and deadly, it was almost like she was dancing. Just for him. Sometimes she'd make eye contact over the hilt as she drove the blade home.
Sometimes, if they weren't impatient to finish the job, he'd holster his guns and draw out Alastor. Sword against sword, she'd fight by his side, and fuck if it wasn't awfully distracting. The slide of one blade against the other would leave him tingling, his breath coming hard. Too quickly, the battle would fade in muted shades of red, until only the two of them were left-- neither quite standing, altogether too close to one another, leaning on each other for support they didn't need.
Sparda would leave her hands warm, when she'd finally sheathe it. The hiss and snick of the metal slipping into back its leather casing would be nearly too much for him. She knew, she never stopped moving. Her whole body would be taut and ready like a weapon thirsty for blood, and her fingers as greedy.
He didn't think it strange, fucking her against the wall with Sparda still strapped to her back, pretending she was a sword and dueling with her until one or the other of them was vanquished. Or pretending the face above his was someone else's, as she straddled him and his gunholsters dug into his hipbones, seeing a stronger jawline and hair pale like the moon at midnight. Or imagining the struggle of their bodies was like a holy war, right there on the floor of the abandoned cathedral, demon and angel wrestling in a place of the sacred damned.
It might have bothered him, that she looked like his mother. It might have, that is, if he'd bothered to think about it. It never occurred to him to wonder why he'd never kissed her.
In the breathless heat between them, it was never surrender-- it was a fight till the death. They both understood that. And whatever he thought he was fighting, whoever's face he saw, he'd die inside her, or all over himself, with an inarticulate cry of release.
Sometimes he'd lose. She'd laugh if he came first, tossing back her hair with a teasing smile. He'd make her pay for it later, though. In the narrow bed back at his place, her wearing one of his old shirts unbuttoned sloppily down to her navel, him in nothing but an unzipped pair of faded jeans. She was never cold; he liked to make her shiver. If he played her right, she had a thrum like a blade ringing against stone, latent energy trembling under her skin. And if she moaned against his neck he would close his eyes, memorizing the shape of her with his hands, as if she were a weapon herself, to be treasured and maintained.
Once, on a chilly early-morning job, she asked him about Vergil.
The flickering streetlight couldn't penetrate the shadows around her eyes. He shifted from one foot to the other, restless. They didn't talk much, why the hell should she start now? He flashed a grin that came out all crooked, and asked her why she cared.
She whispered that Trish was short for Beatrice.
Uneasiness wanted to turn to anger. She wouldn't meet his eyes-- not like her. Dante and Beatrice, huh? And Vergil? So fucking what? What difference does a name make?
She opened her mouth again, and he was suddenly irrationally afraid of what she'd say. Out of desperation he took her by the shoulders, and kissed her hard. She shut up abruptly. He smiled victoriously against her lips, not noticing her shivering.
She was still just Trish.
ah, how much in my mind was i disturbed,
when i turned round to look on beatrice,
that her i could not see