Dad
Mission 2
Dad
"...yeah, he's still out there. Big bonfire, mostly burnt to embers. I have the most priceless of what he jacked, but I could only carry so much....Yeah, just meet me at the shop when you get done out there. Oh, and I had to cut his tongue out; he kept summoning shit. So, send the hospital bill to the mental ward....What? It was leave it in, and deal with him doing that shit for the rest of his life...or fix the problem. I fixed it. Yeah, yeah, I know the chief's gonna bring this down on my ass....Thanks, Lady. Just ask Morrison for the payment."Dante set the phone gently on its cradle and turned back to the little bundle wiggling on his desktop. The aging heater just outside this room was pumping out musty-smelling, but warm air, and he'd divested himself of his duster and jeans a bit ago, leaving them to steam next to the vent, and his shirt was drying from the staircase's skeletal frame. He was still pretty bloody, despite the rain's cleansing, and so he delicately unwrapped the babe, a tired smile lighting his features as a tiny fist bopped his fingers.
"You're a feisty little guy...probably gonna need that for later, though, kiddo." He freed the last of the sheet off of the baby's-his son's- lower limbs and for a moment, blinked. Now, Dante didn't have a lot of experience with babies, mostly enough to tell a girl from a boy, and that was a little sketchy even. So, when he was presented with a nude, very dirty child, he was at odds as to what to do next...until Nero took care of that for him. With a scrunch of his nose and lips, the infant promptly pissed on his father's chest, making Dante stare down at himself in mute horror for a moment, before the demon hunter's lips split in a reluctant grin, and rusty laughter filled the shop.
"Oh, god, if there was any doubt you weren't mine..." He gasped out, rubbing tears of relief from his eyes before he scooped up the child and headed into his small back bathroom, still shaking with laughter. "Alright, kiddo, alright, I'll clean ya up." Thankfully, he was used to sponge-bathing; Morrison still hadn't gotten a plumber in to fix his shower and the upstairs bathroom, so he stole a few of the clean washcloths Lady had left behind, and set to making them both look presentable. He didn't really have any way to diaper the kid, but he figured an old washcloth and a few safety pins would work for the time being, so after washing off all the blood and tarry black excrement, he set to work.
An hour or so later, Nero was nestled in the crook of his father's arm and Dante was snuggled into his couch-bed, blankets wrapped around both of them as he watched an old monster movie. The bathroom was a mess, and his kitchen was even worse; he'd managed to find something the baby could eat, but it had ended up in spit-up all down his back, so after washing up again, he elected to down a beer and call it a night.
As his eyelids drooped a little, he focused on the small, fuzzy cap of white hair poking up from somewhere in the vicinity of his chest, and took another sniff, something that he couldn't quite help himself with. He knew that most demons reacted best to scent; it seemed that he was no different, and the natural scent his child gave off told him more, far more, than any agent or computer could have. He could read little Nero's mood by breathing in that essence, and where he'd been, what had happened to him...how healthy he was. How sick he was. It was...frightening.
No, it was fucking terrifying. Dante had never, ever, ever been so responsible for another life. Not like this. Sure, he'd saved old ladies and young girls, protected whole populations. But this...he would be held accountable for everything in Nero's life, no matter the boy's age. And yet...in spite of the fear, he found that he could no more thrust Nero away than end his own life. The call of blood to blood was far too strong, for one thing, and for another...he was just too goddamn adorable.
Now, he'd heard horror stories from Lady about how whiny and picky babies were, and he was sure that his little boy would be the same, eventually. But how could someone look at that little fluff of silver and those big baby blue eyes and that shy little smile, and say 'I'm going to use you as a sacrifice'? Certainly not Dante. No...there would be crying for hours on end, and he'd probably fuck up by mixing up the bottles of milk with beer once or twice, and there would be no doubt as to where Nero would learn all of his bad words from, and school would be a goddamn nightmare...
But here, in his little nest of blankets and pillows, and his baby boy tucked next to his own heart, Dante could, for the first time in ten years, rest easy. His guns were still within reach, and Rebellion was propped against the couch's back, but for the first time since his brother's death, he didn't think he was going to be up all night tossing and turning, dreading the return to dreams...dreading seeing his own face in the mirror. His last thoughts of the night, unpredictably, weren't even of his brother, as much as Dante missed him. No...they were of the lost woman who'd given up their son.
Why didn't she come to me? I'd have made sure she was taken care of...and when he was born, if she wanted freedom from being a parent, I'd have gladly taken him. But...maybe she couldn't. Maybe she loved him enough to try and protect him...since it was likely her blood I wiped off. Maybe...maybe...
Maybe she's still alive. With that last, not so comforting wish, he let sleep take him away.