Domitus

A/N: Another unrevised chapter.

I'm going hogwild with these un-beta'ed posts primarily because this fic is being written for a very specific group of people.

The wank in this fandom has finally gotten the best of me, and I'll be goddamned if I'm catering to the general community anymore. X3~ I've overcome the hurdle of "writing for the general populace" and have made the transition to writing for myself, and for a select group. It would be beautiful and fantastic if everyone enjoyed this sort of thing, but really, I'm just writing this because it's fun for me. To the people who like to wank and rip and demonstrate lots of public hypocrisy... in the immortal words of Cartman, "Screw you guys, I'm goin' HOOOOME!"

*smirk smirk smirk* (No ill will, I'm just... sick of DMC wank now.)

Additionally, I'm planning on setting up a privately hosted fanfiction archive (on my own webspace) for myself and a few others. Once that is up, my AFF account will probably undergo a lot of neglect.

On that note, if you'd like to be hosted in the archive, please feel free to e-mail me. However, keep in mind that it's mostly reserved for good friends of mine who share similar interests, so don't be offended if I turn you down. ^_^

With that said, if this gets beta'ed and changed a lot, I'll *probably* fix it here... but no guarantees. For final postings, LJ and jack.pot website are much better sources.

...and thus, we move forward with the plot, and with... oh god, the HET!

Part VI

The netherworld undercurrent tugged at his boots, threatening to sweep his feet out from beneath him. He stared down the sword directed at his throat. Its owner’s face was pale from injury and fatigue, but his hand was steady.

“Leave me and go,” he said. “I’m staying. This place… was our father’s home.” He took another step backward, his heels overhanging the cliff.

The young hunter lunged as his brother fell, one hand outstretched to seize his sleeve. He felt cold steel slice his palm as his twin leaned back gracefully and disappeared into the gaping abyss.

o-o-o

“Vergil…” the name slipped past his lips before his eyes had opened. Dante stared up at his own hand, fingers outstretched toward the ceiling. He clenched his fist bitterly before lowering his arm. Why had he dreamt of that now, after all the years of pushing it from his mind?

The broken office door clattered from its hinges as Trish marched back in. Seeing Dante awake, she nodded curtly in approval. “Good, you’re up. Better put some clothes on, Tony wants you to meet him in that strip joint of yours.”

Dante sat up wincing and groaned. “Ugh, why?”

Trish strode over to the couch and stood over the wounded hunter, hands planted firmly on her hips. “He’s refusing to build the grenades without further explanation,” she said. “He wants to know what happened to Enzo, and what you’ve got yourself mixed up in.”

Dante rubbed an exasperated hand over his face and massaged his temples. “Of course…” he muttered.

“You’d better look sharp about it, he headed down there right as I left,” said Trish, turning her attention the massive grenade launcher resting on the desktop.

Dante wrapped the sheet around his waist and stood stiffly. “You aren’t coming?” he asked, watching Trish seat herself and begin dissembling the heavy weapon.

She gave him an appraising look. “No, thank you, I’ve dealt with enough of Tony’s questions for the time being,” she replied lightly. “It’s your turn.”

The hunter suppressed a sigh.

o-o-o

The crimson dusk painted heavy shadows over the cityscape. Dante’s boots tapped out a dull cadence as he made his way reluctantly down the street. Redgrave was his friend and he meant well, but he was being too inquisitive for his own good in this case. As the gaudy neon lights of the strip club drew nearer, Dante pondered how best to dodge the gunsmith’s inquiries. Daemon had murdered Enzo, and the hunter would be damned if he’d let Redgrave meet the same brutal fate.

The thumping bass and flashing lights made him wince; a throbbing headache threatened to overtake him almost the instant he set foot in the club. Dante knew where Redgrave would be, and he hastily picked his way through the crowded scene toward the bar. Drawing up a stool, he glanced around for his friend. Trish had said he’d already left and Dante was mildly surprised that he was nowhere in sight.

The bartender gave him a nod and he ordered a scotch with no ice. He tossed the liquor back in two swift swallows and felt his headache lessen a slight degree. He drummed his fingers on the countertop as he waited for the gunsmith, unease slowly creeping over him. Dante slid a hand down his thigh to brush his gloved fingertips against Ivory’s stock. The weight of his twin handguns gave him a little comfort, if not much. His concern was for Redgrave…

The hunter jumped as gentle hands twisted around his neck and slid over his chest from behind. He turned to push the stripper away. “Not today, babe, I’m—”

He felt shock and horror write itself across his face as he stared into glittering eyes and a broad, even smile. “You—!” he gasped, and he raised a furious fist.

Daemon caught his wrist between steel fingers. “Let’s be civil, now,” the demon smiled. “Your friend has been waiting for you.”

Dante’s breath caught in his throat. “Redgrave! You fucking—”

Daemon shook his head, his smile scornful. “He’s just over there. We were simply discussing his ever-so-engaging occupation… that’s all.” He waved his hand languidly and Dante cast his gaze in the direction indicated.

Tony Redgrave was seated in a dark corner booth, casually nursing a large whiskey. Dante let out a breath of relief before turning his ice-blue eyes back on Daemon. The young demon released the hunter’s wrist and stepped back, raising his hands in a passive gesture. “I’ll leave you two to it,” he smirked. “And incidentally, I’m glad to see that you’ve recovered some of your strength. That will make our next encounter much more exciting.” He gave Dante a courteous nod, his malicious eyes never leaving the hunter’s face. Then he turned and strolled out of the bar.

Dante watched him leave; he burned to pull Ebony and Ivory out and pump Daemon’s back full of lead… but he knew this wasn’t the place or time for a fight. He looked again at Redgrave. The gunsmith was still unaware of his presence, sipping his whiskey and glancing at his watch in a distinctly irritated fashion. Dante stood and walked through the bar to join his friend.

“Goddamn, Dante, what took you so long?” the gunsmith asked as Dante slid into the booth.

The hunter didn’t waste time on frivolities. “You were talking to that kid?” he asked abruptly.

Redgrave lit a cigarette. “Kid…? Oh, yeah, that dark-haired guy? Sure, he was asking about grenades and custom rounds. Nice kid, very polite. Not something you see much around here these days…” he trailed off as he registered the abject fury in Dante’s eyes. “Uh…”

The hunter shot a gloved hand out and seized the gunsmith by his collar, yanking him forward over the table. The cigarette tumbled from Redgrave’s lips and landed on his hand, tiny burning embers singing his skin. “Ow! Shit, Dante, what the he—”

“That fucker killed Enzo,” the hunter snarled in a harsh whisper, his nose inches from Redgrave’s face. “Cut his fucking head off. You got that? Closed-casket funeral for my best friend because of that little shit.” Redgrave gaped at him. Dante let go of the gunsmith’s shirt and sat back, struggling to calm his boiling blood. He glared at the scuffed tabletop.

Redgrave straightened his collar and stuck the cigarette back between his lips. “Christ…” he murmured. “Holy Christ…” He shook his head and took a slow gulp of liquor. “Well, I can probably guess, but why haven’t you turned him in to the police…?”

Dante sighed. Now that Redgrave had encountered Daemon, he had to supply him with enough gory details to impart the severity of the matter. “He’s a higher class demon,” he muttered. “That little bastard is good enough to lay me out, and on top of that, it’s a… personal thing.” His own drink was gone, and he’d left his glass at the bar; he plucked the whiskey out of Redgrave’s hand and downed it.

The gunsmith was giving him a measured look. “Alright,” he said at last. “I won’t ask. Trish mentioned that Enzo’s killer was looking for you, and it just got me worried when she came by to ask about the custom grenades.” He took a deliberate drag on his cigarette. “Obviously it’s a private matter. I’ll have those rounds for you before the week is over.”

Dante’s breathing had returned to normal and the enraged haze dissipated, replaced by drained exhaustion. “Thanks, Tony,” he said, moving to stand. “And you fucking watch yourself, got that? The fact that he talked to you scares the shit out of me, to be honest.”

“I’ll be careful, don’t worry about me. Sounds like you’re the one who needs to be worried though,” the gunsmith replied.

Dante shrugged. “I’ll manage. Just get me those grenades ASAP.”

Redgrave caught his sleeve as he turned to leave.

“Dante… I’ll get you those rounds, just… don’t you go getting killed on me,” he said.

Dante grinned at him. “I’ll do my best,” he said.

o-o-o

Trish was sprawled on the sofa when he arrived back at the office. She jerked and sat up as Dante kicked off his boots and flopped down next to her. Brushing long strands of blonde hair from her face, she turned to face him.

“How’d it go?” she asked.

Dante cast her a sideways glance. “…Fine. He’s making the grenades. They’ll be done in a few days.”

Trish raised her eyebrows at him but didn’t say anything else, and he was thankful for it. Inwardly, he wondered how many secrets they had kept from each other over the past year or so. For live-in business partners, they really led oddly separate lives. He shrugged his jacket off and tossed it over the arm of the couch, settling back against the overstuffed cushions.

Trish shifted next to him; Dante felt a small jolt of surprise as she climbed onto his lap and straddled him. “Er, what—”

Smiling, she pressed a long slender finger to his lips and peeled his shirt up to examine the bandages on his torso. They were crusted with dried blood and she tenderly tugged them loose. The wounds beneath weren’t fully healed, but the seepage had stopped and the torn flesh was covered with a thin film. Dante shivered as the cool air caressed his exposed skin. He also couldn’t deny that Trish’s sensual weight in his lap was sending little prickles of arousal tingling up his spine.

Dante knew that Trish could feel him warming to her, and her tender smile turned devious as she traced a forefinger around the outline of his mouth and lips. Her laugh was a low purr as she leaned forward and seized a fistful of his hair, jerking his head forward suddenly as she plunged a hungry tongue into his mouth.

He was startled, but quickly gave in to the welcome invasion as her heat stole over him, warming him from fingertips to toes. The hunter gripped her slender frame with strong hands and gathered her close, relishing her softness against his own firm body. Gratefully, he felt his recent suffering slip away as he devoured her taste and scent, kissing her with ferocity befitting a son of the devil.

~ Part VI FIN ~