Disclaimers: I do not and never will own Devil May Cry. All rights are reserved to its creators, Capcom, etc, so please DO NOT sue me cause I have nothing to give any of you. I just write fanfiction because I like to.
Author's Note: Ok, this is a first attempt at a Devil May Cry fic and no, DMC2 NEVER happened cause I didn't like that one as much and I still haven't passed it so it would be stupid to include something I don't know anything about, right? Ok, well, onto the fic! I hope you enjoy it, even a little bit.
Fatal Disposition: It's not just about you
It was dark, too dark. She ran her pale fingers over the gun atop the desk; it was cold metal, pure steel against warm pulsating skin. Her sapphire spheres traveled across the length of the waxed floorboards, old but shimmering under the golden beams of light. To her right lay a shrine adorned in gray marble, lifted a few feet off the ground by the far wall of the office. She leaned back into the soft leather chair, her nails picking at the stuffing with her legs resting upon the glazed oak tabletop. She scanned the walls, all decorated by prizes of game, battles won, and wars ended. Fingers tapped in rhythm with the ticking of the cherry wood grandfather clock. She sighed in exasperation while awaiting his return. Upon that thought, the heavy wooden doors framed with glass windows, opened, flooding the room with a cool breeze that shuffled the papers on her workstation. She glanced at him nonchalantly before returning her gaze to her previous business affair. He did not seem offended by her suggestive gesture as he placed an onyx briefcase on the desk across from her own, and a bag by on the floor.
She merely snorted at the aroma of sweet smelling edibles that rose from behind his desk. All was silent for a while; he was trying to tempt her. She would not let him win this time or so she vowed silently to herself. Her crystalline eyes landed upon his silver hair, dragging along his tan skin and broad shouldered build. He appeared lethargic to her, more so than usual, for his languid movements were enhanced by his sluggish mien. Sensing his need for a minute alone, she arose to leave; he did not seem to mind nor did he seem to notice. Once in the solitude of their room, she sat upon the bed, stretching herself to full length on the goose feathered comforter, a small pillow supporting her head. Copper blonde hair spilled over the pillow, cascading over her shoulders onto the ivory silk sheets in a wave of golden sunlight. She would have fallen into a soundless slumber yet heavy treading awoke her. She never moved, but instead watched his masculine form, still graceful in every way, as he glided over the dusty surface.
She did not think it perverse to watch him change, although this was, perhaps, the first time. She gazed-from underneath heavy eyelids-as his artillery and ammunition fell to the floor, followed by his jacket, hip belt, and shirt, till he was left only in his pants and bare chest, too. His clothes lay in a clump of crimson cotton fabric on the floor as he disappeared into the cream colored washroom. She relaxed again, her arms settling over the edge of the mattress, cherry wood against peach; she hadn't realized she'd tensed. Her lashes slid shut, slightly, as the bathroom door opened. He emerged slowly, his silhouette an ebony shadow against the blinding perpetual light. She did not flinch or wince at the magnificent white bursting through the open doorway. Then darkness engulfed them once again. She lay on the blanket as still as death when he set himself to the bed, his weight causing her to shift her position; she still made no obvious movements. After a period of what seemed like an eternal silence, she began to wonder what he thought of her nonexistent input, and also what he was doing. She chanced a look at him only to find his back to her, shoulders hunched over, head in his hands; she knew he was hurting. She placed her hands on his shoulders in an effort to comfort him; it did not work.
His head fell back to her chest, his eyelids concealing his pale green spheres. She wanted to pry them open, to stare into his liquid pools, to drown within their depths. Her mind did not beg to her ask him anything, but her heart thought otherwise. She pressed her lips to his forehead to wake him from his sorrow. His eyes opened slowly, his lashes parting to give way to those oceans of sea green that she adored. He looked at her, his expression blank and stolid, searching for something in her eyes. Taken aback by his reaction, she slowly released him, falling back on the bed, her hands propping her up. She felt his hands on her lower thighs, tracing obscure patters on the black leather. Sighing heavily, she replaced him in her embrace; he shuddered. She knew nothing would get solved this way. It was futile to let the silence reign any longer, and she could not stand it.
"Tell me what's wrong." She whispered gently.
His head rested upon her chest again, his shallow breathing bathing her flesh in warmth. "I'm tired, that's all."
"I know you're tired, that's obvious; but, something else is bothering you, and you aren't going to tell me." Her response was kind but rather disappointed too. She knew he would tell her nothing if he didn't feel like doing so. She sighed mentally before whispering to him again. "All right, I'm going to read. If you need me, you know where I'll be."
She watched as he slumped against the covers, falling asleep instantly. She smiled weakly before exiting his dark chambers, her heart heavy with anger and frustration. How was she supposed to help him if he did not allow her entry to his soul? Despite her demonic blood, she felt that she needed and wanted to help him. It must have been the human side of her. She plopped down upon the cushioned chair, once again propping her feet upon the desk as she selected a book from her drawer, one she hadn't read. She was immersed in the script of the book, but found that she was growing tired. Before she knew it, her eyes had closed; the book slipped from her hands, joining the other forgotten items scattered about the floor. She slept.
She stretched, but how her body ached! It's like I slept on the floor.' She opened one eye to view her surroundings. She realized-with much aggravation-that she had indeed slept on the floor. Her body was resting on the ground feeling unusually dysfunctional. Hearing slow movement from outside, she hoisted herself up into the chair. She smoothed her hair in an effort to look even half-decent before the person entered. She figured it was some lone ranger who'd lost his way, but as the door swung open, it revealed her partner looking particularly disgruntled. She looked surprised. "Where have you been? It's 12:00 in the afternoon." She questioned. He never woke before 12:00. He looked dazed and confused as he fell into his chair. "Are you ok?"
"Hm…?" His response was forced.
She walked over to inspect him but reeled back as the stench of liquor, cigarettes, and cheap perfume invaded her nose. His eyes were closed, his breathing even; he was sleeping. 'He didn't smell like that when he came home last night…unless…' Her eyes widened with rage. He had left while she'd slept. Here she was, worried about his well being while he was out getting drunk, smoking, and hanging out with prostitutes. She couldn't withstand her anger any longer. With all the strength she could muster-in her tired state due to uncomfortable sleep-she kicked his chair, sending him straight at the marble shrine that encased a deadly blade. He jumped from his seat at impact, saving himself from the glistening silver tip of the blade. Their eyes met; pale green against a now fiery blue, ablaze with pain and rage. Her body shook from the emotion as she pointed an accusing finger at him. Deciding to be the better person, she grabbed her choice weapon and began to exit the room.
Once outside in the fresh air, she felt her head clear a bit. She spotted her motorcycle; she could hear him grumbling behind her, but did not bother to turn around. Placing her companion securely to the bike's side, she hopped on. Through her helmet visor she could view him clearly. Giving him one last disgusted look, she flipped him off and sped away. She was sick of him and his abuse towards her at the present moment. Scenery flew by her as she continued onto nowhere. She didn't know how long she had been driving, but she knew she was far from home. The sun was still high in the sky, blazing like hellfire and beating down upon her in demand. She rolled her eyes at the solar element while adjusting her wrist-guards. 'It's still early…might as well do some kind of meaningful activity.' She chose to contemplate her situation with her companion, not the one on her bike. She was beyond frustration at this point. All he ever did was mope, sleep, eat occasionally, and go out clubbing. This was a common occurrence ever since they returned from their missions…if he ever did get one in the first place. Not to say they weren't being supported. His last few assignments had paid them extremely well, but with the way he spent money, she might as well start looking for a job. Their location was cheap enough; he owned his place. So rent wasn't an issue. Food and resources were.
She swept her golden sun-kissed blonde hair back into its ponytail as she replaced it inside the helmet. Off in the distance, she could see mirages of waters, but she knew better since they lived in the middle of a vast desert plain. A sign more than two meters away told her that the city was a decent 35 miles away, a reason why they stayed stocked up for months in advance. Weekly trips to the city would ruin them, she knew. Firing up the engine of her motorbike, she turned around to head back "home." God knows why, but she felt that if she didn't, he would sleep all afternoon and no more money would come in lest she not be there to answer phones.
'This place is such a pigpen!' Not that she was terribly orderly-lord knows she wasn't-but she wasn't exactly messy either. Boxes of papers and unfilled folders were strewn across the semi-glossed floor. Cartons upon cartons were stacked, full of empty beer, whiskey, wine, vodka, tequila bottles; you name it, he had it in those plastic cartons. In the corner of the kitchen area, the trashcan was overflowing with old banana peels, pizza pieces, hamburgers, and any other kind of food they ate. She scrunched her nose up in displeasure, but at least their room, including the bathroom was decently cleaned. Forget the living room though; it was a disaster zone. Despite his taste in old furniture and his worn out couch, she found that the living room was quite homely, even for him. Setting her keys on the hook-she was amazed he had one for such things-she kicked off her boots, placed her sunglasses on the lamp desk, and headed to the kitchen. Selecting the ice cream he'd bought yesterday, she seated herself on the comfy couch, sinking into the cushions with her book. She'd let him talk to her when she felt like it. Shuffling noises entered through the thin walls; this was his usual signal for a long afternoon indoors, not that she cared to go with him anywhere in his current state.
When he appeared in the doorway, she barely acknowledged him. True, it angered him and he was dangerous when angry, but with the temper she was suppressing right now, he might be in for a good beating, as she so delicately put it. She arched her brows when she heard him mumble a half-annoyed good morning to her. She snorted at him; very un-lady like he'd usually say to her when she did, but clearly today was anything but normal. She heard him re-enter, his heavy footsteps, then his descent to the couch beside her. His weight always seemed to make her shift for she had to move again, this time farther away from his liquor intoxicated scent. Silence reigned for a few more minutes; it would have reigned longer had the phone not rang. She hastily jumped to her feet, racing toward the phone. Gingerly, she answered the phone. She answered it; no one responded. She hung up, bothered that no one had responded. "Why do people do that? I don't even know how they get this number!"
"It's under a weird name in the town's directory." Her partner replied with amusement.
"Well, why don't you get it changed then?" She snapped nastily, her voice edgy as she fell back down in her chair, her book and ice cream forgotten. She tapped her neatly manicured fingernails on the desktop, attempting to cut through tension that mounted during their last encounter. "I received a call."
He lifted his head slightly, just enough so that she could see his eyes. "What's your point? If it's not a job, then I don't care."
"I noticed that that is usually the case regarding you. But it's a job..." She continued with mock sarcasm. "And I'm going to take it on…alone."
She heard him stand immediately, his steps headed in her precise direction. She didn't glance as she felt his fists pound onto the hard desktop, his leather gloves spread flat out upon the glossed cherry wood, his fingers touching her naked wrist, barely. She twitched involuntarily at his tone, which cut through her like a knife. "You never take a job alone. We're partners…there is no one person for a job."
"You can't come with me on this one," she answered hastily. She pivoted her seat to face the opposite wall, her eyes staring blankly ahead at the razor sharp blade held up by metal clamps, adorned in red and black armored skin, rough as rawhide yet protective of its purpose. Her head dropped a little, her bangs covering her expression from his searching eyes. "I already said that one person would go…no more than that. The client will pay well…enough for a couple months stock of food and resources."
He spun her around, gripping her shoulders roughly before pulling her from her seat. Their eyes met for the second time that day, pale green to sapphire, and each full of different yet similar emotions. They stayed in that position for what seemed like an eternity, but a car speeding by revived their reality. Instantly he crushed her tall, slender form against his, inhaling her scent and burying his nose in her soft copper blonde hair. She buried her head between his neck and shoulder, holding him close to her, even seeming needy as though he would vanish into thin air. She could smell his tears, smell his fear, smell his uncertainty; she could smell all of him. Her heart beat rapidly in her chest, a rush of adrenaline coursing its way through her veins down to the core of her being. She knew this couldn't last; she had a mission to accomplish. When she tried to leave him, his grip only tightened, and she knew he would not let go and that she could not get away. She didn't want to, but she had to, which went without question in her mind. She pushed him away, gently, enough to see his face. Her voice was low as she spoke.
"I must go. You can't keep me here, my friend," she said gently. He didn't appear to understand. She tried again. "I have to. I accepted this job, and I must do it, myself."
"No," he said plainly, as though it was his choice what she was able to do. His emerald eyes burned with determination, determination to keep her where she was; and that was in his secure embrace. "I won't allow it. I don't own you, but I can't let you go alone…again."
"I'll be fine, really." She insisted, frightened nonetheless. "I came back last time didn't I?"
"I don't want to remember." He turned his gaze from her. She didn't want to remember it either, but she recollected it all too well. "It's not happening, not while I'm here."
Without a second thought, or a clue as to why she felt in such a way, her anger flared. "How dare you!" She spat at him angrily. "Don't come in here and tell me what I can and cannot do! While you're out there drinking, smoking, and having sex with whores and God knows what else, I'm here worrying about your lazy ass! I wake up every morning having to worry about you because you won't worry about you! Not to mention that we'll go bankrupt if you keep this up! So why don't you listen to yourself every once in a while and get off your ass! Take your own advice!"
"Wait!" He cried out meekly, something highly unusual for him.
"Shove it! I'm tired of you abusing me!" She shouted, her hair sent into a flurry as she stomped up the staircase to their bedroom, her footsteps leaving scorched marks upon the wood as she ascended the stair rail. She slumped onto the bed, her anger seething beneath the surface of her presently glowing skin. The heat permeating from her body was uncanny; she was not human in her current state. She was surprised she hadn't burned holes through the thin material of the sheets. Still, he knew better than to bother her at the time and so left to town.
As soon as the door slammed, she calmed. She felt her eyes moisten slightly with unshed tears, but did not allow them to fall. How was she supposed to fix things? She could never cry in front of him again; she had pride to keep intact. In a rush of anger she threw the glass vase on the floor, shattering it to pieces of multi-colored fragments. She couldn't remember being so furious before, but she didn't care either. Her temper was raging and before she could control herself, she began to tear the place apart, smashing all the glass to pieces, shattering the wood of the floor planks, and even cracking the porcelain bathroom furniture, save the sink knobs. 'I am acting like a 5-year-old.' Though she knew this, she didn't care and continued on her rampage of the house. Sometime later, about an hour or so, she had relented from destroying the house and was resting with exhaustion upon the bed, the only untouched object in the now obliterated room. She sniggered loudly, her cobalt eyes staring blankly at the ceiling until she heard the unmistakable click of the front door. Her partner had returned and when he saw this mess, he was sure to unleash his fury-towards her.
Yet in some strange sense, she didn't care as she leaned back, sinking fully into the cushioned mattress, slowly pulling the sheet over herself. Now all she had to do was wait for her prey to come. And he did, ever so slowly and treading. Ever so carefully, he creaked open the door, just to the point of visionary perception only to meet her form curled up in the bed, apparently sleeping. Dante held his breath as he took one step, hoping it wouldn't awaken her, but the crunch beneath his feet told him otherwise. Curiously, he flipped the light and gasped audibly at the trash strewn about the oak wood floor. It was worse than the living room! He attempted to tiptoe around the broken glass, papers, woodchips and clay, but managed, barely, to trip over a stack of invisible books. He landed squarely on the bed, atop Trish who supposedly was sleeping, but he knew otherwise the minute her body tensed against his-and he smirked. He pretended to struggle to stand, his hands planting themselves against her back, traveling down to stop right above her derriere. It was at this point that Trish could no longer tolerate his behavior and she sprang up from the bed and punched him. Her fist connected squarely with his jaw and sent his head to another direction, but she had not put enough force in it to have damaged him or knock him away from her.
Before she knew it, Dante had pinned her to the bed, arms high above her head and his legs between her knees. Trish struggled to free herself but Dante wouldn't allow it, his eyes now burning a dark, brooding red. It only meant one thing when Dante's eyes burned red. Demon. His demon half was unleashing itself, and though Trish wouldn't admit it, she was afraid of his demon side. When realizing this, Trish began to struggle harder, thrashing her limbs as much as possible, which in turn caused him to tighten his grip. Trish cried out as his hands tightened around her wrists causing her skin to turn a brilliant shade of pink. She squirmed beneath him, unaware that her actions aroused him, and in his currently demon state, heightened his senses-multitudes. Still clueless to her actions, Trish writhed under him, body arching up to him as she continuously attempted to free herself from his grip.
She wasn't prepared when Dante leaned over her, lips brushing the exposed skin of her neck. Trish's eyes closed at the sensation as Dante gently suckled the tender skin of her neck. He released her hands, trusting she would not push him away. She didn't disappoint him as her arms swung around his neck, fingers tangling themselves in his hair as he moved from her neck to her collarbone. Trish's head swam as his hands traveled down to stop above her hips, gently beginning to push her leather pants down, peeling them from her skin. Trish felt air rush to her recently exposed skin, but cared not as she fumbled to clumsily remove Dante's crimson jacket. After succeeding in removing his first piece of clothing, Trish ran her hands into his black shirt, gently raking her hands over his smooth, burning skin. She relished in her thoughts as Dante moaned his approval. She gasped when she suddenly felt cold air envelope her legs-Dante had succeeded in his task as well. She threw her head back as Dante gripped her neck, kneading his hands into her thighs, which caused her to release a short series of moans in which she also called his name. Dante enjoyed this very much. Trish almost convulsed as Dante ran his hands between her legs, gently spreading them apart, but not touching her anymore than he had already.
"Dante..." Trish said quietly, almost in a whisper, as she raised her hips up to meet his. Her hands tangled themselves in his hair once more as he began to peel her skintight leather shirt from her skin. Trish sighed.
"I am...trying..." Dante answered huskily, his voice wavering slightly as though uncertain.
Trish was enjoying the feeling more than she let on when suddenly Dante's presence was gone. Trish sighed as she instantly reached for her leather pants, which lay to the side in a heap. She knew why his presence was gone and she wasn't willing to argue or let on that she was hurt by his departure. He would never love her the way she wished, at least not physically-wait, maybe not even mentally. She thought he seemed to care for her in his mind, even though he had never told her let alone show her-it might be nice. Every time the situation would become intense, he would leave or she would be too nervous to continue but it was usually the latter. As she heaved one last sigh, Trish threw Dante one more impassive glare before she exited the room in a whirl of disappointment. She never knew Dante to be so cruel, but lately it seemed that he was everything but nice and hospitable towards anyone's feelings except his. She noticed that the minute she'd left their room to settle on the couch that he'd plopped down on the bed. She'd heard only the heavy 'thunk' as his boots were thrown across the floor. She was sure he'd only ignore her presence if she returned to their bedroom so she refused to do so until he apologized to her, which she was sure he wouldn't.
"Screw him," She muttered under her breath as she grabbed the nearest blanket and settled on the couch, which was worn and old from years of God knows what. She found it rather comfortable, but did not fancy sleeping on it. 'God knows how dirty it is!' Her mind reeled with the possibilities of vermin living in their shelter. 'I really need to have this place cleaned…or we might as well call it a dump.' Trish rolled her iced-blue eyes for the millionth time that day as she felt sleep creeping over her. "At LEAST tonight I might get a decent night's sleep…who cares what he does or where he goes…not tonight." She whispered to the surrounding air as she sunk under the wool blanket and into dreamland, one last thought entering her mind, though much more bitter than she believed. 'Maybe he's just a horny male…whatever.'
Sunlight filtered through the open window where the shades were parted in the living room. Trish groaned angrily as she slapped the curtains away in attempt to close them and block the atrocious sunlight. She blew a small breath as she heard footsteps moving around above her, but she cared not to go see what Dante was doing. 'Probably sulking, the big baby,' she mused laughingly to herself. She readied herself for slumber again but the sound of his footfalls coming down the creaky staircase forbade her any further. She let out a low growl and threw herself up from the worn out couch, annoyance in her eyes as she moved to clean up her desk. She was not willing to speak to Dante at all, and very gingerly, picked up her motorcycle keys. At the first sight of his boots, Trish whipped around and walked straight out the door, her mind set on only one thing: to get out. She didn't bother to look back as she mounted the bike, pressed the pedal and sped away into town. 'Perhaps I'll have our number changed.' She couldn't help but scowl at the mishaps of the town's phone company but she was in no mood to deal with them at the moment. Instead, she decided to make a small stop at the bar where she and Dante would usually celebrate their victories. Once inside, she dropped herself, gracelessly, onto a stool and ordered herself a drink.
"Evening Trish. Where's your Knight in Shining Armor?" Karl, the ever-mischievous bartender, decided to tease Trish as he always did every night that she entertained herself at the bar.
"Really cute Karl." Trish tried to sneer but found she wasn't mad enough to snap at him. "I think I'll drown in my sorrows."
"The usual?" Karl looked at her pointedly. She nodded. "Yo Jim! One Demon Drop, heavy on the everclear!"
"Thanks so much Karl." After receiving the deadly drink, Trish took a long swig. She regarded her reflection, though it was muddled, in her drink. 'Gee…hopefully I'll be able to do this again.' She had taken a strange liking to the alcoholic drink known as the Demon Drop, something Dante usually ordered when the celebrated. "Too bad he couldn't be here, the big dumbass."
Karl leaned over the bar, eyeing Trish carefully. "Come on Trish, what's the matter? You're never this upset! Something must have happened between you and Mr. Royal-Demon-Ass to piss you off so badly."
"Don't wanna talk about it," Trish growled back but smiled. "It's so insignificant Karl that is isn't worth muddling over. Just fill her up, ok?" As soon as he did, Trish gulped it and slammed the shot glass down on the bar. "Damn…I think I need a dance." She reached over and practically dragged Karl over the bar railing so she could whisper in his ear. The bartender swallowed hard as she chuckled. "Dance with me Karl…I need to dance."
"What?" He was incredulous.
Trish giggled uncharacteristically. "Just shut up and let's go."
Without so much as another word, Trish dragged the unsuspecting bartender onto the dance floor, pulling him to her in a manner in which only Dante might hold her. 'Oh yeah baby…' she thought with a laugh. 'I'm so drunk right now…but who cares…Karl would never take advantage of me.' She was sober enough to know that Karl was trembling within her grasp, surely due to the fact that he was never subjected to this. She patted his back. "Calm down Karl. It's just a dance, not sex." She frowned immediately. 'Now why did I say something stupid like that?' Instead of berating herself further she smiled as she felt Karl relax against her and move with the music, and with her. She sighed heavily into his shirt as she felt the world around her fade away, mainly because of how drunk she was. She liked how Karl smelled. He definitely had the charmer looks going with short, dark brown hair, slightly tanned skin, and mysterious brown eyes. If she wasn't so in love with Dante she sure as in hell would have jumped Karl by now; but that was not the case. 'So then why do I feel like kissing him right now?' She shrugged against him, barely, noticing that he had brought his hands to rest upon her back in a comfortable position-for both of them. 'I guess it's because I'm so drunk…and upset with Dante. Or maybe because I do like him…nah…' She was really getting into the fact that Karl was holding her so gently that she didn't even hear the voice the first time it spoke.
"You're on dangerous ground there, Djavan."
She felt Karl nod. "I know Sparda," came the irked reply. Trish refused to let him go. "Um…this is a lovely predicament, isn't it?" Dante was giving him a death look, Trish noticed. She held Karl tighter. "Look man…I really am in a pickle here. It isn't my fault she's not letting me go."
"Is that so?" Dante's voice was becoming noticeably angrier and Trish could hear him grating his teeth. She sighed again and nuzzled Karl's shirt in a sensual manner, hoping Dante would notice. He did.
"Karl…" she cooed evilly while opening her eyes to look Dante's straight in his. "Why don't you get me another drink and we can get back to dancing?" Karl nodded, catching her intent before leaving. Now it was just she and Dante on the dance floor, amongst many other couples, staring each other down as though they were about to battle. "Yes? Is there something you need Mr. Sparda?"
"What the hell were you doing dancing with him like that?" Dante's hid nothing as he whispered to her.
Trish looked at him easily. "What? I can't dance with anyone here? I mean…Karl is so nice and I just thought it'd be nice to, oh, I don't know…go on a date or something with him. Don't you agree?"
If Dante was as angry as she thought, he hid it well. The next thing Trish new was that he had pulled her, by her arm, to a darker corner of the club and pushed her up against the wall in a fashion which made movement hard for her. Trish squirmed as he pressed her against the wall, this time slightly harder then before. She was about to yell when he covered her mouth. It was quiet where they were and no one was around, much to Trish's amazement. All thoughts were lost to her as Dante leaned forward to her ear, whispering. "What? You mean you don't like dancing with me?" He had conveniently pinned her arms above her with his other hand, cutting off all her power. Trish groaned as he wrapped her left leg around his right one, making quite sure she could feel him. "You think I can't dance like Karl…or worse yet, you think he's better?" At this point he ran his hand from her knee to her thigh and squeezed it lightly as he pressed himself further into her. Trish moaned into his hand at the contact but responded nonetheless as she writhed against him. "Well, perhaps I will have to teach little Trish a lesson, won't I?"
Trish snapped, shoving him away enough to speak. "Like hell you would! You wouldn't touch me like that if you're life depended on it! Screw you Dante! I am going back to dance and I want you to leave me alone. We're finished for tonight. I'll see you back at the house." Before he could utter another word, Trish had grabbed her coat, Karl's arm and exited the club in a flurry.
Outside, Trish threw on her jacket and pointed to Karl's bike. He gave her a skeptical look. "Trish…. Sparda will have my head for this, you know, right?"
Trish waved her hand in the air, disregarding everything he said. "Yeah and what? Come on…. I want to go to the park for a walk. Take me, will you?"
"All right, just a walk Trish, just a walk." Karl sighed as he mounted his bike, placing his helmet on his head and watching as Trish retrieved hers. Just as he kicked up the pedal, Dante came rushing out, anger evident in his eyes. Karl gave him a withering look before stepping on the gas. "She'll be fine Sparda. I'll bring her back in a couple hours."
"DJAVAN!" Dante yelled after the almost completely disappearing bike.
(Hm…seems like Trish has something else in mind, eh? Okay people, I know: Who the hell is Karl? Well, I'll be giving background information on him because Trish and Dante do know him. He's not just some regular bartender guy, ok? And yes…Demon's Drop is a real drink so I don't own that idea, ok? Anyway…just thought I'd give it a shot at a Devil May cry fic so R&R, cause I'd like to know what you all think. If it was good, say so, if it stinks, say so, too…but in a nice way, cause there is a nice way to say thing: constructive criticism, NOT FLAMES. Thank you.)