Work Text:
Lady kicked the Devil May Cry door open with her boot, blood drying on her collar and fire still in her veins. "Next time you send the kid to babysit me," she snapped, "at least warn him I bite."
Dante followed on her heels, jaw clenched, barely holding back the storm in his throat. "You call that a job," he bit out, "or a goddamn suicide note?"
She tossed her gun onto the battered table with a clatter. "Oh, fuck you. I take the jobs you won't. You don't get to complain. I did the job. It got done."
"Yeah?" he shouted. "You almost got yourself done, too!"
Lady whirled on him. "So what? You're pissed I didn't get killed by something more fun?"
"Jesus, would you listen to yourself?!"
"No, I'm too busy listening to you—hovering like I'm some fragile mess about to break apart."
"Maybe I wouldn't hover if you didn't treat your own goddamn life like it's disposable!"
"Oh, I'm sorry," she snapped, voice like shattered glass, "did my mortality ruin your day?"
"Yeah, actually," Dante growled. "It did."
That stopped her. Cold. Her face didn't change, but something in her eyes wavered—just long enough for panic to flash before fury slammed back over it. "You don't get to treat me like that," she hissed.
"Like what?" he barked.
"Like I can't keep up."
"You're trying to get yourself killed every goddamn week!"
"I've always been like this!"
"Bullshit."
"No," she cut him off, louder now, bitter and cracking at the edges, "you wanna know what's bullshit, Dante? I need to matter. I need to pull my weight. Because I'm the only human in this circus of goddamn miracles—and the second I stop being useful—!"
He flinched. The words hit like a gut punch.
She kept going, even as her voice shook. Even as she hated that it did. "You and Trish and Vergil and Nero—you don't need me. You never do. You keep me around because I get the job done, because I don't ask for anything, because I don't slow you down."
"That's not—"
"I'm not one of you," she shouted. "I'm not blood. I'm just the extra hand who shows up, takes care of the boring jobs, and disappears until things get too easy to be fun. If I stopped swinging, you'd all forget I was ever here."
Dante opened his mouth—but nothing came out.
"I get tired," she said, softer now, but no less furious. "I bleed, and it stays. I can't fall off a building and walk it off. I don't have a trigger. I don't glow, or regenerate, or have some heroic destiny carved into my DNA."
"You really think any of that makes us—"
"It makes you different. It makes you permanent." She met his eyes, voice quiet and searing. "And me? I'm a mayfly with a rocket launcher."
He stepped forward, but stopped himself.
"You think we give a shit about that?"
"What, you gonna tell me I'm wrong?" She laughed—short and cruel. "All I ever see is all of you looking at me like a ticking time bomb," she hissed, "like you're just waiting for me to blow up or drop dead!"
"I look at you like that," Dante said, quieter now, "because I don't know how to fucking stop."
"Stop what?! Hovering?! Nagging?! Treating me like I'm some goddamn tragedy waiting to happen?!"
"No." His voice cracked. "Feeling like I'm gonna die every time you don't come back."
The silence that followed cracked the air like a fault line.
She was breathing hard. Trembling. Lips parted in disbelief. But her eyes still burned.
He wasn't done. Couldn't stop now.
Dante stepped in and grabbed her shoulders—not rough, not soft, just enough to keep her from bolting.
His voice dropped, trembling with the weight of everything he could barely hold in. "Whatever bullshit you keep feeding yourself—it has to stop."
She tried to look away.
He wouldn't let her. "You're not the weak link. You're the one who keeps getting up when no one expects her to. The one who fights anyway. The one who hurts, and breaks, and still comes back to help the rest of us survive."
She shook her head. His grip softened, but stayed. "I would burn the world down if I lost you," he said, breathless. "Because it's you. You make it all mean something."
He laughed then—ugly, bitter. "I get sliced open, I walk it off. You? You bleed. And you get back up. And you act like it doesn't matter."
"Because it doesn't," she whispered. "I'm not built to last, Dante. Never was."
"Exactly why you shouldn't throw yourself into the fire like it's the only thing you're good for."
"Better than being paralyzed by fear."
He paced away—just once—then turned back, something rising in him, but breaking open this time instead of hardening. "You think I've been watching your back all this time just to let you burn out?"
She scoffed, but quieter now.
Then she squared her shoulders, like she was bracing for impact. "What am I supposed to do then?"
He looked at her, confused—but she wasn't done.
Her mouth opened once. Closed. When she spoke again, it was like dragging the words up from a place she'd buried them too deep.
"When was the last time you saw Kyrie?"
The question hit harder than it should have, and she didn't wait for an answer. "How about Nico—if she's not driving you to a job or fixing your gear? When do you see her?"
There was no bite in her voice. Just quiet, brittle clarity. "I need to know," she said, voice sharp with the strain of keeping it steady, "because I'm not special, Dante. I'm just closer. And if I stop moving—if I stop being useful—I want to know if that's all it takes for you to start pretending I'm not there." Her voice wavered. Just once. "Because I've seen what happens. Seen who you remember. And who you leave behind."
The words hung between them like a live wire.
Dante stood still.
Really still.
Like something just knocked the breath out of him and he was trying not to show it.
"…Shit," he muttered. It wasn't deflection this time. It was all he could say.
Patty's laugh flickered in his memory—some birthday years ago he missed.
Lucia's voice, clipped and clear, echoing from a phone call he never returned.
They'd both said goodbye gently, like they knew he wouldn't say it back.
He rubbed a hand over his face. "I didn't think…"
But she was right. He hadn't thought.
"You're not—" He stopped himself. Saying you're not like them would miss the point entirely.
Because that's what they had been, too. Real people.
Fighters. Friends. Family.
And he'd made himself a ghost in all their lives.
"I don't want to forget you," he said finally, quiet like he hated admitting it.
He forced the next words out. Fighting through a decade worth of barriers that he had put between them. It was the closest he could come to saying you matter more than you think. But maybe she'd hear it anyway.
"Not you."
Silence again. Different this time. Heavy.
"But you're not wrong," he said, raw. "We keep them safe by keeping them away. Kyrie. Morrison. Even Patty. We don't let them stay close. Not when the real shit starts."
Her expression didn't change, but something behind her eyes flickered. Just once.
"And you—" He swallowed hard. "You never stopped long enough for us to decide what to do with you. You decided for us."
"Yeah," she said, just above a whisper. "I did."
He looked wrecked. "You thought if you kept swinging, we wouldn't have time to forget you."
She didn't reply.
"And I didn't stop you," he said, quieter now. "Because I didn't realize… you actually believe that. That you don't have a place." His voice thickened. "Truth is, you've been the center of all this for longer than any of us can admit. Not the bloodline. Not me. You. You're the reason we don't fly off the rails."
He swallowed. "The rest of us—Vergil, Nero, even Trish—we're all caught in our own storms. But you… you keep the ground solid under us. And we're too fucking broken to say that out loud."
Her breath caught. That one landed.
"We are all scared," he said. "So we pretend we don't care."
She blinked—fast, sharp. He saw her jaw twitch as she swallowed it down.
"And if you stopped?" he said, stepping closer. "I wouldn't forget you."
"Wouldn't you?" she whispered.
He shook his head. "I couldn't if I tried. Even when you're gone. Especially then."
She looked at him like she didn't know whether to hit him or fall apart.
"And if you really want to know?" he said, quieter now, one last confession sliding free. "If you really stopped—I wouldn't have a reason to keep going either."
Her eyes widened, stunned. "Dante—"
"You're everything." His words were hoarse. Terrified. True. "And I don't know when that happened. But it did. And I've been trying to swallow it down for years—because if I say it out loud, I don't know what the hell that means for either of us."
"Why now?" Her voice was low, ragged, like the question had clawed its way up through too much wreckage.
She wanted to say it—I don't want to be left behind.
But she couldn't. The words lodged like shrapnel in her throat.
Because if she said it, it would become real.
Because being human meant being precious—or useless.
Because even now, still fighting, Dante was treating her like she was the center of his universe.
And he saw it—finally saw it:
That she wasn't just angry.
She was terrified.
She had always been.
Terrified that the second she stopped bleeding with them, they'd put her behind glass and call it love.
She didn't speak. Just stood there, shaking. Breath gone. Ground gone.
And it was his turn to flinch—his turn to fear that he'd just lost her by trying to protect her.
The door's still half-open, bleeding dusk light across the floor. Her boots left scuffed dirt in the entryway, and Dante can hear the slow, steady drip of blood from where it clings to the sleeve of her coat. It hits the tile like the second hand of a busted clock.
Lady hasn't moved.
He hasn't either.
"Say something," he mutters, finally. It's not a demand—it's a plea.
She shakes her head once. Not in refusal. Just trying to stay steady.
Then she turns, slow and mechanical, and walks past him. Not away—just around. She picks up her gun from where she threw it. Hands don't shake, but her jaw's locked tight. She sits on the edge of the old couch, leans forward, rests her forearms on her knees. Doesn't look at him.
Dante watches her for a long time.
Then quietly crosses the room and sits down beside her, just out of reach.
The silence stretches again. This time, it's a pressure cooker.
"…You gonna take that back?" she asks, finally. The words are paper-dry. But there's something underneath them. Something scared.
He doesn't pretend not to know what she means.
"No."
She swallows. "Even if I can't give you anything back?"
He looks over, eyebrows furrowed. "Who the hell said you had to?"
Lady flinches like that hit a raw nerve. Doesn't answer.
Dante sighs and leans back, elbows on the top of the couch, head tipped toward the ceiling like he's trying to think through the drywall.
"I'm not asking for anything, Lady. I never was. You think I've stuck around all this time because I was waiting on a payout?"
"No," she says, too fast, too defensive. Then quieter: "No. I just didn't want you to… expect me to be more than I am."
He turns to look at her again, softer now. "You are more. Even when you don't try to be."
She doesn't respond. Can't.
So he keeps going, words low and uncharacteristically careful. Like talking to a cornered animal.
"I didn't fall for some idea of you. I fell for you. The one who drinks like she's trying to forget, fights like she's got nothing left to lose, and still shows up every time it counts."
Lady's mouth twitches. Not a smile. A crack in the armor. "That sounds like someone with a death wish."
Dante huffs. "Yeah. You and me both."
A beat.
"I don't know how to do this," she admits. Her voice is rough. Exhausted. "I don't know how to be seen like this."
"I know," he says. "That's why I never pushed."
Another long silence. Then—
"I really thought you'd get sick of me eventually," she says, like it's a confession. "Too much blood. Too many broken parts."
He looks at her, eyes shadowed but steady.
"I don't scare easy."
She finally glances over at him. Meets his eyes. And this time, it's her who softens first.
"…Yeah," she mutters. "I noticed."
The corner of his mouth twitches. Almost a smile.
They sit like that for a while. Not touching. Not needing to. Just bleeding and breathing together. Side by side.
Eventually, Lady leans her head back against the couch and closes her eyes.
"…I'm tired," she says. Not just tonight. All of it.
"I know," he says.
She exhales, long and shaky. For once, she doesn't argue.
Dante disappears into the back without a word.
She stays where she is, eyes closed, trying not to feel the ache spidering through her ribs or the sting in her shoulder where something clawed deep. She hadn't even noticed the limp until she sat down. Hadn't let herself feel it.
By the time he comes back, she's sure the moment's passed. The big emotional thunderclap. The shouting, the confessions. The mess.
But he doesn't treat it like it's over.
He crouches in front of her, quiet and unhurried, and sets the old medkit down between them. Same dented box she's seen him use for years. It's not a fix-all, but it's something. And he presses it into her hands like it means more than that.
Like it's an offering. Not help, not pity. Just something solid to hold on to.
She stares at it.
Doesn't move.
"Here," he says, soft.
Her fingers curl around the box like it might vanish. The latch sticks like always. Her knuckles are scraped raw.
He doesn't push. Doesn't touch her. Just waits.
When she gets the lid open, the sight of the contents—the antiseptic, the bandages, the butterfly closures, the thread and needle—hits her harder than it should. Because it means she's expected to survive this.
It means someone wants her to.
The first tear slips before she notices. Quiet. Undramatic. Just a tremor on her face.
She drops her head and presses the heels of her hands into her eyes. Too late. Her shoulders are already shaking.
"Fuck," she breathes. Not angry. Just wrecked.
Dante moves then. Not fast. Just enough.
He sits beside her again, closer now, and gently taps his shoulder against hers.
"I got you," he says.
No pressure. No grabbing. Just the words. A steady presence.
"I got you."
Lady lets the medkit fall from her lap, leans forward, and covers her face with both hands. Her whole body folds inward like something's finally given out. The tears come silent and brutal—too many years of holding it in, of never letting herself grieve since the night when 'Lady' was born.
He doesn't tell her to stop.
He just sits with her while she cries for all the parts of herself she killed to stay sharp enough to survive.
And she doesn't cry alone.
Dante doesn't say anything, but waits until the shaking fades into silence.
Her hands go slack in her lap. She doesn't look at him. Doesn't stop him when he shifts closer and reaches for the medkit.
She can't meet his eyes, but she doesn't pull away. And that's permission enough.
He starts with her shoulder—careful fingers undoing the blood-stiffened fabric. The claw marks are deep but not fatal. Not with stitches. Not with time. He's patched worse.
He doesn't make a sound. Doesn't comment on the bruising. Just works.
Clean, thread, tie. A rhythm he learned over a decade ago.
Lady watches the floor.
When his knuckles brush her collarbone, she flinches—but not from pain.
He pulls back. Waits.
She doesn't say no.
So he keeps going. Her ribs next, binding them with steady hands. There's an apology in the gentleness, though he never speaks it.
By the time he finishes, she's listing sideways, exhaustion winning out. Her eyes are glassy, unfocused.
"Lie down," he says, barely above a whisper.
She blinks at him like she doesn't understand the words.
He pulls the blanket from the back. Doesn't ask again—just guides her there with careful hands.
She doesn't argue.
When she lies down, she does so like a woman who's forgotten how.
She's asleep by the time Trish knocks on the door. He cracks it open, steps outside into the night. Trish looks him up and down, then past him, to the dim shape curled under the blanket just barely visible through the open door. "How bad?"
"She'll live," Dante says. His voice is raw. "But she finally broke. And I think… I think she needed to."
Trish nods once. No judgment. Just understanding. "She in pain?"
"Not from the wounds," he says.
Trish's eyes soften. "She still thinks we don't need her, doesn't she?"
He nods.
"She's an idiot," Trish says, voice quiet. "But so are you."
That gets a bitter, tired laugh out of him. "Yeah."
She rests a hand on his arm. "We've been waiting in the van. Nero didn't say it, but he's been pacing holes in the dirt since. Nico's the one who called me."
"You all didn't have to come."
Trish looks at him like he's said something stupid. "Of course we did."
From inside, there's a small sound—just a shift, the rustle of fabric. But she doesn't wake.
Doesn't even stir.
Dante glances back. Watches her for a long second. "She's sleeping."
Trish's expression softens even further. "Good. She never does."
He doesn't answer. Just stands there with the door half-closed, as if afraid letting it shut all the way might break the spell.
Inside, the shop is quiet.
Lady breathes deep and even, her face slack with something close to peace. There's a smear of dried blood at her temple, a fading bruise on her jaw, but she sleeps like she hasn't in years. No tension. No fight. Just stillness.
Dante returns, sinks into a chair across from her, elbows on his knees, watching her like he's making sure she won't disappear.
Outside, voices murmur. Trish telling Nero to sit down. Nico cracking a joke too quiet to hear. A laugh that might be real.
It all filters through the crack—muffled warmth, like a lullaby.
She doesn't stir. Doesn't need to.
For the first time in over a decade, she feels safe enough to rest.