Chapter Text
It's late. The shop is closed, dimly lit by the old yellow bulbs and painted in long shadows by the neon glow from outside. Dante's at his desk with his feet up, rolling a coin over his knuckles while you rummage through the cabinets.
Glass clinks, and you slam the cupboard door. “You never have anything decent to drink.”
“You just have to adjust your definition of decent.”
You shoot him a half-hearted glare before pulling out the bottle of cheap bourbon you've passed over three times already. With a grimace, you pour yourself a glass and come to lean against the desk while you drink it.
Dante flips his coin, catching it midair but then almost dropping it. Unease slithers through him. Something’s … off. The back of his neck prickles. It's you. You don't smell right.
He knows your scent probably better than his own. Through years of fighting and fooling around, he'd know you anywhere. But now? You've changed. Not bad, but different.
As subtly as he can, he inhales deep through his nose. There's something there, under your usual mix of gunmetal and denim. Beneath even the faintest trace of your shampoo lurks a new warmth. A richness. It makes his devil side twitch. Okay, that's definitely weird.
He stares at you as you down your bourbon. At least you look the same.
“You switch up your deodorant or something?”
You turn to him, eyebrow raised. “The hell kind of question is that?”
“I dunno. You just … smell different.”
For a second, you just blink at him. Then you snort. “I don't smell of anything. You're probably brain-damaged from all the head trauma.”
You push off the desk, taking the bottle with you as you head for the couch. He watches you, his hackles still decidedly raised. His gut tells him to drop it but, for some reason, he can't.
His demonic instincts never act up just for the sake of it. And right now, they won't stop.
Something is definitely going on.
He keeps it to himself, and after a few days, he's used to your new scent. Everything goes back to normal. Until the next time you're working a job together.
On the outskirts of the city, an abandoned warehouse rings with the clash of blades and the clap of gunfire. A deep, guttural growl echoes off the cracked concrete.
Dante's on fire—not literally, but wild and fast as lightning. His boots skid across the bloodstained floor as he slices through a demon, sending its corpse crashing into a rusted-out shipping container.
Across the battleground, you're a blur, your blade flashing in the flickering lights. You're quick and wily, like you always are. But there's something strange about the way you move.
He doesn't register it at first, too busy planting a bullet between a demon's eyes. But something flickers in the back of his mind when he glances your way. You're still keeping up, still deadly, but … you're slightly slower than usual.
No one else would notice. But Dante does. You hesitate before striking, a half-second delay that wouldn't normally be there. And when you dodge a swipe from the cat-like demon's claws, you stumble. Barely. It's just a fraction of a misstep, but he sees it.
His gut tightens, his devil half rearing.
The demon pounces again, sabre teeth bared. You recover your footing in an instant, twisting away and chopping the creature in half. But Dante's moving towards you before he even thinks about it, just in case.
In case of what?
“You getting slow on me, sweetheart?” He's grinning, but eyeing you closely.
You roll your eyes, catching your breath. “Please. I'm kicking way more ass than you.”
“Debatable.”
Another demon tries its luck, and Dante steps in front of you, cutting it down before it can even look at you the wrong way.
You scowl. “I didn't need you to do that.”
He chuckles, shaking the blood off his sword. “Yeah, yeah. Just figured I'd help you out.”
You scoff, but you don't argue. You don't have the breath for it. And that's when Dante really notices, you're breathing heavier than usual. He wouldn't say winded, exactly, but your stamina isn't where it should be.
He doesn't mention it, but the nagging feeling from the other night settles deeper into his chest. It doesn't go away, not even hours later when you're both safely back at the shop, another job well done.
Devil May Cry is quiet, except for the rinky-tink music coming from the Nintendo you hooked up to the TV. You're sprawled across the couch, one arm thrown over your face, controller drooping from your fingers.
He leans against his desk, arms crossed, watching you. You're worn out. More than you should be. Should he say something? Maybe if he keeps it casual, tests the waters.
“Feeling off or something?”
You peek at him from under your arm, frowning. “I'm just tired. Didn't get much sleep last night, did I?”
That's his fault. He kept you up until the early hours, and you were plenty energetic then. But he shakes his head before the memory can distract him. His late-night shenanigans don't normally slow you down.
“You sure you ain't coming down with something?”
You sit up and stretch, groaning. “Relax, mother hen. I'm fine.”
He watches you a second longer, then sighs. He rubs his jaw. “Yeah, okay.”
What's wrong with him? Why can't he leave you alone? Maybe he needs more sleep.
Despite his hopes, you haven't perked up by the next day. It's barely night, really more of a late evening, the bedroom curtains doing a piss poor job of blocking the streetlight outside.
There's an old cop show on the TV at the foot of the bed and whisky glasses on the nightstand. Normal.
Except for you. You're curled up next to him, dead asleep.
That's not unusual on its own—you crash here all the time. More often than not, these days. But tonight it's different. You passed out early, like, way early.
One minute you were sitting up beside him, flipping through a beat-up old book, barely paying attention to his riveting conversational skills. The next, you were out. Not just dozing, but deeply asleep, your breathing slow and steady.
He frowns, draining his glass and setting it down with a soft clink. Normally, you'd be wide awake, teasing him or hogging the remote. Maybe you'd pick a fight just to keep things interesting. Tonight, you barely lasted an hour before tapping out.
That itchy feeling at the base of his skull re-emerges. He gazes down at you, taking in the little details he might sometimes miss. You're warmer than usual, single handedly keeping the bed nice and toasty, and your breathing is heavier.
You're curled in on yourself in a way that feels significant for some reason. So far into the back of his mind that it may as well be subconscious, there's a protective murmur. He's never felt like this before.
His fingers drum against the comforter. “Out cold, huh?”
Nothing. It's fucking weird. You've always been a light sleeper, the kind that tenses at the slightest sound, ready for a fight before you're even fully awake. Now, you don't even stir when a car chase comes on the TV, police sirens blaring.
Slowly, he lays on his side next to you, resting his head on his hand. Watching you. You still smell funky; lush and almost sultry. His jaw tightens.
What the fuck is messing with him so badly? He'd give his left nut to know. But … somewhere extremely deep down, maybe he already does.
It's way too soon to start thinking things like that. Too ridiculous. He's being an idiot.
He reaches out, fingers faintly brushing against your wrist, as if he needs to confirm you're still real. With a sleepy murmur, you shift, turning towards his touch. You don't wake, but let out a quiet, contented sigh as your body instinctively presses into the warmth of his own.
He freezes. His chest twinges. He pulls his hand away but it's no good; you're fully cuddled into his side now.
“What the hell's going on with you, baby?”
You don't answer. Lost in whatever dream world you've drifted off to, you breathe steadily and peacefully. He stares at your sleeping face for a moment longer, before reaching for the bottle on his nightstand. He needs a damn drink.
But he doesn't take his eyes off you for the rest of the night.
One afternoon, you're both back at the shop after a routine job in the morning. The place is a mess—papers scattered across the desk, empty bottles cluttering the floor. Dante never noticed how much cleaning you do around here until you stopped doing it. He should get a maid.
A pizza box sits between you on the couch, filling the air with the smell of melted cheese and grease. Dante takes a big bite of his slice, leaning back into the cushions. Across from him, you absently stir a spoon through a cup of coffee.
You frown down at the mug, staring at it like you're waiting for the liquid to change into something better.
“You planning to drink that?” he asks, mouth full. “Or are you just hypnotising it?”
You sigh, setting the spoon down on the table with a clink. “It tastes funny.”
“It's the same crap you always drink.”
“Hm.” You take another hesitant sip, only to wrinkle your nose and put the cup down, pushing it away like it's offended you.
He raises his eyebrows. “Coffee's finally betrayed you, huh? Never thought I'd see the day.”
“Shut up. It's just … I don't know. It tastes too bitter today.”
“Maybe your taste buds have finally developed some standards.”
You give him a look before shifting your focus to the pizza. Normally, you'd already be reaching for a slice, but you just stare at it. Your lips press into a thin line.
Dante pauses mid-bite. You're being fucking weird again. You never hesitate with food, especially not when he paid for it. He chews slowly, watching you like a hawk as you tear off a small piece of crust and pick at it like you don't even know if you want it or not.
“You feeling okay?”
You shrug. “Yeah, I'm just not that hungry.”
He swallows. Not hungry? How can you say that so casually, like it's nothing? You eat just as much as he does after a hunt.
His devil side bristles. And then you really throw him off.
You lean down to grab something from your bag where it rests by your feet. He expects you to pull out a bottle of hot sauce or maybe a bag of chips. Something normal.
But instead, you begin unwrapping a bright red candy apple. He blinks, trying not to laugh.
“Uh … what the hell is that?”
You toss the wrapper onto the table like it's nothing unusual. “It's a candy apple.”
“Yeah, no shit. But you don't eat stuff like that.” He points at you with his pizza slice. “You're a beer and steak kinda girl, not a fairground sweet treat kinda girl.”
“Both things can be true. Just because you have a grand total of five personality traits.”
You take a big crunchy bite, oblivious to the absolute chaos you've unleashed in his brain. The same woman who laughed in his face when he ordered his favourite sundae is now happily eating caramel-covered fruit like it's a goddamn regular occurrence. What the actual fuck?
He's getting antsy again. The scent, the exhaustion, the slowed reflexes … the not knowing was bad. Somehow, the certainty is worse.
That night, Dante still hasn't managed to come up with an alternate explanation. The jukebox hums softly, playing an old blues song while the traffic outside casts moving shadows across the walls. It should feel the same as any other night. But it doesn't.
Dante leans against the desk, nursing the last sip of bourbon in his glass. Across the room, you're curled up on the couch, deeply asleep. Again.
That's the part that gets him. It's not just tonight. It's happening more and more—you crash earlier, your energy dips before it should, your body shifting in ways you haven't even noticed yet. It's not going away just because he's ignoring it.
He can't ignore it any more.
Sighing, he scrubs a hand down his face. He was so hoping another explanation would present itself. Not because he wouldn't take responsibility, give him some credit, but because it's too … big. Too real.
Once he acknowledges this, everything changes.
He watches you sleep, his gaze settling on your stomach. For a second, he hesitates. Then, before he can think too hard about it, he moves. He crouches beside the couch, resting his forearm on his knee. His free hand hovers for a beat, then he presses his palm against your stomach.
His devil half responds immediately—a jolt, deep and instinctual, like recognition. His breath catches. His pulse thrums heavy in his ears. Holy shit.
He's spent his whole life tracking down infernal creatures, and right now there's one growing inside you. His.
He yanks his hand back, rocking on his heels. Is it hot in here? It's getting hard to breathe. His head spins.
He stands, wiping his sweaty palms on his pants. He can't move any further though, his feet now apparently blocks of ice.
Ah, fuck.