Lady gritted her teeth as the needle once more ducked under the mutilated skin of her shoulder and pulled the divided flesh together. Every once in a while, a bit of blood would roll down her back towards the silvery material of her bra, but Dante had managed to catch them all with a towel before they did any damage. She was trying with all the willpower she had not to let him know just how much it hurt. The demon-slayer-cum-surgeon in question did not require any such treatment himself. Any wound inflicted on him had sealed its self up seamlessly the instant it was incurred. Needles to say, hunting demons was a considerably less painful and dangerous process for Dante than it was for Lady, not that pain or danger deterred her in the least from doing so at every available opportunity.
Ever since the defeat of Arkham, the two had been routinely hunting together. They had found that having company was mutually enjoyable and, at least in Lady's case, considerably reduced the chance of death. It was on such an endeavor that Lady had gained a deep gash on her shoulder that clearly needed medical attention; luckily for her, Dr. Dante was on call.
"I'm going to wash it now," he said, tying the last of the stitches off and snipping the cord with a pair of scissors, "Are you ready?" She nodded and he poured a small amount of cheap whiskey on the wound. For a few fractions of a second, the liquid felt cool and nice on the torn skin. That was the cruelest part of disinfecting with alcohol- that it felt so soothing. After only a moment, it began to burn and burn badly.
'It's killing germs; it keeps me clean.' she recited in her head like a mantra. Her breath came shallow and ragged through clenched teeth, but she didn't make any noise as she suffered through the disinfections process. Smiling slightly, the man in red passed her the bottle from which she took several greedy swallows- taking in more whiskey at once than most can manage without coughing. It was sort of a ritual for them. That particular bottle of whiskey was now reserved for first aid and post-first-aid drinking.
"It's gunna leave a scar," He said, touching her shoulder gently and inspecting his handiwork.
"Well, it'll be in good company," Lady's voice was still a little shaky. After all the time they spent together, it never ceased to amaze Dante the will that girl had to keep up appearances. She would simply not show an ounce of weakness, even in front of him, the one person in the world she really trusted.
"You sure do have a lot of scars," he said, looking over the rest of her arm. She ignored the comment and took another swig. "Where's this one from?" Dante asked, pointing to a pink line on her lower-arm. Lady closed her eyes, trying to remember. The scars from lesser demons were harder to keep track of.
"I think…I think that one's from a Hell Vanguard."
"A Vanguard huh? How about this one?" For this question however, there was no hesitation.
"My father. It was the first time I found him after my mother… she…I… it was the second time I tried to…"
"And this one?" He asked, pointing to her most noticeable scar, the gash across her nose, and hoping to change the subject.
"My father, the night he killed my mother."
"These?" he said noticing a group of scars he had never seen before. They were scratches under her wrist.
"All my father." She said looking down. He looked at her but said nothing. Lady seemed like too stubborn a person to even think about suicide, especially when she had her self-imposed mission, but sometimes, things just get too much for people. People break. After all, Arkham had killed her mother—probably right in front of her too—who can say what that would do to a kid? She yanked her wrist away from him and stood up, "'You're killing yourself Mary!' He said to me, 'Every time you come after me it's no better than suicide,' he said," swallowing hard, she looked down at her wrist. She could still remember the exact feeling as Jester had slid his finger-nail through her skin, dividing the flesh softly as it went, "'and there's no salvation for suicides. Suicides go straight to hell, Mary!' he said 'Do you understand me?'… He was nuts you know."
"Babe, I-" Dante started, standing up.
"It's ok" she said softly. She wasn't really one to want sympathy, but she didn't back away when he put his arms around her. "Because now he's dead." She laid her head on his shoulder and took in the wonderful scent of leather and pheromones. There was a time that just thinking about her father made her blood boil; now, it just made her sad. The whole thing was just…sad to her. She was glad it was over. He ran his hand over the irregular skin of her back. It was smooth and soft in the places free of marrings. The scars weren't something he really minded. Even with them, she was unquestionably beautiful, and they gave her a sort of hardness that he found inexplicable attractive. His paused as he felt strangely shaped scar. Like most the others, it was just a straight line, but it seemed raised and bumpy, like both a cut and a burn. It was probably from some sort of enchanted sword. A demonic weapon, but certainly not the kind lesser demons would carry.
"Did that fucker give you this one as well?" He asked with his fingers lightly tracing the welt.
"No," she smiled, "A different fucker gave me that one. A big, stupid fucker in a big, stupid red coat." Dante looked down, uncomfortable. When they had fought in the library, he had not gone easy on her other than when it became clear she couldn't fight anymore.
"You did shoot me in the head," Dante scrambled to defend himself, "Most people die from head wounds. You did try to kill me. Are you forgetting that?" She ignored him and reached for the bottle the table. Lifting the bottle to her lips again, she smiled. Her smile was different from a normal girl's smile. It was more like a cat smiling: inscrutable. It was just as likely to mean that she was having a good time as it was to mean that she was about to stab you repeatedly in the torso, which for Dante, while hardly fatal, was still quite unpleasant.
"Come to think of it," she continued dreamily, "Each an every one of the fuckers that scarred me are dead. Save one. This last scar cries out for vengeance. Can you hear it, Dante?"
"No?" He answered tentatively, trying desperately to figure out what she was getting at. Most of the time, she was fairly reasonable, but more than occasionally she was not. There was nothing Lady enjoyed better than a good mind-game. Her mind was pretty much the only thing above Dante. It was her only weapon against him and she relished using it with ever opportunity. She was cute and strong and possibly one of the best lays Dante had ever had but he'd be damned if she wasn't a vindictive little bitch.
"Oh, but I can hear it. It says 'avenge me Lady! Aveeeeenge me,'" the voice of the scar was done high-pitched and loopily, like a ghost in a B-movie. "Keel the man who… who-" Lady laughed and the laughter turned into a snort. She had lost control of the mind game. The trick was not to laugh; once she laughed, he knew she was just messing with his head. Dante took the bottle out of her hand before she managed another drink. It seemed that his partner had consumed a little more of his 'first aide' than was strictly good for her. A tipsy Lady was a rare treat indeed; she almost never let her guard down. Dante fully intended to savor the situation. If it was a game she wanted, a game she would get. He wasn't letting her off that easily.
"Does it now?" he asked, stepping forward and forcing her to stumble back into the chair she was previously occupying. "Because you know what else wants vengeance? The fucking hole in my head, that's what."
Lady giggled and reached for the bottle of whiskey, which Dante held, out of her reach. Then she tried to get out of the chair, but Dante leaned over her, effectively pinning her in place. She giggled again and tried to squirm out from under him, but he just smirked and loomed even closer, pinning her more tightly. He gave her a few moments, just to fully understand what the situation had become, and allowing himself to savor the turning of the tables. His breath was warm on her bare skin, and he could hear the faintest ghosts of a moan when she exhaled.
"But it doesn't want blood, no, it want something else." He said softly, bringing his face close to hers, "Can you… imagine what… that… might… be?" the demon punctuated the last question with soft kisses around her neck and shoulders.
"Da… Dante" his name was barely a whisper on her lips. Dante smiled and pressed his mouth onto hers greedily. Oh, but he would savor this indeed. Perhaps Dr. Dante should be on call more often.