Title: Unconditional
Words: 1867
Characters: Vergil, Lady, not romance, but a bit of tension. An old fic.
Rating: PG-13 for slight blood.
Summary: They're teaming up, because there's humans and demons dying side by side tonight.
Here comes the woman Here comes the man -devil inside, INXS
With the look in her eye
Words as weapons sharper than knives
With the look in his eye
Fed on nothing
But full of pride
Makes you wonder how the other half live
=8=
In the dark of the forest, the chill is the kind that seeps into a person's skin; the density of the sky bleeds a grey colour, marking the closing of the day. She is aware of many things this evening: the smell of a demon's blood—sulfuric, burning the passage in her nostrils, diving down to clutch at her lungs. The smell of dead leaves scatters beneath her boots crunches loud. Her sighs are heavy, leaning her weight against the Kalina Ann; the blood has dried, thickened globs clung in black.
She looks first at Vergil, from across her who had dispatched a malevolent shadow demon, which took the son of Sparda's shape, using the refracted light from the sheets of metal that rained from the sky. Vergil had slain the enemy quickly, taking care of the rest that were making their way to Lady. In the end, they witnessed the bloodshed, the display of carcasses that lie along the dead leaves, covering parts of the fallen decayed flesh.
Vergil wipes his Yamato clean, lifting the smooth thin scabbard on his side to drop the now shining blade smoothly into its place. He looked undisheveled; remarkably without a fluster, not a stray single silver ribbon of hair slid out of place. Moving in an elegant fashion, he bowed slightly as if to remind Lady of her slight delay. She pursed her lips and pulled the blade out of the demon's body, the sound of a squishing noise greeted them, splattering parts of the flesh into the cannon.
There is a cabin up ahead, in the middle of the forest, and as it was once occupied by humans now slain, they travelled together to gather any other evidence of demonic energy. Lady pushes the door open, without a creak, busted glass distributed along the bloodied carpet. Her boots press over the crushed pieces, and her eyes followed the direction of where the blood had made its way towards the top of the stairs.
"Looks like we're too late here." She says this not without frustration.
There is a human's head atop the flight of stairs, and the bodies that lay along the way were broken in pieces, like they were ripped apart by claws. Lady swallowed, hated it that she couldn't save any. She felt a hand on her shoulder, turning somewhat to see Vergil's slender, pale fingers, the arched white elegant brows now brought together as in uneasy consideration.
"There's nothing to be done."
She scoffs, "Yeah, I know. Want to see the rest of the house?"
There's a chandelier above them, about as old as a wild west's saloon, where the dripping candles still kept flickering flames. The sofa has been ripped apart, claw marks evidence of the demon that came and went. Below, the floor is ripped open to reveal a gaping hole to the basement, where more dead bodies lay. Splintered wood beneath the stained carpet is pointing straight towards the flames; there is the television set, old and punched in, turned over. There's cabinets thrown over the chairs and the small table that had collapsed, a human beneath with their arms and fingers, hands clutching at something in death.
Lady turns to Vergil, "You feel anything?"
"Nothing here."
It's strange to hear Vergil so solemn tonight, without insult to her; Lady presses forward, agile and quick along the corpses. He follows behind. They reach to a door that's not open, taking Lady a moment to pause. Her companion moves too quick, the room reveals what they couldn't believe.
There's a bed, white sheets unstained, canopied high, looking as grand from a mid-century chamber out of a photograph, perhaps from some castle; smells of lavender, roses and a mixture of berries waft in the air. By the bed, a long oval mirror, white-washed wood, elegant design on the handles and feet sat silent and ghostly. A dresser a little a ways with gold trimmed handles shows two open drawers, a diaphanous gown hanging over the side. Beneath their feet, there's only a wide expanse of shiny, cherry clean wood, as if someone had waxed them before they came.
Lady gasps, looking up at the ceiling to see the same type of chandelier, as remarkably white-washed, except now, it's got all the candles still aflame.
"What the fu-?" She almost curses aloud, sucking in air that's too sweet for her. She feels Vergil move beside her, and he gestures to her that the window is slightly open, allowing a cool breeze in.
"It appears as if someone were waiting for us."
"You're very cool about it." Lady glares, narrows her eyes for effect, "yet, you say there's nothing here."
"Absolutely devoid of any demonic energy." He assures further, his eyes glinting gold from the yellow lighting, "it's completely untouched, remarkably enough."
She notices that he spots a chaise by the window, and he makes a gesture to sit there, bowing politely; though to Lady, she wonders if he's doing this as a mock gesture.
"Sit by the window? What this is?"
"I thought you could use a little rest."
"Vergil?"
He narrows his eyes; his voice is clipped, lacking seduction, "It's not in my nature to beg, Lady. Are you willing to challenge me? I'm too bored to attempt a fight." Even the insult's reassuring to her; it was Vergil being himself. She notices the stern line on his lips, then leans her head to one side, as if to actually scorn this decision.
The demon hunter in her, is on the verge--- about to argue, the tip of her tongue willful; strongly opposing to such a ridiculous request. But something told her, in the eyes, perhaps, there in Vergil's unmoving glacial stare, to sit quietly.
They sit together, a little apart, as much as the chaise allows them room; Vergil's too long legs nearly touching hers—where the dried blood has stuck on her thigh, the scrape of numerous scratches marking her skin.
He notices this: "Why you continue to wear shorts is beyond my comprehension; such threads only prove to mar your skin." He intoned indelicately, his arm braces over the side of the chaise, fingers nearly touching where her shoulders are pressing against the smooth, velvet texture.
"Concern over my choice of fashion, Vergil?" She sent him an arched brow, her gloved hand still holding the large cannon.
"Not at all," he breathed, "don't suck in the air too much, Lady, you don't possess the power to withstand what will come.."
"What?" Lady's eyes widen, "Vergil --?"
He holds up a hand, silencing her, "No. Let's talk about something else, shall we?" His eyes move along the immaculate walls, the silence in the beautiful chamber is deafening. There is only the light from the candles and it seems to glow in gold and blue shades, causing an eerie ambiance.
"All right," Lady nods, acknowledging, grasping for a subject, "What is your definition of family?"
He turns to her, his eyes turn ice; and she knows she's touching too close.
"You wish to know about my relationship with Dante?"
Shrugging, her body leans heavily against the chaise, feels Vergil's fingers touch; for a moment the tension builds.
"Yes, what do you know of unconditional love?" Lady asks.
"Unconditional." He says, quiet, as if tasting it on the tip of his tongue, "Blood relations, are usually unconditional."
"But not for anyone else?"
He shakes his head, slight.
"But why?" she wants to ask, not aware of his body tensing.
"Why what?" he leans closer, "you want to know why I want to kill him over and over again? Is that what's going on in your human mind?"
"You forget --," she grits, "that you're part human too."
He snorts inelegantly, disregarding her comment, his fingers drumming a little, deliberately touching the edge of her shoulder.
"Family. Blood. Yes, before hell, family was unconditional."
She detects nothing behind the tenor, falling deep into a decline, smooth as vanilla.
"And after?"
He tilts his head, moves his fingers so that they're touching her black strands that lay against her shoulder; she is uncomfortable by this slight touch and at the same time, she couldn't answer the reason why she breathes deep, bottomless like her clutching soul. It's been so long since her beloved mother; her gloved hand grips tight, muscles tighten. Her Kalina Ann is by her side; a protective piece that saves her life too many times.
"After, it's absolute; unrestricted like the way you love your weapon." Vergil's eyes glance to her cannon.
She feels the sting of tears in her eyes, her voice is shaky, "Is that all?"
"What do you mean, is that all?" He tells her this while he looks into her wet eyes, "
"Your father…" she clings onto the hope, that maybe, Sparda is, more than him and Dante combined…that the tales were true. All those readings, the ones she's heard from her own fallen father.
"He loved my mother unconditionally," he adds, as quickly as her fears had risen; they fell to the depths.
She swallows, closing her eyes, "My father,"
"Yes, I know him." A dispassionate reply, not entirely without irritation, "continue." He nods, his eyes glinting; silver wave of hair catching gold from the tiny flames. She looks to the strong nose, lean face; really looked where she could see traces of Dante and Sparda combined. Lady has seen photographs, memorabilia's, all of the kept memories of their mother and father.
"He says, to my mother, one day that his love was conditional. That his love would always be conditional when it came to her; but to me—it was different. I was blood."
They're quiet like that, staring at each other, as if assessing the weight of these words.
Not soon after, Vergil slides into action, as an apparition rose from the flooring beneath them; he struck into the ghostly image; the blue-glowing temporal knives are swirling above him as his powers ignite into action.
Lady's actions are just as quick, instinct maneuvering her away, just enough so that she's able to get a clear view of who they're dealing with. It's over too quick. Because by the time she's got herself backed up against the side of the bed, where the darkened blood on her naked legs stain the immaculate sheets, she's only half way to pulling her twin pistols out.
Vergil slides the Yamato back in place, the sound is a whisper and a clean tear. He turns to Lady, "It's over."
"I can see." She reaches over to push her bangs aside, her hair has gotten a little long, where the black tendrils are sticky with blood on her shoulders, "Is this why you wanted me to sit by the window?"
"It's not a demon, if that's what you're wondering."
"I believed you."
"That's a first of many." He sends her a smirk, but it disappears as soon as it's shown. Vergil is once again, the face of a hard-masked angel. Angel…Lady wonders why she compares him to a face of an angel; and even angels, she remembers from her reads as a child. They're manifested into demons after the fall.
"A ghost that doesn't want to leave?" She sends him a smirk this time.
He almost laughs, "You actually believe?"
She rolls her eyes, "It's not as if I can't believe anything else; what's next, would be, the lochness monster?"
"You're a century too late."
Her fine, dark brows arches; blue and reds mystified, "Wait -…"
"The conditions of my father's immortality."
--it's hard to believe that we need a place called hell
--fin.