Author's notes:

This piece of fiction contains: violence, strong language and sexual themes.

You've been warned, read at your own discretion.

Out-of-character-ness is very much possible to be encountered while reading this story. The characters within this fic are mash-ups of their anime and game (but not the newest game – DmC) selves. Furthermore, the situations are not of the usual setting portrayed in the canon universes, their interactions and inner thoughts deliberately differ because such are not part of the original material – therefore things are compliant to the scenario. So, some may find this to be OOC – if you cannot stand OOC-ness, do not read this.

If you can't stomach any sort of grammatical incorrectness - turn away now. Half-assed complaints about my grammar do not interest me, spare your time and don't write them.

Mirror Bound

Chapter one

I won't say adieu

And it all starts with her walking out the door, he contemplates. No, scratch that, it begins earlier than that. It all starts with a nasty scowl that graces the demoness's features. Oh yes that's right, Dante agrees with himself, as he downs cheap tequila from a dirty glass.

Trish sits on the battered couch, as one of her crossed legs, clad in fake leather, twitches angrily. But the hunter's too oblivious to see. The tension that's surrounding her is just like electricity. And the half-devil snorts at the thought, there's no 'like' about it. He only sees her barely dressed body by the corner of an eye.

Tap tap tap, he's too engrossed with the wooden-pick that had arrived with his preferred dessert. The shiny paper top on it had been stripped away and now was glaring daggers at its aggressor from down the floor. But Dante's just swirling the makeshift toothpick in between his lips – ignorant in all its bliss.

Tap tap tap.

The phone's all silent. Hands behind his head, relaxing in that comfy, squeaky chair, but that tapping of her foot doesn't stop. And now the demon hunter's eyes are on that enraged woman in front of him. It's not like it's not fun to watch her – if that's all the demonette wants. Not likely, as her head is turned, gaze somewhere, where he's just not in picture. Dante chews on the piece of wood in his mouth, while his mind is running to the place where Trish could be.

The tapping of her foot just doesn't stop. And he's all frustrated and shouting in his mind now, reeling with the quest to find the reason of his partner's wrath. But that's all in vain, as always. He furrows his brow as he scolds himself for being all strength – no brain. And here the restless beating of the floor abruptly stops. Oh the half-devil's all eyes and ears now. And then her face contorts into something he'd never thought that he would see. Until she came around that is.

Trish's all molded perfectly into the visage that never has expressions such as this. And the hunter is all angry with himself, for thinking about her like that – confusing the demoness with one of the dead. It's Eva's face that's all calm and smiling etched into his memory forever. And he just calls her that because she's past, simply a dark shadow, a glassy picture on his desk. And Dante thinks it's better to leave the dead just as they are – dead.

The demonette stands up so fast that it leaves a blur of a shadow in his eyes. She strides away neither quickly nor slowly and just as gracefully as ever. So he barks out something just to get a hint to where that black glinting leather covered body's headed to. Dante half-expects her to hiss something about him not minding his own business.

"To bed" that's all she offers for a reply. It's neither sad nor angry sounding, it's just so very cold. The half-blood shudders as he hears the door slam shut.

And now that she's gone, he's free to show all his bewilderment. The clock, he's having a starring contest with, is telling lies. It must be! It's nine in the evening and sure the sun had set, but it's still nine in the evening. Never, and he repeats to himself, never, not fucking ever, do they go to sleep earlier than three in the morning.

The demon hunter leans his head onto his leather-gloved hand as he tries to sort this out. There had been no calls as of today and he foresees – there won't be any. He puffs an angry breath. Of all days – today, all Hell decides to take a holiday, it's just so fucking peachy. Oh yeah, and it's doing wonders to his wallet. So he thinks whether it's the lack of kill that had ruffled her feathers. Dante counters his statement with the simple fact that Trish hadn't seemed disturbed by this at all, that is until she snapped. Or it's just that it seemed that way. He dramatically lifts his hands up in the air and then slams his head into the tabletop – how's he supposed to know what made her mad? He bangs his head a couple more times – just for good measure.

The next morning proves to be uneventful. Dante wakes up from an annoying sound. It turns out to be his alarm-clock, which is immediately thrown into the nearest wall. Albeit sleepily, he adds the object, that had dared to deny him slumber, to his 'shopping' list. The tousled man groggily ponders the empty bottle of whiskey that he's cradling to his bare chest, the fact that he was woken up by that thing (that he's too insulted to name right now) and also the mystery of the missing blanket.

First things first – the demon hunter declares to himself, as he sits up and rubs his face. If he does this 'solving the case' thing right, maybe he'll find the reason as to why he's freezing his ass off without his blankee. Oh and it doesn't matter that it's the middle of July. The half-devil narrows his eyes, as he mentally prepares himself for this extremely hard task...

The bottle. Is there any need for a reason to drink? He quickly answers his own question with a 'Hell no' and moves on. Before smashing the cheap timepiece, he noticed that it showed one pm, nothing unusual there, he always wakes up 'round noon. But why was it even on? The question proves to be much more difficult and Dante smashes his face into his pillow. It turns out to be made of lead or something of the sort, since the impact sends a hefty jolt of pain into the hunter's forehead. It causes lots of hissing and cursing.

In between the swearing in his thoughts and aloud, he concludes that the pain in the front side of his head must be from some fight he can't remember. Dante snorts and thanks himself for drinking so much that he can't remember half of the shit that was yesterday. He closes his eyes and tries to concentrate harder on the important matter – the abducted piece of cloth. Because really, his tight black boxers (albeit sexy, he adds) ain't providing much warmth.

Why the alarm-clock had been on anyways, heck he hadn't used that old piece of crap since... Hell, he can't even remember since when. Because the best and cheapest wakeup call is Trish. She usually kicks the door and drags him out of bed by hair. All those painful stairs...

Trish! Dante's eyes flash open. That explains everything! And he gives himself a short retrospective of what happened last night: no jobs, she snaps, she walks, he thinks, he drinks, crawls drunk into his bed, sets alarm clock and... And that's it!

Full of energy from his new findings the half-devil rushes from his bed. Only he gets tangled in his own long legs, as one of his feet gets stuck into the gash that's gapping in the mattress. And then he greets the floor with his face, his feet still on the bed. He doesn't curse this time, since his swears had all been wasted on the first assault of his face. He simply mutters into the carpet 'Rebellion' – the name of his sword. The tear in the middle of his double-bed, he recalls, had been made by it. For what reasons – he can't tell. Because once, he had woken up with one of the biggest hangovers ever, Dante found his sword sticking out of the mattress. He angrily disconnects his feet from the insides of the bed and finds to have fallen on the missing blanket. All rage forgotten, he scavenges his clothes and leaves to get some breakfast.

A lonely morning, a few curses here and there, a few cuts on Dante's fingers and breakfast too passes without any memorable events. All afternoon goes pretty much the same. There had been a call and he had taken it. A petty hunt for such a hunter. The demon died before he could even squeal and there's not a speck of blood on Dante's coat – which proves it. Few bucks here and there can't hurt. The half-blood thinks as he lights a cigarette and props his feet onto his desk.

Speaking of demons, he turns his head towards the stairs, she hasn't left the house all day. Her bike still stands in front of his shop. He simply shrugs.

Not long after Dante extinguishes his smoke he hears the deviless's heels colliding with the floor. About time, he thinks and watches her descend. He can't hide the mask of shock that forms onto his face – something's not right. Trish's hair is pulled up with a big hairclip, the pony-tail barely reaching her shoulders. There's a short leather jacket pulled onto her thin frame, she's wearing small, oval sunglasses she said she'd picked up in Vienna… But it's not her garb that makes him wear the look of a hurt little child. No, it's what's thrown over her shoulder and is held by her dainty little hand with long black fingernails. There's a back-pack... A small triangle-shaped black leather bag.

He simply gapes at the demonette as she struts her way towards the doors. He hears the shop-bell and the door creak. And so she leaves.

He can already hear the word 'fuck' repeating in his head, like some sick little mantra.

And so she leaves...