Love, According to Dante

Dante did not scream at all the night of Trinity's return. Trish somehow could not sleep without it and the next morning, it shone in her tired blue eyes, her lethargic movement and laconic responses.

"Did you sleep well at all last night?" Dante asked, not out of concern but irritability after she hung up from a call. He side -stepped Mr. Agnew when he came around him to dust his stuffy office.

"Not much. I'm kind of frustrated that I have to catch up with yesterday's back orders."

"Well, we closed early for a good reason."

"Suit yourself," Trish yawned. "You have a client in about four hours."

Dante stared down at her in his crimson desk chair, watching her lap her long, slender legs lazily and rock in it slightly. He reached out a kind hand and touched her bare shoulder soothingly.

"Watch it," he mumbled, despite his soothing action, his voice was ridden with warning. Trish did not let him see her cut her eyes coldly at him.

"Four hours?" He echoed, looking at the clock above the door. "I'll give Trin a tour of the old place before then."

Trish rolled her eyes. "She's already doing that. Don't you think I could use some help in here?"

Dante shook his head dismissingly. "You're my number one, Trish. You can handle it."

She watched him leave, listening to the clank of his staff thin out and wished she could believe that.

An improvement shone about Dante face and the vast halls of his old mansion, it was obvious that Trinity's angelic touch had inspired change in the place, now all the unlocked room doors were open and sunlight poured in through every window, painting the halls in a specter of light. Currently, his ears were leading him, for a soft score of music was coming from one of the upstairs rooms, and he imagined that Trinity had stumbled upon an old record player he had yet to discover. He had missed her in his sleep, and he could not help but feel his pulse quicken as he approached the room, calling to her softly.

When she did not answer, and he found himself at the door watching the sunlight pour into the room she was in, illuminating the dust that was scattered about the place, and he did not also seem to mind the smell of rotting books and stale air. Neither did Trinity, the beautiful thing was sitting with her back to him, sifting through a pile of vintage records. Lizst, Bach, Brahm, Debussy, Choplin, De Falla. Dante tilted his head inquisitively at her, and again, the smile he fought to conceal escaped, and his eyes danced at the sight of her.

"Good morning, Angel." He greeted. As if he had startled her, she got up to face him, surprised.

"Ace," She greeted.

He leaned on his staff and nodded off at the old gramophone "Do you like it?"

She nodded at him. "Love it," she returned, watching him slowly advance with the aid of his cane.

"You're listening to La vida Breve. My favorite."

He hobbled in, stopping just short of her. She placed her hand over his—the one he held cupping the cane. Dante stood erectly still, tensing as she touched him.

"Do you dance?" She asked him. Dante gave her a slightly unbelieving look.

"You know I don't." He fastened his grip on the cane when he felt her sliding it away.

"I can't," he admitted, drawing away from her.

"Try," she insisted, gently freeing him of his aid. She found it surprisingly heavy, but she propped it against a bookshelf on the far wall. Instantly, Dante shifted his weight to maintain his balance. She took hold of each hand and allowed him to lean on her slightly for support. Her watched cautiously her feet, moving away from him and pausing in wait for him to step up to her. He fared well, leaning against her only when he sought to drag the left leg toward her.

She side-stepped to his left so that he first had to move the bad leg to follow her. He seemed to be concentrating intensely, going along with her little game solely for the purpose to amuse her. She nodded approvingly at his progress, then, much to his surprise, she released him and completely stepped away. Off guard, he staggered but caught himself, leaning on the good leg to keep him upright. He looked toward the shelf for his cane when he released that she'd led him quite away from it.

"Come to me, Ace," she beckoned, gesturing for him to come.

He, at first impulse, wished to call off the exercise and demand his cane, however, at this sight of her calling to him, he thought not. Calling as she had done some many times before in his dreams and in his nightmares. He could not deny her to himself. She had, for some reason other than the obvious, reserved a place in his heart. Not in the sense that Trish had- but he had a longing for Trinity that he never had for Trish. Trinity was someone—in all truth—an angel that made his pulse race. He was drawn to her as a moth to the flame.

Before he could stop himself, he had hobbled forward a few steps, and, snapping quickly from his foolish bliss, he reached out a hand to her for her assistance. She took it, and he, never before holding anything as gently as he held her hand now, pulled her toward him. She came forward, oblivious to his intense and unshakable attraction, and supported him upright. At this moment he wished more than anything for her lips to meet his. He drew her in close to him and rest his chin in the crook of her neck, somehow relieved to feel her returning his advances—or so he thought.

"Ace, one day you'll walk independently again." She pulled away and went to the bookshelf to retrieve his cane. "Too soon to stop fighting."

Speechless, Dante nodded in agreement anyhow. He took the staff she offered him and watched as she bowed humbly before him.

"For the dance," she thanked in a teasing manner, a wry smile on her lips.

Dante lay staring at his scarred, calloused and slightly disfigured hands. The imprint of Alastor's handle had nearly branded him. Yes, he could clench and strangle, but could those same hands be used lovingly, to comfort? He wondered why Trinity had never given herself away to liking him if she indeed did at all. Perhaps it was his face—but Dante had always been handsome. No, he was not self-conscious or egotistical in the sense of vanity, but he was undeniably, devilishly handsome. His lumbering condition, maybe? He flinched slightly at the visual representation that flashed before him. Perhaps it was that-his lack of sanity—the glitch in his decaying memory that flashed a brief image of a past nemesis or dispute. It only took that fraction of a second image to set him on defense.

Maybe it was this that Trinity turned away from, not him, although she did not know about it. The disquieting fact was that he didn't care, not that he didn't want to—but he couldn't. In his eyes, there was no reason why he should repel Trinity. He didn't even know why he longed for her so much, when their brief union, 33 years ago had produced a son, a son who greatly contributed to Dante's current madness. But that was 33 years ago, a union he barely remembered because it was in no way exceptionally sensual or memorable. He had had sex, but never in his life had he made love. Was he ready to start? There came a light rapping of feminine knuckles against his bedroom door. He looked up briefly.

"It's open."

Trish pushed open the door and peeped in.

"What's up? He asked, sliding a black wife beater over his bare chest. He swung his legs over the edge of the bed and bent over his knees to fish a motorcycle boot out from under his bed.

"Customer's outside for you," she announced before turning to leave.

"Okay. Hey, Trish, come here." She turned back around and came to him, attempting to hide her slightly hurt countenance. She was successful.

"Help me with this boot, will you?" He was not exactly asking. He threw the shoe at her and she caught it, stooping just between his legs to put the boot on his bum leg. He sat solemnly staring down at her as she took her time adjusting the buckles to his liking. She felt his fingers dancing in her hair and she tensed, sighing heavily to ease the tension within.

"Don't tell Trinity about me, okay?"

Trish felt her face redden immediately and she wished he would stop playing in her hair. It was not for intentions of pleasure but to establish his alpha male position. She was his. In other words, there was no need for him to verbally or physically remind her, so long as she remembered that he, despite his condition, remained dominant. He smoothed out her hair and brought her face up to look at him.

"If it isn't obvious, don't tell her." He glared almost viciously into her blue eyes with his green. She nodded slowly, feeling his fingers tighten against her face. She noticed him dart his eyes frantically about her, looking toward her but not at her. He trembled slightly.

"Dante," she called softly, placing her hands on his forearms. He did not respond.

"Dante," she said firmly, shaking him. He blinked finally and released her, coming to terms again with where he was.

"What did you see?" She asked, concerned look about her. He shook his head apologetically.

"Nothing," he lied partially. He always did see something, but it was never any reoccurring image or segment that lasted long enough for him to place it with a memory or make an association. He reached to the bed where he'd propped his cane and anchored it into the floor to rise.

"Handle this customer, will you? I want to show Trinity around tonight." Trish almost countered his request, but her heart had fallen too deeply the instant he said those words, that she felt she'd have given her hurt away if she spoke.