7

There are no more guns in the valley chapter 13

Long after the person in question has moved on, Vanitas' words continue to ring throughout Dante's head, like the tolling of bells foretelling an event he hasn't entirely understood yet. He turns the straw wrapper over and over in his hands, idly tearing it into tiny pieces that flutter faintly in the breeze. He'd known for a while that Vanitas and Mikhail's relationship was not the most healthy, but it had never been his place to question the morality or mechanics of such complex magic, and yet now that it's been forcibly placed before him all he feels is a great void of nothingness. Sets the useless pieces of paper aside and picks up the milkshake instead, slurping on it in hopes of quelling the ugly worries wriggling around in his brain. He ought to sort through them, compartmentalize them into what can be dealt with right now and what needs to wait for later, but even thinking of doing that brings a great wave of tiredness. Vanitas will be fine, he tells himself firmly; he's survived much worse than an unexpected road trip across the country. He's the son of two of the most powerful sorcerers in known history and one of the cleverest people that Dante has ever met, and yet even as he thinks through all the times that Vanitas has triumphed over his obstacles, in his mind's eye, he sees Vanitas' watery eyes. The way his lips had colored when he'd pinched them together, the tears catching on his eyelashes like pearlescent gemstones, and the gross way he had sniffled. He stares down at his hands, watching how they flex as if through some great haze. Only a few minutes prior, he had held that warm body in his arms and felt how wiry it was, almost to the point of being considered unhealthily thin. Dante has never made a habit of hugging Vanitas — partially because the man despises physical contact — but mainly because Dante himself is not the cuddly type. Over their ten years of acquaintance, he's carried Vanitas more times than he can count, hauling his too-light frame about like a misshapen bag of potatoes. He's never thought of Vanitas as being unhealthily light. "Dammit," Dante breathes, curling his hands into fists, "what have you gotten yourself into, Quack?"

The doorbell jingles merrily as a family of four walks in, the children excitedly chattering with each other about something while their mother looks on fondly. Dante stares at them, his emotions wrapping around his heart like the thorny vines of a parasite strangling the life out of its host. The taller of the three children waves his hands about and laughs loudly, walking backward without a care in the world. His happiness is as evident as his fair health and the quality of his clothing. He looks as if he has never had to work a day in his life, and suddenly Dante finds himself hating him, his mother, and his two sisters who look like two peas in a pod with their matching polka dot dresses. It's not fair, he thinks angrily; why is it that humans can wander their way through life without a care in the world, unaware of the trail of carnage and devastation they've left in their wake. The boy orders blithely but all Dante sees is the way Olivier had hid behind him, trembling, when Dante had placed his own food order. Even Mikhail had been uncharacteristically silent, only perking up again when they were safely tucked away in a booth, and Dante hates with a fiery passion that the two youngsters had been so justifiably terrified, hates the family even more with all of their glorious humanity, but most of all it is himself he despises for falling prey to such foul thoughts. Presses the heels of his palms against his eyes and forces himself to breathe but the anger doesn't fade; it remains an ugly boiling pit of rage as the family walk obliviously past his table and sits down in the next booth. He's close enough to hear their conversation but it's impossible to make out through the ringing in his ears. He stands up in a burst of awkward strength, gathers their trash onto the platter, and hurries over to the trash bins.

Inhales slowly, breathing in the scent of fries and questionable substances that make up Macdonald's products, and exhales just as carefully. Although the restaurant could hardly be called crowded, the last thing that he desires to do is attract the attention of well-intentioned humans. He's sure they're already suspicious of their little group, even if he hasn't noticed anyone dialing CPS. He eyes Mikhail through the plexiglass window, but the boy seems content enough standing on a swing as Olivier pushes him helpfully. They're fine, Dante tells himself, and makes for the exit needing a breath or three of fresh air. The parking lot is just as it had been earlier, a splattering of dusty trucks and road wary mini-vans parked mostly within the lines. Their car stands out not only because it is neither a truck nor a mini-van but because it is the only one with a devilishly handsome man sitting on its hood. One of Johann's long legs is planted on the ground, the other folded so he can rest an arm on his knee. A thin trail of smoke floats away from his head, and Dante's stomach dissolves into butterflies as it does every time he's blessed with the sight of Johann smoking. As if sensing his gaze, the man looks over his way, lips curling into a smirk that does little to soothe butterflies. With the sun reflecting off his hair, he appears far more ethereal than any other divine creature that Dante has ever met. Idly, he wonders if he has a thing for silver hair as his feet carry him ever closer until he finds himself standing before Johann. Without conscience thought, his hand has found its way to a slim shoulder, the other gripping Johann's wrist and moving the cigarette out of the way as he leans in to kiss him. Johann's lips are warm but chapped, his breath in desperate need of a mint, but Dante could care less about all that not when Johann exhales softly and kisses him back with such gentleness that it makes his heart swell in size. "Hi," Dante murmurs as he draws back, leaving a hair's breadth of space between their lips. A distance that suddenly seems far too great for he closes it again within the next breath, sealing their lips together once more.

A hand curls in his hair, nails scratching at the base of his skull and Dante melts. Unaware of the passing of time as they exchange kisses of various intensities, all of his thoughts are consumed by the everything that is Johann. When he finally draws away, he finds himself unable to do anything other than to observe the dusting of pink he's caused to appear over Johann's pale cheeks. His hair is mussed, strands of it curling and falling into his eyes. His lips are swollen and enticingly pink, no longer chapped but covered instead with the faintest trace of saliva. "Hi babe," Dante says again and brushes his thumb across his collarbone before reluctantly withdrawing it.

"Hi Love," Johann returns slowly, his voice akin to a sensuous purr that does terrible things to Dante's insides, not that their previous exchange hadn't already awoken feelings in him that would have been better off remaining asleep. He shakes his head in wry regret and sees Johann chuckle as if he had the same thought. "Where are the kids?"

"Playing inside," Dante says and after a bit of wriggling, settles himself between Johann's legs, leaning his head back to rest against his shoulder. Lifts his hand and feels a cigarette immediately press against his fingers; as usual Johann interprets his needs without them ever having been voiced out loud. He takes a drag on it as his eyes wander about the desolate landscape, wondering how he came to be standing in this dusty hellscape. At least Dracula is safely at home with Rich; he doesn't want to imagine the trouble she'd get up to out here in the middle of nowhere, even if he does miss her loud voice and gentle paws. The road stretches before them, a grey serpent that appears to go on for an eternity before it fades into the horizon. Dante sighs, but it does little to dislodge the heavy feeling in his chest. Lips brush the top of his head, and he feels more than hears Johann's soft mumble of nonsensical comfort. It brings a faint smile to Dante's lips, even as his worries return to the front of his mind. "Do you think I'll get overtime?" He asks, not yet prepared to voice them in case doing so is what causes them to become a reality. Johann snorts, dry amusement curling his lips into something unbearably fond. Sensing that he's about to say something sappy, Dante presses on swiftly. "I'm just saying, the job description didn't imply that I would be babysitting twenty-four seven and certainly not fleeing for my life across the country.

"Is that what we're doing?"

Dante cuts his eyes upwards, but from the angle he's at, it's impossible to catch Johann's gaze, much less see where he's focusing. There is a faint down curl to his lips, and Dante would like nothing more than to wipe it away. He reaches up without thought and finds himself tucking a loose lock of hair back behind Johann's ear. He lets his fingers linger for a moment longer, softly stroking the rim before he lowers his hand again. Johann catches it before it can return to his pocket, lifts it to his lips and presses the gentlest of kisses to the ring adorning his finger. Dante swallows heavily, and for a moment — a painful heartbeat — he feels as if his whole being has turned into a burning ball of fire, he knows his face to be flushing red but there is little he can do about it. "I don't know," he says, only to shake his head a moment later. "No, that's not true. It certainly feels like the Quack is running from something, but for the life of me, I cannot figure out what it might be."

"You're worried about him."

"I am," Dante agrees, unwilling to do Johann the disservice of lying to him. "He seems as if he's barely hanging on and that's without talking about this entire mission; it's sus…." Trails off without finishing his statement, but he hardly needs to when Johann has clearly been thinking the same thing.

"It is mighty suspicious that the government would hire a Montmirail to perform such an important task," he says lightly, but each word drops like a stone into the lake that is Dante's mind, sending out ripples that will not be soothed.

"You think that this might be a —" stops once more, unwilling to put that thought into the world, not when it is Vanitas he's talking about. "It's not the first time the government has hired an undesirable to do its dirty work," he says instead.

"All the offense to our Darling Raton," Johann says dryly, "but undesirable is far too simple of a word to describe him; his list of crimes are more numerous than the centimeters that compose his negligible height."

"He's not that short," Dante protests automatically, if only because Vanitas is the same height as himself. "And that's neither here nor there; he's taken missions for the government before. Remember when there was a string of fires down in the projects?"

"Remember how that ended?" Johann retorts without batting an eye, and Dante is pained to admit that he's made a valid point. It had not ended well, not at all. He rubs his eyes tiredly, but it seems that Johann still has one final revelation to drop. "Do you remember what the bodies at the house were wearing?" He asks.

Dante freezes, images of gore and guts coming unbidden to his mind with such vividness that he feels sick. He swallows awkwardly, drowning himself in the scent of cigarette smoke to rid his nose of the lingering odor of blood. "Body armor," he manages, "and, um, some sort of specialized guns. I've never seen them before."

"I can't speak for all of them, but I saw the emblem of the Anti Sorcery Unit on some of them," Johann says quietly, "which is a governmental force last time I checked." And he would know, Dante thinks tiredly; after all it was the ASU that had decimated Johann's hopes and dreams. Automatically, looks towards the restaurant but he can't see hair or hide of their three companions. He tries not to let that fact worry him. "That being said," Johann continues in a far brighter tone, "they were trying to kill our little cherub, so even if Darling Vanitas has stolen him, lied about this whole mission, and has dragged you into yet another crime at least the kid is safe." As he speaks, Dante hears the faint lisp in his words and knows that his fangs are fully extended.

"It's a line of inquiry worth pursuing," he says tentatively, "I don't think he's lying about wanting to return the cherub to his family." Johann hums noncommittedly, but Dante will take what he can get in this situation. The last thing he needs is Johann and Vanitas going toe-to-toe more than they already do. "Speaking of the cherub, I suppose we ought to head out soon." Feels lips brush the top of his head once more, and then he's unceremoniously being shoved away as Johann releases him from the prison of his legs. Dante extends his hand to him, and together they walk back into the restaurant, searching for their charges. Mikhail and Olivier are not where Dante had last seen them, they are not anywhere within the playground, but before the panic can overtake his mind, he spots them sitting at the table with the family he'd seen earlier. Mikhail is cradling yet another milkshake in his hands, whip cream on his nose, and smiling from ear to ear. There is a suspicious pinkness to his skin, especially for someone who doesn't have any blood flowing through his veins, and when he giggles, his voice lacks the ghostly echo it usually possesses. Olivier is to his right, half hanging off the bench playing with a little robotic lion; the twins are across from him, different colored lions within their own hands. Dante stops breathing, remembers belatedly that he needs oxygen to continue functioning and inhales sharply only to lose it all over again because Olivier is smiling. Tiny and shy, but a smile all the same as he pushes his lion towards its companions. "Babe," Dante says shakily, "are you seeing what I'm seeing?"

"I think we need to establish some ground rules for Olivier and Mischa asap," Johann replies, his fingers gripping Dante's so tightly as to be borderline painful. "There's no way he's not using a spell to disguise himself and spells attract them." He doesn't need to specify who the 'them' refers to, not when Dante remembers his father's lessons so very well. He takes a step forwards and then another, feeling his heart beating rapidly inside his chest, thundering so fast that he's positive the whole room can hear it. Opens his mouth, squeaks out a strangled noise, and tries again.

"B-boys, it's time to go." Forces a smile onto his face, despite the maddening desire to simply grab his boys and physically drag them from the space, especially when he sees the vacant look on the mother's face and he knows suddenly what it is that has occurred, feels the realization sink down into the very marrow of his bones and with it comes a tidal wave of horror. "Boys," he says again, more firmly this time and Mikhail turns to him with a pout, his eyes glittering like shards of ice.

"We're playing," the apparition says coldly, "go away, mister."

Dante is taking a step back before he realizes it, the magic taking route in his mind and insisting that what he really wants to do is turn around and leave. A hand settles onto his shoulder, and he feels Johann steady him, preventing him from obeying. "Mikhail," his husband says in an equally cold tone, "Stop that." Turns his gaze onto their cherub, who has remained predictably quiet, his gaze fixed on the little blue lion in his hands and his shoulders rounded in. "We're leaving lil'one," Johann continues and spins on his heels, stalking away without a backward glance. Dante remains frozen, feeling as if he can hardly breathe until he sees Olivier slip from the bench and stand. He looks sadly at the other lions on the table and then follows Johann towards the exit. Mikhail makes a noise of protest and scrambles to his feet, his milkshake upending and spilling across the table. Neither the woman nor the children appear to even notice.

"Oli wait!"

Olivier stops but doesn't look back. Dante eyes Mikhail warily, but the boy pays him no heed, simply jogging after his friend. "Oli," he whines plaintively, "weren't you having fun? She said she'd drive us wherever we wanted and feed us whatever we wanted. Didn't you want to try cotton candy next?" He bounces around Olivier, the illusion of his humanity fading away as he floats up into the air. "They're just silly humans, couldn't you tell," he continues, obviously replying to something that Dante hadn't heard. "I told you it would be fine and I was correct. Wasn't I?" Olivier takes a step back and then another one, his wings beginning to poof out in a way that Dante has already started to recognize as equating to stress. He tries to take a step closer but it feels like he's moving through molasses. An invisible weight pressing back against his body.

"Wasn't I?" Mikhail repeats and there is anger in his voice now, a guttural growl climbing its way out of his throat as his body distorts. "Don't look at me like that! I kept you safe!" Olivier takes another step back before stopping and looking around. His eyes are very wide and golden, Dante notices, and the realization that Olivier is afraid galvanizes him into stumbling a few steps closer, air escaping his mouth in desperate gasps. Olivier blinks at him silently and then looks back up at Mikhail before extending his left hand. His right he brings down sharply across his left palm, and Dante might not be the most skilled at charades but even he can tell that that means something. Mikhail huffs loudly and shakes his head. "Why do you care? He's just a half-breed."

"Hey," Dante says weakly, the most he can manage when his lungs aren't expanding nearly as much as they should. Takes another step and he's close enough that if his arms could move, he would be able to grab Olivier. Mikhail glares at him, his lips curling back in rictus eerily similar to his brother. A brother that is still missing in action, Dante realizes, and that too is a cause for concern. Inhales, as best he can, tries to think of the words he needs to say to calm the situation, but his mind is drawing a blank as his vision grows blurry. It is par for his luck in life that his demise will likely be at the hands of a cranky pre-teen rather than in some blaze or glory or at home surrounded by his loved ones. He's always known that his was not to be a peaceful end, no matter how he might have wished for it to be.

"You care too much," Mikhail is saying but his words are slowly becoming a high-pitched whirring of white noise as the space around him continues to grow blurry. "You should —" whatever else he has to say is lost as his vision turns to a sheet of white, only for it to return abruptly, his lungs expanding as he takes great gulps of air. There are arms wrapped around his chest, and for a moment, he thinks that Johann has returned or perhaps Vanitas but the being clinging to him is too small to be either of them. Opens his eyes and sees that it is Olivier who has buried his face in his chest, clinging to him with deceptive strength, his shoulders trembling as he sobs silently. Dante stares down at him, too shocked to do anything other than standing there before he slowly turns his attention to Mikhail who is looking bitter.

"You made him cry," Dante says, or attempts to at any rate for what emerges from his mouth is a garbled series of coughs masquerading as words. Mikhail rolls his eyes and looks even more disgruntled. There is not an ounce of apology in that cold gaze but when it swivels to Olivier, Dante can see the faintest bit of regret blossoming. "Nice job," Dante tells him because he is not above being petty after someone has tried to murder him in cold blood and slowly wraps his arms around Olivier. "Hey there, k-kiddo. It's alright now, I'm okay. I'm okay."

Olivier lifts his head, tears still rolling down his face in big droplets and simply shakes before burying it in Dante's chest once more. It is as his father would say 'a hint.' Wordlessly he crouches down and scoops the cherub into his arms, cradling him as best he can. Olivier immediately wraps his legs around him and presses his wet face against Dante's neck, his fingers gripping so tightly to his shirt that Dante imagines he can hear the fabric ripping. He gives Mikhail a pointed look and carries the cherub outside, unsurprised to find Johann at the door looking stressed beyond words.

"What — " he starts but Dante shakes his head and gestures at the car. Johann, to his credit, does not argue and instead storms ahead of them, jerking the door open so that Dante might deposit his charge in the backseat. Turns, half expecting to see Mikhail floating behind them, but the boy is nowhere to be seen; instead it is a familiar figure that he spots slipping out the front door.

"Quack!" Dante yells as Vanitas stumbles his way toward him. "Did the fries upset your stomach that much?" Vanitas offers no response until he is close enough that Dante can clearly see the glazed look in his eyes and sickly hue of his skin. "You look like shit," Dante says and holds open the door for him. Vanitas crawls in without a word and curls up on the far seat, tugging a blanket around himself. Dante turns to Johann and sees the same confusion on his face. "Where's your brother?" Dante asks after several moments of silence during which no ghostly monster has made his giggly way over. There is silence for so long that he worries Vanitas will not answer, but then there is a faint groan and a single slurred word. Dante sighs and gives a nod. "That'll do, I suppose."

"Love?" Johann asks quietly and Dante hears the unspoken words as clear as a cloudless day. He looks at him all the same and then offers a shrug before taking his seat as Johann slips behind the wheel again. Dante waits until he has settled in before reaching out and taking his hand in his. Gives it a gentle squeeze, hoping to provide some of the reassurance that his throat is incapable of making. Johann gives a slight nod. "Let's find a hotel for the night," he says determinedly. "One with a pool preferably because I don't know about you but I've certainly earned a visit to the hot tub."

Dante finds it within himself to release a tiny chuckle and settles for squeezing his hand. The drive goes by in a comfortable sort of silence, broken only by the pained wheeze that is all Vanitas appears capable of making. Dante alternates his attention between the back seat, Johann and the scenery they are driving through, but as the latter holds the same interest as watching paint dry, he soon gives up. The first hotel they come across is flying a red flag with the familiar golden emblem of the 'ASU' embroidered onto it. Underneath are words too small to read, but Dante knows what they will say anyway, having seen them throughout his hometown for all of his childhood. "Protecting your safety since 1997," he mouths bitterly to himself and manages to give the flag a subtle finger as they drive past it.

"It's to be expected we are in the boonies," Johann says a few minutes later, but there is an exhaustion in his tone that suggests a contrary opinion to his words.

"People are fucking stupid," Dante replies, "don't you worry your pretty little head about it, Babe, we'll find someplace."

"Amen."

Startled, Dante looks over his shoulder and sees that Vanitas is sitting up in his seat; that is if being half sprawled out of it could be called sitting. He looks like someone had heated a plate of week-old noodles in the microwave for several minutes too long; his skin has gone so far past pasty as to be considered more akin to moldy bread and his eyes are devoid of any light. "You look like shit," Dante says, at a loss for anything else to say. Vanitas lets out a facsimile of a rictus and makes a half-hearted gesture. If Dante wasn't worried before, he certainly is now, for Vanitas must be truly wrecked if he cannot even summon the energy to raise his middle finger. "You want to talk about it?" Dante asks, fully expecting to hear the familiar "No, I don't, Baldy." He has a retort on the rip of his tongue, rolling it around on the forefront of his brain, waiting to spit it out rapidly as soon as Vanitas speaks.

"I think I'm dying," Vanitas says.

The retort fizzles out unvoiced, as does every other thought in his brain.