Title: Last Date
Author: Britani Gael
Fandom: Devil May Cry
Theme: #51; Memorable
Characters: Dante, OC
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 959
Author's Notes: This is too long and focuses too much on the throwaway character I invented for the scene. I was trying to get Dante to talk about the girls in his life, and… I like parts, but I don't like it.

I'll try and not use Dante, next time. I've done him a lot.

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He never dated for a significant length of time, but he'd called her back six times already; every time she'd solemnly agreed to his plans and then giddily gotten read for dinner like a high school girl. Hair, make-up, dress, perfume. After the dinner he'd take her for a ride on his motorcycle and there'd be sex and she would wake up without him. But it was the dinner conversations she looked forward to.

She knew he was only flattering her into bed, and she knew it wasn't going to last. But he could be so sweet.

That was why her heart lodged in her throat when he wouldn't look her in the eyes. He kept his gaze on his steak dinner and barely responded to her conversation, and wouldn't look at her at all.

Halfway through the meal, she couldn't take it anymore. "Tony," she started, just as he said, "Hey, listen."

She waited, and he filled the silence by drinking some of his beer. A lot of it, actually, and already the server was hurrying to bring over another mug. Tony always drank beer like it was water and he was dying of thirst, and never once had she even seen him sway. He drank of this next drink, too.

"Just say it," she said.

"I—"

"I love you," she said quickly.

She felt like a fool and knew she sounded like one, too. She wasn't telling the truth, not really. She loved looking at his face and how bright his blue eyes were and standing next to him made her feel warm and safe – she didn't love him. But she could.

He sighed, closed his eyes, and shook his head. "Don't," he said.

"Why?"

"Because you don't mean it," he said. He shifted in his red coat and looked at the door, but he stayed in his seat. Maybe he felt he owed her at least that much. "Because you'll die."

For a second she knew he meant it. She sat still, and then she tossed her head and laughed. "Wouldn't that make me special?" she said, joking right back. "Would I be the first woman to die for you?"

"No."

She'd been twirling spaghetti on her fork, now she set her silverware down. "Excuse me?"

"No, I said." He chugged the rest of his beer and shoved his plate of food back. "There's been three already, and that's enough for me. Listen, it's been fun and all, but—"

"Please," she said. She felt tears pricking his eyes, and knew she had no right. How many men had she used just like he'd used her? She'd known this would happen all along. She just wanted to hold onto him for just a little while longer. "Three?" she asked. "Three women died for you?"

"Don't—"

"Please," she said.

He sighed heavily, then leaned back in his seat and ordered a scotch. "Forget I said anything," he said, once the server left. "You're a great lay and I'm sure you're a nice girl, but I just don't want to see you anymore, all right?"

That hurt. "Is that what you tell all the girls, Tony?" she asked, bitterly.

"Yeah, pretty much."

She felt her shoulders sink a little bit, and she looked down at her dinner, her vision swimming.

"Aw, hell," he said, his voice softer. "I didn't mean it like that."

Yes, he did.

"You don't want to hear it," he said.

"Yes, I do," she said, quietly.

"It's not you, it's—"

"You." She knew that. "I just want to know why—"

"One of them," he interrupted loudly. He took an uneasy breath, and at first she thought he wasn't going to continue. "One of them I fucking wanted to marry. She was smart and strong and I shot her by mistake." He took a drink. "Not my fault. We were fighting an enemy that used tricks we'd never even heard of—shadows and clones and… and anyway, that's what she said. 'Not your fault, Dante. Don't blame yourself.'"

She didn't want to listen, she didn't want to hear him talk about the other women, the great tragedies of his life. But something in his voice had changed—instead of him acting like a jerk or acting like a nice guy or acting—he was really talking. He needed to say this, and not for her.

"My best friend," he continued. "She got between me and a monster. A huge son of a bitch, and I know she did it on purpose. 'Thanks for everything, Dante,' she said, and that's right before it ripped her apart. Bought me enough time to…" He finished his scotch. "Guess it doesn't really matter, does it? She's dead, too."

She felt numb, and she knew he wasn't lying. "You said your name was Tony," she said.

"Yeah? I lied." He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out three twenties, tossed them onto the table and stood up. "I'm sorry," he said. "About everything."

She stood, too. "Wait," she said. "The last woman. You didn't say anything about her."

He looked at her for a long time. "No one remembers them," he said, and she wondered if he'd even heard her question. "No one remembers their names but me."

"What were they?"

"Their names?" he asked.

She nodded.

"Mary. Beatrice." He took a deep breath. "And Eva. Eva was my mother."

She nodded again. "Now I remember them, too."

He left.

He strode out the door with purpose and he wasn't coming back. Dante, that'd been his name, his real name. She sank back into her seat, staring at the door. "Mary, Beatrice, Eva," she said under her breath.

Her spaghetti was cold.

"Mary, Beatrice, Eva…"

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