Warnings: Language, foul.

Sentient

Chapter 01:

"Business as Usual"

Bears and wolves lived in these mountains, but none ever bothered me. They knew to stay away. They sensed a greater predator ruled this particular slope.

They likely sensed this predator held some claim on me, and kept their precious distance.

I mean, I'm a tasty snack. There has to be a reason I've never been bothered by a bear around here, right?

Over the past three years, I'd managed to carve a pretty impressive set of running trails through the forest on Vergil's property. At first I'd only run three miles or so at a time, but soon my body grew accustomed to that distance. The trails branched, grew, lengthened, until I'd carved a ten mile labyrinth of paths through the aspen grove covering the mountainside. I couldn't use this trail in the heart of winter, of course, but during summer I ran all over these hills. The massive blue sky overhead, the cool wind in the whispering trees, dirt thrumming under the pound of my feet…I loved running. Really helped clear the head when I was stressed.

Which I was pretty much all the goddamned time these days, because Vergil kept coming home with blood on his clothes, and no fucking thank you, that was just too much.

I'd run right hell out of the house when he said he was set to leave on another trip tomorrow morning.

I knew better than to tell him I hated that he'd returned to the mercenary circuit (that's where he claimed the blood came from, at least). He'd amassed quite a bit of wealth over the years from that line of work. We had the dark underbelly of organized crime to thank for our big house in the mountains, for the nice cars, for the trips into town to see the ballet and the opera—for our privacy, even. His contacts in the underground had given me my new name, and had buried my kidnapping in the media until no one was looking for me.

(No one but Ami and Karen, who still held fundraisers in my name. I saw it on the web. Vergil told me not to look, but I couldn't help it. I wished I'd listened to him. I thought of my friends every day. Seeing their faces only made it worse. I wished I could tell them where I'd gone, where I was, that I was safe and, more than that, happy—but I knew I couldn't. For their sake. Humans and demons don't mix.)

So, yeah. Thanks to Vergil's mercenary contacts, we had it pretty good, so I shouldn't have complained about his line of work—and yet I did. And loudly. And often. Vergil had gone on that first "business trip" saying it was to talk with an "investor," and had come home with bloody shoes and a gash on his arm. It healed in an hour, but still. The idea of him getting hurt so we could live in a stupid mansion put a bad taste in my mouth.

I'd live in a fucking shack, so long as it was with him. Screw the money.

I held that refrain in my head as I ran through the trees, adrenaline pounding as I thought of his blue eyes and pale hair. Screw the money, screw the money, screw the money, muttered in time with my ragged breath. By the time I ran a five-mile circuit and wound up back at the foot of the shiny, glass-faced house we called our home, I was totally winded. Hadn't been breathing right. Too distracted to pace myself.

I stared up at the house from the driveway for a minute or so, debating if I should go inside. Vergil was in there. Waiting. He'd called after me when he said he was going away again and I'd run out the door, but he hadn't followed.

He knew better than that.

Sometimes, I just needed to be alone.

Three years had taught us a lot about each other. The fact that we both required occasional solitude was one of those things.

I stared at the windows for a minute more. They faced east. The midmorning sun glazed them with golden light. Though it was the tail end of summer, the wind at this altitude was chilly, wicking the sweat off my brow with a shiver. I reached up and tightened my ponytail, then slid the back of my hand across my forehead.

Past the gilded windows, I saw a flicker of movement.

He'd spotted me, then. No use delaying the inevitable. I took a deep breath before heading toward the deck stairs, walking up their curved length, and opening the glass doors that led into the living room.

No one was there.

I blinked owlishly at the empty couch, the vacant leather armchair. Huh. Figured Vergil would meet me at the door, explain why his trip was necessary, tell me to calm down, which would only make me even madder. Looking around for him, I made my way to the kitchen and poured myself a glass of water. I drained it in a few gulps, set the glass in the sink, and braced my hands on either side of the metal basin. Anxiety made my anger dim somewhat.

He wouldn't leave without saying goodbye, would he?

"Jira."

My eyes closed at the sound of my name. I started to turn around, but I felt him behind me and stilled. His hands closed atop both of mine, his chest against my back, the whisper of his breath on my nape.

"I'm sorry," he said.

It wasn't often Vergil apologized to me. He had pride like a king.

"I wouldn't leave unless I found it necessary," he murmured. Lips brushed the back of my neck in a small, shivery kiss. "I do not like being away from you."

"Then don't go," I said. I sounded petulant, even to me. "We have money."

"I must maintain my contacts."

"I hear email's real popular these days."

"You know it doesn't work like that."

"What, mobsters don't have Facebook accounts? You can make secret groups on there, you know. Very clandestine. Very cloak-and-dagger. They'd love it."

"Jira…"

"I'm serious. Just sign them up for SnapChat or something. Or Twitter. Maybe Instagram. It's very hip, Instagram. They could post mobster selfies, or—"

"Jira."

I took a deep breath. I turned. Heat radiated off his body, warming me after my run in the cool air. Even more heat radiated from his ironically icy eyes. A lock of white hair had fallen forward, lying along his forehead like a wisp of cloud. His strong jaw supported his thin lips, his hollow cheeks, his arched brow.

Even when I was mad at him, he was gorgeous.

That bastard.

"Look, Aeneid," I said. At the old nickname, his lips twitched. "I get it. You're keeping an ear to the demonic underground. You're making sure no one comes looking for me. You're making sure no one comes looking for you. You're making sure our life doesn't get totally upended." I gave him my most ferocious scowl. "You're taking these jobs for us. For our life together. I understand the 'why,' but that doesn't mean I have to be happy about the 'how.'"

He held my gaze a moment. Then I guess he remembered he was Blood Tied to a stubborn asshole, and he sighed. He leaned forward and down until he could pillow his forehead against my own. I stayed very, very still, hyperaware of that lock of hair twisting on my skin, of his breath ghosting across my mouth, of his heat, of his height, of the hands that had at some point grasped my wrists, of the thumbs tracing feather-light circles atop my pulse.

"Be good while I'm gone," he murmured.

"Make me," I said.

That made him smile the small, secret smile he only seemed to share with me.

"Do I need to give you detention?" he asked.

"I'm twenty two. I'm a little old for that, don't you think?"

When he spoke, there was an undercurrent of dark, delicious growl.

"Never," he said.

When he kissed me—hungrily, in a way I knew would lead to other things—the tension in me went slack. We might've been sharing banter, but somehow, it told me everything I needed to know.

He'd come back from this job.

He'd come back from all his jobs, and he'd be fine.

Our life together would continue on. Business as usual.

Jira and Vergil, together in demonic longevity, bound to one another by tethers of the soul.

It was so sappy, I almost puked on him.

Instead, I just kissed him goodbye.

After three years together, something told me he'd prefer the kiss. Call it a hunch.

He was basically my soul mate, after all.

NOTES:

I've lost all my notes.

I have only vague recollections and misplace dreams of where I intended to take this plot.

I have no idea how to reconcile the events of this story with DMC4 (which is why I stopped updating in the first place).

I can't read BBC without SCREAMING because it's just SO HORRIBLE (also BTW I'm going to rewrite THE SHIT out of that story)…

…but screw it. Here's something. I HOPE YOU'RE HAPPY.

Ikara-o-Kage is to blame for waking me up.

Updates will be sporadic.

…k thanks bye.