Chapter three
A bottle o' whatever to keep company
What is more lovely than sitting in a bar? It's lovelier to sit in a bar with a full glass of course, Dante's mind offers. But that's nothing a refill won't mend.
This place is not worthy of being called a hole, it's more a café than anything else. He usually visits the aforementioned in this state but this'll do nicely too. It's different from bars he goes to drown his sorrows but there is a similarity as well – the main reason why he's here. The scarce occupants, loners just as the demon hunter, are not the kind of lowlifes he often sees in them dumps; the bathroom ain't drowning in piss; the seats, booths and what not are not as tarnished and scratched – just the odd working hours are the same.
The night's young but the half-devil's in no hurry to head back. Not like there'd be any reprimands or ignoring, and the latter would not be fixed by any begging. When you're on your own – you're on your own.
Just three weeks, three fucking weeks and he's already mopping around. And he's fine, oh he's fine, why wouldn't he be? While the less than sober hunter is thinking 'this shit is getting old', the little pestering voices in his head are all screeching and not lacking in sarcasm, saying that even when it'll be ancient – this will still be the same. Now he's a hardcore cynic and an alcoholic but who cares? No one apparently.
The half-breed quietly calls the waitress and asks for another shot. He's aware than you don't call a huge-ass glass o' whiskey a shot, but it's of no importance. The tired young woman comes immediately and there's no polite offer or a harsh lecture to him that maybe it's time to stop drinking. He's a well-mannered man and even his strange leathery garb does not rouse suspicion. She pours straight from the bottle and he doesn't mind. The half-blood's not picky or pedantic, there's no difference to him if there'll be less dirtied dishes to wash. So he thanks her and she leaves him be to wallow in his pity-party. He's not obvious is he? Hopefully not. But in the end, he doesn't give two shits about what others think.
And where's everybody when he's lonesome, desolate actually. Nah, no one's there, 'cause they've got their own shit to see to. How despicable, the demon hunter's spent a good portion of his life on his own but now he can't stomach solitude. And he doesn't give a fuck if it's the alcohol that's making it seem so unbearable. He'd call his own bullshit if it wasn't the truth.
Now he's just sitting here surrounded by lowlifes that are looking for someone to take them home, hoping to find a one night stand. Tough noogies, they ain't gettin' any, not in this bar. And there're no females in sight either way. Although, if the hunter thinks well on it, he's no better than these men. Hell, he stands on a lower level, for he has who to turn to and it was his choice that led him to sit here.
Dante shouldn't ponder hard on it, not like it would help any – only make it worse. Because it's all his fault, but isn't it always? Damn right it is and for the sake of sanity it's better not to let the guilt gnaw at him. But he's regretting it, oh yeah he is. The demoness offered him to go with her and what did he say? The half-devil had said that it's fine, who needs vacation anyway? Not him. And now it's clear what an idiotic decision that was. Despite the fact that there's no hunting involved, what bad would it do to go with her when he can? But noooo, count him out 'cause he's got better things to do here. Oh really? Not really. Because the Underworld thought that it should take a break as well. He could have caught a hunt somewhere in the Old Lands but did he think of that? 'Course not. It's not like the half-breed's on a leash when he's with the demonette, he could have gone on with his slaying business there. But again, it all leads to the fact that he was just too thickheaded to perceive that he could do it.
Would a month or so in France (or wherever she's at) kill him? Sure it would – not likely. It's all his fucking fault that he declined. For even if he screams 'Trish' until his vocal cords tear – she won't come back. How fucking peachy is all that? Very, very peachy indeed. In reality he knows that he's an obnoxious, wanton whore, it's not like the deviless won't return. She will, but right now – the world is ending. And why in the blazing nine Hells did he have to say no? Heck, if he'll ever find the answer. But it's so motherfucking awesome that he can make decisions, which come back to bite him in the ass.
The hafling's so dependent that it's unbelievable. But will he show it? Not likely because he's Dante, the demon hunter, Sparda's son – the one that does not give a fuck about anything. All cool and apathetic, a bastard that aids people only because he's got bad luck: placing bets, flipping coins and never winning. He does not whine for he's too badass for it. Who thought a hero would be like this? But hey fuckers, 'tis real life for ya. You won't find a superhero like the half-devil in any comic books, for he's no role model. The image he wears so well is that of a man (a half-fucking-devil really) that strives off of pizza, demon killing and all that shit, always with a beer, a playboy magazine and a boss stubble on his chin. And everyone thinks he lives that kinda life, that he gets off from slaying hellish scum, with a pistol in one hand and the other in his pants when having target practice with living marks. But it was never like that, however in a sense it's all good that his enemies and everybody else envision him so. This way there's no abusable vulnerability, just humanity that he manages to protect every time. So there's nothing really worth going after since the half-blood seems so untouchable, even if they'd be able to get close to him. But they do try and it's true that it keeps the hunter entertained.
He wants to slap or shoot himself – this is getting far too repetitive. And although he's all for making promises as if on New Years', the drinking male knows that he won't hold shit when this drunken night's over. Yes, the reference is all too true – many make resolutions on a brink of a new year but they all leave as empty words. It's just like that Christmas resignation after way, way more food consumed than it should have been, to not eat until next Christmas or at least New Year. But as always an hour passes and the demon hunter begins stuffing himself anew. Gluttony – such a pretty virtue.
Despite being aware that he'll break any oath made tonight, he still goes through with it anyway. The hunter swears on everything (he can remember at the moment) dear, that when he'll return to the office he'll do something productive. Clean it up so that it wouldn't resemble a pig stall when the huntress gets back. And if he fails to do so, then he'll do it with her presence watching him on the spot, in a fucking French maid's outfit if he has to. Dante spends much more time thinking on specific tasks and things he should do once he sobers up, but in the end, come morn' and all of these pretty plans will only stay as intoxicated promises.
The half-devil treads back to the office and DMC's not really a home. He's not that sort of romantic bullshit spewing guy to say that Trish is his home. Because it ain't like that. The demonic partners don't need a home and probably won't ever. The shop's a house, just a damn house. The huntress doesn't give a fuck about such human concepts as 'home' and neither does he. Still, if his reluctance is anything to go by, then it's goddamn clear that it sort of feels empty when she's out. Like there's no reason to rush back and all that, since he's the king of his castle now. So why is that reference so dreaded now? Maybe because he'd rather be the horse-boy (yeah a fucking groom) or a servant, or even a slave in the queen's dome. Shit, he's really wasted. Again with the motherfucking metaphors? Fuck it, just fuck it all.
The demon hunter estimates that he should crawl back into bed by somewhere... 'round eight am? Sounds 'bout right. It's perhaps some sort of elaborate form of self-torture – to slowly drag himself/walk to Devil May Cry. Hold on, yup that's probably correct. Well, in reality it is not like the more than a little distance would really harm him. Of course it doesn't mean that when he wakes up he won't feel it in his muscles (although it's nothing compared to likeable/unlikeable mementos of fights), but add a hangover to that cauldron and voilà – you've got another sweet reason to hate yourself. Ain't life grand?
Hours to travel on foot – is there any other way to explain this, he asks himself, then to confess you're a masochist? No, actually there isn't. Despite the fact that he's really just slightly drunk (by the half-breed's scale 'cause he's far from passing out from the sheer amount of booze, probably a mortal would die from what successfully knocks him out) he chose back at the bar to forgo a metro or a bus, or some other similar public transport, although not because he couldn't drive. A hellish half-blood that's what he is and so, not your everyday pedestrian, therefore riding a motorcycle (or a car) while intoxicated is no real biggie. Sure he'd go in zigzags but with the kind of abilities he has – no car crashes or hit people would meet his wheeled venture. Then again, he had actually crashed not once (different reasons and all), but just one time because he was not sober. And that's not quite true, Dante knew that the damn tree was coming and he let it come. The result is always the same anyway: a vehicle reduced to scrapped metal and him as healthy as a pickle. Talk about the perks from Hell.
The sky's without any brushes of light and there are still miles to walk. But that's fine 'n' dandy. Why? Because hey, he's got a bottle o' whatever to keep him company. Yes, the hunter agrees, it's going to be bright (or dreary, very possible that) when he'll reach the end of his destination.
A/N
Bet the readers that have read Mirror Bound are getting a Déjà vu feeling here. The fourth chapter will also feel slightly familiar but don't worry, I won't venture the same way that I did in my other DMC fic.