She watches with rapt attention as he finally turns from the window, the tension evaporating from his shoulders with a resigned sigh that makes the corners of her lips twitch. It's very much the sight of a man coming to terms with the fact that he won't be fighting any demons tonight. It's just him, her, a few pizza boxes, and some stiff drinks until the rain subsides enough for her to attempt the trip home.
In a few quick strides, his towering frame looms over the back of her chair. The sound of rustling fabric and the intense heat emanating from his body indicate that he's lingering there. Then she tilts her head, a curious look cast over her right shoulder just in time to see him tug the bindings from his chest. Her gaze immediately falters to his shirt, where it lingers as he moves around to perch himself on the edge of his desk.
Her perfectly arched brows knitted together, her grip tightening around the glass bottle nestled between her fingers as her gaze remained fixed on the torn fabric. The dim lighting of the room illuminated the edges of the jagged, symmetrical gashes in his vest on either side of his body. The remnants of large, sharp claws, from something that had got a little too close for comfort. She imagined torn flesh once lay beneath his ruined shirt, quickly rectified by his unnatural healing abilities. She had known many men who treated their survival as an afterthought, but Dante was something else entirely. Dante didn't just flirt with death; he mocked it, grinning in its face with a hollow recklessness that worried her.
She wants to chastise him, but she lifts her beer bottle to her lips instead, taking a greedy gulp to swallow down any words she doesn't have the right to say. Her gaze dropping from his bare flesh to her bare thighs instead. It's the sound of his voice that pulls it upwards once more, crimson irises lingering on the back of his silver head. He’s curious, subtly asking for more. It is curious, after all, that this red eyed woman from the far side of the planet shows up one day, much too handy with her fists and much too eager to help. Her lips part, opening and closing a few times before she makes any audible sound.
Images of Nibelheim burning, her father, Aerith, Jessie, Biggs, Wedge, and the iron sky falling on top of the Sector 7 slums flicker in her mind until her stomach knots.
"There are a lot of terrible things back home," she starts, voice small, taking a few moments to collect herself before continuing with a little more clarity, "not all monsters have claws and sharp teeth." It's perhaps the first brutally honest thing she's said to him in all the months she's known him. It alarms her, being this open and honest with another person, let alone one she barely knows anything about. It terrifies her to admit things that might be held against her, that might be perceived as weakness, but she continues all the same. "I've been fighting monsters my whole life, and I'm pretty good at it," she breathes, fingers loosening on the bottle grasped between her gloved fingers. "I've watched too many innocent people die to sit around and do nothing."
Her mind is reeling when the last syllable leaves her lips, worried she's said too much, that she's made things wildly uncomfortable between them. She's almost glad he's facing in the other direction, so that she can't see the reaction on his face. "You do this because you love it?" Quickly tumbles from her lips, attempting to deflect the conversation away from herself. Do you do this because you love it, or is it because you've also lost too much and it dulls the ache inside you for a brief few moments, she wonders. Is it because you also feel the need to protect those who can’t protect themselves? "I doubt anyone wakes up one day and decides they're going to be a demon hunter," she says, punctuated by a disbelieving laugh.
What made Tifa admirable hadn't been her counts or her kills. There was something genuinely terrifying about someone half his size going into the same career and claiming a seat in his shop with the poise and courtesy of a girl at Sunday school. He could even see some of it in the dull obsidian reflection in his mirror. There was a certain stillness that made her seem even more modest than she'd tried to present herself but coating every word that she'd offered had been another layer he found dimly familiar. It often felt like she'd memorized the names of pets and kids, having bright-eyed enthusiasm for a chance to say something she'd been thinking of all day. It made it transparent when she was worried and who it was about.
It stung a little, putting her at distance, but it would hurt all the same with everyone else who tried to reach out and tug at the threads woven into his disguise. He finished his drink with a tip back and thought about what agony she must have felt to survive Sector 7 and to know there were people left behind, trapped, dead or buried so deep that no one could confirm which was which. Dante leaned onto one hand, his shoulder tilting down and dipping so he could meet her eyes straight. The scraps of a smile he'd kept on hand, just in case, were washed away in thought. Each part of herself she'd offered had become more real to him with each word and, without a shred of a doubt in mind, he understood precisely how much he wanted her to leave. Good people weren't supposed to find their perch in his shop.
He touched his glass to the neck of her bottle, dreadfully sly in his silence offer of a toast. He'd wanted her to follow his eyes as he'd offered her genuine praise but, as the words failed to inch their way out, he found what had caught them and kept them from escaping. It wasn't her fault that she'd been curious. Tifa's eyes, wide with the hope that she could make sense of a mystery and understand him, caught him and wrestled at his heart. His instincts, manufactured to protect everyone but himself, urged him to put an end to it. That she'd be kind despite the pain and effort of it made her more human than anyone else and it left lances through his heart. He hung over her, his eyes flashing grey beneath the halo of his hair held just over her, "Y'know, we can't all be heroes like you."
He smiled, sickeningly arrogant--or at least that's the way he wanted to seem. Dante was coarse, well aware of what it felt like to be beside him and to exchange words as if the greatest burden he'd undertaken was to think and speak with the veiled presence of a monster lingering beside, "To answer your question?"
"It's because I'm bored," As far as he'd been concerned, it was the least humanizing answer he could produce. A profession that brought misery and death to everyone who'd been involved and he'd just wanted to kill the time? There was no coming back from cruelty put to such a crude shape.
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timeasmymeasure
i'm sorry this is so late!!
Date: 2025-06-17 01:48 am (UTC)In a few quick strides, his towering frame looms over the back of her chair. The sound of rustling fabric and the intense heat emanating from his body indicate that he's lingering there. Then she tilts her head, a curious look cast over her right shoulder just in time to see him tug the bindings from his chest. Her gaze immediately falters to his shirt, where it lingers as he moves around to perch himself on the edge of his desk.
Her perfectly arched brows knitted together, her grip tightening around the glass bottle nestled between her fingers as her gaze remained fixed on the torn fabric. The dim lighting of the room illuminated the edges of the jagged, symmetrical gashes in his vest on either side of his body. The remnants of large, sharp claws, from something that had got a little too close for comfort. She imagined torn flesh once lay beneath his ruined shirt, quickly rectified by his unnatural healing abilities. She had known many men who treated their survival as an afterthought, but Dante was something else entirely. Dante didn't just flirt with death; he mocked it, grinning in its face with a hollow recklessness that worried her.
She wants to chastise him, but she lifts her beer bottle to her lips instead, taking a greedy gulp to swallow down any words she doesn't have the right to say. Her gaze dropping from his bare flesh to her bare thighs instead. It's the sound of his voice that pulls it upwards once more, crimson irises lingering on the back of his silver head. He’s curious, subtly asking for more. It is curious, after all, that this red eyed woman from the far side of the planet shows up one day, much too handy with her fists and much too eager to help. Her lips part, opening and closing a few times before she makes any audible sound.
Images of Nibelheim burning, her father, Aerith, Jessie, Biggs, Wedge, and the iron sky falling on top of the Sector 7 slums flicker in her mind until her stomach knots.
"There are a lot of terrible things back home," she starts, voice small, taking a few moments to collect herself before continuing with a little more clarity, "not all monsters have claws and sharp teeth." It's perhaps the first brutally honest thing she's said to him in all the months she's known him. It alarms her, being this open and honest with another person, let alone one she barely knows anything about. It terrifies her to admit things that might be held against her, that might be perceived as weakness, but she continues all the same. "I've been fighting monsters my whole life, and I'm pretty good at it," she breathes, fingers loosening on the bottle grasped between her gloved fingers. "I've watched too many innocent people die to sit around and do nothing."
Her mind is reeling when the last syllable leaves her lips, worried she's said too much, that she's made things wildly uncomfortable between them. She's almost glad he's facing in the other direction, so that she can't see the reaction on his face. "You do this because you love it?" Quickly tumbles from her lips, attempting to deflect the conversation away from herself. Do you do this because you love it, or is it because you've also lost too much and it dulls the ache inside you for a brief few moments, she wonders. Is it because you also feel the need to protect those who can’t protect themselves? "I doubt anyone wakes up one day and decides they're going to be a demon hunter," she says, punctuated by a disbelieving laugh.
Don't sweat it, you're superb
Date: 2025-06-17 09:46 pm (UTC)It stung a little, putting her at distance, but it would hurt all the same with everyone else who tried to reach out and tug at the threads woven into his disguise. He finished his drink with a tip back and thought about what agony she must have felt to survive Sector 7 and to know there were people left behind, trapped, dead or buried so deep that no one could confirm which was which. Dante leaned onto one hand, his shoulder tilting down and dipping so he could meet her eyes straight. The scraps of a smile he'd kept on hand, just in case, were washed away in thought. Each part of herself she'd offered had become more real to him with each word and, without a shred of a doubt in mind, he understood precisely how much he wanted her to leave. Good people weren't supposed to find their perch in his shop.
He touched his glass to the neck of her bottle, dreadfully sly in his silence offer of a toast. He'd wanted her to follow his eyes as he'd offered her genuine praise but, as the words failed to inch their way out, he found what had caught them and kept them from escaping. It wasn't her fault that she'd been curious. Tifa's eyes, wide with the hope that she could make sense of a mystery and understand him, caught him and wrestled at his heart. His instincts, manufactured to protect everyone but himself, urged him to put an end to it. That she'd be kind despite the pain and effort of it made her more human than anyone else and it left lances through his heart. He hung over her, his eyes flashing grey beneath the halo of his hair held just over her, "Y'know, we can't all be heroes like you."
He smiled, sickeningly arrogant--or at least that's the way he wanted to seem. Dante was coarse, well aware of what it felt like to be beside him and to exchange words as if the greatest burden he'd undertaken was to think and speak with the veiled presence of a monster lingering beside, "To answer your question?"
"It's because I'm bored," As far as he'd been concerned, it was the least humanizing answer he could produce. A profession that brought misery and death to everyone who'd been involved and he'd just wanted to kill the time? There was no coming back from cruelty put to such a crude shape.