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
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.