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ACT I
They're coming back from a job the first time he thinks something is off.
Trish is walking ahead, complaining about the bracelet she lost during a fight, how much she loved it and how they better get paid for it. Dante, on the other hand, is rolling his eyes and trying to be helpful, telling her she can always get a new one-a life changing advice that earns him a glare. The tall woman sighs, walks faster, ignoring him completely.
He chuckles, shakes his head and looks to the side, expecting to find Lady either smiling or equally annoyed at him, but all he sees is the blank expression on her face, as if she's only there physically.
Skin is ghostly pale, hands shaking so much she has trouble adjusting her glasses.
"Hey," he says, approaching her, concern evident in his tone. "What's wrong?"
Dante towers over her, she looks up to meet his eyes, forces a small smile. "Nothing," comes the lie.
"You're shaking," he counters, reaching for her hand, but she takes a step back.
"Adrenaline's wearing off, I guess," she waves him off. "It's nothing, I'm fine."
Her words do very little to convince him of anything, and he watches as she tries to walk a few steps ahead of him only to stagger and fall forward. He's quick enough to grab hold of her, frowning, eyes scanning her face. She takes a deep breath, leaning on him, not daring to make eye contact right now.
"Are you hurt?"
"No, I just...feel a little dizzy," the nonchalance is forced; she holds on to him as he helps her to the sidewalk so she can lean her back against the wall of what they can only assume is an abandoned house, given its precarious state.
Her face is warm, and the trembling gets bad to the point she keeps clenching her hands into fists to see if that somehow will make it stop.
"I'm okay," she reassures him. "I think my pressure dropped, that's all."
Doubtful, Dante gives her space, his hand clutching hers firmly. When she tries to walk, she feels unsteady, her center of gravity leaving as if her body's just giving out on her.
"C'mere," he says, taking her weapon away from her and strapping it onto his own back as if it weights absolutely nothing. Secretly thankful not to be carrying a bazooka right now, she's about to tell him so, but he wraps his left arm around her waist and hooks his right one under her knees, lifting her up bridal style in one single motion.
Normally, she'd hate to be carried in such a way, treated as if she's just a frail, delicate human, but everything around her is becoming distorted, vision blurring by the second. She closes her eyes and rests her head on his shoulder, trying to slow down her own heart.
Dante starts walking up the street, suddenly stands face to face with an annoyed Trish.
"Did you two stop to fool aro-what happpened?" Trish cuts herself short, her eyes on the woman in Dante's arms.
"I don't know," he answers. "She said she felt dizzy."
"Dizzy?"
"Yeah," and that's all he has to offer.
They keep talking and walking, heading back home. Trish tries to lighten the mood, says it's probably the heat and that this type of thing is more than common. She means well, Dante knows, but the motherly tone she uses doesn't help one bit, only leaves him more anxious.
All the while, Lady is aware of everything going around her, wanting to answer them, to walk on her own two feet, but she lacks the strength to talk.
Back at home, Trish says she'll go get their payment settled and Dante barely listens, carries Lady up to his bedroom and sets her down on the bed gently. He places her weapon next to the door, then sits by the edge of the bed and starts taking off her boots. Her glasses are next, and when she looks at him, he feels a bit calmer, although anguish is still in him somewhere, especially as she seems to look right past him.
Brushing a strand of hair out of her face, he tells her to rest a bit. Feeling too weak to even reply, Lady only nods and closes her eyes, giving in to the malaise.
Dante looks through the pile of magazines on the coffee table, settles for one talking about classic rock and sits on the couch, resting his feet up on the table. He tries to focus on an article talking about how rock music is close to being dead and buried forever, but his attention spam is that of a child. He glances at the stairs, the closed bedroom door and wonders if he should go up there again even though it's been 15 minutes since he last checked up on her and she was still sleeping.
Which is good, he guesses.
Back to his magazine, he gets tired of some old fart talking about music as if he knows the subject better than anyone else in the world, so he turns the pages, trying to find something else to pay attention to, but then the pages get stuck together which pisses him off so he ends up throwing the magazine across the room and staring as it hits the wall and slides all the way down to the floor.
He closes his eyes, pinches the bridge of his nose and sighs. Standing up, he walks towards the stairs, rests his hand on the railing. As he makes ip his mind and is about to climb the first step, the phone rings.
Cursing, he picks up the phone unceremoniously.
"What-oh, it's you."
"Aren't you a ray of sunshine," Trish says. "How is she?"
"Sleeping."
"That's good," she says. "Listen, this is gonna take longer than I thought..."
"No pay?"
"Not the amount we settled for. But that's about to change, don't worry."
"Not worried at all."
"So, just wanted to let you know."
"Okay."
"Dante?"
"Hmm?"
"Stop freaking out."
"I'm not-"
"She's tough, it's probably just a cold."
"Sure."
"I'm serious, don't smother her, let her rest."
"Why do you insist on treating me like a kid?"
But the question remains unanswered as she hangs up on him.
"Shit," he mutters, taking a deep breath and sitting on the chair behind his desk. He leans back, stares at the ceiling, tries to understand why he's so damn worked up over this.
Lady is a good fighter, he knows. Passionate, driven. She can also be impulsive, but that's always seemed to work in her favor. It's not like he can fault her for being so effective in what she does, and he can't ask her to take a break either, not when he has no sense of limit as well. He's in love with a woman who chose to put two bullets through his head rather than allowing herself to be rescued, and sure, that was before she liked him and all, but she's still as headstrong as she was back then.
Which means she could be feeling sick all this time and hiding it just because she wasn't about to let a silly cold get the best of her.
The thought of losing her over something stupid, over anything really, twists his insides into a tight knot, leaving him helpless; what if she had passed out right in front of an enemy?
"Is this how you used to feel, old man?" he wonders, staring at the sword that carries his father's name.
When he goes to check on her an hour or so later, she's no longer on the bed but in the shower, evidenced by the steam seeping through under the bathroom door. He sees her clothes neatly folded on the bed, thinks over for a second and then digs through his messy wardrobe to find something she can wear. He ends up picking an old t-shirt and moving towards the bathroom, tapping on the door with his knuckles.
She tells him to come in, voice muffled by the sound of water falling. Inside, she's standing right under the shower head, letting the water wash over her, a bar of soap in her hand, body glistening, and he can't help but stare.
Sometimes he thinks she's made of something out of this world, something dangerous and etheral.
It's impossible not to be blown away by her.
"Thought you could use this," he says, showing her the t-shirt.
"Let me guess," she raises her arms up above her bed, stretching them, and while the action is innocent enough, she does feel a little bit proud when she notices his lingering gaze on her. "No pants."
"Well, pretty sure this is gonna turn into a dress on you, so I wouldn't worry."
"Oh, 'cause I'm short?" she asks, getting a smirk in response. "So, are you just gonna stand there?"
He places the t-shirt on top of the sink, wastes no time getting out of his own clothes; takes off his shirt, kicks his shoes off, then unzips his pants, pulling them down along with his boxers. He stands in the shower with her, the water is warm and nice, easing his strain, but what really makes it worth it is how she starts running the bar of soap across his skin, lathering him up, taking her time.
When she asks him to turn around so she can get his back, he corners her against the tile wall instead, steals a long kiss, his arms wrapping around her body, pulling her to him. The water is falling mostly on him now, and as they break apart, he rests his forehead on hers, content to see that mischievous spark in her eyes.
"How do you feel?"
"Pretty great," she says, pressing against him. "Can't you tell?"
"You passed out."
"I didn't pass out, I felt dizzy."
"People don't feel dizzy over nothing."
"I told you, my pressure must have dropped. It's happened before."
"Your hands were shaking."
"They're not shaking now."
"You're really okay?"
Tilting her head to the side, her lips curve into a small smile as she studies the look on his face. Heart skips a bit when she realizes he's really worried. She's not one to break down, and she's always been good at ignoring or hiding how tired she actually feels sometimes. Still, it's the sweetest thing to see how much he cares---no inhibitions, no teasing.
"Dante, I'm fine," she says, standing on the tip of her toes, giving him another kiss. "Let me show you," she whispers in his ear.
And he's not that convinced, but she asks so nicely, it's hard to deny her anything.
ACT II
The summer rain is a well deserved break from the heat as it falls relentlessly, heavy drops of water hitting the pavement and cooling the city down.
It's quiet at the shop; Dante is looking for something to eat in the kitchen, Lady is sitting on the couch, a book in her hands, the jukebox is on and Freddie Mercury's voice takes over the room as he sings about what he's learned on the radio. Having accepted yet another solo gig, Trish is out on a hunting trip, scheduled to come back in three weeks.
It's a lazy day, and when Dante shows up empty handed, declaring that there's nothing good in the fridge, he's not at all surprised to find Lady with her eyes closed, the book almost slipping from her hands. He smiles at the scene, moves so he can sit next to her.
"You're gonna mess up your neck like this," he whispers, and she opens her eyes, letting her book fall to the ground while he drapes an arm over the back of the couch so she can rest her head on his lap. He doesn't think much of it; she's tired. The past couple of months have been hard on her, he can tell. She's been working too much, barely stopping. A week ago she had that dizzy spell, so he's thankful she's getting a break.
Running his fingers through her hair, she hums in response and falls asleep while he appreciates the sound of Queen merging with the falling rain.
Somewhere in his mind, right in the middle of all that peace, he knows his life is about to change.
Lady wakes up alone in the bedroom. The rain has stopped, night has fallen and moonlight shines over her figure as she sits up on the bed, wincing and cradling her head in her hands. She doesn't get headaches often. The pain blurs her vision for a second, eyes watering as she tries to stand up, feeling nauseous and unsteady.
All she remembers is falling asleep on the couch, using Dante as a pillow. She manages to drag herself to the bathroom, stands in front of the mirror, splashes water on her face, and takes a deep breath before brushing her teeth. She thinks about getting under a cold shower, but decides against it when her body tells her she's one step away from blacking out.
Walking back to the bedroom, she leans on the door frame and waits until the nausea subsides. Slowly, she makes her way down the stairs, hand clutching the railing so hard her knuckles turn white. She can hear Dante talking to her, but she lacks the energy to respond, in fact she lacks the energy to keep moving. There are only three steps left until she's on ground level, but the ache is too strong, the feeling of dread and the overwhelming sensation that she needs to shut her eyes and sleep right now forces her to sit on the wooden step, chest rising and falling rapidly.
Dante is on her in a second, and she winces when she sees the look on his face. He's asking her what's wrong, and she knows that if she opens her mouth she will either throw up on him or pass out, so she chooses silence while he places his hand on her forehead to check her temperature.
"You're burning up," he says, alarmed, grabbing her arms and pulling her to him, but she refuses to let herself be carried again so she grabs onto his shirt and leans on him for support as he helps her walk down the stairs.
"That's it, we need to get you to a hospital," he declares, setting her down on the couch.
"No, wait..."
"Lady, I'm not gonna stand here watching you get sick and-"
"It's fine."
"It's not fine!" he throws his hands up in frustration.
That word has been spoken so many times now that just the sound of it pisses him off. It's not an excuse to raise his voice nor lose his temper, though. Sighing, he kneels in front of her.
"I don't know what to do here. I can't force you to go to the hospital, and if it was anyone else, I honestly wouldn't give a damn," his tone is low, soft. "But it's you and you won't let me help you, so what the fuck am I supposed to do?"
She stares at him for a moment, sees the desolation in his eyes and her heart grows heavy with guilt. She wonders if now is the right time to spill out the truth; for days now she's been thinking of ways to tell him, trying to picture all the possible scenarios, good and bad, searching for something to make this easier, except she's always losing her nerve, melting into him and trying to buy herself some time, keeping things as they are a little while longer.
"Dante," she starts, head pounding. This is it, she's just going to do it. Rip the band-aid off. Swallowing the lump in her throat, she bites her bottom lip and says: "Give me a few days. If I don't get a little better then I'll go to the hospital, ok?"
Damn it, she thinks.
It's just too much, though, too much to go through right now. And yet it's so simple, so damn simple, she just needs to say it, make it real.
"Fine," he mumbles, standing up. "A few days. What do you need 'til then?"
She smiles at the sweetness, thinks over what she can and can't have. "Some Aspirin. Oh, and chamomile tea."
He nods, leans down to give her a quick kiss. "I'll be right back."
"I know."
He grabs his keys, puts on his coat and exits the shop.
Once he's gone, Lady fights back the urge to break down and cry.
Just say it, make it real.
ACT III
Lady sleeps most of the time, stays on the bed wearing that old t-shirt of his, drowning in his scent, hair wet from the shower. She's lying on her stomach, staring at him. It's 3:00 PM and instead of being downstairs, Dante is sitting next to her on the bed, no shoes, no shirt on, hands behind his head, eyes closed.
For a second she goes back in time to their first meeting, the way he carried himself back then. They've grown so much over the years, but sometimes she can see that arrogant boy lurking behind his smile. It's soothing to know they're still the same, though, and he's here and she wants him and he wants her right back. That alone should be all the encouragement she needs, right, that last push to just open her mouth and tell him, but that stupid fear has a way of creeping up on her, clouding her judgment.
She's thankful for their deal and how respectful he's being of it, taking care of her the best way he can, going so far to cancel some of his jobs just in case she needs him. She tried to convince him that was a bad idea, he wouldn't budge, and she was too worn out to argue with him. So now they're here and she turns on her side, stretches her arm out, her hand on his chest.
He's quick to bring one arm down and grab hold of her, interlocking his fingers with hers. She feels safe, swimming in some kind of paradise with him, protected from everything.
It all goes south the next day.
Feverish, she can't keep anything down, feels nauseous at the suggestion of food and throws up when presented with it. Water is the only thing that stays in her stomach, and only in small sips. She's brushing her teeth for the 5th time that day when he stands by the door frame, arms crossed, eyes watching her every move. She wipes her mouth with the face towel, walks past him, sits on the bed and finally meets his eyes.
There's no escaping it now, no more excuses.
"I'm not sick," she says.
Annoyed and worried, he rolls his eyes. "Okay, what is it, are you scared of hospitals or something?" he takes a couple of steps towards her. "'Cause if that's the case, fine, I'll be there with you-"
"No, listen-"
"-to hold your hand or whatever, but you need to talk to me here, tell me what the damn problem is so we can fix it and get you checked out. 'Cause this isn't normal!"
"You're not getting it, I already went to a hospital," she confesses in a breath, bracing herself for what's to come. "I'm not sick."
Emphasizing every word, she watches quietly as realization hits him, heart beating so fast she thinks it's going to burst through her chest. It doesn't help that he clenches his jaw, stares right into her eyes and shakes his head.
"You're pregnant," it's a statement, one that doesn't require confirmation but she nods anyway, eyes rimmed with tears.
He turns his back to her, only for a moment, just one small moment and she doesn't know what to make of it, doesn't know what he's feeling. His head is hanging low, his gaze on the ground.
Is he angry?
Desperation slips right through all the cracks of her self doubt, rendering her painfully aware of her surroundings, her own body and the space she occupies in this room.
She's exhausted, god, she's so exhausted, standing right at the edge of a breakdown fueled by lack of sleep and stress, but he turns around, that tiny moment in which all seemed lost disappears in the blink of an eye, he turns around and walks over to her, pulls her into a hug, his arms wrapping around her body tightly and the relief she feels is so astounding that she starts crying into his chest.
"I'm such an idiot," he says, softly. "All this time thinking you were ill..." leaning back a little, he takes a good look at her, wipes her tears away. "When did you find out?"
"Last week," she confesses. "I wanted to tell you but, I mean, we never even talked about having kids and things were happening all at once and...I got you so worried, I know-"
The best thing about his smile, she decides, is that she recognizes it, understands the meaning behind it because it's the same kind of smile she had on her face the second she found out about the baby.
"It's fine, I get it."
"You do?"
"Yeah," he shrugs. "You freaked out, it happens."
Of course, it's always so simple with him. And there's no denying it, he's absolutely right. She freaked out.
Right now, in his arms, she can't understand why.
Feeling a bit faint, she sits down on the bed and he follows, tskes a spot next to her, her left thigh touching his right one, the back of his hand on her forehead.
"You're still warm..."
"Apparently, I lucked out and got all the crazy fun symptoms," she explains, reading the worry on his face.
"You need to eat at least something."
"I know, I know..." she rests her head on his shoulder. "Just let me sleep a little."
Eyes shut tight, she doesn't see the way he's looking at her, all the tension gone from his bones. A moment of respite that serves only to point out how much he loves her, all the things she's giving him, the life they're building together.
Screw the rules, they've never gone by the book anyway.
No, he's sure, he is, he's sure that they can do this and family history will not repeat itself here, not this time. They deserve some peace, a little bit of happiness and nothing is taking that away from them, no way.
She's his everything, after all.