(no subject)
Who: Dante and Vergil
When: As the sun rises, or something dramatic like that.
Where: The beach.
What: A slap fight. Some corpses.
Rating: R. To be safe.
It wasn't that he disliked the ocean, quite the opposite in fact. It was just that, all things considered, he preferred not visiting it quite like this. His pants were wet, plastered to his legs all the way up to his knees, and the waters trailed downs his coat in runnels and droplets as he slogged in through the surf. His hair was drying, and he scuffed his hand through the shaggy mess in encouragement. Waterlogged and tired, he hardly considered the strength of the waves pulling at his legs.
He was just so drained. All of that shit back there with Arkham pushing him and pushing him until he was run down enough that the man had thought to kill him, and then fighting Vergil. Leaving him in... He was just so tired. He stumbled to a halt and bent, braced his hands on his knees as he pulled in and pushed out the salty air. His limbs were rubbery, the burn of action long since faded, the adrenaline rush over. His head was thick and full of things he didn't want to deal with, and his stomach was heavy. If it hadn't been for the water he might have pitched forward and slept on his face for a few hours. For now he settled for breathing, just breathing, focusing on the pull of air in his lungs and the whisper of the breeze in his hair, and the chill of the water soaking into him.
He could already feel the sand bleeding into his boots, and the squelch of it between his toes proved somehow disgusting and important, despite everything else. So it was a few minutes before he dragged himself upright and started forward anew. His arms hanging limply at his sides and each step slower than the last. His head lolled back, eyes half open and unseeing. The full body drag slowed until he was only ankle deep, and there he paused, turning his eyes to the picturesque houses and the cheery little ornamental trees in the distance, focusing on the sheer neatness and quaintness of the town.
And he laughed just once, not wholly bemused. Not wholly dead to the irony of the juxtaposition. Even so, his voice was lacking in something quintessentially Dante, when he croaked.
"Honey, I'm home."
Maybe it was all that sea water he'd swallowed.
When: As the sun rises, or something dramatic like that.
Where: The beach.
What: A slap fight. Some corpses.
Rating: R. To be safe.
It wasn't that he disliked the ocean, quite the opposite in fact. It was just that, all things considered, he preferred not visiting it quite like this. His pants were wet, plastered to his legs all the way up to his knees, and the waters trailed downs his coat in runnels and droplets as he slogged in through the surf. His hair was drying, and he scuffed his hand through the shaggy mess in encouragement. Waterlogged and tired, he hardly considered the strength of the waves pulling at his legs.
He was just so drained. All of that shit back there with Arkham pushing him and pushing him until he was run down enough that the man had thought to kill him, and then fighting Vergil. Leaving him in... He was just so tired. He stumbled to a halt and bent, braced his hands on his knees as he pulled in and pushed out the salty air. His limbs were rubbery, the burn of action long since faded, the adrenaline rush over. His head was thick and full of things he didn't want to deal with, and his stomach was heavy. If it hadn't been for the water he might have pitched forward and slept on his face for a few hours. For now he settled for breathing, just breathing, focusing on the pull of air in his lungs and the whisper of the breeze in his hair, and the chill of the water soaking into him.
He could already feel the sand bleeding into his boots, and the squelch of it between his toes proved somehow disgusting and important, despite everything else. So it was a few minutes before he dragged himself upright and started forward anew. His arms hanging limply at his sides and each step slower than the last. His head lolled back, eyes half open and unseeing. The full body drag slowed until he was only ankle deep, and there he paused, turning his eyes to the picturesque houses and the cheery little ornamental trees in the distance, focusing on the sheer neatness and quaintness of the town.
And he laughed just once, not wholly bemused. Not wholly dead to the irony of the juxtaposition. Even so, his voice was lacking in something quintessentially Dante, when he croaked.
"Honey, I'm home."
Maybe it was all that sea water he'd swallowed.