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Okay. Be right there.

[She leaves Tyrhaus very quickly, dressed in the black wool peacoat she got at Christmas and a very uncharacteristic scarf draped purposefully over her chest. She feels uncomfortable and conspicuous and very agitated and it shows in her body language.]

[ Dante ushers her in pretty quick once she arrives, his usual laid back greeting put aside for shepherding Trish up the stairs to his room. Vergil is somewhere nearby last he checked, better to avoid him for the time being until Dante's theory is proven correct.

She may get a glimpse of it as he moves up the stairs to his room, the almost unmistakable black marks of a ward scrawled onto his collar bone and a second on the inside of his wrist. Brief glimpses, enough to know something is there but not enough to figure out what is scrawled on his skin ─ not unless she decides to stop him in his tracks.

Regardless with a somewhat dramatic bow he pushes open the door to his room and leads her in. It's only then that Dante actually regards her with his head tilted sideways. ]

Haven't seen you in a peacoat in a while, not really your style.

[She does catch a glimpse of the marks, but it’s momentary and not nearly clear enough for her to comment on as she follows him up the stairs, pausing for a moment to take in the traces of red and blue paw prints from Shadow on the floorboards.

Still, she’s not in the mindset to mock Dante for the dramatic bow as he opens the door for her and instead chooses to pass him by and sit on the end of his bed.]

Well, you know, it’s cold and I’m not in the mood to answer any questions about these...

[She shrugs off the coat- not the scarf though, that stays in place- and plain as day on her forearms are the words TRAITOR and DISPOSABLE

She looks at him, brow quirked in consideration as she looks at his collarbone.]

Something you can relate to?

[ To his credit the room is in decent condition, only a few loose clothes thrown about his bed and on the back of a chair. The floor is visible despite his blankets attempts to eject themselves off of the bed proper. Ordinarily he's sure there would be a comment about it, but circumstances that they are maybe not this time.

Dante moves to the table, picking up a spare shirt from it, before turning to face her. ]

Someone has terrible penmanship.

[ His gaze lingers on the scarf, eyebrow raising, until she motions towards the mark on his collarbone. Dante looks down at himself, laughs, the reaches up to tug his shirt down a bit more. Scrawled there is the word WEAK, then he tugs at the bandages on his wrist to reveal the second word FAILURE. ]

Yeah, I get it. [ Readjusting his shirt and bandages Dante rolls his shoulders. ] Also why I know that wonderful brother of mine wasn't the person who did it. He might be an ass but he'd say these things to my face, not scrawl them on my skin while I slept.

[ A nod towards the scarf. ]

Let me see.

[Trish isn’t put off by disarray; she’s grown accustomed to all the assorted chaos that comes from being around him. Besides, now’s not the time. She frowns as she reads the words printed on him, in the same hand as hers, and shakes her head. He has a point, it’s exactly the sort of thing Vergil’s would have no qualms with saying to his brother’s face.

But...]

Terrible penmanship and a terrible sense of humour. You, weak? Don’t make me laugh. And if you were a failure then you wouldn’t even be standing here.

When he nods at the scarf, she automatically reaches for it and clutches at it, reluctant to do as he asks, and she’ll play it off as a joke to try and get past it.]

What, this? It’s called a scarf. Not sure if you know this but it’s cold. I’m human here. I don’t want the sniffles, I’ve seen how it turns people into babies and snot is so not my thing.

[It’s weak and it’s lame and she knows he won’t buy it but while she can easily laugh off what’s on her arms... this she can’t.]

Edited 2020-02-19 13:20 (UTC)

[ He can't help but grin at her response to the words written on him, momentarily distracting him from the scarf and what it obviously hides. He strolls over to her, extra shirt in hand, and presses a quick kiss to the top of her hand as he holds the shirt out for Trish to take. ]

You really know what to say to make a guy feel better, don't you? [ A chuckle. ] They don't really bother me that much. Back when I was young a stupid? Yeah, definitely. Not so much now. Here.

[ It's then he steps back, taking a seat at the small table he's made into something of a workbench; Ebony and Ivory laid on the dark wood in pieces. Once seated he starts the process of resembling his girls, sparing a pointed look at Trish's direction. ]

Keep it on if you want, I'm not going to force you, but don't feed me some lame excuse about not wanting the sniffles. We both know that isn't the truth.

[She smiles in spite of herself as he hands over the shirt with an oh so charming kiss. What a goofball. Of course he wouldn't let something so stupid as this get him down.

Which... doesn't help make her feel any better about her own attitude towards her predicament. Her arms just irritate her; sure she's questioned her actions in the past, betraying Dante when the first met, then changing her tune and turning agains her former master, hunting down and killing her own kind. It's not an attractive trait, and she knows that. Doesn't mean she regrets the choices she's making for herself.

She knows she's not disposable either, but the memory of those words from years ago which had sickened and galled her so much at the time... it's not been nice to relive those.

That useless being? If you need a mother, I can create it as many as you want. Just like, I created Trish

But it brings her to the sticking point across her clavicle.

Her smile slips as she reaches for the scarf.]

Fine.

[As the scarf comes away it reveals that the skin underneath is still pink from where she's almost scrubbed her skin raw trying to get rid of the words. For the first time since she arrived she can't bring herself to meet Dante's eyes once they're revealed.

IT'S NOT YOUR FACE.

She keeps her eyes firmly on her lap, because this really bothers her and it pisses her off that it does.]

You see why I thought it might be Vergil.

[ The absent motions of resembling his guns ceases almost immediately, eyes focused on the words scrawled across her skin ─ still pink from the obvious attempts to rid herself of them. Dante feels something sharp in his chest, brow furrowing, task set aside as he stands again to move over to her again.

Shit, he hadn't realized this still bothered her. So much that she can't seem to meet his gaze. If it wasn't for the redness of her skin, that alone would scream volumes about how upset she is. ]

Shit, Trish... [ He hovers in front of her for a moment, running a hand through his hair. ] Yeah, no wonder you thought it was him.

[ Lowering himself down he gently urges her to look at him, tapping the underside of her chin with a finger. IT'S NOT YOUR FACE, what a load of bullshit. ]

But you know that's a bunch of bull, right? It is your face, you made it yours.

I've looked in a mirror. I already know that it's not bull, Dante.

[Over time she’s come to terms with it, she knows that she was made to look the way she does for a very specific, grotesque reason. She was created to ensnare, to intrigue, to hurt, all the while wearing a face that belonged to a woman who would never do those things. She hadn’t known until after Dante had saved her life just how twisted and perverse Mundus had been in his attempts at revenge; sure she’d known her purpose, but it had never been made clear to her why she looked the way she did and she'd never realised until he had turned to her and said it.

Because you look like my mother

Therein lies the rub. Trish can argue all she wants that she’s not a traitor if the master she turned against would have thrown her away at the first opportunity if it had pleased him, as he’d thrown away all his generals before condemning her the same way. Everything she does is her choice and it’s a choice she’d make again and again.

But every time she looks in the mirror, she can’t deny that the face looking back at her came from Eva. It’s not just her face.

She thinks sometimes that she can see differences. There have been times in the past when she's been alone in the shop and she's found herself staring at the photo on Dante's desk, wondering if they really are identical; she doesn't think she could ever look as serene as Eva does in her picture, and even though she loves the colour red she'll never wear it. She doesn't want to invite the similarities. She had thought she was past it.

And then V had looked at her and sought her guidance like a child seeking his mother's approval and it had touched a nerve she had thought she'd numbed years ago.

She doesn't fight Dante when he encourages her to look at him, and not for the first time in her life she wonders who he's looking for when he's paying attention to her face. It doesn't mean she's not grateful for him being kind in his attempt to reassure her.]

Just because someone's being a dick, it doesn’t change the facts.

[ He can't deny that once when he looked at her he saw nothing but his mother, thought of nothing but the last time he ever saw her alive. It was difficult not go back to that memory, to replay it over and over again in his head like he had for so many years. It had been the reason he saved her, but that quickly changed the more he got to know Trish. She had been so quick to correct his thoughts.

Days passed, weeks, where before he struggled to separate them from one another they became two different entities ─ he saw Trish for the person she is, not the clone of a woman she had been made to be. Only now does he wonder if he made that evident, if it was clear to her that when he looked at her he was looking at Trish, his friend his partner, and not Eva, the loving mother forever lost. ]

Listen to me... [ Maybe he should have made it more obvious, actually told her instead of letting subtle actions speak for him. But he isn't the best at things like these, preferring his actions to speak instead of fumbling over words. It's past time he did the opposite, right? Bite the bullet and actually speak. ] We can't change the facts, but what you were made for doesn't make you who you are. You know that.

[ He breathes in, pausing briefly as he searches for the words. ]

It is your face, just as it was hers. [ Fingers take her chin lightly, keeping her looking at him. ] She wouldn't want her memory to weigh you down, she'd want you to be the badass woman you are and keep her idiot son in check.

[ In truth he isn't... sure if this is helping, if any of what he is trying to say is getting through but he'll keep trying to voice what he normally wouldn't. What he's spent years trying to get through with his actions. ]

I don't see Eva when I look at you, Trish. Haven't in twenty years. I see you, I see your face. [ It's then he lets go, sitting back onto his feet, rubbing the back of his head. ] I want you to know that.

[She does listen when he speaks - for all the shit she gives him and vice versa, when he has something to say that matters, she'll listen, even if that small, treacherous voice in her head snipes disagreement at every opportunity. It shouldn't matter, she is her own woman and she had outgrown her original purpose before the first tremors shook the foundations of Mallet Island, she knows all of this.

She knows she should be above and beyond caring about the resemblance, and for god's sake she's talking to a twin about her hang-ups of having the same face as someone else. It's so stupid she should be laughing.

Twenty years, huh?

It hits her then that Dante's spent more of his life with her than he ever had the chance to with his mother.

Her eyes follow him as his hand falls from her chin and she can't help but feel a fresh kind of sadness over this whole mess. Two decades later and the three-eyed fuckface is still finding ways to ruin lives, even while dead and gone (hopefully). It's bullshit.]

I do know that. I know you don't see me as an imitation of her.

[You have the face, but you'll never have her fire!

The treacherous voice can go fuck itself.

She sighs, props her elbows up on her knees and takes her head in her hands, laughing mirthlessly. How can it be after twenty years she still finds herself cast in the shadow of a woman she never even knew and feel like she should make apologies for it? It's not her fault she was created this way.]

I like how I look, you know? I always have. I like being me. I don't- I stopped wondering if I was just meant to be a total copy of her a long time ago but... I don't know. This wasn't what I wanted to see when I went to shower this morning. Kinda threw me a bit.

[She puts a hand on her collarbone over the words, and offers him a small, sheepish smile.]

I mean look at this, you're acting as peacekeeper and keeping me in check here. Everything's messed up.

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