Warning: Contains self-inflicted violence.

Author's Note: I normally don't get into these kinds of fics, but I do love me some angst, and when this thought popped into my head I couldn't quite get it out.

I recently read the first DMC novel, published by Tokyopop, and I liked it mostly though I don't know if I care for the way the novel and graphic novel set up Dante's relationship with Vergil. In these books (which I suppose should be considered canon), Vergil and Dante are practically strangers. They were very young when they were separated and therefore don't have all that delicious angst that comes from growing up with someone as family and having them turn on you. Still, I've decided to include that version of Dante's back-story in this story anyway because it's already angsty enough as it is! So, if you haven't read the book, I apologize in advance for any spoilers.

-----Dante-----

We fought. I can't even remember what we argued about anymore. It wasn't unusual for us to argue; we were both strong-willed and stubborn--and entirely too good at pushing each other's buttons. It didn't even bother me really. Trish had left and I felt relieved to be alone. I tried not to consider the possibility that she might leave me alone for good this time.

I started drinking early, but I decided to drink in solitude for once, scrounging up what alcohol I could find in the house so I wouldn't have to go out. I wasn't in the mood to be social. I hadn't eaten much all day, so the alcohol hit me pretty hard, but I didn't really mind.

Before long, I found myself slouched on the couch staring off into nothing with a bottle of whiskey clutched in my hand. Loud, angry music blared out of the stereo on the other side of the room, the lyrics floating through my mind without touching my thoughts. The room wasn't exactly spinning, but it wasn't exactly fixed to the ground either. I stared off into space, but my eyes still saw a tiny hand clutching at the arm of a doll. They saw white lace dyed to a dark red and a rusted toy truck waterlogged in a pool of blood.

Shaking my head, I tried to push the images out of my mind, but the movement was a bad idea. The room had definitely started to wobble more than a little, and I rose unsteadily to my feet, narrowly avoiding the empty bottles on the floor. I made my way slowly down the hall to the bathroom, leaning on the wall for support and stumbling against the doorframe.

Without thinking I flipped the light on, instantly regretting doing so when I saw my own face in the mirror. I looked haggard, defeated and…vulnerable. Weakness looked good on some people, but not on me. Seeing myself so close to broken brought back memories I thought I had buried long ago, pieces of my past I had hoped would never come to light again.

I turned on the tap and splashed my face with cool water, fighting against the wave of queasiness washing over me. Patting my face dry with a towel, I straightened slowly and found myself looking in the mirror again, watching as droplets of water dripped from damp tendrils of hair onto my forehead, sliding down over my cheekbones like tears. Bruises of exhaustion marred the skin beneath my eyes, proving that sleepless nights took their toll, even on half-demons.

"Shit," I muttered to my reflection. "You'd think Vergil just kicked your ass or something."

That, at least, might have been understandable--and perhaps even acceptable. But Vergil hadn't had anything to do with my state this time--though the demon Trish and I had finally turned into a pile of ashes the night before had several things in common with my twin brother. Few could match Vergil's unique brand of hatred and cruelty, but this demon might have given Vergil a run for his money if he had been allowed to continue its heinous activities any longer.

I hated demons for a lot of reasons, but the thing I absolutely could not stand about them was the way they always managed to take advantage of my human emotions. Most of the time, their taunts were hollow and I shrugged them off, but big time demons never made empty threats. This ugly demon in particular had done his research on me; he had known about my past, known about the pseudonym I had lived by for a good portion of my life, and known what had happened to me in that damn town--what Vergil had done and what he had almost accomplished.

The past was the past, and I had left my life as Tony Redgrave behind a long time ago, but some of that vulnerability was still inside of me somewhere. I had never really been innocent--watching my mother die before my eyes at such a young age had seen to that--but my first encounter with Vergil as an adult had managed to destroy any last shred of naiveté I might have had left.

I never shared much of my past with Trish. I only talked about it when it was required, and she had never prodded me on the subject. I knew she was curious--she'd always had an insatiable curiosity--but she managed to hold her tongue when it came to my history--maybe because she could sense she'd have more than a fight on her hands if she questioned me too far. I appreciated her restraint, but sometimes I wondered if it would have been easier for her to understand me if she knew where I came from.

I was probably just afraid of talking to her about it. Not because I was afraid of her reaction--I knew she would be painfully sympathetic. No, I think I was just afraid of letting her that close to me--maybe because I'd lost everything that was important to me in my life too many times to count and I had no desire to go through that again. Trish was far stronger than anyone else I'd allowed myself to get close to; she wasn't human and she could take care of herself almost as well as I could. But I had surrounded myself with strong people before, only to watch them die before my eyes. My mother had been strong. And perhaps that was a small part of my fear as well--she did have my mother's face, after all.

Looking at myself in the mirror as I frowned, I saw my brother's face in the reflection and felt a familiar ache in my chest. I have been an orphan and a loner most of my life, but there have been times when I longed for the comfort of family--of belonging--that was stolen from me so long ago. But, as far as I knew, Vergil had never desired such things; he had always wanted nothing more than my death.

The way I understood it, he felt that my life took the power from him that he deserved; he thought my power was half of what should have belonged to him in the first place. What a stupid concept. As if killing me would give him my power anyway. We were identical twins, born with the same genetic structure and therefore the same power. Vergil had always been a smart boy; he should have been able to figure that one out on his own.

I chuckled flatly under my breath, clenching the edge of the sink and hearing the porcelain creak under my fingertips. I didn't know why I thought about Vergil as if he were still alive. Maybe it was because I had killed him before, only to run into him again later. Vergil seemed utterly indestructible--no matter how many times I defeated him, he always returned, as if his hatred alone was enough to keep him alive.

My queasiness passed while I stood leaning on the sink staring into my own hollow eyes, and I decided to leave the bathroom and return to the couch and that last bottle of whiskey. I hesitated in the doorway, noticing the messy pile of weapons I had left on the counter after the hunt the previous night. Most of the demon's weapons had turned to dust when it died, but a few daggers had still been intact after the battle and I had taken them with me as a gruesome memento, a reminder of what I had allowed to happen.

As if the demon hadn't been vile enough in its manipulations of my memories, it had also enjoyed kidnapping and torturing small children. Trish and I occasionally donated money to the local orphanage, and I had even been known to volunteer there from time to time. Though I would have never admitted it to a stranger, I had a rather large soft spot for children, especially children without family. Unfortunately, the demon knew this about me as well, and targeted that orphanage in particular. We had managed to rescue most of the children in our previous encounters with the demon, but last night we had been too late to save any of them.

One of the daggers was in my hand. I couldn't even remember reaching for it, but I found myself fascinated by the dull glow of the blade, the razor-sharp edge catching the light. I felt a familiar urge writhing in my gut, but I held myself back, my grip on the hilt tightening. I told myself a long time ago that I would never do that again.

Glancing up at myself again in the mirror, I saw the blade in my hand and the broken expression on my face and realized I felt entirely numb. I was tired of feeling this way, of living a life of violence simply to keep one step ahead of the corruption in the world while watching my own world crumble around me along the way. I managed to ignore the despair most of the time, managed to laugh and mock the demons who constantly came after me lusting for my traitorous blood. When I got knocked down, I usually clamored back to my feet with a vengeance, relying on anger and my own twisted sense of pride to keep me going. But occasionally when I fell, the pain I was denying pulled me farther down, and I began to wallow in doubt and regret.

That was how the temptation first started. My body had been torn, cut and wounded in countless ways over the years, but in the heat of battle I never really felt the pain. When the adrenaline wore off, I felt the aches left behind as my body healed, but even that wasn't the same as the sharp, painful sting of the edge of a knife cutting through the surface layers of my skin.

I had already given in to the desire without realizing what I was doing, but I found myself too mesmerized by the line of red I was drawing over my forearm to consider stopping myself. The cut was shallow, only deep enough to make the nerve endings beneath the surface scream in agony. I knew a minor wound like this one wouldn't take long for my body to heal, so I began making another one beside it, this time slightly deeper.

The act was strangely addictive, and soon my arms were covered in bloody tattoos and my bare feet were standing in a red puddle on the bathroom floor. Looking up at my reflection, I found the angry crimson against the tan of my skin to be strangely beautiful; I had always liked to wear red.

Between the alcohol still poisoning my system and the loss of blood, I was starting to feel seriously light headed. Smirking sourly, I leaned back against the wall and slid down to the floor, knowing I wouldn't feel much like standing after I started working on my legs.

The thought of stopping myself never crossed my mind. I knew I could stop at any time--or at least, I thought I could--but the pain was its own kind of release, a way to balance the scales. I had been born with the unnatural ability to heal almost any wound, but I had this ridiculous theory about my ability that I kept hidden away in the darkest corner of my mind. The theory went something like this: every consequence I managed to avoid for my careless actions, each escape from danger that I couldn't have accomplished without relying on my demon blood, the suffering of every single person I failed to protect--they all left a debt on my soul.

What a stupid theory, huh? I mean, you'd think I was some sort of hero, carrying around the weight of the world on my shoulders despite the fact it wasn't really my responsibility in the first place and no one had ever asked me to save the world. Heroes like that pissed me off. They spent more time brooding and beating themselves up for their occasional failures than they did saving anyone. You ask me, they're just losers with low self-esteem looking for someone to stroke their ego.

But what was I looking for? I wasn't a hero, I knew that much. An anti-hero? Perhaps on a good day. Or maybe I was just a half-breed searching for salvation. When it came right down to it, I was selfish. I fought for the thrill of it most of the time. My demonic blood demanded action and combat, and I was more than happy to oblige. As long as the fight was clean, I was happy. I had my grudge against everything demonic, of course--and a few other grudges as well--but for the most part, I avoided any kind of duty or accountability with the utmost caution.

I couldn't help but feel responsible though when things got messy. My life was a mess, but I hated messy jobs with an undying passion. How ironic. I could fuck up my own life and just keep walking without looking at all the blood and grit beneath my boots--I was used to it, after all--but when I fucked up someone else's life I started acting like a man with a mission, like a man who actually had a purpose left in his life.

It's true that I have never been known for looking even a millisecond beyond the moment, and sometimes that flaw kicked me in the ass and people got hurt--people whose only sin was trusting in me. Then my sick little theory would start going to work in my mind, haunting me, whispering in my ear about my unreliability and how I took my unfair advantages for granted. And then it would demand a price, a penalty for my mistakes.

I would never share my theory with anyone, probably because I knew even a child could rip my twisted logic to shreds. Part of me didn't want to let it go. I clung to the pain of it because it gave me an excuse. It helped me to justify my self-destruction to myself.

The bite of pain as I stabbed the dagger into my thigh made me whine softly in the back of my throat, but I knew it wasn't enough. This was the most alive I had felt in weeks; it was hard to feel alive, after all, when you barely felt anything at all. I twisted the dagger slowly, wincing as I tried to absorb every agonizing moment, the shame of falling back into this old habit still little more than a dull ache in the back of my mind.

I was so focused on punishing myself for my failures that I failed to notice that my cuts weren't healing as quickly as they should have been. The ivory tile floor had turned into a sea of red and I was nearly delirious with pain, yet I continued to use the knife for my dark purpose, swimming in my own self-loathing and hatred.

Perhaps Vergil had been right to hate me. Perhaps the world would have been better if I hadn't been born. Whenever I did this, my mind always seemed to return to that familiar refrain. Speaking of low self-esteem… Somehow it all came down to that small, painful place in my heart that still ached with the need for acknowledgement from my brother, the part of me that yearned for home. But I was searching for something that would never be found.

Somewhere, in a more rational part of my mind, I knew I was doing something extremely selfish and stupid, but that part of my mind had already lost the battle several bottles of whiskey ago. Not even the pain of my self-inflicted wounds had cleared my thoughts enough to warn me of the danger. Lurid green and purple spots were dancing across my vision, followed by dark red as I buried the dagger in my abdomen and nearly choked on the pain.

It's all right, I told the rational part of my mind, though it was still screaming and cursing at me for doing something so fucking idiotic. I'll start healing soon enough… and I'll still wake up tomorrow. That's more than those kids will ever do again.

-----Trish-----

Most of the time, virtual indestructibility was a wonderful thing. It had its perks when you were fighting monsters that liked to nearly slice you in half with scythes or impale you with talons. Humans couldn't just bounce back from such violent attacks, but demon blood made recovery quick enough to keep you in the fight until the end. It also kept you from catching a cold or coming down with a fever, and it kept you going long after most humans would have dropped dead from exhaustion.

I'd never seen a downside to this ability, nor even considered one. Who wouldn't want to be capable of healing most injuries in a matter of minutes? The dangers such a power would pose to someone who was emotionally vulnerable had never even crossed my mind. Demons simply weren't known for having a guilty conscience--or a conscience at all--but what about a demon who had human emotions and blood? Not all humans had consciences either, but if they did have one, such a power could be very dangerous indeed. Recovery wasn't quite so quick in demon blood thinned by human ancestry, and emotions had the potential to be poisonous if left to their own devices.

Still, I hadn't ever really thought about it. And why would I? Demons didn't have a high suicide rate--if they had one at all. They didn't have much of a reason to commit suicide in the first place since most of them had no emotions to speak of, and in the second, committing suicide wasn't exactly easy when you recovered from injuries almost more quickly than you could feasibly inflict them on yourself. Of course, if someone really wanted to die, I imagined they could find a way, demon blood or not.

None of these thoughts had been on my mind when I was wandering through the corner supermarket earlier in the evening. I had been busy searching for some decently ripened strawberries to go with the vanilla ice cream I had already picked up in the freezer aisle. Together, they made what I considered "apology food." I knew Dante had a childish weakness for strawberry sundaes and I had reason to apologize.

Dante had been brooding most of the day over our less than successful mission the night before, and I had reached my maximum tolerance level for unnecessary self-pity. Not that Dante was much of a brooder--it wasn't really his style--but there were certain circumstances that tended to bring out his darker side. He hated unnecessary deaths--unnecessary human deaths, that was--with a passion, especially when he felt that they were his fault. Personally, I didn't think he could have done anything to prevent the deaths we had witnessed the night before. We'd showed up too late to save the innocents, and that was that. If we could have been there any faster we would have been. Don't get me wrong, their deaths bothered me quite a bit, but I knew better than to blame myself for something that was beyond my control.

The truth was, Dante had been slowly sliding down into this depression for a week or two, and I had been so shocked by the realization that Dante could get depressed that I had failed to do anything about it. Last night's mission wasn't the first one we had botched this week. I hadn't realized how much those failures were bothering him until today. He had kept his spirits up, hiding any guilt behind his usual sarcasm and cheesy half-grin. But when we finally took down the demon that had been thwarting us for a week and a half and brought the whole bloody mess to an end, he had nearly broken down. He had tried to hide his emotions, but I had caught the expression on his face before he swaggered away as if nothing was wrong.

So, thinking I would make him feel better by redirecting his anger, I'd done the stupidest thing I could have done. I had picked a fight with him. I'd thought that arguing would help him vent some of that emotion he was bottling up so uncharacteristically, but honestly, I just hadn't known how to deal with him in that state. I'd been unprepared for the venom in his words and lashed back at him cruelly. Then, I'd announced that I was leaving and he had said it was about time.

The whole thing had been ridiculously stupid, really.

I'd drifted through town, stopped off at a bar for a few drinks, shot down a few potential companions for the evening and eventually ended up at the grocery store looking for a way to make up for my stupidity. It wasn't until I stepped through the front door that I realized my apology was already too late.

The house was unnaturally quiet. "Dante?" I called into the silence, my voice wavering ever so slightly though I had no explanation for my fear. Telling myself I was being foolish, I shrugged off my feeling of foreboding and dropped my groceries off in the kitchen, my boots clicking more quickly over the wooden floor when I still saw no sign of Dante.

I couldn't understand my own anxiety. Every other time Dante had gotten even close to moping, he had gone out to a bar and drank his regrets away. He usually came home in a stupor with a new rip or two in his beloved red coat after getting himself involved in a brawl just for the hell of it, but other than the evidence in his coat, he was always the better for it. That kind of behavior might have been a perfectly logical explanation for his absence this time as well, but I knew it was wrong the second I saw the empty bottles scattered across the living room floor. The stereo was on, but silent, finished with whatever CD it had been playing.

Thinking that maybe he had simply drunk more alcohol than his demon blood could counteract, I headed for the bathroom, still uncertain why my stomach was tying itself in knots. The reason became painfully apparent when I saw the red liquid spilling over the threshold of the bathroom and across the wooden floor of the hall.

My breath caught in my throat and I crossed the rest of the distance in a run, my boots slipping in the blood as I caught myself on the doorjamb and gazed into the bathroom in horror. Dante's body was sprawled across the tiled floor and covered in livid red lines, the shallower cuts already sealed with dried blood and the deeper ones still emptying dark, almost-black blood onto the floor.

"Dante!" I cried, my voice nearly hysterical with panic, but I hadn't moved from my place in the doorway, frozen by the bizarre quality of the scene. Who could have done this? I thought immediately. Is that demon still alive? Did he come after Dante? My thoughts ceased a moment later when I saw the long, wicked dagger loosely cupped in Dante's palm. It was crusted with blood and I felt the sudden, intense desire to vomit as understanding clicked into place.

I can't say how long I stood there, contemplating the heretofore-unconsidered consequences of demonic blood in someone who was half human and wondering why on earth his wounds weren't healing. Finally, I shook myself out of my stunned reverie and dropped to my knees beside him, the blood slowly seeping into the leather of my pants. I checked his pulse, relieved to find it though it was slow and faint.

Snatching the dagger out of his limp fingers, I flung it toward the wall as if I thought he might suddenly wake up and begin cutting himself again. A drop of clear liquid dropped onto his cheek followed swiftly by another, and I realized I was crying.

Distantly, I noted that it was a good thing we were already in the bathroom since I needed to clean him up; it was strange the kind of thoughts that crossed your mind when you were in shock. I gathered him into my arms, trying not to think about how cold his skin felt beneath my fingers as I dragged him to the shower.

My mind stopped recording my actions in order to retain my sanity as I cleaned his wounds and fumbled with the bandages I had pulled from the cabinet. It was rare that we had need of bandages since most of our wounds healed before we made it home, but I was glad that I had recently restocked our supply.

Dante didn't make any reaction throughout the entire process of cleaning his wounds and wrapping him in several rolls of bandages, and his lack of response frankly scared the shit out of me. I continued checking his pulse periodically, my fingers shaking each time in pure fear.

Finally, when he was nearly mummified by the bandages, I dragged him into the living room, spreading out a blanket over the couch before laying him down on top of it; some of his wounds were still bleeding and the bandages were slowly turning red as they absorbed the blood. I wrapped another blanket over him to help him keep what little body heat he still had left.

I stood there for several minutes, looking down at his pale features in disbelief and literally shaking all over. My knees felt weak beneath me and I began shivering uncontrollably, a chill reaching down to my bones as I watched him lie there so peacefully--as peacefully as a corpse.

I slowly sunk to the ground, pulling my knees up to my chest and jerking my chin away from my pants when I felt the dampness of blood still clinging to the leather. The tears were falling steadily now, and I wondered if I had been crying the entire time. Glaring at Dante through my veil of tears, I growled softly, "Here I am, Dante. I'm crying. Is this what you wanted, you bastard? I know how much you enjoy the irony of making a devil cry."

This is meant to be a two-part story, and I'll upload the second part as soon as I finish working out the kinks. I'm not sure if this story is really in Dante's character though at all--at one time I would have said "No, absolutely not," but now I don't know. I guess the Dante portrayed in the first DMC novel just got me to thinking about Dante's possible vulnerabilities. And then there's the fact that superhealing powers change the way you think about self-mutilation. Wow, that sounds really stupid. But, I think you know what I mean? Anyway, it's a weird concept, but I guess it was simply the strangeness of the juxtaposition that intrigued me.

I actually found this story rather hard to write. Like I said in the beginning, suicide fics aren't really my thing. The thought of what someone can do when they're so depressed as to be literally out of their mind is incredibly scary to me. I feel emotions strongly, so on some level I can imagine that kind of desperation though I have never felt it myself. I hope none of you are out there feeling like that…

Let me know what you thought about the story. I'm curious to see people's reactions, good, bad or ugly. I don't normally write in first person, and I changed my mind about what tense to write this story in several times so I apologize if there are any grammatical faux pas.

If you liked this story and didn't come here because you got an author alert, you might be interested in my Witch Hunter Robin/ Devil May Cry fanfic, Libera Me. It's listed in the Witch Hunter Robin category, but there's actually quite a bit DMC in it. I haven't been able to reach many DMC fans so far simply because of all the roadblocks on this site against crossovers and I'm interested in what you would think of my characterization of Dante in that fic.