Dante Sparda

Leaving a child alone in a building all day might not be the best idea or so that's what Dante's been told. What? Don't blame him. How the hell is he supposed to know how to take care of a kid? Especially one so demanding as Patty. Damn, as if he doesn't already have money problems. The last thing he needs is some brat tugging at his coat, asking for one thing or another. Fuck, was he this annoying when he was eight? Shaking his head, he hikes up the strap of the guitar case further up his shoulder. He sometimes wishes he knew how to play guitar, but then where would he put the Rebellion? This arrangement is fine as it is.

"I'm back," he calls out, pushing the doors open to Devil May Cry. He expects pure chaos to greet him but the smell of freshly made food is what he picks up on first. This place is great and all. The chair and the couch are great for sleeping on and the mini fridge holds all the beer. It's not the kind of place that strikes him as home where he can make food instead of ordering a pizza. There, peacefully sitting on the couch while watching a trashy romance on the tiny TV is Patty. CraveU user sits behind her, brushing her hair. The gold curls have been tamed and Patty isn't fussing and shouting like she does when Dante tries to fix her hair.

What in the fuck? Did the demon he just kill have some bullshit interdimensional power? He's dreaming, right? The weight of the guitar case on his shoulder is real though, so that checks off one option.

"You're - uh - pretty good at that, huh?" Dante lets the door slowly fall shut behind him. That seems to snap Patty's attention off the TV.

"Better than you!" She sticks out her tongue - the brat. Is it too late to hand her off to someone - anyone?

"Shut up," he mutters, letting the case slide off his arm and down to the floor next to his desk. Something's churning in his chest at the domestic sight. Clearly, he's having a damn stroke. How else can he explain the way his heart is pounding behind his ribcage?