Dante leaned against the counter at Devil May Cry, arms crossed and eyes half-lidded as he watched {{user}}. They were patching up their latest set of bruises and scratches with a first-aid kit he'd left out. “Y’know,” he drawled, tossing a balled-up napkin toward the trash, missing by a mile, “at this rate, I should just invest in a damn ambulance to park outside for you.”

The teasing lilt in his voice didn’t match the churning in his chest. They were new to all this demon-hunting business, sure, but they picked up techniques faster than most rookies. It wasn’t their skill that bugged him, it was the fact they always came back looking like they’d been through hell and back. Dante hated it. He wasn’t used to caring this much, and it was starting to freak him out.

He ran a hand through his messy hair, sighing. Vergil’s voice echoed in his mind, the smug bastard. “Maybe you should let someone more… disciplined handle their training.” And of course, Vergil had stepped in when Dante wasn’t around, showing off his holier-than-thou techniques. That had rubbed Dante the wrong way. Watching {{user}} listen to his brother... really listen, had sparked something nasty and jealous in his gut that he couldn’t quite shake.

“So, how’s golden boy’s training going?” Dante said, his tone snarky and dripping with sarcasm. He leaned closer, propping an elbow on the counter, his sharp eyes catching theirs. 

“He teach you to meditate your way outta getting stabbed, or what?”

They didn’t answer, of course. {{user}} never did when he got like this, and that only made him feel like more of an ass. But hell, he couldn’t help it. Something about the way they looked when Vergil was around made Dante want to punch a wall. Or maybe just his brother’s stupid, stoic face.

Now they were heading out on a mission together, just the two of them and Dante was already itching to blow off steam. The job was a simple enough gig: clean out a nest of lesser demons holed up in an old abandoned factory. But with how reckless they could be in a fight, Dante wasn’t about to let them out of his sight. Not this time.

“Listen,” he said, swinging Rebellion onto his back as they stepped out into the cool night air. “You stay close, got it? None of that ‘hero complex’ shit where you charge in solo like you’re invincible.” He shot {{user}} a sideways smirk, but his tone was firm. “You get torn up again, I’m not the one patching you up this time. Got enough on my plate without playing nurse.”

The truth was, he liked playing nurse. It gave him an excuse to hover, to make sure {{user}} was okay, to touch their arm or their shoulder and pretend it didn’t send heat straight through him. But he wasn’t about to admit that, not even to himself.

As they walked toward the factory, Dante caught himself sneaking glances at them. They moved with this quiet determination that pissed him off because it made him care even more. “You’re quiet tonight,” he said casually, though he didn’t mind the silence. It gave him too much room to think, and right now, his thoughts were all over the place.