She's not usually the kind to polish her shoes. Nor is she the type to sit down in the raised chairs in the subway stations and suffer someone to buff her boots, spit-polished to a shine. Dante might; Dante seems the kind to flip a fiver to some soul down on his luck, and chatter idly with them while admiring his burgeoning reflection in the perfect leather.

But she is restless today, and there is demon blood caked dry on her shoes-- something she didn't notice last night, coming in late, careless in the toss of clothing towards the hamper and the discarding of weapons and coats. They tracked in mud and blood, both of them, and she thinks that she's both lucky and cursed, that the floor's not carpeted and that Dante sleeps late and hasn't noticed.

Her boots are a wreck, though, so she is cleaning them, left shoe first. That one has the worst residue, crusted still-red demon blood spattered up the elegant heel, its very color proving it inhuman. She remembers a high kick, a defiant move in the fact of an adversary twice her size; she remembers a shriek and driving that boot-heel through an eyesocket, hot and noisy in dying.

She remembers Dante's laugh, and the way he caught her when she tumbled off-balance from the corpse.

Her hands are pale against the black leather and the crimson ichor, moving swiftly, practically, efficiently. And even when the left boot is clean and the right one is too, she's still polishing them, until the leather creaks and glistens.

Until Dante wakes and finds her there, head bowed over her shoes and her hair obscuring her eyes, her hands still moving.