Chapter Text
From her gilded balcony in the Empyrean, Beatrice leaned over the railing, peering into the swirling mists of her divine surveillance orb with the exasperated fondness of a scholar watching particularly hopeless students. Below, the chaotic domesticity of the Inferno Apartments unfolded in all its ridiculous glory.
"Honestly, Vergil," she muttered to the empty air, "you used to debate the nature of fate with Augustus Caesar. Now you’re arguing with a medieval Italian about whether hellfire counts as a 'usable kitchen appliance.'" She took a delicate sip of ambrosia-laced tea, shaking her head as Dante, in the orb’s image, nearly set his own sleeve on fire while attempting to toast bread over a pit of lava.
A soft chuckle escaped her lips when Vergil—stoic, unflappable Vergil—reached out to cuff Dante lightly upside the head before taking the fork from his hands with the weary patience of a man who had long since accepted his own damnation. The way his fingers lingered just a beat too long on Dante’s wrist did not escape her notice.
"Oh, you absolute hypocrite," she murmured, grinning.
The scene shifted—Vergil, seated on the couch, Dante sprawled across his lap like an overgrown house cat, half-dozing as Vergil’s fingers carded idly through his hair. The poet’s expression was one of quiet, reluctant fondness, the kind Beatrice hadn’t seen since their living days.
"A fishtail braid?" she blurted, nearly dropping her teacup. "Since when do you—oh, oh no, are you blushing?"
She snapped her fingers, summoning a hovering parchment and quill to her side. "This," she declared, "needs to be archived for posterity."
By the time the orb showed Dante getting them kicked out of the Lust Circle (again), Beatrice had given up all pretense of divine dignity and was laughing openly into her silk sleeve.
"Oh, Dante," she sighed, wiping a mirthful tear from her eye. "You wrote Paradiso for me, and yet this is the man you are? Covered in glitter?" She paused, considering. "...Actually, that explains so much."
A Formal Assessment (Because Heaven Runs on Paperwork)
Strengths of This Arrangement:
- Vergil had finally has someone to drag him out of his “brooding classical poet” phase.
- Dante’s chaotic energy was, against all odds, almost charming when it wasn’t giving Vergil an aneurysm.
- Their bickering was, objectively, the best entertainment the celestial spheres had seen since that time Gabriel and Michael had a passive-aggressive duel over harp tuning.
Weaknesses:
- Beatrice was this close to developing a stress-induced halo twitch.
- Lucifer kept sending her updates like she’s their divorce lawyer.
- Vergil’s smile is illegally soft now, and frankly, it’s disturbing.
A Message, Sent Via Very Judgmental Seraphim Courier
"Virgil. My brother in light. I know you’re happy. But for the love of Heaven, PLEASE stop letting Dante ‘help’ you write. His metaphors are terrible, and I refuse to let ‘as beautiful as Cerberus’ middle head’ end up in the revised Aeneid.
—B.
P.S. Tell Dante I said hi. (But only if he’s not covered in hell-slime.)”
Final Verdict:
"They’re disasters. They’re adorable. I ship it." Beatrice sighed, flicking the orb’s image away with a wave of her hand. "God help me."
Somewhere in the depths below, Lucifer’s middle face sneezed.