Chapter Text
Dante wrapped a pair of knuckles on the wooden door of the bathroom. Nero had long since been sent home, the younger man still – pun intended – tickled pink about Vergil’s embarrassing situation. Vergil had retreated upstairs without bidding farewell to him, which Dante hoped his Mom Look tm at the younger man relayed how disappointed he was in Nero’s poking fun at Vergil. It probably didn’t, but he’d tell Vergil that Nero felt real bad about it and maybe rub some salve on his big brother’s thoroughly bruised ego.
Nope, the shop was empty, and quiet, save for the sound of the tub’s running water.
Dante was carrying a two towels, folded the way that Vergil would – because he had folded them – and two clean washcloths.
“Come in,” came the melancholy voice from within and Dante twisted the knob, finding the scene within. Vergil, in the tub, legs folded up near his chest, his arms wresting on his knees, and his lips pressed to his arms. Vergil had a habit of, when he was alone with Dante, making himself seem small. He had started since Hell, and the trend continued. When anyone else was around, Vergil was cock of the walk, but with just Dante..? Not so much. Steam rose from the bathwater, and Vergil’s clothes lay in a haphazard pile in a laundry basket atop the closed toilet lid. Dante showed him the towels and Vergil shut his eyes, his way of acknowledging him.
Dante invited himself in, kneeling by the tub, one of the clean washcloths in his hand. Vergil let him. He kept his eyes closed, while Dante dunked his hand in the bathwater. Nearly scalding, but for Cambions, it was pleasant as fuck. The washcloth soaked, Dante squeezed it with one hand, and pressed it to Vergil’s bare and exposed back and shoulder, tenderly.
“It’s a biological impossibility to be able to tickle one’s self, correct?” Vergil asked, making conversation. Dante kept doing Vergil’s back. His clothes would need to be thoroughly washed, and his skin may still have traces of the weird little dander particles that that Gargalarion shed to “season” its meal, making them more ticklish than usual, for longer.
Dante hummed.
“I think so,” he said, conversational. Vergil sighed, straightening his legs out, groaning as the hot water covered them.
“Tell that to my feet,” he mumbled. “I nearly leapt out of my skin.”
“It’s the dander,” Dante said, soothing enough. “Had one get me once. Nearly peed.”
“Your vulgarity is only slightly appreciated.”
“A good scrub is what you needed though,” Dante countered, sagely. “Nothing like a long, hot bath and a long, warm nap.” Vergil snorted, Dante was sure of it, but he’d never admit it.
“You sound like Mother.”
“Between you and the squirt, I FEEL like mom,” Dante said, cupping his hands and pouring the water over Vergil’s head. His shoulders hunched; he hadn’t expected it.
“I think I can manage that,” the elder muttered.
“You might be exhausted,” Dante countered.
“I’m not.” He was. Dante dried his hands, leaving the washcloth he had been using, soaked, and hanging on the back of Vergil’s neck.
“If you’re good, I’ll get you a change of clothes,” he said, grunting as he stood. “Then, bedtime.” Vergil gave him an exceedingly dry look, leaning back so his head and knees were all that stayed above the surface of the steaming water.
“I don’t need to be mothered,” he grumbled. Dante clicked his tongue, turning to leave.
“Your mouth’s tellin me nooo,” he half-sang, as he went to leave. Vergil shut his eyes and submerged his whole head under water so he couldn’t hear the rest of Dante’s asinine song play out. Bubbles gurgled at the surface for a moment and Vergil, holding his breath, gave thought to staying there for a while..
Though his knees and thighs were getting cold.
.. Dante had never, to his knowledge, played hockey before, but Vergil found himself wearing a pair of red and black plaid lounge pants and one of Dante’s hockey jerseys once he had extracted and dried himself from the tub. He still felt a little “tickly” as Dante put it, embarrassingly, but he’d lie and say otherwise. Either way, Vergil stalked downstairs, a quilt wrapped around his shoulders, to the careworn, threadbare couch parked in front of the out-dated TV, where Dante was lounging, both arms around the back of the couch, one leg crossed over his knee. If he acknowledged Vergil, the later ignored it, and just slumped, tucking his legs under himself, and leaning against the opposite armrest, curled up.
“Not a word of this to those women,” he grumbled, and Dante merely hummed his agreement.
If Vergil fell asleep in front of the television that evening, he was unaware, because he woke up in his own bed, alone, in the wee hours of the morning..