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The atmosphere within Nico’s van fills with static energy that hums dangerously close to the surface of Nero’s skin. Maybe it’s anxiety. Maybe it’s something else entirely. All he knows is that it definitely has everything to do with the man standing not six feet in front of him, inspecting Red Queen like any weaponsmith worth their salt would. But Vergil is no weaponsmith, he’s aware of at least that much in his limited knowledge of who his father is.
Father. The word still tastes novel no matter how many times he thinks it or says it aloud. He has a father. A huge asshole of one, but a father nonetheless.
Vergil doesn’t pace, per se; he saunters back and forth in the cramped space between the shower and the compact workshop, turning the sword over and caressing long fingers across the hilt’s mechanism. He looks thoughtful, intrigued.
“Did that woman make this?”
Nero shakes his head. “Order issue. It was given to me by my superior when I first joined.” Credo’s name almost slips from him, but Nero hauls it back and barricades it along with every other complicated feeling he once harbored for the man. Vergil has yet to earn his trust, much less deserves to know of things close to Nero’s heart.
“The Order of the Sword,” Vergil says, slightly shaking his head with something akin to incredulity. “Dante told me you were a knight.”
“Yeah.”
“Quite the swordsman.”
Nero feels warmth crawl up his neck, cheeks, and finally settle on the tips of his ears. He shrugs, aiming for nonchalance and failing when he sheepishly scratches his cheek. “I guess.”
Red Queen is maneuvered with discrete ease, Vergil adeptly moving her within the confines of the van without hitting anything in the process. To exercise that much balance and control must take years to master as a skill, many more than Nero has trained for. He wonders if Vergil could teach him, were he to ask.
“Although misguided in its philosophy of worship, I must give credit where credit is due.”
“They were all fucking crazy,” Nero says. “Only credit they deserve is of being a bunch of crooks.”
“Yes, but they fashioned and honed you into a remarkable warrior. One befitting the title of knight, given you are the grandson of Sparda.”
The thought never fails to blow his mind. Not only did he gain a father after a lifetime of being an orphan, but to learn that said father is the son of a god always floors him. Granted, Sparda was a demon worshiped as a god and not actual divinity, but still. Larger than life beings that cast a shadow over Nero’s somewhat normal experiences.
Vergil, on the other hand, looks every bit like a son of Sparda. Where Dante is roguishly handsome, his father has an imperial air about him that would set any aristocrat to shame. With a regal stance and that holier-than-thou look when someone gets in his way, he seems almost crafted to be a deity.
All bullshit, really, because Nero has seen him bicker and bitch with Dante like a kid who’s had his candy taken away. He’s cussed more times than Nero can count, gotten his ass kicked by both his son and brother, and shares a taste palette with Dante – which means he could probably subsist on anchovy pizza.
“My superiors would beg to differ. I’m good with a sword, and guns, but me and strict doctrines don’t really mix. You could say I have an issue with authority, one that almost cost me the title more times than I can count,” Nero says. It’s a roundabout way of saying that Vergil better not get any ideas about pulling the dad card if ever any situation arose. He barely abided by Sanctus’ wishes.
Vergil side-eyes him as he puts down the sword. “I half feared you to be Dante’s offspring.”
“Don’t know about you, but Dante gets whipped a little too easy.”
“Rich coming from the boy so hopelessly enamored with…” Vergil pauses for a moment, searching for the name, “Kyrie.”
Nero’s jaw clenches, shoulders stiffening at the mention of her name. Rationally, he knows he’s mentioned her name plenty of times in the presence of his colleagues, boasted mindlessly about how wonderful a person she is. Hearing Vergil utter her name, however, settles something ugly and heavy in the pit of his stomach.
Whatever it is Vergil sees on his face seems to grant him satisfaction. It borders on pride – the arch of his eyebrows and the slight tilt upward of his mouth. Nero doesn’t get it, the wordless exchange carrying more meaning than he catches onto.
Clearly decided, Vergil reaches for the sword at his hip and Nero watches attentively. He leans towards his own weapon, doubting his ability to reach for it in time, but Vergil merely detaches Yamato from himself and holds it up for Nero to take.
Dumbfounded, Nero shakes his head. “That’s not mine.” Obviously.
“She has been my companion since I was a child. My father fashioned Yamato as a weapon solely for my wielding.” He holds the hilt closer to Nero, pointing it at his chest. “And yet, she reacts favorably to you.”
The candidness is a new development that is mildly off-putting, given Vergil’s continuous aloofness. It would be nice if Nero could suspect less of him. “Pretty sure that was a fluke.”
At the absence of a verbal reply, only Vergil’s impassive eyes urging him to act, Nero gives in and takes the sword.
Holding a completed and unblemished Yamato feels like a benediction. Having spent his entire life serving an organization built around the weapon, weaving tales of its alleged incredible feats and unspeakable power – Nero is a little starstruck. Sure, he technically absorbed its essence however many years ago, much like Dante does with his Devil Arms, but there is something about being bestowed it – her – by her intended wielder. By his father.
The sword is light and maneuverable, an antithesis to Red Queen. Nero knows he’d do a shitty job with it in battle since he often relies on the momentum of his own weapon of choice to deliver some good old-fashioned hack and slash. He doesn’t so much lack the grace with which Vergil fights, but the speed. Yamato was built for speed and agility, long and beautiful as she is, much like Vergil.
“With proper training, the sword will do well by you.”
“Why are you trying to pawn it off on me, old man?”
“I’m not,” Vergil says.
In his attempt to take back his sword, he wraps his fingers around Nero’s hand holding onto the hilt. Maybe it’s the joint connection, maybe it’s a demon thing, Nero isn’t sure, all he knows is that the touch thrums like a current, up his fingers, arms, all the way to his chest.
A distinct feeling settles there, heavy and hot, and were it not for Vergil who closes the small distance between them, Nero would have dropped the sword.
“What the hell?”
“This is… curious.”
“You felt it, too.”
Vergil nods while idly stroking his thumb across the back of Nero’s hand. It’s a mindless touch, especially when he looks away with a thoughtful pinch on his brow, but the hairs at the back of Nero’s neck stand on end. Not in a negative way, however. He almost leans more of his weight against his father, almost asks for a more physical touch, but Nero refrains.
In fact, Nero mildly considers washing out his brain with soap.
Vergil’s presence is solid in the here and now. He’s real and living, warmth radiating off him like a furnace in the otherwise cool air inside the van. Up close, Nero looks up from Yamato and at Vergil’s face, takes in the tell-tale signs of his age so clearly demonstrated on his features. The iciness of his blue eyes, the swell of his top lip that looks horribly soft…
“Nero.”
“What?” he snaps, feeling yet another embarrassing blush coming on.
“The others are back.”
Nero quickly backs up, suddenly needing as much distance from Vergil as possible. His heart is racing, and he wills it with all his might to calm down. It’s only when he picks up the voices of the rest of their crew right outside that he can breathe somewhat normally again, and even then, his palms feels clammy.
Clearing his throat, Nero says: “Right. Uh, I, uh, like your sword. Thanks for…” he realizes what he’s about to say too late, but his mind isn’t up to its usually witty capacity, “letting me hold it. Your sword. Yamato.”
Vergil considers him with an air of amusement. “You do take after your uncle an awful lot.”
“Not by choice.”
Reattaching the sword to its holster, Vergil momentarily hovers. He’s about to exit the van when he turns to Nero once more, his impassive mask briefly slipping to reveal soft eyes and a small quirk of his mouth. “If you’re ever interested, I wouldn’t mind teaching you a few tricks of the trade. Dante isn’t the only capable warrior in the family.”
Nero swipes a thumb under his nose and makes a half-assed attempt to return the smile in the least awkward way possible. “I’ll think about it.”
Following him out, they are greeted by a rowdy bunch that look none the worse for wear. Dante throws an arm around Vergil’s shoulders and tries to give him a noogie, but Vergil jabs him in the ribs the second he gets a whiff of his brother’s intentions.
Nero watches them, fingers and chest still tingling, a wish lingering on the edge of his mind.
Maybe, just maybe, he will take Vergil up on the offer.