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Chapter Text

A bitter taste exploded across Trish’s tongue and a shudder racked at her shoulders. An invasive frigidity crawled all over her bones, from the ends of her teeth to the tips of her leather-clad toes. She rubbed at her upper arms and seethed out a breath, silently cursing out Mundus for not making her a fire demon. Maybe then she wouldn’t be so cold. 

“You’ll get used to it,” Dante said, passing her a water bottle. He was seated opposite to her on the floor, his jacket and shirt cast away to reveal the rough stitching of a ripped tendon running the length of his inner forearm and a second one cutting over his collarbone. Deeply indented into the skin over his heart was scarred gash unseen by most eyes. He had tied his gloriously thick mane into a high ponytail, loose strands from his bangs had slipped free to frame and tickle his cheeks and forehead. “I try not to use vital stars but sometimes I have to make use of them.” 

“I can see why,” Trish said. She unscrewed the cap and tipped back a swallow. Slowly, the remaining chills began working their way out of her body. Jobs at Devil May Cry were rough and gory, they left bloodstains in their wake both on their bodies and on the floor. This job, particularly, had taken a lot out of her. “They’re not very pleasant.”

“But they are effective,” Dante finished. He gave a hearty yawn and stretched, a rippling orchestra of pops and cracks traveled up his spine. He fell backward, lying on the hardwood floor with his hands secured behind his head. 

Trish spared him glance, forcing her eyes to train on his face instead of the injuries that didn't seem to bother him . “Do you usually relax shirtless around here?”

“You’ve been here a month, Trish,” Dante snorted, side-eyeing her with amused arctic blues. “You tell me.”

“Bitch,” She blurted out. It probably wasn’t the smartest thing to say but she didn’t care. “Put a shirt on.”

“No.”

“Fine,” Trish said quickly. Before Dante could change his mind, she snatched up his shirt and stalked away. “Then freeze.” 

“Wha, HEY!” Dante launched to his feet. “Bring that back!”

Trish had a two seconds head start, which was all she needed to get away from him. He lunged for the shirt repeatedly, missing by a hair's width each time until they were going in a circle around his desk. He huffed something gravelly then leaped over the desk with practiced ease and snatched the shirt from her, making possibly the most juvenile face he could muster. He stuck his tongue out and gave her the stink eye. Trish couldn’t help herself. She snorted then doubled over in full-blown laughter, clutching her stomach. 

“Yeah, yeah,” Dante waved her off. He hid the smile threatening to take his lips just barely. A swell of joy rose up in Trish’s chest. Dante hadn’t nearly been so cheerful since they had returned from Mallet Island. He had tried to deny the presence of the mourning thoughts that showed through his blank expression and the haunting nightmares that roused him in the dead of night. To see him relaxed, careless even had helped Trish stitch her own heart back together. It had helped her forgive herself for her treachery on the island. “Real funny, laugh it up, laugh it up. ”

“I will, thank you very much,” Trish snarked. 

And then, like a halo of miracles, Dante did smile. A low, muted chuckle came from him as he shook his head and rolled his eyes. Trish allowed herself a peek at the sutures on Dante’s skin. Good, he was healing.  

Chapter Text

The Devil May Cry van screamed on the asphalt and rocked down to a stuttering halt, the rubber on the tires smoking like a dampened campfire. Inside, Nico cackled from behind the wheel, clapping her hands and cheering like the wail of the fire engine. Nero peeled himself up off the carpeted floor, a multiplying horde of swears racing through his head and trying to shove past the groan that came from him first. 

“The fuck is wrong with you?” He wheezed. 

“Oh, don’t start whining now,” Nico chastised through her grin. “We’re here, aren’t we?”

“Barely,” Nero said. He propped himself up on the seat, trying with all his might to keep down the breakfast Kyrie had made for him this morning. “I feel like I lost a few organs back there.”

“You better hope they’re not vital ones,” Nico replied, jabbing her finger out the front windshield. Outside, a mass of empusas had accumulated into hunting formation. “We’ve got company.” 

Nero sent her the middle finger, gathering his strength and balance enough to get up and walk past a grounded V, whose winged familiar was very crabbily trying to drag him to his feet. Nero opted to ignore them and slammed the van’s sliding door open, stepping out into the ruined street. Seconds later, Griffon decided to fling V onto his hands and knees and disappear back into the spiraling tattoos that peppered his master’s arms. 

As V grappled for his balance, Nero allowed himself a sour smile. “Glad to see you’re on your feet again.”

“Only just,” V corrected, shakily standing upright. “Nico seems to have a thing for driving rough.” 

“You’re only just now figuring that out?” 

“Agh, bicker later, will you, guys?” Griffon yawned, which came across as strange to Nero. As far as he knew, V’s little familiars didn’t get tired. They didn’t require rest the same way he did, their strength levels were based solely on how well V took care of himself, both in the mundane of everyday life and on the battlefield. “Just focus on mowing down the demons.” 

“Sure.” Nero shrugged. The nearest empusa lunged for him, spitting out something that he had to hope wasn’t human blood this time around. His lips curled in disgust as he reached for and revved Red Queen’s hilt. A blast of heat rocketed through her blade. “Hey, tell you what. If you’re up for it, how about a little competition?”

“A competition?” V said, sounding less like he was asking a question and more as though he was ruminating on the idea. He twirled his cane around into his hand. “Sure, I don’t see why not. What would be the stakes?”

“Whoever takes out the most demons wins,” Nero said. He lugged Red Queen off his back. Her tip hit the ground, resonating a silvery ring. “Loser buys dinner for the rest of us.”

“It better be good dinner,” Griffon grumbled out. 

“Winner decides?” V inquired. 

“You know it.” Nero danced back and forth on his feet, weighing the best strategy in his mind. Decisively quick about it, he lunged into the fray, sending the nearest demon into the air with a flaming swing. He didn’t stick around to see if V was readying his familiars, already too high on the adrenaline of a fight. He rushed from enemy to enemy, running a clean slice through each one, and cackling as they dissolved into nothingness. He rared Red Queen for a final hit when a pillar of lightning crashed into his target. He whirled on V with a scowl. “Hey! Make your own kills and stop stealing mine!” 

“Sucks to suck, devil boy!!” Griffon sang loudly, soaring past him in a graceful arc. “Not our fault you’re so slow. I’m looking forward to that meal.” 

Nero didn’t even get a chance to comment on the fact that Griffon didn’t even need food when V went sprinting past. Well, he supposed they could do that whole living through another person thing with their master. Nero propelled himself forward, shaking the thought from his head and bounding off a striped awning onto the roof of the nearest building. 

Jumping from rooftop to rooftop was like living in an imaginative, colorful fantasy-made-reality. It was something out of the comic books he’d seen some of the outsiders bring to Fortuna as a kid. He could still recall being given one as a gift and being absorbed in it for hours, admiring the art and the action splayed over the pages, studying the fights and the catchphrases, hiding it whenever he thought Credo would pass by and inevitably getting it taken away in the end. He didn’t let Credo keep it or long, though, a failed attempt at stealing it back and the softest puppy eyes he could manage had ensured that. 

Nero slashed through a mini militia of demons, snatching at least three of them out of the air and decimating them with a single blast from Overture. 

“Gouge ‘em.” V’s voice rose above the screeching demons.  Shadow charged into a small group of them with body morphed into a massive set of jaws. The wet splatting of fluid hitting the ground made a pang of nausea shoot through Nero that he shoved down as quickly as possible. He had more pressing matters at hand, particularly the douche of an antenora charging for him. He sidestepped it with ease and in a magnificent moment of bright thinking, it flailed off the side of the building. Nero snatched it out of midair, springing in with a few blazing swipes and a final headshot courtesy of Blue Rose. He landed on the ground no problem, a hail of ash and dust following him. 

V rolled his eyes with a thoughtful smirk, something almost like pride blooming if Nero didn’t know any better. Off on a tangent, it seemed. Nero did his best to ignore it in favor of something that required less brainpower to interpret. If he tallied correctly, he and V were tied now and almost done with the job at hand. 

A wretched, high-pitched shriek came from the end of the street as a juiced-up empusa started scuttling away. Nero and V only had to share one look to know what was about to go down: tiebreaker. 

Nero was off with Punchline, racing by V with Red Queen raised above his head. He leaped upward, bringing the swing down. A piece of the void slipped between him and his target, overshooting his aim onto the street. He crashed, rolling across the pavement like a lost, demonic bouncy ball. He hopped to his feet just in time to see V take his cane to the empusa. It shattered into a volley of lavender-white glitter, showering down around the killer. V smiled at him, something smug and bitch-slap worthy that Nero chuckled at. 

“I believe I’m the winner,” V said. 

“Yeah, yeah, whatever,” Nero spouted off nonchalantly. He sheathed Red Queen on his back and slung an arm around V’s shoulders. He supposed he couldn’t be too mad about it, after all, he was pretty sure V was as broke as a bottle of wine. “Nice work.” 

Shadow must have sensed how he softened underneath his skin and rubbed up against him, purring. Nero leaned down to scratch behind her ears and she gave him her best impression of a dopey smile, then dissolved right back to her resting place at V’s silent commands. “So, where do you want to eat?”

“Is Kyrie’s allowed?”

Nero barked out a laugh, already thinking of her gushing over the new recipe she’d found just before he’d left. He only had to pay for it with a hungry stomach and lavish praise. The gleeful, bashful sparkle in Kyrie’s eyes was well worth it. Win-win. 

“Yeah, Kyrie’s is allowed.” 

Chapter Text

When Dante rouses, the other side of the bed is cold. He brushes his fingers across the sheets, seeking out his brother’s form and is only met with a cool, vacant depression suggesting someone might have been there earlier but was no longer. He stretches out, groaning and yawning before stumbling out of the warm covers. Normally, he slumbers like a deadman on a trench floor but tonight something restless prowls his office and it, having woken him up, is driving him nuts. 

He pokes his head out into the hallway, then follows with his body. He’s not quiet, he doesn’t bother with that, knowing how skittish his brother is sometimes. He opens the door at the end of the hall and heads onto the aesthetic catwalk that hovers at the back of his shop. The only light in the darkness is soft, coming from a lantern underneath the stairs. A knowing smile crosses Dante’s lips. As heedless as he can get, he knows things about his family that no one else does, and it’s all the encouragement he needs to leap over the railing. He lands on the ground with a thunderous thump! and stands up to find everything he expected:

His brother, lounging on the couch, shrouded in the soft, silky coat their mother had made for him, not unlike Dante’s own, and buried in the pages of a thick novel. 

“Another nightmare?” Dante asks. 

Vergil looks up at him, expression remaining neutral notwithstanding Dante’s familial instinct. 

“I don’t think I need to tell you that,” He replies. 

Dante rolls his eyes good-naturedly, the smile never leaving him. He spoke only a few languages and he’s fortunate enough that one of those languages is Vergilian. Yes, brother, I’ve had a terrible nightmare and I want you to comfort me but I’m stupid and stubborn, so I’m not gonna tell you that to your face. 

He trails over to the couch area and flumps down next to Vergil, sneaking a peek at the book in his hands before it snaps shut. (Something about stars and snakes and blood but Dante doesn’t catch enough of it to identify.) Vergil exhales something like a breath and a hum at the same time, winding the coat tighter around him. Dante reaches over him for the blanket folded on the adjacent cushion, half wondering why his brother wasn’t using it. Winter is approaching and there’s no reason to ignore warmth when it’s right there.  

“What did you dream about?”

“Nothing unusual.” 

Dante’s not quite sure what to make of that. Enough whiskey has gotten Vergil to confess all kinds of things, mainly the contents of his nightmares. Occasionally, in tears. Some of the things Dante’s heard from his brother are enough to make him stay up all night out of fear of encountering them while he sleeps under a fluffy duvet. His brother suffers, drowns, and is enslaved, visited by apparitions of their maimed and bloodied mother every night when he should be resting easy and it’s not something Dante can fix. He’s not capable of putting Vergil back together, he doubts anyone is. The best he can do is provide solace when his brother needs it the most. 

“You need anything?” 

“I’m fine, I’m just trying to relax now.” 

“By reading-” Dante leans over to read the book title. “-The Rule of Beasts? Yeah, because that story isn’t gonna give you even more nightmares.” 

He would know. He read it once, sometime in his late twenties after Nina suggested it and he paid the price in sleep. Though it makes sense for an astromance priestess like her. She had been chased around by demons ever since she inherited Alan’s Tear and a fate like that can only ever mean living nocturnally, she had to pass the time somehow. The similarities are suddenly put into perspective on Vergil’s reading of it and Dante wants to make a face but somehow he finds a way to be too tired for that. It’s incredibly out of his tastes though, he’s experienced plenty of cosmic horror and menacing unholy romance personally and he doesn’t need to read about it in fiction. 

“I think I prefer your poetry to that. ”

“Its appeal is dark,” Vergil admits, tracing over each letter with his finger. There’s something melancholy in his voice as if he’s mourning the main character. “I don’t expect you to see its worth.”  

“And I don’t expect you to know how to not destroy your brain,” Dante returns. He plucks a thinner book by its spine off the cushion and flips it over to a random page. He only has to glimpse the first sentence to know its a copy of works by William Blake. Dante can’t help the way his lips pull upward or the mischievous twinkle his eyes get, as Lady once very tipsily said. Again, he’s reminded of the deep consciousness he has concerning these things and he thinks he’s finally at an age where it’s appropriate. It’s been a while since Vergil has read something so nostalgic and deeply rooted in their childhood. “Thinking about home again?”

“Is it obvious?” Vergil asks. He must have been trying hard to hide his pain but Dante catches the briefest flash of it in his brother’s storm grey eyes. 

“Only a little bit,” Dante replies. He sweeps the page, not finding anything of interest. Even after months of them living together, he still doesn’t know what Vergil finds so enrapturing about it. But it makes his brother happy, so who is he to complain? “William Blake seems to be a favorite of yours when you get like this.” 

Vergil stays silent for a few moments as if contemplating what to return to that. Eventually, the tension seems to flow from him and he relaxes, which is new if you ask Dante. He opens his mouth just barely, still hesitant. 

“Do you think she’d be mad if I went to visit her?” Vergil asks. Dante’s heart nearly stops in his chest. Partly because the question is still reeling in but mostly because it was Vergil who asked it. Maybe he should be welling up with joy that his brother even wants to talk about it but he can’t help the edges of sadness that poke into him. 

“No, I don’t think so,” Dante says. He knows Vergil’s done some questionable at best things so to speak but Eva wouldn’t be mad at him. Exasperated, possibly a bit disheartened. But not mad. Hell, Dante figures that if she were still alive, she’d pull him into a tight embrace and love him just as fiercely and unconditionally as when they were kids. He wants to believe that she still does, wherever she is. “She loved you, Vergil. Loves you. Nothing would ever change that.” 

Dante pauses, carefully considering his next words. It’s hard for him to see into Vergil’s mind, along the strings of solitude that he winds around it but is still trying so hard to snip, even with Dante guiding his hand with a pair of metaphorical scissors. “Do you want me to go with you?”

When Vergil doesn’t say anything, Dante wonders if he’s screwed up and chased him back into his icy shell. It’s enough to make his throat clog up while a long string of swears runs through him. But it seems someone is looking out for him because- 

“Yes, I’d like that.” 

That’s what Vergil says. Relief floods through Dante but he waits a few seconds to ask the next question nonetheless. 

“Want me to read to you?”

It’s something Vergil did for him when they were little, when Dante got too restless and kicked his twin brother out of bed at ungodly hours. But it’s tradition enough that Dante took it up a few times underneath Devil May Cry ’s roof in a strange, swapped roles kind of scenario. He always thought Vergil’s pride would get the better of him, that they’d just sit in comfortable silence. Every once and awhile, however, Vergil surprises him, humors him. Vergil thoughtfully turns the pages until he’s where he left off and points at the beginning stanza. 

Dante puts an arm around Vergil’s shoulders and pulls him snug against his side, which is about as close as they’ll get until Vergil maybe falls asleep on his shoulder, which is always a gamble. Prior hours before had been a sweet exception and mostly a coincidence but Dante prides himself on having been able to get Vergil to properly lie down for a couple of hours, next to him no less. It’s seldom that Vergil shows affection but welcome.  

Clearing his throat, Dante reads the words aloud: 

“Oft when the summer sleeps among the trees…”

Chapter Text

Eva was as strange as a woman could get, everyone said. She was usually out at odd hours of the day, the most peculiar ingredients in her baskets beyond the usual groceries. She was sweet, smiled like there wasn’t a terrible thing in the world and all her worries rolled off her like water over peaches. Her reclusive nature was a thing for gossip, sightings of her rare but reveled in. But if anyone had something critical to say about it, she was more than happy to tell them they could mind their own business. She had more important things to attend to.

Hidden between the monstrous trees and the murmuring creek, her song and laughter-filled home called out to her. She nearly sprinted to the door, joy pouring out of her as she stepped inside. She could never be away for long. While Nadi made a good protector, she couldn’t possibly nurture her children the way Eva knew how. The prospect that Nadi had tired of keeping them entertained crossed her mind too and was only confirmed when her familiar had all but started barreling for her the second she heard the door swinging open. The snowy lioness rubbed her head against Eva’s leg, pleasantly circling around her until she could seep back into the golden ink on her mistress’ dress.

Elated squeals floated into the air just as two toddlers rounded the corner. Eva placed her basket on the ground and rushed to scoop them up in her arms and feather them with motherly kisses. They giggled and shrieked in response, snuggling up to her. She never liked leaving them alone but with Sparda off picking up the pieces of the uprising against the Underworld, she was often left with no choice but to have a capable familiar entertain them for an hour or so while she picked up the basic necessities needed to survive.

As unfortunate as it was, she was her children’s nearest and dearest protector.

Dante babbled in her arms, waving his hands around towards the meadow surrounding their house and springtime’s arms. Eva chuckled, deciding today was a good day to let them run around outside, even if Nadi would complain about the heat against the threads on her sternum.

“You want to go outside, Dante?” Eva asked, trailing to the door.

Dante affirmed it with another high-pitched squeal. In her other arm, Vergil was silent as usual. If there was anyone more peculiar than Eva, it was certainly the eldest of her sons. Even at only two years old, he wasn’t nearly as noisy or happy as his twin brother and he didn’t respond to things the same way. When she asked if he wanted to go outside too, he only stared up at her with his big, bright eyes. She’d have to take that as a yes.

She went a good distance out into the grassy meadows, finding a shady space underneath one of the trees just a hop away from the bountiful strawberry plants. As soon as she sat down, Dante squirmed out her arms. He ran, nearly stumbling over his small, pudgy legs through the greenery and the wildflowers, grinning and laughing the entire way.

“Do you want to go play with your brother?” Eva asked Vergil. He mumbled something against her shoulder, hiding his face away from the sunshine. As gently as she could, she lowered him towards the ground but he merely whined in response. “Shhhh, it’s okay. It’s not scary, just grass.”

Vergil pouted but put up a grudging front and let himself be set down. His attachment had never bothered Eva in the slightest, she adored her child’s tendency to cling to her, even if she knew he would have to move around on his own. He took a few wobbly steps out into the field, watching his brother as he babbled and waved his arms around, begging for his twin to join him. He looked back at his mother, who pressed for a reassuring smile and motioned that it was okay if he wanted to go out further. Then just like that, Vergil took off, chasing Dante around the yard.

Eva breathed out a sigh of relief. At least she knew how to soothe a fussy child, even if that child had taken after the strange aspect of her personality. She pleased in the fact that her children were friends yet simultaneously, she mourned that they couldn’t go elsewhere in the world to spread their love. The aching sense of loneliness came, thrumming in her chest, yearning for the return of her husband. She always had to hide her family away.

The striking intuition within her careened around at the thought of Mundus returning to exact his revenge, reminding her that even if the war was over, she would no longer be safe. That cold sensation haunted her, every day she was reminded of the heavier things that remained. Her children deserved safety and they deserved to be happy. They deserved to believe that the world was perfect and kind and filled with goodness. If Sparda had to retain that illusion for them from afar, then Eva would do her part at Dante and Vergil’s sides.

Chapter Text

Vergil jolts awake in the night, the remnants of a dark, miry nightmare clinging to him like dry, unwashed blood. Coils of steam rise from his mouth with each heaving breath, his chest aches and his lungs burn, burn, burn like he’s being scorched by a lit pyre from the inside out. His trigger muddies his vision, casting everything in a greenish-blue hue. He wills it away but the force he exerts cracks across his skull like the lingering afterimage of a thunderbolt. 

He flops down onto the spongy mattress, head hitting one of the fluffy pillows that are littered everywhere and presses his palms against his eyes, clenches his teeth hard enough that a dull pain travels outward from the pressure. He gives himself a second to relish in it, let it ground him to Capulet City, to Devil May Cry, to his brother’s room and bed and presence next to him. Silently he slept away, not a single idea of Vergil’s waking turmoil. 

“It’s not real, it’s just a nightmare ,” Vergil whispers to himself. He says it in part to soothe his shaking soul but mostly to chase recollections of his past away from him. It doesn’t work, it hasn’t worked since he was a kid. Fruitlessly, he tries anyway. The heavy odor of ash and smoke and sulfur come whirling back around him, a gurgle echoes from behind with the shine of a blade. 

Vergil decides he can’t stay here. His heart pounds against his ribcage, darkness encroaches like the bubbling ichor of disease. As quickly and quietly as possible, he slips from the bed, abandoning his brother’s warmth for the cool sting of the floor, stealing away his mother-made coat for comfort’s sake. The hinges on the door creak like a sibilated warning and the lock softly clicks behind him. As he sneaks down the hall and stairs, he tries to turn his mind towards a good book, to the cozy space underneath the stairs where he retreats for alone time late at night instead of the plague of nightmares clouding over him. 

On the ground floor of the office, he expects darkness, quiet, isolation but instead, he’s met with all the lights falling on an ornate pleat of blonde hair, red lips, black leather. She’s seated at the minibar in the far corner of Devil May Cry. 

He doesn’t know if Trish has noticed him yet but immediately Vergil begins to debate going back upstairs to submit himself to the mortifying ordeal of waking his brother up for snuggles. His foot is halfway up the first step when she clears her throat. 

“What brings you down here so late at night?” Trish asks. She turns on the stool and Vergil only has a few seconds to right himself. “Shouldn’t you be asleep?” 

“I could ask the same of you.” It’s then that Vergil realizes he must look ridiculous—blue silk on a nightshirt and sweatpants. He absently summons Yamato to his side, glad for the reassuring wave she sends up his arm as soon as she materializes into his fingers. Trish’s attention flicks to the blade but she says nothing.

For a moment, Vergil wonders if she’s going to retort at all.  

“Sometimes a girl needs to relax,” Trish replies. Although to him, she doesn’t look very relaxed. She looks like she came home from a wretched tryst with someone she met at a motorcycle bar. Or maybe that’s what she always looks like and he’s just not familiar with her. That’s all for a lack of trying, he doesn’t want to be familiar with her. She raises a cocktail glass filled with a dark, reddish-orange liquid with a cherry, speared by a toothpick, decorating the rim. “Care for a drink?” 

Vergil’s go-to answer is obviously no . He shouldn’t drink, especially not around her when there’s an eighty percent chance she can hold her liquor better than he can. Which doesn’t say a lot, most people have that edge over him and for good reason. He rarely indulged, he tried once when he was younger, still navigating the world, and that memory has both regret and satisfaction tied to it. But the alternative is to risk waking Dante up for Vergil’s weak heart, so against his better judgment, he shoves down any reservations he has and joins her. 

Trish smirks as if she knows what exactly his other options were. “Interesting choice.” 

“Interesting because we hardly associate with one another?” Vergil asks. He takes a moment to consider the way she stares at him, waiting for him to finish his question. “Or interesting for other reasons?”

“How about, interesting because you didn’t strike me as the type.” 

Vergil’s not sure how to respond but he’s not keen on making an idiot out of himself, regardless of his appearance. Instead, he wisely keeps his mouth shut and leans his chin into his palm. It’s only after some sober, peaceful minutes that he notices her stare. She leans on the counter, dark blue eyes fixed on him, studying him like she’s peeking out from the shadows. Vergil bats at the metaphorical bindings trying to slither around him. They share history in the deepest pits and he doesn’t want to go there just yet, preferably not at all. 

“What are you doing?” Vergil snaps. 

“Trying to figure out what kind of alcohol you’d like,” Trish says. The smile on her face makes her seem like she knows more than she’s letting on but Vergil can’t bring himself to provoke it so he pretends to ignore it instead. 

He lets out a soft hum. “When you figure that out, be sure to tell me.” 

Trish laughs and it’s not like the forced, muted chuckle that he knows women do to pretend they’re enjoying themselves. It’s loud and raucous and melodic, it threatens to wake the entire neighborhood. He’s pretty sure he’s never heard her laugh like that, not even with Griffon cracking jokes at Phantom’s expense when he’s not there to listen. Their shared roots start crawling up his legs again, threatening to pull him down. He hates himself for it, for the moment of casual weakness. The best he can do it hope the self-loathing and prickling fear is mutual. 

“Well, now I can cross mint julep off the list.” She gets out of her seat and slides around to the other side of the bar to rifle around for ingredients. Vergil cranes his neck in an attempt to see what she’s reaching for but he eventually discerns it’s a futile attempt and returns to his initial posture. She pops out a second later with a proud ‘ah-ha!’ She pulls out a jar of honey, a container of lemon juice, and a bottle of whiskey among a couple of other ingredients that he doesn’t bother to identify. 

A burner ticks to life at her hands and Vergil has to remind himself that he should know better concerning Dante. The bar was more like a replacement for a kitchenette at the moment, the only other stove in the office is nestled elsewhere, busted up and in desperate need of being replaced. Dante’s organization skills with his personal life are garbage as far as Vergil has learned, at least in concerns to things like utility placement. (There was a blender in the bathroom for deity’s sake, was his brother trying to electrocute himself?) 

“So, while I’m treating you, I suppose it’s fair to ask again,” Trish inclines her arms onto the part of the counter in front of him. “Why are you here?” 

“Is that any of your business?” 

“I suppose not,” She says. “Humor me anyway. I’m curious.” 

Vergil chooses to hold his tongue, anticipating that she’ll give up as long as he doesn’t give in to her prying. He could echo her desire for relaxation but he knows that would enable more conversation and the possibility of diving into topics he keeps trying to avoid. 

She sighs. “Okay, how about this? Let’s play a game. A secret for a secret.” 

That gets Vergil’s attention, his curiosity is rising to meet her. Dammit, he just wanted to sit down and read to escape the insistent shouting for him in the depths of a sunken island, not this. “And what does this proposition entail?” 

Trish stirs at simmering water before taking the dipper from the honey and adding a proper heap of it into the mix. The whiskey, the lemon juice, and what Vergil now recognizes as cider follow shortly after, although she adds less of that last ingredient than everything else. She pours it into an old fashioned glass and adds a lemon slice and stick of cinnamon, then puts it before him. Vergil tentatively takes a sip from the glass then practically purrs at the flavor, not noticing Trish’s endeared look. 

“Well, for one, it requires being drunk,” Trish explains. “And two, it requires talking about things we probably should not talk about while drunk.” 

A pleasant buzz begins in Vergil’s stomach, he can already feel the whiskey doing its job. He’ll probably be completely tipsy by the end of the glass, so task one completed. Vergil thinks he’s made the right choice to drink instead of going back to bed, this is so much better than sympathy. 

“I’ll go first,” Trish starts. It doesn’t quite sound that way when she does, maybe she’s drunker than he thought. “I’m going to guess you had a nightmare before you came down here.” Vergil glances at her, a caveat to watch where she trifles. “We’re similar in that regard. I get them more often than I like to admit.”

Okay, they were getting into the second part of this game too quickly for his liking. He wants to drink more before putting up a failed, serious front or maybe warp back to the serenity of his brother, this is no longer better than sympathy. But if he tries to escape now, he’s going to look like a coward, dishonorable. God Dammit.

“And most of them are about the Underworld.” 

Fuck, fuck, fuck- Now he knows for certain she’s completely plastered, even if she doesn’t seem like it. Maybe that’s a good thing, maybe neither of them will remember what happened the next morning. The sooner this ended the better, he just has to wait it out until he’s passed out on the catwalk and she goes home and they never talk about this again, even if things would be far more awkward from now on. He takes a longer swig of alcohol. 

“Does he call for you sometimes?” Trish asks. 

“Yes.” That single world pierces the air and it surprises Trish. It shouldn’t, if she’s asking it’s because she experiences the same thing. He's aware of that, he's been in every situation she has in the corrupted world. “He always calls just when I think he’s finally left me alone. He tells me he needs me, tells me that he can make me happy, give me power.” He pauses, the pleasant, impulsive singing of alcohol thrums deep within him. “He tells me he can give me my mother back.” 

A sickening sensation oozes from the air, falling onto the both of them like the sap from the veins on a particular tree that grows in depths of the Underworld. It does nothing less than leaving Vergil more drained than when he began. He pulls the folds of his coat over his chest tighter, curling into the love embedded into every stitch and fiber. Trish leans forward on the counter again, hands intertwined as she inadvertently violates his personal space. Her gaze shifts to him with a silver scintillation. He doesn’t care, he hasn’t cared about anything for the past thirty minutes. 

“Alright, now it’s your turn.” 

Vergil comes alert at that. “My turn? This conversation doesn’t count?”

“Not since I started it, no.” 

“I’m going to need another drink.” 

Trish snorts, subdued, golden laughter that’s signature to her very existence. No one else in the world has ever had it and no one else ever will. It’s something solely for her to appreciate. She takes his glass from him and refills it, even replaces the cinnamon stick for him. As he takes it, an abrupt understanding suffuses his core like the lemony, honeyed taste of his drink—she’s just like him. Dante’s sibling, stricken by misfortune and bad decisions, not quite human but not quite a demon either, never meant to be free of the lingering stench of hell. He should say something to his suspicions, push down his desire for family, for siblinghood. It’s fueled by maudlin lamentation. What he has is incomplete; friends but no parents, a son but no lover, a brother but no sister. That’s how it’s meant to stay. 

Vergil inhales deeply, preparing himself for the worst. “What would you have me say?” 

She thinks for a moment, placing a solitary finger on the corner of her lips. She already knows what she wants and that’s a dangerous thing. Vergil sips from the brim of his glass, hoping it’s not as bad as he thinks it’s going to be.

“Tell me about Nero’s mom.” 

He chokes, inhales his drink and splutters down into a coughing fit. Trish doesn’t reach forward to consolidate him. Good, he doesn’t want her pity. He wants to be angry. 

“Pray tell, why the hell would I do that?” He hisses out, clutching the glass so hard it grates with the threat of shattering in his hands. He can feel his face burn at the suggestion, images and sounds and sensations come flooding back to him in an overwhelming wave of emotion. The woman he held close to his chest, brilliant, loving, mellow, tainted by his blackened, irrecoverable soul. His dreams are filled with her: with deep, dark red, stark white, and obsidian velour. With the scent of sage and rosemary and the taste of sea salt. With the feel of bronze, calloused fingertips tracing the dull lines on his body where the armor he peeled away was once fused with his body. He reaches for the grip of Yamato once more, glad to have left it on his lap. 

“Rules of the game.” 

“You never said-” 

“I didn’t say a lot of things about this game,” 

Of course, not. And now, he’s beginning to see why Dante warned him about her. Not once did her cleverness escape her. She had held a perfect, friendly veneer capable of lowering anyone's guard despite the inebriated mien she had provided. Technically, there was no rule saying he had to play by her guidelines, that he had to answer to that specific question. But nothing else comes to him, no other secrets that he’s willing to murmur to the empty void between them. He’s trapped in more ways than one. 

With reverence, as if her very being is sacred, he leans forward and whispers her name. That’s all he says. Not that its owner is the one he thinks of in the night when his heart disobediently yearns, not that he intended to go back to her with the Sparda sword and plans to spend eternity by her side. (Such notions were an old fantasy of his younger self, when he was naive and desperate and a fool.) He doesn’t even say that when he was in the bowels of hell, Dante was the only other person he told this to. 

Trish meanders on the name for a moment, absorbing the information. She tips back the rest of her drink at the same time Vergil does, then saunters out from behind the bar, dragging a leather jacket on her shoulder behind her. 

“Good chat,” She says, saluting him with two fingers. She looks pleased by the conversation, jogging out the office. She’s almost entirely out the door when she shoots the rest of her sentence at him. “We should do it again sometime, yeah?” 

With that, she’s gone and it hits Vergil like one of her sparkling blows. She played him. Whether or not it was a game didn’t mean a thing anymore. He lost more tonight than she did and it was going to come back to bite him in the ass like a rabid dog. He slams his head on the counter, muttering to himself about being an idiot as he takes the time to gather what remains of his dignity. 

When he’s calmed down enough, he virtually falls onto his brother who grumbles in surprise and annoyance but rolls Vergil onto the other side of the bed, wondering why he was drinking. When he drifts off to sleep, he holds onto the optimistic notion that Trish won’t remember what he said and lord it over him tomorrow. The next morning, she winks and holds a finger up to her lips, hushing him, promising him those events were safe with her. He can’t tell if she regrets the night before as much as he does. 

He should have just gone back to bed.

Chapter Text

“You’re late!”

The words hit Dante like a schoolyard dodge ball, tough and smacking his face with a rubbery impact. Not as bad as it could be but bound to be followed up on. He smiled as sweetly as possible in hopes to deflect the incoming barrage about to come his way. Patty balled her hands on her hips and leaned forward, her pout the chubbiest and most annoyed he’d seen it in awhile. 

“But I’m here,” Dante said, nearly waltzing the rest of the way down the sidewalk. 

“You’re still late!” Patty huffed. “Haven’t you ever heard of courtesy?” 

“I’ll care about courtesy when it’s kind enough to not fu-” 

“ Dante, ” Patty warned. 

“ Screw me over,” Dante corrected himself. “I was going to say ‘screw.’”

“Uh, huh, I’m sure.” 

Dante waved his hand in an imitation of brushing her off. “Regardless, I am here now and that’s what matters. You ready to get going?” 

Patty’s cold, cranky demeanor slinked away and was replaced with excitement in the blink of an eye. She grinned, wide and goofy and so roguish Dante thought she’d been spending too much time around his business partners again. They were experts in giving him a run for his money in the Up To No Good Department. 

“Yep!” Patty chirped. “I already know where to go, too! If we start here on Mainstreet, then we go through everything back and forth between east and west, then we can finish on fourth by tonight.” 

“I’m gonna go ahead and stop you there,” Dante said, shoving his hands into his pocket. “I already picked out where we’re going today and none of it involves walking around for the next seven hours.” 

“How else are we getting around?” Patty asked. 

“Simple.” 

A flash of light and a deafening roar revealed the sheer points and edges of a gothic motorcycle, revving underneath their master’s touch. Dante motioned for Patty to climb on which unfortunately led to her going pale in the face. He could see every stubborn bone in her body lock into place in the beginnings of a steadfast refusal to go anywhere near Cavaliere. 

“Absolutely not!” Patty half-shrieked. “I’m not getting on that thing! One motorcycle ride with you when I was younger was enough.”

She decisively left the magic aspect of Cavaliere out of it, she knew Dante could sense it, it was his bike, after all. Whether or not it had magic didn’t matter. Three years ago she almost lost her head on his last motorcycle when he’d taken her to the boardwalk on the other side of the city. That was for her fifteenth birthday and the less said about it the better, she’d long since learned her lesson. Although with her day’s compatriot, it seemed that lessons learned didn’t matter. 

“You can walk then, catch up in a few hours while I go on all the rides without you.” 

“You jerk! Fine!” 

Patty scowled but hopped onto the back of Cavaliere, arms wrapping around Dante’s sides. If he meant what he said about rides, then she had a sinking sensation that this was just going to be a repeat of three years ago. She had just resigned herself when the first lurch of the motorcycle rushed them forward and they went flying down the street. The wind whipped her hair behind her, stung her cheeks, and made her eyes well up with tears. It was nothing unfamiliar to her, the purr of the engine or the flex of Dante’s strong back against her, a gentle promise that he wouldn’t let her fall, no matter how fast they went. 

“Hey! You just ran a red light back there!” 

Patty couldn’t quite hear Dante over the howling of the city as it rushed by but she was pretty he responded with a nonchalant “oops” for her troubles. She swore if the cops came after them then she was turning him in. 

When Cavaliere smoothed to a stop, Patty was buried into Dante’s shoulders. She could feel his affectionate laughter rumble through his entire body like he didn't care that her nails were digging into his skin through his jacket. She huffed out, tempted to dig them deeper just to annoy him. Leather was hard for Dante to come by so scuffing it up would be a good amount of harmless revenge. In the end, Patty decided against it, pulled herself off the Cavaliere, and suddenly gaped in awe. Instead of the crowded piers and the sharp tang of sea salt, standing in front of Patty was a quaint restaurant shrouded in flowers, trees, and a rainbow gathering of fairy lights. It resembled more of a fabulous house from an era long past than a place for eating but Patty would recognize it anywhere. 

“Carter’s?!” She squealed. She had been dying to go to Carter’s ever since she’d heard it had been built in Capulet City, not many places in town offered the picturesque, Jane Austen image of nobility that Patty adored so much. A pang of suspicion and annoyance struck her hard against the chest. If this was some kind of sick joke- “Dante, I swear, you better not be messing with me.” 

“What?” Dante, having clambered off of Cavaliere and shooed them away, put a hand to his heart in mock hurt. “You can’t seriously believe that’d I’d be so cruel as to bring you to the place of your dreams only to pretend we’re not going inside. Come on, I scored  an outdoor table next to the canal.” 

“How did you even schedule reservations to this place?” Patty asked. She followed closely as Dante stepped up through the doors. “It’s supposed to be impossible.” 

“Have some faith in me, Patty. The owner owes me a couple of favors after I saved this place from getting torn down via demons.” 

At the same time she gawked at the beauty of the restaurant interior, Patty couldn’t help but ruminate on the realization that Dante really did do something this fantastical for her birthday. She had always known him to be impossible, unshakable, with a flair for the dramatic but she had no idea that his gentle sensitivity, no matter how seldom it showed itself, could run so deep into the lives of other people. No matter what, he was always finding ways to surprise her. 

“5:00 for Dante?” A charming hostess glided up to them on rollerskates and a new feeling of inadequacy washed over Patty. The employee’s hair was done up in adorable curls and highlights of gold and silver danced along the seams of her ankle-length skirt, only part of the image that Carter’s liked to show off. Patty’s favorite wooly pink sweater and jeans felt like a junkyard on her shoulders in comparison. 

Before she could voice her worries, Dante’s hand slipped to her shoulder and gave a reassuring squeeze as if to say, “it’s fine, you look great.” Patty breathed out, comforted by the gesture. The hostess motioned for them to follow, guiding them through the cool, simple dining area and out onto a deck at the back. Strings of blushing pink flowers hung from the rooftops and thin brambles from the surrounding trees, exuding sweet scents that fell over the small smattering of tables. The stream that Capulet city had been built upon carried clear, clean water past the deck in a gentle rush. Patty had to all but keep from jumping into Dante’s arms out of sheer happiness. She had a social grace to retain after all.

It didn’t take long for a waitress to find and greet them. Patty’s eyes scanned the menu at lightning speed as Dante discussed some of the items at a leisurely pace. Once settled on something, she snapped the menu closed. 

“I know what I want,” She chirped with a cheerful grin. “May I please have the caramel apple waffles?” 

The waitress piped an eager “absolutely” right back at her as Dante stared between the two, jaw a bit agape. 

“Already?” If anyone was suddenly looking lost, it was definitely him. “Jeez, I’ve never been here before. I have no idea what to get.”

“Well, if I can make some suggestions.” The waitress put a thoughtful finger to the corner of her lips. “She definitely has the right idea about the waffles. Our one-of-kind recipe is spectacular. Although, if you don’t like caramel apples, we have strawberries and cream waffles, which I personally think are to die for.” 

Dante seemed caught between a mental intersection where confusion met the possibility that this woman had just offered him heaven. He shrugged and handed the menu back to the waitress. “Sure, let’s go with that.” 

With that, the waitress skated off and before Dante could get out a “so, how’s your day been?” Patty almost literally exploded into everything that had happened since Dante last saw her. From the extra hard work she had put into her final year of high school before graduating to her mother’s recent decision to travel more frequently between Capulet City and the Covenworth Isles to, of course, the birthday party Dante had so ungraciously missed due to his own two-month vacation prancing around the Underworld. Dante did his best to nod along and sheepishly grin when trying to excuse his actions to which Patty ceremoniously pretended to be upset about. 

When lunch was finally presented to them, Patty practically melted with joy as the taste of her waffles bloomed across her taste buds like an embellishing, out of control garden plant. She hummed contentedly before shoveling another decent bite and holding it out onto fork for Dante to try. 

“I know you like strawberries the most,” Patty said as Dante swallowed. “But you have to try this. It’s so good!” 

Dante shook his head good-naturedly before taking Patty’s fork and trying it. He had to admit, it was good but he wasn’t sure it was good enough to have to sacrifice some of his own waffles to complete the equivalent exchange. No matter what he thought, however, Patty took a bite of his too and undoubtedly, nearly imploded when the flavor registered. 

“You done stealing my food?” Dante asked, shooting her a jesting look.

“If I am?” 

“Good. Because I have another surprise for you.”

Patty followed Dante’s movement as he leaned over and gave a gentle nudge to a square parcel. It slid smoothly to the foot of her chair. Cautious once more, Patty reached down and brought it onto the table, picking at the light brown wrapping. It was pretty decent in size though not big enough to overcrowd the set and was twined in a thin string. Lying flat on top was a gilded gold and white envelope which Patty maneuvered open in a few seconds. Inside, two pieces of waxy parchment stuck out, red and silver ink printed in graceful curves and arcs to spell out Rosso the Red. 

Tickets to a showing of Patty's favorite musical. 

“At the Martha Oppenheimer?” She breathed out. 

At Dante’s knowing smile, Patty was pretty sure her soul shriveled up and gushed with energy simultaneously. He really was pulling out all the stops to make up for missing her birthday, wasn’t he? Caught in the swell of rising joy and the sentimental emotions that rippled through her, Patty was torn between wanting to stand up on her chair and scream at the top of her lungs and wanting to cry. As her eyes began to sting, she racked her brain for something random to spout out so Dante didn’t think she was ungrateful. 

“But that place is so prestigious!!” She slammed a hand down onto the table, eliciting a surprised jolt from the surrounding patrons. “How did you- nevermind, the how, what would I even wear?!” 

“What do you think is in the box?” 

Patty nearly tore off the string in a manner not unlike the flash of a circus crop. The wind rushed out of her lungs as she took in the soft white fabric and the glorious rosy flower print winding around the skirt and the a-line torso of a brand new dress. 

“THANK YOU, DANTE!!!” 

Her deafening gratitude was so abrupt Dante about fell out of his chair. To him, it wasn’t much, he hadn’t even needed to spend any cash on it. He only knew a girl who knew a guy who knew the woman who had helped him out. Merely a long string favors tied back to him that he decided he wanted to cash in on as a treat to the girl who’d made his life worth living for a few months, even if she spent most of that time smacking him with a mop and yelling at him to clean up after himself. 

Dante cracked a grin and rolled his eyes, completely bewildered as Patty continued going off on a white rapid river of thank you’s. 

“Ahem.” 

Dante and Patty whirled to meet the disapproving gaze of a wickedly old woman. One foot in the grave and greyed out eyes to match, her hands folded over her chest like a pair of thin branches with wrinkled bark. She was layered with lavish fabrics and strings of pearls. Her hair must have been beyond brittle, so much that both Dante and Patty had to resist the urge to make sure theirs were still in silky condition. They worked hard on theirs, dag nabbit, god forbid this woman’s dandruff was contagious. (Well… Patty worked hard on hers, anyway. Dante could whip his hair through a cold shower and take a ride with Cavaliere and it could pass for presentable.) 

“Sorry, ma’am,” Dante winced as her steely stare connected with his. “Are we being too loud?” 

“Don’t you think he’s a little too old for you, young lady.” 

Dante didn’t have a glass of liquid in hand to choke on so he settled on the air he was currently breathing until he could remember how to reach for the one next to his plate. Patty, meanwhile, only needed three seconds to bristle like an angry house cat and come up with a sassy response. 

“Well, considering he’s my dad, I think he’s the perfect age.”

Dante’s hand shot across the table to snatch up his water glass, even if it was too late to commit to a spit take. He nearly inhaled the first three sips. 

“You, on the other hand, are a little too old for me to worry about your uninformed opinion.”

“My word, how rude.” The woman pressed her palm against her chest. “Have you any respect for your elders?”

Throwing a side glance out to the canal, Dante tried to distract himself. This woman knew nothing but he knew everything. Once Patty got started, there was no stopping her. This wasn’t even her worst. 

“I’ll have respect when I don’t think I’m gonna have to pull the plug on your life support next month.” 

Where did this whole nonsense come from? When did Patty start considering him a father figure in the first place? Lord, he couldn’t even seem to have that much of a guiding hand in Nero’s life and not to mess things up with family any further. Who in their right mind would declare themselves his child just to get back at some ratty old woman (who by now had  harrumphed haughtily and stomped off.) Apparently the answer was someone who shared his sense of humor, sarcasm, and attitude. 

“Patty, come on,” He chastised, ready to give her the discussion on attaching familial labels to him on the fly and why it was a bad idea. 

“Yeah, I know, that was wrong,” She huffed, glaring directly at the woman. “She’ll be on life support by the end of the week.” 

Dante collapsed on the table and cackled, all intentions of a serious conversation fleeing his mind. Oh, god, he was such a bad influence.

Chapter Text

Vergil is unable to piece together how he ended up in the passenger side seat of the Devil May Cry van, roaring down the street as his brother’s business’ most famously batshit insane driver narrowly misses a screaming pedestrian. 

Okay, well, he can, technically. He’s just not sure he wants to delve back into a short while ago. He’s already tested his luck against Nico today and he’s not sure he wants to keep doing so. His mind scrabbles to separate the nonsense from common sense, the latter of which digs at him for letting her guilt him into it. 

Nico showed up at Devil May Cry. Alone. Barking for Dante, who was deity knew where. The bar, a job, Vergil didn’t know, didn’t care, any semblance of peace he got from his brother and the double trouble harpies was rare and reveled in. She then proceeded to dig through the mini-fridge to snipe a bottle of Dante’s reichwein as petty revenge for… he had no idea, he wasn’t paying attention. 

The next ten minutes went something like this: 

Nico takes a sip and sputters into a rapid-fire explanation that Vergil can barely keep up with. Apparently his brother had offered to accompany Nico to her tattoo appointment. As is customary, his brother forgot and accidentally ditched her.

So they were off to a fabulous start. 

She driveled on for a bit longer while Vergil took the opportunity to brush the nonexistent dust off his pants and smoothe his hair back. She’d woken him up from a cat nap, another thing that’s all too rare even if he never really sleeps. He just closes his eyes and hopes for the best. The best being not Mundus or his mother. To be fair, he only tries to sleep so Dante will get off his back with offers of his bed being open to share if Vergil needs someone to chase the monsters away, a proposition that he knows is mostly made in jest because he has a moron for a brother. 

He’s not necessarily unfamiliar with sleeping next to his brother, on the couch, side by side, arm to arm, head on his shoulder. He avoids Dante’s room if he can help it because he’s not soft enough to crawl under the sheets or his brother’s arm. Maybe when he was a child but there’s a heavy difference between four-years-old and forty-years-old. 

But Vergil digresses. Back to Nico. 

Eventually, she figures out that Dante won’t be back in time for her appointment and her mood sours. Then she gets an idea and Vergil can just see the lightbulb switch on above her head. She opens her mouth. Vergil, knowing exactly what she wants before she says it, shoots her down. 

No. He will not go get a tattoo with her. Absolutely not. 

He brings Nero into the equation and the kicked puppy look Nico gives him resembles a stab to the heart. The excuse too convenient. 

Date night with Kyrie. 

This means Nico isn’t just temporarily alone and that Nero isn’t hot on her heels, making sure she’s not about to blow something up. A day trip, all the way to Capulet City. 

As if that wasn’t enough, Nico eventually talks about how she can’t do this sort of thing alone, it’s tradition. She’d done her first two tattoos with her Uncle Rock. After that, mixed it up over the years. 

She’s never alone. Another stab to the heart. 

Visions of V return to him. Boney and thin and peppered neck to waist to fingers with glorious black ink that spoke and sang. Literally. Vergil catches and chastises himself, having sworn to lock those memories up. Just for now, until he was ready to confront them. Mentally, he twists the key and the lock shuts. 

Except when he looks at her again, she looks way too sad. The frown doesn’t suit her. Then his mind goes over the innumerable things he owes Nero since the incident and cracks start snaking their way over his resolve. 

In the words of his son, he was so fucked. 

He caves. Of course, this results in his body jerking forward as the van screeches to a stop and he slams his head on the glove box. So much for his seatbelt. 

Nico jaggedly puts the gear into park while Vergil works up the nerve to scold her like an ornery parent about to backseat drive. Not much to do there, though, she’s already out of the car. Gripping the Yamato as he has been wrought to do ever since he got it back, he slips out of the passenger’s side door and tries not to vomit, especially when he lays eyes on a bright red sign, Rosenetic. It doesn’t sound like it belongs to the name of a tattoo parlor, especially not when the letters curve into the similar elegance his brother’s neon shares. But Nico insists this is it. 

“Come on, V-man! We ain't got all day!” 

He forces himself not to stumble, despite the knowing look Nico shoots him, the one he refuses to meet because he knows he’s seen it somewhere, has stared into eyes just like those. Every time he does, an emetic sensation crawls over him and static filters into his vision. Her eyes twinkle mischievously, curiously but there’s something innocent about them that puts him at ease. Whatever it is she reminds him of, they’re fortunately not the same.

Vergil is hit with the sharp scent of disinfectant and medical soap as soon as he enters the parlor. Nico breathes in, shoulders go up and down, relaxes so deeply like she’s at home. Vergil must admit to no one but himself, he’s a bit envious she has a place to do that. Devil May Cry, for these first few weeks, have yet to feel that way. He’s unsure it will ever feel that way. 

“Nico, girl, you made it!” 

A burly man in ripped jeans and a dark tank top strides to the front. Nico grins and lets herself be swept into a great big bear hug. The thorny vines on the man’s arms bulge along with his muscles. 

Qliphoth, is the first thought to pop into Vergil’s mind. 

Ah-ah, nope, is the second one. No, you don’t. Locking you back up. 

“V-man!” Nico gesticulates wildly between him and the meaty stranger. “This is Bud! He’s a manager here, looks after things when Iris’ not around. I’ve gotten like, half my tattoos from him, he’s awesome.” 

The man flushes which Vergil shouldn’t be surprised about and yet. His brow raises upward just as the man begins to laugh, loud enough that it feels like it shakes the foundations of the parlor. 

“And you’ll be getting another one from me today.” Bud points a proud thumb at his chest. He pivots and starts heading toward the back, motioning for Nico to follow. “Right this way, little lady. And your friend is welcome to watch, I know how it goes.”

Nico beams and half drags Vergil to the station at the back. The smell of disinfectant is much stronger here. Belatedly, he notices the parlor gives off a vibe of being smokey and dim, and a slow, electric guitar riff bears its company. On the wall, in this specific area, a colorless mural of a rose made of smoke seems to ripple in time to the music, haunted. It’s all a bit overwhelming for Vergil and he’s glad Rosenetic is empty save for Bud and Nico. He pulls into a chair that’s off to the side just as Nico hops onto the tattoo bed, her feet swinging back and forth excitedly like she’s fighting the urge to bounce up and down with glee. Vergil doesn’t see the appeal, especially when the plastic comes off the disposable subset of tools. He closes his eyes and tips his head back as he listens to the process, analyzing sounds and smells. 

Rubbing alcohol. Green soap. Metal. Fresh ink. 

Idle chatter. Substance containers being opened and applied. Breathing lungs. Steady heartbeats. 

He shouldn’t be able to make half of these out but sometimes his demon side is both a blessing and a curse. 

The tattoo machine buzzes to life. Vergil seizes up, body rigid as he tries to control his breathing. He hated needles when he was a kid, still hates them now in a way that burns. He can handle it when the Qliphoth roots rebel against him but then again, it was socially acceptable to block their course and break them. Stop. Lock, lock, lock. 

At some point, lulled by the beat and the buzz, merciful unconsciousness takes him, and for once in his life, he has a restful sleep. No interruptions, no nightmares, and it passes far quicker than he expected. When his eyes slide open, Nico and Bud are bent over the counter, whispering and snickering like small children. Immediately, Vergil’s suspicions go up and he clears his throat. They whip around at the same time, expressions are frozen in a way that suggests they just got caught doing something illegal. Vergil doesn’t like it. Not one bit. 

“Hey, V, you’re up!” Nico puts on a cheery mask first, feigning innocence. She shifts to cover up whatever she and Bud are working on and it takes every ounce of restraint Vergil has not to shake her around and demand what it is she’s scheming with her friend. “Noticed you passed out in that chair, didn’t wanna bug you. Didn’t know you didn’t like needles, man.” 

Vergil feels the heat in his cheeks and before he knows it, he spits out his words too quickly to take back. “I didn’t pass out because I was scared, I’m just tired.” 

They sound so incredibly forced and fake, Vergil wouldn’t have believed himself if he had been there standing there and listening. Graciously, Nico lets him keep the excuse and she doesn’t rib or tease him. It must be his lucky day if she’s willing to let it go so easily, which considering the situation he’s in now, says a lot about his kind of luck. It’s the worst in existence, surpasses even Dante’s mountain of it but that’s just life if you’re a Sparda, they’ve both come to terms with it by now. However, a flash of understanding crosses Nico’s features, there and gone in a second. It raises questions about the type of person Nico is, if she’s really all swagger and sass, if her caring voice cannot be soothing or sincere, if she’s more than the humorous form of guts and honor she portrays herself as. 

“What are you two doing?” Vergil finally asks. 

A twin pair of ecstatic grins spread out across their faces. 

“Why, I’m glad you asked.” Nico makes a quick gesture. “We’re making your tattoo.” 

A cold shot of barely contained fear shoots through Vergil as he bolts to his feet. No, the deal was to go with her, not get a tattoo himself. He knows that. He made sure Nico knew that too, made it explicitly clear before they even got in the van. Backstabbing betrayal. 

“Nicoletta Goldstein!” He hisses, lunging for her and the paper she’s just snatched off the counter. She runs from him, dancing around the bed in a desperate bout of needing possession of that piece of paper she’s been scribbling on, no telling what horrible thing she’s created just to make a fool out of him. She cackles like a madwoman, barely missing one of his swipes before she taunts him. A tragic mistake because unlike his brother he doesn’t care who knows he isn’t human. He warps from one end of the bed to the other and nabs the paper from between Nico’s fingers, ignoring the taken aback look Bud shoots him. He can’t bother to pay any attention when his breath has just been stolen from him. 

The design on the paper is more elegant and refined than he thought it would be, consisting of three magnificent shapes that seem to shimmer in and out of existence. A soaring eagle with jagged, sharp feathers making up his shape, a panther whose stance is powerful and fierce like her, and a beast of unidentifiable nature closing around them both. The corners of his eyes sting but he doesn’t cry, no matter how much his heart aches. They were just nightmares, nothing more. Nothing significant, nothing he loved. The lock on those memories grates against his ears, threatening to break loose.

He counts to three in his head, giving himself the seconds needed to school his features into one of haughty nonchalance. Nico looks a little concerned but he can change that too, no problem. He folds the paper up and sticks it into a pocket in his jacket. 

“What tattoo did you get?” He asks her, his hands resting on top of Yamato like a cane. 

Just as he predicted, Nico’s worry melts away and is replaced with excitement. She shows him the inner side of her right upper arm, a beautiful blue butterfly, iridescent even in the low light, with a fluttering tail of ribbons trailing right behind. The shadows beneath its glimmering wings and tail make it look like it’ll take flight at any second and vanish from her skin. 

“What do you think?” She gushes, showing it off a little more. “Pretty great, huh? Bud’s a total master!” 

“Yes, he is,” Vergil concedes. “It’s quite ravishing.” 

That’s all Vergil manages out, it’s the best he can do at the moment. Nico shoos him out of the parlor and tells him to wait in the van while she deals with the payment for all of Bud’s hard work. Vergil’s more than relieved to be out of there and taking in the fresh air, fighting too many emotions to deal with. This small moment of peace he gets to himself will prepare him to interact with people again. People being Nico and her horrendous driving skills. 

Vergil finds himself staring at the picture of V’s familiars more and more often as the next month comes and goes. He rarely sees Nico after that but every time he does, he absently finds himself looking for the blue butterfly on her arm. 

Lady corners him sometime after a visit from the DMC Fortuna Branch. In that short time, he underwent a painfully awkward conversation with the artisan vaguely alluding to her new tattoo. Lady seems to think something unsavory of his feelings toward Nico but he’s old enough to be her father. 

No way. 

Vergil’s nightmares are as frequent as ever and unfortunately just as bloody, violent, and unforgiving. One night finds him pacing outside Dante's room, stirred awake by the third one in a row of his baby brother’s charred corpse curled up next to their mother’s. Dante notices by some damned miracle and doesn’t take no for an answer when he wrangles a hug out of Vergil and swears he’s not going anywhere. They sleep in the same bed that night, just so Dante will stop ragging him about it, or so Vergil tells himself. 

(When did he become such a terrible liar?)

The lock springs open when he’s sure his brother’s asleep. He shoves his face in a pillow and lets it soak up the tears and muffled sobs. He can’t remember the last time he cried. 

He refuses to get the tattoo. That much he is resolute about and Nico respects it, albeit after he snaps at her for assuming he’s an old man who thinks people with tattoos are disrespecting themselves. He doesn’t decide how people choose to decorate their bodies, the only thing he’s ever judged humans on is being powerless. He’s pretty sure he’s past that now. 

He does, as a kind gesture, leave the picture in his room where he can always see it. Some treacherous tiny part of him wonders where he’d put if he’d decided not to be such a stubborn ass about needles (yes, Nico did eventually hassle him about that too by assuring him that she was scared the first time as well. She’d only done it once and never again but if one good thing came out of it, then it was that it confirmed what he’d thought about her being soft. If just for a brief moment.) He imagines the tattoo on his shoulder, the left side base of his ribcage, the inside of his upper arm like where Nico’s is, and none of them feel right. 

Sometimes Vergil wishes he’d continued to keep the lock on those human emotions and memories, if only so he could pretend he was fine a little longer. He’s no stranger to arguments, he’s dealt with plenty. Things didn’t exactly come easy for him and Dante as soon as they stepped out of hell. Better, sure but Dante is thorough when it comes to hammering in the philosophy of the Sparda family. 

He just wishes tonight would have been one of those nights where he and his brother have a hard time of it, usually drunk when uninhibited thoughts slip out of them. Instead of Dante, it’s Nero and instead of being drunk, they’re both completely sober. 

He deserves the punch in the face he gets. Vergil knows it. 

Dante does him the good graces of baiting a hazy version of last night’s events out of him. He punts Vergil out the door and tells him to set aside his pride and makeup with his son. 

It is so agonizingly, horribly awkward and it eats at Vergil’s insides when he apologizes for his insensitivity. Nero had been right, he’s damn smug about it but he forgives him. Then for some godforsaken reason, hugs him. Vergil hadn’t been sure he was getting the hang of this family thing but as he slowly puts his arms around Nero, he thinks he’s getting there. 

Strangely, this is the most human he’s ever been. 

Kyrie gets sick and Nero fusses about it like no tomorrow. Vergil hears this through the grapevine and swells with pride because his son is the most caring, loving person he’s ever met and he imagines if he had been less proud, less power-driven in his youth, then that might have been all he could ask for in a child. Possibly. He doesn’t know. 

The grapevine, however, isn’t quite so happy about it. What originally started as a trip to get another tattoo with Nero turned into one to fetch supplies on her own. Nico understands who takes priority, even if she’s a little dejected that she has to cancel. She’d fuss about the woman just as much if Kyrie were her wife instead of Nero’s. 

Vergil jumps at the opportunity to go in Nero’s stead and if Nico all but crushed him in an embrace for it, he was glad it wasn’t in front of anyone else at the establishment. 

When they go into Rosenetic again, he meets Iris. She’s stunning with gorgeous, lavender curls falling to just below her jaw. The void blankets her arms and meets at both the nape of her neck and collarbone just to mark the beginning of the many, many tattoos she sports. Vergil admits he’s impressed, even more so when she paints the next artwork on Nico’s skin with incredible precision and steadiness. This time, it’s a patch of deep pink gerbera daisies right between her shoulder blades, to remind her of one of her masterpieces. 

Vergil pretends he can’t feel the press of the design that the artistic geniuses here made, sitting folded in his pocket. 

“And whatever you do, don’t fucking touch it. You’ll ruin it.” 

“I understand, I doubt I could reach it anyway.” 

“I’m serious, V-man, it could bleed. This isn’t something to be taken lightly.” 

A sigh. Vergil resists the urge to push against the seat and satisfy the tingly itch in the center of his back. It doesn’t matter what Nico has to tell him, he’s pretty sure he has blood poisoning. 

“And you’ll have to use that ointment every day for a few weeks, let it set into your skin.” 

“Mmhm.” 

“Be careful with your clothes, don’t wear something that might irritate it.” 

“Mmhm.” 

“Don’t take showers that are too hot or too cold, either.” 

“Mmhm.” 

“Are you even listening to me?” 

Another sigh, more tired and more drawn out.

“Yes, Nicoletta.” 

“Lady, bring that back here right now!!!” Vergil hollers a month later. He chases her up and down the stairs and all across Devil May Cry, unappreciative of the way Lady has grown comfortable stealing his things, especially since he knows she only does it just to get a rise out of him. 

This time, it’s his shirt. 

A particularly comfortable rock n’ roll t-shirt Nero gave him after Vergil almost got pulverized by a mosh pit at a concert for Nero’s favorite band. 

He absolutely will not let anyone have it. 

Trish and Dante are of no help, as usual. They’re leaning against his desk, half-distracted by a tower of pizza boxes and laughing their asses off at the fact that Vergil is shirtless and utterly riled up at the whims of a human woman. Vergil already knows this night has gone to hell, he just doesn’t expect it to go even more to hell when Dante abruptly stops laughing and ambles over. He places a warm hand on his brother’s back, smoothing a thumb over the center where, in Devil Trigger, Vergil’s tail and wings meet. The place where freedom blossoms the most. 

Vergil tenses underneath the gentle touch, afraid of what Dante is going to say or do. Even though he can’t see it, he knows his brother has a smile on his face, a bit surprised but kind of in awe. 

“Nice ink.”