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Vergil watches idly by the door as Nero trains for the fifth week in a row. He starts off with the usual, devil triggering and un-triggering, first for short bursts and then increasingly longer ones. It’s a form of control. He cannot recall if he ever told Nero doing as such could help with partial triggering, but knowing how little they speak, he deduces that Nero figured it out for himself. Nero’s horns are ethereal; Vergil is distracted by them even more than his blue-lighted wings. The tannish-beige ruffled feathers look soft, but Vergil knows they can tear into limbs just as easily as the sharp points jutting out from his chin.
He leans against the doorframe. The blue energy that illuminates his son’s body shines particularly bright upon his right forearm, and suddenly it clicks in Vergil’s mind: Nero wants to partial devil trigger to obtain the appearance of his devil bringer, of the arm that Vergil tore off. My need for Yamato was too strong to resist, I would have died if I didn’t, he always reminds himself.
But Vergil quiets these thoughts. He focuses on the thick red color of Nero’s torso armor, dark as raw, bloody meat. He compares it to the blackish gray of Nero’s shin guards and feet, clawed and spiked for extra protection—protection. Something in Vergil’s chest makes it hard to breathe. Protection, he repeats silently. Something he did not provide for his child. He closes his eyes. He pictures their new home, the Devil May Cry office, to ground himself. After a moment he looks up and Nero has partially triggered somewhat successfully.
His feathered horns are still there, but his hair is caught between his usual cut and the longer one, ending just above his shoulders. Vergil hides a smirk as Nero curses and tries to brush it out of his face. His arms are also triggered, but so is his shoulder armor and the lower half of his legs. He curses, louder this time, and tries again.
The arms. After each few minutes of trial and error, the consistently triggered form are his arms. He tries desperately to get just the one, and he can do it if he uses the wings, like when Nico gave him that prototype; but their luminescence only provides a warm glow over his human skin. It is not as tough as a demon’s hide, nor does it glow as bright with surges of pure demonic energy; while Nero’s wings are strong and extremely helpful, they are not nearly as powerful as the devil bringer.
Vergil’s caught up in himself again – he makes the mistake of blinking, so briefly, and what he sees next is Nero’s final success. His genuine smile makes Vergil’s chest ache again, but nonetheless he mirrors his son’s look of absolute awe at the solo right arm he has partially triggered. He watches as Nero inspects every square inch, bending his elbow to get a look at the hook on it; then he knocks on the armor with his human knuckles, testing its thickness.
“Can’t believe he’s got that much control already.” Vergil almost scoffs at the sound of Dante’s voice despite knowing he’s been there a while. “When I first met the kid, all he wanted was to get rid of that demonic arm. Now he’s proud of it.”
“Just as you wished to denounce your demonic heritage,” Vergil reminds him. “But Nero is of my blood. I am not the least bit surprised by his abilities.”
He steps gracefully forward along the scuffed hardwood until Nero notices and meets him halfway. “You guys always watch me like that?” he asks with a laugh. “It’s kinda creepy. Ah, whatever. I finally did it.”
Vergil tilts his chin up, peering with those gray eyes down the line of his nose as he considers his son thoughtfully. Nero is only a quarter demon, but his strength is undeniably immense. He sighs quietly and looks away. “Nero,” he begins. “How do I phrase this, now? Son. That incident—” He points to Nero’s right arm, where its blue light shimmers gloriously. “—it… wasn’t the right thing to do.”
Nero stares at him, but Vergil’s remorse keeps his own gaze glued upon that arm. “Are you trying to apologize?” he asks.
Vergil looks away. He licks his dry and cracked lips, parts them a sliver as if he’s going to say that yes, he’s trying to say he’s sorry for tearing the boy’s limb off, but as it has everywhere else in his life, his pride chokes the words and leaves them to die in his throat. He hears Nero laugh and then that powerful and beautiful demonic arm wraps around his waist, followed by the human one, and Vergil senses the irony that he is being enveloped, embraced by his two halves: demon and human.
He has never received affection like this from anyone but his mother, and from earlier, blurry memories, his father. It’s a long minute before Nero says, “I guess I forgive you,” and his scruffy voice is so sincere that Vergil finally breaks and wraps his arms tight around Nero’s shoulders.
“Thank you, Nero,” he says, pressing his nose to the side of Nero’s head.
He is loved, protected, and needed by his own flesh and blood, by the boy that both resurrected and kicked his ass all in the same day. But Vergil feels Nero hug him closer after he speaks, and then he realizes that those were the first words he had ever said to his son.
Nero buries his face in Vergil's chest with a loud sob. Vergil hushes him, dragging his fingers up the nape of Nero’s neck to stroke gently through his hair. The fact that Nero is so openly emotional in his arms makes Vergil’s chest hurt again, and before he can comprehend it there’s a single tear running down his cheek. His own tears…? He can’t recall the last time he cried or ever showed any vulnerability. But soon the ache in his chest eases and calmness washes over his face, like warm sunlight shining upon his newfound joy.
Vergil kisses the top of Nero’s head. He hears Dante’s heavy footsteps on the hardwood trucking toward them, and he’ll never admit it, but he’s grateful that the younger twin chose not to interfere. There is a softness to his lips, though, a wistful smile compared to the usual smirk as Dante watches them. Nero hasn’t noticed his presence yet.
But Nero is not just Vergil’s family, he is also Dante’s. Vergil hides his smile, giving Dante a look of only mild annoyance. No words need to be exchanged as the younger twin wraps them both in his large arms; and, for once, neither Nero nor Vergil complain.