Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Nero wouldn’t stop crying. Wailing. His face reddened due to the exertion, tiny hands balled into fists, hot tears streaming down his chubby cheeks.

He didn’t need a fresh diaper. Wasn’t hungry. Didn’t want to sleep. Didn’t want to be held. He squirmed in his father’s arms and, every once in a while, would let out a soundless cry to let Vergil know how displeased he was by something that neither of them could quite decipher.

Nero’s voiced echoed through the room, through the empty halls, through the whole house, incessantly boring into Vergil’s skull, breaking his usually composed-self and turning him into a defeated mess.

“Nero, stop.”
 
But he didn’t. The child wailed even louder, and Vergil could feel the rising frustration come into a peak. The sound was too loud. Nero’s weight too oppressing in his arms and, as he looked down at his son’s tear-streaked face, he realized he couldn’t do it.

He was never made to be a father. He should’ve never stayed. He was too young to take care of a child. Too inexperienced. Too foolish. Too weak. 

Nero was better off at the orphanage. He should’ve left him there. Vergil couldn’t remember a childhood that wasn’t plagued with pain and fear, and those were the only things he would be capable of giving his son.

Fear. Loathing. Defeat.

Vergil forced himself to take a deep breath, trying to focus on the way his chest rose and fell and not on the intrusive and fleeting thoughts that were quickly turning into a pesky migraine.

He needed to regain his composure, and in order to do that, he needed to step away, no matter how wrong it felt.

Nero was left alone in the room, safely in the comfort of his crib as Vergil tried to drown the sound of his son’s shrieks and his own thoughts under the shower stream. The water was hot. Scalding. The tiles felt cold against his forehead and he closed his eyes, trying not to think until the water ran cold and the turmoil in his mind became nothing but an annoying yet bearable buzz. 

Nero was still crying when Vergil walked back into the room. A deep sigh escaped his lips as he tried once more to figure out what was wrong, the frustration slowly trickling back up until he spotted something strange on Nero’s neck. There was a sore and red spot where the tag of his onesie had been incessantly chafing his skin, and the problem was simply solved with a change of clothes. Nero didn’t stop fussing right away, but he slowly began to calm down, turning into his old, calm self, and babbling incomprehensible things to Vergil, as if chastising him for taking so long to figure it out.

“I will do better next time.” Vergil said. Maybe for Nero. Maybe for himself.

History would not repeat itself. Nero would be protected and loved. He would have a normal life, or as normal as one could be for a descendant of Sparda.

And Vergil would make sure of that. 

Chapter Text

Dante claimed that enrolling Nero in a private pre-school was a mistake. A very expensive mistake. All they did was play and draw, so why would Vergil pay extra for that?

Why? Because it made him feel better.

He was, of course, well aware that the school's security personnel would never be able to fend off a demon attack, but they would, at least, try, and that alone made it worth the hassle and the couple hundreds he had to fork out every month.

Vergil always ignored the stares coming from other parents as he waited for Nero to come out of the classroom. He was the youngest parent by, at least, a decade, and he'd grown tired of the backhanded comments about his age and wealth.

He wasn't there to make friends, and usually a very pointed stare was enough to make them back off and leave him alone.

This time, however, his presence was not an object of attention. A plethora of kids came running out of the classroom, holding tiny potted plants in their hands. The mothers around him bathed their children in praise and thanked them for the wonderful present. The fathers and siblings claimed their mothers would love it.

So it was Mother’s Day… Interesting.

Perhaps that was why Nero had been so eager to know about his mother, but Vergil didn't have much to say about her. He would tell Nero when the time came but, for now, the child would have to settle for the fact that she was simply “not there”.

Out came Nero a couple of minutes later, dragging his rolling backpack and 'hiding' a potted plant behind his back. The child’s smile only widened when he spotted his father, and he began to ran as fast as his small legs allowed him to, coming to an almost violent halt in from of him.

"What did I tell you about running?"

"I can trip!" Nero replied without skipping a beat, ignoring the intention behind Vergil’s chide. "Here!" He shoved the gift on Vergil’s hands, almost bouncing as he did so.

The ceramic pot was dotted with small hand-made paintings of ladybugs, birds, caterpillars and butterflies, all obviously made by a teacher. And there, in the middle of the soil that looked very much real, Vergil spotted tiny seedlings sprouting in front of a towering blue flower made out of construction paper that read: “To Dad. Love, Nero ”.

"Did you make it?"

"Uh-huh!" Nero replied, staring up at him with doe-like eyes, excitement coming out of him in waves.

"Thank you." Vergil replied, offering his son his free hand so they could walk back home. Nero’s actual involvement in the project was questionable, but Vergil appreciated the sentiment.

The child's beaming smile completely overshadowed the gift.

Chapter Text

Dad usually woke up early, but, today, he was still asleep. Nero didn’t want to wake him up. Maybe he worked too hard the last couple of days and that’s why he needed to sleep a little more. Or maybe he was sick. Nero hoped he wasn’t.

His tummy rumbled with hunger and Nero frowned. He and Dad always ate breakfast together and, well, it was a little past breakfast time, wasn’t it?

Two hops and a small grunt were enough for Nero to jump out of bed and make his way to the kitchen. If Dad could make breakfast, then he could do it too!

Sunday was pancake day, and Nero was determined to surprise his dad with the best pancakes he’d ever had.

He opened the pantry, eyes widening at the sight of two identical jars full of flour resting on one of the lowers shelves. His eyes shifted from one container to the other and, with a shrug, he grabbed the one on the left and dumped a hefty quantity in a bowl that he’d left on the table. 

Now he needed an egg. 

Dad could crack them open with one hand.  Nero tried to mimic the action, putting as much pressure as he could on the egg before it exploded. Half of the goopy mixture landed on the floor, and the other half successfully managed to get inside the bowl. He spotted a couple of broken eggshell pieces in the flour, but that was fine, right?

Next was the milk.

Dad drank a lot of it, maybe more than Nero did, so he hoped that what was left in the gallon would be enough. He struggled to get it out of the fridge but, somehow, managed bring it to the table. He tipped the gallon very carefully, watching the milk fall in the bowl before he lost his grip on the handle, splattering milk all over the table.

“Uh oh.”

Milk was slowly dripping down the wooden surface, and the best solution Nero could come up with was to grab a wad of napkins and throw them on the ground where the milk was beginning to pool. He also strewed a bunch on the table for good measure, and was happy to see that they were soaking up all the liquid… Okay, most of it.

Now he had to find something to stir the batter with.

A spoon? A fork? He settled on a fork, frowning as the entire thing ended up looking like melted vanilla ice cream instead of pancake batter.

But whatever, maybe it would get better once he cooked it?

Dad didn’t let him use the stove. Scolded him when he tried. Only thing he was allowed to use was the microwave, so he dumped a bit of batter in a deep plate –to give it that round look, you know?- and popped it in for a couple of minutes. 

Dad came into the kitchen not so long after, his sleep-ridden eyes darting from the table to the floor before they landed on the microwave as it pinged. 

“Nero…”

“I made pancakes!” He announced proudly as he opened the microwave’s door, his face dropping when he saw the bubbling mess inside. “That doesn’t look like a pancake…”

Dad approached him, careful not to step on anything slippery, and simply stared at the mess inside. The ‘pancake’ was raw yet oddly cooked, bits and pieces of eggshells and flour bubbles floating on its surface.

Dad was pissed, wasn’t he? Cause it didn’t look like a pancake. And cause the kitchen was a mess. Dad didn’t like messes. And now Nero made one. He could feel the tears forming in his eyes, clouding his vision, but Dad didn’t say anything. He just… started cleaning as Nero stood awkwardly in the middle of the kitchen.

“Are you mad at me?”

“No.”

“Promise?” Nero pressed.

“I promise.”  

Dad didn’t sound too convinced, but Nero caught the traces of a smile on his lips as he moped the milk on the floor and, once he was able to relax a bit, Nero’s stomach roared alive with hunger again.

Dad looked at him and snorted.

… And then his stomach growled as well.

Chapter Text

When Nero stared at his arm, all he could think of was the day he nearly lost it.

Dante had been teaching him how to drive, and his uncle trusted him enough to let him go to the convenience store by himself. It was 5 blocks away. He would be fine.

Nero remembered how the wind felt on his face as he sped back to the shop. Remembered the pretty orange tabby that bolted seemingly out of nowhere. Remembered losing control of the motorcycle and going down. The sound of screeching metal. The red pool of blood that didn’t let him see his arm. The trail of broken potato chips on the ground.

He’d never seen Dante look so concerned. Never seen Dad that mad...

Nero sighed.

He hated his new arm with every fiber of his being. Hated the red scales. The claws. The fiery blue that seemed to glow from within. But Dad’s eyes had this strange sparkle in them every time he saw it, the one that silently let him know that he was proud.

Proud of what? Of him being a freak?

“Nero.”

“What?” He snapped out of his thoughts, eyes still glued on the TV screen, even if he was doing anything but paying attention to the shitty movie he’d been watching not so long ago.

“You are bleeding.”

Nero looked down at his arm, noticing the growing red spot near his elbow. He’d tried to pluck one of the scales off, hoping that the action would, somehow, make his arm go back to normal but, of course, that didn't happen. 

“I’m fine.”

“Nero.” Dad pressed, firmer this time. He never knew what to say. Never knew what do. And Nero just wanted his dad to stop.

“Just leave me alone, okay?”

Nero could feel his father just staring at him. He hated when he did that.

“I don’t understand why you insist on hiding your arm.”

Oh, that pissed him off.

“Why?” Nero echoed, turning to face his father, pure fury across his eyes. “Everyone makes fun of me, Dad! And now I have this thing.” He raised up his bandaged arm, letting it plop down almost painfully. “It’s bullshit!”

“There is nothing you can do about it.” Vergil offered, completely ignoring the fact that Nero had cussed, and it was debatable whether that was supposed to be comforting or just a plain observation.

Nero said nothing, just turned back to stare at the TV some more, arms crossed tightly over his chest. 

Dad took a seat beside him on the couch and Nero scooted, trying to stay as far away from him as possible. Then the air around him turned heavy and strangely hot, almost uncomfortably so. 

Dad was staring at his own right arm now, brow furrowed in concentration. His arm had changed from his hand up to his shoulder. Both his skin and coat had been replaced by hardened scales in black with accents in silver and blue that glowed faintly in tune with his breath. His fingers twitched and, for a second, he reverted to his human form as Nero simply stared, unsure of what the hell that was all about.

“This requires an immense amount of effort and concentration,” Dad spoke, glancing at him before he balled his hand into a fist, dismissing his demon form. “Do with that what you must.”

Nero sunk in his seat as Dad walked away, staring at the faint glow coming out of his bandages, turning them into a pale shade of blue. 

Leave it up to Dad to say everything and nothing at the same time.

Maybe that was his way of saying that Nero’s arm was impressive. That he was proud because he couldn’t do it. And if Dad 'said' that…

Nero sighed again.

Then maybe it wasn't so bad after all.

Chapter Text

Nero realized at a fairly young age that there were certain things he was better off not telling his father-  the hunting trips with Dante, all the times the Red Queen had almost exploded on his face when he was tinkering with it, the girl he met a couple of years ago on a school trip to Fortuna… 

Oh, and that the Yamato acted weird around him when Vergil wasn’t around.

He could feel a low hum in the air, an invisible pull drawing him to the katana that felt like a pleasant breeze on a sunny day.

He never touched it, though. He had no reason to –plus, he knew how much his dad hated when someone touched his stuff.

Until he did because the Yamato was relentless, its hums almost giving him a headache.

And his arm decided to swallow it whole.

“Shit.” Nero glanced at the bathroom door, hearing the water running at a steady rhythm. Dad’s showers never lasted too long, so he had very little time to figure out how the fuck he was going to make his arm throw up the damn sword.

He tried pulling it out, but there was nothing there to grab. It just disappeared in a haze, lost in the blue parts of his arm, making him feel strangely whole. He heard its call in his head, the gentle breeze that, this time, only managed to make him panic even more.

“Come on. Just…get out, dammit!”

“Are you speaking to me?” Came Vergil’s muffled voice from the bathroom. 

“No! No. I’m talking to myself.” Nero quickly added and stormed to his room, shutting the door loudly behind him. 

He tried pleading with the Yamato. Explaining that it could not be in there. That Vergil would be fucking pissed at them both if he found out. But the weapon remained serene, nothing but a chilly whisper on the back of his mind that felt oddly soothing.

But Nero didn’t need to be soothed. He needed it to get the fuck out of his arm. 

He could hear Vergil outside now, moving around the living room, and soon after, he stopped right outside his door, knocking twice. “Nero.”

“…Yeah?”

“Give me the Yamato.”

“I can’t.”

“Nero.”

He swung the door open and, this time, repeated it more firmly: “I can’t. It doesn’t want to leave.” His arm started glowing, the pale blue light gently illuminating their faces.

Vergil remained impassive, his gaze traveling from Nero’s face to his arm. His father placed his hand on top of his arm, and the touch felt as if a bolt of electricity had suddenly traveled from Nero’s palm to his elbow, making him jerk his limb away.

Vergil hummed.

“What?”

“It appears that the Yamato will refuse to cooperate until it tests if you are worthy.”

“Worthy of what?”

“Properly wielding it.”

“Can’t wield it if it’s in my fucking arm, now, can I?”

“Language.”

Nero sighed. “Sorry.” He leaned against the door frame, and nodded when Vergil silently asked for permission to enter his room. “How am I supposed to prove that?” He received no answer and turned around, exasperated, only for his shoulders to slump when he realized that Vergil was now holding the Red Queen. “Oh hell no.”

Nero shifted as the Yamato materialized in his hand, and he grasped its hilt firmly. The weapon felt too light compared to Red Queen’s soothing weight, and he flicked his wrist a couple of times, trying to get used to the feel. 

He had a hunch this was going to be a disaster.

Vergil had the nerve to smirk as he watched, the Red Queen looking almost comically big in his hand. His old man was practically beaming and clearly enjoying it far too much.

Nero wished he had a camera to show him how ridiculous he looked.

“Try to keep up.” Nero said, shifting the Yamato to a more comfortable position. He had a feeling he was doing something wrong, but he and his dad were fighting because it told them to, so the Yamato had no right to complain. “Hope you like getting beat by your own sword.”

“We’ll see about that.” Vergil retorted, reaching for Red Queen’s handle to rev it up like he’d seen Nero do a thousand times before, only for it to let out a choked high-pitched noise that made Nero wince.

"...Right." 

Nero plopped down on the couch, catching his breath. Dad looked a little winded too and sat beside him with a grunt. At one point, their ‘friendly’ sparring session turned into proper training. Dad telling him to shift his stance and loosen his grip. Nero telling him when and how to rev.  

It’d been…fun.

“So…” Nero started, turning to look at his old man. “Am I worthy?”

Vergil scoffed. “As worthy as I am with your sword.”

Nero chuckled.

He took that as a ‘yes’.

Chapter Text

The front door was slammed shut. Nero’s bike roared alive not so long after, the tires screeching as he revved away until the sound became nothing but a distant murmur in the night.

Vergil’s jaw tightened as he stared at the steaming cups of coffee on the table. The barely-eaten pancakes with specks of jam and butter. 

He didn’t need to ask Nero where he was going. He always crawled back to Dante.

Vergil took a sip from his cup, almost enjoying the lingering burn down his throat. They’d talked about it countless times, and Vergil had grown tired of explaining why he had taken Nero away from that cursed island.

The child refused to understand. Claimed he was in love. Said he was moving in with her. Wasn’t asking for his permission.

Nero was barely an adult. Had only met her a couple of times. Couldn’t possibly imagine what life was like in Fortuna. He would ruin his life and Vergil refused to allow it.

…But that wasn’t what it was all about, was it?

Vergil took another sip, gaze fixated on the door.

Dante had been the first to know. About the girl. About Nero’s plan. About everything. He always knew what to say and do to make Nero happy. That was how things had always been.

Still, it was hard to let Nero go. Hard to understand that Vergil needed to do more. That he lacked tact. That his own stubbornness was what kept pushing Nero away. 

His thoughts were too heavy now. His jaw too tight. His coffee too bitter.

Vergil sighed.

If Nero wanted to leave, so be it.

If he wanted to enjoy his last couple of days in the city with someone who truly understood him, who knew him, then Vergil would simply stay away.

Things were better off that way.

Or at least that was what Vergil wished to believe. 

Chapter Text

Nero was sitting at the other end of the couch, his brow furrowed in concentration as he read Vergil’s favorite book, an old William Blake poetry collection he’d retrieved from his childhood home a couple of years ago. Nero wasn’t exactly fond of poetry, but maybe that was what made the gesture so grand.

Nero held the tome carefully in his hand and slowly turned the pages, his expression shifting to mimic what he read. He’d done that ever since he was a small child-unintentionally, of course, and he would always scoff when he realized that he was doing it, as if silently making fun of himself.

Vergil always found it amusing.

He was also amused by the way Nero was sprawled on the couch, his back against the armrest in vaguely uncomfortable position. His calves were draped over Vergil’s thighs in the same way Dante had taught him when he was a child –it was supposed to be annoying, and Vergil loathed when Dante did it, but he found that action oddly comforting coming from Nero. 

Vergil turned the page of his book absentmindedly, his free hand shifting Nero’s legs when the child began to press his weight down too much.

“Shit, sorry.” Nero said, on autopilot, perhaps, seeing how his eyes were still glued on the pages.

Vergil snorted.

Nero was living in Fortuna, but tried to spend the weekend at Vergil’s at least once per month. Said it did them good. Dante had called him a daddy’s boy. Nero only rolled his eyes. 

Parenthood was strange. It took Vergil years to realize that he would never be a perfect father, and even more so to understand that Nero didn’t expect him to be perfect. That he embraced his flaws. That Nero loved him, even if he never said it. 

But he showed it. Plenty of times. He showed it by placing new pictures on the walls. By leaving prized belongings behind to let Vergil know that he wasn’t alone. By reading in silence by his side.

It had taken them a lot of blood, sweat, and tears to get there –both literally and figuratively-, to that moment of peace and quiet where they didn't wish to be at each other's throats. They were so similar, far more than Vergil realized at first, but so vastly different at the same time. 

Nero was everything Vergil wasn’t, and the thought filled him with unspoken pride.

Nero looked up from the book, noticing that Vergil was staring, and he shifted, ready to take his legs off his father’s. “Want me to move?”

“No.”

“Okay?” Nero raised an eyebrow and snorted, a smile gracing his features before he focused back on his book. 

Vergil turned another page. Nero did the same.