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At last, the day had come that Vergil would return to your apartment, only this time, not in a dream, as he had the previous time. You'd finally gotten him to sit down with you and have an honest conversation about what happened, in no small part due to Dante's incessant urgings.
You were aware that they had been selfishly motivated. The fact of the matter was, he simply couldn't take the two of you constantly hovering around each other any longer, waiting for the other to speak first.
You had also found yourself growing fed up with the whole thing, but Dante had you beat in the confrontation department by far, so he had been the first to speak up. And a part of you was glad that he did. But another part was terrified of where it would take you.
You were well aware of the fact that your coffee table had gotten suitably clean quite some time ago, and yet, you continued to rub the cloth over it as though a prize would pop out from its surface, stopping to glance up at the clock every so often.
How surprised you were to find that only another single minute had passed each time.
You'd been attempting to occupy your mind with meaningless tasks to stop it from racing. This would be the first time you would be properly alone with Vergil and this thought scared you, even if you weren't entirely sure why.
Your fear of confrontation definitely had a lot to do with it. Raw, honest conversation was no more a strong suit of yours than it was of his and you were worried that the two of you would spend the entire evening silently staring at the wall.
So, that was it. You were pacing around your apartment in terror, your heart beating out of your chest, because you were afraid of a bit of awkwardness.
Once you'd finally accepted the cleanliness of your furniture, you made a quick run upstairs to deposit the cleaning cloth into the laundry hamper before you forgot, because nothing would make him get fed up with you and go home like a single, out of place washcloth cluttering up your living space.
You rolled your eyes at your thought process, but if you left the cloth out, you knew that it would be the only thing you'd be able to focus on for the entire evening.
As you reached your bedroom, your mind was bombarded with another slew of issues.
Was it inviting enough? It had been a long time since you'd had anyone up there, so making it presentable wasn't at the forefront of your mind anymore. But it was a bit presumptuous of you to act as though he was going to see it, wasn't it? Was it even advisable for the two of you to sleep together at this point?
You suddenly had a great many questions, none of which anyone, least of all yourself, could give you an answer to.
You would have to play this entire thing by ear. There was no guide you could follow, and there was certainly no way you could predict his reactions to anything given the way he'd been behaving thus far.
Still, you decided it couldn't hurt to tidy up your room a bit just in case. You even brought out the scented candles again for the first time in quite a while and lit one before heading back downstairs.
You were reasonably satisfied that everything was in order, though you were sure that you would find something that was out of place after he'd arrived.
You had to stop and consider what your end goal was here. It wasn't as though it were necessary to impress him. If anything, he should be the one scrambling to make a good impression on you.
And yet, even after everything that had happened, all of your worries boiled down to the simple fear that he wouldn't like you anymore. You found him a bit intimidating now, even if it was irrational. For all intents and purposes, he was the same person he had been, but you found yourself questioning more often than you would have liked if you were still worthy of him. He was so powerful and you were so, well, ordinary, and that was a fact about you that would never change.
You did want to impress him; you wanted that very much. But you were also afraid of overdoing it. You didn't want to appear desperate.
You were even considering whether or not preparing a meal would be seen as excessive. Surely, that was the polite thing to do whenever one was expecting guests, so you put your insecurities aside in favor of common sense.
You'd hardly eaten anything all day, given the fact that your nerves had your stomach tied in knots, so this would benefit you as well as him. There wasn't a whole lot that sounded palatable right now, so you would have to decide on a dish that you had the ingredients for and would also be able to force down once it was finished.
You opened the fridge and sighed. How long had it been since you'd gone grocery shopping? Much too long, clearly. Such mundane tasks had fallen by the wayside as of late.
But, you did have a few things left. As you examined the ingredients before you, you came up with a plan. Spaghetti would be good. It was inoffensive, mindless, and not too showy.
You took out everything you would need—a package of ground beef, which you made sure to sniff in case it had gone off, a couple of onions, and some bell peppers—then brought them over to the counter so that you could begin to prepare them.
As you went to close the fridge, you noticed something else that may be of use to you: a bottle of red wine that you'd purchased quite some time ago sitting atop its surface. You'd never been much of a drinker, but you figured that there had never been a more appropriate time than now to break it open.
Perhaps this was a bit shameful, but at this point, you would have done just about anything to take the edge off while you waited.
You opened the bottle and poured yourself a glass, then got to work.
Cooking was typically a relaxing activity for you, one of several hobbies that whisked you away from the outside world, if only temporarily, but on this particular evening, it had no such effect. You took a large gulp of your wine and considered your options.
Perhaps some music would help. You lifted your phone and scrolled through it a bit to find a playlist that would set you more at ease.
You went with something instrumental before returning your attention back to your chopping.
You took a sideways glance at the clock on the stove once you'd finished with the onion. You still had a good thirty minutes left, and you weren't sure if this should make you feel relieved or concerned. What you did feel, however, was a healthy mix of both.
At least you wouldn't have to rush through your cooking.
You were already beginning to feel the effects of the wine once you'd finished chopping all of the vegetables. Your heart had stopped racing, at least, but you were beginning to worry about embarrassing yourself by the time you'd finished the entire glass.
But, as you thought about it more, you supposed the time for embarrassment was over. The two of you had already been brutally honest with each other and you figured that there wasn't much either of you could say at this point that would drive the other away.
You tried to convince yourself of this as you continued with your cooking.
Is spaghetti too boring? What if he doesn't like it? Does he even need to eat? I've never seen him eat before. Dante definitely seems to like eating. But what if he only does it because he wants to appear more human?
You slammed your utensils down on the counter and took a deep breath, willing yourself to relax. You were going to survive even in the event that he didn't enjoy your spaghetti.
But it wasn't about the spaghetti, and you knew that. You recognized that your choice of what to serve for dinner was much less consequential than, well, everything else, so it was much easier to give that all of your focus as it was something you could easily control.
You set the ground beef on the stove to brown, then finished off your glass of wine and contemplated getting another. No, you would save that for when he arrived, if he wanted one as well. You didn't want to be the only one drinking, and you certainly didn't want to be the only one drunk.
What would that be like? You had a lot of difficulty imagining a scenario in which Vergil would have the time, let alone the desire, to get drunk and you were very curious as to how such a thing would affect him.
You almost wished you'd asked Dante for advice before going through with this, but realized that you never would have, even when you had the opportunity to do so. You had too much pride for that, which you accepted as one of your weaker points. So much of your current dilemma would be easily solved by speaking up and asking the right questions.
You promised yourself that you would finally start doing this when you saw Vergil tonight.
The dinner preparations were going exactly according to plan and you were relieved that you'd managed to finish everything up with a little over five minutes to spare. You were even more relieved that you'd managed to make it all the way through without going for a second glass of wine.
You'd mixed together a salad while the sauce was cooking and were in the process of setting everything up on the coffee table when you heard a knock at the door.
Your heart leapt into your throat.
"Just a second," you called out.
He'd arrived exactly at your agreed upon time and not a single second before or after, so you were glad that you'd given yourself so much leeway in getting everything prepared.
You finished up the last of these preparations, then took a deep breath and went to answer the door.
You weren't exactly sure what you had been expecting to see on the other side, apart from the obvious, but you were immediately struck by just how ordinary he looked standing there. He was wearing much more average clothes now, his outfit consisting of a black turtleneck sweater and a pair of dark jeans.
So, he hadn't lost his propensity for all black clothing. This amused you, but you tried not to show it.
"Hi," you said, and he simply nodded in response. "Uh, come in."
You motioned him inside and he stepped across the threshold, still not saying a single word, or even taking a moment to acknowledge you.
Yes, the wine had been a good idea after all, it would seem.
"I made dinner, if you're hungry." You stood beside the coffee table and stared down at it. "To be honest, I didn't know if you guys eat, but I didn't want to be rude by not making anything."
You looked up at him and the expression on his face suggested that you'd offended him.
"I didn't mean-" This was going poorly already. "Not that there would be anything wrong with that. I just didn't want to make it weird."
Clearly, you were failing on that front.
He took a seat on the end of the couch and simply said, "Yes, we do eat."
You took the seat beside him and continued to stare at the coffee table as though it would be able to offer you a way out of this.
"I have wine too, if you'd like some," you said.
"Yes, thank you," he replied.
His response relieved you somewhat as it gave you an excuse to finally pour yourself a second glass.
You poured one for each of you and held yours in your hand, while his remained untouched along with his food.
"Look, I'm sorry," you said.
Was he still offended about the food thing? Surely there was some way you could get him to open up.
He finally glanced your way.
"Why are you the one apologizing?" he asked.
"I don't know," you said. "Maybe because you're acting like you don't wanna be here?"
He shook his head.
"I was actually a bit surprised when you agreed to meet me on these terms," he said.
"Well, I didn't even think you wanted to see me again, so that makes two of us."
"No, I wanted that very much."
He lifted the fork from the plate in front of him and began to poke at the noodles upon it. Was he nervous? You found the idea somewhat laughable.
"You could've fooled me," you said, and you regretted it as soon as it left your mouth. "I mean, you have to understand why I feel that way."
"Yes," he said. He continued to stab at his noodles without lifting any of them from their place. "I am aware that I can be a bit difficult."
A bit?
You managed to hold your tongue this time. It would not behoove you to make fun of him; he was trying, and you had to give him credit for that.
"Well, thank you for making it out here," you said.
"Thank you for having me."
He set down his fork at last and inched just a bit closer to you, looking as though he wanted to say something else.
Instead, he returned his attention back to the plate and finally took a bite of the food you'd prepared. You held your breath as you awaited his assessment of it.
"Did you make this?" he asked.
"Yeah," you replied.
"It's good."
"Thank you."
You could've cut the tension hanging over your living room with a knife.
"Are you going to eat?" he asked.
You shook your head.
"Maybe later," you said. "I'm not that hungry."
His lips curled into a nearly imperceptible smile.
"So, you made all this food for me?" he asked.
This was your moment to make good on the promise of honesty you'd made to yourself earlier.
"Honestly?" you said, and your stomach flipped. "I've been really nervous about this whole thing."
"About seeing me?" he asked. The smile was still there. "How foolish."
"I know that. I don't know, I just get so worried that I'm gonna mess this up somehow."
He turned to look at you with an expression of disbelief.
"I know," you repeated. "It's not rational. I just… Well, I like having you around and I don't wanna lose you again."
Even under your pledge of honesty, you weren't quite ready to express the extent of your romantic feelings for him. After a few more glasses of wine, perhaps, but not as things stood at the present moment.
"That's certainly not something I hear very often," he said.
"Well, I mean it," you said.
You just couldn't take this distance anymore. You hadn't allowed him to come here so that the two of you could have a polite chat. The evening was turning out exactly as you'd feared and you had to do something.
And so, without another word, you leaned toward him and rested your head against his shoulder.
Part of you expected him to push you away or to ask what the hell you were doing, but instead, he simply allowed it.
It was as though a huge weight had been lifted from your chest and suddenly, you weren't feeling quite so anxious anymore. And you felt that he had relaxed somewhat as well, his shoulder noticeably loosening the moment you touched it.
This was all that you truly wanted. In that moment, you realized that all of the anxiety you'd felt while getting your apartment ready had been an illusion created by your mind to distract you from the truth: you simply wanted to see him and to spend time with him, no matter what form that took. But, deep down, you feared that none of the things you could come up with would be enough for him.
You leaned a little closer and nuzzled his neck.
"I'm glad Dante didn't kill you," you said.
"I'm pretty pleased with that fact myself," he said.
You breathed a sigh of relief.
That simple, lighthearted exchange had dissolved so much of the tension in the room that you felt your anxiety starting to melt away, and your appetite began to return at last.
Once the two of you had finished eating, you found yourself faced with the entirely new, albeit much less significant, question of whether or not you were going to invite him to spend the night.
Things had been going well thus far. You'd managed to keep them from becoming awkward again, so it wouldn't be an inappropriate question. And he didn't seem to be making a rush to leave at the moment.
You came up with a few different ways to ask, all of which condensed down into, "I'm starting to feel pretty tired."
"I see," he said. "Then, I suppose I should be going now."
You reached out your hand toward his arm in an attempt to stop him from heading out the door.
"Wait!" you called. "I mean, I'm sure you're tired too, and you've been drinking, so it's probably not a good idea for you to drive home right now."
"I metabolize alcohol more quickly than a human would."
You stared at him, dumbfounded. Was he making excuses to leave or was he truly that dense?
You sighed and tried again.
"What I'm trying to say is," you said. "Would you like to spend the night at my place?"
It was as though a light bulb had flicked on behind his eyes as soon as he'd processed what you'd said.
"Oh," he said. "Yes, I would like that, if you're sure."
"Yes, I'm sure. I asked you three times."
"Did you?"
You rolled your eyes. So he was that dense after all. You made a mental note to be more upfront with your propositions in the future.
"Yes, I did," you said. "I'm gonna get ready for bed now, so feel free to join me whenever."
You started up the stairs and weren't at all surprised when he didn't follow you. If he continued down his current trajectory, you feared he would try to sleep on the couch to be polite.
Still, you'd managed to get your message through to him in the end. At least your efforts to straighten up your bedroom hadn't proven themselves to be a waste.
You began your usual nightly routine and had almost made it all the way through by the time Vergil had joined you upstairs. If it weren't for his reflection in the mirror in front of you, you never would have noticed him, as his footsteps were completely silent. He walked into the room and stopped just in front of your closet, then stared at it as though it confounded him in some way. You finished up brushing your teeth, then went to see if there was anything you could assist him with.
"Looking for something?" you asked as you poked your head out of the bathroom.
"I wasn't expecting this, so I didn't pack anything with me," he replied. "Would it be out of line to ask to borrow some of your clothes? I'd rather not sleep in this."
"Sure, that's fine. If you can find something that fits, that is."
You went to join him in front of the closet in order to help him look. You did have a number of oversized shirts that you liked to wear to bed, so perhaps he would be able to find something suitable among them.
He was taking his time in making a selection, so you decided to choose one for him.
"How's this one?" you asked.
You took a navy blue t-shirt from its hanger and held it out toward him. He took it from your hand and draped it over the front of his body.
"It may be a bit tight," he said.
"Well, I didn't exactly have your body in mind when I bought them, now did I?"
He shot you a sideways look, but tucked the shirt under his arm anyway. You then made another selection, a pair of plain sweatpants that had always been slightly too big for you.
"Thank you," he said.
With that handled, you returned to the bathroom to continue getting ready for bed and he began to change into the clothes that you had given him.
You were on the very last stage of your routine, which involved finally letting down and brushing out your hair. You'd put it up in a simple bun as part of your attempt to impress him, so you got to work removing all of the bobby pins you'd stuck in it, accepting the fact that you would likely continue to find them after you'd woken up the next day.
As you leaned closer to the mirror, it became apparent that you had a very clear view of Vergil in the reflection within it. You made a half-hearted attempt not to stare, but in between extracting bobby pins, you could stop yourself from glancing back.
His clothes may have been perfectly ordinary, but his body underneath them was anything but, which hadn't been apparent to you when it was mostly hidden beneath the thick fabric of the sweater. He was still facing toward the closet as he changed and you found yourself transfixed as you watched the muscles of his back flex with every movement.
Even when you had long since run out of bobby pins, you found that you couldn't tear your eyes away. He had been right; your shirt was way too tight for him, particularly in the shoulder region, and it only served to emphasize his shape all the more.
He put on the sweatpants and abruptly turned, prompting you to scramble in order to make it look as though you had been doing something other than shamelessly ogling him.
You made a grab for the hairbrush beside the sink and began to brush out your hair, perhaps a bit too aggressively to be convincing.
He walked back toward the bathroom and hovered behind you as he examined the outfit you'd given him.
"You're right, that shirt is way too tight for you," you said. You turned around to get a better look at him. "Not that that's a bad thing."
Perhaps it was the two glasses of wine in your system, or perhaps you were feeling emboldened by the positive turn the evening had taken, but regardless, you found that you were unable to resist the urge that came over you.
"My clothes look pretty good on you," you said. "Dare I say, you wear those pants even better than I do."
You walked around behind him and, without a word, smacked his ass with the hairbrush you still held in your hand.
His body tensed and he froze in place.
Oh no.
Had you actually upset him? His eyes shot toward you and you weren't exactly sure what to make of his expression.
He stared you down for a moment, then said, "give me that," as he made a grab for the brush.
You somehow managed to move it out of his reach just in time. His second attempt was equally unsuccessful and you ducked beneath his hand, then took off running back out into your room.
"Give it to me!" he said.
It came out as an order, but his tone was noticeably playful, removing the lingering concern that you'd caused any actual offense.
He took off after you and paused just before you, freezing you beneath the door frame, blocking your path further out into the room.
"Make me," you returned, and you ducked beneath his arm before running back toward the bed.
You were forced to stop again in order to avoid tripping on his clothes, which were now in a pile on the floor, and he took the opportunity to tackle you.
"You're gonna regret that," he said, his breath tickling your ear as he pinned you down against the mattress and began grabbing at your wrist.
In spite of all of your flailing, he finally got a good grip and brought it to a stop, then wrenched the brush free from your grasp with the other hand. As your body stilled and you turned to look up at him, you realized that he was laughing.
For the first time since you'd known him, he appeared to be genuinely happy.
You smiled as well, and giggled at the sight of him holding the hairbrush triumphantly over your head.
"You're ridiculous," you said.
"I'm ridiculous?"
He sat upright and placed the hairbrush onto your nightstand.
"Just can't let me win anything, can you?" you asked.
You sat up as well and placed your head on his shoulder.
"I have my dignity," he said. He sat quietly for a moment, then continued, "I can't thank you enough for having me over tonight."
"I'm glad you came back," you said. "I really did miss you, you know."
He took hold of your right hand and held it to his chest.
"I was beginning to think that you would never find it in your heart to forgive me," he said. "Not that I really deserve it."
"Oh, hush," you kissed his cheek. "What's done is done. You can't erase what you did. All you can do is keep moving forward, and that's what you're doing, isn't it?"
"I suppose you're right."
You brought your left hand up to match the right and gave him a gentle squeeze.
"There will be more than enough time to talk about this tomorrow," you said. "For now, let's try to get some sleep, okay?"
He nodded and you stood to turn off the light, then extinguished the candle before settling back into the bed.
"Water under the bridge," you said. "I promise I'm not gonna lord this over you, or anything like that."
"I wouldn't hold it against you if you did," he said.
"Well, I'm not going to."
You crawled under the blanket and laid down on your side.
As soon as you closed your eyes, you realized just how exhausted you'd become. The adrenaline rush of the chase had masked it for a bit and it was all coming crashing down on you now.
You had just about drifted off to sleep when you felt him move a bit closer and work his arms beneath yours, wrapping them around you.
"I know you're probably asleep," he whispered. "But." He sighed. "You've been so good to me, from the very beginning. I don't think I could ever offer you a suitable repayment for everything you've done for me." There was a rather lengthy pause, and then, "you've shown me that, perhaps, humans can be kind after all."
You had to smile at this. Even now, he was too ashamed to share his true feelings with you. You considered allowing him to believe that you truly were asleep, but instead, you turned over toward him and took his face in your hands.
"That's really sweet," you said.
Even in the darkness, you could see him turning red.
"I didn't know you were still awake," he said.
"Clearly." You smiled. "It's okay. You can be honest with me. I promise I won't judge you."
You gave a large yawn and snuggled up to his chest.
"I'll try to keep that in mind," he said.
And so, all of your fears had proven themselves to be unfounded. Perhaps you could find a way to make this work after all.
It was with this thought in mind that you finally began to drift off to sleep, soothed by it and by the feel of his arms around you. It just felt right, like this was the way things were supposed to be all along, even if it took a while for them to get there.
You could rest assured that, tonight, he was still going to be there by the time you awoke the next morning.