Work Text:
Vergil pauses before entering the Devil May Cry office, staring up at the flickering neon of his brother's shop. How strange to be living here with his brother after spending so much of his life essentially homeless. He straightens the collar of his peacoat, perfecting a nonexistent flaw as is his wont. Dante insisted he give himself a chance, and he supposes there are worse ways to go about it than putting himself to work killing the hordes of demons he brought with the Qliphoth.
Heaving a sigh, Vergil steps inside, tugging off his gloves and coat. He shakes his head, flipping on the light with a light admonishment already on his tongue. Dante is asleep at his desk again, his chin tipped down against his chest with a stack of pizza boxes in front of him.
The admonishment stops short. He's actually asleep, not just hiding under his magazine for a nap. There's something scrunched in his fist, but Vergil doesn't dare disturb him to find out what.
"Just this once, Dante." Vergil murmurs.
He did leave his book upstairs earlier. Maybe, if he lets Dante sleep a while, he'll have time to finish the last anthology he was reading on the couch. Yes, that does sound like a peaceful way to spend his evening. It's rare he and his brother simply coexist with one another.
Vergil strolls slowly to his brother's desk, brushing away a few crumbs and marking off the area he cleared while out on his job. Dante said he could keep the payment since he went by himself, but... it wouldn't hurt to place a small forward payment to Morrison. It's not as though Dante was forcing him to pay rent, but loafing on his little brother's dime is unacceptable.
Reformed he may be, Vergil still has his pride.
Lips tipping up the barest fraction, Vergil opens Dante's top desk drawer and pulls out the party hat Patty gave him from her eighteenth birthday and places it on his little brother's head. It's just a little crooked, but he doesn't want to risk adjusting it. Fits with his little brother's image already anyway.
While admiring his work, his eyes slide to the couch and his mouth drops open shamelessly.
What. In the hell. Is that?
The couch... is no longer a couch. Or it is, but only in the sense that it has at least three cushions and an armrest on both sides. The cushions are deep red, the back plush and framed with a bony structure resembling a demon's heavy armor plating. Heavy soot-stained iron bars rise from the ridge. Wings of onyx spread over the armrests, draping down to the floor in silky tresses.
It's a throne. There's no better way to describe it. And Dante knows that's where Vergil likes to sit, because the windows let in sunlight in the mornings. His dark blue throw even sits on the last cushion on the right. Vergil narrows his eyes at said comfortable-looking cushions.
Dante had mentioned his old couch was starting to fall apart, and it had been rather bloodstained.
But this? It was tacky and on the nose, and yet so... Dante.
With a slight shake of his head at his little brother, Vergil walks upstairs, feet making nary a sound. As long as he avoids the obnoxious creak from the third step, Dante would stay asleep. He returns with his book, obliging Dante's ridiculous notion of irony and settling into his spot.
Vergil spares a soft noise of surprise at how comfortable it is, solid enough to support and yet soft enough to provide a comfy environment. He eyes his little brother, curious as to why he'd go through to trouble of buying such a thing and then deliberately choose to fall asleep at his desk. He tilts his head with a slight smile that can barely be called such. Dante is nothing if not ridiculous, and Vergil finds himself cherishing that more now than he ever would have as a child.
Even when he raised the Temen-ni-gru and Dante showed up without a shirt on, he couldn't help the spark of fondness for his little brother.
The smile widens. No matter how many years sit between them, Dante will always be Dante. The one steady anchor he should've seen ages ago sits before him sleeping peacefully for the first time in years. His sleep in the underworld was always restless, just like Vergil's, and the first few weeks afterward were filled with intermittent naps.
So, Vergil quietly reads his book, sitting on his comfy throne with his blanket adjusted expertly up to his hips, and he watches over Dante—his ridiculous and irresponsible sibling. Vergil softens when a quiet snore leaves Dante's mouth.
His foolish little brother.