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Everything comes back into focus slowly. Every bone in his body hurts, and opening his eyes seems to be a task that involves every bit of energy he has. Stifling a groan, he makes himself wake up, examines his surroundings. Since, at this point, he has little to no idea what to expect from an afterlife, the fact that he’s in his own bedroom is good evidence to the fact that he’s not dead.
“There you are,” a voice-- Raphael-- says, and Nero’s eyes focus a little more on the man sitting next to him, “You’re a terrible bastard for scaring me like that. Stupid mortal.”
“Sorry,” Nero mutters. He attempts to sit up, but the task proves impossible, so he stays laying down, “How long have I been out?”
“Four days,” Raphael says. He brushes a thumb across Nero’s cheek, “I hunted down a client of mine who lives in Candlekeep and is the most talented Cleric I know. He looked after you.”
“I bet that cost you.”
Raphael smiles tightly, “I’ll write it off as a loss for the fiscal year. Don’t worry about it. I needed someone I knew could fix you. And release from a contract is a good motivator. He’ll be happy to know you lived. If you didn’t, I was going to kill him. And probably everyone else in this house frankly.”
“You were worried about me. How embarrassing.”
“Do you recall what happened?”
Nero searches his memory, but it’s hazy. He only remembers that the house had been attacked. That someone had been angry enough with Raphael to launch an assault on the house Evidently it hadn’t worked. But he recalls, vaguely, someone--or many someones-- infiltrating the house. The debtors had turned hostile, Nero remembers shouting at Korrilla to go and find Raphael, wherever the Hells he was, and realized that, with Raphael gone, the others saw him as the master of the house.
So he’d had to defend it. And defend it they did. The house does not like to be attacked. And neither does Nero.
“No. What happened?”
“I’ll explain more when you’re a bit better,” Raphael says, “Do you want something to eat? To drink?”
“No, I’m just tired. Come lay here with me. You look like shit.”
“Things have been quite difficult,” Raphael says, “I don’t wish to hurt you.”
“You won’t.”
After some careful movement, Raphael settles against him, looking more pissed off than anything. But Nero knows exactly what that means. Raphael always looks pissed off whenever he is forced to admit that he loves and cares about Nero.
“It’s very obvious,” Raphael says, “That the others have discovered that you are a weak point for me. That if they wish to hurt me, they need only hurt you. If you had any sense, you would publicly and loudly tell me to go and fuck myself.”
Nero chuckles, which hurts a bit, “But I enjoy doing that to you far too much for me to hand it off to someone else.”
Raphael rolls his eyes, “You are impossible. You nearly died.”
“It wasn't the first time. Some of us have fought an Elder Brain,” Nero says, but the memory is starting to piece together in his mind. And he had almost died. He remembers all but holding his body together, blood seeping through his fingers. His brain had felt drunk, and all he had wanted was to tell Raphael that he was sorry. Sorry for being unable to keep things in order while he was gone, sorry for leaving him, something promised to never do. He was going to bleed out and Raphael was so far away, he probably hadn’t even heard yet. He was going to die, and Raphael would be alone, “Takes a little more than that to kill me.”
“I believe you were holding your organs in place by the time I found you,” Raphael says, “I don’t know how I’ll get the blood out of the rug.”
“Lemon juice,” Nero replies, instead of commenting on the state in which Raphael must have found him. Someone had been cradling him. Haarlep, maybe? He can’t remember, maybe it was one of those debtors. They’d been helping him keep his body together, keep him from dying-- Gods, it had hurt, it must have hurt-- and he does remember someone saying that he had to wait, that the Master would be home soon, that the Master would fix this, “Works like a charm. Magic, too I suppose, but I usually just used lemon juice.”
Raphael props himself up on an elbow, “You’re being exceptionally casual about this.”
“I have poor coping skills. If I think about it too much I might have some kind of nervous breakdown. And I’m too tired for that.”
“I thought that you were dead,” Raphel says again, very softly.
“Show me,” Nero suggests. Raphael is more than capable of sharing his memories, and perhaps that will be easier than explaining. Raphael doesn’t want to bear this memory alone. And Nero doesn’t want to let him.
“No, you need to rest.”
“I’m tired enough that I will. Let me help you. You saved my life. Don’t I owe you?
“The only thing you owe me is staying alive and not leaving me alone in this fucking world. I don’t care what happens to anyone else. I care what happens to you,” Raphael spits. Angry. He’s angry that Nero had almost died, “Fine, if you insist, I’ll show you.”
With a huff-- of annoyance, perhaps-- Raphael puts a hand on Nero’s cheek. Touch is not necessary for this, but he doesn’t exactly mind. The memory comes to life.
Raphael, in a tavern somewhere. It’s snowing out, and the man across the table from him look terrified. Raphael looks bored, one leg thrown over the other. He examines his nails, waiting for the man to talk. Probably a deal in progress. That’s what it looks like. Obviously it’s not that exciting because as scared as the man looks, Raphael seems ready to move on, and Nero knows that a good proposal keeps Raphael intrigued. Money or power. Raphael finds those the most boring.
In a puff of reddish smoke, Korrilla appears, looking harried. Raphael sneers at the interruption.
“It had better be important,” he says, “I’m busy.”
“It is. The house. Zariel maybe or someone-” she shakes her head, composes herself. Nero has never seen her so shaken up, “Your Nero is hurt, badly. You’re needed at home.”
Raphael visibly pales, “What?”
“You’re needed at home,” she says again. Good old Korrilla, not one to air dirty laundry in front of strangers. That’s something Raphael likes to abide by. What happens in his house ought to stay there.
“We will finish this later,” Raphael says, and both of them vanish. The setting shifts to the front hall, where the remnants of the fight are ash, the occasional spark, put out by a debtor. It had been Haarlep holding him. Nero will have to thank them when he’s able to get back on his feet.
He loves that incubus quite a lot. It was probably difficult for them to help Nero hold his guts inside.
“What’s happened?” Raphael hisses. He’s down on his knees almost immediately, “Can you hear me?”
Seeing himself half dead is no pretty sight. He can’t help but wince at the image. The version of him lying on the ground tries to talk, but only coughs and spits up blood. Haarlep wipes it away, says something soft and soothing but inaudible to Nero in this memory. He has no recollection of the pain he’d been in, but it does look like quite a lot. What had he been trying to say?
It’s so strange, the people here really do care about him. Most of his criminals are scared of him. Some of them are polite. Most are ambivalent. The people he’d grown up with are long dead. His father’s death was one of many, and the coup that had taken place when he’d been abducted had killed off many more of the people he really considered his family.
Raphael holds his bloodied hands, barks orders for someone to help move him to a bed. He can see Raphael working through his options.
“I need a portal to Candlekeep,” he says. This must be the cleric that Raphael had told him about. Nero’s blood covers his hands, all the way up past his wrists, “You all are tasked with keeping him alive until I get back. If he dies, then every single one of you will wish that I was kind enough to merely end your lives. Understood?”
The bowing and groveling implies that he is well understood.
“Enough now,” Raphael says softly, bringing Nero back to the present, “I don’t want to see anymore of that. I’ve seen enough.”
“I’m sorry,” Nero replies.
“It’s alright,” Raphael says, “Get some rest. I have a hundred things to do. And devils to slaughter. How dare they come into my home? Pathetic. They will wish they were dead by the time I am finished.”
“Who do you think it was?”
“Probably my father,” Raphael sighs, “But it’s over now. I’ll increase security around here. Keep you safe. I-”
“I know,” Nero chuckles, takes Raphael’s hand and kisses it, “I know.”
For several long minutes, neither of them says anything at all.
“Would your father do something like this?” Nero asks. It sounds so casual to call him your father as if they’re referring to someone mundane and not an Archdevil of extreme power.
“Yes,” Raphael says, “If he knows about you, and if I anger him enough in my conquests he will try and kill you again. It’s possible that he doesn’t know about our, ah, specific dynamic. But he knows you exist now. And he knows that it will hurt me to hurt you.”
“I see.”
*****
“You’ll make him mad if you keep me up,” Nero says softly, “We all have to hear about it if he’s mad.”
“I wanted to see for myself that you were alright,” Haarlep says, lingering in the doorway. They are dressed in loose trousers and no shirt—Nero isn’t sure that Haarlep owns a shirt, now that he thinks about it. He’s certainly never seen them wear one, “And I see that you are.”
“Thank you. I remember you helped me not bleed out.”
Haarlep shrugs, as if to say it was not a big thing at all, “Are you in pain?”
“A bit. Nothing some sleep won’t cure. Is there any news on who the attack was by?”
“No. Raphael will sort it out when you have recovered. He did not leave your bedside.”
“Yeah,” Nero chuckles, “I’d say he’s a good person but he’d hate me for it. And it’s not true. But he loves me and that’s all I care about. I'm not a great person either. Still. That’s life.”
“I’m glad you’re alive.”
“Come on. Get in bed. I have two arms.”
Haarlep blinks at him for a moment, then crawls into bed next to him. Perhaps the invitation has surprised them. Nero isn’t sure why. Everybody in this room has gone to bed with each other before, in some way shape or form. Everybody in this room loves each other in some fucked up and twisted way. But Haarlep is still sheepish to accept Nero’s invitations. As if Nero is only teasing them.
Whatever this is between them is good. Haarlep throws an arm across him, careful not to land on his injuries.
“Goodnight,” Nero says, “And thank you again. For, you know, keeping my liver and kidneys in place.”
“Just try not to let it happen again.”
“I love you too.”