Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

For the first time in a long, long time, the Devil May Cry shop was completely silent.

No banter, no demon-slaying boasts, no clanging weapons or tossed beer bottles. Just silence—deafening, suffocating, unnatural silence, made unbearable by the corpse of a boy who had once brought life to everything he touched.

Nero was cold now. Even his Devil Bringer arm, once a source of pride and awe, was still and pale. Dante clutched him like a lifeline, shaking with sobs he couldn’t control, his hands trembling as they pressed Nero's limp body to his chest.

“I was just a little late,” Dante whispered over and over, voice cracking, jaw tight. “Just a little fucking late…”

He had faced down demons and devils and gods. He had seen hell. Walked it. Fought through it. But this—this was different. This was a kind of pain Dante didn’t know what to do with. The kind of pain that wasn't supposed to be in his world.

Not from him. Not from Nero.

“You stupid kid,” Dante breathed. “Why didn’t you wait? Why didn’t you—fuck—why, why, why?”

Behind him, Vergil hadn’t moved. Not at first.

He stood there, paralyzed in the doorway, his mind slow to catch up, caught in a fog of disbelief. His sword was still strapped to his back, but it felt heavier now, like it weighed his entire soul down.

He’d only ever seen Nero alive once. And now…

Now he was dead.

And it was real.

It was far too real.

Vergil stepped into the room as if walking underwater, legs dragging, eyes fixed only on Nero’s unmoving chest. He saw the emptiness in Dante’s eyes, the bottle shards on the floor, the horrible peacefulness on the boy’s face.

He stopped at the edge of the bed and stared. There was no poetry to the moment. No grand, tragic speech forming in his mind. Just a pit opening inside him, swallowing his breath whole.

Vergil reached out slowly, hand hovering over Nero’s shoulder, and finally placed it there.

It was cold.

He’d never even touched his son before. Not really. Not like this. Not with the knowledge that it was the first and the last time.

Vergil pulled his hand back.

“I didn't think he'd…” he tried, but his voice caught. “I thought he'd be stronger than that.”

Dante’s head shot up at that, eyes wild, raw.

“Stronger? Are you fucking serious?”

Vergil flinched like he’d been struck.

“He was alone, Vergil! For a whole goddamn year. We left him! You left him and I left him, and we let him think—” Dante stopped, his voice tearing in his throat, “—that we didn’t give a shit.”

He turned back to Nero’s body, brushing a white strand of hair off the boy’s face with shaking fingers.

“I thought… if we just got through what we had to do, we could come back and make things right,” Dante said, quieter now. “I figured he’d be mad, yeah. But he’d forgive us. He always did. He always tried.”

Dante looked down.

“He was just a kid.”

Vergil didn’t reply. He didn’t move. He just stared at Nero, his jaw clenched, the vein in his temple twitching. His fists balled at his sides, nails digging into his palms.

It was only then that he realized he was shaking.

“I don’t know how to fix this,” Vergil said finally, voice ragged. “I don't know what to do with this… grief.”

“Yeah?” Dante’s laugh was dry, bitter. “Welcome to the club.”

They sat in silence again, until the sun began to creep into the room. The light was golden, gentle, and painfully warm. The kind of sunrise Nero would have mocked for being too cliché.

Dante finally stood, wobbling, and went downstairs without a word. Vergil stayed behind.

Alone with the body of his son.

He sat down beside Nero, staring at the boy’s face, still and quiet, as if he might wake up at any moment and tell Vergil he was being dramatic.

“You have your mother’s eyes,” Vergil whispered. “She would have liked you.”

He looked down at his lap.

“I failed you,” he admitted, voice low and barely audible. “I didn’t deserve a son. I didn’t want one. But… but I should have tried anyway. And you paid the price for that.”

There were no tears. Not from Vergil. His guilt was colder, quieter. But it burned just the same.

Downstairs, Dante sat at the bar and drank without stopping. He didn’t taste the whiskey, didn’t feel the heat in his throat. It wasn’t enough. Nothing would ever be enough to dull this.

◇◇◇

Nero had always been a contradiction to him. A mirror that showed all the parts Vergil had tried to erase.

Brash. Loud. Reckless.

Compassionate.

Human.

Vergil remembered their first real meeting—on that fractured cliff between realms, the weight of Yamato in his hands, the rush of power. He remembered the way Nero stood up to him, unwavering, even when it should’ve been impossible. He remembered Nero’s anger, his voice breaking as he shouted, “I’ll stop you, even if it means cutting you down!”

And he remembered the very last moment they’d seen each other—when Nero chose mercy over vengeance, refusing to continue the fight. Walking away.

Vergil hadn’t understood it then. He’d seen it as weakness.

He understood now.

He finally understood everything that had been inside that boy’s heart. The mercy. The fury. The loneliness.

And now it was too late to say anything.

Too late to try.

He looked down at his own hands—the same hands that had killed and carved and destroyed, the same hands that had never once reached for his son in life.

What right did he ever have to call himself a father?

What right did he have to feel this hollow ache?

Vergil turned away from the photo, pacing like a man on a ledge. His breathing was unsteady. His sword clinked lightly against his hip with each step, like a mocking reminder of all the battles that had mattered less than this.

“I do not have the power for this,” he muttered to no one.

But even as he said it, he could imagine things, hiw things could'vebeen had he stayed that time. Phantom memories that weren’t his but felt as if they could have been—Nero as a toddler, wide-eyed and stubborn. Nero at ten, shouting obscenities. Nero, at 16. Nero, proud, smirking as he cleaned his revolver.

All the moments Vergil had never been there for.

He clenched his fists and stopped in front of the door that led back upstairs. For a long time, he stared at the doorknob.

He couldn’t bring himself to open it again.

Back in the main room, Dante was quiet. The alcohol hadn’t done its job. Nothing had numbed the jagged throb in his chest. He sat with his head in his hands, boots still dusty from the long road back.

He didn’t blame anyone.

He blamed himself.

He thought of calling Kyrie. Of telling her the truth. Of hearing her break the same way he (and Verge) had. But his hands wouldn’t move toward the phone. His throat tightened just thinking about it.

“She’s going to hate us,” he said aloud, hollow.

Behind him, Vergil stood in the doorway.

“No,” Vergil said, voice distant. “She’s going to mourn him. And then she’ll move on.”

Dante turned, bitter. “You think this is something people move on from?”

Vergil looked away.

“No,” he said. “But I believe she will survive it. She has something we do not.”

Dante raised an eyebrow. “What’s that?”

Vergil’s lips parted slowly.

“Hope.”

It wasn’t a word Vergil used often. It sounded foreign in his mouth, like he didn’t fully trust it.

He stepped further into the room, pausing by the couch. “I thought… that if I stayed away, I wouldn’t do to him what was done to me. That the cycle could stop by absence. But absence isn’t mercy.”

Dante snorted. “You figured that out now?”

Vergil gave him a long look. “And what did you give him, Dante? You were here, and you still didn’t see it.”

That cut. It cut deep. But Dante didn’t argue.

They had both failed him in different ways.

And the end result was the same.

“I don’t know how we fix this,” Dante said quietly.

“That is impossible. Now,” Vergil replied.

Silence again.

Eventually, Vergil crossed to the mantle. He picked up an old photo, dusty and cracked at the edge—Nero with his arm slung around Nico, both grinning like idiots after a job well done. He stared at it for a long time before setting it back down gently, more reverently than anyone would expect from him.

“There’s a part of me,” Vergil said, barely above a whisper, “that wanted to hate him.”

Dante looked up, surprised.

“I thought… if I hated him, it would be easier. If I saw Sparda’s failure in him, or my own weakness. But I didn’t. Not once.” Vergil’s voice wavered. “I envied him.”

Dante stared.

Vergil continued, “He was free in ways we never were. And even when he wasn’t… he chose to fight for people. To protect them. To forgive them.”

He shook his head, bitter smile on his lips. “He was more like our father than either of us ever were.”

That settled heavily between them.

◇◇◇

Upstairs, the world felt suspended in time.

The room was still dim. Nero lay as he had before, quiet and pale, the last of the night clinging to his skin.

Vergil returned alone. He stood in the doorway for a long time, unsure.

He hadn’t dared come back up since the morning. Not until now.

Quietly, he crossed the room. He knelt beside the bed, eyes scanning Nero’s face like it might change—like death was just a trick of the light, something that could be willed away by enough longing.

Carefully, he slid his arms underneath his son.

And lifted him.

Nero’s weight in his arms was wrong. Too light. Too still. But it was real.

Vergil sat back against the wall and held him—fully, properly—for the first time. No battlefield, no half-glances, no distance. Just this.

A father and son, too late.

“I should have stayed,” Vergil whispered.

The words came without effort now. Like a dam had cracked behind his ribs. “I should have stayed behind. With her. With you. Even with my imbecile of a brother.”

He pictured it.

Not the blood. Not the demons. Not the years lost chasing power.

But a home.

“I traded all of that,” Vergil choked, “for a throne of ash.”

His arms tightened around Nero, gently cradling his head. “I thought if I had power… if I was whole, I could be something more. But I was never more than a ghost. I disappeared. And you paid for it.”

He rocked slightly, forehead pressed to Nero’s.

“I never got to hear you laugh as a child,” Vergil said, voice breaking. “I never knew what stories you loved, or how you scraped your knees. I missed everything.”

For a long moment, there was only the sound of his breath—hitched and shallow, as if the grief had cut down into the core of him.

Dante stepped quietly into the room. He had never heard Vergil like this. Not even after their mother. Not even after the years they lost to hatred.

Vergil was shaking now. Crying. No fury, no arrogance. Just a man breaking open.

“I thought you would hate me,” Vergil whispered. “And I could live with that. But I didn’t think… I didn’t think you’d give up before I could prove that I wasn’t just a weapon.”

Dante took a step closer.

“Vergil…”

“I wanted to ask your forgiveness,” he said, holding Nero like something sacred. “But I waited too long.”

And then—something shifted.

A sound.

Soft. Sharp.

A strained, rattling huff of air.

Vergil froze.

Dante’s heart stopped.

And then it happened again.

Chapter Text

And then it happened again...

A twitch of muscle. A shallow, painful inhale.

Nero gasped.

Vergil jolted. “DANTE—”

“I heard it— he—he’s breathing—”

Vergil quickly opened a portal to the nearest hospital with Nero still in his arms as Dante followed closely behind , voice shaking as he screamed at a nurse, “We need urgent help—NOW! Young male, unconscious, not breathing properly, we thought he was—JUST GET HIM TO A ROOM!”

◇◇◇

The hospital room was quiet, save for the soft beeping of machines and the hiss of oxygen through tubes.

Nero lay still beneath the sheets, eyes closed, skin pallid but unmistakably alive. The color hadn’t quite returned to his face, and the oxygen mask framed his mouth like something borrowed from death. But his chest rose—weak, shallow, but steady.

Dante sat in the corner, head in his hands, eyes red. He hadn’t said a word since the doctors left them alone after giving them wary looks. Not when they explained the overdose. Not when they said he’d coded and come back. Not when they said it was still “too early” to predict anything. Too much time had passed without oxygen. The brain was fragile. They had to wait.

Dante had waited through demon lords, corrupted gods, and entire wars.

But this was different.

This was Nero.

Vergil stood beside the hospital bed, motionless, his hands at his sides like he didn’t trust himself to move. But his eyes never left the boy.

His boy.

His son.

His nestling.

It was a word that echoed through his thoughts like an ache—old, instinctive, primal. He hadn’t realized he still had the capacity to feel something like this. Something soft. Something that made his chest cave in just from the sight of another being breathing.

He reached out slowly, unsure if his touch would break something sacred.

His fingers brushed Nero’s hair—fine and pale, still damp with sweat. It was softer than he expected. Softer than anything should be after coming back from death.

Vergil stroked it once, twice, then again—just gently enough to soothe the tremble in his own hand.

“I didn’t know,” he whispered. “I never let myself imagine what it meant… to have a son.”

He looked down at the motionless face, the lashes too long against wan skin, the faint scar on Nero’s cheek that he didn’t know the story behind.

“I should have been there when you first opened your eyes,” Vergil murmured. “Held you when you cried. I should have been the one to rock you back to sleep.”

His fingers combed back a lock of hair from Nero’s forehead, reverent, like touching something divine.

“I should have watched you grow.”

Dante looked up from his corner, his voice a gravel-thin rasp. “You still might.”

Vergil didn’t move. “Might.”

“Hey, it’s more than we had yesterday.”

Silence fell again, thicker this time, but not empty.

Vergil sat down at the bedside, as close as the monitors would allow, and laid one hand gently over Nero’s.

He didn’t know what he was allowed to be in this moment. Not father. Not friend. Barely even human. But he knew this much:

This boy—this broken, brave, stubborn boy—was the only piece of light he’d ever left behind in the world.

And he almost let him die without ever knowing he was loved.

“I don’t deserve you,” he said softly. “But I’m staying anyway. If you wake up… you won’t be alone again.”

Dante stood finally and walked to the other side of the bed. He looked down at Nero, blinking hard, like he couldn’t believe the kid was really there, breathing, clinging to life by threads.

“God, kid,” he muttered. “You scared the hell outta me.”

He exhaled sharply, then reached out and gave Nero’s other hand a squeeze. “You better wake up just so I can yell at you.”

But the way his hand lingered betrayed him—gentle, trembling, full of aching relief.

They stood on either side of the bed, two broken, battle-hardened men with too much guilt in their veins and too little time left to waste.

And between them, the boy who had tied their lives together.

◇◇◇

The sterile hum of hospital machinery filled the dim room. Outside, the sky was caught in that quiet hour before sunrise—blue-black and bruised, the light not yet strong enough to chase away the dark.

Inside, Nero stirred.

He didn’t wake up all at once. At first, it was just sensation—the rasp of air in his lungs, the ache behind his eyes, the tight grip of something heavy coiled around his chest. Everything hurt, but not sharply—more like gravity had tripled, and his body was sinking through the mattress.

He blinked slowly.

The ceiling swam into focus, blindingly white.

Then lights. Then shapes.

He turned his head—barely—and saw Dante slumped in a chair beside him, arms crossed, head bowed forward, snoring softly like he hadn’t meant to fall asleep at all.

Nero’s brows furrowed.

What the hell…?

He tried to turn the other way. His neck ached. Muscles screamed. But then—

Vergil.

Asleep. Head down, arm propped on the bed, one gloved hand loosely gripping Nero’s own like he hadn’t realized he’d been holding it.

What the actual fuck?

Nero blinked again, heart thudding faster. His mouth was dry. His throat burned. And everything… everything felt like it had gone terribly, terribly wrong.

Last thing he remembered was—

Nothing. Just fragments. A bottle. Silence. The hollow thrum in his chest. Him falling asleep.

And now—

They were here.

Both of them.

Dante and Vergil.

They came back.

They were here.

His breath hitched. Disbelief burned through him, raw and wild. It didn’t feel real. Not after all this time. Not after the long months alone, waiting, wondering if they ever really gave a damn.

He didn’t care how. He didn’t care why.

His hand twitched.

He reached—weakly—toward Dante first, fingertips just brushing the edge of his jacket. Then he turned, tried to lift his other hand toward Vergil.

“...Father?” he rasped, barely a whisper. His voice was shredded—hoarse, broken.

That tiny word seemed to echo through the sterile quiet.

Neither of them stirred.

Nero’s expression twisted into something between awe and disbelief and grief too deep for language. His hand curled slightly.

He wanted to say more. Ask something. Anything. But then—

The pain hit.

White-hot. Crippling.

A spike lanced through his gut like someone had rammed a sword straight into his lungs. He gasped—and choked on it. His vision went white.

He clutched his chest, tore at the oxygen line.

And then he moved.

Tried to sit. Tried to stand.

He made it two steps before collapsing to his knees.

The machines behind him screamed.

He coughed hard, once—then again—and blood sprayed across his palm, bright and vivid and wrong.

The sound was enough.

Dante jerked awake with a start. “Nero?!”

Vergil’s head snapped up. His eyes locked instantly onto the blood-stained floor, the way Nero hunched over, trembling, coughing so hard it rattled the windows.

“Don’t move!” Dante barked, vaulting forward to catch him before he crumpled completely.

Vergil was already kneeling, one arm bracing Nero’s back, the other grabbing a towel from the bedside. His voice was sharp, more panic than steel. “Lie back—now!”

“I… I thought you were gone…” Nero gasped, voice cracking between wet, shallow coughs. “I thought you—left…”

“You’re not supposed to be standing, dumbass,” Dante muttered, clutching him like a lifeline.

“We didn’t leave you,” Vergil said, low and fierce.

They got him back into the bed—gently, carefully, but their hands were shaking. Nero was pale again, soaked in sweat, jaw tight with pain. But his eyes—gods, those eyes—were wide and fixed on them like he couldn’t believe they were real.

Dante leaned close, gripping Nero’s arm.

“You scared the hell out of us.”

Nero tried to smile. It didn’t work.

“...Couldn’t… tell.”

Vergil, still at his side, touched his hair again—just once—smoothing it back from his temple like some long-forgotten instinct had kicked in.

“You’re not alone anymore,” he said quietly. “Not ever again.”

Nero blinked up at him, and for the first time, a tear broke the corner of his eye.

He didn’t understand how they got here (probably through Yamato if he were to be honest).

But right now, they were here.

◇◇◇

The hospital room had gone still again, but not silent.

Monitors pulsed. Breathing came in shallow waves. Nurses moved in and out with practiced efficiency, checking stats, changing IVs, lowering lights. None of it registered.

Not for Dante.

Not for Vergil.

They sat on either side of Nero’s bed in silence, the earlier panic settling into something tighter, harder—realer.

Nero was sleeping again. Monitored, medicated, stabilized—but clearly exhausted. His face twitched in the half-light, caught in a dream they couldn’t see. His hand twitched once—just once—and then curled into a loose fist atop the blankets.

Vergil stared at it.

The boy’s hands were strong. Scarred. Calloused from battle. But he’d seen them shake.

He’d seen him break.

Dante leaned back in his chair with a sigh, rubbing a hand through his silver hair. The tension in his shoulders hadn’t eased since they’d gotten here, but the adrenaline had run out. Now, all that remained was guilt—and questions.

“We were almost too late,” Dante said softly, not looking at his brother.

Vergil didn’t respond.

“Another day. Another hour even,” Dante continued, voice tired. “We would’ve found a body.”

Vergil’s jaw clenched.

“I know.”

Dante turned, studying him now—really looking. The dark circles under his eyes. The hollowness that hadn’t been there before.

“You’re not the only one who failed him, you know.”

Vergil didn’t flinch. But his voice came low.

“I never expected to have a son. Never planned for one. I… abandoned the only thing I could have loved before I even knew he existed.”

“And I left him with nothing but a shop and a sword,” Dante muttered, bitter. “We were both running from something, weren’t we?”

Vergil’s silence was an admission.

Dante leaned forward, hands dangling between his knees. “I spent a year fighting tooth and nail in some hellscape, telling myself it would all be worth it if I just made it back alive. That Nero would be angry, yeah, but he’d get over it. ‘Cause he always does, right? Always forgives.”

Vergil looked at the boy—his son.

“No one should have to be that strong.”

“No,” Dante agreed.

They sat with that truth for a while. Let it breathe. Let it hurt.

Vergil finally spoke again, his voice uncharacteristically soft.

“When I touched him… before we brought him here… I imagined what it could’ve been like. If I had stayed. If I had held him when he cried, taught him how to fight, taught him how to live.”

Dante looked over, surprised.

Vergil’s expression was distant, but his eyes were tight. Haunted.

“I imagined him as a baby. Blue eyes. White hair. A temper like fire and a laugh that—” he faltered. “I will never hear.”

Dante exhaled through his nose.

“He’s not dead,” he said quietly. “Not yet. And now… now we have to be here.”

Vergil glanced at him.

Dante met his gaze without flinching.

“No more disappearing. No more cryptic crap. No more waiting until it’s too late.”

Vergil didn’t nod. But he didn’t look away, either.

Something unspoken passed between them.

Agreement.

Guilt.

Resolve.

They both looked back at Nero, who shifted again under the blanket, brows furrowed in uneasy sleep. A single beep on the monitor ticked higher before settling again.

“We’re his family,” Dante said.

◇◇◇

The hospital room was quiet, humming only with the low buzz of machines and the filtered light of early morning.

Then—movement.

A faint sound. Shifting sheets.

Nero stirred, groaning softly as awareness crept in. His body felt like it had been torn apart and stitched back together by fire. Every breath came with a sharp edge, but something kept him grounded—something warm.

No—someone.

Two strong arms wrapped tightly around him.

Nero blinked blearily and found himself face-to-face with the last person he ever thought he’d wake up to.

“...Dad?” he rasped, voice cracked and disbelieving.

Vergil didn’t let go. Not right away. He was holding Nero like the boy might vanish again if he loosened his grip—arms trembling slightly, head bowed against Nero’s shoulder.

“...You’re awake,” Vergil said, voice hoarse.

Nero blinked at him, dazed, half-expecting this to be another morphine-drenched hallucination. But no—this was real. This was his father, holding him. Clutching him.

The same father who had vanished. Fought him. Hurt him.

And now here he was.

A long silence passed. Nero didn’t know what to say. Didn’t know if he even could say anything.

Then Vergil pulled back just enough to look him in the eye.

“I’ve wronged you,” he said, low and steady. “From the moment of your birth until now, I’ve been a shadow. A mistake. I abandoned you before I knew you. I gave you nothing but pain. And I will carry that shame until the day I die.”

Nero’s breath hitched.

Vergil’s hands trembled as they gently cradled his son’s face, as if trying to memorize every feature, every breath.

“I do not deserve your forgiveness,” he said, voice cracking now. “But I ask for it anyway.”

Nero stared at him—truly stared.

This wasn’t the cold swordsman. This wasn’t Yamato-wielding, single-minded, emotionless Vergil.

This was just a man.

A broken and tortured one (understatement, if you know, you know).

His father.

And for a moment Nero couldn’t speak. Couldn’t think. The weight of it all—the grief, the confusion, the aching anger—it all pressed into his chest like a dam about to burst.

And then he laughed.

A weak, cracked, real laugh.

Vergil blinked, startled.

Across the bed, Dante nearly fell out of his chair, eyebrows raised.

“Are you seriously laughing right now?” Dante muttered.

“Shut up,” Nero coughed, still grinning. “I’m delirious. Or maybe just finally lost it.”

Vergil looked stunned. That laugh—it wasn’t mocking. It wasn’t hollow.

It was life.

“God,” Nero wheezed, wiping at his eyes with one shaky hand. “You’re so dramatic. I mean, yeah, I’m pissed. You ditched me, ghosted me, gave me some serious issues… But if this is you trying, actually trying, then I dunno, man. You might be worth the headache.”

Vergil opened his mouth, stunned silent.

Nero huffed another small laugh, then extended both arms with visible effort. “C’mere, you melodramatic assholes.”

Dante, trying very hard to pretend he wasn’t teary-eyed, slid in beside him, slinging one arm around Nero’s shoulders like he’d done a hundred times before—though this time, it felt different.

Vergil hesitated.

Then he moved in too, unsure, stiff—but then Nero pulled him in by the front of his coat with more strength than he should’ve had. Their foreheads bumped slightly. It wasn’t clean or graceful.

It was real.

“I should be angry,” Nero mumbled into their shoulders. “But I’m just… tired. And stupid. And apparently have a soft spot for emotionally-stunted family members.”

Vergil couldn’t speak. He just held on tighter.

Dante looked over Nero’s head at his brother—his infamous, unreachable brother—and saw something new in his face:

Awe.

Regret.

And something that looked an awful lot like love.

Dante exhaled shakily, resting his chin on top of Nero’s head.

“You know, kid,” he said softly, “you’re kind of the best thing to happen to this family.”

Nero rolled his eyes.

“God, don’t make it weird.”

Vergil closed his eyes briefly, overwhelmed.

He’d nearly lost this boy.

This brave, beautiful, infuriating, miraculous boy.

And now, holding him like this—for the first time, the real first time—Vergil saw it clearer than ever:

He had been a fool.

A goddamn fool.

How could he have hurt something so precious? So full of light, even in the darkest places?

But now—now—he had a chance.

To stay.

To try.

◇◇◇

Nero didn’t know how many times he’d said “Dad” in the last few days.

He wasn’t even doing it on purpose at first. It just… slipped out. Natural, like a bone finally snapping into place after being misaligned for too long.

“Hey, Dad—can you grab me some water?”

“Thanks, Dad.”

“Father—stop hovering, I’m just going to the bathroom.”

Each time, Vergil would freeze for a beat. Just a second. But Nero noticed.

He’d see Vergil’s fingers twitch slightly. His eyes lower. The muscle in his jaw tighten just before something unreadable flickered in his face.

Pain.

Gratitude.

Guilt.

Awe.

All wrapped in that quiet, burning kind of love that Vergil had never been taught how to express. But now—now he was trying. And Nero saw that.

Every time Nero called him “Dad,” it seemed to break something open in Vergil’s chest. And he would always respond. Gently. Always with that look, that soft frown that wasn’t really a frown at all.

Dante, on the other hand, had started looking offended.

“You don’t call me ‘old man’ anymore,” he muttered dramatically one morning while pouring coffee. “Where’s the sass? The backtalk? The disrespect? I raised you on sarcasm.”

Nero, lounging weakly on the couch, rolled his eyes. “You’re so needy, Jesus.”

“I miss when you used to flip me off with breakfast.”

“You still get flipped off,” Nero pointed out.

“Not with the same love,” Dante sighed, hand to his heart.

Nero snorted—and coughed right after. His ribs still felt like cracked porcelain.

The doctors had warned him that he needed rest. Weeks of it. No demon hunting, no training, no smartassery (Dante had added that last one).

He was discharged under strict orders.

And of course, the moment they got back to Devil May Cry, Nero tried to walk himself to the stairs.

Big mistake.

He made it maybe five steps before the pain tore through him—hot, sharp, and sudden. He staggered, his knees buckled, and the floor came rushing up—

But arms caught him. Familiar, strong arms.

“Are you insane?” Vergil hissed, his voice tight with panic barely restrained.

“I was just—just trying to—” Nero coughed again, red blooming against his palm.

“Trying to kill yourself a second time?” Dante barked from behind, visibly rattled. “You absolute dumbass.”

That had been three days ago.

And ever since then, Nero’s life had become a bizarre hellscape of hovering, unsolicited cuddling, and the kind of affection that made his face burn despite himself.

Vergil—stoic, icy, terrifying Vergil—had apparently decided that now was the time to become the most tactile, doting father in the goddamn world.

He kissed Nero’s forehead every night. Every single night.

He helped him change his bandages with absurd gentleness, whispering apologies each time Nero winced.

He held Nero’s hand absently while they watched TV like it was normal.

And then there was Dante.

The chaos incarnate, cheeky bastard of an uncle, who had fully embraced his role as emotional support golden retriever.

He ruffled Nero’s hair at every opportunity.

“Oh look, he’s pouting again.”

“I’m not—I don’t pout!”

“Sure, sure, keep telling yourself that.”

Dante had taken to giving back hugs—ambush style—and pinching Nero’s cheeks while cooing things like:

“Still got some baby fat, huh? Look at this face! Look at it!”

Nero, red-faced, would swat at him weakly. “Get the hell off me, you overgrown toddler—!”

And Vergil—VERGIL—agreed.

“I believe it’s true,” he said once, as he calmly read a book across the room.

Nero practically imploded.

“You’re enabling him!”

“I find it amusing.”

“I died, and this is how you treat me?!”

But despite the embarrassment, despite the teasing and the emotional whiplash, Nero wouldn’t trade it.

Not for anything.

Because every touch, every kiss to the temple, every joke and fond insult—it all meant one thing.

He was not alone.

Not anymore.

He had them.

A family.

He wasn’t so stupid as to believe that a few days would fix all his issues -- no, that needed time. But... maybe—just maybe—this was enough to begin healing.

◇◇◇

It was noon at Devil May Cry, and though the light filtering in through the front window painted everything in gold, it couldn’t compete with the warmth in the room itself. Nero sat propped on the couch, legs wrapped in a blanket, shoulders draped in one of Dante’s ridiculous coats. He still looked pale, but there was color in his lips, and his eyes were sharp again. Curious. Alive.

Vergil had made the horrible mistake of allowing Dante to pick lunch.

So of course—of course—the imbecile returned with pizza.

“Don’t judge me,” Dante said as he slammed the boxes down on the coffee table. “I asked what you wanted. You didn’t answer. So I picked the only thing that heals wounds and broken hearts.”

Nero perked up. “You got the garlic-crusted one?”

“Garlic, jalapeño, triple meat,” Dante recited proudly. “And this one…” He held up the other box dramatically. “For the Devil of the Hour. Black olives, red onions, basil, no meat. Light crust. Just how you like it.”

He handed it to Vergil with a sly grin.

Vergil stared at it.

And then, to the shock of literally everyone, he took a slice without complaint.

Dante squinted. “You’re not going to threaten my life for this?”

“No,” Vergil said simply, biting into it. “But I’m reconsidering your culinary preferences.”

Nero choked on laughter. “Holy crap, he really does like it.”

Dante looked affronted. “I’ve been telling you idiots for years.”

The laughter didn’t stop. Nero’s chest shook, his face scrunched in an uncontrollable grin. He laughed so hard that his eyes teared up.

Vergil froze, pizza halfway to his mouth.

Dante stilled.

Because that sound—unfiltered, unabashed joy—had been gone for so long, they’d nearly forgotten what it felt like to hear it. Nero’s laugh wasn’t just sound. It was music. Redemption. A balm.

“I’m not that funny,” Dante muttered, brushing his nose all smug (man has the nerve to say that and then act smug smh).

“Yes, you are,” Nero said between giggles. “You’re absolutely ridiculous.”

Later that day, Dante slipped out of the room with a small sigh and pulled out his phone. He hadn’t called her yet—hadn’t been ready.

But it was time.

Kyrie picked up on the second ring.

"Dante?!" she gasped. "Oh my god—are you back? Does that mean... Vergil too?"

Dante rubbed the back of his neck. "Yeah, kiddo. We’re back. Everyone’s back."

"Wait. Why are you calling? Is Nero okay?"

Dante paused a beat too long.

"Dante," Kyrie warned, voice sharpening. "What happened?"

"He's... mostly okay," Dante tried, grinning weakly at the wall. "Got a little roughed up, but he’s healing. You know how dramatic he is."

Click.

Dante stared at the phone. "Ah, crap."

He turned around, already hearing Nero groaning in the background.

"I’m gonna die again, aren’t I?" (He's joking. He knows our sweet Kyrie won't do that, right? RIGHT?!)

"If Kyrie gets here in the next hour, maybe."

She didn’t get there in an hour.

She got there in four—with enough homemade food to feed an army. Along with her, of course, came Nico.

Nico had overheard. Both women saw how during the year the twins were absent, Nero started crumbling piece by piece and collapsing (a couple of times, quite literally). Kyrie knew that Nero wasn't himself and used his missions as an excuse to keep his distance. When Kyrie heard Dante struggle to come up with a plausible excuse, both she and Nico knew what had happened immediately. On her way to the Devil May Cry, Kyrie didn’t let herself cry. Neither did Nico, although her eyes glistened.

The screech of tires was the only warning.

The shop door burst open and Kyrie strode in, arms full of Tupperware and determination, Nico right behind her.

"Dante! Where’s my boyfriend?!"

"Right here," Nero called weakly from the couch.

Kyrie dropped everything and rushed to him, kneeling and cupping his face, eyes filling with tears.

"You idiot," she whispered. "You absolute lovable idiot."

Nico plopped down beside him and smacked his back— in a very nice and friendly manner (or in a bone-breaking and downright lethal way, you guess for yourself).

"Don’t scare me like that, ya jackass."

Nero winced. "Ow. Message received. Loud and violent."

"You’re lucky we’re not draggin’ your sorry butt back to Fortuna in the trunk."

"You’d enjoy that too much."

Dante leaned in from behind. "Hey now, I’m still your favorite uncle, right?"

Nero didn’t look back. "I never said that. You're just... an uncle, Dante."

" You never openly denied it. So still counts!"

Vergil appeared in the doorway, eyes narrowing slightly.

Kyrie blinked up at him. And then she stood, smoothing her skirt, face composed.

"You must be Vergil."

He nodded.

"You’re the reason my Nero thinks he’s not loved."

Vergil’s mouth tightened.

Then Kyrie stepped forward and pulled him into a brief but firm hug.

"Thank you for staying this time."

Vergil didn’t move. Didn’t breathe.

And then, very faintly, he nodded again.

Dante clapped his hands. "Well! Who’s hungry? Kyrie brought half of Fortuna in Tupperware."

Nero groaned. "If anyone tries to spoon-feed me, I swear I’ll scream."

"Only if you’re lucky," Dante said, grabbing a container. "Chicken soup time, baby boy!"

"I take it back," Nero said with a sigh. "You’re not just an uncle. You're the worst uncle."

"But still your favorite."

And somehow, through the chaos, the teasing, the awkward attempts at closeness—it felt more and more like family.

Real, ridiculous, beautiful family.

The end... or is it?

Okay, okay, I'm just joking. I really do think that I'll end it here. I remember when I wrote this fic the first time. Back then, I was (and still am) binge-reading DMC fics. All the 'hurt no comfort' fics had me feeling sad. So I had to get it outta my system. And I know good and damn well that half of y'all would skip this part if I put it in 'Notes' (jk, or am I?). Anyways, thank you so much for the support.

Now let's end this properly: and they lived happily ever af-- Yeah, absolutely not, but...

The end.