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Chapter Text

The door to the Devil May Cry office groaned open, its hinges screeching in protest as Nero shoved it in with more force than necessary. He stepped inside first, strides brisk and silent, his jaw clenched and shoulders taut with an energy that had yet to settle. Vergil followed a few paces behind, his footsteps precise and deliberate, the echo of his boots lost beneath the fading sound of the city outside.

There was a thick scent of leftover pizza, old books, and gunpowder. A faint buzz of rock music played somewhere in the back, looping on a forgotten speaker. The clutter was the same as always. Papers and folders spilt across the desks, empty takeout boxes occupying chairs that weren't supposed to be storage, and the distinct click-click of Dante's pen tapping lazily against a half-filled clipboard.

Vergil would've slaughtered his brother for the disgusting mess if his mind wasn't already preoccupied.

Dante looked up from his desk, a half-eaten slice of pizza hanging between his fingers. His face lit up with a grin when he saw them, though his eyes quickly darted between the two with an alertness that betrayed his easy posture.

"Well, well, well. The dynamic duo returns!" He greeted, leaning back in his chair. "You kill the thing, or did ya argue it to death?"

Usually, Nero would've snarked a response, but he didn't this time. Instead, he strode over to the desk, pulled out the chair beside Dante, and sat down without a word. In his hand, he held a worn envelope: a share of the contract payout. He tossed it gently onto the desk. Dante caught it mid-slide, then raised his brows in silent acknowledgement before flipping open the ledger beneath his pizza box.

Without being asked, Nero reached for the stack of forms at the edge of the desk and began helping Dante sort through the paperwork, signing his initials in the right places, checking over figures, flipping pages with the mechanical rhythm of someone doing it just to keep their hands busy.

The silence was almost unnatural.

No snark. No post-job banter. Not even a triumphant grin on Nero's face.

Dante's gaze shifted between them, his easy smirk slowly fading into something more thoughtful. He leaned back, eyes narrowing as he met Vergil's.

The look was pointed with the obvious question in the air.

What did you do?

Vergil wanted to bristle at the look but decided against it. He simply turned, crossed the room in silence, and sank into the worn armchair near the window. He sat still, eyes fixed somewhere in the middle distance, though it was impossible to tell whether he was truly looking at anything. The only sound in the room came from the occasional scritch of Nero's pen and the rustle of paper.

It continued like that for several long minutes. The quiet dragged the family like a mass between them.

Eventually, Nero finished the last of the forms and stacked them neatly before sliding them over to his uncle.

"Thanks, kid," Dante said, smiling as he ruffled the younger man's hair. In normal cases, this would've prompted Nero to hit his hand away, but he barely reacted as he stood. The chair scraped back, his legs grating loudly against the floorboards. He turned and walked toward the back hallway. The door to the side room slammed shut a second later, hard enough to rattle the glass pane in its frame.

Dante sighed and pushed back in his chair, dropping the pen onto the desk with a soft clack. He leaned back and had his hands laced behind his head.

"So…" He started off, eyes settling on him. "You wanna tell me what that was about?"

Vergil didn't answer. His gaze was fixed on the door Nero had disappeared behind, his fingers tightening slightly against the armrest. There was no sound beyond it now. Just the steady, low hum of the office, the gentle tap of the ceiling fan wobbling above them, and Dante waiting with an expectant look at him.

In hindsight, Dante's office was the last place he should've thought about going to. It was an ill-considered decision. He was supposed to handle this himself.

Just the thought of Nero seeking Dante whenever both father and son had a spat with each other needled Vergil. He only had to assume that this was an occurrence that had happened more than once, quietly behind his back. Nero disappearing for a few hours, coming back a little more grounded, a little less volatile. How many of those moments had ended with him here, in this office, with Dante picking up the pieces Vergil had left scattered?

The idea of Nero turning to Dante, his irresponsible, sometimes half-drunk slob of a brother who lived off junk food and old glory, was absurd on the surface. But when Vergil thought about it, really thought about it, it made perfect sense. Because as much as his brother was reckless, infuriating, and crude, he was also patient. Steady, in his own maddening way. A constant. For Nero.

Vergil… was not.

Or, perhaps, barely, in these newer circumstances.

His relationship with his son was something he always seemed to have needed to tread lightly. Nero was a wildfire, unpredictable, fierce, and burning with more heart than reason. But Vergil had learned, or he thought he had learned, to be more measured around him. To temper the blade of his tongue, to offer structure without snuffing out the flame entirely. But today, whatever fragile and calm balance they'd struck had crumbled—undone by frustration, impatience, and fear poorly masked as control.

Vergil closed his eyes briefly, jaw tightening as the moment replayed in his mind. Nero throws himself into the heart of the fight, disregarding strategy in favour of brute force and raw instinct. And Vergil, watching it unfold, could see only his younger self in those reckless swings. The same arrogance, the same belief in one's invincibility.

"I asked you what happened. You gonna talk, or just sit there and pretend you're a statue?" He heard Dante ask, breaking him out of his thoughts.

"It's none of your concern," Vergil said, slowly opening his eyes.

His brother scoffed, sitting up. "Bullshit. It is my concern when my nephew slams a door hard enough to shake the building."

The words dug in more than they should have, and Vergil's brow twitched as a muscle clenched at his jaw.

Dante caught it and leaned forward. "Y'know, I've seen him storm in and outta before, but this time? He looked like he'd been gutted. What did you say to him?"

Vergil did not like the underlying threatening tone that came from the other twin, so his voice came low and clipped. "That is between Nero and I."

"Yeah? Well, you brought it here, so now it's my problem too."

"I don't recall asking for your help," Vergil hissed, his tone laced with frost as his grip on Yamato increased. "And need I remind you, Dante…" He drawled off as he glared at his brother. "He is not your son."

His words were sharp, cruelly precise, as only Vergil could make them. But he needed to make that abundantly clear.

Nero was  not  his brother's to take.

Dante's brows lifted slowly. "Wow," he muttered, the air between them chilling. "Low blow. Even for you."

"I simply stated a fact," Vergil said. "You may dote on him like a surrogate, but blood does not change the reality. He is mine. And whatever happens between us does not require your interference."

His brother stood now, the creak of the floorboard beneath his boot echoing. "Huh. Then maybe act like it."

Vergil felt his thumb flick at the edge of Yamato as he opened it from its sheath.

"You think I like stepping in when things go sideways between you two?" Dante asked, a familiar fire licking at the edges of his question. "I'm not trying to take your place, Vergil. But when Nero shows up here looking like you just kicked him in the chest, what do you expect me to do? Look the other way?"

"You would do well to do exactly that," Vergil stated, rising now too. "Nero is my responsibility. I will handle it."

Both brothers were now towering over the desk.

"Yeah, clearly doing a stellar job so far!" Dante shot back, dripping with sarcasm. "You wanna be a father so bad? Then be one. Don't just sit there like you're above it all while Nero's tearing himself up over something you said, dumbass."

Vergil's lips parted as if to retort, but he faltered. His mind was still whirling, trapped between anger and regret, tangled in the memory of Nero's face when the argument earlier had reached its boiling point.

He had braced for it—had expected the fire, the defiance, the spitfire temper that Nero was so known for. He'd prepared himself for the yelling, the retaliation, the reckless bravado. But what he got instead had shaken him far deeper than fury ever could.

It had been hurt.

And it stunned him.

There had been a flicker in Nero's eyes, something wounded and young, far too young for the man he'd grown into. It struck Vergil in a way no blade ever had, cutting clean through the justifications he'd told himself. He had opened his mouth to speak, to fix it, maybe, but by then, Nero had already turned away, jaw clenched and shoulders rigid, hiding everything again behind silence.

Vergil hadn't known what to say. And that, perhaps, was the most damning and foolish thing of all.

Before he could even think of a reply to Dante, the door in the hallway creaked open again.

Nero stepped back into the room, his movements clipped and purposeful. He'd changed—ditched the coat, replaced with a plain hoodie, his duffel slung over one shoulder. His right arm flexed unconsciously at his side, fingers twitching, his gaze cast downward as he crossed the room without acknowledging either of them.

"I'm heading home," he said shortly, brushing past the desk.

Dante blinked. "Back to Fortuna? Now?"

"Yeah."

"That's one hell of a drive to take when you're pissed off, kiddo."

Nero gave a humourless huff and grabbed his keys from the hook beside the coat rack. "Better than staying here."

Vergil watched him before saying, "You're in no state to be behind the wheel."

His son turned, his expression sharpening. "Huh? Didn't realise you got to make that call."

"Nero—"

"I'm fine."

"You're not," Dante said, stepping into his path. "C'mon, kid, just stay the night. Crash on the couch. Eat something. Sleep it off. Then go back if you still want to!"

Nero sidestepped him. "I'm not twelve."

"You're acting like it," Vergil chimed in again from his space. "Running off every time you're told something you don't like."

"Vergil…" Dante warned, glaring at him.

Nero had stopped dead in his tracks. He slowly turned again as his voice went cold. "You think this is about me not liking what you said?"

"It's certainly not about understanding it," Vergil replied, taking even strides toward him. "Your emotions cloud your judgment. I've told you this before. You fight like the world owes you something."

"Because I care!" Nero shouted suddenly, dropping the bag from his shoulder with a thud. "I care about people! I care about doing something when others won't! You want me to just stand there and calculate like you do? Watch people get hurt because I'm waiting for the 'correct moment' to draw my sword or whatever?!"

"You're reckless," Vergil snapped. "You throw yourself in without a second thought. That foolish bravado... that is what will get you killed!"

"And you think standing back while people bleed is noble?! I'd rather die trying to protect someone than sit around and do nothing!"

"You mistake chaos for heroism. You think your passion makes you right. It doesn't. It makes you weak."

Dante made a noise, something between a sigh and a groan. "Okay, knock it off, both of you—"

"Weak?" Nero barked. "You wanna talk to me about weakness? This coming from the guy who ran away from everything for years?  Who turned himself into a full-fledged fucking demon to chase some fantasy about power and left a mess for the rest of us to clean up?!"

Vergil felt his eyes darken, but Nero pressed on.

"You think I'm the one who's out of control? At least I don't try to gut my family every time I feel something real! You don't get to stand there and talk about control when you nearly killed me the first time we met!"

"You know nothing of what I had to endure, Nero."

"And you know nothing about what it means to love someone enough to let yourself be vulnerable!"

It hit like a slap.

And what came next was something that Vergil himself didn't even recognise anymore.

"Then perhaps I should have stayed gone."

Everything surrounding them was suddenly void of sound.

The load of his sentence, cold and unthinking, flung in the heat of frustration, landed in the room like a blade driven straight into the floor. It rang louder than any yell, louder than all their arguing, and louder than even the silence that followed.

Dante didn't move. For once, even he looked shocked.

Vergil's own breath caught in his throat as the echo of his words lingered in the stale air. He hadn't meant to say them, not truly. He certainly hadn't planned it. But the second they left his mouth, it was as though they struck a wall inside him, one that cracked wide open. The shame came after with a slow, burning realisation.

He had watched his son throw his heart into every reckless move, every word, every fight, and Vergil, like a fool, had chosen that moment to tear into it.

And now Nero stood before him, motionless, looking as if something vital had just been ripped from him.

The younger's chest was rising and falling unevenly, like the very act of breathing had become difficult. He looked like he was trying to understand what he'd just heard, as though replaying it again in his mind might somehow alter the reality of it.

His eyes locked onto his, wide and hollow in a way that made something in Vergil recoil.

It was the same look.

That damned look again.

The one from earlier that had caught Vergil so off guard. That silence that wasn't surrender, but grief… quiet, intimate grief.

And seeing it now, again, only deeper, felt like having everything ripped from his lungs.

"Why…"

Nero sounded so small on the single broken syllable that it startled both of the twins.

"Why…" He rasped again. He blinked hard, eyes glassy as they locked on his father's. "Why would you say that, Dad?"

His son looked like he was drowning, throat seemingly working uselessly to form the words he wanted to say further. His voice was cracking mid-sentence, breaking under everything that he was trying to hold back. His face contorted—not in rage, but in disbelief and betrayal.

Nero barely looked like the young twenty-five-year-old man he was right now. Instead, it was like Vergil was looking into a mirror of his younger, teenage, broken self.

Vergil took a step forward, his hand instinctively lifting, but the damage was done. He could already see it retreating behind Nero's eyes, the trust folding in on itself like crumpled paper.

Yamato's blade suddenly quivered at his side, the air around it humming with a life of its own. The sword's runes glowed hotter, pulsing like a heartbeat in tune with Nero's. Nero's eyes had flicked down, drawn to the blade as if it called to him. He stepped forward, and his fingers trembled as he slowly held out a hand; Yamato slid free of Vergil's grip and levitated, spinning once.

Vergil could feel the small hairs on his neck stand upright.

…Since when was Nero able to do that?

Nero caught Yamato's hilt in one practised motion and drew it free from the scabbard as he turned. He made one clean cut down and then one across from his right side, as the very fabric of space produced a familiar portal.

As soon as he sheathed Yamato, the calm seemed to have dissipated as he turned and angrily launched the blade back at Vergil. Vergil caught it, albeit with a grunt from the force, but his eyes never left Nero as his son didn't linger any further and stepped inside the portal before it shut as quickly as it came.

Even though the portal was gone with Nero's belongings, Vergil found himself still staring at the space where his son was.

"Goddamn it…" Dante muttered, finally moving. He dragged a hand down his face and looked toward Vergil, eyes full of something between disappointment and sorrow. "What the hell is wrong with you?"

Vergil's hand tightened on Yamato until the metal bit into his palm. For a moment, there was nothing but the blood in his ears and the faint, distant squeal of a siren outside, like some other life continuing on in a city that didn't stop for a family falling apart. The office felt smaller, all the angles closing in. The clutter, the lamp's halo, Dante's expectant face. Everything pressed against him until he was certain the edges would shear.

He imagined Nero's face again: hollowed, as if someone had reached into him and pulled a vital piece free. Vergil felt it like a blade. It was the same face he'd once glimpsed in a mirror—a younger version of himself staring back through a life split in two by choices that had cost him more than he thought possible. That reflection had been full of promise and arrogance and, somewhere under it, a brittle loneliness. He had vowed then to never be weak. He had carved that vow deep into himself. Now, in the aftermath of a sentence that had slipped from his mouth like a shard of ice, he recognised the cost.

He found that his mouth was dry. He had rehearsed things. Retorts, explanations, rationalisations, during long walks in empty corridors and in the quiet hours before dawn. None of them fit into the space left by Nero's eyes. All of them sounded like excuses.

"I…" The word failed him. He looked down at his blade, at the runes that still hummed faintly where Nero's hand was. The metal was cool and obedient, a thing of blade and balance and fortunes that could split worlds. It was also, absurdly, the only thing in the room that felt steady.

"I swear, you're gonna lose him before you ever figure out what it means to have him."

Dante's words rattled him to his core, and before he knew it, he was already slashing two lines in front of him.

"Ohhh, no you don't!" His brother grabbed his shoulder and shoved him back a step. "You are not going after him."

Vergil's head snapped toward him, eyes narrowing dangerously. "Remove your hand," he warned, his voice like tempered steel.

Dante ignored his demand. "Not until you get it through that thick skull of yours. You're the last person Nero wants to see right now."

"Do not tell me how to handle my son," Vergil hissed, the air around him tightening. "Stand aside before I—"

"Before you what?" Dante's grip increased as he leaned in. "Throw another dagger at him with your bullshit? No. You need to let him cool off before you even think about opening your dumbass mouth to him again."

"I will not be told—"

"Yeah, you will," Dante cut in sharply, stepping into his space until the air between them was taut as a bowstring. "So back. Off."

Vergil felt his anger flare. "You'd threaten me over this?"

"You're damn right I would," Dante said without missing a beat, his voice dropping low with the kind of weight that made it clear he wasn't bluffing. "I've known that kid a lot longer than you have, and I know how to handle him when he's like this. You don't. Not when you're wound up like a coiled spring and looking to win an argument instead of listening, you shit head."

The edge in Dante's voice struck something sharp inside Vergil, making him grit his teeth. He was vexed. "If you so value your life, brother, I suggest you remove your hand from me."

Dante smirked, though the smirk lacked its usual humour. "And if you value your relationship with Nero, I suggest you sit your ass down."

That earned him a taunting step forward from Vergil, their shoulders almost colliding. "You will not stand in my way."

"I'll do a hell of a lot more than stand in your way if you keep charging at the kid like a damn battering ram," Dante snarled. "You think I won't do it, Verge? Try me."

The challenge hung between them like a drawn blade, both brothers perfectly still except for the tense rise and fall of their chests.

Vergil's glare sharpened, and he could almost feel a dark, insistent cloud behind him. "You forget yourself, Dante."

"No," Dante shot at him. "I'm remembering exactly who you are. And I'm telling you right now—sit your ass down and think about what just happened. Then figure out how you're gonna approach him without tearing him open again. 'Cause if you go barging in there, you're gonna hurt him. And if you do..." His brother's tone suddenly took another threatening turn as his eyes flashed dangerously. "Just know I'm not gonna take it."

Vergil felt his jaw lock, his glare refusing to falter, but Dante didn't budge either. The brothers stood in that quiet, dangerous standoff, the weight of their shared history simmering between them, until the creak of the office chair behind Vergil broke the tension.

It was only then that he realised Dante had left him no room to argue without proving him right.

Chapter Text

Vergil sheathed Yamato, stepping out of the portal before it closed behind him.

Fortuna's night air hit him like a cold slap, sharp and salted with the sea. The familiar silhouette of the cathedral's spires jutted against the sky, their pale stone catching the silver of the moon. He stood at the edge of the square, the only sound the distant lap of waves against the docks.

The town was quiet, but not asleep. It never truly was. Fortuna was full of worshippers, secrets, and scars.

He knew them well. He had carved some of those scars himself.

Vergil's eyes remained on the side streets branching from the square, each one a possible path Nero might have taken. He could sense him, faintly. A flicker of power that matched his own, though muddied with rage and pain. Yamato thrummed in agreement, showing its restlessness as she urged him forward.

And yet… Dante's words rooted him where he stood.

"You're gonna lose him before you ever figure out what it means to have him."

They burned as much as they shamed him. Dante, the fool, had been right. His brother's hand on his shoulder had been infuriating, but the truth of it had been worse. Vergil had been ready to chase Nero down, not to listen, but to demand. To seize back ground lost. That had always been his instinct: to control, to push, to cut his way through when something resisted him.

But Nero was not an enemy. He was his blood.

Nero was his son.

When Dante had shoved him back and forced him to stop, it had taken everything not to strike him down. His pride had screamed for it. But underneath that was something else, an unspoken truth. His brother, damn him, had seen Nero's pain more clearly than Vergil had. And that thought, that Dante could understand his son better than he did, gnawed at him now as he stood under Fortuna's towering arches.

Vergil let his eyes close, if only for a moment. Memories flickered at the edges. Dante's sharp rebuke, Nero's hollow stare, and beneath it all the face of a younger Vergil, standing at a very different crossroads years ago, when Yamato had been all he had left of his family. He had told himself he needed nothing else. He had been wrong then. Was he repeating the same mistake now?

Yes, yes, he was.

He began to walk.

Each step echoed against the stone streets, deliberate and slow. Vergil's stride, usually sharp and unyielding, carried a measure of hesitation tonight. He had walked these streets before—long ago, when Fortuna had been just another battlefield, another stepping stone to power. Back then, the city had barely meant anything to him. Now it was Nero's home because of him. And that made it something altogether different.

The lamps lit his way in fractured pools of gold, but the night between them seemed longer and heavier. He could still feel Nero's presence faintly, though not here. It was as if the boy's anger still lingered in the air, a ghost trailing him.

When he reached the familiar row of homes nestled near the cathedral's shadow, he slowed. Nero's residence. The modest structure stood against the night, light spilling faintly from one window. It was small, ordinary. But Vergil knew well enough that its walls contained something greater than any tower or fortress: the first place Nero had chosen for himself, and not inherited from anyone else.

He stopped before the door, raising a hand before lowering it again. He stood rigidly, Yamato's weight at his side grounding him, while something less tangible, an old, unfamiliar hesitation, fought him. Then, with a breath he did not realise he'd been holding, he knocked.

The door opened swiftly, almost too swiftly, and a familiar face greeted him.

Kyrie.

Her eyes widened instantly, not with recognition of him, at least not first, but with the clear expectation of someone else.

"Vergil?"

Vergil simply studied her. The young woman radiated a calm strength, not unlike a flame in the dark. There was no power in her blood, no inherited might, but there was light. A light that tethered Nero, he realised. She reminded him, faintly, of someone else he was involved with in this very island… someone long gone. He refused to linger on the comparison, yet it was impossible to ignore.

He could see why his son was so utterly taken with her.

She frowned slightly, tilting her head. "Nero hasn't come home yet. He hasn't answered my calls either…" Worry coloured her voice.

So, Nero had not returned here.

He inclined his head slightly, letting the faintest flicker of sympathy show.

Something in his expression must have reached her, because her eyes softened even as concern deepened. She glanced behind him, then back, and in the end, she opened the door wider. "You look troubled," Kyrie said, almost carefully, as if she already had an idea of what had happened. "Would you like to come in?"

Vergil hesitated on the threshold longer than he should have. Really, he should be looking for his son, but Kyrie's quiet patience met his silence, her hand still on the doorframe with her eyes searching his face as though she understood there was more here than words could cover.

He stepped inside.

The warmth of the house greeted him immediately, the faint scent of wood polish, the trace of herbs and cooking, the softness of a life lived without blades or bloodshed.

The first time he had crossed this threshold, it had not been through the front door, but merely the garage. He could still see it in his mind with perfect clarity: the workbench strewn with tools, the clutter of spare parts, the faint oil smell clinging to the walls. And there, on the cold concrete floor, Nero's blood, dark and fresh, spread outward as his cries echoed.

That memory sat in him like rust that never washed away.

He had returned here since then, yes, but never without noticing the mark. The bloodstain remained. Faded, but not erased. He suspected Nero had left it untouched deliberately, whether as a reminder or a refusal to forget; Vergil did not know. What he did know was that every time his boots crossed that garage floor, he felt it burning beneath him, as though the concrete itself remembered his trespass.

Kyrie moved toward the kitchen without needing to ask if he wanted anything. Her quiet footsteps and the soft clink of ceramic broke the stillness as she returned with two steaming cups of tea. The table between them was small, worn with use, but it held the comfort of a home.

He sat down slowly, resting Yamato against the wall beside him. His gloved hands curled loosely around the cup she set before him. The tea's faint, herbal scent filled the air, calm and unassuming.

"Thank you," he said, his voice low but sincere.

Kyrie gave him a small smile. "Of course." She took a sip from her own cup, letting a few beats pass before she added, "You don't have to look so tense. Nero often comes home late when he's upset. It's not unusual."

Her tone was calm, reassuring, not prying, but Vergil could tell she had already guessed that something had transpired between father and son.

"I see." His voice softened. "I didn't mean to trouble you."

"Not at all," she replied. "I was just worried when he didn't answer his phone. But this isn't the first time."

Vergil let out a quiet breath, the steam from the tea curling between them. He lifted the cup, not drinking yet but just letting the warmth settle into his fingers. "He has every reason to be wary of me."

Kyrie didn't argue that. Instead, she tilted her head slightly, thoughtful. "Maybe. But he also cares more than he lets on. Even when he's angry, he doesn't stop caring."

"You know him well."

"I've known him most of my life," she said. "He didn't have much back then. And people were so cruel."

Vergil pressed his lips together faintly, the line of his mouth tightening as though he might say something, but he did not. He would not. It wasn't his place to pull at threads Nero had not yet chosen to share. If there were truths about his son's childhood, truths Vergil had been absent for, then he would rather hear them from Nero himself, not pieced together through another voice.

Still, Kyrie's words had left a shadow that would not easily fade.

Instead, he inclined his head again in quiet acknowledgement, allowing his gaze to steady on the rim of his untouched tea. "And yet, he endured," he said finally, his voice carrying more thought than sound.

Kyrie lifted her eyes to him. In the dim light, there was no accusation in her expression but only a calm certainty. "He did, but not alone. Nero was always strong, yes, but… sometimes strength is just surviving long enough for someone to notice you." She paused, her hands curling lightly around her cup. "I suppose that's why I tried to stay by his side."

Vergil looked at her fully then, studying the young woman who had so clearly become Nero's anchor. He could see why his son trusted her, why she carried such influence in his life. There was no judgment in her or fear. She had given Nero something Vergil himself had never been able to: a sense of home.

His hand shifted against the teacup, the porcelain warm against his gloves. The words came low, almost reluctant, yet not insincere. "You have done more for him than I ever will."

Kyrie shook her head gently, almost as if she'd expected the words, but there was a softness to her expression that made Vergil hesitate. "You don't need to say that," she murmured. "Nero… he knows you care, even if he doesn't always show it. Sometimes, that's enough."

She sipped her tea, her gaze drifting to the small window, where the faint glow of the city filtered through. Her voice, when it returned, was quieter.

"When we were younger, people weren't kind to him." She hesitated, as though contemplating how much to share, then went on. "He never liked to talk about it, but I saw how the other children treated him. They whispered about where he came from, about his family. They mocked the way he fought back when cornered. And when his Devil Bringer appeared…" Her eyes dimmed at the memory. "It only made it worse. He tried so hard to pretend it didn't hurt him, but I knew better. He'd come to me with bruised knuckles and that stubborn look on his face, pretending nothing was wrong. But sometimes, when he thought no one was looking, he looked so tired of fighting."

Vergil remained still, the steam from his tea curling upward between them. Inside, however, his mind was raging. He had imagined Nero's life in fragments, in assumptions. But to hear it spoken plainly, even this small glimpse, was different. This was a history he had not shaped, a pain he had not witnessed.

The thought of slaughtering those who dared to treat his son in such a way…

Kyrie gave a small, bittersweet smile. "I remember once, he came to me after a fight. His knuckles were bleeding, and his shirt was torn. I scolded him, of course, but he just laughed it off. Then he told me, 'They can say what they want. I don't need anyone to like me.' But the way he said it…" She trailed off, her eyes softening. "It was the loneliest thing I'd ever heard."

He pressed his lips together again, but not from restraint this time, rather from the effort of keeping his thoughts contained. He wanted to ask questions. Wanted to know every detail, every scar, every moment he had missed.

At length, he inclined his head once more, the gesture precise but weighted. "He is stronger than I imagined."

"Mhm."

Vergil allowed the silence to return, though it carried less tension now. He lifted his cup again, finally taking a slow sip of the tea she had offered. The warmth slid down his throat, grounding him.

He lowered the cup after the first sip, the faintest curl of steam trailing upward, carrying the herbal sharpness that lingered in the air between them. For a long moment, he stared at the surface of the tea, watching it ripple faintly with the movement of his hand, though his thoughts were elsewhere entirely. Kyrie's words echoed in his mind, weaving themselves together with memories that were not his own but which now unbearably pressed on him.

Nero had endured scorn. The boy had lived a life Vergil had once known far too intimately, one he had sworn would never matter to him, even as it carved scars deeper than Yamato itself. And his son had borne the same. A cycle repeated, not by intention but by neglect. By his absence.

Vergil's jaw tightened, his lips pressing into that familiar thin line of control, though the tension behind it was anything but steady. His hand curled faintly around the cup, knuckles paling under the leather of his gloves.

For all his mastery of blade and will, this... this quiet weight of a life he had missed, was something he had no defence against.

And then Kyrie moved. Her chair gave a soft scrape as she shifted, reaching toward the small wooden cabinet beside the table. She opened a drawer, sliding something free from within. When she turned back, Vergil's gaze sharpened instantly.

Without preamble, Kyrie set something on the table between them.

A photograph.

The paper was small, worn at the edges, with its surface faintly bent from years of keeping. Vergil's eyes fell upon it. What he saw there stopped his breath for just a moment.

An eight-year-old Nero stared back at him from the photo. His hair was a mess, wild and unkempt, much like the shock of dark strands Vergil had borne at that age. In his small hands, he gripped a wooden sword, held upright in a defensive stance that was more stubborn than disciplined. His mouth was drawn into a frown, his eyes sharp with defiance that was too old for his youth, as though daring the world to test him.

Vergil did not move at first. He only stared, silent, as if the photograph itself were something fragile he dared not break by looking too hard. But then, slowly, his hand lifted from the cup and reached across the table. His fingers brushed the worn edge before drawing it toward him.

He set it gently before him and, after a heartbeat, let his hand rest against it fully, tracing the boy's outline. The rough grain of the photograph's surface pressed beneath his fingertips as he ran them lightly down the image.

And in that boy, in every line of him, Vergil saw himself.

The resemblance was undeniable. The tilt of his head, the narrowness of his eyes, the set of his mouth, it was like looking at a mirror cast decades backwards. A mirror of a self he had buried, sharpened, and armoured against the world.

Except this was Nero, his son, who had carried those same features without ever knowing from whom they had come.

A flicker crossed Vergil's face, not quite a smile. Something unguarded, caught between pride and regret. For a fleeting instant, the tension in his jaw eased, and the smallest curve ghosted at the corner of his lips.

"He looks like you," Kyrie said simply, watching him with the calm patience of someone who understood the depth of what she had just placed before him.

Vergil remained fixed on the photograph even as her words struck him. Slowly, deliberately, he squinted, and he drew in the faintest breath through his nose.

A flush of something unfamiliar, embarrassment, perhaps, or a pang of self-awareness, stirred beneath the layers of his composure. He did not look at Kyrie. Instead, his gaze held stubbornly to the photograph as he replied, low and curt.

"Ah."

The single syllable escaped him with an awkward tone that was uncharacteristic of him, clipped and restrained as though anything more would betray too much.

Kyrie gave a quiet laugh at his reaction, a soft sound that carried no mockery, only a touch of amusement. Vergil's shoulders tightened almost imperceptibly, but he didn't look up from the photo.

"You're welcome to keep it," she said.

Vergil didn't answer, though his hand remained on the photo. After a pause, he gave the smallest of nods. A reluctant agreement.

Silence settled again, unhurried, until Kyrie spoke once more, her words almost casual.

"Besides… I think I'd want my future father-in-law to have a photo of Nero like this."

Vergil's hand stilled against the table. He lifted his gaze, just briefly, and he caught the faint gleam of a ring on her finger.

He lingered on it only a heartbeat longer before he forced his attention back to the photograph. His lips pressed into that familiar thin line, but the faintest flicker of colour touched his face. He said nothing—perhaps wisely.

Kyrie smiled softly, as if pleased by his reaction. "I'll take that as a yes."

The sound of a door creaked open from the back of the house. A pair of heavy boots stomped across the floor, followed by the familiar clatter of something metal being set down.

"Uh… am I interruptin' somethin'?"

Nico leaned lazily against the doorway that connected to the garage with her ever-present goggles pushed up into her hair. One brow arched high as her eyes flicked between Vergil and Kyrie, the corner of her mouth tugged into a knowing grin.

"Not at all," Kyrie laughed and spared a glance at him. "Actually, could you do me a favour, Nico, and maybe take Vergil to where Nero is?"

The mechanic blinked once, then twice, before another wide grin broke across her face. "Take him? Sure, doll, but I'll be needin' the van for that."

She turned her attention squarely on Vergil, crossing her arms, the grin now edged with something sly. Her eyes said plainly that she knew more than she was letting on—that she could guess well enough what happened.

Vergil exhaled quietly through his nose, the faintest crease tugging at his brow. It seemed, as always, that everyone stood in Nero's corner. Everyone but him.

For a moment, his hand tightened on the photograph, then his grip loosened as he slipped it into his coat pocket. He grabbed Yamato from where it rested against the wall. "Very well."

"Good man," Nico drawled, pushing off the doorframe with a lazy salute.

With a single stroke, Vergil unsheathed Yamato. The air shivered, bending outward until the familiar tear in space split open before them. The faint glow illuminated the room, casting their shadows long across the walls. Beyond the distorted view of the Devil May Cry shop and the van's familiar outline awaited.

Nico let out a low whistle. "Well, now, that saves me the trip from using the ferry. You really are handy to have around, Papa Bear!"

Vergil twitched almost imperceptibly at the nickname, the line of his mouth growing in disapproval. "Make haste, Nicoletta."

"Oh-ho, fancy! It sounds weirder comin' from you than it did from V!"

With Nico going into the portal before him, Vergil turned to look back at Kyrie.

Kyrie smiled and gave him a small wave.

However, Vergil could see a small flash in the young woman's eyes that sharpened just for an instant—a glance that was no longer soft or merely amused, but pointed, precise, almost like a quiet warning. It was subtle, but it carried authority, a silent insistence that he be mindful of the boy she clearly cared for.

Absurdly, it felt more threatening than what Dante had told him earlier.

Vergil's lips pressed into a thin line, and he allowed a single, curt nod in response.

He then went into the portal without fuss.

Chapter Text

"Well, here ya go, Papa Bear!" Nico announced as she eased the van to a halt, gravel crunching under the tyres. The pines overhead rattled in the wind, and the faint outline of ancient stone arches loomed just beyond the treeline. She smacked the steering wheel once for emphasis, then shot Vergil a grin. "Nero shouldn't be too far from here. Though I guess with ya little daddy demon senses, it ain't gonna be hard for you to find your baby!"

From the passenger seat, Dante snorted, then outright barked a laugh, doubling forward with one hand clutching his stomach. "Good one, Nico!"

Vergil formed his lips into a thin line before heading towards the van's door. After they portaled back to the main office, his brother tagged along with them, having received some jobs from Nero's mobile branch that he wanted to help clear.

It took much willpower not to throttle his laughing stock of a twin in the chest.

Ignoring both of them, Vergil slid open the door. Before he could take a step, however…

"Remember what I said, Vergil."

Dante's voice had lost all the laughter from moments before. No mockery now and nor a drawl. Just the steady assurance of a brother laying down a line that could not be crossed.

The retort burned on Vergil's tongue. He wanted to spit it back at Dante, to remind him that his meddling was neither wanted nor needed.

But pride was a hollow shield here, and he knew it.

He drew in a breath, forced down the urge, and inclined his head in a single nod.

"I know."

Vergil couldn't remember this part of Fortuna. He knew, in his time trying to gain information about his father, that he had scoped every part of the Island, every crumbling alley, every shadowed corridor of the underworld's access points. But this stretch of forest, with its jagged stone arches half-swallowed by moss and time, felt alien. Almost… alive.

Then again, it had been over twenty-five years…

Vergil paused mid-step, his hand hovering near the hilt of Yamato. The faint ripple of Nero's energy had been unmistakable at first, a spark of life and demon power interwoven, a signature he knew as well as his own, but now, as he advanced, it slipped through his fingers like smoke.

Each time he closed the distance, the sensation weakened, as though Nero was deliberately receding, hiding, drawing a boundary Vergil could not cross.

A low growl emitted from his throat. Not of anger, not entirely, but frustration sharpened into something more primal. His eyes wept the area, noting the arches, the way the shadows twisted unnaturally. The forest was quiet. Too quiet. Even the wind through the pine branches seemed reluctant to disturb the tension that wrapped the space.

No. No, he would not let his frustration get the better of him again.

Nero deserved better than that. It was his fault Nero was here.

Yamato was glowing restlessly against his sheath, its faint hum echoing in Vergil's mind like a whisper of inevitability. He could feel the blade resonating with Nero's energy, faintly, like a heartbeat just out of reach. His fingers twitched, yearning to draw it, to pierce the silence, to feel the presence fully. But the energy kept slipping away, drifting at the edge of perception.

Vergil continued making his way deeper into the forest, ignoring the slow but increasingly apprehensive feeling in his chest.

The forest began to thin, the dense wall of pines giving way to a clearer path. The sound of wind shifted, carrying with it a subtle, rhythmic ripple that made Vergil stop. It was faint at first, almost like a trick of the night air, but unmistakably there: the gentle, liquid lap of water. He followed it, his steps measured, precise, unerring, until the trees opened into a wide clearing.

Before him stretched a lake, its surface ink-black under the night sky, yet catching glimmers of silver from the moon. The water was vast, expansive, stretching farther than his eyes could immediately trace, bordered by shadows of distant trees that bent over its edges like silent guardians. A faint mist hovered above the surface, curling and twisting in the breeze, giving the lake an ethereal, almost unreal quality. The stillness of it, the quiet that was broken only by the whisper of the wind, set Vergil's senses on edge, sharpening them to every detail.

And there, at the far edge, near the water, a familiar figure sat alone.

Nero's hood was drawn low over his face, shadowing the features Vergil knew so well, though the posture betrayed everything: legs drawn close to his chest, shoulders slightly hunched, a weight pressing him down as though the world itself bore upon him. The boy's head tilted toward a gravestone that caught the pale moonlight, the letters etched into it faintly visible.

Slowly and deliberately, Vergil stepped onto the grass behind Nero, keeping a careful distance. He lowered himself to sit, knees bent, hands resting lightly on the ground behind him. The night air was cool against his face, carrying the scent of pine, damp earth, and the faint, unmistakable aura of his son.

Vergil's eyes remained fixed on Nero's back, on the curve of his hooded shoulders and the slope of his head.

Nero seemed to have acknowledged his presence by shifting his feet, but didn't speak. Instead, his blue spectral wings suddenly came to life in a glow of blue sparks and wrapped themselves protectively around him.

Their clash on the Qliphoth had been a blur of strikes and fury, and Nero's Devil Trigger had been a fleeting, chaotic thing. Powerful, yes, but uncontrolled. He had never had the chance to observe it, to see it, to understand it the way he could now.

Now, as Nero's wings unfurled, glowing with the same spectral blue that Vergil himself knew so well, he couldn't tear his eyes away. They shimmered, sharp and defined. Each feather, each arc of light, was precise yet fluid, responding to Nero's emotions, his thoughts, the subtle tension in his body. They were an extension of his son's will, an embodiment of his strength and control.

He leaned slightly forward, studying them more closely. The edges flickered with the familiar electric-blue energy, dancing like sparks along sharpened steel. Their form reminded him of Yamato in flight, the same deadly grace, the same quiet authority. And yet, there was something so Nero in them: untamed fire restrained by instinct and will, sharpness married to his own heart.

He also wouldn't forget when Nero used them to slap Dante away.

Vergil's lips curved into the faintest, almost imperceptible smile.

This boy was his son. In every way that mattered.

But Vergil felt his smile dim into that thin line he was known for.

He had no right to bask in pride now, not after the things he had flung at Nero back at the office.

He had thrown away the fragile ground they'd gained. He'd watched Nero step into the kind of man who fought for people with his whole heart, and he'd chosen that moment to call him weak. Weak. The word still tasted like ash.

The wings before him now didn't belong to a weakling. They belonged to someone who had carved his own path out of loss and rage, who had taken everything Vergil had given him. His blood, his legacy, his absence. And turned it into something stronger than either of them had been alone.

And yet Vergil had still driven the knife in, as if he were back on the Qliphoth, back to old habits of striking first before anything or anyone could strike him.

His statement had been a reflex born of shame, not truth. But Nero didn't know that. Nero had only heard his father saying the one thing he had feared the most. He had seen it in Nero's eyes. That same look that had haunted him for decades. The look of someone abandoned. The look he had worn as a boy when Sparda disappeared, when he knew his mother's warmth turned to ash, when all he had left was the echo of promises never kept.

How many times had Nero been the one sitting in the dark, convinced no one would ever come for him?

Vergil's gaze stayed fixed on the glimmer of blue light curling off Nero's wings. He could hear the boy's steady breathing, but with that faint rasp of someone fighting to keep it even.

The only sound among it was the soft, comforting lap of the lake at the shore.

"They used to say things about her, you know."

Vergil's head lifted sharply, his pale eyes narrowing as he processed that. Who? He knew who Nero meant, of course. He knew before the word could even leave his tongue. And yet—he wanted to hear it, needed to hear it from his son.

"My mom," Nero said flatly, his head still bowed, his eyes fixed on the gravestone before him. There was a small tremor in it, buried under the effort to sound stronger than he felt. "Growing up, I didn't even know what happened to her. I didn't even know she was dead because no one told me. All I heard was the shit they fucking spewed about her every time anyone saw me."

His wings shifted behind him, feathers of spectral blue tightening closer to his frame.

"They said she was a whore or some sort of prostitute. That she went with anyone who'd give her the time of day. That I was some bastard kid born out of whatever alley she'd been in that night." He let out a bitter laugh, short and humourless. "Fucking idiots. All of them."

Vergil's hands curled against the ground, his nails pressing into the soil. His sentence came out with such sudden venom that it almost sounded foreign against his tongue. "She was nothing like that."

Did they truly think the Son of Sparda, him, of all people, would have lain with someone so beneath the truth of who she was? The thought burned him like acid.

He saw himself destroying every soul who dared to come near Nero in that manner. 

Nero shifted slightly, his shoulders still hunched. "Didn't stop 'em from running their mouths. Didn't stop the kids from repeating it. Every day at the orphanage. At school. Anywhere I went." His voice dropped, quieter now. "It made me fight all the time. Like if I punched hard enough, maybe I could shut 'em up. Prove they were wrong, you know?" His fingers dug into the dirt beside his boots. "Didn't work, though. Just made me angrier, and just made them talk more. Got me kicked out of more places than I can remember."

His son gave another small, estranged laugh. "You'd think all the grown-ups would show some leeway to someone who looked exactly like the guy they worshipped, but I guess not."

Vergil felt his jaw clench as he looked past Nero to the gravestone he was sitting in front of.

It seemed fitting that her burial was placed here. Most of his memories of her had been lost due to his corruption, but the one thing he could recall with any clarity was how much she had loved the sea. How she had lingered by the water, listening to the waves as if they carried secrets only she could hear.

And here she was, resting by a lake that mirrored the night sky.

He wanted to tell Nero that he had known her strength, her kindness, the quiet dignity she carried even when the world turned cruel. He wanted to tell him that she had been more than whispers, more than the filth children had parroted from careless mouths.

Was her body even resting here? How much of her was left in this soil after all these years? The gravestone gave no answer, only a name worn smooth by wind and rain. The mist off the lake drifted over its edge like a shroud, curling around Nero's boots and Vergil's fingers where they dug into the damp earth.

"Your mother was a woman of honour," Vergil said at last, his voice quiet but laced with iron. "She was strong. Too strong to have her name dragged through the mud by those beneath her. If there is blame to be given…" His throat tightened. "…It lies with me. For not being there and for leaving you to hear lies in my stead."

"I don't need you to tell me that," Nero cut him off sharply. His wings flared wider, feathers bristling, and the glow off them deepened, harsh against the mist. "You think one speech about her wipes out the fact that you left her?"

His gaze didn't waver. He let the sting of his son's words land where they belonged. "No," he said. "I don't."

Nero let out an incredulous scoff. "Whatever."

Vergil pressed his lips into a thin line. He would be lying to himself if he said he wasn't feeling an inkling of frustration. It seemed that, for a second, sitting here was no use and whatever he was saying wasn't getting across to Nero.

Patience was a gift. He had never been blessed with it. Not with Dante, not with the world, and certainly not with himself.

Now, staring at his son, his only son, he realised patience was the only weapon left that mattered.

The mist continued to swirl around Nero's wings, and Vergil resisted the urge to reach out, to seize the moment, to force his words into Nero's ears until he listened. That was the man he had always been. So unyielding, so relentless, so suffocating in his pursuit.

But being that man had cost him everything.

He always wondered what his life would have been like if he had taken Dante's hand. He would've taken another path. One that he had denied himself out of pride, fear, and the ceaseless hunger for power.

Would he have been able to protect Nero's mother during her pregnancy? Would he have been the father Nero needed?

He would never know.

However, it seemed that Nero was done with the conversation as he got up. His wings folded in close, the glow dimming to a faint ember. Without looking back, he stepped away from the grave and started walking.

Vergil rose as well, gaze fixed on the broad set of his son's back. He followed at a distance, every stride deliberate, the grass crunching softly beneath his boots. The silence stretched, heavy, broken only by the sound of Nero's uneven breathing.

After a while, the forest swallowed the sound of the lake. Only their footsteps and the sound of the wind remained.

Vergil felt the next thing from his mouth slip.


"Are you planning on walking forever?" He did his best to keep his tone under control. "Or are you simply going to keep running from what stands between us, Nero?"

His instincts saved him, because as soon as those questions were asked, Nero whirled around and lunged right at him with Red Queen, its blade igniting with a streak of crimson heat.

Yamato snapped from its sheath in a flash of blue, catching Red Queen's edge with a ringing clash. Sparks spat from the impact as their blades locked, their eyes meeting over crossed steel.

It was the first time he'd seen Nero's eyes since their argument back in the office. The difference from the pure hurt he saw on his son's face to the now pure rage he was witnessing right now churned his chest.

"Why?" Nero's teeth were clenched so hard his jaw trembled. "So you can call me weak again?"

Vergil parried, sliding back a step as Red Queen came again. Nero's strikes were wild but not sloppy. Each one was edged with precision learned the hard way.

Of course, what he said earlier was getting back at him.

"I-"

"Shut up!" Nero barked, his voice cracking under the weight of fury. His next swing came faster, his sword arcing in a vicious diagonal slash. Sparks leapt into the air as Yamato caught it again, the vibration travelling up Vergil's arms.

This was going nowhere. If their energy became too strong in this forest, he was sure Dante was going to pick up on it and think of the worst. Vergil did not want to have a face-off with both of them.

However, Nero didn't let up. "You think you get to talk? To lecture me after everything?!" His wings flared wide, glowing brighter, their edges ragged now, more flame than feather.

Vergil slid back another step and kept parrying each blow. "I didn't say you were—" He tried again, but it was stuck in his throat as Red Queen hissed past his face, a hair's breadth from opening his cheek.

"You did!" Nero yelled. "You looked me dead in the eye and said I was! After everything I've done, everything I've lost, you still see me as some… some fucking kid who's never gonna measure up to you!"

The last swing knocked Vergil's guard aside. Yamato flickered as it deflected the blade off-line, but Nero stepped into the opening and shoved him back with his free hand, hard enough to send him skidding across the grass.

Vergil steadied himself, breathing slowly as he forced down the reflex to strike back. He wouldn't hurt his child again; he would not. His eyes locked onto Nero's once more. "I said it out of shame…" He said, knowing he was only adding fuel to the fire, but he had to try, even if he sounded so pathetically helpless. "I do see you. I see what you've become."

"Bullshit!" Nero's wings snapped outward again. His chest heaved, his eyes glistening under the hood now pushed back by the force of his own power. "You weren't there. You don't get to stand there and tell me what you see!"

He watched as Nero dug Red Queen's point into the ground, using the sword as leverage as he revved up the handle, itching for another blow.

Vergil forced himself still. The easy answer was to draw Yamato fully, to let instinct take over and carve through the storm Nero was whipping around them. But that would only prove every ugly thing his son had been forced to believe.

"You mistake my caution for contempt," he said. "I do not call you weak because you lack strength. I call you reckless because I fear losing you."

Nero barked a laugh that was half-snarl, half-sob. "Oh, that's rich. Now you're worried about losing me?" He yanked Red Queen out of the earth and swung again. Yamato's sheath caught the flat of the blade. "You don't get to lecture me on recklessness! You weren't there when I was bleeding for people you wouldn't even look at!"

Vergil bared his teeth, finally letting his voice rise, thunder breaking through the night. "Because I know what happens when you throw yourself into danger without thought! I have lived it! I lost everything because of it! Do you want to follow in those footsteps?!"

"I don't need you reminding me how weak I am!" Nero roared. His wings flared to their full span, haloing him in blue fire. "Every day of my life has already done that for me! The orphanage, the streets, the Order, almost losing Kyrie, losing Credo—" His words were becoming fractured, but he pressed forward, blade rattling against Yamato. "I've earned the right to stand here. Don't stand there and tell me you're afraid for me like that makes it all better!"

Vergil's control snapped. He stepped into Nero's guard, their blades grinding together in a shower of sparks, his face inches from his son's. "You think I called you weak because you lack strength?!" He shouted. "You are my son. There is nothing weak about you. But recklessness is not a strength! It is a sickness! It is what devoured me, what took your mother from you and what damned me to hell!"

He shoved Yamato forward, forcing Nero back a step. His chest heaved as he barked out the words like they burned him.

Nero's breath was ragged, his sword trembling in his grip. "Then why—" His voice cracked again as he shouted it, "Why the hell would you look at me and call me the one thing I've fought against my whole damn life?!"

"Because I was a coward!" Vergil thundered back, everything jerking from him like a blade torn free. "Because it is easier to call you weak than to admit I am terrified of losing the only son I have!"

It ripped the air apart, leaving only their harsh, uneven breathing in the silence that followed. Sparks fizzled from their swords where steel still pressed against steel, but neither moved to strike again. Nero's wings trembled, feathers guttering with unstable light, while Vergil's shoulders rose and fell as if every confession had cost him more than any battle.

When was the last time Vergil ever lost control of his emotions like that? He couldn't remember, his own voice still echoing back at him from the trees. His throat burned raw from shouting, and for a heartbeat, it felt as though all the years of discipline and distance he had built had shattered into nothing. Only Nero could drag that out of him. This helpless, furious, aching thing that Vergil had long ago buried with his humanity.

Nero's fingers loosened on Red Queen's hilt. His shoulders heaved, wings trembling like a candle about to gutter out. The blue fire along their edges flickered, then broke apart into motes of light. One by one, the feathers dissolved into sparkles, drifting away on the wind until there was nothing left but his ragged breathing.

Red Queen hit the earth. Nero followed, knees striking the grass as if his strength had finally bled out with the wings. He stayed doubled over, panting, one hand braced against the ground, the other wiping at his face before it even registered he was crying.

"I hated it…" Nero whispered, sounding so fragile and frayed. "I hated that I wasn't strong enough." His chest heaved, and then the dam broke, sobs ripping out of him against his will. "I couldn't protect Credo. I swore I would protect him, protect Kyrie, protect everyone who ever looked at me like I was worth a damn, and I couldn't! I wasn't enough!" His fists struck the dirt, trembling as he folded in on himself. "Kyrie lost her brother because of me, and I hate it, I hate it, I hate it… And I can't—" His breath hitched. "I can't stand that you see it too."

Vergil stood rooted where he was, Yamato hanging limp in his grip. He could only stare at the boy in front of him, his son who had borne every wound he had been too proud to show. It struck him through the ribs, the truth of what Nero was saying and the mirror of his own youth staring back at him.

Credo. He'd heard the name before. First, from Dante in some offhanded recollection, a story about Fortuna's rising star of a holy knight who'd been "too good for the Order that raised him." Then again, later, in a rare, hesitant confession from Kyrie herself when Vergil had gone to see her. Both times, Credo had been painted with the same brush: disciplined, principled, protective to the point of martyrdom.

He'd been told that Credo served as an older brother to his son.

Nero's shoulders shook with the force of his sobs. "I can't even visit his grave without feeling like I'm the one who put him in it. Every time Kyrie looks at me, I see it. And I hate myself for not being stronger. For not saving him. For not being enough." He pressed the heel of his hand to his eyes, hard enough to leave marks. "And then you… You look at me like I'm reckless, like I'm some kid who hasn't learned a damn thing. You don't know how much it kills me."

Vergil slid Yamato back into its sheath. The sound of it locking shut was quiet against the rasp of Nero's cries. The blade then slipped from his grasp, dropping carelessly against his feet. He stepped forward, boots whispering over the grass, and lowered himself down until he was kneeling too, close enough that the warmth of his son's trembling reached him.

For a beat, he hesitated. He had no practice at this, no memory of it from his own father. But the sight of Nero's shaking hands stripped the last of his restraint. Vergil reached out and set a gloved hand on his son's shoulder. When Nero didn't flinch, he tightened his grip and drew him in.

Nero's head dropped against Vergil's chest, his fists clutching at the fabric of his coat like he was holding on for balance. His sobs were muffled against him, wet and broken. Vergil's other arm came up, circling his son's back until he could feel the tremor of each breath.

Vergil held him there, silent at first, letting everything rack through Nero's frame. It felt strange, this weight of another person's grief pressed to him, the salt of their tears soaking into his coat. Strange, but not unwelcome.

He lowered his head until his chin brushed the crown of Nero's hair. The smell of steel and ozone clung to them both, but beneath it was the faintest trace of saltwater from the lake, of damp earth. A smell of mourning. He could almost hear her laugh in it, the quiet patience she had always worn like a cloak.

"I see you," Vergil said quietly, repeating what he told him before, the iron in his voice tempered to something softer. "I have always seen you. And you are not weak. Not for losing, not for surviving, not for still caring when the world taught you to hate."

Nero's breath shuddered out of him, some of the fight draining from his body as he clung to his coat. "Then why does it feel like it's never enough?"

Vergil closed his eyes, pressing his brow to the top of Nero's head the way he remembered his mother once doing. "Because nothing is ever enough to erase what we have lost," he said. "But that does not mean you are less, and it does not mean you have failed." He caught himself, holding Nero closer. "If you are not enough, then neither was I. And yet, you stand before me stronger than I ever was."

These were words Vergil would never have believed himself capable of uttering. Yet here he was, sitting with his son in his arms. The words didn't feel like weakness on his tongue. More so, they felt like the truth. Like something he'd been starving for as much as his son had.

It was relieving.

There was so much he had yet to say. So much he had buried under decades of silence, as if silence itself could keep the ghosts at bay. But now, with his son's tears soaking into his coat, the ghosts didn't feel so far away. For once, he wasn't holding a blade between himself and the world. For once, he wasn't trying to win.

He heard Nero murmur something, but Vergil was unable to make it out. "What was that?"

Nero shifted a little in his arms, but did not move to pull away. "I still have nightmares about you takin' my arm."

Vergil's throat constricted, and for a moment, he found himself unable to speak.

But it seemed like Nero was adamant in continuing.

"I was in a coma for a while after it," Nero murmured almost soundlessly, and Vergil had to lean closer to catch it. "Kyrie sat next to me the entire time and talked to make sure I knew she was there, even though I couldn't answer. And every time she touched me…" He swallowed hard. "…I thought it was you, coming back for the rest of me."

Vergil bowed his head. Very rarely did he feel an ounce of shame for his actions. There was nothing he could've done to undo what he did to his son that day. How pathetic he was, dying as he was walking into the garage, and only his hunger guiding him. All he cared about was getting the Yamato back. He did not care to listen to his son's kind words, nor did he stay back when his son was screaming in pain, when blood gushed out of him as he begged him to wait.

"I'm scared to sleep sometimes," Nero whispered, his voice shaking. "Because if I close my eyes long enough, I'm right back there. I can feel the heat of my own blood running down my side, and my hand still reaching for you even though you're already walking away."

"I'm sorry, Nero," he immediately said, realising he never actually apologised for ripping his arm off. How foolish. "I'm sorry."

There was a pause, broken only by the sound of Nero's ragged breathing against his chest. Then, a wet, humour-tinged laugh rumbled from him, almost breaking through his grief. "You know… I kinda wish you had asked, or, I dunno, explained yourself," Nero said, a teasing edge underneath the tears. "I mean… I would've understood, you know? Probably."

"You would have?" Vergil asked, almost not daring to hope.

Nero's laugh dissolved into another sob. "Yeah… yeah, maybe. I mean, I still hated you at first, but… I would've listened." He paused for a moment before saying, "I know how much Yamato means to you. It's the last thing Gramps gave to you before he had to leave Grandma with you and Dante, right?"

Despite himself, Vergil felt a light chuckle escape, quiet and almost disbelieving. It was the first time he had heard Nero acknowledge his relation to his grandparents. It sounded so innocent and childish, and he could almost picture a younger version of his son being coddled by them. His mother and father would've loved Nero. Nero was truly a saint in their bloodline, and Vergil still couldn't believe the boy was his.

"Yes," Vergil said softly, his voice barely more than a whisper, as if saying it louder might shatter the moment. "It was given to me by your grandfather… and I hoped, in some way, it would guide me and keep me from losing myself completely. I never imagined it would come to mean so much to you as well."

As if on cue, he felt Yamato humming in approval beside them.

Nero sniffled. "Yeah. She's badass." Another small laugh escaped from him. "Yamato helped me get through a lot, you know? She helped me protect Kyrie. I think that's why Dante let me keep her. She kept me goin' even though I didn't know how to use her properly." He let out another shaky breath. "When I was with her, I always felt like… without her giving me the strength-"

"You couldn't protect anything," Vergil finished off for him.

He felt Nero tighten his hold. "Yeah."

Vergil breathed in, deliberately, as if the motion itself could anchor him. His chest rose and fell, and then something he had not expected, or allowed himself to feel in decades, stirred.

He could feel his eyes tightening, the familiar burn of unshed tears pressing against the edges of his lids. He blinked and willed himself to swallow it.

And yet, his vision blurred. His throat constricted further, and despite every instinct screaming for composure, the faintest sting of moisture pooled in the corners of his eyes.

Vergil's jaw clenched, and he blinked rapidly, trying to fight it. His pride, his discipline, and his identity all screamed at him to remain unbroken. And yet, when he looked down at Nero, trembling in his arms, nothing could hold back the tide of what was rising inside him. The tears came anyway, silent at first, coating his lashes and wetting his cheeks.

And Nero, bless the stars, already knew what was happening.

"Are you crying, Dad?"

"No."

"Yeah, you are. I can feel my hoodie getting wet."

Vergil's throat tightened again, a harsh, dry sound caught somewhere between a swallow and a groan. He pressed his lips together, but the shake in his chest betrayed him.

"I am… not," he said again, almost defensive, though the quiver at the edge of his words gave him away.

Nero let out a snort. "Sure, Dad. Whatever you say. Don't worry, I won't tell anyone," he said, still clinging to him, still letting his tears soak through his coat.

Vergil almost scoffed, but what came instead was something else. It felt strange, unnatural, and yet the sound of Nero's soft laugh and the warmth of him pressed close stripped the edge from everything else. He felt the corner of his mouth curl upward.

"I should be furious with you for that," Vergil said, but the tiniest quirk of his lips betrayed him.

"I'm sorry."

Vergil blinked down at him at the sudden apology. "For what?"

"For the things I said… back in the office," Nero clarified quietly. "I shouldn't have thrown all that at you. I was scared." His fingers bunched tighter into Vergil's coat. "I just… I'm sorry."

"You needn't apologise for speaking your mind."

"I still do," Nero said stubbornly. "I'm sorry… I'm sorry…" His apologies frayed into a broken murmur against Vergil's chest.

Vergil drew in a slow breath, his hand shifting from Nero's shoulder to the back of his neck. With his other hand, he reached down, curling his fingers under Nero's chin. Gently, so gently, as though the boy might shatter, he tilted Nero's face upward.

Red-rimmed eyes stared back at him, lashes wet and cheeks streaked with salt. They were too familiar, those eyes: full of defiance and grief and something fragile underneath.

"You've nothing to apologise for," Vergil said, holding Nero's gaze. "I deserved every word. And yet…" He brushed his thumb just under one eye, wiping away a tear that hadn't quite fallen. "…I am still here."

"Why?"

"Because you are my son," Vergil said simply. "And there is no wound you could give me with words that I have not already given myself."

For a moment, neither of them moved. The forest had gone still, only the wind tugging softly at their hair. Nero's trembling eased fractionally under Vergil's hands.

Vergil lowered his forehead to rest gently against Nero's, his voice scarcely more than a breath. "I will not walk away from you again."

Something in Nero's face crumpled. He pressed closer, the last of his tears spilling freely now, but without the same choking grief as before. "You don't think you should've stayed gone in the Underworld?"

He exhaled through his nose, the sound rough. "I thought that at the time," Vergil admitted. "It was not a lie. I believed my presence would only harm you."

Nero's brows drew together, but he didn't pull away. "And now?"

Vergil's fingers stayed at his son's jaw, steady despite the quiver running up his arm. "I don't believe that anymore. I only believe that you should be protected and loved."

Nero stared at him for a heartbeat, as if what he said hadn't quite landed. His mouth opened, shut again. "Loved?" He echoed, like it was a word he wasn't sure he was allowed to touch.

He didn't flinch. "Yes. Loved." The tremor in his arm travelled to his hand, but he kept it there, thumb still at the edge of Nero's jaw.

"You've never said that before."

"I should have sooner. You deserved to hear it from me, not guess at it between battles."

Nero gave a small, broken laugh, his eyes glistening anew. "You're really saying it now?"

"Yes." Vergil's forehead still rested against his. "You are my son. And I love you. I will protect you for the rest of my life, Nero."

He felt Nero stiffen, everything seeming to sink into him like sunlight after a storm. His lips trembled, eyes flicking away, as if he wasn't sure he was allowed to feel this. Then, a stuttered, raw whisper escaped him.

"I love you too, Dad," he stammered, the words foreign on his tongue. "I… I've wanted to hear that for all my life." His voice shook, torn by years of wanting, of longing for a father's warmth he had almost given up hoping for.

Vergil's hand moved to cradle the back of Nero's head. He pressed a gentle, paternal kiss to his son's forehead. "I know," he murmured. "And I'm proud of you."

Nero let out a small, contented sigh and slowly leaned against him, body melting into Vergil's embrace. The boy's breathing gradually slowed, head resting against Vergil's chest, until at last, he drifted into a quiet, safe sleep.

Vergil held him close, feeling the steady rise and fall of Nero's chest beneath his hand. For the first time in years, the world felt still. The past was behind them, the future uncertain but no longer frightening.

The forest whispered around them, leaves rustling like a gentle lullaby, and Vergil stayed perfectly still, letting Nero sleep in the safety of his arms.

As Vergil stood up, it hadn't even been thirty minutes until he heard the van racing down towards him. Knowing Nicoletta and her reckless driving, he supposed he shouldn't have been surprised when she drove through most of the bushes and some tree stumps to get to where he and Nero were.

The van door had burst open, and Dante jumped out of the vehicle with a grin that made Vergil want to kill him right then and there.

"I'm guessing it went well then?" Dante's gaze went down to his sleeping nephew, the boy's head resting against Vergil's shoulder. "Aww, how cute!"

"Lemme see, lemme see!" Nico practically vaulted out of the driver's seat, boots crunching on snapped twigs as she stood next to his brother. Her glasses slid down her nose as she leaned in, eyes going soft despite the grin still plastered on her face. "Holy hell. The dumbass looks like he finally ran outta fuel!"

"All thanks to big ol' Papa Bear over here!" Dante waggled his eyebrows, making a mock cradling motion with his arms. "Who knew you had a lullaby hidden in that frosty heart, Verge!"

Vergil ignored him at first, lowering his gaze. Nero's face had softened into something utterly disarming. A faint smile. His own expression eased naturally, a softness blooming there that no one but Nero had ever drawn from him.

When the teasing went suspiciously quiet, he glanced up sharply to find Dante and Nico both standing there, sharing the same manic, conspiratorial grin.

Vergil's eyes narrowed into dangerous slits. "I will slaughter you, Dante."

"Hey now," Dante drawled, spreading his hands in mock surrender. "Don't say that. It's just adorable to see, that's all!"

Without another word to entertain, Vergil brushed past them, coat tails sweeping behind him, and climbed into the van with Nero still nestled against him as he shut the door with his foot to have a few seconds of privacy. It was one thing when Dante teased him. It was another when Nicoletta joined in. Together? An unholy torment that reduced him to an unprecedented headache even he couldn’t escape from. 

Inside, he lowered himself onto the worn couch built into the van's side, shifting until he could settle Nero across his lap. He tugged the boy's hood straight, fingers brushing through the short locks of his hair. Nero murmured something in his sleep but didn't wake, curling instinctively toward the warmth.

A moment later, the door opened again, and Nico swung herself back into the driver's seat. Dante followed behind her, setting Nero's duffel bag, Blue Rose, and Red Queen neatly in the corner.

"Kid's really knocked out, huh?" Dante stood over them with a smile on his face. "Can't imagine you both got this far without clashing swords though."

He understood his brother's implication clearly. "You felt it."

"Sure did. You two get angry preeetty quickly. Wasn't surprised, really." Dante reached out and ruffled Nero's hair. "I could tell you guys weren't really going at it, so I stood back. Glad I did because I wouldn't be seeing this right now. Good going, big bro."

"I don't need your praise, Dante," Vergil said, throwing an infuriating glare at him.

His brother just laughed, patting him lightly on the shoulder. "I'm just happy for you. He doesn't wanna admit it, and he thinks I don't know, but the kid sleeps better when you're close to him, even if you’re just hanging a few metres off." Dante smiled at him again and then gently poked Nero's forehead. "Stubborn ass, just like you. Sometimes I can't tell the difference between the two of you because… well, you know, you're both insufferable in the same way," he said with a sigh before stepping back. "But hey, that's family for you."

Dante yawned, stretching out his arms. He settled in the passenger seat as Nico quietly started up the van without so much of a ceremony.

Vergil adjusted Nero in his lap, making the boy shift into a more comfortable position against him. His fingers brushed back his hair again before tracing the curve of his cheekbone.

His eyes then travelled to Nero's right hand, lying limp on his stomach. Hesitantly, almost as if testing the waters, Vergil intertwined his own fingers with the boy's. The contact was tentative at first, a fragile bridge between them, but he held on, silently hoping that Nero's dreams were gentle tonight, filled with quiet triumphs and without the shadows from the past.

Another small, subconscious smile tugged at Nero's lips.

Vergil's chest loosened, the tight coil of worry and tension relaxing as he allowed himself to believe that perhaps, finally, he and his son were at peace.

And it was enough to make him smile.