Chapter Text
Devil May Cry was rarely peaceful, but tonight it held a different sort of chaos.
The neon sign buzzed faintly outside. Rain hadn’t started yet, but the air held that metallic hum that comes before a downpour. The office lights were warm, soft, low.
Nero was on the floor behind the couch, playing something imaginative with the twins, all giggles and plastic toys. They were part of the room, but far enough away that their voices blended into a comforting background.
Vergil sat in the armchair nearest the couch, composed as ever, legs crossed neatly, hands folded. Even in a cluttered space, he carried himself like a man who belonged elsewhere—marble posture in a room full of half-eaten pizza boxes and laundry Dante swore he’d get to “tomorrow.”
Dante lounged sideways on the couch, head tipped back over the armrest. He held a slice of cold pizza in the air like a conductor’s baton and took dramatically slow bites.
He grinned without looking over.
“You’re staring.”
Vergil bristled. “And you are eating that wrong.”
“It still works,” Dante said, taking an even messier bite. “Besides, there is no wrong way to eat pizza.”
Vergil felt his mouth twitch—not quite a smile. “You are an embarrassment.”
“And you love me anyway,” Dante replied easily.
Vergil inhaled sharply, eyes turning away.
Behind them, the twins shrieked with victory over some invented game. Nero muttered something in mock exasperation.
But Dante’s attention was entirely on Vergil.
He rolled upright and swung his legs off the couch, leaning forward with elbows on knees. “Hey. You okay?”
Vergil frowned faintly. “Why would I not be?”
“Because you’re sitting like you’re waiting for the other shoe to drop.”
Vergil looked down at his own posture, stiff and formal.
“It’s how I sit.”
“Mm-hm.” Dante leaned a little closer. “You don’t sit like this when you’re comfortable.”
Vergil’s eyes flicked to him—sharp, startled. They softened.
Dante lowered his voice, tone shifting. Gentle. “Verge, relax. You know you can.”
Vergil hesitated.
A small, grudging sigh escaped him.
He eased back into the chair, just enough that Dante noticed.
Dante smiled. Not the loud grin he gave the world, but the soft one he only used for family. “See? Not that hard.”
Vergil looked away before his face gave anything away.
A toy clattered on the hardwood floor. Nero mumbled something about bedtime that was met with protests.
Dante chuckled softly, listening to the small chaos with affection.
Vergil watched him.
He didn’t mean to.
But Dante in a moment of peace was… startling.
He was so relaxed. Content.
Alive in a way that made Vergil’s chest tighten painfully—a reminder that Dante had always burned bright enough for both of them. A reminder that Vergil had never once imagined a world without that light.
Dante caught him staring again.
“What?” he said, eyebrows lifting.
Vergil blinked. “…Nothing.”
“Liar.”
“Drop it.”
Dante didn’t. Of course he didn’t.
He nudged Vergil’s knee with his own.
“You ever think about this?” Dante asked quietly. “Us. Here. Like this. After everything?”
Vergil’s voice came out low. “No.”
Dante smirked gently. “Yeah, me neither. But I like it.”
Vergil swallowed. “It is… tolerable.”
Dante laughed, warm and bright, and leaned back on the couch. “You’re getting sentimental in your old age.”
Vergil shot him a dangerously flat look. “Say that again.”
“You’re getting sen—”
Vergil’s hand twitched toward Yamato purely on instinct.
Dante burst into full laughter.
Background noise.
Warm lights.
Family in the periphery.
His brother by his side.
Vergil breathed it in. Even after years of it, he struggled to believe it was real.
For once, he allowed himself to exist inside the moment—no threat, no blade, no shadow of battle. Just his family.
Dante grew quiet again.
He looked at Vergil—really looked, searching his face with something unexpectedly serious.
“I’m glad you stayed,” he said.
Vergil’s breath caught. “I didn’t have anywhere else to be.”
“That’s not why,” Dante murmured.
Vergil looked away, throat tight.
Before he could respond—
The air shifted.
It was soft at first. The light flickered. A quiet ripple passed through the room like a breath from some ancient throat.
Dante froze.
Vergil felt it too.
The warmth in the room folded inward like a dying ember.
Nero’s voice trailed off.
Dante pushed himself upright, every line of him changing—instincts sharp, posture coiled, eyes scanning the corners of the room that moments ago held nothing but normalcy.
“…Verge,” he said softly, “you feel that?”
Vergil stood.
“Yes.”
The peace that had filled the room drained away.
What came next would tear it apart.