Chapter Text
Vergil stirred.
White noise exploded behind his eyes and a pitiful groan escaped him. For one disoriented moment, he genuinely wondered if he’d been run over by a freight train in his sleep. The only thing disproving such a theory was the soft bedding beneath him. His skull throbbed like it had split clean in two—but from personal experience, it was the initial stab that hurt most, not the split-up ordeal.
He cracked one eye open, lazily scanning his surroundings.
His room. At Devil May Cry.
How he got here, or what had transpired the night before, was a complete mystery. But someone had clearly looked after him: his shoes were removed, and a glass of water sat precariously atop a stack of books by the bed.
Flashes from the night before flickered through his mind like a broken film reel—blurry, nonsensical. Impossible. Surely, those were dreams. Or hallucinations. They couldn’t be real.
For the next few days Vergil nursed what could only be described as the worst hangover of his life. He sulked in his room, dragging himself out only for water or the bathroom. The less said about the puking, the better. Every movement was punished, as if his body resented functioning at all.
When he first ventured out, he was greeted by yet another reason to stay reclusive: photographic evidence of the lost night.
The massive gaps in his memory had become a gallery of disgrace. Photos were taped to every flat surface in the office: the bulletin board, the fridge, the doors. Even the ceiling. In every single one he was unmistakably… not himself.
Vergil did not join in dance with his doppelganger. He did not dance with Dante. And he absolutely did not prance around like some fool in front of his son.
No. Impossible. Fabricated nonsense. A farce.
And yet, the damning evidence stared back at him, mocking him. His chest tightened. He humiliated himself—worst of all—in front of Nero. Whatever scraps of respect his son might’ve had for him were surely obliterated.
The culprit was obvious.
Dante.
Who else would have the audacity to paper the office in mockery? That smug, insufferable buffoon was likely doubled over in laughter.
Vergil didn’t hesitate. With ruthless efficiency, he hunted down every last photo and shredded them into confetti. Satisfied, he returned to his room, vowing to never ever repeat such foolishness again.
His peace lasted less than twenty-four hours.
Fresh copies cropped up like weeds, multiplying faster than he could rip them apart. And to his growing horror, they depicted entirely new scenes.
Paris. Rome. London. Amsterdam.
How, in the name of Sparda, did they get there?
The only possible answer: Yamato.
She’d clearly been hard at work that night—judging by images of the trio dangling upside-down from the Eiffel Tower, grinning like lunatics.
Not the most charming way to discover he’s capable of cutting portals not only while half-dead but also blackout drunk. In fact, he seemed more efficient in this fine art while thoroughly intoxicated, if the whirlwind tour documented in the photos was to be believed.
Normally, slicing portals over such distances drained him too much to attempt more than once or twice. But drunk Vergil appeared to operate under a different set of rules. And his motto was clear:
One slice from Yamato, and the world’s your oyster. Or cheese, each hole another portal.
By now, the endless photo hunt had grown stale. The flood of new images slowed to a trickle, and with it, Vergil’s resistance. He’d seen it all: himself attempting splits, Dante inhaling an entire pizza, or worse, pretending to eat the Leaning Tower of Pisa while Nero playfully shoved it into his mouth, and—perhaps the final blow—a shot of Dante pole dancing at a club in the red-light district, daring Vergil to outdo him.
There was no saving face. Only endurance.
What choice did he have but to wait for the storm to blow over and avoid everyone? If it were only Dante, they could settle things with a duel—he’d thrash his twin soundly and shut him up for good.
But Nero?
He wouldn’t. He couldn’t. He couldn’t face the boy.
From what he overheard, Nero had recovered quickly—unsurprising, given the boy hadn’t marinated his liver in liquor like the twins had. And Dante? Entirely unaffected. He practically thrived in the aftermath, immune to shame and hangovers alike. Typical.
He even had the gall to check in.
At first, Dante left glasses of water and snacks outside Vergil’s door—small gestures of concern Vergil stubbornly ignored. Well, the snacks at least. The water was practical, and he wasn’t above taking advantage of it.
As time went on, however, the visits became more frequent. Soft knocks turned into insistent ones, until Dante seemed to be checking in on him on an hourly basis.
“Vergil?” Dante’s voice filtered through the door, uncharacteristically subdued. “Listen, if this is about more than just a nasty hangover, then… what happened in Paris stays in Paris. Or Rome. Or London. Or Amsterdam. Or—eh, you get the idea.”
Vergil rolled his eyes but said nothing. Easy for Dante to brush it off—after immortalizing his humiliation in countless prints and gloating over Vergil’s momentary lapse in judgement.
“Kid’s worried about you. And… ” A pause. “Just poke your head out soon, alright?”
Vergil stared at the door in silence.
And kept it closed.
It wasn’t until the next afternoon, with Dante and Nero out on a job, that Vergil emerged from his self-imposed isolation. The office was quiet—peaceful, for once. He busied himself tearing down the remnants of what he’d simply dubbed ‘the incident’.
His moment of peace shattered when the office door was kicked open. Nico barged in, shouting at the top of her lungs.
“Lil’ bitch! Get your butt down here! I picked up all ‘em parts in town!”
She froze mid-swag when she spotted Vergil but quickly recovered, throwing exaggerated finger guns his way.
“Ay, if it ain’t my favorite ex-demonic-cat-lady. If the kitty was still ‘round, I’d be worried it started nibblin’ yer corpse. Word is, you haven’t been pokin’ that pretty head out lately.”
“Nicoletta,” Vergil greeted coolly, not bothering to look up. Moments later the sharp tang of cigarette smoke invaded his senses, and he wrinkled his nose in disgust.
“I won’t repeat myself. Smoke in this office, and I’ll shorten your lifespan faster than those lung tars ever will.”
Nico took a slow drag. “Ain’t no problem in the van, so why you fussin’ now? Not like this’ll shorten your potentially long-ass lifespan.”
She blew the smoke in his direction, same as she did to Nero.
“The van may be your kingdom, but this is mine,” he said evenly, finally lifting his eyes to fix her with an icy, all-too-demonic glare. “Respect its rules—or perish.”
“Technically, this is yer brother’s castle,” she shot back, waving the cigarette around and further spreading her fumes.
“Technically, it’s Nero’s van,” he countered dryly.
“Yeah, yeah. Can’tcha at least let me finish this one smoke?” She leaned closer, peering over his shoulder at what he was tearing apart.
“You’re welcome to pollute elsewhere,” Vergil said with a curt gesture towards the door. “Nero is currently out on a job with Dante.”
“Figures. Otherwise, Nero’d be down here whinin’ already.”
Their bickering fizzled out as Nico’s attention landed on the photos scattered around. She plucked one taped to the mini-fridge, a grin already forming.
“When the hell did y’all have a party and forget’a invite me?”
Vergil’s sharp eyes snapped to the cigarette. He snatched it from her hand, and to his surprise, she didn’t resist. But when he reached for the photo, she jumped back, snickering, and blew the last of her smoke right in his face.
“Oooh,” Nico drawled, inspecting the image. “This the legendary Christmas party Nero kept yappin’ about? So he wasn’t makin’ it up in his fever dreams.”
She let out a low whistle, grinning wider at the sight of Vergil mid-song—mic in hand, hair wild, expression hilariously wasted.
Vergil sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to stave off a growing headache. He seized the photo, then crushed the burning cigarette ember into his own ridiculous face.
“Indeed. These nuisances have been appearing throughout the office. Multiplying.”
“Could always kill the printer,” Nico offered with a shrug.
Vergil’s brow furrowed, considering the simple yet drastic solution.
Yamato materialized in his hand, blade ready to strike down any device vaguely resembling a printer.
“Whoa, whoa, hold yer’ horses!” Nico yelped, throwing up her hands. “That was a joke. Ya can’t jus’ kill every printer in a five-mile radius and expect it to fix things.”
Vergil lowered Yamato—reluctantly.
“Then what do you propose?”
“Look, the way I see it, there ain’t a problem here at all.”
He arched a skeptical eyebrow.
“I’m serious,” she insisted. “Just the other day, I had to listen to Nero gushin’ on and on about how much fun he had that night—what he remembers of it anyway. I honestly thought he was talkin’ out his ass.”
She rummaged through the pile and pulled out another photo. This one taken by Nero at a pub. He’d turned the camera on himself, grinning and thumbing over his shoulder. Behind him, Vergil was mid-swing, lashing some poor sod with his belt, while Dante had his back by pinning another to a table.
Nico gave another exaggerated whistle at the image. “But these babies don’t lie.”
“This is Nero’s doing?” Vergil frowned, caught off guard. He’d logically assumed Dante was behind it all—it was textbook behavior for his twin. But Nero?
“Sure is. I told him, ‘proof or didn’t happen’.”
“That doesn’t explain why he’s posting the photos.”
“What d’ya mean why?” Nico stared at him like he’d just asked how to tie his own shoes. “My gawd, yer’ serious.”
She quickly scoured the pile and handed him a photo: Nero sandwiched between the twins, each with an arm slung over his shoulders. Dante pulled his nephew into a near-crushing squeeze against his side, while Vergil’s hold was steady—almost protective.
Nero looked warm, bundled in the coat Vergil had gifted him. He could vaguely recall Nero accusing them of stealing his body heat. Yet despite the boy’s complaints, he leaned into them without reservation, visibly at ease.
Vergil’s usually sharp eyes were softened by a rare flicker of mirth. Across from him, Dante beamed, grinning like a devil on payday. Both twins wore festive Christmas hats—red and blue respectively—and Vergil had even relinquished his highly coveted tinsel garland, wrapping it snugly around his son so he wouldn’t feel left out.
“It’s what people do with good memories,” Nico explained. “Nero hasn’t had this much fun in forever—said so himself. Sure, some of it’s to yank yer chains, but mostly? It’s his way of sayin’ he had a damn good time.” She folded her arms. “He’s already schemin’ how to drag you two over for New Year’s. But you keep hidin’ in yer ivory tower.”
Vergil stared at the photo in silence. Nico’s words sank in.
So Nero wasn’t mocking him. Not truly.
This meant something. Perhaps the boy hadn’t lost all respect for him. Maybe—just maybe—he trusted him the smallest scrap more.
Nico, of all people, wouldn’t lie about this. And Nero, for all his brashness, was earnest with those he trusted.
“...Perhaps there is merit in your words.”
“‘Course there is,” Nico snorted. “I’m always right.”
Vergil said nothing. His eyes lingered on the photo. Strangely, he no longer minded it. It was—acceptable.
Endearing, even.
The office doors swung open. Nero and Dante strolled in, both wearing satisfied, post-job grins. Dante had likely waived his cut—either in the holiday spirit or his own whim.
Nico immediately jumped into banter mode. “Took ya’ long enough, slowpoke.”
“Who you calling slow anything?” Nero shot back. “I finished a job while you—”
Vergil moved quickly, folding the photo and tucking it into his coat’s inner pocket. It was where he kept the few things that mattered.
Hidden. Safe. Close to heart.
Where it belonged.