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Vergil considered himself a creature of self-discipline.
Powers honed and perfected over years of conflict and agony, within each meticulous swing of Yamato that bisected a new enemy. Even the very shape of his body had become streamlined and sleek, perfection and diligence honed into a form built to effortlessly maim. Not a thread frayed. Not a hair out of place. Not an indulgence taken- despite how much he yearned. How much he wanted.
It had taken quite some time to become accustomed to his brother’s home- the office of Devil May Cry. The floorboards creaked near the edges and cobwebs accumulate in the corners of the ceiling, but it was better than living amongst the wilderness. Rehabilitation, Dante had called it; his introduction to the mundane. Everything was new to him- the static crackle of the television, the feeling of warmth in his bones instead of an unearthly chill, a new flavor to taste. His brother had been insistent on buying him different types of tea to experience, stating that he ‘needed to finally expand his flavor palette’ or other such nonsense. It wasn't as if Vergil hadn't ever had tea before while traveling, but he had never gotten the opportunity to experiment like this before. He had half a mind to dissuade his brother’s ridiculous sentimentality, but the look on Dante’s face had curbed the sharpness of his tongue each and every time. Bright and lackadaisically hopeful, to the point where even the stress lines in his brow would dissipate.
Foolishness.
Oolong had ended up becoming his favorite- a unique blend of delicate floral notes and toasted richness. Vergil had never tasted anything like it before, and the complexity of the flavor profile had all but enchanted him. A luxury for the undeserving. Not to mention, a very stark contrast to the gruel he was forced to choke down during his time in the underworld. Tasteless, vile meat and sinew- pure sustenance and nothing more. Humans severely underestimated the culinary wonders they had invented. Ignorant of what their lives could be reduced to at a moment's notice. It filled Vergil’s heart with withering envy, so much so that he had to choke it down at times. With every fearless touch, every brave step others took without a hint of hesitance or the cautiousness of a battered shelter mutt. How sickening. The only saving grace of it all, was that Nero was subjected to none of it. He marched forward with his head held high, charging recklessly into battle with a confidence befitting that of Spardakin. Despite their bickering and past transgressions, the sins Vergil could never truly repent for- it never once slowed his son down. Even while missing an arm, Nero had stormed into the den of Urizen with no trepidation.
Mirroring his own overconfidence near two decades ago, after defeating a man who thought himself God and rushing towards the gravest mistake of his life.
Vergil had assumed prior to moving in that it would take time to acclimate, and that was proving to be beyond true. Even his little brother had changed so much in the thirty years they were apart, and the harsh truth of the matter was that he had changed. Dante had grown and matured and evolved, and although a majority of his core personality remained, Vergil was forced to face that he didn't know his brother as well as he thought he did. And yet, he was still welcomed into Devil May Cry with open arms. It took time; to stop the constant flinching at every foreign sound, to become used to the people who had been a part of Dante's life in his absence. Vergil found himself regarded cautiously, like some feral violent beast prepared to snap- a sentiment he often returned.
Distrust was common (and to be expected), and there were a few topics he didn't even know how to address- Trish's overall existence and appearance, the elderly gentleman who keeps finding jobs for Dante, a rather outspoken young girl supposedly named Patty, who would beam at his brother every time he praised her for cleaning up. Despite their obvious discomfort and lack of trust with him, they mostly remained tolerable, likely for Dante's sake. Vergil wasn't sure if he should feel relieved that his brother had found such loyal companions, or sickeningly jealous of their time with him.
Although, perhaps the most perplexing new constant in his life was you.
'An old soul,' Dante had called you- to which you playfully swatted at him for. Supposedly you were a devil hunter in your own right, occasionally assisting with work and the rare overload of demon sightings. And yet, despite how everyone else behaved, you never once treated him with the same apprehension. Every so often when you popped into Devil May Cry, insisting on sorting through the paperwork on his brother's desk- your greetings to him were easygoing and quiet. Granted, Vergil was not one for idle chit-chat, and your efforts were often met with a blank stare or slight nod, but it never deterred the force that was you. You wormed your way into his routine with the gentlest flourish, never demanding, but never entirely absent whatsoever.
Vergil could still recall the way you had brightened upon discovering he had found an appreciation for oolong tea- earnest and thrilled as if his enjoyment had been your very own. He couldn't hope to understand, he could only watch as you started appearing alongside grocery bags, full of different blends, or even little pastries you happened to find that 'reminded you of him.' The notion that he looked anything similar to a blueberry was redundant. However, he slowly became a little more accustomed to you. An expected part of his morning. Gradually easing into this much too vulnerable life with his brother and those that chose to stay by him. Temperance was a virtue, Vergil had soon come to learn.
Between eventually taking on jobs to help with rent and acclimating to the adopted grandchildren Nero would saddle him with, a routine was formed. This form of stability was something foreign to him, but it seemed to assist with processing much better. Being able to roughly expect the same encounters every day was a stark contrast to the hell he was subjected to, in both literal and metaphorical sense. Waking with the first light of dawn, meandering downstairs to brew himself a cup of tea, observing Dante shamble about and complain that his back aches, then settle into work.
Keeping the office functional and alit was hardly any difficulty now that Vergil had taken the reigns- while his brother seemed incapable of focusing on basic equations (or rather unwilling to engage with what he deems unnecessary), simple arithmetic was no issue to him. Dante still handled the bills for the most part, he's managed to keep Devil May Cry from bankruptcy, after all. But now, with his elder brother limiting the amount of money they could spend or give away within a select timeframe- suddenly the looming threat of bills weren't such an ordeal. After suffering for so long in less than optimal conditions, they were not going without basic amenities ever again if Vergil could help it. The wonders of constant hot water and functioning electricity were luxuries he refused to squander.
Despite this cycle of cohabiting and balance, another issue had begun to crop up.
Vergil liked to consider himself a creature of self-discipline. However, no amount could will away the persistent ache in the back of his skull.
Throbbing and ever constant, it has been plaguing him as of late. Vergil doesn't know why or how, and the usual remedies aren't taking effect. Normally headaches are to be expected dealing with his insane family and most notably Dante- but this was dragging on. Like a slowly settling malaise that had begun to fester beneath his flesh. The headache was making him even more sensitive to sensory stimuli- flinching at harsh sounds and squinting within bright light. On a normal day, his senses were usually keyed up to eleven. But this appeared to be yet another unique form of torture. The length of this affliction in particular was bothersome; Vergil was by no means a stranger to agony. He had become so familiar to the sensation of pain that it may as well be an old acquaintance. It was irritating on a base level, but even more so because he couldn't possibly fathom why. His demonic blood should easily evaporate any possible germ that could've set in, and he hadn't spent time in Hell in quite some time- no possible chance for any disease of demoniacal nature. Lurking within the confines of the quiet bedroom Dante had provided was to be expected, but his continued refusal to leave asides from checking on his family or performing the necessities required of him was garnering attention.
Unpleasant attention.
Then, of course, you noticed. Because how could you not?
Vergil wasn't sure what revealed his plight- some microexpression he would have to beat out of himself later. Perhaps the faintest wince or the weary crinkles near the edges of his eyes. Alas, you took notice. It began with vaguely concealed glances sent towards his way, slowly progressing to warm cups of tea left near his usual spot at the table. That troubled expression on your face never failed to metaphorically raise his hackles. He was not in need of any pity, much less over something so completely trivial. A simple migraine would not bring low the Dark Slayer. No matter how aggravatingly persistent it remained over the entirety of a week. Of course, that never stopped you from continuing your foolish antics- sometimes even shooting Dante a poorly hidden look. Incorrigible.
As a result, his brother, and even Nero had slowly begun to tiptoe around him, minding their volume whenever he escaped the confines of his room. The lack of boisterousness assisted with keeping the torment at bay, but watching the normally loud, outspoken members of his family lower their tone made his eyelid twitch. Vergil wasn't certain if he wanted to flee from it all or take the Yamato in hand and clear out any demons within 200 miles just to cease their theatrics. Humanities painkillers barely made a dent within his system, so any kind of 'normal' relief was out of the question. He would simply have to bear it, ride out the throbbing in his skull and hope the pressure behind his eyes would dull.
Time progresses as normally as it can amidst the throbbing of his headache. Work still needed to be done, demonkind still needed to be slayed. Even with Dante and Nero being ostentatiously irritating with their caution, a week or two goes by without too much fuss. That is, until a sickly heat begins to fester beneath his flesh. Vergil isn't exactly sure when it started or how, but one morning, he suddenly woke up in a puddle of his own sweat and overstimulation. It wasn't uncommon for him to sleep in his vests or coat, in addition to the Yamato's scabbard (ignoring Nero's insistence that he 'sleep in comfortable clothing like a sane person,') but this was beyond the norm. Pearlescent skin peels off of the sheets as Vergil rises, immediately holding his hands to his face in an effort to drown out the agony still pounding in his skull. Perhaps he had been cursed- the demonic resistance in his blood should surely wipe out any human illness? He stumbles his way into the shower, mindlessly snatching a fresh change of clothes on his way, hoping the cool water could ease what simmers beneath.
Vergil doesn't bother turning on the light; most days, he simply couldn't bring himself to look at the faded cracks in his flesh- long existing remnants of his time as a hollow puppet. They're a malignant purple, webbed across his limbs like a poison that eternally flows through his veins. Mustering up the energy, he strips himself of his clothing and turns on the shower, blindly fumbling for the handle. Misery was once again seizing him, brain fogged as the fever seems to boil his already battered brain. Vergil pants, shuddering as he feels perspiration slide down his forehead and back. Once the water is set to an appropriate level, much colder than his usual preference, he grits his teeth and slowly steps into the spray. The juxtaposition of hot and cold leaves him reeling, body trembling in protest as Vergil blindly clutches at the wall. He was grateful he didn't turn on the light earlier; no doubt the addition would be all too much for his overstimulated mind.
Vergil resists the urge to collapse for all of a few minutes, not even bothering with his usual shower routine. It felt childish and pathetic to be brought so low. The muscles of his legs betray him; limbs wobbling as he sinks down to the floor. His body utterly collapses onto the tiled floor. It felt like the ailment was sapping his strength, draining him of the vitality that normally came to him in spades. An uncomfortable, untreatable lethargy that rendered him incapable of even forcing himself upright. Vergil swallows, rasped and weary within the cover of darkness. If he had any less self control, he would simply…….remain here. Drenched and chilled, surrounded by darkness and away from anything that would cause noise or disturb him. Its an unrealistic fantasy, knowing Dante would likely bust down the door if he sensed anything amiss.
But for now………perhaps he could indulge. This is okay. The dull aching of his skull had abated temporarily, the fire within extinguished. Pure relief of this caliber had been nothing but a dream for the past few weeks. Catharsis. That was the term for the soothing emotion flooding his battered body. Vergil lets his head loll against the shower wall, listening to the soothing repetition of water rattling against the floor. Was it a sin to yearn for peace? To desire an existence unfettered by agony or illness? Perhaps, he could indulge in the selfishness so integral to him- soak in the chill before fever consumed him once more…
And simply…
Close…….
His eyes…………
KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK.
"Vergil! You alive in there?"
Dante's voice startles him out of the doze he had unintentionally settled into, limbs thrashing for a moment before he realizes exactly where he is- and why he's freezing cold. He must've passed out from both exhaustion and relief, and judging from the note of concern his brother was failing to completely mask, for quite some time. Vergil shudders, forcing himself to his feet with a wobbly flourish.
"I'm fine. Don't concern yourself with me."
Vergil snaps out towards the direction of the bathroom door, fighting tooth and nail to keep the tremor out of his tone. To his credit, Dante appears to begrudgingly believe him, a pause occurring before his brother responds.
"Next time you decide to take an everything shower with the lights off, maybe beat against the wall every now and then or somethin', so I know you're not dead!"
Vergil listens to his fading footsteps with an exasperated huff, blearily blinking out into complete darkness. Lamenting the loss of cold, he very quickly goes through his usual shower routine and moves the shower curtain aside, flinching at the harsh noise. His head felt fuzzy, filled with drenched cotton that threatened to split his skull apart. He couldn't tell if his shaking was from sitting in cold water for however long, or because the malady was beginning to set back in. Gritting his jaw, Vergil painstakingly steps outside of the shower, drying himself off. Once redressed, he takes a moment to re-slick his hair- grimacing at the heat that radiates from his forehead. He's going to need to avoid contact with Dante and Nero for the time being- not like he wasn't already though.
It was fine. Everything was fine, it had to be. He was Vergil Sparda, eldest son of the legendary Sparda and more than capable of handling something so trivial. Once he gathers himself and musters his usual composure, he grips the handrail and slowly makes his way downstairs, planning to simply make himself another cup of tea before vanishing into his room for the rest of the day.
It doesn't take long for a more severe assignment to eventually rear its head.
According to Dante's broker, there had been some sort of breach within the layers of reality- a hellgate that allowed a substantial number of demons to slither their way towards the human populace. Nothing too difficult to handle with the three of them, especially considering Morrison's speedy notification. If they left soon enough, they could keep it contained from the general public. A plan had been hastily formed, both Dante and Nero preparing to efficiently cull the intruders. There was ammunition to be restocked, weapons to be sharpened, battle schematics to be constructed- all things everyone should be taking part in.
That is, if Vergil could force his body out of bed.
Migraine felt like a more appropriate term for it now. His affliction had done the sheer opposite of abate- it pulsated within his brain like the organ itself was beating against his skull. Dulling his senses and disorienting him much more than he would like to admit. In addition to that, his fever had not faded whatsoever, radiating deep within the depths of vastly approaching overstimulation. He felt both too heated and too chilled, resorting to stripping off his vest for once and watching the perspiration bead upon his chest. Faint gusts of wind blew down from the cracked ceiling fan overhead, but it did little to soothe the feverish tremors threatening to rack his body. How dishonorably had he fallen? Vergil Sparda, eldest son of the legendary Sparda himself- lay stricken in bed like a child. He reflexively swallows, listening to the harsh click of his throat as it aches in protest. This would not be the end of him, not some pathetic little illness. Pushing sweat-slick palms into the mattress, Vergil slowly hauls himself upright, ignoring the way his vision swims once he becomes vertical.
He hastily blinks away the haze, forcing himself to collect a rag and wipe himself down. It was unbecoming of him in the first place to be coated in sweat, and were he completely by himself, Vergil wouldn't mind it too much. However, both his brother and his son retained enhanced senses just like him, and would pick up on the abnormality in a heartbeat. It takes a moment of disoriented fumbling to slip on a clean vest and rise to his feet. His signature coat had become more coffin than comfort as of recently. While its enshrouding fabric was his normal preference, the sheer severity of his affliction rendered it near intolerable. Regardless, Vergil slides it on, blinking rapidly as his vision becomes fuzzy for a moment. Was the Yamato previously placed so far away? Surely it was left in its usual location- so why do his fingers veer a solid five inches to the left of it instead?
Vergil fumbles for it, initially missing the mark for a few moments before securing it within its grasp. He was going to have to compose himself properly before heading downstairs- the last thing he needed was everybody seeing just how affected he was. Vergil furrows his brow, wiping his forehead and taking a deep breath. He could force his way through his, he's survived worse. Back straight, head held high. Mind as clear as he could force it to be. Hiding a grimace from the incoming light and noise, he exhales a heated breath and slowly departs from his room, hand instinctively finding the railing as he descends. Going downstairs felt near treacherous, his depth perception unfortunately muddled with each step. Vergil blinks away his discombobulation, trying to brute force coherency amidst the excessive warmth and pain flooding his skull.
The sound of his boots finding the office floor seem to ring out like a gunshot.
The two of them almost look startled by the sight of him, as if they hadn't expected him to descend. Nero in particular is eyeing him with a distinctive squint to his brow- the small flecks of hazel within shining in the office lights. Vergil straightens his spine, jaw set as he joins the rest of his family near his brother's desk. He tries to listen to the plan they've concocted, he honestly and truly does. In fact, Vergil probably exerts more effort than he ever has in order to understand Dante's babble. But the sheer heat clouding his mind and the pounding of his skull render the both of them incomprehensibly muffled- as if they were speaking through a wall of fabric. By his fourth noncommittal 'hm,' his younger brother clears his throat and slouches halfway across his desk. Of course the obvious disconnect has been noticed. His plight is not eagerly called out, however. Give Dante a court, and he'll play jester.
"I think you should stay for this one, Verge."
The words roll off his tongue in a lazy drawl, boots kicked up in a show of nonchalance. Once again, Dante falls back into that familiar charade, mentioning that "Someone needs to stay back and make sure this place doesn't catch on fire. Again." and that "With something this close, the kid and I can handle it easily. Besides, he needs more practice, yeah?" But Vergil knows. If there is anybody in this entire world that can truly begin to understand him, it would be his younger brother. It was a dance of sorts- Dante would not bring light to his hidden suffering, Vergil would not protest while they departed. The last thing he needed was Nero beginning to fuss, although his son was more perceptive than the two often gave him credit for. With enough time, he would puzzle out what's going on. Vergil didn't need concern, he never required coddling. And to a much greater extent, he refused the notion of receiving it from his own son. The one he was supposed to be fretting over to begin with. The one pressing his hand to Nero's forehead to check his temperature, who travels to the Cee-Vee-Es and collects that horrid concoction Dante refers to as Nigh-Quill. They never once got sick growing up, as far as Vergil can recall. He's more than aware that he would be very inexperienced with tending to the ill.
But for Nero, he would've tried his hardest.
If only.
Their departure is as candid as ever, huffing his quiet farewells as both men take their leave. Nero obviously knows that something is amiss; head swiveling between the both of them in clear suspicion. But to his great surprise, he keeps his mouth shut for once. Thank goodness. The relief that flooded his system upon being left on his own was near palpable. While situations of this severity often required multiple hands, Dante and Nero could handle it just fine now that his son had been in the business for this long. With nobody to pester him, surely this disease would filter out soon enough.
If the the newfound domesticity of his living space felt any less secure, Vergil might've assumed someone poisoned him. How else could he have come down with such a malady? Much less one that could burn through the demonic resistance deep in his blood? Vergil instantly feels the performative strength leave his body, legs wobbling as he blindly leans against the wall. His skin was boiling, unable to think- unable to comprehend. Pressure continuously built within his skull with aching urgency, a dull monotonous torture that threatened to drive him to insanity. Without any pressure to maintain his image, it felt as if his very body was beginning to give out. Vergil stumbles over his own boots, vision swimming as he mindlessly tries to approach the staircase once more. He gets approximately one foot onto the bottom step before a visceral shudder echoes through him- nausea coiling deep in his gut and churning violently. Before he can even process, his body moves in a flash, drunkenly dashing into the downstairs restroom and crumpling next to the bathtub.
Vergil collapses, disgorging whatever measly scraps he managed to choke down.
His fingers grasp the tub with bruising intensity, cracking the plaster in a way that almost mirrors the deep purple beneath his flesh. Bile singes his throat as it's choked out of his system- lungs stuttering as everything in his body retches in protest. Vergil loses track of how long he remains curled against the tiles, but eventually, the dry heaving ceases. Hazy blue eyes blink down at the multicolored bile- vision spinning and brain pounding. What the hell was happening to him? A tremor assaults him out of nowhere, an agonized keen escaping his lips. Vergil reaches out and blindly turns on the faucet, washing away the evidence of his misery and sending it all down the drain.
Once he's certain that he has nothing left to expel, he ever so weakly pushes off of the ledge, legs wobbling as he forces himself upright once more. What a miserable sight he must be. This wasn't the lowest part of his life, but Vergil thought he was past weakness of this nature. How much longer will this life find a way to humiliate him? Its horrible enough that he has to wake up and look at the scars webbing across his flesh like a malignant echo. Was he doomed to eventually crumble like always? Vergil blinks away the stray moisture clinging to his eyelashes, a decaying trill echoing within the empty room.
Pushing away the thought, he forces himself to trudge back upstairs- hissing through his teeth when the world momentarily shifts. Wood splinters and creaks beneath his hands as he desperately clings to the railing, a kaleidoscope of color and static dancing across his vision. It was nothing. It had to be nothing. The dilapidated steps beneath his soles seemed much closer than normal, so much so that Vergil instinctively yanks himself upright and almost hits his head on the landing. Everything blurs together as he stumbles back towards his bedroom, slamming the door shut with enough force to rattle its barely functioning hinges. Pride demanded that he denounce the fragility of his current state, and yet, he still finds himself shambling blindly forward. Heat roils and blisters beneath his flesh, cooking him alive as he throws off his coat and and collapses onto his bed. The relief is near instantaneous once the motion sickness fades. It did nothing to soothe the pain within his skull or the fever in his blood, but being off his feet brought at least a little reprieve to his battered system.
Vergil exhales with the faintest wheeze, heart fluttering as he stares up at the ceiling. The smallest part of him, one that he meticulously tries to shut down, almost begs for him to call to his family. To Dante. To the long dead parents that had once cradled him in their arms. A siren song of delusion that would never again become reality. It was so easy to indulge, pathetic as it is. To dream of his mother brushing back his bangs, murmuring words too distant to recall. Did Dante still dream of Eva? Of their home long destroyed by his father's greatest foe? Or was it all too much to handle for him? Sometimes, it was too much for Vergil to handle, too.
Memories of the last time he was incapacitated flood into his mind unbidden. Darkness surrounding him, a blight on all of his senses except for the sheer agony coursing through every vein in his body- hands of rough and violating origin rending the flesh from his bones, tearing apart his very being and flooding it with toxin. Trapped in that godforsaken place, whether physically or mentally, incapable of fleeing from what will forever haunt him. Just like He promised. Vergil thrashes, a choked off whimper tearing from his throat; he couldn't verbalize the agony. Making it known only invited further punishment. Grotesque digits reach out and carve their way into him, further and further and further until the very core of him is exposed- and-
With a terrible wretch, Vergil turns to the side and heaves. Its a scathing, dry motion, left with nothing to vomit after his episode downstairs. And yet, it still forces him to choke and gasp as his body seeks to expel what previously tainted him. Fever tremors course through his pathetic limbs, rendering them feeble as he attempts to roll back over onto his side. All things considered, he should've known that indulging those kinds of memories would've led to this outcome- more often than not, it lead to violent spirals. But when one's entire body was overcome with illness, Vergil supposed he should be grateful that this time didn't include any form of goring.
His eyelids flutter weakly, grasping fistfuls of the sheets that are now sweat-slickened and sticky. Perhaps he's finally succumbing to the sheer force of brutality he's been subjected to over the years. A latent forming exhaustion that threatened to swallow him whole. Not that it wasn't deserved- after all, the total casualties caused by both the Qliphoth incident and Temen-ni-gru were unfathomable. Vergil would not grieve the loss of human life. The only people he truly empathized with and extended his heart to were his brother- and slowly but surely, his son.
But even he knew that blood would forever taint the skin of his hands.
"Ver.........gil?"
The sound of his name rings faintly, but he recognizes the soft cadence of it. You, undeniably you. When had you arrived at Devil May Cry? When had you opened the door to his bedroom, witnessed the collapse of his sickened form? He blearily squints towards the direction of your voice, but everything seems so far away. Trembling fingers instinctively reach for the Yamato, but her hilt doesn't find his grasp. Helpless. Despondent. At the mercy of another once again. Vergil hisses out an agitated breath, hackles raised as he fights the haze choking his brain.
"Away. You- you shouldn't-"
The words sting like venom in his abused throat, forcing a cough that echoes throughout the expanse of his torso. Distinctly, your footsteps approach his bedside- or do they? His senses were conspiring against him, everything muddling together in an incoherent slog. Vergil didn't understand why you were invading the privacy of his room. Has his ruined body not been through enough shame and violation? Perhaps you had come to taunt him, to observe the eldest Son of Sparda writhe in his chambers. He's going to be hurt again, he needs to find the Yamato, he needs to flee-
"Oh, Vergil. Why didn't you say anything…?"
…………What a redundant question. Why would he bring it up to begin with? This affliction was his business and his alone; in no way were you ever apart of the equation. Vergil fights through the feverish haze, eyes cracking open in hopes of getting a glimpse of where you are. The light filtering through his curtains is overstimulating already, but eventually, he sees you. Soft-edged and slightly hunched over, yet standing a fair ways away from his bed. You had neatly side-stepped the clothing pooled on the floor, fingers anxiously twisting into the fabric of your coat. The concerned crease to your brow makes something in his heart bristle, a damaged thing that screams out against any form of softness. Fingernails sharpen into azure tinged claws, scrambling at the mattress when you take a step closer.
"Don't!"
Vergil's snarl, a feral and desperate sound; echoes within the room and earns a startled jolt out of you. He watches with glazed eyes as you hesitate further, your shoes scuffing against the floor as you backpedal. It had bubbled up instinctively, a last ditch effort to intimidate you away. There was no doubt in his mind that he was beyond pitiful looking, but humans still recognized when they were outclassed. Surely that survival instinct would surface, and you would leave him to his misery exactly how he wanted you to. After all, he was infinitely more powerful- even in this sorrowful state. It was common sense. Not that Vergil indulged in mindless cruelty. But he wasn't above defending his privacy, even if the sight of your concern twisted something deep within his chest. You had to leave. You had to-
You do the very opposite of leave.
Ignoring his frightened squawk of protest, you set your jaw and march forwards. Vergil shuts his eyes tight, expecting more pain, expecting even more desecration. Only…………only to feel something cold and mildly damp drape across his forehead. A cloth? When had you brought a cloth into his room? Had he missed it within his feverish haze? The sheer revelation of the moment makes him flinch. When the tension in his muscles eases and he cracks open his eyes, you're much closer than before. And what a sight you are- hazy and rimmed by the light filtering in from his curtains. Despite the clear apprehension in your expression, there's a determined glint in your eyes that Vergil is all too familiar with.
"I'm not abandoning you to rot like this."
Your voice is barely a murmur, tranquil and nearly lost within the heartbeat roaring in his ears. Or was that the migraine getting even more intrusive? It was difficult to discern which affliction was causing each symptom at this point. Vergil tries for a response, the words dying on the tip of his tongue when you slowly lean back.
"Stay. Please. I'm going downstairs to get you some soup…….and some medicine, assuming Dante has any in his cabinets. I'll be back, Vergil. I promise."
Any coherency fades at the sight of you turning away from him, his vision slowly dissolving deeper into oblivion. In the last dregs of his consciousness, Vergil has to suppress the urge to call out for you; straining until the very limits of his strength to watch you go. You promised him. You meant it- didn't you? He wasn't going to be left alone again? His head slumps back against the pillow, eyes near rolling into the back of his head. The cold compress slowly leeches it's chill deep within his blistering flesh, a near cathartic relief after enduring it for so long. Unconsciousness beckons him deeper. The last thing he registers before the bliss of sleep overtakes him, is the faintest scent of your laundry detergent.
Vergil lets the fever swallow him whole.
Time passes in an incomprehensible, sickened slog.
Vergil isn't aware of how long he remains in his bed. Days? Weeks? Most of the time, he can barely muster the strength to open his eyes- not that his brain possessed the energy to comprehend his surroundings anyways. He was trapped within the clutches of pyrexia, the familiarity of the situation doing nothing to soothe the building dread. You could be doing anything to him right now. Anything. Assuming you had kept your promise and chosen to stay. Vergil could only lay there; stricken and burning from the inside out. Ironically, he was painfully aware of his own vulnerability. It rang too close to home, igniting terrors that he fought tooth and nail to keep suppressed.
Throughout it all, the scent of you lingered. Perhaps as a last ditch delusion in an attempt to comfort himself. And yet, Vergil faintly registers the sensation of fresh compresses being placed atop his forehead. Of a straw between his lips, accompanied by gentle encouragement to drink. He forces it down. He chokes down anything given to him, no matter the taste or foulness. After all, refusing to swallow the poison fed to him lead to greater punishment. Echoes of the torment still linger- of bile and gore and unmentionable concoctions forced down his throat and coursing through his veins. The violation of it all; the sheer agony and misery that threatened to consume him in turn. Vergil distinctly registers his limbs attempting to thrash, pathetically weakened and useless to him now.
There was no hope for him.
A breathless whimper escapes him- distorted and foreign to his ears as Vergil's body fights a battle he lost long ago. His chest heaves with the effort of breathing, much too fast and strained to properly intake air.
He was trapped, trapped, trapped- imprisoned in the nightmare that he never truly could escape.
Something breaks through the haze flooding his mind. Something achingly familiar.
Your hand.
The simplest touch to his fingerpads. Once, twice- as if expecting pain. Then slowly applying pressure, a gradual increase that never once bridges the threshold of discomfort. It's an easily digestible sensation for his overstimulated brain, unintentionally honing in on the contact like a lifeline. The pressure lightens only to drag upwards- traveling from his fingertips to his knuckles, then to his palm, resting at the bones of his wrist. It………doesn't hurt. In a repetitive fashion, your fingers pause, ever so slowly apply pressure for a few seconds, then lift and move on.
Vergil's hyperventilating slows.
“There you are."
Each slow drag of your fingers across his flesh cuts through the haze of his disorientation like a knife- a beacon within the fog. Vergil cannot help but focus on it's trajectory, every neuron within his battered nervous system slowing down. There's no torment awaiting him, no malice in your honey-smooth tone as each digit glides across a landscape of blistering heat and scar tissue. Tap. Press. Repeat. Slowly, you trace up the length of his arm, to his shoulder, to his neck. Vergil fails suppress a hiss of breath when your touch finds his pulse point. He can feel the ghost of your hand lingering there, rhythmically pressing against the spot. Faintly, it comes to his attention that you're checking his heartbeat. Could you feel how fast it was racing right now? Alive and thrumming and terrified beneath the skin. Or had the illness slowed it too much, its hooks too deep to allow the reaction to surface?
Whatever conclusion you come to, you do not share. Instead, your touch continues upwards. You linger at the corner of his jaw- always strained much too tight. Vergil can't help but slowly force the tension out of the muscle at your gentle insistence, the frenzied rise and fall of his chest abating. It's too much. It's not enough. He had lost. But when your hand finally reaches high enough, cupping the side of his face with undeserved tenderness; Vergil musters up the energy to crack his eyelids open. You. You were barely more than a muted blob of color and softness, but he would recognize the scent of you anywhere. Clean……..faintly herbal, and something so unique he couldn't name. Light haloes around your frame, evening hues painting you in an array of blue and white.
"You're going to be okay, Vergil."
His name leaves your lips like a prayer, agonizingly reverent as your thumb skims across his cheekbone. It felt as if you were cradling the very soul of him. Helpless. Fragile. Easily fractured into something unrecognizable. But you don't shatter him. Even when traitorous tears spring to the corners of his eyes, collecting on your knuckles as you brush them away.
Vergil crumbles. And you catch him.
Shame.
The only descriptor for the sheer emotion flooding him right now. You had departed with gentle grace, leaving him alone once you were certain he was well enough. But that did nothing to silence the complete and utter mortification. Even without the illness ravaging his body, Vergil couldn't help but feel completely and totally disgusted with himself. It was horrible enough to be in that position in the first place, but to have an acquaintance swoop in and take care of his pathetic form? It made him feel nauseous all over again. Initially, his hope had been to hide this ailment from both Dante and Nero; his weakness was for him to hate, and him alone. But now that you had seen, now that you had gotten involved- all of that came crumbling down. What was going through your mind right now? Were you revolted? Pitying? Did his affliction still even cross your mind at all? Perhaps you had already told his family. Though if that were the case, Nero and Dante probably would have already forced their way home.
Vergil paces back and forth in his room, a dog trapped within a cage of his own making. Memory is an unreliable asset more often than not, and with the heat cooking his brain, even more so. But he can remember your cool hands spooning soup to him in small doses, wiping his forehead when the fever became too much…….remaining. Despite the delirium, despite the shame of it all. Vergil wanted to flee, to run away from the very thought of being seen so bare, so vulnerable. If only the Yamato could physically flay the emotions from him, like it had separated him in two. Gloved hands grip its tsuka, the leather creaking against his grip as his emotions threaten to consume him. Dante and Nero would be returning any moment now. His son had sent him a follow up text the day prior. He had to face the repercussions of his failure eventually.
The creaking front door tolls his demise.
Vergil could already hear the two of them kicking up a fuss; no doubt successful after their latest hunt. His clothing was freshly washed, the scent of decay and illness already scrubbed from his skin. But the paranoia laced within his heart knew that no amount of cleaning would erase the evidence of his suffering. They were going to know. They were about to realize just how pathetically low he had fallen. Gritting his jaw, Vergil forces himself to finally tread downstairs- the Yamato clutched tight to his hip. At first, he cant help but unconsciously scan over the both of them. No present injuries, no blood for him to curl his lip at. Just that post-battle jubilance that always infected the both of them. Dante was competitive on the best day, and with Nero's desperation to prove himself, the two often overdid it without someone to keep them in check. However, that momentary relief quickly dissolves into blood curdling dread. At their side rested you- beaming at him so brightly like you hadn't watched him writhe a short while ago. Had you-? Vergil looks to his family, currently prattling on about their victory and setting down their weaponry.
"So Verge, how'd you handle the shop on your own? I hear this one-"
Dante pauses to playfully elbow you, earning a faint, amused scoff.
"-stopped by to keep ya company."
Vergil bristles, three sets of eyes trained directly upon him. How much did they know? You held the truth within the palm of your head, ready to expose his vulnerabilities in a split second. He parts his lips, heart roaring in his ears-
"Oh, nothing special."
You interject before he can speak.
"We had some food and tea, and mostly took it easy. Neither of us were in the mood to go running around."
Vergil stares. The timbre of your voice was so casual, so immaculately calm- Dante only shoots you a coy look before ultimately shrugging. He claps you on the back, thanking you for 'babysitting his brother,' before stomping upstairs to shower. Nero greets him with a quick hug, more awkward side squeeze than anything, before turning back around and announcing that he wants to get back to his wife. He doesn't linger, passing a farewell to you before dutifully returning home.
The silence was palpable.
And yet, you only grin at him, mischievousness glimmering in your eyes. Vergil desperately tries to speak, unfamiliar emotions threatening to throttle him. He wasn't certain where to begin. To express the ugliness inside him- churning and roiling around in the cavity where his heart used to be. You raise your hand upwards, pressing a finger to your lips with a cat-like grin. The tip of your chin motions skyward, no doubt referring to Dante overhead- who could be heard fumbling around and yelping at the chilled water still left in the pipes.
"Take care, Vergil."
The last strand of your hair flutters as you finally exit Devil May Cry.