Another Happy Landing

“Wow, you must be some slave driver to get Dante to clean. Not that I’m really surprised.” The look she gives Vergil makes her low opinion of him very clear.

Vergil rolls his eyes and elects to ignore her going back to his book. It was Dante she was here for anyways, she’d discover soon enough he was out on a job.

It is not the last time it happens.

The next time is Trish, who apparently heard from “Lady” and just had to see for herself.

“I must say I can’t quite believe it. Not an empty beer bottle in sight. I suppose that is the power of a nagging brother.”

A nagging brother? Maybe… His brother is a slob, and if Vergil doesn’t remind him he’d forget to shower more than once a week. He’d leave a mess all over the place instead of just in his own room. Vergil doesn’t understand how he finds anything in there. Still, he hadn’t considered himself nagging, it isn’t like it is hard to get Dante to clean up his mess or to shower more. Vergil is pretty sure it is habit now after living together for two months.

Vergil won’t tolerate him in his space if he doesn’t shower after his hunts and Dante has proven himself obnoxiously tactile. It had been a bit hit and miss because of that to start with. It would often devolve into a fight if Dante invaded his space, both because he was covered in grime and guts and because Vergil had a tendency to interpret invasions of his space as an attack. However, at this point in time it is more rule than exception that when Dante returns from solo hunts, he’ll shower and change clothes, then find Vergil to just lean against him - a quiet reassurance of each other’s presences.

Vergil will never admit it soothes a part of him too.

They don’t talk about it. There’s no reason to.

Nero is the next. He doesn’t say anything, but he doesn’t have to, his wide eyes speak for themselves and then Nico speaks for him “Holy canoli! From your description I expected a dump! But this is-”

Nero elbows her in the side.

“Hi,” he says awkwardly clearly not sure how to address Vergil. Back on the Qliphoth he’d called him Vergil once and father in a sarcastic tone. When they’d returned from Hell tired and scruffy, he’d called them assholes. At this point Vergil isn’t even sure what he’d prefer, so he just nods in greeting, waiting to see what they want, knowing they’re there for Dante, but even still there’s a small hope-

“Is Dante around?”

Ah- of course. Vergil closes his eyes for a moment and breathes steadily through his nose.

“I believe he is on a job.

”Nero frowns and says “Again?”

Which is the most baffling response. What did he expect? To just find Dante lounging around behind his desk? Nero had done his part in their absence, but with the general weakening of the barrier between the worlds Dante’s business is thriving.

“It’s local so he should be back in a few hours-” Vergil pauses, hesitates before finally offering, “you’re welcome to wait here until then.”

Nero would be a terrible poker player, he is not nearly fast enough to hide his grimace at the offer. He takes half a step back. His right hand clenches, and he angles his body so it’s hidden behind him.

“Umm, that’s alright, don’t wanna impose. Would you tell him to give me a call when he gets back?”

Vergil’s gaze slides back up to Nero’s awkward not quite smile and meets his eyes levelly.

“I shall.”

“Great!” Nero averts his eyes. Shifts on his feet, it’s like he wants to say something. He takes a deep breath, but then releases it in a sigh instead. He turns on his feet, grabs Nico who’s been looking between Nero and Vergil as if wishing she had popcorn.

“Bye, see you I guess,” Nero mumbles as they leave.

Vergil doesn’t know how to respond to that, and they are out the door before he figures something out. Nico’s raucous laughter reaches him just before the doors close behind them.

He frowns. That could certainly have gone better. The way Nero hid his arm instinctively… He closes his eyes and breathes slowly, in and then out. It isn’t enough. He snaps his book shut and stands up, he needs to do something with his hands.

Oo o oO

A few hours later, Dante returns. He whistles jauntily as he walks in and Vergil doesn’t even need to look to see it went well. Still, he flicks his eyes up from the tome he’s perusing, taking in Dante’s frankly gory appearance. A quick sniff assures him none of the blood belongs to his brother.

“I see someone had fun,” he comments dryly.

Dante laughs, and it loosens something in Vergil’s chest that’s been tight since Nero’s departure.

“Yeah, yeah, I’ll be sure to clean up under the nails too,” he tosses over his shoulder as he enters the bathroom through the door behind his desk.Vergil is stunned then shakes his head. There’s a small tug on his lips and a strange not entirely bad squeeze in his chest. He hadn’t even realized he’d matched their mother’s tone from when they would come inside covered in mud. Of course Dante had been on the receiving end of that one many more times than Vergil had, so it is no surprise he remembers. It’s not strange that Vergil didn’t until that moment.

Hearing the water turn on he turns back to the tome, makes one last note in his notebook, before putting both away. Instead he pulls out his favorite book and loses himself in the comforting familiarity of the words of William Blake.

Dante eventually comes out of the bathroom, freshly dressed in jeans and one of his band shirts. He considers Vergil. He’s noticed the change in book. It isn’t the first time, Dante is extremely observant for all he acts the doofus, but like every other time he doesn’t comment. Vergil almost wants him to ask just to get the confrontation over with, but only almost.

“There’s leftover stir-fry in the fridge,” he says instead.

“What? No, pizza?” Dante pouts.

Vergil demonstrably turns a page in his book and doesn’t deign that with an answer. Dante can eat whatever he wants. Vergil is entirely able and willing to eat the leftovers tomorrow.

Five minutes later a distant ding of the microwave signifies Dante is done heating his chosen dinner and he walks back into the office with a steaming bowl of stir-fry. Because he is a heathen he’s already eating even before he sits himself down next to Vergil on the couch.

Vergil waits for it and it’s only when Dante leans their shoulders together, and Vergil lets go of his breath and tension, he realizes he held it in the first place.

“This is rather good for not being pizza,” Dante comments on the food instead of commenting on Vergil, and that’s the only reason why Vergil lets the half-baked compliment slide.

“Nero would like you to call him.”

“Oh, he called?” Dante says around a mouthful of food and it is so disgusting it almost distracts him from the question, but only almost and the encounter earlier today is still too fresh in his memory. He keeps his face carefully neutral, but some tiny twitch must still have betrayed him, because there’s a minute narrowing of Dante’s eyes and even if Dante is still not quite facing him feels his attention nonetheless.

“He was by earlier. With Nico.”

Vergil is not prepared for the way Dante leans his head against his in response. He tenses, uncertain how to react. It feels like a new attack, a feint of some sort, but as the seconds pass and nothing happens he slowly lets go of the tension bit by bit. It’s just Dante leaning warm against his shoulder as usual just now with his head joining in with the leaning. His still slightly damp hair tickles Vergil’s neck.

It’s familiar, but half-forgotten like most of Vergil’s childhood memories only pulled to the surface and dusted off with a reminder: they’d done this many times before in simpler times. With the memory comes a choice and for once Vergil tries not to overthink it. Instead he tilts his head slightly so he leans back.

Dante’s hands twitch around the bowl and fork respectively, and his breath has the tinniest hitch, but otherwise he doesn’t react, doesn’t move away.

Vergil allows the sensations to sink beneath his skin, to be analyzed later: His brother’s hair, soft and freshly washed against his face and neck where his skin isn’t covered. The solid warmth and weight to him. The closeness, the rare silence. He closes his eyes and just tries to feel.

Eventually though, the restless urge to move grows too strong and he shrugs Dante off with a, “your food is getting cold.”

“Huh, I guess it is.” For unknown reasons Dante still isn’t eating. He’s not even looking at the food, just staring pensively into the air.

Vergil is starting to compose a scathing comment about not realizing his brother could spend so long without opening his mouth, just to break the silence, but then Dante finally reaches his conclusion.

“We should go out of the city one of these days, find a place where we can really let loose.”

And Dante turns to face him with that crooked grin on his lips he plasters on to appear unaffected, but there’s something hopeful in his eyes.

Vergil scoffs because this at least is easy territory to traverse. “You think you can beat me with a bit more space? You are sorely mistaken. Didn’t six months in the Underworld teach you that?”

Dante purposely brings a mouthful of food to his mouth before speaking, he did it just to watch Vergil’s face twist in disgust, he is sure of it.

“I think six months in Hell taught me you couldn’t beat me either.”

“You are a child.”

“So is that a yes?” Dante’s eyebrows rise in mocking challenge.

Vergil stands. “You better find somewhere that could use a Dante shaped hole in the ground, the humans can use it as a tourist attraction once I’m done with you.”

Dante’s laughter rings out loud and delighted and follows him all the way up the stairs. Only when he’s inside his own room does he allow the small smile to stretch. He is looking forward to that.

Oo o oO

The fourth time it happens, Vergil becomes aware he’s keeping count.

It’s Dante’s broker - Morrison, if Vergil remembers his name correctly, which he’s fairly sure he does, but he will not address him by name just in case he is wrong. He hasn’t been here, not since their immediate return, so of course, like apparently any of his brother’s motley group he does a double take when he enters the shop.

“Now I never-“ He stops when he sees Vergil’s narrowed eyes.

“Dante is not here,” Vergil preempts the question he always gets, but then realizes something that makes unease and suspicion curl in his gut, “which you should know.”

He is after all the one who gave Dante that job a day’s travel away just yesterday. Dante is good, but without Vergil’s assistance there is only so much to be done about travel time - and Dante hadn’t asked him to help, something about how it would be good to take Cavalier for a ride. Dante has too many Devil Arms.

“Ah, yes,” Morrison says, walking seemingly leisurely around the shop, but Vergil cannot help but notice how he keeps a careful distance between them. “It was actually you I wanted to talk to.”

“Then speak.” Vergil has no patience for this tiptoeing.

“Now, I am not complaining, Dante is no doubt the best devil hunter there is, and he’s earning me a lot of money.”

“Get to the point.”

“I worry about him. Getting him to take jobs is usually like pulling teeth, and here he is accepting, no fuss, no muss, downright professional. His bills are paid on time, his finances are in order-“

“I fail to see the problem.”

“Yes you would think that’s a good thing right?”

There was a barely there emphasis on you, that made it clear he meant Vergil and not a general you, but still so subtle he had plausible deniability. It took Vergil a moment but then his brows drew down in a deep scowl as he parsed the implication. This was more of that thinking that he was some sort of slave driver or nag.

“I don’t have anything to do with Dante’s jobs unless he asks me to join.”

“You mean a lot to him, you know?” The non-sequitor throws Vergil for a loop and thankfully Morrison is busy assessing Dante’s repaired jukebox to see his surprise and he manages to school his features before the man turns around.

“Dante has a lot of friends who’d hate to see him burned out on an impossible quest to please his long lost brother.”

Vergil blinks. Is this human actually threatening him? Over Dante? He supposes in a way he should commend the man for his bravery, but more than that it irks and scratches that he dares come between him and his little brother.

Vergil stands up and Morrison takes a gratifying step backward. Forcing himself to appear unaffected he walks past the man towards the kitchen, showing him how little threat he considers him by leaving his back open towards him.

He pauses with a hand on the door to the kitchen.

“You’d do well to remember I hold humans in very little regard compared to my brother.”

By the time Vergil returns to the main room of the shop with a cup of steaming tea, Morrison is gone, though the cloyingly sweet scent of instinctual human fear still hangs in the air. He brings his cup up to his nose and fills it with the much more appealing floral scent of his tea.

He tries to continue his research, but his equilibrium is thoroughly ruined. Tea can only help so much. Dante better make good on his promise soon, because Vergil itches to punch something.

He clenches his hands and lets them go. It annoys him the way it affects him. What does it matter what some petty humans and a demoness think? He tries to tell himself it doesn’t matter, but they matter to Dante and their opinions probably also matter to him. There’s a tightness in Vergil’s chest he cannot identify the reason for, only that it feels terrible, and his hands itch to turn into claws that can rend his problems into shreds, but that solution is not acceptable.

Instead, he stews.

He could leave, but finds himself strangely reluctant. It will be much more satisfying to slice Dante into ribbons in that fight he’s promised him, than to go search out some low-level scum. Dante will actually give him a challenge, he will require Vergil’s full attention, there will be no room in his head and heart for this nonsense.

Not to mention low level demons will be near humans to hunt, Vergil should not go out amongst humans. They are too loud and obnoxious and everywhere on a good day, this is not a good day. He can’t do that to Dante, to- to Nero- and the thought of Nero… He clenches his teeth tight, grabs Yamato, never far from his side and lays her across his lap, hoping to draw calm from her cool familiarity and weight.

It only works so much. Dante cannot return too soon.

Oo o oO

“Hoo boy,” are the first words out of Dante’s mouth the moment he comes home to Vergil’s glare snapping to him.

“Did I leave a dirty plate out?” He jokes, and it is the absolute worst thing he could say. Vergil snarls, something guttural promising violence he didn’t even know his human throat could produce.

Dante stiffens. “Okay, moving up the schedule. Right now, let’s go. You ever been to the plains south of Enamel city? Lots of open space.”

Vergil narrows his eyes. As a matter of fact he has been to Enamel City once a very long time ago. It had a prominent bridge, flat surrounding country with long straight roads and too many biker gangs willing to bother a lone teen.

It is enough.

He stands, and narrows his focus as he draws Yamato. Two precise cuts into the fabric of space and then he’s sliding Yamato back in her sheath breathing out. He doesn’t wait to see whether Dante follows him - he better - and just steps through the portal.

He only barely allows his senses to register the wide open space he’s brought them to and the blissful lack of human scent and noise anywhere in the vicinity, before he turns back around and triggers.

Dante’s eyes go wide. “Oh shit.”

He barely manages to trigger into his own sin-devil form before Vergil barrels into him. There’s no finesse to it, only the howling in his soul and the call for violence. His claws scratches useless against thick carapace before finally finding an edge and digging his claws in between scales into soft flesh, drawing blood.

Dante howls in surprise and pain, but it ends in a challenging growl as he knocks their horned heads together with a large crack creating a shockwave bursting outwards from the force. Stunned momentarily Vergil’s grip slackens. Still he has enough wherewithal to curl his claws reflexively when Dante kicks him away, rending more flesh on the way and pulling free a scale.

It doesn’t slow down Dante. He’s on Vergil the moment Vergil’s claws no longer have a hold.

It is a blur of claws and fangs and snarls and blue and red tumbling around. Pain sears in Vergil’s back. His heart beats fast and angry and exhilarated. Deep groves are rent into the ground. Grass flattens and rips. Their half demon blood semi crystallizes where it splatters but also drips all too human despite their fully transformed forms.

They can only hold their sin devil forms for so long, though it’s a good deal longer than 8 months ago, and even though they detransform that doesn’t mean they’re done, it just means they have to draw their weapons for lack of claws.

There’s nothing that exists but the two of them, nothing but Dante’s sharp smile and the way he meets him blow for blow, takes every hit, gives as good as he gets and always gets back up. And slowly clash by clash Vergil lips mirrors Dante as they dance the way only they can.

It is a reckless sort of trust. This willingness to hurt but not kill, because most creatures would have died from the wounds they gave each other early in the fight, not to mention later. It is an acknowledgment of the other’s resilience, it is a testament to how well they know each other’s limits.

This is the product of 6 months of near constant fighting each other in Hell.

How Vergil has missed the simplicity.

He hardly notices the waning light turn to dark and back to light again, nor that it happens again. The only cycle that matters is time in between triggers. Neither of them has had cause to go all out since their return, there’s a lot of pent up energy, reserves they didn’t have at the end of their underworld excursion that has had time to build back up.

The end to the fight is inevitable. Vergil starts to feel exhaustion dragging at his movements. His holds on time that much more fragile. Space doesn’t bend as readily for him. His breath comes in harsh puffs, but so does Dante’s, and Vergil intends to win.

He’s got a plan. A thrust that Dante even tired will easily dance around, a follow up that’s another feint, before his real bid for victory, an unexpected kick with Beowulf, which has yet to make an appearance in this fight and considering Vergil’s clear preference for Yamato will be sure to take Dante by surprise.

But Dante always has a way of messing up even the most straightforward of Vergil’s plans.

He should have known.

He thrusts and instead of dodging Dante throws himself forward impaling himself on Yamato with a sickening slide of too little resistance, his brother’s flesh giving way so easily to Yamato’s edge. Vergil’s eyes widen. Dante collides with him, throwing his arms around his upper arms, trapping him in a hug that forces him a step back.

“Gotcha.”

Vergil is stiff as a board. Dante’s blood drips drips drips onto the ground. He can see Yamato sticking out on the other side, she’s buried to the hilt.

Anger rises up and Vergil grips it desperately. “You damn imbecile! If you want a hug try asking for it!”

For a moment Dante looks absolutely stunned, something passes his face that Vergil cannot begin to comprehend right now, only to replaced by a bloodied smirk.

“Guess we know where Nero gets his potty mouth from after all.”

Vergil is not really listening. Maybe if Dante had pushed his advantage with a fist to Vergil’s face he wouldn’t feel like this. But there’s nothing to attack, nothing to fight. The adrenaline has nowhere to go and his entire body trembles from it.

All he feels is his heart beating too fast. His chest too small, too tight. Dante’s (his own) blood in his nose. Yamato’s scream in response to his distress.

“Verge?”

Desperately he tries to focus on Dante’s voice, but it sounds so far away, despite him being right there, bleeding. Drip. Drip. Drip. Blood rushes in his ears, loud like a waterfall. Vergil gasps for breath. The hold around him loosens. No! He lets go of Yamato, grips onto Dante. He’s going to fall.

Spots dance in his vision. Dante’s mouth is moving, but he hears nothing but the rushing water. Arms wrap around him again holding him tight.

His face ends up in the crook of Dante’s neck and he hates that it’s better that it smells more like sweat than blood. He takes a shuddering breath.

He didn’t know Dante could do it, open a portal with Yamato, but she sings reluctantly for him and the yawning maw in space tugs at his back. And suddenly Yamato is sheathed and squished between him and Dante, as the world tilts. A hand digs fingers into his hair supporting his head keeping it in place.

Home wraps around him with its familiar scents, the near identical scents of him and Dante, a hint of Nero. He feels suddenly so tired.

His bed is beneath him, it would be so easy to just give in to oblivion, but Dante is pulling away, a subsonic warning growl rumbling from his chest and it takes a moment to realize why as his sluggish senses try to catch up. There’s someone in the shop.

“Dante! I know you’re here!” Mary Arkham calls.

Dante leaves him with a lingering squeeze to his shoulder, he can practically feel his brother’s reluctance. Vergil stares at the wall as Dante’s steps make their heavy way down the stairs, purposely noisy, because he isn’t hunting. He hates this weakness, hates that he had to resist the urge to grab Dante.

“Lady, now is really not a good time.” Vergil can practically hear the forced smile in his brother’s voice.

“Dante, you better have a good explanation for why I had to field calls from my military contacts for three days! Do you have any idea the amount of strings I had to pull for them not to nuke the two of you after Red Grave!”

“Would that work?” Dante muses.

“That’s not the point! I had to assure them you had everything handled.”

There is silence as Dante thinks over what she is implying. Vergil doesn’t have to, it is only too clear that he will always be the villain in her narrative.

“What happened Dante?” She asks quietly, concerned, “what was he scheming this time?”

Vergil clenches his hands. Can only imagine Dante remembering old tomes and notebooks, casually put away when he’s around. Every second Dante remains silent feels like another nail.

Finally it is her and not Dante who speaks:

“You need to do something, he’s dangerous.”

“I’m dangerous,” Dante counters.

“Not like Vergil you aren’t,” she scoffs - and she is right. Dante is a declawed kitten amongst his precious humans.

“It was not a fight and there is no scheme.” Dante actually sounds like he believes it.

“Please, they had to cover it up, calling it a freak weather phenomenon. There is no way you two weren’t serious.”

“Lady, I appreciate you running interference. We will find somewhere further from civilization next time.” Dante tries to shut down the conversation politely.

“Dante-“

“No,” he outright growls, “it was my idea and it’s none of your business!”

There is a long drawn out silence.

Mary Arkham’s steps starts and grows slightly fainter as she moves away. The door opens with a small squeak.

“For your sake, I hope your trust isn’t misplaced.”

The door closes with finality.

The silence feels like claws of doubt in Vergil’s chest digging in, before finally Dante shakes off that parting comment and walks back up the stairs, near silent this time, just loud enough that he knows Vergil can hear him.

Vergil closes his eyes and evens out his breaths, pretending to be asleep. He can’t face Dante right now. Not after that embarrassing… episode he had, not after listening to Mary Arkham suspecting him of betraying his brother’s trust.

Like that honorless, backstabbing bastard she called father.

It’s not like Vergil ever actually wanted to kill his brother. He only wanted to best him. Their goals clashed. They were young and stupid and Dante refused to back down or join him. In the end Vergil chose to fall due to pride.

In the end pride was the only thing he had left, even if Mundus thought he’d stripped him of everything. Even if Vergil fell deeper than he’d ever imagined he could, it was still pride, his refusal to give up that kept him clinging to the last sparks of life.

When he managed to claw himself back from the brink last year with the long awaited reemerging of the Qliphoth and regaining his strength as his singular focus he’d not at all expected how it would turn out.

Nero especially was a surprise.

Still when he stood, recovered and whole again, more powerful than he’d ever been, there was only one possible path forward. He and Dante would clash. They would once and for all settle their score because neither would back down to the other.

Looking back, Nero declaring neither of them were going to die that day was a relief - the shake up both of them had needed. He agreed before he’d even been aware of it himself, though of course Nero hadn’t seen his small nod. Dante had however. The way he immediately backed out of the fight was not something Vergil expected.

Looking back, Vergil is a fool for ever believing his softhearted brother wanted to kill him, when he flung about threats of doing so.

The softhearted brother who has now entered his room again and is watching him pretend to sleep. He doesn’t believe Dante is actually fooled, he would know Vergil heard every word of that conversation. Though on the other hand he might think him exhausted after the… episode.

Vergil just barely resists the urge to clench his hands. He thought he’d left his nightmares behind, but apparently his mind is the gift that keeps on giving.

He forces himself to keep breathing slow and steady as he awaits what Dante will do. He’s not certain what he wants him to do. Part of him wants to snarl and tell him to leave him already. The part that’s still shaken, the weak part, wants him to stay. He could never voice that.

Tension builds along his back without him even realizing. It is only when Dante makes his decision to lay down behind him that it finally unwinds. The arm that snakes around him is a surprise and so is the head that leans on his back.

When they returned from the Underworld they had collapsed together on Dante’s bed, the closeness dictated more by the size of Dante’s bed and their exhaustion than any conscious decision. This however is different. Dante’s hand clenches around the fabric of Vergil’s coat where it lays above his heart.

A sudden memory of Dante crawling into his bed during the night assaults him, it is not actually a single memory more like the summation of a dizzying amount of memories. Dante always had an excuse: a nightmare, the cold, his bed not feeling right, the moon shining onto his side of the room. No matter that Vergil protested and turned around to ignore him, Dante would always crawl into bed with him regardless, just like this, an arm around him and his head resting between his shoulder blades.

The familiarity is like a heavy blanket and sleep is suddenly inevitable.

-

So this is another DMC fic I have been amusing myself with. Second part will also be locked to Vergil's pov, then I think we will have a Dante pov. I am trying to hit this specific mood, like Vergil and Dante has hit this sort of equilibrium without actually talking about or resolving any of their issues, which as we'll see will come back to bite them XD

If you reached the end I'd love to hear your thoughts :D (seriously also just open to chatting about these idiots, they take up too much space in my brain)

I have one other DMC fic posted right now here if you wanna read not-quite-mentally-there-Vergil kidnapping teen Nero and going on an unwitting father-son :sparkles:adventure:sparkles:

Vergil got to his feet. A feeling curled in his chest, one he couldn’t name… a sort of agitation. A low growl rose from his chest. Foolish nestling hadn’t learned its lesson.

It was not long before he found it.

Vergil looked down into the enclosed space from his perch above. The agitation had ceased the moment he had eyes on the nestling. The lesser demons had not even noticed him, too focused on the weaker devil. The acrid scent of fear itched at his nose, but these pitiful lesser demons were no threat to a young devil, more like playthings. There was no reason to steal kills.

The nestling cried out in pain, but it was the sudden sweet scent of the mostly human blood that snapped awareness back into place.

Not a nestling, a child. Vulnerable and mostly human - now bleeding.

Unacceptable.

Oo o oO

One moment Nero was staring death in its ugly demonic face, the next an odd stillness came over the world. Something warped his perception, movement slowed down, colors muted and then with a disorienting snap time returned.

Nero’s mind reeled. He felt dizzy. He couldn’t understand what just happened.

Nero had been as good as dead. About to be skewered, because he let a bit of pain take him down. The slash on his leg was long and it bleed quite a lot, judging by how wet and sticky his pant leg felt, but it was a horizontal slice on the side of the thigh, the important shit were on the inside. He wasn’t dying from that as long as he staunched the bleeding. No, but he was sure he’d been about to die from those next swings aimed at him from several scythes and then poof! The world snapped back in place from that strange dissonance and everything was cut.

For one terrifying second Nero had a vision of the world in fractals sliding apart and then it was just him on the ground, the demons falling, already dissolving, and Nero’s kidnapper in the center of the courtyard, straightening from a crouch with perfect poise as he replaced the broken blade in the scabbard in a practiced twirl that spoke to the original length of the blade.

It slid in with a final shink.

Nero stared open mouthed. He had no idea what to feel. Shock, definitely. Terror, maybe? There was no way the man wasn’t a demon. Unbidden, his gaze slid to the Sparda statue, there were definitely similarities in the features, but he was more relieved to see the differences - the shape of the eyes, the cleft in the chin - because this was getting too weird.

And beneath all that, what did it say about Nero that for a moment back in the house he had thought, hoped- He firmly pushed that line of thought away.

Cold impassive eyes regarded him or rather he realized just a moment later they were directed towards his leg - his bleeding leg.

“Oh fuck,” Nero cursed and pulled his hoodie and underlying T-shirt off in one tangled mess. It took way longer than it should have to get the T-shirt free because he kept glancing at his demonic kidnapper. Demon’s were crazy for human blood, he could be one second from being ripped to shreds.

Finally he got the t-shirt free, spun it a few times around its diagonal to make sure the folded fabric was long as possible and tied it around his thigh tightly. He grimaced at his bloodied pants leg, it probably did very little to reduce the scent of blood after all.

He looked up hesitantly, just as cold eyes shifted from his wound to his face. Unbidden his shoulders relaxed, his body somehow realizing before his brain caught up to him; he was not about to be ripped apart.

It made no bloody sense, but he knew that.

A disbelieving huff blew out his nose, and his lips tipped up at the edges. Something was bubbling in his chest, hysteria, disbelief, laughter, crying, he wasn’t sure.

He was alive.

His freakish kidnapper, who was definitely a demon had saved him.

Nero picked up his hoodie and pulled it back on. He didn’t know how he could have forgotten the way his kidnapper had moved or the fact that he’d unnaturally transported them away from Fortuna. Like seeing his human looking face, and the similarities to Nero himself, had overwritten what he’d already known.

Slowly Nero got to his feet, trying not to put too much weight on his pounding left leg. It was gonna be a bitch to walk on. He straightened his back and faced the impassive gaze head on.

Maybe it was the fact that this demon acted like no other demon he’d ever known. He’d already considered that he might be possessed, but Nero had dealt with the possessed. They grew mad, frantic, itchy - they didn’t break like this.

While the possessed were too full, it was like Nero’s kidnapper was too empty. Like he was missing something.

And it still didn’t explain how he could look so human!

What the Hell was he? Some kind of demon human hybrid science experiment?!

Nero wanted to laugh at the ridiculous thought, but the laughter caught in his throat. He limped the few steps it took to close the distance to stand in front of him. He had to tilt his head up to hold the gaze.

He had followed Nero and saved him. That was fact. He had cut every living thing in the courtyard to pieces except Nero. It had to mean something.

A hand clamped down on Nero’s upper arm and then he was dragged along in a way that was starting to be too familiar, though at least this time he was walking, or rather limping on his own to legs instead of dragged along the ground. As they exited the archway Nero looked to the sky and the few stars that managed to pierce through the light pollution. He sighed.

What even was his life?

He expected them to turn left back towards the house when they reached the road, instead they turned right, heightening Nero’s confusion.

Guess they were going on a walk? Where were they going? Who knew! Did Nero’s kidnapper know?

Somehow Nero doubted that.

Oo o oO

The cloying sweet scent of the boy’s blood was an annoying itch in his nose, a constant reminder of his humanity, of his fragility.

Vergil could not watch the child every single moment, he was not- He wasn’t strong enough. His hands clenched, one grip on Yamato who crooned back comfortingly, the other on the boy who made a pained sound. Abruptly, Vergil let go of the boy, and stopped in place.

He looked up towards the yawning darkness with its small pinpricks of light.

If it was just him and Yamato he knew what to do; One step after the other towards survival. They would survive, but the boy- Vergil could not leave the boy to fend for himself, his entire body itched at the idea. But humans had needs he could scarcely remember. If he pondered long enough, maybe he could drag forth the memories. He had remembered some things.

The cold felt by a child left behind.

Hunger, gnawing at his stomach, before he fully matured into his demonic powers.

He blinked slowly, waiting for the void of his mind to serve up some kind of revelation.

Shuffling movement next to him and the boy spoke, hesitantly. The sounds washed over him and though he could not connect the sounds into words that made sense in his mind, he could feel the tone, the intent: worry. For him.

Some strange unknown swelled in his chest, it wasn’t a bad feeling, though he could not identify it. It dragged him away from his musings and he turned his head to regard the boy.

The impulse was an odd one, and he didn’t know where it came from, but his free hand was suddenly on the boy’s head. Wide blue eyes regarded him from a face frozen in shock, but he had no time to ponder that. The feeling of hair between his fingers drew his attention, it was familiar. Like there had been hair between his fingers a thousand times. He chased after the feeling, moving his hand through the strands to feel that soft brush against the sensitive skin between his fingers.

Then it was over. The hair ended. His fingers tingled as he regarded his hand. Curious. Like a memory only his hand remembered.

Oo o oO

Nero stood absolutely still, he didn’t even dare breathe. What the fuck just happened?

The moment stretched as Nero’s kidnapper regarded his own hand as if he also didn’t understand what had happened. Nero’s certainly-a-demon-but-maybe-not-actually kidnapper had just petted his head… how else was he to describe what had just happened?

Nero had been worried when they suddenly stopped after he was let go. The demon (not demon?) was just staring at the sky. They were in the middle of a thankfully small and deserted road. Still, Nero was worried, so he’d asked if he was okay, and then suddenly there was a hand on his head, a comforting weight, before it brushed through his hair.

Nero could not recall an adult touching his hair outside of a haircut. He never could decide whether it was because his hair made him cursed or because he was just not a likable child, more likely to bite than accept hands near his head. He had seen it though. Children with their parents or even the better behaved children at the orphanage getting an affectionate hand on their head, running through their hair.

Kyrie had liked to play with his hair when they were younger, Credo and their parents were more of shoulder pats and rarely hugs kind of people. Nero hadn’t been a small child when they fostered him, it wasn’t like he’d needed all that mushy stuff.

It all left him just as bewildered as his kidnapper seemed to be the way he kept staring at his own hand.

The worst part was that some part of Nero desperately wanted him to do it again.

“Hey we should get out of the road,” Nero tried to get them back on track, no matter the fact that he didn’t know what track that was supposed to be - or the fact that his kidnapper, probably, definitely, didn’t understand human language.

He was regarded passively for a long drawn out moment, and maybe Nero was getting used to it, but it didn’t bother him near as much as it had before, then finally he started walking again. This time it was without grabbing Nero. It was a split second decision, but it was a choice, and Nero chose to follow.

What else was he supposed to do? It was well and truly dark by now. This city had already proved to be demon infested. Who’d let in a dirty and bleeding teen?

It became clear to Nero at some point when he was starting to tire, that his kidnapper had no clue about the actual layout of the city, but was actually just following a general overall direction. If a narrow alley was in that direction, in they’d go, until it turned out to be a dead end. They’d backtrack and follow the previous road until there was another path leading in the right direction.

He had no clue how long they’d been walking. He was too tired to care. It wasn’t only his wounded leg that hurt, but also just his feet in general. Putting one foot in front of the other was starting to feel insurmountable.

Nero supposed he should feel grateful his kidnapper wasn’t destructive and didn’t just cut through their obstacles, but at this point he just wanted to get to wherever they were going (if they were even going somewhere!), so he could lie down and sleep.

They were currently traversing a park and the grass looked mighty soft and tempting in the lamplight. It would be cold of course, and probably wet from dew. Nero hadn’t at first noticed he’d stopped walking, but the cold catching up to his still form was a good reminder that he only wore his hoodie and no longer had the extra layer of his t-shirt. Thankfully his bloodied jeans had dried a while ago and he only had to deal with them being disgustingly stiff.

He needed to move again. He didn’t, instead he started to shiver.

His kidnapper was ten paces ahead when he noticed Nero was no longer following. He turned half-way around to regard him.

If there had been any sort of pity in his gaze maybe that would have been enough to get Nero fired up. He wouldn’t say no to a bit of anger to get his blood boiling at this point. Maybe, on a normal day Nero could also have gotten fired up about the passive uncaring gaze, but Nero was resigned to it at this point.

With his relentlessly even pace, Nero’s kidnapper turned back around and made his way back to Nero. Having his arm grabbed, and getting pulled along was expected - the change in direction was not.

Still, Nero was too focused on putting one leg in front of the other to really ponder, what the change in direction could mean. He wasn’t keen on getting dragged on wet grass should he lose his footing. It was only when they stopped in front of a padlocked shed that Nero realized they might finally stop for the night.

The padlock was evidently no match for the broken blade that could cut space-time into fractals - and huh, maybe that was a thought, maybe it was the blade and not the man that was demonic?

The thought niggled him as he was ushered inside. The door shut making the darkness absolute. Nero stumbled over something long and wooden, probably a gardening tool, but the hold on his arm prevented him from actually falling. He was halfway dragged a couple of steps before he was lowered onto some plastic bags, judging from the scent they were bags of mulch. Not quite soft but not too hard either.

There wasn’t any wind in the shed, but it was still cold. Nero was too tired to care about the way he curled around his kidnapper when he sat down with him. He was warm and that was all that mattered.

-

Another day in the father-son roadtrip adventure is done. Nero is so confused. Still trying just to get the events down, this is gonna need a rewrite before Ao3, but I am having fun with my silly little story and that's what's most important. Vergil was a bit more aware in the second pov he had in this one than he's been so far, it was basically the stress of Nero bleeding that forced him to be XD He's gonna backslide a bit.

I have very fun plans for the next one.

If you have the time I appreciate comments and tags very much. Thank you to everyone who commented on the last part <3

Silvery half long white hair like Nero’s own was revealed before blue eyes snapped up to meet his gaze. Nero was frozen, even before the cold eyes held him captive. What did this mean? Why the fuck did his kidnapper look like him?

So he was human? Or was he? Possessed maybe?

Evidently, Nero wasn’t that interesting because his gaze fell to watch the broken blade in his lap.

“Hey, what’s your deal?”

No response. Nero sighed, he didn’t know why he kept trying to talk to this person? Shell? His eyes fell on the blade and it was almost like his attention was noticed. A barely there call reaching for him - from a broken sword.

Nero shook his head. Clearly he was going mad.

It was time to see if Nero could escape today. He wasn’t immediately stopped when he walked to the doorway. Not the doorway to the next room either. With luck his mostly catatonic kidnapper had lost interest in him.

Nero was hungry and he found the once kitchen and looked through the cupboards. He found a can of tomato sauce with an expiration date from years before Nero was even born. He grimaced, but it wasn’t bulging - unlike that one tuna can in the corner - and it seemed intact.

It was worth a shot.

He managed to find a can opener and a spoon in one of the drawers. Neither were exactly clean and he wiped them off on his shirt for lack of better. There was of course no water and no electricity, and so no way to heat the soup. And while maybe there was a fireplace somewhere, chances were a chimney would be blocked by a birds nest and Nero wasn’t exactly keen on smoke inhalation on top of his kidnapping.

He opened the can and sniffed the contents critically. It smelled of tomatoes and just a hint of basil. It didn’t seem bad. He dipped in the spoon and took a small taste keeping it in his mouth as he judged the taste in case he needed to spit it out. It was obviously cold, but otherwise seemed okay. Nero shrugged and swallowed, dipping in the spoon again. He was ravenous.

He walked around this place he’d been taken to while he ate, absently taking in what he hadn’t been able to yesterday. This was clearly a home that had once been very rich. It wasn’t just the size, but the decorations too, the details carved on wooden panels and furniture the fire hadn’t managed to completely burn away.

Honestly it was impressive the house still stood. He’d seen houses that had burned down before. Brick enclosures with scorched wooden ribs sticking up as the only surviving parts of the framework. With this amount of damage to the interior in so many rooms it was a wonder the house still had a roof. It didn’t seem like there’d been a particular effort to extinguish the fire either. If there’d been fire fighters here there should be more water damage too, the whole place should be covered in mold. And while it had some of that scent, it was more like a basement scent. In fact if Nero didn’t know better, he’d think the house was fire resistant somehow.

He arrived in the entrance hall, the door was left open after their arrival yesterday, and Nero could see the trail of mud and dry leaves that was the result of him getting dragged here. He turn around taking in the space, with it’s high ceiling and crystal chandelier, imagined what it could have been like with the lights on, casting warm welcoming light out. The couple of armchairs by the fireplace and above the fireplace-

Nero froze. His breath caught in his throat as he stepped closer.

There was a portrait painting. The right side mostly destroyed by fire and something that looked like slashes. There was a smiling blonde woman, and two smaller shapes that had to be children, but that’s not what had Nero’s heart beating too fast in his chest. Even if their faces were gone, the children had white hair. Not blonde like the women. White, like the mostly erased figure on the right, like Nero’s kidnapper, like Nero.

It could not be a coincidence.

There had to be a reason why he was brought here specifically. Why he was the only one who wasn’t killed. Nero’s heart ached with implications he dared not think. His lungs burned and suddenly he gasped for breath he hadn’t taken in too long. Urgently he ran back to the library.

His steps were heavy as he skidded into the room. His kidnapper, his maybe- looked up from the broken blade and watched the winded Nero impassively. Nero pulled out Blue Rose and pointed it right a that impassive face, which didn’t even twitch at the implied threat.

“Who,” Nero panted, “who are you?”

His jaw trembled as no answer but the continued gaze met him. Clenching his teeth he took a step forwards, brought the barrel of his gun that much closer to his forehead, there was maybe a foot of distance and still nothing. Nero sniffled and blinked rapidly a few times, finally lowering his gun. This was pointless. Of course he was no closer to the answers he’d wanted all his life.

Felling like a puppet whose strings had been cut Nero let himself fall down into a crosslegged position. He turned on the safety and shoved Blue Rose into his pocket. He looked down at the half eaten can of tomato soup still in his left hand. He didn’t feel all that hungry anymore.

Looking up again he held it out, the spoon handle clattered against the edge, drawing empty blue eyes.

“Hungry?” Nero asked, uncertain why he even tried.

Oo o oO

Vergil looked at the cylindrical metal container held out to him by the boy. A thin flat almost serrated circular piece of metal was attached at the top and bent to the side at a puzzling angle, whose purpose Vergil couldn’t discern. While it looked sharp enough to cut it seemed an impractical weapon. A long, loose, thin and flat shinier metal piece had rattled inside the cylinder when the boy held it out to him.

He blinked slowly trying to make sense of the child’s action.

There was something inside the cylinder, liquid and red, but not blood - Vergil would have smelled that immediately. On the contrary, this barely smelled of anything. What little he could smell brought an odd feeling in his chest, like a forgotten memory. The specifics escaped him, but it did offer a realization.

Food. The boy was offering him food.

He reached out. The boy’s eyes widened and his breath caught. Vergil could hear his heart rabbit away like prey - kin, but all too human. Carefully, he pushed the cylinder back to the boy. Unlike the boy, whose heritage was still dormant, Vergil did not need that kind of sustenance.

Oo o oO

Nero looked down at the can pushed gently to his chest. There was a desperate hope building that maybe his kidnapper wasn’t as empty of a shell as he appeared. The gesture seemed to mean that Nero should eat the food himself. Of course it could also be a simple “get it out of my face”, but the gentle push towards him felt deliberate, when the can could have just been batted to the side.

Nero swallowed. Alright then. He started eating again, his body reminding he was a growing teen and always hungry.

His kidnapper quickly lost interest in him, looking back to the broken blade in his lap. Nero found himself transfixed by the way the blade reflected even the dim light as he ate. It was almost like he could imagine a calming pulse going back and forth from blade to man.

Nero shook his head to bring himself out of it, there he went again with his fanciful imagination. Like that Sparda statue in Mitis Forest that always seemed to watch him. Or that one staircase leading to the basement in the cathedral that felt like it wanted to eat him.

He wasn’t a small child anymore, he was a knight, yet still he was glad he’d never had cause to go down there.

He focused back on the cold tomato soup and soon the spoon clattered against an empty bottom. He set it down and leaned back on his hands with a sigh. For how terrified he’d been yesterday, he was starting to feel there wasn’t really any point or purpose to his kidnapping. He needed to figure out a way to get home or at least call to let them know he was somewhat alright even if he had no clue where in the world he was. Kyrie would be so worried or worse maybe she thought he was dead!

The thought of Kyrie being sad when he was sitting around doing nothing filled him with urgency. He jumped to his feet, gaining the impassive attention of his kidnapper. He froze, standing absolutely still until those cold empty blue eyes invariably slipped back onto the broken blade.

Nero shuddered. It was so creepy and terrifying. What could possibly have happened to him to make him so- his eyes fell on the blade: broken, like it’s wielder. He shook his head, strangely torn on his course of action. Everything had been simpler yesterday, before that portrait in the hallway. Nero was probably reading too much into it, but he couldn’t shake the feeling-

Enough!

This was not the time for contemplation. Nero needed to find a way back to Kyrie and Credo, had to at least let them know he was alive. He walked back towards the entrance hall. It didn’t matter that if he left he may never see the man again.

It didn’t matter.

He paused with his hand on the doorknob. He could practically feel the gaze of the gentle looking lady in the portrait on his back. With a sigh he turned the knob.

He waited on the other side of the door for something to happen - for him to be dragged inside again like a disobedient puppy - as he took in the overgrown walkway leading straight to an open gate. But nothing happened and he was free to take in the surprisingly well kept and elaborate bricked fence that separated the property from the street. Coming in from the back like they had yesterday from something that was like a forest Nero had not expected to be anywhere near civilization, but here they were, in a town or a city - Nero had no way to judge how big it was.

He had known he wasn’t in Fortuna, but it was one thing to be in some forest and then inside a house another thing entirely to be standing on a well kept street with fancy elaborate black lamp posts alternating between trees at regular intervals. He turned right and started walking along the wall. There were no cars on the street, clearly this was a quiet road and the large houses across the road had parking on their grounds. Aside from the asphalted road this could have been taken out of one of the older richer neighborhoods in Fortuna, there was something similar but different in the architecture, like a common influence - but fuck if Nero knew anything about architecture.

He stretched his arms above himself with a groan. One thing he did know: he was not knocking on any rich people’s door to ask to borrow a phone or figure out where he was. That was asking for trouble.

Which begged another question. Why in the world did that dilapidated house stay like that? Why hadn’t it been torn down? Judging by the age of the tomato soup Nero had eaten it had been like that for at least two maybe even three decades. And yet all these rich people just accepted that in their neighborhood? Something was definitely fishy about that.

Nero had been walking for about ten minutes by his estimate when there was a break in the wall, and he froze. Open gates lead into a courtyard with a fountain in the center and a large impressive building with a domed roof, but that was not what had his attention. Mesmerized he walked forward into a short arched tunnel, towards the well known silhouette. The tunnel ended leaving him in a small round courtyard, there were four water filled basins in the cardinal directions, but most importantly he’d been right: that was a statue of Sparda.

What was a statue of Sparda doing here? Or maybe he really was on Fortuna? No that didn’t make sense. Nero knew every nook and cranny of Fortuna Castle Town from wandering as a kid and later his job and nowhere else on the island could possibly be mistaken for this place.

He looked up at the statue’s familiar metal face. To think he’d find a statue of Sparda here. It was another odd coincidence. And it looked just like the ones back home. Nero crossed his arms and tilted his head, it was a bit strange there seemed to be consensus what he looked like.

He’d gotten the impression it was only Fortuna that took the legend so literally, what with the way their teachers talked about outsiders, but maybe there were more places. Maybe Sparda had actually existed if places so presumably far apart could agree on what he looked like. Still considering Nero had never encountered any demon smarter than the average animal, driven by instinct and hunger, he was not holding out hope for there being any truth in the scriptures.

Speaking of demons, a familiar feeling, not quite scent not quite sound, overcame him and he spun around to find the archway blocked by five darkly robed demons with scythes. Nero took an instinctive step back only to hit the statue.

Savior watch over me, his brain supplied sarcastically.

He pulled out blue rose, painfully aware he had three shots and no more ammo and stuck in a dead end lest he climbed. He didn’t know if he’d be fast enough for that, those demons weren’t familiar to him and he’d rather not turn his back to them.

His best bet might be grabbing one of their own weapons, though Nero did not feel confident he could wield a scythe with proficiency it would be better than nothing, though huh- quickly he aimed blue rose and fired. The shot went right through the two heads that had been aligned in the relatively narrow arched passage. The demons dropped with pained hisses. Maybe Nero actually had a chance if he used his head and shot wisely.

He took a step to the side and took out two more with a single shot. Only one left and one set of bullets. Nero grinned exhilarated and taunted, “is that all you got?”

He should never have done that.

That same feeling as before welled up and he spun around only to have to raise his eyes to see a large robed figure hovering up behind the statue. It made a gesture and black demonic circles activated all around him summoning way too many scythe wielding demons for this small courtyard.

Nero was so dead.

-

This is liable to so much editing before it makes itself to Ao3. I am just feeling out the story beats here. Also fuck Red Grave, what is your geography. The news article in DMC5 says the demon attack happened "in the heart of" the city. A city that looks suspiciously like London. Why is the house still standing if it's in the heart of a city like that?! It's prime real estate. I can only assume Sparda was a real estate tycoon and his estate owns the entire area and there's some serious stipulations about the house not being touched - like he's a very long lived creature he can't have people tear down his shit just because he's not around for a few decades ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

Also Sparda's lawyer is probably cuttthroat, in the know, and comes from a family that has been in service of Sparda for generations. There's a fic to be written there of how Dante has dodged the man for years, claiming it's because he thinks it's a scam, but really it's because he cannot stomach touching that money - it's also Vergil's inheritance after all, and well, there's a reason Vergil can't claim it....

Anyways enough rambling, I would love to hear what you thought in the replies or tags! Or hey, please tell me all your headcanons for Red Grave.