#bleedecay

Icy silver eyes shifted quickly around - the only sign that the stoic man was currently panicking. The chilling and familiar sensation of that devil’s lips against his face sent shivers down his spine, though he refused to acknowledge it. He didn’t flinch at the claws threatening to hold him still, the precious blood of his spilling out. Boots dug into the ground, and he gripped the hilt of Yamato tightly for a second, before unsheathing it, a flash of blue.

“Well, that’s a fine ‘hello’ and ‘how are you?’.”

Not that he expected any different. Frankly, after the incident, he had become more cautious of who entered their home, and he had good reasons to assume that Dante shared that sentiment.

Probably a little too much.

Nero returns the sword on his back, grimacing at the stench as he steps closer to Dante. He notes the problem twin is nowhere to be found. It’s somehow both a relief and a disappointment. But, he is happy to see Dante return safe and sound.

He didn’t doubt him.

Most of the time.

"You stink like a dead animal.”

Noting the obvious, Nero somewhat theatrically covers his nose.

“Look like one, too.”    

“Hope you had fun down there, cause we’re nowhere done cleaning this mess up.”

He smirks, but he looks exhausted. The city is far from recovered, and while most of the demons have been taken care of, it’s dangerous for civilians to be there due to the unstable buildings and the debris littering the streets. Still, survivors insist on returning and Nero can understand them. After all, nothing but the potential apocalypse managed to drag him out of Fortuna.

Home is always, well, home.

“Been gathering here for a while, for the jobs. Morrison’s been dishing out a lot. He says there’s a lot of activity, lately.”

“If it helps, I also feel like a dead animal.” Hell, he wouldn’t even be surprised if he got fleas. Dante wiped his face with his filthy sleeve, and stumbled into his shop. It smells surprisingly... clean. The place is pretty empty, although his furniture is still there and exactly where it was placed. The jukebox is strangely playing music and looks... wiped down?

Dante turned to flash Nero a smile, but the look in Nero’s face makes his smile falter a bit. 

“Well, if I’m gonna help clean up, I’m gonna have to clean myself up first.”

Dante wiped the sweat off his brow onto his greasy shirt. His shirt was punctured with over a dozen stabs in the center of his chest, down towards his stomach. All small and thin cuts. The Yamato. The breeze goes through his shirt holes, and he shudders.

“Christ, either it’s hot or freezing.” Dante huffed. “Tell me we got running water in here, yeah?”

Dante shut the door behind him so the breeze wasn’t so bad. The lights were on, they were brighter, he could see the fixture was cleaned. The fan spins slowly, the blades are cleaned of dust. He steps around, almost feeling... disrespectful, for being so filthy, his boots are so worn down from walking, the sole of his shoes flop around and slap the heel of his feet.

“My eyes are burning like crazy. I haven’t washed my hair with water in what feels like ten years...” He huffed, and started to take his gloves off, revealing the scar on the palm of his hand. 

It looked like it got reopened recently.

“Morrison still out and about? Good. I’m glad.” He started, and shed his coat, which also had the same holes in the backside. His shirt is shredded on the back, it looks more like clawmarks than anything. Dante’s hair is touching his shoulders, and sticky with red and brown, most likely blood.

@bleedecay || we love a dad uwu

She is exhausted but doing her best to not let it show, pushing sweaty strands of hair away from her forehead before dabbing it with a cool cloth. Healing is not an art that comes to her naturally or without effort. It feels good in a way to use her magic semi-openly; most of the mercenaries don’t ask why her poultices work so well or how something she passes off as ‘pressure points’ helps their wounds heal faster. Most of them are just glad that her services are affordable and if any of them have suspicions, they keep their mouths shut. All in all, the arrangement is just how she likes it. More freedom than the life she’d had before, and while there is less comfort in this existence, the trade-off of living on her own terms is worth it. No matter how tiring it gets. 

Nero has finally fallen asleep -- unlike his mother he is not worn out nearly so easily -- and is securely tucked in with his favourite stuffed toy at his side. Bethany gazes down at him fondly, and leans in to place the lightest of kisses on his hair. A crown of silver just like his father. Perhaps she should feel resentful or abandoned by him; but bitterness has never clung easily to her heart and her son’s resemblance to her lost love holds more fondness than pain. She can’t help but smile, and tucks the child’s blanket in a bit more securely. Nero is a gift, and being his mother is something she treasures. Even though there is always room to dream of things that could be different, this is one thing she would never change. 

What might have drifted off into a reverie of wishes and thoughts and might-have-beens is interrupted by the gentle chime of the door opening, and Bethany makes her way to the front area to greet the visitor. The sight of Grue has her inwardly thanking her stars, especially once she notices the pot in his hands. Not having to worry about dinner tonight is a relief. Almost greedily she leans over the counter and clasps the pot, sliding it closer and removing the lid to appreciatively inhale the contents. “Oh, it smells wonderful!” The mage sighs. Her stomach rumbles in noisy agreement, drawing a mildly embarrassed laugh from her. “--Yeah, tell her I think she nailed it!” The scent of the stew is nostalgic. Bittersweet. It is both comforting and a small pang all at once. Bethany had shared the recipe with Jessica without divulging that it had been her own mother’s creation. A simple dish, but one that had been tradition for their family nonetheless. 

@bleedecay || a sonboi uwu

He is her little sunburst, a cherished ray of light that Bethany has been lucky enough to hold in her arms and to watch him grow into an intelligent, thoughtful child. Nero is greeted by the scent of freshly baked bread drifting through the home to welcome him, and at the sound of his footsteps she has already turned to greet him with a fond smile, ready to hear about his day.

But his words plant ice in her heart. Pleased with himself; no doubt proud of what is, to him, a situation resolved without violence or reprimand and thus his mother should be proud! Bethany's heart aches a little that her reaction is fated to disappoint him. She would give anything to never see his smile be dimmed.

With a gentleness, and doing her best to conceal the clawing, instinctive fear, Bethany lowers herself down on one knee to meet him at eye level, the better to impart the gravity of her words. "I'm glad you didn't get into a fight, but we don't threaten people with our power, Nero. Making others afraid isn't nice, and it won't keep us safe." She lightly ruffles his hair, hoping to take the edge off the reprimand. Bethany knows he means well, and he is truly too young to be told the fate of people like her who aren’t able to blend in. "What keeps us safe is nobody knowing I have magic. I know you're not scared of it, but most people are, so you can't tell anyone, okay? Not even to stop fights. It has to stay with just us."

He pauses from pouring out a coffee when Morrison mentions the graves. He slid the pot back into it’s place until he heard a click. He stared at his reflection in the clear glass, and then his reflection in the dark black coffee. 

He drowned his image in cream, and tossed a bunch of sugar in, taking a large drink.

It’s when Morrison mentions demons that he stops. He sets the cup down. Not demons. Why was that important? Then he processes the second to last sentence. His hand is resting on the counter.

Tony curled his fist. 

“...”

He doesn’t know what to say. He lets out an irritated sigh and turns around to look Morrison in the eye. Morrison wouldn’t have a face like that without a reason.

“... Was it Mom?”

How long had it been since Nell died? How long had it been since the nightmare that stole Grue’s arm and other parts of his body, and the nightmare that infected Jessica with some demonic sickness had come for them? How long ago had it been...

Not long enough.

“Rock was right.” Tony finished his coffee in a second gulp. “He should’ve taken her body...” Tony hissed. He hated saying so, he hated remembering that he cried in front of Rock, admitting that yes, Nell was Rock’s mother, his birth mother, but he was Tony’s mother too. She died in his arms. Rock couldn’t part them with a healthy conscious after that display -- and Tony curses his weakness. Because now he’s hurt Rock and Nell both with his tears.

She was right. I am a crybaby.

His hand comes around her, and in all honesty, he’s just focused on Eva. At times like these, he can’t stop his jealousy from coming out, from being a little bothered that Vergil is bathed in limelight and attention, that his father stands behind him, smiling, hand on his shoulder. --

He knows he hates Sparda. He knows he shouldn’t hate Vergil for it, but at times, he can’t help feeling bitterness. He can’t help wrapping his arms around his mother and retreating into her. At times he calls up Mundus and asks him for phone sex or to come fuck his frustrations out. He hasn’t been calling him much lately though... not since he and Eva first made love.

It was awkward, he knew it would be, and he got a little tipsy with wine, and kissed her breathless. He asked her to guide him, and her hands were soft as he remembered, her body was beautiful, and he told her over and over, tracing her skin.