#devi

Vergil’s eyes narrow slightly. He crosses the room in three measured steps and his hand presses briefly to your forehead. Heat. Too much.

“A fever,” he concludes. “You will rest.”

You open your mouth to argue.

He turns away before you can.

“I will return.”

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By the time you manage to crawl into bed, he is already in the kitchen. The clink of ceramic. The low hiss of a kettle. The precise cut of vegetables.

Vergil does not cook often, but when he does, it is done with the same methodical focus he applies to sharpening Yamato. Everything exact. Everything purposeful.

He carries the tray to your room with quiet steps. You are half asleep when he sets it beside you.

“Sit up,” he says.

You try. Your arms tremble and you fall gently back onto your soft pillows.

Vergil exhales. A small sound of annoyance. He sits beside you and slides an arm behind your back, lifting you until you rest against his chest.

He places the cup of tea to your lips.

“Drink.”

You obey, too tired to tease. The tea is bitter.

Next the water. Then the medicine.

Only when you have taken everything does he set the tray aside.

He lowers you gently back to the pillows and adjusts the blankets, tucking them around your shoulders with surprising care. Ensuring no cold air touches you.

“There,” he says. “Adequate.”

Your eyes flutter open just enough to look at him.

“…You’re staying?” you murmur.

Vergil regards you. For a moment, he says nothing.

“I see no reason to leave,” he replies.

And he sits in the chair beside your bed.

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Time passes strangely when you are sick. Minutes blur together. Sounds fade and become dampened.

You drift in and out of sleep.

Each time you wake, he is still there.

Silent. Vigilant. Watching to meet your every need.

Once, you cough in your sleep. Immediately, a glass of water is in his hand, lifted to your lips before you fully wake.

Another time, you shiver. He rises, adds another blanket, and lowers the room’s temperature with a subtle adjustment to the heater.

Not one wasted motion.

Not one unnecessary word.

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You turn restlessly, barely awake, mumbling incoherent complaints. Your hand reaches out blindly, searching for something steady.

Vergil watches it.

For a moment, he hesitates.

Then he removes his coat, sets it aside, and slides under the blankets beside you.

He pulls you gently against his chest, one arm secure around your back, the other resting across your shoulders. Not crushing. Not loose. Just enough to keep you grounded.

“You are shaking,” he says quietly. “This will stabilize your temperature.”

You cling to him without thinking, face pressing into his shirt. His heartbeat is steady. Strong. Unwavering.

It calms you instantly.

Vergil does not move after that.

He remains still, a living fortress around you.

You drift in and out of sleep.

Each time you wake, you are still held. Still safe. Still warm.

Once, you whisper against his chest, barely audible.

“…You’re warm, Verg.”

Vergil’s voice rumbles above you.

“Good.”

Another time, you murmur, “Thank you.”

He does not respond.

But his arm tightens slightly around you.

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By early morning, your fever breaks.

Your breathing evens. Your body relaxes fully against his.

Vergil checks your forehead again. Cooler. Acceptable.

He allows himself a quiet exhale in relief.

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When you wake properly later, your head is still tucked beneath his chin. His eyes are closed, but he is not asleep. Just resting. Still holding you.

You whisper, “Did you stay like this all night?”

Vergil opens his eyes.

“Yes.”

You smile weakly.

“…I love you.”

Vergil regards you for a long moment.

Then, with his voice low and steady:

“I am aware...”

His hand brushes gently over your hair.

Once.

Soft as a falling feather.

"I love you too."