Hi Liv!! For the ask game (if you’re still doing it)
I wish you would write a fic where Vergil (or Dante tbh) raising Nero reacts to him getting his devil bringer (this concept rotates around in my brain constantly and I will never be able to stop thinking about it)
Oh man oh man oh man!!!!!! Hi hi!!!!!!!! Boy do I have thoughts!!!!
OKAY originally I was gonna go on a whole rant about the places you could take this prompt and then I got caught in the net of "what if it happens around the same time in canon?" Which! The timeline I personally use has DMC 4 happen like aaaaalmost 3 years after DMC 2. And I thought, well, if Vergil never fell into Hell and became Nelo Angelo, he wouldn't want to live with Dante 100% of the time, and, what if he went back to Fortuna with Nero to live? Fortuna Castle has a bunch of information I'm sure he'd love to get his hands on, about demons and magic and Sparda, etc. Let's say the twins defeated Mundus no problem, and dismantled the shit with the Order before they were an issue (Dante still gets to shoot Sanctus in the face for my own entertainment) and now they're just living their lives.
But then DMC 2 happens, and Dante. Gets trapped in Hell. For 2 years (the juiciness of this is something I love so I throw it into everything even if DMC 2 was an ass game lol. Free my girl Lucia!!!) and then eventually gets out. Vergil would like, Need To Go Check On his little brother, and Dante would be In A State. Nero's around 18/19 at this point, so he's telling his Dad go, I'll be fine, take care of Uncle Dante, etc etc etc.
And Vergil is in Redgrave, with Dante, checking in or caring for him in the awkward, codependent way he knows how and Dante is too frayed to deny him (and also codependent as fuck).
Which leads us to. Vergil is away from Fortuna when it happens. Which is where we lay our scene:
Grit Your Teeth
When the front door opened late in the night, Nero flinched so hard he nearly fell off the couch. He caught the ethereal glow of his Dad's eyes in the dark, and released the tension that had scrunched his shoulders. As his heart rate climbed back down, Vergil hung his coat on the rack by the door, and the kid reached up to rub at his eyes.
Forgot, for a moment, that the knuckles of his right hand would feel like sandpaper. Stopped himself, and bit the inside of his cheek.
Then the living room light flicked on, and his panic shot right back through him.
He froze, mutilated right hand halfway to his face, and left hand wrapped tightly around his own wrist.
His Dad, too, had frozen, eyes wide and locked on the glow of sharpened claws and angry red scales.
Then, with a whisper of a breeze, Vergil knelt at his son's side, demonic speed a boon. Gentle, he reached out to cradle Nero's hand. The quarter demon couldn't bear to look at his Father's face, kept his eyes down, concealed by his bangs, and stared at the blanket pooled in his lap.
Tightened his grip, squeezed until he could just barely feel the pressure around his hardened scales.
The brush of flesh against his fingers made his breath hitch. Vergil slid his hand against the sensitive digits, while the other covered his normal hand. Nero's chest was tight, as he looked up at his Dad, more vulnerable and scared that he'd been in a long time.
(Surely, his Dad would know what to do, right? He hadn't been able to figure out how to make it go away in the three days since the attack in the forest, and has been avoiding everyone since. But this was his Dad, the Son of Sparda, a half demon. He'd know how to fix this, right?)
Furrow between his brows, Vergil pursed his lips. Eyes took in every detail of the limb, as he pried Nero's tight grip away. Once his son released his hold and dug his flesh hand into the blanket, the blue twin ghosted his touch further down the arm.
Tough scales hardly felt the light press of fingers, as he prodded at the crack that followed where his veins used to be.
"What happened?"
Nero didn't know if he imagined the desperate edge to his Dad's soft question.
He swallowed. Looked away. Couldn't bear to see the judgement in his gaze. "Kyrie and I were in the forest. Took some of the orphanage kids out for a day trip, get them some fresh air, y'know? Demons crawled up out of nowhere." A sharp inhale. "I had to do something. One of them got me good, and when the battle was over, my arm looked like... this."
"Did anyone else--"
"No. No. I, uh. Was able to hide it by the time Credo and the other knights finally found me. Kyrie and the kids made it back to town just fine." He huffed. "All the demons came straight for me."
Vergil swallowed. Murmured, "yes, they do tend to do that."
An ugly snort shook his shoulders. He examined the texture of the couch, and clenched his jaw. The hum of electricity from the lamp grated on his nerves.
A larger, calloused hand rose in his peripheral, and the warmth of his Dad's touch radiated through his cheek. Didn't fight, as his face was turned, and the tight quality of the older twin's face felt like a stab in the heart.
"I'm sorry I wasn't here for you."
"'S'fine. How's Uncle Dante?"
What could only be hurt flickered in Vergil's eyes. "Your Uncle is adjusting. I'm more concerned about you, my son."
Confusion furrowed his brow. In response, his Dad's thumb stroked once across his cheek. Swept over to smooth out the crease between silver brows.
"You are so much like your Mother."
Nero's heart skipped a beat. It was rare, that the cambion spoke of the woman who loved him.
A whoosh, as Vergil inhaled, eyes still searching his son's face. Nodded once. "Come. I'll make us some tea. I have more questions."
For the first time in days, the tension drained completely from his stiff shoulders, as he got up to follow his Dad to the kitchen.
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My anti stereotype character is my elven necromancer who’s super cheerful and bubbly. She has chronic baby face and is the cutest member of the party, but she also actively enjoys causing problems on purpose and does not think anything through. For a genius, she’s very dumb.
Oh, I'm more scared of her than the stereotypical necromancer. All the enjoyment of problem-causing, none of the warning signs.
HFJUVEIALORFGVEJKEAL!!!!!!!!!!!! You and @mysteroads picked this one and!!! Its my baby!!! I've been picking it up on and off for like, six-ish months? Its also part of A Monster Is Not Such A Terrible Thing To Be, and occurs at the same time as Time Keeps On Slipping Into The Future and Pack The Dirt Over My Grave. Vergil and Dante get matching titles because they're shitheads <3
THIS IS NOT YOUR GRAVE, GET UP.
He knew time had passed, because each time he opened his aching eyes, the man in red looked worse.
The first time he’d seen him, eyes wild and a feral grin stretched across his face, he’d been bloodstained but joyous, fresh off of victory.
The second time, the man’s face was dirty, splashed with viscera, but his smile was no less unhinged. His eyes had hardened into chips of ice from their previously molten appearance. Mouth open and lips moving, he could not hear what the man was saying, but knew it was something taunting.
He was always, always taunting.
The third time, the man offered no words, his eyes held nothing but rage, his lips downturned in a snarl that had his fangs on full display, pupils slitted and eyes tinged red. He did not know what had the man looking so, but the whispers that never left sounded urgent and sad.
He still could not tell what the whispers were saying.
The fourth time, he stayed aware longer. He watched as the man fought, as demons surrounded him and as his sword whirled in his hands. His expression had faded from that first exuberant look into a grim resolve.
Holes peppered the coat, shirt, and vest he wore, and he could do nothing but watch as a long, sinuous demon wrapped around the man’s leg, lurched upward, and in its final act as the man slew it, breathed a yellow cloud into his face.
Surprise flickered across the man’s face as he waved away the poisoned air. As he coughed, he lunged after the remaining enemies, killing them and absorbing their essence with fluid grace. He staggered as the effects of the poison set in, shook his head violently, silver strands whipping back and forth, and looked up.
Directly at him.
The man’s face contorted in pain, emotions he did not have the words to name flickered into one another. Blue eyes shone as they filled with tears.
“Vergil?”
The broken sound of that one word was the first thing he had heard and recognized in however long he had been piecing himself back together.
