#seraphimscript

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."