Pairing: Vergil/Reader.
Content/Warnings: Swearing.
Word Count: 10, 181.
Summary: You hated him; you missed him. You were raising his kid, a little boy that looked just like him. It haunted you, you loved it.
A/N: Reader is not Nero's birth mother in this. I'll be updating this fic on AO3 under the name figandfox in the next coming days.
You were supposed to be turning twenty-four. Your birthday was in the winter, a babe born on a Wednesday, forever a child full of woe… Your new identity said otherwise. Your ID (fake, like that of your birth certificate and driver license and name, birthplace, old high-school, parents - all false, a fairy tail, a lie.) said you were turning twenty-one, an age to match the agelessness of your pretty face. Your new birthday was just ten days away, an odd date in the middle of summer. If you backdated this packaged rebirth, you were now Saturday’s child, a child that works hard for a living. And that you do. It was the only truth to this conjured identity of yours.
“Nero, come on! We have to go or else we’ll be late! Again, might I add!” Your voice was weary, throat-tacky in that strained way. You had spent most of the night studying. Between work, culinary school, and your dear Nero, that wasn’t much time for sleep. The hallway of your tiny apartment whined under the weight of the five year old as he marched out of his room (the only bedroom the apartment retained within its shoebox walls).
“I’m not going.” The tone, even the cadence, was all too familiar.
You were waiting in the open kitchen, securing the two pearly white rows of buttons that kept your chef’s coat snug and proper against your chest. It was a gift, and also the most expensive clothing item you owned. When you finally peered away from your uniform to glare at the little (nearly) four-foot tall devil. Nero had that rebellious scowl on his chubby face again, the one that twisted his mouth in a way that made the fat of his cheeks bulge just slightly more.
“Nero”, you warned with a firm tone. “I can’t be late to class again because you don’t want to go to preschool. Be a big boy and put your shoes on before we miss the train - please.”
The five year old huffed through his nose, his chest expanding as far as it could go as he carried on this act of childish defiance. You had started a new semester at culinary school again, and Nero never coped well with the adjustment of having to return to preschool and leave your side. The change of routine and your presence was too much for the boy to handle for the first few weeks. You knew he would settle eventually, welcoming the chance to socialise and play with children his own age instead of being dragged around the city to run errands or do chores or accompany you at boring, stinky work.
But still, these first few weeks were so draining.
“No!” Little, balled fists struck his side as Nero stomped his socked feet. You noted how one of them, his left foot to be exact, possessed a sizeable hole, large enough to allow the tip of the boy’s big-toe to show through the sow of cheap, white fabric.
Your jaw shifted, strained, and you tried not to allow the anxiety to rise like bile in your throat. Nero needed new socks. Nero needed a new school bag for his first day of Kindergarten in mid August. Stationary, shoes, books…Clothes, too. The cuffs of his shirts were starting to end just above his wrists. Nero needed basic necessities and you needed the money to buy such necessities.
How was your part-time job as a motel cleaner supposed to cover rent, school fees, food, utilities, and a whole new wardrobe for Nero? Fuck, fuck, fuck.
You shook your head, your nerves frayed by the looming reminder of how pathetic you were at keeping your head above water. You could taste it, the heaviness that was salt and ocean, how it teased the idea of swallowing you whole from the inside. How it longed to settle in the emptiness of your lungs, to fill and fill and fill until you were too full of seafoam to keep your chin from dipping under the waves.
But then your eyes caught sight of Nero in all his small, dependent stature. The moon-kissed silver of his hair, the echo of someone else in the lines of his face, his bright eyes. The boy knew little of his origins and questioned it heavily, but when you peered down at him, all you saw was his roots. It haunted you both. Nero, because he knew nothing for his mother and father. And you, because you knew everything about his mother, about his father. Sometimes, when sleep runs from you like a thief in the night, you hold back tears and curse Vergil until your body shakes from self-pity. Like a pendulum, your mind swings wildly and without sense. One moment, Vergil is the stoic hero who saved you from a dark, dark place. The next, he was the devil you didn’t know, the one you didn’t know was worse. He stole you from one hell only to spit you out in another, only this one was far more tormenting. Where fiends like electricity bills and preschool tantrums and exams dug into you like hot pokers.
“Get. Your. Shoes. On. Now.” Your voice was low, cold, like the hiss of winter’s winds. “Or god help me, Nero.”
It started with a lip wobble. Then came the heavy blinking. Next, the dreaded sniffles.
“You just want to get rid of me!” His tears were so, so full as they rolled down Nero’s warm cheeks. Round with the same salt that threatened to drown you.
You winced, your sternness and chilling frustration all but cracking under the weight of Nero’s sobs. You knew why he struggled with returning to preschool, with leaving you for long periods. He had spent the first four years passed around foster families like a bad cold. Quick to come and quick to get rid of. Stability and a place to call home, to feel safe and cared for was still a rather recent concept to Nero. And the boy was fast to sink his teeth into the new found security, unsure when or if it would end. But he wouldn’t dare let go without a fight or a tear or two shed. You crossed what little distance was between you and him to sweep the sobbing boy up in your arms. He was so warm, so soft, you couldn’t help but rest your cheek against his silver crowned head. Nero wept opening into your white coat, clinging onto you fiercely as he buried his snotty face into the curve of your neck. You didn’t mind, holding him tight, humming and hushing to soothe the child.
“O, my sweet boy. You know that’s not true”, you whisper, there’s a slight crack in your voice. You’re trying not to fall apart too. “I’m sorry I was stern. I’m sorry I have to go to class and leave you at preschool. But school is really important, Nero. It will be for you too soon. Remember? You’re going to big boy school in August."
“I don’t wanna.” His voice was wet and small, somewhat muffled by your skin. But there was that famous Sparda Stubbornness again. A sign that this spat was coming to an end.
“I know you’re feeling a lot of big emotions right now, but I promise you, Nero; I’m not leaving you. I’m never leaving you.” The promise was far more of an oath, something meant to last a lifetime and to be truly unbreakable.
“I’ll pick you up at 5:30pm today, like I do every day. And I won’t be a second late. Pinkie promise.” You nudge him gently with your shoulder until his little head pops up. You see how his eyes narrow at your extended pinkie. Nero wipes the snot from his upper lip with his sleeve before reaching for you with his own pinkie.
You locked around his pinkie with an honest, tender determination. Soft but firm. Kind yet fierce. You meant to keep that promise. You really, really did.
You were known for your knife skills across your cohort. You had unmatched precision, your fundamentals were stellar, and your control of the blade, of each cut, was almost siren-like, hypnotic. Your song of steel captured even the most renowned chef to watch if envy did not cast over the eyes of your observers first. Everything else about you was pretty much just above-average when it came to the culinary arts. You were no Massimo Bottura, but you certainly weren’t lacklustre. A solid B-grades student with a few A-graded specialities here and there. Your punctuality, on the other hand, was C-graded on a good day. If it wasn’t Nero and his tears making you late, it was a late train, or the pouring rain, or a missed bus. Always something.
“You never get drinks with us.” Selena whined as she untangled her curls from the standardised hairnets they were made to wear as part of their uniform.
“Not twenty-one yet, remember?” You were. You were older, actually.
Selena groaned, rolling her doe eyes. “Neither is Willem until September. The bar downtown isn’t known for checking IDs. I would know, my boyfriend is the bouncer. I’ll get you in, no sweat.”
You returned her a sweet smile, kind but not inviting, “thank you, I really do appreciate the illegal act of consideration. But I have a shift and I need the money. Work calls.”
“Your loss!” Selene scoffed over her shoulder as you rushed by your peers. You waved something quick yet polite as you hurried to make the last bus.
“I know!” You did. But you were used to losing either something or everything. It came with this new, counterfeit life of yours.
Your mad dash to the bus stop was interrupted by the heavens rupturing. The summer storm was heavy and hot. You felt the humidity stick to your skin, fuzz your hair. You needed to bite your lip in order to not scream something ungodly. The bus stop near your campus was unused and neglected as it went the opposite way from the city where most students lived. It was the only bus that traveled to Nero’s preschool. But when the rains came, tired bus drivers often skipped over the stop altogether. You couldn’t risk being late to pick Nero up. Especially not today. You pinky promised, afterall.
The rain was warm as it dripped from your hair, down the curve of your neck. You hovered your bag over your head, a way to spear yourself from the worst of it as you paced anxiously. The bus stop didn’t provide any form of shelter, and didn't even provide a bus most of the time. As time dragged on, and the rain thickened from a spritz to a down pour, something stirred in your chest.
You knew this feeling well and your breath caught in disbelief. But something was off with the pressure in between your ribcage. The press of it was less sharp, precise. It was jagged now, rough as it wedged itself close to your beating heart. The air tasted different too, there was death upon it. But the blood was new, fresh - earthy. Not that stale mix of sulphur and stone, cold and bitter. You’re quick to kick off the soaked pavement, creating distance between yourself and the almost-stranger lurking in your shadow. Your bag drops between the two of you, a sad thud into a dirty puddle, the sound nearly swallowed by the summer storm. You need your hands, your guard.
“Huh, and here I thought I was being quiet.”
God, that voice…that fucking voice. Your eyes readjusted beyond the rain, catching the red of his trench coat, loud against the bleak sky. Your jaw clenched as your eyes dared to drift from his coat to his chest to his face. You almost dropped your guard, fists held tight to your jaw, shaking at the man before you. It was like his image, his voice that chose to haunt you in this more rugged, unkept version.
The sharpness of his jaw cut further as a bitter grin spread across his face.
His face…the face that had left you ten months before. Oh, god.
“And you must be the one Lady calls Project Stone Heart. Gotta say, it’s a badass name.”
Your frown deepens, nearly twisting into something mean. You had only met Lady twice, but each time she addressed you by your mission title you had somewhat kindly requested for the name to be changed to something less on the nose. Mostly, you thought it was tasteless. And taste mattered to you.
“You don’t have clearance to even know that name. Or me for that fact.” You licked your dry lips, trying to keep your breath steady despite the rise of anxiety in your throat.
That dropped his smile, and he glared at you through the long, wet locks that stuck to his face. His hair was that moon-kissed silver. Just like Vergil’s. Just like Nero’s. The Sparda genes were something fierce.
“So everybody’s been telling me...” The demon hunter murmured, his voice catching in the rain. It turned his tone low, moody. You couldn’t imagine a version of Dante that wasn’t the cocky, stubborn fool Vergil had ingrained in your mind’s eye through recounts and brief moments of brotherly rants.
“What do you want, Dante? Why are you here?” Your voice rose, a snarl that rippled through the storm.
“I’m here on Lady’s orders!” Dante snapped back, his teal eyes narrowing. “She wants your ass back at HQ. But I have my own bone to pick with you, Stone Heart.”
You scrunched up your nose at him, but despite your training, you gradually lowered your guard. Your hands falling limp by your side.
“What happened?” There was a tremble to your words, a wobble to your lips. You dropped that fierce facade and the fear in your chest gave way like floodgates. Not Nero, the voice inside your head begged, anything can happen, but just not to Nero.
“Long story. You coming or what?”
You asked for the heater to not be turned on during the car ride. You could already feel the affections of the summer rain, humid and sticky and terrible, terrible, terrible for your hair. You knew that with the extra heat your tresses would be thrice the size. Dante was nice enough to comply, even as the two of you sat soaked in his van, dripping puddles onto his worn fabric seats. The devil hunter twitched as he weaved through the traffic, unsettled and restless, like a caged dog. One finger tapped rapidly against the steering wheel, and you could tell it had nothing to do with being uncomfortable in damp leather.
He had a bone to pick with you.
Something was obviously plaguing the youngest Son of Sparda’s mind. Dante was wound tight with questions. But you felt bow taut, too. Too many worries swept your mind up in a hurricane, and at the very centre was Nero; his whereabouts, his safety, if he had eaten, if he was scared…
Your tongue felt heavy behind your teeth, yet you were the one who let the questions pile up until it weighed it down. What else could you do? You didn’t know if Dante knew about Nero. About anything for that matter or if Lady was still keeping him in the dark.
Your mouth cracked open to confirm your suspicions but once you caught sight of that sharp jaw and moonlight hair, you sealed your lips tight. You turned from him, quick to steal your attention elsewhere, anywhere. The scuffed up dashboard in front of you, the tint-peeled window beside you. You already broke one promise today, there was no need to break another on half-baked ideas. And unlike Dante, there was a high chance that all your pressing questions would be answered eventually by Lady once the devil hunter delivered you to the main headquarters of Uroboros Corporation.
You were never good at being patient…
The corner of your lip was just shy of a smile. It wasn’t often you heard reminisce of Vergil’s taunts echo through old memories, not unless you were around Nero, of course. But it seemed his uncle had the same effect on you.
Once you and Dante reached the very outskirts of the city, the towering structure that was Uroboros Corporation was more than just in view. Dante didn’t slow down as the foundation of the building gave way, a platform lowered from false earth and the Son of Sparda took that as a challenge.
“Slow down.” You snapped, and your hand shot up in search of a grab handle to brace yourself once you realised that your words only spurred Dante to press harder on the acceleration.
Your fingers brushed up against the jagged ends of a snapped handlebar. You were so fucked.
“Where’s the fun in that?” Dante grinned, his teeth were sharp, glossy with spit. His hand clutched the joystick as the van raced down the runway.
Before the mouth of the platform swallowed you both whole, Dante slammed on the breaks and jerked the wheel violently. It sent the van spinning. What came from your throat was pure terror as you clawed at your seatbelt for dear life. Your screams merged with Dante’s howls of vigour as the vehicle skidded on worn, wet tyres. It came to a screeching halt, tipping slightly on one side before rocking back on all fours. There was hissing and smoke, and the van whined something old and abused as Dante swaggered out of the driver’s seat, all too pleased with himself. You were less smooth as your trembling hands found the doorhandle and you all but fell out the van and onto unsteady legs.
Your heart was like a war drum, beating almost painfully against your ribs.
“Vergil was right, you are a massive pain in the ass.” You hiss, words bitter as you regain your footing.
That cool charisma all but bled out of Dante’s body, and his strut came to an end. The silence was deafening, but the air sizzled with the return of summer’s heat and the tension between you and Sparda’s youngest son. The bowls of the Uroboros were not well ventilated, you could taste the humidity, the enmity. How it hung limp in the air, like a thief at the gallows. Your body grew taut, old instincts roaring alive before your eyes could conceptualise the muzzle of a gun pointed far too steady between your brows.
“And how the hell do you know my brother?” Dante’s voice was arctic, chilling you to the marrow. “You tell me that, and we’ll consider my bone with you picked.”
You didn’t dare move, like Dante’s gun, his question was loaded. You didn’t know where to begin, or even how to explain. You didn’t even know if you could.
“Putting a gun to my asset’s head was not your orders, Dante.”
You couldn’t see her due to Dante’s towering stature, but you knew that authoritative voice well. Lady stood stall by the closing elevator doors, a small team of armed bodies around her.
You knew very little about Uroboros Corporation before America began their propaganda campaign to wage war against Makai. But after Lady’s take over due to Board of Director changes, you knew even less. But so did the rest of America. Uroboros Corporation was now a new age mythos, reminiscing of what they accomplished was either here or there to the greater public, and all the officials and leading governments knew was that Lady’s newly refined company was their last stand against the demon race.
No one asked questions and no one dug around. Just as Lady liked it.
Dante didn’t lower his gun, “no. Your orders were to bring Project Stone Heart to HQ. And look who’s at HQ - Stone Heart. Why? Because good ol’ Dante completed his orders. Now you cash in your end of the deal, and start spilling how she knows Vergil. Or am I going to have to pull this trigger to get you to start talking, Lady?”
Your eyes stray from Dante’s frustrated sneer over to Lady’s relaxed face. She was calm, with a knowing sense of air around her.
“There’s a lot about your brother you don’t know, Dante.” Lady’s voice was as steady as her gaze, “I’m willing to share the details due to our circumstances. But you’ll need to lower the fucking gun first.”
A growl rippled from Dante’s throat as he tossed his head back to glare at Lady. For a second, you thought he’d disobey out of sheer spite.
Thankfully, the second son of Sparda had greater sense than that.
“You better start talking…” Dante spat as he pulled the cool mouth of his semi-automatic pistol away from between your eyes. The gun was concealed smoothly before he turned his back to you, his eyes and attention set on Lady.
You felt the air return back to your lungs as you forced yourself to follow in Dante’s steps. You didn’t want to be here, but you knew better. Lady wouldn’t risk your cover if it wasn’t drastically important. And she knew better than to keep you long. Nero’s preschool closed at 7pm and you had to make that deadline or else she would have to handle a bigger mess with Child Services.
Lady dismissed her team with a simple nod as she led you and Dante into the elevator. You shuffled awkwardly between the two as the lift made its long descent into the deep bowls of the compound. Between the drop of your stomach as the elevator lowered and the scene that acted around you, it was an…unpleasant experience. Dante whistled in your ear, something upbeat and high-pitched until Lady snapped at him like he was a misbehaving do. You shrunk into your skin, slightly off put by how settled everything felt compared to just a few moments ago. Whatever dynamic Lady and Dante had, it seemed to naturally sway between unnerving and playful. Dangerous and teasing. It was hard to wrap your head around it.
Finally, you felt the gradual halt of the elevator in your core. The doors split apart with a groan and you squinted into the dimly lit space. The contrast between the sterile blare of the elevator and the room it had spat all of you out of was near blinding. You almost turned to Lady to question the relevance of this chamber when your eyes finally adjusted to the dark. There was a soft glow admitting from the centre of the room. Warm and yellow, welcoming and safe.
Lady took action before either you or Dante could make sense of what you were seeing. She strode from your side to where the illumination was blooming, her presence sparking the room’s sensory systems. Quickly, with each stern, authoritative step of Lady’s, the chamber awoke. Bright beams suddenly filtered within the room and you blinked away the dark spots that clouded your vision at the change of lightening for the second time.
You rubbed at your eyes as you took your own steps towards what you could now see as a glass dome.
“I need you to keep a level head when you see this.” Lady said, and you at first dismissed her words. Surely, they were for Dante. He has been taut with unease and famished for answers since the start.
But as you crept closer, curiosity biting at your heels as you peered down into the pit in which the thick glass dome crowned, you felt yourself motionless. Your lungs ceased to filter air, your blood ran cold. You could only blink - once, twice, thrice. You felt like a corpse, frozen in time at the very moment your heart stopped beating.
What you thought was a pit was in fact a small observation room. Fairy lights blushed the space with a golden hue, turning the soft blues of the wallpaper into warmer green. There were toys and books of all ages scattered around the milky carpet. Some were abandoned on the oddly shaped furniture, there was a fuzzy chair shaped like a wonky ‘H’ that acted as the foundation for a leaning stack of books.
It was a child’s room; or at least a room decorated to contain a child’s temperament and attention.
At the very end of the room, curled up in a chair like some frightened animal, was a little boy with bright, starry hair. His eyes and cheeks were red, his nose runny. Nero looked as though he had been crying for hours. There was a woman next to him in a polished lab coat, trying to encourage him to draw with her. She sat at the small table with him, hunched over and seemingly spent by Nero’s weepy yet cold attitude towards her. Nero had always been a shy boy. Sensitive and easy to bring to tears.
Your body moved before you could process the abandoned look on Nero’s face, and your hands found the softness of Lady’s neck.
“Calm down!” Lady choked out as she wrapped her fingers painfully around your wrists. She tried to pry the palms of your hands off her windpipe but you wouldn’t budge. Strength that was not yours kept your hold on Lady’s throat deliciously tight.
“Why the fuck do you have him?!” You bellowed as you both wrestled against the dome. “What the fuck do you want?!”
A bruising grip met your hips and someone tore you out of reach of Lady. You thrashed against Dante’s massive build until he threw you against the surface of the dome. Your head cracked against the glass, a thick, wet sound. You didn’t have time to sort out your swirling view before the devil hunter kept you pinned in place, his pistol once again returning to your throbbing skull. The muzzle was just as cool as you remembered it, and this time it nudged meanly at your temple, a kiss of gunpowder and steel.
You groaned, sagging against the glass as Lady spat and coughed up half-words besides where Dante kept you caged. She was trying to say something, even as her hands pawed at the red fingerprints tattooing the tender of her neck.
“You’re a fast one.” Dante breathed out, humourless. Even with your head spinning, you could tell it wasn’t a compliment. “Now let’s see what has your panties in a twist.”
Another whine fled from between your clenched teeth as Dante set his full weight on top of you. He was crushing you against the glass, taking the opportunity to not only peer over your shoulder and down into the room, but to keep you at bay.
You felt the sharp intake of breath before you heard the hiss leave Dante’s lips.
With what strength you had left, you pressed the palm of your hands against Dante’s chest and threw him off your aching body. You were lucky the shock left the Son of Sparda limp. The give between you and Dante’s brutish body was enough to squeeze between and earn your freedom. You caught yourself before you fell to your knees, one hand on the cool glass to wait out the shake in your bones.
“I’m so sick of temperamental half-breeds.” Lady growled as she reached for you with both hands. She pulled you up by the thick collar of your chef’s coat until you were on your feet, glaring at her and those two-tone eyes.
A bruising thud, then the fracture of glass stole your attention from Lady. You both turned to where Dante stood hunched by the dome. His fist was heavy against the cracked glass, dull nails biting into a callous palm.
“Lady!” Dante had found his voice again, booming and brutal. His eyes - a blue so similar to Vergil’s, to Nero’s, you almost couldn’t turn your gaze away - were trained onto the boy in the pit. “Whose -”
“Vergil’s.” You intercepted, a new wave of confusion threatened to pull you in. “He’s your brother’s son. How much do you not know?”
“He knows nothing.” Lady said, her eyes cast down, as if ashamed at her own words.
“Why?” The question fled your lips as well as Dante’s. The Son of Sparda had chosen to rest his forehead against the cool glass, unable to tear his gaze away from the snotty boy below.
“It’s what your brother wanted, Dante. And it’s what I needed. I couldn’t have you trying to break into Makai again. I needed you here.” Lady admitted. She looked pained, as if the truth was lodged in her throat, choking her as you once did.
“And how do you know what Vergil wants?” You spoke up this time, your brows knitted in contempt.
There was a sense of possession too, maybe a hint of jealousy. It had been ten months since you had spoken to Vergil. And despite the weekly letters you send him, not once had he broken the gates of hell for you to send a letter in return, to see his son…But Lady and her company of shadows was enough to get his attention?
Lady fixed her face into something bitter, it cut through the softness of her round cheekbones and left hard, exasperated creases to don her pretty features, “he’s…my informant in Makai. He rarely comes by, but when he does it’s usually to report intel gathered about refugees seeking asylum in our world - and among other things.”
“He visits you?” You drawled, your tone shrilled with appal. “And you couldn’t point him my way? Couldn’t remind him that Nero doesn’t even know what he looks like? That I’m alone. That I’m doing everything on my own? Or were you two too busy sharing Makai’s latest hot gossip to remember about me and Nero?!”
You shouldn’t aim your razor tongue at Lady, it wasn’t her fault, but you couldn’t help but sneer at her confession.
After all this time…For god’s sake, you were raising his son. Moving from one shitty apartment to the next, barely paying bills, putting yourself and Nero through school, working two jobs - hell, most nights you had a cup of tea before bed to starve off the hunger pains of skipping dinner again so that Nero could have lunch for the next day…And the bastard couldn’t walk between the two worlds to drop in and say hi.
“And you?” Dante croaked from behind you. “What’s my brother to you?”
You turned to face the demon hunter, only your sights found something broken, someone haunted. That look in Dante’s eyes, a flicker of guilt, a wildfire of pain. He crumbled into himself, and suddenly, his towering stature looked…small. Deflated. Dante leaned against the glass dome, gaze finally meeting yours.
“Don’t tell me Vergil isn’t the type to pay child support.” It was a weak attempt to flaunt that trademark gusto. But like that twist at the corner of Dante’s lips, it fell flat, boneless.
Your cheeks grew warm despite the dryness in his tone.
“Vergil and I…” You paused to lick your lips, trying once more to articulate the complexities of your relationship with Vergil. “I’m not Nero’s birth mother.”
“And yet you’re raising my brother’s kid…Why?
“I owe Vergil. He once saved me when I was in a really bad place. I wanted to return the favour somehow.” It was a rather watered down version of events, but it was all you were willing to give until you knew why Lady had uprooted your whole life.
Dante quipped an eyebrow up at you, seemingly in disbelief by your words.
“My big brother isn’t a people person - or well, a human person. Unlike me, he isn’t your usual dashingly handsome hero.”
“You still haven’t put two and two together?” Lady spat, her voice was still dry, ached.
The demon hunter’s eyes narrowed. Whatever bone he had with you, he now wanted to pick with Lady. “Put what together?”
“Dante, she’s not human.”
You clenched your jaw, the truth was more like grit between your teeth, painfully smoothing out your words.
“Why the hell are we suddenly so chatty, Lady?” You sneered as she ventured closer to where you and Dante stood. You stationed yourself in front of Lady, cutting Dante’s choked flurry of questions at the root. “You promised Vergil you wouldn’t -”
“That was before we had a rat.”
Lady let out a tight sigh, “someone in our organisation has been selling our classified information to something in Makai. Your file - Nero’s file - were a part of the last documents traded…They’re gone. They’re all gone. And only Virgil would have an inkling as to what the fuck is happening.”
“What?” You bit out, low and horrified.
Lady turned away, but you caught the way shame heavily creased the corners of her eyes.
“Why else would you be here?”
The room descended into a haunting silence. Realisation struck you like a fist. You bent over, winded, throat constricting around slop and bile, the acid carved like a knife as it lodged between your tender walls. Your hand crept up and sealed your mouth. There was a sour taste tang on your gums, between your molars, and you didn’t know if you were to scream, to sob, or to spew if you let it out.
He knew and he was going to find you.
“What - what the fuck am I supposed to do?” You croaked, the bitter still thick on your tongue, your voice nearly lost to the dimness of the room as it buoyed across the stretch of dark between you and Lady.
“Call him?” You echoed after Lady.
The demon hunter growled under her breath, “for fuck sakes, however you communicate with Vergil, just get it done. We need him here, we can’t fuck around about this longer.”
Your brows narrowed as your mind fogged. Lady had confessed to working with Vergil; that when he did visit the human world, he would do so by playing Lady’s little informant. Why the fuck did she need you to talk to him?
“My brother talks to you?” Dante’s words rung blue. And you couldn’t help but flinch at the depth of heartache that swelled his tone.
You allow your gaze to cast over Sparda’s youngest. Despite your best efforts to keep him, and his taunting similarity to Virgil at a distance, you couldn’t tear your eyes away once you saw Dante. Once you truly saw him.
He looked like a lost little boy, scared and needing.
He looked like Nero during those first early few weeks he was in your care. When he still believed that you too were something cold and fleeting.
“I write to him.” You confessed with dry lips yet wet eyes. You didn’t want to cry. You will not cry. You let your gaze flicker to Lady once more as conviction hardened the bones of your words. “But he never replies. I don’t even know if he gets my letters.”
“God, how stupid are you?” Lady chuffed something humourless out of her throat. God, how your fingers shook to wrap around that pretty neck again and squeeze. “How the fuck do you think I knew where you or the kid would be? A part of my deal with Sparda’s first pain in the ass was that my corporation wouldn’t know anything about you unless it came from him. So trust me, he gets your letters. And now I need you to write to him and tell him to get his demonic ass over here now.”
“If you two are close enough to gossip about me at work, then you call him and leave me and Nero the fuck alone!” You growled, baring your teeth like a muzzled dog. Again, your anger was misplaced, childish. But the confirmation that Virgil had indeed received your letters and wilfully refused to return them in favour was like a dagger between the ribs. It hurt to breathe, to let your heart beat, for your chest to expand.
“You think I have him on speed dial?” Lady scoffed as she glared meanly at you. You could see the judgement rich in her two-toned eyes. “That I hold all the power? Vergil comes and goes on his own time. I’m lucky to get a few minutes with him every second month. And half of the time he’s talking about you. So knock off this bratty attitude and summon him.”
You scrunched your nose and readied another vile, disobedient taunt at the back of your throat. Your body felt ablaze, your blood rushed and warm, down your toes, to the tips of your fingers, your heart a beat faster, the thump on your ribs heavier. You needed to fight. You needed this bitter, unholy rage out from under your skin. You didn’t want to feel alive this way. You didn’t want to thrive in the chaos of borrowed bloodlust; of his bloodlust.
“Are you really willing to put Nero at risk? To deny him the chance to meet his father?”
Your knocks bled white, your palms were left bitten with deep crescents as you balled your fists by your side. You knew what she was doing. The manipulation was thick on her tongue.
“Lady,” Dante warned, his own voice crackled with drowned desires.
“Don’t you want to see your brother, too, Dante?”
“She can make that happen.”
“You’re going too far now, Lady.”
The air sparked around Dante, bursts of vibrant ruby bolts flickered off his skin like an exposed wire, crackling and violent.
“I know nothing because you treat me like a fucking idiot! You ignore me, dismiss me - you don’t give a shit about what I have to say.” Dante roared, his teeth pointed and temper flared. You felt your own anger cower and simmer low, low in your belly as you faced the rage of the Son of Sparda. This wasn’t Vergil; you didn’t know what Dante’s anger could lead to. “You think I don’t want my brother back? That I don’t want to knock him upside the head for hiding his kid from me? I’m Virgil’s twin, and he doesn’t even have the balls to explain what the hell is going on to me.”
You sunk into yourself, guilt that was not meant to be yours hung heavy on your shoulders. You had robbed Dante. Stolen his last connection to family from him. You selfish little girl.
Do not go looking for my little brother. He is trouble you do not need…do not squander my only act of generosity.
You understood what Vergil meant. That what Dante bought with him was the world in which Vergil had spilt blood to save you from. Still, it pained you to see how the distance and lies that kept you and Nero safe had all but shattered Dante’s glass heart.
“I’ll do it.” You said, eyes sweeping over Dante one last time before you turned to face Lady. She stood tall, untouched, unbothered. But behind that stoic facaide, something cracked, something broke, something bled. Her eyes weren’t cool shades of blue and green, calculating and authoritative, but instead, dull - dull and ashamed.
“I can’t promise that it will work. But I’ll write to Vergil, get him to come back.”
“Good.” Lady clipped, and she turned away from you, from Dante. “Nero will be -”
“Coming home.” You interrupted, “I need to go home in order to send the letter. And I’m not leaving without Nero. He comes with me or I’m not leaving, and nothing gets done.”
“...You’re a stubborn fucker.”
You roll your eyes at Lady’s melodramatics as you make your way back to the elevator. Nero was just one floor down, you didn’t need an escort. “And you’re a cold-hearted bitch.”
“At least I still have a heart.”
Your steps faltered for a beat, your jaw clenched. You wanted to return the low remark with something just as painful, as hauntingly personal, but you held your chin high and continued your pace. Right now, you had a task at hand that was far more important than licking clean your wounded ego.
“Dante,” you called to the demon hunter once you stepped inside of the lift. “If you ever want to meet him…Well, Lady knows where I live. Drop by, we can talk.”
You saw Dante’s eyes lighten, widen. He inched forward, mouth opened as his tongue wrestled with what to say, how to say it. The doors closed before you got an answer but you knew you and Nero would see him around. It was clear that Dante Sparda was a man who craved only one thing in this world - his family.
You just hoped that Vergil was the same.
The TV hummed low as its glow washed over the living room. You and Nero were painted in the soft colours of Ponyo as the movie played out like a dream, foggy and in fleeting moments, not the deep, intentional scenes it should be digested as. You both were exhausted but seemingly too tired to sleep. The couch, old and stained, was also your bed. It was dressed with thin pink sheets and worn pillows. You rented a one bedroom apartment, where else were you meant to sleep? Nero was a child, he needed his own space and comfort in this rickety, slanted building. The second hand couch was fine, really. When Nero would hang his head and mumble why you seemed to like sleeping on the couch so much instead of in a room, with a bed, like what you provided him, you would smile, wide and wild; you would tease the weepy boy (you always wondered if he too, was born on a Wednesday), saying that it was like having a sleepover every night. It was just so much fun.
It would never tell him how you had developed a burning tightness between your shoulders or how the kitchen window was slightly broken due to wear and tear and you hoped by winter-come the landlord would have it fixed before the frost got to you first. You didn’t want to think about it. Not right now, at least.
“Why do I have to meet him?”
“Nero, honey, he’s your dad…Why wouldn’t you want to meet him?”
“I don’t know.” Nero whispered into the soft of your tummy. His eyes were half-closed as you ran your fingers through his wild hair, thick like fox-hide but cotton to the touch. He had curled up against you like a kitten seeking warmth after you collapsed onto the couch, bone-tired. His eyes were still red-rimmed from sobbing and every so often Nero would sniffle from the snot, despite you offering a tissue each and every time.
“I don’t like his friends. They’re mean.”
You scoff lightly, yet the puff of your chest was still strong enough to shift Nero’s weight on top of you. You had tried your best to explain the events of today as child friendly as you could. But the trauma had set, resurfaced and it had rattled Nero to his core. He thought you were sending him back to the orphanage as his other guardians and foster families had. Nero thought you didn’t want him anymore. That once again, he wasn’t enough for someone, or perhaps he was simply too much. Whatever it may have been, he was discarded for the sixth time in his very short life.
You knew it would take days, if not weeks to settle Nero into a new sense of belonging and security. It would just take time. And you had time. Maybe.
“They were just excited to meet you. Your daddy will be too.”
How else were you supposed to explain Nero’s kidnapping other than all of dad’s friends just couldn't wait to meet you and be your friend. God, it was stupid but it seemed to calm Nero down enough to stop the tears once he realised he wasn’t permanently staying with the strangers that stole him from preschool.
“But will I have to live with him?” Nero said, his voice as quiet as a church mouse. “Will he take me away from you?”
Your hand paused between Nero’s starlight strands and you signed deeply. You weren’t too sure what the future held. From what Lady had disclosed, it didn’t seem fruitful or forgiving. But you were sure Vergil would allow Nero to stay with you. Afterall, he was the one that requested Nero be put in your care. You didn’t fight that decision of his, but if the First Son of Sparda wanted to rehome his son into the care of someone else, you would fight that decision.
Maybe it was selfish and unjust. Maybe there was someone out there that Vergil trusted, someone that could provide better for Nero than what you would be able to. Maybe Vergil would track down his old flame, Nero’s birth mother, and demand why she had left Nero on the steps of a church when he was just a babe. Maybe this faceless woman would be forgiven of her sins and come to reclaim her baby boy. Then, Vergil and Nero and this nameless mother could live happily ever after. And you would be a forgotten chapter in Nero’s life. He was still so young, it was easy to misremember periods of life at this age.
“No.” You breathed, either to answer your own anxieties or Nero’s. Either way the word was spoken, the claim was made. “You’re not going anywhere, Nero. I promised you, didn’t I? That I would never leave you. Just because your daddy is coming back doesn’t mean I’m leaving you. You’ll just have us both, me and your dad.”
“So does that mean he’ll live with us?”
There was a small change to the boy’s voice, a curious spark. It sounded almost…idealistic.
“Would you like that?” You treaded lightly, not wanting to discourage this sudden pull towards change. Nero wasn’t a child who handled adjustment well, this was new territory for you to navigate. You let your fingers drift back into his hair to further soothe the boy.
You felt Nero shrug against you, his rounded shoulder digging under your ribcage. “I don’t know. Micky likes living with his mummy and daddy. He says it's cool. They watch his baseball games and they take him out to get - to get hotdogs and ice cream after the game. Even when he loses. And his daddy says ‘you’ll get them next time, kiddo’.”
It was rare that Nero spoke of his preschool friends. He only had a few, and only very recently had he opened up enough to make friends. But it was a good start. Yet, despite your pride for Nero’s social growth, you couldn’t help but shift uncomfortably. You understood why Nero had asked you that question, on whether or not Vergil would move into the shitty one bedroom apartment you rented (the answer was fuck no, obviously. There was nowhere for that 6’5ft half-demon to go, Nero and you were already living on top of each other). Like his uncle, Nero too, longed for a family. Maybe you could play house with Vergil or at least co-parent. Your relationship with Sparda’s eldest son was always...complicated, however.
One moment, Vergil was so, so pleasant, so sweet. He would look at you like the sun rose with your smile and set with your frown, and god, how he hated when that star would lower itself... But then, it was like a switch, a snap of fingers, a crack in reality. The honey-eyed Vergil who would stand too close - close enough that you could smell his scent and hold it to memory, feel the heat of him, alive and burning - close enough to catch the smile in his eyes as he teased you over misremember a fact, would all but wither away. What was left was the sharpness and the bareness of bones. He was short with you, rude. He would walk ahead, let his long legs carry him at a pace you couldn’t keep with. If he wasn’t snapping at you to quicken your speed or hush your words, he was ignoring you, shunning you. You remember days where the only thing he would say was come and be quick about it, girl.
The last interaction you two had was bittersweet. It was the most tender he had ever been with you. He spoke to you with this soft voice, cupped the swell of your cheek with his hand and thumbed at the wetness that gathered just below your eye. He held you like you were precious - something ripe and golden and not yet ready for the world to devour.
You are strong. You will continue to be strong. These tears are not a reflection of you. Remember: devils do not cry.
You’ve been holding it together ever since.
“Maybe if we get a bigger place…” You mumbled, your lips pinched together in a pout. You didn’t want to fill Nero full of false hope. But at the same time you didn’t want to ruin his dreams of a family; of a mother and father that care for him and support him even when he isn’t at his best.
Your answer settled Nero enough for the questions and curiosity to die off, and soon you both melted into the couch.
Sleep was nearing, even as the night remained tepid and you felt sticky. The movie was coming to an end in flashes of blue and green hues and that Ponyo pop of peach. You nearly let yourself drift, your eyelids heavy, heavy things, trying to weigh you down, let the night take hold and pull you under.
Nero was adrift, his breath even and low as he nuzzled up to you. The midnight heat was almost choking, but Nero never seemed too affected by the warmer weather. So, he clung to you, greedy and sweltering. You wouldn’t have it any other way.
A tap, sharp and pointed.
A tap, clipped and impatient.
A tap, familiar and knowing.
You blinked the sleep away and rubbed at your face. With gentle hands, you peeled Nero off of you and tucked the boy against your pillows. He stirred briefly, but you hushed him, your fingers sweeping into his bright hair to soothe him back into dreams.
Your letter, plain and simple and not even a handful of words, rested on the counter, clothed in a cheap, tea stained envelope. It had no address, no destination. You did not know where Vergil would be or could be. You weren’t the one who delivered the letter after all.
“I’m coming”, you hissed out as softly as you could as the tapping only grew more violent. You feared he might chip one of your thin glass panels.
You snatched up the envelope and rushed to open the window that led to the fire escape. You pried the whiny latch open but weren’t given another minute to push the windows panel up before an impetuous beak hooked itself between the barely split window.
“Jesus, Griffon, give me a second.” You growled as you pawed at the window until the gap was large enough for the demon to perch on the ledge at his full height.
“A second!” Griffon squawked as he settled into his perch, round and blue. “It’s hotter than hell out here, I was practically turning into fried chicken waiting for you to wake up from your beauty nap!”
You tried to grab at his beak, desperate to snap it shut. The damn bird was always so loud. You didn’t want him to wake up Nero, or any of your rather meanly neighbours.
“You call me here and now you want me to shut up?” Griffon mocked, and he puffed up his midnight-blue plumage in false offence. “This generation…no manners, no hospitality, no nothin!”
“Okay, okay,” you breathed out, trying to keep your temper at bay. “I’m sorry. The next time I call you, I’ll leave a bowl of crackers and apples out. Now, will you just quiet down a bit? Nero is sleeping.”
The demonic hawk shifted from one taloned foot to the other, feathers settling back into place. He preened himself for a moment, wings hung lazily in the air.
“You better get the good cracker. Don’t cheap out on me, brokie.” Griffon chirped, though his pitch was lower.
You narrowed your eyes but kept your tongue in check. For all the things in this world to call you broke and it was the damn overgrown chicken that begged you for scraps.
“Noted.” You said, voice tight.
You thrust your hand out, the letter crinkled by your balled fist.
“Take this to Vergil and make it quick. It’s important. Really important.”
Griffon lowered his head to observe the envelope in your outstretched hand.
“I don’t know…looks like every other sad little letter you’ve sent him. This one probably has snot stains from all your girly crying. Ewwww.”
“Griffon!” You snapped, your tone so guttural it startled both you and the avian demon. “Please - it’s bad, okay? What’s going on in this world is bad. I need Vergil to get this letter, and he needs to get it now. Can you please do this for me?”
Griffon didn’t speak but a new air surrounded them, one of unease and solemnity. The demon’s teasing nature all but melted away in the late night’s heat, what was left was a voice low and concerned.
“Is this why you have been in contact with the youngest Sparda son?” Griffon spoke earnestly, his head bowed but those gold burning eyes peered up at you, fearful and serious.
“You’ve been watching me?”
“The master told you to not seek him out.” Griffon reminded you. You couldn’t help but notice how he all but neglected your question.
“I didn’t. He sought me out on Lady’s orders.”
The demon hummed, deep and hollow, “so it is that bad.”
“Will you deliver the letter or not?” You said, your tone a thing sharp, more direct. Your frustration was building, bubbling. You needed Griffon to do his job. If not, you feared for the bird, your temper wasn’t as well leashed as it had been in the past.
“As you wish.” The bird said after considering you once more.
You stepped forward, allowing the distance between you and the demon to close as you waited for him to collect the envelope from the flat of your palm. He did so delicately, curling his beak around the stomach of the letter until it was secure.
“Thank you,” you breathed out, “be safe, be quick. I’ll call for you soon.”
Griffon bowed before he turned to hop off the ledge of your window seal. With two mighty flaps of his wings, he launched himself into the air, allowing the dark sky to swallow him whole as he soared. You didn’t know how the demon could travel between the two worlds without a sword as skilled as the Yamato splitting them in half, but you had to put your faith in him. He hadn’t once led you astray, and now with Lady’s confirmation, you knew all your previous letters had made their way safely into Vergil’s possession. And all thanks to witty little Griffon.
You blink hard, kneading the bridge of your nose as sleep called to you like a siren. You had classes again tomorrow, work too. It was a big day for both you and Nero. You needed to rest, to sleep, to not worry about the future for once.
Your night was sleepless, and you had come to regret it heavily the next day. Class was mentally and physically exhausting. Not only were you preparing for your written exams but the whole kitchen and prep station was in need of a deep clean. If you weren’t bent over a desk creating notes and flash cards for your culinary math unit, you were on your knees scrubbing the grease and fats from every groove and grout joint on the floor until the ceramic tiles showed the beads of sweat dripping down your temple.
By the time you made your way to the preschool to collect Nero, you were ready to collapse. Only, you couldn’t. Dinner needed to be made and you still had a five hour shift at the motel down the road from your apartment. You cleaned rooms, washed towels, and sometimes stepped in as their kitchen hand when they needed it. Whatever paid the bills.
“What would you like for dinner, Nero?” Your jaw cracked as a yawn forced its way out of your sore body. Your thigh muscles quivered and screamed like a pair of wailing newbornes as you forced yourself up the nine floors of your apartment building. Nero was tucked to your side, his little hand wrapped inside of your own as you tugged him along. The elevator was out of order again, something to do with repairs…You didn’t know, and you didn’t care, you only cursed the climb ahead of you.
“Pumpkin soup. With garlic bread.” Nero answered, and he nodded his head to punctuate his decision as he hopped from one narrow step to the next.
You groaned, dreading the idea of having to work near a hot, gas stove in this heat. “Are you sure? I can make cold soba again, you love that.”
“Nope. Pumpkin soup. With garlic bread...not burnt.”
“Oh, that was one time and our last apartment had a busted oven. It wasn’t even my fault.”
You caught Nero rolling his berry blue eyes at your excuse. You grumbled under your breath and reminded yourself that bickering with a five year old was not something a mature adult would do. You wedged your key into the front door of your apartment with a grateful sign once you reached the ninth floor. Once the door was ajar, Nero shot through the small gap to get to his toys and books and whatever else entertained his young mind.
Once everything was put away, your study material, Nero’s lunchbox and bag, you were quick to escape out of your chef’s jacket, hanging it on the back of the front door by its hook; you worked on dinner. The red brick of your apartment swallowed the dull clank of your knife as it sliced through pumpkin and sweet potatoes, and crushed cloves of garlic. Once cut and seasoned and left in the oven to bake until golden and sweet, you shouted across the apartment, declaring the bathroom yours for the next fifteen minutes as you showered and readied yourself for work.
You rushed to wash your hair, scrub the sweat and kitchen-smells from off your flesh, and put yourself back together to be presentable for the next five hours. The shower’s steam fogged your little bathroom with the scent of vanilla and almond, and you swiped your palm over the clouded mirror to get a better look at yourself as you dressed and fixed your hair. You tied your soaked locks into a sleek bun so that it wouldn’t drip down your neck, nor frizz in the humid weather. What you wore was simple, respectable, jean shorts and a dark top. The motel wasn’t strict on uniforms as long as you wore the company apron, so you decided on something light and breathable for tonight.
You could smell the roasted vegetables before you even pried open the bathroom door. A sign left your lips sweetly, your tummy grumbled. Cereal was both breakfast and lunch for you, so a hearty meal was well needed even if it was hot soup on a summer night.
But as you walked through the threshold from bathroom to hallway, something deep and primal and not human stirred in your core. It flickered and woke like a slumbering beast; stretching, yawning, maw wet with hunger as it shook off its dustcoat of peace. There was pressure blooming between the flare of your ribs, sharp and precise. You knew this feeling, and you knew it well.
“Vergil.” His name brought fire with it, a blistering heat. Your tongue rolled over the two strong syllables to smooth the flames, to wet your lips.
God, how he towered everything in your apartment. He looked larger than life as he stood before your small couch, contemplating it with those sapphire bright eyes. Vergil seemed timeless, untouched and unchanged. From that royal blue trench coat that draped him as marble draped Rome, to that wonted yet stoic frown. Even his hair was as you remembered it, flawless and well tamed, moon-kissed and so, so much like his son’s.
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