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They return from Hell bloody, exhausted and sated – two beasts coming home after the hunt, limping and glowing. It’s easy to find their way to the agency after that, riding Cavaliere at full infernal speed, and they don’t even get lost – not too much, at least, and Dante just knows that Vergil is secretly happy to have an occasion to be sarcastic. There’s nothing like smug satisfaction to relax his big brother, apart from fighting, and they did enough of that in Hell to be content… At least for a few weeks.
Days.
Well, at least for a while.
It’s midnight when they arrive at Devil May Cry; the moon is a pale shadow behind the clouds, drowned out by the street lights. Dante jumps from Cavaliere and unlocks the door while Vergil stares at the run-down facade.
“After you,” Dante offers with a grand bow.
“Such courtesy, brother. I’m honored.”
“What can I say? I was raised well.”
They share the shadow of a smirk.
Inside is surprisingly tidy, at least according to Dante’s standards – probably Lady and Trish’s work. His books and files have been haphazardly piled up in the corners, and there’s almost no mess outside of the currently overflowing bin; the dust seems only days-old, the lights come to life when he pushes the switch, and the two women have begun an amazing two-meter tall tower of pizza boxes in the middle of the room. He whistles admiringly:
“Careful not to make it fall, Vergil. This is a work of art!”
“‘Art’,” his twin repeats. “So that is the term that you employ for such things.”
“Don’t be such a killjoy. I wonder if they can reach the three-meter mark?”
Vergil’s narrowed gaze speaks volumes about his opinion on the situation: not on my watch, they won’t. Dante opens his mouth, ready to issue a firm warning about the tower’s fate – smiles instead.
“Come on, let’s see if I have clean sheets for you.”
He is aware of the frustration humming in his veins; part of him wants to assert dominance in his territory, to lay out arbitrary rules that he’s never issued to anyone else. Usually, he’s the opposite of territorial, giving out keys to any acquaintances, shrugging off destruction or theft with nothing more than brief annoyance – but this is Vergil, his half, his brother, his rival... his equal, and some animal (demonic) part of him can’t help but pick up on the slightest hint of power imbalance between them.
The rest of him is far too fucking aware of what a miracle it is that Vergil is here, alive and – not pacified, but at least cooperative, at least almost friendly, to engage in meaningless pissing contests.
Trish and Lady have been making themselves at home. His bedroom, usually a haphazard mess, has been cleaned and the sheets changed; it almost looks hospitable, a shocking novelty. Someone slept recently in here – gun catalogs on the nightstand suggest Lady, while the corset folded on the table is more Trish’s style. Dante takes note to loudly misunderstand the situation later.
“We’ll buy you a bed tomorrow. For now, as the gracious host, it is my duty to leave you the bedroom.”
“You’re too kind,” Vergil drawls.
There’s the hint of a smile on his pale lips. Dante should not feel so relieved seeing it – and frustration, again, roams through his head. He’s an expert at looking carefree, could get the gold medal in the Devil-May-Care-But-This-One-Doesn’t Olympics, but the times when he can’t escape through false smiles and cocky banter are the worst. Fretfulness is acid in his guts, fire in his veins, a poison and a provocation.
Things were simple in the Underworld. They fought; they rested; they ate and drank what they could. Needs, not feelings. Cooperation made easy by the absence of any complex human equation. Violence, survival, and his brother’s presence like an extension of him. The blood of Sparda, the demons said, rather than the Sons of Sparda – as if they were one and the same, made manifest in two shapes.
Things will get complicated here. There will be ethics; money; power. There will be the simple fucking fact that Vergil doesn’t have to stay, can perfectly decide to run off on his own, maybe even open another portal or carry out whatever atrocity…
Fuck. Why didn’t they remain in the Underworld again?
“You should take a shower first, Dante.”
Showers. Right. Dante hasn’t taken a real shower for so long that fire is probably the only thing able to save his clothes. He forces a grin on his face – the lie is easy; he’s had a lot of practice – and bends his head.
“I’ll be quick! You want anything, my house’s all yours.”
Vergil nods and Dante goes to drown himself in the shower. It doesn’t work, but at least, he’s got hot water. And soap. And shampoo. Okay, it’s some floral-scented crap that probably belongs to Lady or Trish – it was a damn good idea to give the deed to Morrison – but it feels nice to get rid of… days? Weeks? Months? a long time of accumulated grime. Now, to sleep on a soft surface, and maybe he’ll actually begin to feel human.
Hah, as if.
When Dante gets out of the shower, he finds Vergil sitting against the wall of the corridor, dozing. His brother’s eyes snap open at his approach and he rises, hand leaving Yamato’s hilt. Dante grins at him. “Afraid of traps in my bed?”
Vergil’s arctic eyes stare at him.
“No, Dante. I just favor the cleanliness of my bedding, and you may have noticed that we are running for a new record in filthiness.”
“Speak for yourself! I’m clean as a whistle.”
“That I can see, yes. Congratulations. Good night, Dante.”
Of course he doesn’t have a good night, even though his couch is plenty comfortable – especially compared to the Underworld’s bare ground. But there’s now a part of him persuaded that sleeping without anyone to stand guard is dangerous foolishness, and the rest is just paranoid that Vergil’s going to leave any time. Someone needs to keep an eye on your old man? Yeah, right. He needs to keep an eye on his brother, because the idea of him disappearing once more to search for power, or get swallowed by another Mundus wannabe or whatever, is terrifying.
But when Vergil gets up, it’s to find the kitchen and rummage through the cupboards. Dante rises, dragging his covers with him, and follows suit. Vergil borrowed some of his clothes and the result looks… odd: Dante’s attire, his build, his face – but younger, features tempered by ordeals different from his own… Some kind of alternate Dante, far colder and paler than the original.
Vergil welcomes him with the hint of an amused smile, gesturing toward the open fridge.
“Leftover pizza and beer. How surprising of you, brother.”
“It’s obviously not my pizza.” At least, Dante hopes so. They’ve been gone so long that it would be coming alive by now. “I would never put it in the fridge.”
“Yes. You prefer leaving it outside, exposed to insects and warmth.”
“So it has a chance to flee. I’m a fair hunter.”
“How noble of you. There is nothing to eat in your house.”
“There’s plenty of leftover pizza, isn’t there?”
“Do you ever consume anything else?”
“Sundaes,” Dante grins.
Vergil snorts.
“You don’t eat, brother, you obsess.”
“So what do you eat?”
“Take-out and the blood of my enemies.”
The answer is so deadpan that Dante’s not sure whether Vergil is kidding or not – then his twin gives him the sleekest smirk, and… Well, he’s still uncertain, actually, but that’s still a bit funny, so he grins back. When life gives you fucked up lemons, make fucked up lemonade.
“It’s cheap and nutritious enough, I guess. Wanna go out for breakfast? Then we’ll go buy your bed.”
Vergil looks at him; his face is an impassive riddle, but something about the intensity of his gaze – like he’s searching for the answer to a question he didn’t even ask – is disconcerting.
“You are aware that furniture is expensive.”
“Come on, Vergil, I’ve got plenty of cash!”
“You don’t. I know; I was your last client. Do you believe it will be worth it?”
Worth it? Dante feels something cold grip his guts.
“Thinking of leaving soon, Vergil?”
Vergil stares at the open fridge and closes it.
“It’s not my custom to impose.”
“You’re too kind,” Dante smirks.
He is so tense it hurts, but showing anything other than carefree nonchalance is too foreign to his nature to even consider. That was to be expected, but fuck if he wants Vergil to leave. Fuck if he wants to lose him again.
“I’m a hospitable guy, though, y’know? I like to have company. Ensure there’s always someone to play pool with. Or read those boring old books when I’m too lazy for it.”
He’s desperate and he prays whatever doesn’t exist up there that it doesn’t show through his mask, that he doesn’t sound too much like he’s scrambling for justification. If there’s one thing that he and his brother have in common, apart from what can be cutely called “family-based competitive spirit,” it’s how much they hate being vulnerable – looking like they care.
But Dante stares at Vergil, and sees something shift in his attitude: his shoulders lower, his neck bends almost imperceptibly – tension leaving his brother’s body, well hidden for everyone’s eyes but his. Had Vergil set him up? Made him ask the question so he wouldn’t have to?
… Of course he did. Dante lost at the not-caring game, and he prides himself on being a bad loser.
“Plus we have to stay close since, you know. We have a tie to break.”
Tie is their new lingo for “one of us is leading the competition.” Currently, Dante is one victory over Vergil; it’d be too bad not to gloat about it. Vergil glares at him, then a slow smile curves his lips.
“I hope you have a training ground, little brother? Or is this agency of yours solid enough for our friendly competition?”
“No way,” Dante laughs. “We’d wreck it, so we’ll have to find a place.”
“You’ll arrange that, I'm sure. As a good host.”
“I’m the greatest host. Come on, Vergil, let’s get ready.”
Of course, his brother chooses one of the most expensive beds they come across, complete with one of the best mattresses. Dante was not expecting anything less from his kin.
***
It’s almost night when they get home; first, they carry the bed and mattress to the agency, then they lose time dueling for fun outside the city. The tie between them is now in favor of Vergil by one victory – a low, frustrated vexation purring in Dante’s bones. Will this ever end? Probably not. Who cares? Not him, not anymore. Before, they fought ideal against ideal, but now… It’s something strangely more peaceful – friendly enmity. Vergil is still an asshole, and that’s part of the pleasure of fighting him, and he’s his brother, and that’s part of the fun, too; and also his equal, his rival, an adversary who can entertain him more than a few minutes, whatever – it’s complicated, but now that they’re not going to kill each other, Dante doesn’t really care. It’s their dysfunctional family, and he likes it that way.
Speaking of family –
“Shit. We probably should warn Nero and the others that we’re back, huh?”
Vergil stops going through boxes for a minute. They’ve converted the storage room into a new bedroom and have been piling up the mess in what Lady affectionately refers to as the “Chaos Corner” – the part of the agency where Dante keeps the curios that he’s feeling too lazy to sort out.
“One thing at a time, Dante. Let’s first complete this.”
“Nero’s going to kill us if he learns we waited one whole day to tell him we’re back.”
“Call him while I finish, then.”
Vergil’s tone is calm, his face composed; cold indifference, personified. The mask almost works, except Dante remembers the touch of emotions that colored his brother’s voice when he was fighting with Nero.
They both suck at feelings, don’t they? Usually, Dante is the kind of man who can’t see a hornet’s nest without poking it, but he’s not touching that one.
“On it!”
Nero answers his phone almost immediately. The kid’s voice sounds terse, a little rough – was he sleeping? For someone that young, going to bed early is a sin, but the kid’s been raised in a small town; obviously, he kept some bad habits.
“Devil May Cry.”
“Hello, I’m Father Dante. Have you ever heard of our Lord and Savior Sparda? You can buy our Gospel’s definitive edition dirt cheap, five dollars for twenty volumes.”
There’s a silence, then a sputtered shout:
“D-Dante! You’re – wh– how did you – where are you? Is Vergil – is – my father with you?”
Dante laughs. His nephew is pretty cute when he’s not hitting him in the face – nah, who is Dante kidding? Even when he’s hitting him in the face. That kind of thing is pretty much a family tradition at this point.
“Yeah, your father’s with me.”
He’s careful not to glance upstairs, where Vergil is busy not listening.
“We’re in my office. Making a second bedroom.”
“For… him?”
“Yeah. You’re always welcome.”
Another beat of silence cuts the conversation before Nero speaks again, voice steely with determination:
“I’ll be there tomorrow. Around nine or ten. Wait for me.”
“You’re nearby?”
“Don’t worry about it,” Nero snaps, which probably means “no.” “And tell him... no, fuck. I – he... you think he’s here to stay?”
The kid is too honest; the question cuts Dante to the core, forcing him to confront what he’s busy not asking neither Vergil, nor himself. He smiles reflexively, as he always does when he hurts.
“Why don’t you focus on the present, Nero?”
“Don’t you fucking dare evade my question, Dante!”
“I don’t know.”
He didn’t mean to sound so low, so somber. He kinda hates it.
“I’m coming,” Nero says after a while. “I’m staying for two days at least.”
“No missions?”
“I’ll warn Lady or Trish.”
“Understood. I’ll leave you a slice of pizza.”
“In the morning? You monster.”
There’s a smirk in Nero’s voice, cracking through worry and anger. They did leave him behind, didn’t they? Not very nice. The best choice, but not the kindest.
“Well,” Dante says in his most light-hearted tone, “if we finish the bedroom project early enough, I might buy you eggs and bacon.”
“That’s a start. See you soon, then.”
The kid hangs up and Dante grins; he’s missed Nero, his raw enthusiasm, his naive cynicism, his unwavering honesty in expressing himself. He takes the time to call Lady, who laughs and demands he books her an afternoon to catch up, and Trish, who asks for his opinion about the pizza tower as if he’d never left, before he climbs back upstairs. Vergil doesn’t look at him when he joins him – ostensibly busy with his cleaning.
His very extensive cleaning. He has opened some of the boxes and is rearranging them, sorting out curios, papers, gizmos and old clothes categorically.
“You’d have much more room if you took care of this mess, Dante. Tell me what you want to keep.”
“What? This is my stuff!”
“Hence, my offering you a choice about its destiny. So?”
“Vergil, it’s past midnight. We can do whatever tomorrow.”
“We don’t need that much sleep.”
“I do!”
He doesn’t, not really, but he likes resting. Also, he hates cleaning. There’s a reason why the agency is a mess. It just never seemed worth it to spend so much time and effort.
“Then go to sleep. I’m not finished.”
“You are aware it’s my stuff, right? Come on, Vergil, I won’t spoil your fun, but we can do that later.”
“When is Nero arriving?”
Oh.
“Tomorrow morning.”
“We won’t have time to clean during his stay. There was an amount of dust in your storage room that I hadn’t ever found in anything but the oldest crypts, brother.”
“Gives it character, don’t you think?”
“Take one of your magazine and read while I work.”
They could argue about that all night or Dante could relent. On any other occasion, he would’ve rushed into conflict – but this whole thing is still too new, too raw; they’re two wild beasts who stepped into the same enclosure, warily watching each other, and one of them has to give. Vergil is already offering him enough by staying here.
“Okay, brother, you do you.”
Vergil works half the night while Dante dozes on the floor nearby, occasionally pulled into awareness by a question or a loud noise. In the end, a few boxes are carefully rewrapped and put by the door to be trashed with their owner’s approval.
“You’re out of control, Vergil. The quest for power I can understand, but order? Now that’s just unnatural.”
A thin smile presses his brother’s lips.
“Great ambitions do not stop at the rabble’s denunciation. Go back to sleep, Dante.”
“Yeah, yeah, don’t worry, I didn’t need you to remind me.‘Night!”
Nero arrives at eight, the madman.
***
“You only have leftover pizza in your fridge!”
Dante groans from the floor where he’d spent the night. He did hear the door open and someone come inside, but didn’t care enough to check who it was. Making noise is a mistake, though, because Nero runs upstairs and –
– Kicks him, both foot landing square on his chest.
“What the hell?” Dante protests, rolling away.
He barely has time to catch Nero when the kid jumps him, kicking and punching with two legs and four arms. Dante’s still half-asleep, struggling not to hit back; he stumbles backwards, tries to parry as much as he can without being too good at it.
“What did I do?”
“You left me!” Nero cries out, anguish tearing through his voice.
“Nero...”
Dante is caught off-guard by the next winged slap and hits the wall, plaster cracking with the shock; then Nero throws him to the ground, clenching his human fists into Dante’s shirt.
“Never again, you hear me? Next time, I’m going with you!”
Dante lets the kid rant and rave until he’s calmed down, still panting with exertion, then softly presses on his shoulder to push him away.
“Glad to see you too, Nero.”
His nephew slowly rises to his feet and lends him a hand. Dante can hear the shower running. Thanks for the show of solidarity, brother.
“Where’s Vergil?” Nero asks.
“Cleaning up. He should be out soon. Want me to let you catch up for a while? I’ve got errands.”
Nero hesitates, then nods. Dante grins at him.
“Just don’t ruin my place, okay? I’ve just finished paying off the last repairs. Had just.”
“… I’ll pay you back for the wall.”
“Don’t sweat it. It’s still up and the cracks give it character. So, tell me, how are things on your hands? Where’s your engineer?”
He fixes Nero a coffee with cream and sugar while the kid talks. Seems like things are all good in his side: demons contained one by one, girlfriend still perfect and supportive, and Goldstein’s granddaughter is apparently in tip-top shape. Nero almost has to fight her to use his regrown hand; she takes its existence as an insult to her craft.
“You got yourself a good partner, kid.”
Nero sighs dramatically, then smiles. “Yeah. I’ve always preferred to work alone when I was in the Order, but it’s actually great to be with someone like her. Or you. When you acknowledge my strength.”
“When did I ever –”
“You called me a deadweight!”
Oh. Right. Dante doesn’t really remember what he said when he was hunting down Urizen and, afterwards, Vergil. The events are a blur, mixed-up by a whole fuckton of feelings that he doesn’t care to recall. He might have said it; he just knows that he refused to let Nero fight his own father, that he cursed V for bringing him here. Now, what is the less touchy-feely way of putting it?
“Sorry. I spoke without thinking. Everybody would’ve been dead weight in that situation, you know.”
“I traveled all the way to help you!” Nero snaps, voice laced with months-old pain.
It’s faaaar too early for feelings. Why is the kid so hung up on that? Trapped, Dante crosses his arms on the table. “I’m sorry. I was an asshole who was angry at his brother. I wanted to insult the whole world and it ended up being you. You’re right, I was way out of line. Thanks for coming to help, and I’m sorry for the way I spoke to you.”
It’s not the entire truth, because no way is he gonna admit that he wanted to protect Nero, no way is he gonna talk about his fierce resolution that his nephew isn't going to end up as fucked up as Vergil and him. Two wannabe fratricides is enough for the family; there’s not going to be a patricide to boot. It’s bad enough that the kid knows about their blood bond.
Nero seems mollified, harshness softening on his boyish face. It’s good, because Dante is well beyond his comfort zone. He’s thrown everything he could in matter of rawness and vulnerability and now? He’s going to need a drink. Or two. Or three.
He misses Lady.
“I’m happy that you’re back, Dante.”
The kid looks at his cup, hot steam rising toward him.
“Why didn’t you tell me about Vergil?”
“That he was my brother?”
“No. That you suspected he was my dad.”
Fuck.
“There was no sense telling you when I wasn’t sure.”
“You said you were certain.”
Nero doesn’t even seem angry. His voice is low and hard, his eyes drilled into Dante’s.
Fuck, fuck, fuck. At least Dante has the feeble satisfaction of knowing that Vergil is going to suffer the same fate afterwards.
“Okay, yeah. But he was dead – well, I believed he was dead, that I had killed him myself. And he was – he had aligned with the Underworld. Not the kind of father… I didn’t think it would be of any use to tell you.”
“Don’t you fucking make that choice for me!” Nero shouts, hitting the table hard enough to make the wood creak.
Dante barely keeps his devil trigger in check, muscles tensing, blood pumping. His demonic instincts take badly to sudden aggression, be it justified. His nephew grit his teeth and sit down, all four fists tightly clenched. For a moment, silence falls, heavier and far more poisonous than Hell’s atmosphere.
“Is there anything else about me that you kept a secret from me?”
“No,” Dante flatly replies.
“Swear it.”
“I swear.”
Nero relaxes slightly, crossing his arms. Half the coffee cup had been spilled on the table, dark stains imprinting in the wood.
“Tomorrow, you’re going to talk to me about my father. You’re going to tell me everything I would have asked you if I'd known.”
“Okay.”
“And meanwhile, we’re going to have breakfast. How the hell did you get out of the Underworld?”
The answer involves dumb luck, three ambitious demon lords and a needlessly complex ritual. Dante parses his story with just the appropriate amount of jokes and Vergil enters just in time to enhance it with deadpan sarcasm. His brother is a master at staying impassive, looking very composed as he salutes a frozen Nero and prepares coffee for himself.
The pizza is more of a historical souvenir than consumable leftovers, but Dante’s missed the taste enough to forgive it its flaws. Plus there’s some fun in watching Nero try very hard to focus on the story while his eyes bore into Vergil’s face, following every single one of his gestures.
“Well,” Dante says breezily when they’ve finished. “Time for a shower, then groceries! See ya later.”
He winks at them. Vergil frowns slightly and Nero scowls.
They really do look alike, sometimes.
As soon as Dante leaves the house, he goes straight to a bar and takes on the noble task of drinking every bottle that he missed during his Underworld stay.
***
Dante doesn’t really get home by himself, that evening. Rather, Vergil takes on his first demon hunting job with Nero: finding his very drunk brother. Mission’s a success, so props to Dante for helping them bond through teamwork!
“You’re hopeless,” Nero informs him while Dante babbles happily at them.
“Does he often do that?” Vergil asks tersely.
“What? No, I don’t think so – Dante! Don’t grab my gun!”
Dante laughs. Euphoria is warm oblivion in his veins, and confused awareness of his kin's closeness. His blood. His family. Nero’s spectral claw-thingies capture his hands, preventing the theft and/or hug he had planned, and he giggles.
“You’re a disgusting drunkard,” Vergil tells him while Nero struggles not to drop him.
Dante doesn’t quite remember the whole night, but he knows he had a very good time.
***
Dante wakes up sober and hungover-free, because demon constitution is a blessing. It’s ten in the morning, which is almost late enough to be acceptable, and he stumbles in the shower before leaving in search for food. The cupboards are all empty, except for Chinese noodles he’s feeling too lazy to cook. He goes to the entrance and stops at the sight of Nero, who had dragged the sofa in front of the door and is sleeping like the dead.
Whether it’s a lack of confidence toward him or Vergil, it’s… pretty cute, actually. Dante can leave anytime by the windows, of course – it’s just not worth it. The kid deserves more respect. He retreats and searches for magazines to read; the girls threw all of them away, so he has no choice but to rely on books.
He feels Vergil’s approach before he hears his brother’s quiet steps.
“Are you so hungover you decided on using your brain for once, Dante?”
“Good morning to you too, Vergil,” Dante grins.
He raises his head to gaze at his twin’s unsmiling face. Vergil is staring at him, a hint of disapproval tensing the corner of his mouth.
“Do you often drink that much?”
“Nah, nah. Just met a few drinking buddies, you know? And we've spent a long time in Hell. My body lost its alcohol tolerance.”
“Nero was worried.”
“Yeah, sorry,” Dante says in a light-hearted tone.
Another addition to the excuses he owes the kid. He rises to his feet and glances at the sofa; Nero’s still out of it, frowning slightly, hands clasped on his cover. When they were children, Dante once tried to take advantage of Vergil's sleep to draw on his face; he almost poked his twin’s eye out in the ensuing scuffle.
He wants to ask how it went with Nero. Of course, he won't.
“Interested in breakfast? There’s nothing in the kitchen.”
“Someone was supposed to buy food yesterday, yes.”
Ouch.
“That’s because I thought it would be better to buy it together! I don’t know your tastes.”
Vergil keeps silent for a moment. Dante can almost see the place where words stay stuck in his twin’s throat – locked behind closed lips.
“We’ll go with Nero,” Vergil says in the end. “He’ll remain here for a while.”
They both look at Nero. What does the kid hope to achieve by staying with them? Dante can guess: he’s known loneliness, known the desperate need to belong. He remembers the feeling that clenched his chest when he found out he had a nephew. It didn’t matter if they ever met again, it didn’t even matter if Nero liked him – his existence was already enough.
Of course, Nero has higher standards: he wants recognition, honesty and bonding. It’s good, because it means the kid knows that he has a right to be happy and that he fights for it. It’s bad, because Dante sucks at family. He stopped having one at eight, and then he had Vergil – a spark of anger, hate and fascination before his twin fell into the Underworld, then became corrupted beyond recognition. He’s about sure that brothers aren’t supposed to skewer their siblings on a daily basis. He’s certain that normal, loving family members can figure out the words stuck in the other’s throat, deciphering meaning from years-long intimacy.
He and Vergil understand each other in a way nobody else can. They’ve got the same blood, the same instincts, the same rivalry branded into their flesh; they both hate vulnerability and they both yield the same death-defying power; they were both shaped by the same upbringing. But Dante doesn’t know the Vergil who had to live on his own after their house was attacked. He doesn’t know a being twisted and rebuilt into servitude by Mundus’ craft. He doesn’t know years spent surviving, dying? after Nelo Angelo’s destruction.
Vergil is both familiar and foreign, known and cryptic. The moments where Dante is locked out behind his twin’s silence are all the more painful when, sometimes, they just act as one.
He doesn’t know what his brother intends to do about Nero. He doesn’t know whether Vergil’s going to leave, flee the yoke of consequences that are coming down on him. Heck, in his place, Dante would have outright refused to return to the human world.
But Vergil didn’t, and now they’re here – two predators learning to live under the same roof, keeping their claws sheathed and their growls low.
“You know,” Dante says finally, “you’ve got a great kid.”
His brother doesn’t answer, but there’s softness in his gaze as he looks at Nero. Dante attempts a smile:
“He’s so great, he reminds me of his uncle. You sure genetics didn’t get mixed up?”
“I wonder,” Vergil says quietly.
Dante didn’t expect honesty, and maybe that’s why he slips up a little, too.
“Don’t. He’s just as hard-headed and diligent as you. Even got the same reflex to attack me at first view.”
Vergil gives him the hint of a smile.
“A child of good taste, I see.”
“You asshole,” Dante says affectionately.
Vergil lets out a small, amused huff. They both turn their attention back to Nero.
Dante barely chokes out the urge to ruffle his nephew’s hair to hell and back. The kid woke up and is doing the worst impression of peaceful sleep that Dante could imagine – he turned away from them to keep the pretense, but everything in his posture claims “I’m awake and interested.”
Dante has never seen Vergil that amused. His brother touches his shoulder:
“Come, Dante. Let’s not wake Nero.”
The kid waits a few minutes before he joins them in the kitchen, tousling his hair in his best “I was just sleeping” fashion. Dante hide a grin behind his hand.
“Morning, Nero! Slept well?”
“Dante?”
“Yeah?”
“Next time I have to drag your sorry ass out of anywhere, I’m wrecking your shit so hard you’ll go from demon hunter to sheep warden.”
“Duly noted.”
Nero scowls at him. Dante gives him his most innocent smile.
“You didn’t even buy food,” the kid points out sourly. “We’re going out. What do you like?”
“Pizza.”
“… My tastes are varied.”
Dante glances at Vergil, and sees the way his brother is not looking at anything but some place inside himself.
“You used to love turkey when you were kids,” he says. “We can buy that.”
Vergil throws a rapid glance at him. Dante thinks of years of captivity and agony, of the forced reunion of two sides of the same coin each made into their own person. What was Nelo Angelo fed? Did Urizen even eat? Were V’s tastes as different from Vergil as his appearance and voice?
Does Vergil know what he likes?
Man, they’re both wrecks, aren’t they?
“I suppose nostalgia can’t hurt,” his brother concedes in a cool, quiet tone.
“So that’s decided!” Nero says in a voice that’s too loud and too self-assured. “We’re going now. Breakfast, then food for the week.”
Kid’s nervous. Kid’s excited, and afraid that it shows. The corners of his mouth are trying to go down, but his eyes are too bright and wide. Dante smiles at him. He can at least do this, lighten the atmosphere with his nonchalant facade while father and son are busy being tense at each other.
“My stomach says yes. That okay with you, Vergil?”
His brother simply nods, apparently indifferent to the matter, so that’s settled. Before they leave, Nero insists to make a list of what they need, which includes “alcohol” crossed out twice. Dante finds that a little passive aggressive and argues for beer at least, but no dice; he’ll have to settle for soda until the departure of the sobriety police.
“Wait for me,” Vergil says once they’re ready to leave.
Dante didn’t expect his brother to cut a portal through space at this very moment, or he’d have caught his arm before he could, but here they are: Vergil disappears while Nero shouts a “FFSTOPFUCK” that, while linguistically inaccurate, does acutely express his and Dante’s feelings about the situation.
“What the fuck?? Did he – what? Dante! What did he mean? Has he left? For good? Dante!”
Nero’s hands are grabbing him – Nero’s four hands, which is slightly disconcerting –, shaking him in an attempt to get answers more quickly, and Dante struggles not to snarl at him.
“I don’t know, Nero!”
How should I know? I’m only his twin brother.
“Let’s just – wait awhile, okay? He told us to wait.”
“And what if it’s a fucking metaphor, going out to buy cigarettes or god-fucking-knows-what?”
“I don’t know,” Dante repeats flatly.
His lack of reaction seems to calm Nero down, at least enough that the kid lets him go. Which is good, because his demon blood is burning in his veins, fueled by stress, and a bad move could happen any moment.
They wait in silence. Nero chews gum as if he wants to destroy it; Dante pretends to nap. Tension is thick in the air, violence just a hairbreadth away.
Five minutes later, the asshole comes back, looking as calm and composed as if he had just taken a stroll. Nero tries to jump him first, but Dante’s far quicker. Vergil is caught off guard and Dante’s able to throw a good, clean punch that cracks a few ribs, but Nero lands on his back and blindly hits him –
They roll to the floor, three epicenters of violence. The struggle is low, vicious, silent; Nero is knocked out first, and Dante feels guilt burn deep in his stomach before Vergil pins him to the ground with Yamato.
“My floor!” Dante protests.
“The price of violence,” Vergil says simply. “Have you calmed down?”
Obviously, that incenses Nero, who attempts to rise from his prostrate position. “Fuck you! You left!”
There’s surprise in Vergil’s cold eyes – a rare vulnerability.
“I said I was coming back.”
He pauses. Maybe he understands, then, for he doesn’t comment further, and Dante struggles not to laugh humorlessly – I was coming back, as if it’s the most natural thing in the world, as if Vergil hasn’t ever left him – hasn’t ever left them both – for years and years before returning distorted and corrupted.
Vergil reaches for his pocket and takes out a fistful of bills. “I was getting money. For shopping.”
“What?” Nero says, incredulous.
“I… remember that you don’t have a lot of funds, nor does Dante. I didn’t think my actions could be... ambiguous enough that I would need to explain myself.”
Vergil is choosing his words carefully, slowly, and there’s a bitter, darkly amused feeling bubbling in Dante’s rib cage, which flowers into a laugh while Nero rises to his feet and gestures wildly:
“You could have warned us! I thought you were leaving forever!”
Raw honesty: definitively one of the weaknesses that Vergil shares with Dante. He takes a second to answer and when he does, his voice is lower, devoid of the harsh coldness that Dante would have expected in any other situation.
“I won’t. My apologies for the misunderstanding.”
“Swear it,” Nero demands.
Swear it, the same childish order, and Dante grins. Nero should be old enough to know that adults lie sometimes, or that fate can undo the most sincere promises – yet his voice is tempered by a belief stronger than steel.
“I swear,” Vergil says quietly.
“Good.”
Dante wants to laugh, lie on the floor a bit longer, or drink.
“Huh, you should pull Yamato out of Dante,” Nero adds. “You okay, Dante?”
“Just fine and dandy!” Dante grins just before Vergil obeys, making him wince.
The kid’s inquisitive glance stays riveted on him while he gets up, so he might not have been as convincing as he hoped. He feels tired, and maybe a bit drunk with the void that stress and bloodlust left in his body.
Nero looks at them and puts his human hands on his hips, crossing his demon arms.
“Both of you assholes,” he declares in a defiant tone, “are my family. Maybe we don’t always get along, maybe we’ve got a fucked-up past, but we’re family. And if I have to kick your asses again and again to make you work like one, I’ll do it as many times as necessary! So, no more fighting to the death. No more secrets. No more leaving without warning. No more – I don’t know! But you’re not alone, now, so you can’t act as if you are. You understand?”
He’s cute, Dante's nephew. He’s naive, and kind, and saner than they will ever be.
He’s got them wrapped around his finger, too, because Vergil nods, softly, and Dante grins and shrugs. “Yeah, okay, I got it. It’s a pretty new idea, but I think we’ll try it, huh, brother?”
“It doesn’t feel quite natural, but that is an interesting concept. I suppose it’ll make cohabitation and cooperation easier.”
Nero opens his mouth, seemingly on the cusp of telling them off for their flippant answers, but then smiles to himself and shakes his head. He’s beginning to get them, Dante thinks. To know what he can get, and what they can’t give him openly.
“Come on, now. We’re getting breakfast.”
They follow him outside, and they go and get breakfast, and food that is not solely pizza and noodles — even fruits and vegetables, though the idea seems scandalous to Dante. It’s probably another part of having a family, having to allow for a sibling and a nephew’s unnatural tastes.
We’re family. They’re both fucked up, Vergil and him, but maybe that’s not so important if they’ve got each other and the kid. They’ve got a fuckton of flaws and scars and ugly cracks in their souls, but they can count on the others to drag them back every time they fall – maybe not to magically fix them, maybe not to make everything better in a blink, but to be here and to help them stand until their feet stop bleeding. It’s something. It’s something that Dante didn’t know how much he yearned for, how much he needed it, until he feels an odd feeling of peace wash over him as he stands alongside Nero and Vergil.
His dysfunctional, beloved family… Yeah, the words sound good in his head. Good enough that he might even start to believe in them.
For the first time in a long, long while, Dante feels a sense of belonging.
***
“Where did you get the money?” Nero asks later, curious. “You’ve got a cache?”
Vergil pauses, and Dante knows: he totally mugged a guy to get it. He just used Yamato to warp far away enough that he wouldn’t be recognized in the neighborhood.
“Yes,” Vergil says, “I’ve indeed got a cache.”
He briefly glances at Dante as he speaks, and the demon hunter grins but shuts up.
Even in the best families, there are some small secrets that it’s healthy to keep.