Chapter Text
Nero woke up feeling like he had been stabbed in the chest.
Though considering his line of work, he was not entirely surprised.
But he was surprised by the fact that someone was carrying him in their arms.
He blinked blearily said person, catching a glimpse of white hair. For a wild moment, his throat constricted at the thought that Vergil – his father – was carrying him.
But then, his vision cleared slightly and Nero was able to recognize a familiar red jacket and he wasn't sure if he should be consoled by the fact it was Dante carrying him and not Vergil like he had initially believed.
Or if he should be disappointed.
Dante was speaking, words fading and weaving in and out. Nero could feel the rumble of each syllable as his cheek was pressed against Dante's chest.
“ – consider yourself lucky, I don't do this to just anyone,” Dante was saying, once Nero managed to strain to hear him. “ Well maybe, if it was a lady pretty enough to catch my eye – ”
The urge to roll his eyes came almost unconsciously. It was almost a reflex when it came to dealing with Dante.
“ You – talk – too much,” Nero rasped out, surprised to find blood coating his mouth.
“ Sleeping Beauty is awake after all,” Dante grinned. Though Nero was able to detect a quiet sense of relief in Dante's voice underneath his light teasing. Was it that bad that Dante was worried for him? And why hadn't his healing abilities kicked in yet? “ Don't get used to this though. You're not my type.”
Nero snorted. The motion jogged his entire body and he couldn't help but grimace in pain, even if he hated appearing so weak and helpless in front of Dante and –
A hazy distant memory skimmed the edges of Nero's mind. He remembered running towards Vergil, his body moving on its own accord, desperate to protect his father when an enemy took advantage of an unguarded back.
“ Is my – is he okay?” he mumbled.
Dante gave him a strange look. Before he could answer, someone else did.
“ I am well,” the stoic and sophisticated tone of Vergil's voice made its way through his pain-filled haze. It was getting hard to keep his eyes open, but Nero spotted the man himself coming into his periphery beside his brother, clothing impeccably crisp and proper.
“ That was a foolish thing you did,” Vergil sternly said and it made Nero want to laugh – if his chest didn't feel like there was a painfully heavy weight on it, he would have – that he hadn't expect anything less of a reaction from his father.
“ Guess – you owe me – another one,” he managed to say.
Vergil's mouth pressed into a tight line.
As much as he wanted to throw another taunt his father's way, just to gain the upper hand on him, Nero could feel the darkness creeping and gnawing at his vision. The pain was spreading over his entire body, numbing and chilling him down to his very bones. His exhaustion was pulling him under fast and he was powerless to stop it.
“ Hey, kid. No nodding off now.” Dante's voice was sharp.
“ Stay awake, Nero,” his father ordered harshly, a crack in his otherwise emotionless facade.
The combination of both their voices was almost enough to make Nero fight and claw his way back to consciousness.
But in the end, he couldn't.
~.~.~
The boy appeared small in Dante's arms.
His head lolled lifelessly against his elbow, dangling like a puppet without its strings. Blotches of red were contrasting his pale cheeks, highlighting the beginnings of a fever. He could feel the heat of the wound festering from Nero's chest where he had been impaled. The poison that neither he or Vergil knew how to counteract was spreading fast.
Dante hefted Nero a little higher, a little closer.
Vergil brushed past them without another word. Another person might have taken it as Vergil being uncaring and indifferent in regards to his own flesh and blood. But Dante knew his brother well enough – fingers clenched tightly against his side, shoulders stiff and taut, teeth grinding, breathing forced – to know that Vergil was as concerned for Nero as he was.
“ This wasn't your fault,” Dante firmly said.
“ The demon who impaled my son had his head cut off in retribution,” Vergil coolly responded, eyes remaining forward. If Dante were to make an educated guess, it was almost like Vergil was too afraid to turn around and look behind him, to look at Nero.
His brother calmly stated the demon had his head taken off, but Dante saw; he saw how Vergil tore and cut the demon to pieces with frightful precision and a deadly ferocity at the sight of Nero collapsing and unsuccessfully attempting to pull out the tail that dug through his chest.
Vergil's pace quickened, as if to say hurry up, you're too slow, he doesn't have much time.
The rest of the trip back to Nico's van was done in silence, other than the sounds of Nero's hoarse breathing.
Any light-hearted banter that Nico was about to say didn't make it past her mouth when she saw their grim expressions and the unconscious Nero being carried by his uncle. “ Where to?” she asked promptly.
“ Back to the shop,” Dante curtly said, as he carefully placed Nero down on the worn out couch.
Nico was already behind the wheel, revving up the van.
“ And Nico?”
She turned around, foot hovering impatiently over the gas pedal.
“ Drive fast.”
Nico didn't need to be told twice.
~.~.~
If Vergil had thought the walk back to the van was insufferable, then the drive back to the shop was just as detestable.
Whereas before he was able to walk and do something and focus on anything else other than the boy that was being cradled in his brother's arms, now he was trapped within the suffocating confines of the van with nothing to do but watch Nero.
The boy – his son, he had to remind himself – twisted restlessly underneath the tattered blanket Dante managed to find, his rest uneasy and troubled.
Vergil had no memory of him or Dante being sick or injured enough that their mother had to fuss and tend to them. They had always been healthy owing to their father's demonic blood that ran through their veins.
Nero however was less demon than they were (more human, easier to get hurt, quicker to die, just like his mother) and more susceptible to illnesses. Did not Nico told them earlier the story of how Nero finished a hunt during a thunderstorm and ended up catching a cold and sneezed so much during the night that it woke up half of his neighbourhood?
This was not an enemy that Vergil could slay. This was not someone he could defeat and bring down to their knees and make them concede to his demands. This was not something he could beat into submission with power alone.
Without power, he could not do anything to ease his son's pain.
Without power, he was nothing.
A keening moan broke Vergil for his thoughts.
Nero shifted, eyes squeezed shut, breathing shallow and strained. His fingers splayed out against the blanket, tugging uselessly against it. “ Wait – don't go,” he slurred. “ Credo, don't – you can't leave Kyrie ... and me ... ”
That name had no meaning to him, but it must be someone important for Nero to call out for them in a feverish daze. There was a slight jab of regret of how little he knew about his son.
Vergil couldn't decide if he should move and reach out for Nero, to comfort the boy. He tried to recall the times his mother had done so, how gentle her touches were, how she held him tight and pressed her forehead against his, murmuring assurances and promises that everything was all right and she was right here for him.
Long ago, he thought she was wrong, that she was lying, she never cared for him, she loved his brother more. But now, now he was a parent like her and Nero was hurting and what would he give to ease that suffering from his own child?
(perhaps it was for the better, anything Vergil touched often ended up broken by his hands)
He couldn't make up his mind by the time Dante beat him to it.
With a carefulness Vergil was surprised to see that he was capable of, Dante leaned over Nero to brush back his sweat-soaked hair. “ Easy, kid,” he said gruffly. “ It's no good dwelling on things like that. You and the little lady will be fine. You got us now.”
And just like that, Nero settled back down, leaning contently into Dante's hand as if relishing the touch. And Dante's hand remained on Nero's forehead for an inordinate long time before finally withdrawing.
The two of them had history, carrying an unspoken trust and mutual fondness for each other. Nero called him 'old man' with affection and Dante returned it with a teasing 'kid', their nicknames for each other easily rolling off their tongues like it was meant to be.
A surge of resentment filled Vergil's very core at how casual and close Dante and Nero were. Nero was his son and he had every right to be possessive over what little he had to call his own.
It seemed unfair that Dante would have the lion's share of Nero's love and attention.
Dante took and took and took from Vergil, even when they were children, Dante who had more of mother's love, and now, he decided to steal Nero from him too.
Nico barely parked the van when Vergil stood up and shouldered past his brother to take up Nero in his arms.
It was strange, for Nero to feel so light and heavy at the same time.
This was the closest the two of them had been, when they weren't exchanging swords and fists. In fact, Vergil cannot remember the last time he had allowed himself to touch anyone without the intent to do harm or draw blood.
(he wanted to reach out for Nero before, extend a hand, brush against his shoulder, but he always held back, never daring to cross that boundary)
Dante raised an eyebrow, but stepped back, understanding what he wanted. It shouldn't have irked him as much as it did, that his brother was able to read him so well. “ Watch his head,” Dante advised instead.
“ I know what to do,” Vergil bit back.
but do you really know? a harsh cackle that sounded suspiciously like an old bird followed after him.