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He is eight years old, choking on blood and smoke; his eyes burn with unshed tears as he rips at the claws that seek to cage him.
He is sixteen, malice settling over his bones like a second skin as exhaustion pulls at every fiber of his being.
He is nineteen, hate and rage boiling his blood. Violence is the only language he speaks as the reverberations of steel against steel sing through his veins, stoking the raging fire at his core which screams for the vengeance he is owed.
He is unknown. Gentle hands push the hair from his eyes and trace the lesions mapped across his back, leading down towards his deepest fears. Each caress is a whisper that digs under his skin while the sucking sweetness of poison cloys in the back of his throat. And it's worse — so much worse — when the pain stops.
He is hollow. Empty of his arrogance and pride: peeled away inch by bloody inch and patched over with saccharine promises.
He is unmade as gentle hands twist the threads of his memories and a voice commands him to submit.
He is nothing.
He is—
—pressing the blade of the Yamato against the skin of a human woman’s neck, her eyes wide with shock.
The roaring between his ears ebbs, replaced by the growing cacophony around him. Angry shouts grow in volume with each passing second as his consciousness recenters in the present. It’s not the first instance that Vergil’s lost time. But unlike before — small blips that he could brush off as disinterest in a conversation, or lengthen his strides to keep pace on a job, or let instinct control his movements during a spar — this is…bad.
Vergil inhales sharply through his nose and watches as the girl’s—Kyrie’s—pupils dilate. This is very bad.
His sword arm shakes unacceptably. His hand clenches around the hilt in a vice grip that refuses to relax. The tone in the room shifts; Nero’s angry shouts warp into a plea, begging him to lower his weapon. To his right, Dante is flanking him, voice low as his arm reaches out slowly. Their words are muddled, and the buzzing at the base of his skull returns, louder with every step. Vergil distantly thinks he might be panicking.
Kyrie’s shock morphs into something he can’t quite read at the same time a hand brushes his shoulder, and it’s like a thunderclap. Everything snaps back into focus, and Vergil forcibly exhales before doing something he hasn’t done since he was a child.
He flees.
--
Every second Thursday, Dante and Vergil get up early, pick out something casual (or clean in Dante's case) to wear, stop by the dingy convenience store whose produce isn’t wholly inedible, and make the trek to Fortuna.
Kyrie had suggested the visits after their unceremonious return from the underworld a year prior, claiming it would be a good way to reconnect without the usual blood and violence of the job. She had requested it for Nero’s sake initially, knowing he wanted some semblance of normalcy even if he would never admit it, but she came to realize she liked the routine. Besides, Dante was great with the kids.
Watching Vergil and Nero tip-toe around each other was entertaining in its own right. It was easy for her to tell that Nero wanted a relationship with his father, while Vergil always seemed to walk on eggshells around…well, everyone. Nico and Dante thought it was hilarious for the first couple of months. But as time passed and things settled, the ‘family dinners’ became something the whole household looked forward to. Sometimes Lady or Trish would tag along. And on rare occasions, Dante’s friend Lucia would make an appearance, bringing a bottle of wine that always seemed to pair perfectly with whatever Kyrie had cooked.
One of the unspoken rules of these evenings was that weapons aren't allowed in the house. If Nico wanted to show off one of her new creations or Dante wanted to test a new devil arm he’d acquired, it all must be done outside or in the garage.
Another unspoken rule that has become prevalent very quickly was that Vergil liked his space. He had initially put up with the children being, well, children. After the first couple of visits however, it became apparent he would humor their questions and games only to a certain extent and their attention had quickly diverted to the more exuberant twin.
And so, every second Thursday, Kyrie and Nero’s home is undoubtedly host to the most unique amalgamation of personalities. This week is no different. Kyrie wakes up early to begin preparing the meal while Nero takes care of the kids. Thankfully no calls come in (Kyrie suspects Morrison is in on it and screens the calls,) so they have the whole day to prepare. When the sun dips below the horizon, a familiar knock at the door has Kyrie rushing over to usher them in.
The night starts off as normal. The kids flock to Dante, Nero and Vergil exchange pleasantries, Kyrie serves dinner. They catch up on business and Nico even throws in a few jabs that have most of the table howling with laughter instead of groaning in disdain.
Once the kids are put to bed and the adults have settled themselves in the living room, Kyrie enters with a tray full of mismatched mugs. Half listening to the conversation, she places the tray on the coffee table and begins to hand them out. She giggles at Dante’s wink, blushes at Nero’s smile, laughs at Nico’s enthusiasm, and then turns to Vergil—who seems to be staring at a point just past her shoulder as she holds out the mug in offering.
Vergil has been a perfect picture of politeness since the first day she met him. Met him properly that is. He always listens with rapt attention when she speaks to him. Always says ‘please’ when he asks her for something. Always thanks her before he and Dante leave. It’s hard to reconcile this Vergil with the man that had torn off Nero’s arm and razed an entire city to ruin. Kyrie has the distinct feeling that it is intentional, that he hides his claws from her.
“Vergil?” she asks, still poised with the cup in her hand. The others carry on as she studies his face: blank, wiped clean, staring through her. She reaches out, momentarily forgetting the unspoken rule (because they have come so far — all of them, together,) and places her hand atop his.
The next few seconds are a blur. The mug shatters as it hits the floor, a cold blade presses against her neck, her heartbeat stutters before his eyes refocus and he looks—
Kyrie has no delusions about the power that lurks below Vergil’s deceptively human visage (That ignorance had been stripped from her by the Order.) but in that moment, right before he pulls back, excuses himself and all but runs from the sudden chaos that's erupted around them, he looks lost. Scared. It’s the same expression she saw on the children's faces when they’d first arrived. On Nero’s own face after he’d returned from the ruin of Redgrave. In the glimpses she catches in the mirror, years after the false savior laid waste to Fortuna, shattered her faith, and took her brother from her.
By the time she registers the expression on his face, he’s already gone.
“I’m alright,” she says weakly. Nero is in front of her, both hands against her face as he frantically searches for injury. She swallows, finding her voice. “I’m alright.”
He nods just as Nico snaps out of her stunned silence. “What the hell was that about?”
“Dunno,” Dante replies, “I thought he was doing better but—” He clicks his tongue and his expression turns hard. “—sit tight, I’ll find him.”
“Wait!” Kyrie cries out, surprising both herself and everyone in the room. All eyes focus on her as she scrambles to articulate the feeling bubbling in the pit of her stomach. “I’m okay, just—”
Just what? Pretend Vergil hadn’t pulled a sword on her in her own living room? Pretend the tenuous relationship they’ve painstakingly cultivated isn’t dangerously close to snapping? Dante doesn’t let Vergil out of his sight, Nero had told her as much. But still, her gut was telling her to wait.
Nero studies her for a moment, eyebrows drawn up in question before his shoulders slump with a sigh. “Let him cool off Dante. If he’s not back by morning we’ll find him together,” and kick his ass goes unsaid, “you can take the spare room for the night.”
--
Kyrie can’t sleep.
The little clock next to her and Nero’s bed tells her it's 1AM. She sits up as quietly as she can manage and looks out the window just in time to see the tell tale signs of a portal stitching closed. Nero shifts in his sleep before settling with a soft snore. Kyrie doesn’t fully understand the nuance of demonic senses, but she suspects he felt the disturbance. She idly wonders if Dante woke up. She’s witnessed the uncanny way the twins move together despite their rigid differences and boundaries. As if they’re one person split in two.
She waits for a beat, listening for the sound of the front door or footsteps. When silence follows, she shakes her head and stands, grabs the extra blanket at the foot of the bed, and makes her way downstairs.
Nights in Fortuna are cold. The coastal winds sweep through the sleeping town and bring a fog that blankets the cobbled streets, heavy and dense. Kyrie wraps the blanket around her shoulders tightly and pushes the front door open, breathing out a cloud of steam as the brisk air envelopes her and pushes the last vestiges of sleep from her mind. She steps out onto the front porch and glances towards the tall figure that leans against the center beam, silhouetted by the soft orange glow of the street lights.
Vergil has his face turned away and his arms folded tightly across his chest. Kyrie smiles and stifles the urge to comment on the similarity between him and the children when they’re expecting a lecture. Instead, she lets out a soft sigh and moves to seat herself on the bench Nero had spent the summer building.
As she situates herself his voice interjects quietly. “It’s late, you should rest.”
His words are a platitude, she decides. He’s not concerned about her sleep schedule; it's a deflection. A remarkably weak one considering who’s talking, even though she’d never voice that particular analysis outloud. Vergil was anything but weak, regardless, he was acting like he had been backed into a corner by anyone but himself.
Kyrie exhales and leans back. “It’s been an exciting day,” she says and watches the way his grip on his arms tightens minutely. “Come, sit with me. I think we could both use the company.”
A beat passes and she thinks he might ignore her completely until, to her pleasant surprise, his arms drop with a heavy sigh and he moves to take the empty seat next to her. His expression is closed off, and she has to remind herself that he’s been trying: he’s shown up at their doorstep every other week for the past year; offered his dry commentary on the raucous discussions during dinner; lent an ear to the bulldozing questions of the kids; spent time with Nero, opening up inch by inch. He always puts in the effort, regardless of how strenuous it seems to be for him.
He sits next to her as far away as he can possibly manage and Kyrie thinks: ah.
“I’d like to apologize,” she says suddenly before she loses her nerve and watches as his mask slips. “I wasn’t thinking, I shouldn’t have—”
“It’s of no consequence,” he interjects.
They both fall quiet. They both know that’s not true.
“Vergil,” she says softly. “You know it’s alright to not be okay.”
He scoffs but his posture screams anxiety. It strikes her in this moment that he and Nero are eerily similar in the way he shoulders his hurt like he’s the only one allowed to bear it. She wonders how long he’s been struggling.
“How long has it been since anyone has—”
“It’s of no consequence,” he cuts her off again with a twinge of desperation in his tone.
—has touched you without hurting you?
She stares at the side of his face as he stares out into the night with nothing other than grim determination pressing his lips into a thin line.
“Okay.” So talking about it isn’t going to work. She lets out a small huff and switches tactics. “May I hold your hand?”
The question seems to catch him off guard as the muscle in his jaw jumps and his eyes swing to look at her incredulously. She offers him a smile and holds out her hand. A challenge.
He glances at the offered appendage and his eyebrows raise slightly as a complicated emotion flicks over his face before it shutters off again. Then, after the moment extends into awkward territory he rolls his eyes, he turns his gaze back to the street in front of them and slowly un-curls his fingers from around Yamato's hilt and places his hand in hers.
She curls her fingers over his loosely and lets them drop down to the space between them. His hand is surprisingly…sweaty. His fingers twitch periodically even though the rest of him has gone deathly still. Like he’s refusing to flinch away. The silence grows heavy and strained.
“Did I ever tell you about the time Nico hit Nero with the van?” Kyrie asks, giving his hand a light squeeze before running her thumb over his knuckles. He doesn’t respond, but doesn’t stop her, so she continues. “She said it was ‘in the name of science,’ but I secretly think it was an accident—”
She continues the story, and then another. One about Julio bringing a frog home and releasing it in the house, much to her chagrin. Then another, about the time someone paid them for a job with six crates of tomatoes and how they had to get creative with what they ate for weeks. Then one about the old woman around the corner that Nero thinks has it out for him.
She keeps talking, and feels the way Vergil begins to relax. So she continues. She laughs lightly when he sighs at something particularly ridiculous, smiles when he hums in agreement. She keeps talking until the fog lets up and the sky begins to brighten, all the while holding the hand between them.
When the birds begin to chitter in the early morning light, she stifles a yawn and Vergil carefully separates their hands. “It’s early,” he says calmly, the previous tension in him is still there but much less than before. “You should rest.”
She rubs her eyes tiredly and offers him a quiet smile. “You should too, the others won’t be up for a while.”
“I don’t require sleep.” There’s no heat behind his words.
“Still,” she counters, “you’re welcome to stay.”
He studies her face for a moment before closing his eyes and leaning back. Content to leave the offer unanswered. She stands and before letting herself inside, she pauses at the door.
“Good night, Vergil. If I’m not up before you leave, then I’ll see you next time,” she says, before pushing the door open.
--
“Hey, kiddo.”
The door clicks behind her, and she turns to acknowledge the man leaning against the wall in the foyer with a tired smile.
“How long have you been awake?” she asks, stifling another yawn.
“Long enough,” Dante replies and shoots her a grin.
“I see.” She adjusts the blanket around her shoulders. “You don’t have to worry. He just needs some time.”
Dante nods, and maybe it’s because she’s stayed up all night but she swears his eyes dance with gratitude. Kyrie bids him a good night and climbs the stairs towards Nero and the warm bed waiting for her, content with the thought that things are going to be alright.
--
Two weeks later, Dante and Vergil arrive at the designated time. Dinner is had, laughter is shared and after the evening winds down and everyone goes to bed, Kyrie waits for Nero’s breaths to even out and the house to fall silent. She slips out of bed, pulls the blanket around her shoulders, makes her way downstairs and pushes the front door open.
She smiles and blows out a chilly breath before settling down next to Vergil and offers him her hand.