#i think the only times she’s ever made that sheepish expression is that time dante reprimanded her for wanting to throw sinclair

[fishareglorious]

HELP ME

[pengychan]

[Coco] Nuestra Iglesia, Pt 21

Title: Nuestra Iglesia Summary: Fake Priest AU. In the midst of the Mexican Revolution, Santa Cecilia is still a relatively safe place; all a young orphan named Miguel has to worry about is how to get novices Héctor and Imelda to switch their religious vows for wedding vows before it’s too late. He’s not having much success until he finds an unlikely ally in their new parish priest, who just arrived from out of town. Fine, so Padre Ernesto is a really odd priest. He’s probably not even a real priest, and the army-issued pistol he carries is more than slightly worrying. But he agrees that Héctor and Imelda would be wasted on religious life, and Miguel will take all the help he can get. It’s either the best idea he’s ever had, or the worst. Characters: Miguel Rivera, Ernesto de la Cruz, Héctor Rivera, Imelda Rivera, Chicharrón, Óscar and Felipe Rivera, OCs. Imector. Rating: T

[All chapters up are tagged as ‘fake priest au’ on my blog.]

A/N: First off, unlike Ernesto, I gotta give some credit! The song that features in this chapter was written by @eldathe​, who has a gift I sorely lack (but whom I'll definitely not murder for it). Also, @lunaescribe wrote the bulk of the scene in which Ernesto and John discuss the scriptures. I only made some minor edits with her permission (watch and learn, Ernesto). Art is by @swanpit​, who is a gift as always!

***

“So it… worked? It actually worked?”

“Why the surprise? I told you I could sell it.” 

Sofía made a point to cross her arms and look just a little insulted, but she didn’t really put a lot of effort in it: relief was too great. Sure, she had been pretty certain she’d managed to back the gringo into a corner and force him to keep the secret, but she couldn’t entirely discount the chance he’d decide screwing Ernesto over was more important.

“Right, right-- you did a great job,” Héctor replied, laughing a little in sheer glee. “Well, it’s sorted! We’re safe!”

Imelda rolled her eyes. “From the Federales, yes. Not from boredom now that Juan will be the one to say mass.”

“Let’s be honest, Sunday mass was never a party when Padre Edmundo led it, and we somehow survived.”

“Fair enough.”

“Huh, Ernesto? Why the long face?” Héctor spoke up, blinking. Now that he mentioned, Ernesto did rather look like he’d just announced Juan had opted to personally hang him in the plaza first thing after the evening mass. 

As a response, Ernesto made a face. “He wants me to study the Bible.”

“Well, there are worse punishments--”

“And learn Latin.”

“... Ah.”

“Oh.”

“My condolences.”

“Would you like me to send a telegram now for the Federales to come pick you up at their earliest convenience?”

Ernesto scoffed. “You know, this is the part where you’re supposed to be telling me Latin is not too bad.”

“But it is,” Héctor said, matter-of-factly.

“What, you’d have me lie to you?” Sofía gasped in moc horror, hand to her mouth. “Me? A nun?”

“... I hate all of you,” Ernesto informed them, only to yelp and laugh when Héctor threw an arm around his shoulders and ruffled his carefully combed hair. 

“Ay, don’t be like that. We survived it, and you will too,” he declared. “But I have just the thing that will make you feel better!”

“You managed to sneak in a bottle of tequila?”

“Better - I have an idea for a new song, and I know you’re going to love it.”

“Hah! If I’m left with any free time for music now.”

“Well, Juan is going to be busy, no? Saying mass and confessing and whatnot. He can’t be watching you all the time,” Héctor pointed out, and patted his shoulder. “... It’s good to know you’re safe.”

Ernesto chuckled, reaching up to fix his hair. “We all are.” The rest of the sentence - for now - hung unspoken in the air, but none of them said anything. In the end, it was Héctor to speak. 

“Well-- I’ll go looking for Miguel. I need to talk to him. And don’t you think I forgot you also owe him an apology,” he added, jabbing a finger against Ernesto’s chest before he was off... though not without giving Imelda a dreamy smile as he left the room. Ernesto scoffed.

“What, is apologizing is my new job now?” he called out, but none of them bothered to reply.

***

Héctor found Miguel at the stream, throwing flat rocks over the water and trying to make them bounce all the way down to the bridge while Dante jumped in the water over and over again, trying to catch them in mid-air and failing miserably.

The chamaco was breaking the rules in several ways - skipping his laundry duty day, staying out past the time he was allowed to be out, and in a place where he was not supposed to be - but Héctor wasn’t about to give him a lecture now that he had to try and extend the olive branch. 

… Oh, who was he kidding, he wouldn’t have given a lecture under any circumstances. He walked up right behind Miguel, grinned, and strummed his guitar with a grito. 

“Ayyyyyyy!”

“GAH!”

Miguel jumped a couple of feet up in the air, almost landing in the stream right along with Dante; the only reason why he didn’t was that Héctor reached out to grasp the back of his shirt quickly enough to spare him an unplanned bath.

“Careful, chamaco!” he laughed, pulling him back onto solid ground. “My new song may need a little polishing, but it’s not so bad to jump in the stream over.”

Miguel blinked, taken aback, then grinned. “A new song? What is--” he exclaimed, only to trail off. He made a face, crossing his arms. “I’m still mad at you.”

Héctor sighed. “I know, I know. I’m sorry I didn’t keep my word, Miguel, but it wasn’t a secret I could sit on. I had to make sure Santa Cecilia was not in danger.”

“Ernesto is not dangerous,” Miguel protested, but ay, Héctor would hear the slight hesitation in his voice, notice how quickly he averted his gaze. He frowned. 

“Miguel…?”

“I just-- he was really mad that I told you. He yelled at me, hit Dante - I mean, he did growl at him, but…” he bit his lower lip. “He said he should have let me drown the day we met.”

He said what, Héctor thought. I’m going to kick his ass, he thought. With an immense effort, he managed to let neither of those thoughts show. 

“He is sorry, and he will apologize,” he said instead. He’d better, or else. “He was under a lot of pressure, and said things he didn’t mean. He-- we were afraid word got out.”

Miguel looked back up at him, alarmed. Héctor, the nuns and everyone else had done their best to shield children from the harsh reality that was the ongoing war outside Santa Cecilia, but any child could tell that would have been bad, bringing the Federales down on Ernesto and Santa Cecilia like wolves on cattle. 

“What? But it didn’t, right? It wasn’t me, I told no one else but you, I swear--”

Héctor smiled. “No, it was a false alarm. All is well,” he promised, and strummed the guitar again. “And I have the new song. Want to be the first to hear it, chamaco?”

It had been a while since Héctor had the time to write a new song, even longer since Miguel had been the first to get to hear it, and the thought was clearly enough to chase away the lingering fear and anger. “What is it called?”

“Cómo está tu Padre - it’s about Ernest-- Padre Ernesto and Padre Juan.”

Miguel bit his lower lip. “Padre Ju-- John is not too bad,” he declared. 

“Oh?”

“He talked to me. Put in a good word for you when I was mad.”

Well. With how their recent interactions had gone, that was not something Héctor had expected to hear. “Oh. Well then, I suppose I’ll thank him for that.”

“The song isn’t too mean to him, is it?”

Héctor’s smile turned a bit sheepish. “Not excessively. Just some light-hearted fun.”

Miguel seemed thoughtful for a few moments, then he clearly decided it wouldn’t be too bad - or, more likely, that being decent for once was not enough to make up for the huge pain in the neck the gringo had been in the past few days. He perched up on a rock while Dante climbed out of the stream, a rock in his mouth, and flopped in the dirt at Miguel’s feet.

Ah, there was the public. Héctor cleared his throat. “When you're a Man of God, the people come to you to check in on the church…” he spoke, and strummed the guitar before singing.

“As I walk through the plaza, A señora comes my way From her lips falls a question Cómo está tu Padre? Ay, now what do I say? The Church of Santa Cecilia Watches with cynicism An American man hell-bent on Sharing blanco egoisms. Lone, he thinks he's the one! To have Divine Right to bear down on! He'll show dismay When his own way, Can't stay long. Such is life, with Padre-”

***

“John--!”

“Don’t John me. It’s Father Johnson, and you’ve had your break, Ernest. Now, read aloud--”

“It was three hours ago!”

The protest gained Ernesto a single, insufferable arched eyebrow from the gringo sitting across the table. He had his own Bible open, which looked… significantly more beat up than last time Ernesto had seen it. 

“Oh, no,” he said flatly. “Three straight hours of study. No man has ever endured such torment.”

“Well, it is more than enough for me!”

“Unsurprising, considering you seem to be barely literate in Spanish--”

“Hey! I can read, write and do maths, for your information--”

“-- But if you are to learn any Latin before the end of days comes--”

“-- And I can read music sheets! Can you read music sheets?”

The gringo sighed and shook his head. “Not that it is relevant, but as a matter of fact, I received piano lessons as a boy,” he said. His expression, like that of a man who sucked on a lemon, made Ernesto suspect they had not gone too well. “Now, I ask you to focus until at least the end of the page.” He pushed the book back towards Ernesto. “Go ahead, translate the next part.”

Holding back a groan, Ernesto looked back down at the page. If he did what he asked, maybe they would be done soon. “All right, so, uh. Pray for us sinners, which is ora pro nobi--”

“Nobis.” Juan - since using his real name got him no leniency, may as well keep calling him that - cut him off for the eleventh time in the past five minutes. “It is nobis. Which case is that?”

“Uhhh… ab… gen...” Ernesto glanced up, trying to gauge his reaction.

All he got was a raised eyebrow. Again. He was more and more tempted to rip those ridiculous stripes of yellow hair off his face. "Think. Nos, nostri or nostrum, nobis. Nominative, genitive…?"

Something clicked in Ernesto’s head. “Oh! Dative! That would be dative, right?”

An approving nod. “Dative plural, correct. Now, what else did you get wrong?”

Ernesto looked back down at the page, trying not to think that if he’d just let him call the Federales he would now be hanging by the neck from a tree and none of this would be his problem anymore. “Peccatoris?” he guessed. 

“Exactly. Peccatoris is genitive singular of peccator, first of all, so at least you didn’t entirely make it up. But in the sentence it refers to nobis, which means it must be…?”

Ernesto gave him a blank look. Juan sighed, but did not lose his nerve. “Think of the same sentence in Spanish - ruega por nosotros pecadores. Why not ‘nostros pecadora’?”

“Because nostros is plural and pecadora is singular. And feminine.”

“And what is the issue there?”

Well, that was a dumb question even a kid could answer. “That it’s got to match.” Ernesto frowned, thinking it over, and-- oh. Oh. “Wait. It’s got to match nobis, so-- dative plural as well?”

A nod, something that almost resembled a smile. “Very well,” Juan conceded, and Ernesto grinned. There, that wasn’t too bad, after a-- “And that would be?”

“Huh?”

“Dative plural of peccator. What is it?”

Ah. “Er… peccatorum? 

"That’s genitive."

“Peccatores?”

“Nominative. Or accusative, could be either.”

“Uuuugh.” Ernesto let out a groan, and his head dropped on the desk with a distinct thunk. He could almost hear a smirk in Juan’s voice when he spoke again. 

“Peccatores, peccatorum, peccatoribus,” he said, taking a cigarette out of the case. “Ora pro nobis peccatoribus. We’ll go through the third declension again before we call it a night.”

“What-- you said this was the last page!”

“I asked you to focus enough to finish it, didn’t say it’d be the last. You clearly need more prac--”

“It’s almost two in the morning!”

“Then we better be quick.”

Forehead still pressed on the desk, Ernesto groaned. “Don’t you ever sleep?”

“Not without a clear conscience, which is to say not until I’ve done my duty,” Juan replied, and pushed a notebook full of notes in front of Ernesto again. “It’s not difficult. You need to memorize it and, with enough practice, it will come naturally. You should have an edge on me there.”

Was he mocking him? Ernesto raised an eyebrow himself. “... Do I now?”

“Spanish is one of the closest languages to Latin, whereas English has different roots. It was difficult for me to pick up Latin at first. You’re doing quite--” he paused, stopping short of saying ‘well’. “... Passably, for someone entirely ignorant.”

“Hey!” Ernesto protested. He may not be a bookworm, or a scholar, but that was going too far.

“It is not meant as an insult. It comes from Latin ignorare, which simply means ‘not to know’--” 

Ernesto dropped his head back on the table, and rather wished the Federal Army would come to put him out of his misery sooner rather than later.

***

“So, we’re marching south?”

“Jesus Christ, we have literally just arrived, I was hoping we could rest…”

“We will, I think they said we’re not going for at least another week--”

“Two weeks. If you’re going to eavesdrop, at least do it properly,” a voice suddenly spoke up, causing the gathered soldiers to wince and turn. 

“Commander Hernández!”

“We were just, uh, we--”

“I was not eavesdropping, I only… er… walked by, and… sort of… overheard what they were telling you...”

The newly appointed Commander Santiago Hernández waved a hand, clearly unbothered by the very obvious lie, and they all breathed a little more easily that no punishment would be doled out. That was something they appreciated about Hernández, even though they didn’t know him well: he had been one of them until recently, when his actions in Veracruz and his show of loyalty in refusing discharge had gained him a promotion. He was above them, but didn’t flaunt it nearly as much as others would.

“It will be announced soon, so it is no secret,” he was saying. “Our battalion will remain here for a further week or two, in case reinforcements are needed around Mexico City, but it seems unlikely the current standstill will break. Once we receive the all-clear, we finally head south.”

That word - finally - sounded like a sigh of relief, and the men exchanged a few glances. It was no mystery that Commander Hernández had been itching to lead them down south for a good while, growing increasingly frustrated with the skirmishes and changing tactics that kept them in their current position. He was hellbent on finding a deserter who had shot a friend of his and had fled south, which was understandable but… a touch loco, really. 

South is a very vague hint to finding a man who had run off months earlier. This Ernesto de la Cruz may have joined the rebels or been killed by them, died in the desert he’d escaped into, be hiding into some hole or even have crossed the border into Guatemala or British Honduras; chances of running into him were slim to none. 

But of course, none of them was foolish to say as much aloud in his presence.

“This will be no stroll in the park,” the Commander was going on. “We will need to get through Zapata’s territory to get there, but it is necessary. We cannot let them push their control all the way to Veracruz and cut the country in two. We will have reinforcements for that part.”

“... And after that?”

“After that, the battalion splits. Some units will go towards Yucatán, while I will lead you towards Oaxaca and then down to Chiapas. There are some very active rebel groups in both regions who support Zapatistas, but few enough they can be dealt with. There is belief they have widespread support among the civilian population, and that is what we need to crush.”

If Commander Hernández noticed any of his men shifting uncomfortably, he pretended not to. His voice was cold, his eyes unyielding, the world reduced to friends to fight alongside with and enemies to be destroyed.

No, not friends - comrades. Santiago Hernández had no friends, not anymore. The last he had left were shot dead, by a deserter and by Americans. His fellow soldiers could show him obedience, show him respect and even camaraderie, but there was no one left to show him friendship.

And no one left who could talk reason into him.

***

“Since he rode in with swagger And a crass sort of charm, His unconventional ideas Keep our town safe from harm He draws in crowds To the church, old and young Quick to bestow, He'll make his blessings come We were fatherless, and Hey, presto! We were gifted with Padre-”

“Miguel.”

“-- Huh? No, Ernest-- gah!” Miguel let out a yelp, trying with very little success to hide the guitar behind his back and acutely aware of the fact the small crowd of children who’d been listening to him was dispersing very quickly; out of the corner of the eye, he could see Óscar and Felipe leaping over a fence like thoroughbred horses. Within moments the only ones in the yard were himself and Dante, with Father John towering over them. 

… Well, at least he didn’t look too mad. Only rather tired. Miguel was suddenly very glad he’d decided to only sing the part about Ernesto and not the bit about him. Even so, seeing children shrieking and running off when he approached probably was… not very nice. Miguel gave a smile he hoped would come across as charming but that was actually very, very sheepish. 

“Hola, Father John,” he said, making sure to pronounce his name as correctly as he could. The priest’s thin lips curled for a moment in something reasonably close to a smile. 

“Hola, Miguel. That was… an interesting song.”

“It was just… just a bit of fun.” Miguel shifted a little, hoping he wouldn’t find out about the rest of it, or who had written it. Thankfully, the gingo didn’t prod for more details. 

“... I do apologize. It was not my intention to spoil your fun. I am searching for my Bible - I seem to have lost it,” Father John said, letting his gaze wander around the yard, on the low stone wall and the few benches - but there was no sign of a Bible anywhere. “It is quite old and ruined, but it has a sentimental value. Could you spread the word and let me know if you find it?”

Ah. “Of course. I can go look for it. I will now,” Miguel spoke quickly, and turned to leave - but Father John spoke first, causing him to pause. 

“... You do miss Father Ernest, I gather,” he said, and well… there was no point in lying there. Ernesto had even apologized to him for snapping, as Héctor said he would, even though he’d offered no explanation, and Miguel had accepted the apology. So all was well now… right?

“We kinda miss him at Mass,” he admitted. “I know you said he’s busy with other things, and-- I like how you say Mass,” Miguel added quickly, hoping he had not noticed how he’d almost dozed off and dropped the incense the previous Sunday. “It’s just-- well-- you know--”

“It’s all right, I understand. I’ll ask him to say Mass this Sunday,” he said calmly, and walked back to the church. As he watched him go, more of Héctor’s song echoed in Miguel’s head. 

Like oil and water Their teamwork does seem strained And so I often am questioned Cómo está tu Padre?

***

Father John Johnson lit his next cigarette against his best judgment. 

He normally practiced more restraint, even with a vice, especially considering rolling papers and tobacco felt like something immoral to spend his small allowance on in such hard times. That, and it was the last in his tin - which meant that in order to get more he’d have to go on an unpleasant trek up the hill, to the small stand on the edge of town, with the little gruff man who clearly overcharged and quipped about John reminding him of Spaniard colonizers each time.

John’s family was actually of Dutch ancestry - not a drop of Spanish blood as far as he was aware - but it was a fight John had decided not to pick. He’d just take the scathing remark and be content that the man wouldn’t go telling the rest of the town that the gringo priest bought tobacco from him. By far not his most shameful secret, but still one he’d tried to keep hidden. 

“And what’s the point of that anymore,” John mused aloud, leaning back against a tree. 

As much as he’d tried to avoid the thought, he feared his worse sin would leak to this town sooner or later, due to Ernest’s continued existence here. Granted, the man had all the more reason to keep John’s secret now that his own had been found out, but a slip of the tongue was all it would take. 

And if that happened, well, he would no longer have to worry about keeping his smoking habit hidden. Who’d be bothered by a priest having a penchant for foul-smelling habits when it’s common knowledge he has an even stronger penchant for men in his bed? Perhaps Brother Hector would write a song about that, too. The thought terrified him, knotting up his stomach, and yet he couldn’t hold back a bitter laugh before he took another drag.

Such thoughts circling endlessly in his mind were part of the reason for his irresponsible rationing of cigarettes, along with Ernest’s gauche behavior ever since he showed divine and priestly mercy.

That morning’s breakfast had made him nearly reconsider indulging Sister Sophie’s plea for Ernest’s pitiful life. The man had been edging toward familiarity ever since John had given him the gift of mercy allowing him to remain in the parish, so long as he did his best to behave like a real priest so no one else learned his secret - which meant listening when John assigned him scripture to study, so his sermons no longer consisted of him improvising stories he thought he remembered from childhood. 

Even so, he regretted allowing Ernest to occasionally say mass to keep people from questioning the change. It took all the restraint in John’s body not to stand up in the middle of mass that day to correct him that Jesus never ‘set a temple on fire for revenge’ and certainly did not ‘condone’ arson in the ‘right situation’. Indeed, John 2:14 was his first assignment for that little mishap. 

Clearly, the lesson Ernest had taken from it was not precisely the one John had hoped he would. Instead he seemed quite coy at breakfast declaring loudly to all the sisters and impressionable Hector how reexamining the bible was such a ‘good reminder’ that Jesus simply ‘doesn’t care much if we sin!’.

“He was a bit of a hell-raiser himself! A rebel!” 

Each phrase announced with a strongly targeted grin toward John in an obvious attempt to excuse his own behavior, which nearly caused John to flip a table himself. But he had shown restraint, and channeled that anger into what was now his last cigarette, which he would attempt to savor as slowly as possible.

“There you are!” 

The voice burst seemingly from nowhere, causing him to yelp.  “Lord have mercy!”

John startled, nearly dropping the cigarette and turning to glare up at that man. In response, he just grinned. 

“I thought you had better reflexes than that,” Ernest began, the forced friendliness and warmth radiating off him just as strongly as it had during breakfast. He either wanted something from him, perhaps more foul carnal acts - in which case he would be sorely disappointed - or was trying to make sure his little stunt that morning hadn’t cost him John’s silence and mercy. 

John inhaled, his voice coming out strained with fragile control. “I have… given you respite, patience, and lessons. I can not fathom a reason you must accost me in private when I have been explicit that unless it is in the parish for lessons we are not to--” 

Ernest didn’t seem to be listening: the next moment he was plopping into the grass beside him, leaning on another side of the tree. “I know, I know,” he said with a dismissive wave of his hand. “I’m not going to take up much time, it’s just that you rather rudely ran off at breakfast--”

“You cannot fathom how close I was to strangling you over the nonsense you were spouting, you should count yourself lucky that I left--”

“But,” Ernest cut him off, “you left before I made my point about my, uh, study of scriptures.”

“I’m not grading you,” John replied flatly.

“I am aware. But I think I found something that could bring you, uh…” a vague gesture. “I just think it’d be something you’d like. I don’t think what you-- we are is such a big deal. In case you missed it--” 

Missed it - now that was nothing short of an insult, and John’s composure broke. “I’m the real priest, Ermest - what could you possibly teach me that I don’t know about scripture!” he barked. Ernest didn’t even flinch, but lifted a Bible he’d seemingly pulled out of nowhere. Had he kept it hidden under his robes for a dramatic reveal just now?

“What, don’t like to think I can get something you didn’t?” Ernest made a face. “I am pretty smart, if I say so myself. Even you admitted I’m getting the hang of Latin.”

His boldness was coming back each day he awoke to see John had not yet cast him out it seemed. “Pride is a sin,” John muttered, making an effort not to release a slew of profanity he would have to confess to - God knew who to, since he was the only priest in the village. Instead, he pressed the cigarette between his lips and inhaled as though the smoke was oxygen.

Ernest shrugged. “Anyway. I’ll have you know that according to Romans 3:23--” 

“Yes, yes. ‘For all have sinned and fall short of the glory of God’,” John replied without missing a beat. “I’m well aware. Is this a case to prove why you deserve full forgiveness and a return to--” 

“Well, if you shut your mouth and let me finish, maybe you’ll see.”

Oh, John would love to be a pettier man, to make some empty threat about changing his mind to get Ernest on his toes again. But, well… God was watching, and he’s sinned enough lately. Far more than enough. 

“Well then,” Ernest was going on. “Since he’s saying we’re all sinners, there’s no reason to feel particularly bad if we--” 

“Priest. I’m a priest,” John cut him off again, stressing the words just enough to remind Ernest that he was not one, regardless of the cloth he wore.

“Huh?” He seemed honestly confused. “I know you’re--”

“Do you just keep forgetting priests are on another level of standard than--” 

“Cálmese one minute, will you?” 

“I am calm!” John snapped. “But if you don’t cease blaspheming, I’ll have you study so much--”

“So anyway,” Ernest barreled on before he could be scolded for the disrespect. “That verse reminded me of one I heard as a boy, and it took some digging to find it, has anyone ever thought of alphabetizing this thing?”

“This thing would be the Holy Bible, it would be appreciated if you showed some respect towards the Word of--”

“Anyway, it was a Psalm,” Ernest continued, clearly having made a habit of not acknowledging John’s attempts at educating him that day. “And it went, ‘for you created my inmost being; you knit me together in my mother’s womb. I praise you because I am fearfully and wonderfully made - your works are wonderful’, and so on, right? God made us and all that, and makes no mistakes. You told me - and I’ve watched - you tried everything to avoid these desires, so… why would God make a mistake with you?” 

John was silent for a moment; it mirrored a touch too closely to the argument Father Joseph had given him years ago. Shaking off the alarm, he turned his gaze on Ernest’s face for the first time in the conversation. “You have mistaken the Devil’s influence for divine design.” 

“Didn’t you tell me you’d felt this way since you were a child - an innocent?” 

“I was not that young, I was…” Almost a man, he’d thought then, but looking back now… oh, he truly had been barely more than a child. Something ached in John’s chest and throat, and he swallowed before speaking. “The devil, he… he works in deceitful ways.”

“Me too, you know.”

John scoffed. “Yes, you certainly do work in deceitful ways too, but that is no reason--”

“No, I mean-- being like that. As a boy.”

Ah. John fell silent, and turned back to Ernest. His hands were crossed, and he looked… uncharacteristically uneasy, no longer looking at him. “Even before my… experiences in, uh…” a sigh. “I said it was seminary, but of course that was not it.”

“Where…?”

“In the army. Overall unpleasant.” A bitter chuckle, but he didn’t elaborate. “But well before then, I would look at men. Other boys, really, well before I knew what sodomy was. Like you, correct?”

John had only ever looked that way at one boy when so young, but the memory of Walker Underwood - leaning back on the grass beside him to look up at the stars, talking and laughing, so unaware of John’s reddening skin and uneasy thoughts - still hurt all those years later, and he chose not to remark on that. 

“... Correct,” he murmured instead, and Ernest nodded before speaking again.

“And it was not lust exactly, was it? Too young for that. So… why’d God make you like that if his design is divine? Either of us?” 

A somewhat smug smirk was emerging on Ernest’s face, like that of a pupil who had turned in an immaculate report despite the teacher’s mediocre expectations. John turned his attention to the grass, his smoking hand lingering in the air as Father Joseph’s kindly voice and words echoed in his head. 

Perhaps it is in God’s plan that it remains your cross to bear.

Ah, but Ernest did not think of it as a cross to bear. He accepted it, embraced, revelled in it… and God had not struck him down for it. He’d struck down neither of them.

He was quiet so long that Ernest’s look of confidence began to waver, as though he feared that perhaps he had simply broken him further as opposed to-- ah, was comforting him what he’d meant to do? His way to apologize for his deception? John suspected as much. 

The thought sat warmly in his chest, and that feeling in itself should have concerned him, but… he wanted to revel in what comfort that knowledge gave him, if only for a little while.

Without a word, slowly, John’s free hand landed on the one Ernest rested in the grass. A delicate pat, the kind of gratitude a widowed parent shows to the child who thinks they can console them with a false belief the dead will return, knowing full well it is not to be. But the key there was that he... he recognized the attempt. 

“You’re dreadfully naive about scripture theory.” John remarked, his voice somber. Before he could pull his hand free Ernest took hold of his index finger, forcing him to linger. 

“Either I’m right, or God has messed up a lot of kids in his design.”

The notion God may mess up in any way, shape or form was another blasphemy, but it was probably the point Ernest was clumsily trying to make. So John didn’t rebuke him, nor did he try to pull away from his grasp, which was loose enough for him to be able to do  so effortlessly. There was a doubt that may be just a ploy from Ernest’s part to remain in his good graces, or maybe even slither back into his bed, but even so it was difficult not to appreciate the gesture.

Perhaps he means it. Father Joseph surely did. 

John gave a single nod, and allowed his hand to be clasped as he finished the remainder of the cigarette - Ernest’s presence no longer quite as stressful as it was before. Then the cigarette was done, he blew out the last of the smoke, and he pulled his hand away. 

“We ought to head back--”

“Here,” Ernest said suddenly, pushing the Bible in his hands. John blinked, taken aback, and glanced at him to see he was looking away. What in the world…?

“You know I can quote the Bible in my sleep, don’t you?” he pointed out, just a little offended. “I know exactly which passages you’re quoting. I simply don’t think your simplistic interpretation--”

“No, I mean--” Ernest fidgeted, uncharacteristically uneasy with words. “That’s yours.”

“... I beg your pardon?”

“Your Bible. I, uh, got someone to fix it up. As a, you know. Apology.”

Ah. John looked down at the Bible in his hands, truly focusing on it for the first time. That wasn’t his Bible, it couldn’t be; he’d ruined it slamming it down on the camera, until the spine broke, the leather cover came off and several pages came loose. The one he held in his hands was newly bound, now, with a new cover and all pages firmly in place. Still, when he opened… that was his handwriting at the margin, his notes. His Bible, indeed. So that was where it’d gone. 

“I see,” John heard himself saying, his throat a little tighter. He instinctively flipped the pages, searching for-- yes, there it was, right where he’d left it: his father’s letter. Disowning him, telling him he no longer had a son, to never be in touch again, so he wouldn’t taint them. But for the first time, seeing that letter did not fill him with shame. It filled him with anger.

“Didn’t you tell me you’d felt this way since you were a child - an innocent?” 

I did nothing. I was a boy, I only thought of kissing another. His own child, cast out over nothing.

“I noticed it looked kind of ruined, and I figured old Raúl could fix it up,” Ernest was saying, seemingly unaware of his thoughts. “He owed me a favor, so--”

“Thank you,” John said, very quietly, and smiled, the restored Bible - his keepsake of Father Joseph, the man who had called him his son despite everything - clutched to his chest. “This means more to me than you’ll ever know. I-- I have no words.”

Ernest smiled back. “Not even in Latin?” he asked.

And, for the first time since the truth had become clear to him, John Johnson laughed.

***

Well, getting Juan’s Bible fixed up hadn’t saved Ernesto from his daily Latin lesson, but at least he’d been allowed to go to sleep at a reasonable enough time, so there was that.

Not that he had hoped to fall asleep soon or easily, because he never did, not when he had to sleep alone. In the dark and the silence, falling asleep to find himself back in the barracks - or in a battlefield, or marching under the sun, or about to gun down civilians - was all too easy. So far, he found that some company was the easiest way to keep all of that away at night. 

He’d tried to casually suggest Sofía to spend the night with him, but of course, she’d shrugged him off and said she had plans. She was probably living it up with Sister Antonia right now, who was pretty but, in Ernesto’s opinion, nothing to write home about. Unlike him, of course. He was very much something to write home about. Or to the Archdiocese. Thanks for that, Juan.

Ah, yes. Juan. Asking him for nightly company was now entirely out of the question for obvious reasons, but Ernesto found that the thought of him helped a little just now. Namely, the thought of the look on his face when presented with his fixed-up Bible; the surprise, the smile, the laugh. It had been… nice, to hear that laugh again. 

Not that it had been the goal, Ernesto thought, but he was not entirely sure what the goal had actually been. He’d just eyed Juan’s Bible on the table after the gringo left to deal with some confessions, and thought that it looked in terrible shape, like he’d dropped it from a great height. He vaguely remembered Juan telling him that the old Bible was a gift from Father Joseph and very dear to him, much like the crucifix around his neck.

Grabbing it had taken a moment, and the walk to Raúl’s shop only minutes. The man was mostly a leatherworker, but was good at book binding and also the father of a woman finally expecting a child after years of fruitless marriage thanks to Ernesto’s, er, blessing - so he owed him a favor. When he’d returned to pick it up, the Bible looked new and he’d actually flipped through it to check Juan’s notes and make sure it was the same one he had left.

What am I doing?, he’d asked himself then, and he did again now. ‘Getting a book fixed’ was technically the right answer, but why would he bother was another matter entirely. He told himself it was vital he remained on the gringo’s good side, and that also was technically true. So there, that had been it - no motive but self-preservation, as always. End of story. 

Ernesto turned to the wall, pulled the covers up to his chin, and closed his eyes. His thoughts did keep drifting back to Juan’s smile, which was annoying, but when he finally fell asleep no soldiers, screams or gunfire disturbed his dreams. All in all, it could be worse.

***

You no longer have a father. I only ever had one son. For both of our sakes, never write again.

For a long time, John stared in silence at Reverend David Johnson’s neat handwriting in the flickering light of the candle barely lighting up his room. He had read that letter every morning upon awakening, and every night upon going to sleep, for well over a decade. A reminder of his sin, of his failure as a son. It hurt, each time, and it hurt him now. 

Only that the hurt was different that night, the disdain no longer entirely against himself. The letter was written on Christmas Eve, a brief unfeeling response to a heartfelt plea. Cold. Cruel.

I was a child. I was his child. How could he?

John pressed his lips together, the letter in one hand and his Bible in the other. A father’s rejection, ink more and more faded, and a Father’s gift - now restored. John’s eyes drifted towards the candle and, while he did not burn the letter, he did think about it.

He thought about it for a very long time.

***

“A flying machine! What in God’s name were you two thinking??”

“That we wanted to build a flying machine. It worked pretty well, except for the part where it didn’t fly.”

It took every ounce of Imelda’s patience, plus some she probably borrowed directly from the Almighty, not to grab Felipe by the front of his shirt and shake him hard enough to make his teeth chatter - and if not for the fact he had a broken left arm in a cast, she may not have been able to hold back.

“Maybe we should have picked someplace less high for the first test,” Óscar was conceding, all bruises and skinned elbows but with his bones still all in one piece. “We’ll choose better next time.”

“Next-- there is absolutely not going to be a next time.”

“Yes, yes, that’s what mamá said.”

“Papá as well.”

“So we knew you’d say that, too.”

“But you need not worry, because the next flying machine will actually fly!”

Imelda groaned, reaching up to rub her temples. “Was a broken arm not  enough for you?”

“Nope! I still have the other one,” Felipe quipped, flexing the arm in question to show off absolutely non-existent muscle. 

Óscar laughed. “And on the bright side, if the Federal Army comes looking for new soldiers, they won’t take him! Huh, maybe I should break my own arm--”

“Don’t say that,” Imelda cut him off, her voice suddenly sharp. It was the sort of thing she’d been having nightmares about. “Not even as a joke.”

“... The arm thing or the army thing?”

“The Federales. Actually, both. But mostly the Federales.” Imelda found she couldn’t entertain the thought even for a moment and something had to show on her face, because both of her brothers stopped smiling at exactly the same moment. 

“Hey, we… we didn’t really mean it.”

“We won’t say that again. Promise.”

Imelda sighed and finally nodded, managing a smile. “... Good. And if you want to entirely reassure me, you may also promise you will not keep trying to build flying contraptions and launch yourselves--”

“Oh look, it’s getting late!”

“We should be home in five minutes!”

“We should have been home five minutes ago!”

“Wait a moment--” Imelda began, only to trail off when her brothers took off running in the direction of their home. She sighed, making a mental note to let her mother and father know they should keep all tools under lock and key next time she saw them. Not that she thought it would stop them, but at least it would slow them down. Possibly until Felipe’s arm healed.

Their joke about Federales passing by to pick men to replenish their ranks  rang through her mind as she walked back towards the parish, impossible to entirely ignore.

If they took them, I don’t know what I’d do.

Her thoughts turned for a brief moment to the loaded pistol she kept hidden in her room. She paused mid-step, clenching her jaw. No, that wasn’t entirely true, was it?

She knew exactly what she’d do.

***

“He left, didn’t he?”

“Yes, Commander, as you said he would. We watched him take a horse and ride off.”

“Of course. To warn his friends down south of what he heard in the cantina, no doubt.” 

Santiago took a swig of his drink before setting down the glass, eyes glued to the map. It had been a grueling business, pushing past Zapata’s forces immediately south of Mexico City, but they had made it and now the battalion had split, leaving him in command of a couple of units… heading for the area where Ernesto de la Cruz had fled, leaving behind Alberto’s body in the smoldering sand.

I’m getting closer, I know I am. It’s only a matter of time.

And he could wait, of course. He could bid his time; being in the army had taught him discipline… something many of his men severely lacked. They were unruly, prone to talk and drink and then to talk even more after a drink… and that small village was full of ears. Thank God, said ears were also very bad at spying without being entirely too obvious. 

Sergeant García scowled. “Do you want us to follow him and take him out before he can warn them of our itinerary?”

“No, let him warn them. Let those traitors waste time rallying around San Luz while we take another route right past them.” With some luck, they may even be able to catch them by surprise from behind. He’d come up with another itinerary, and avoid sharing it with anyone who didn’t strictly need to hear it.

“I see. Do you need any further help…?”

“I think I’ll be fine, thank you. You’re dismissed.”

The sergeant left and Santiago focused on the map again, slowly working his way through the glass. There were several alternative routes they could take, but he settled for one that went through some hills and a small village barely marked on the map, the name printed in such tiny letters he had to squint to read it.

Santa Cecilia.

***

A/N: yes, I had to study Latin and had nightmares about it from time to time. But it's cool, they're fading. Ancient Greek, on the other hand, shall haunt me to my grave.

***

[Back]

[Next]

[godofsunandselfies]

Kyrie considered herself a pacifist; or, at least, as close as a pacifist a demigod can be. If she could manage it, she would rather tackle confrontations with words and reason rather than bronze and violence. Papa called her a "sweetheart" because of this. Connor would often declare her to have "the patience of a saint". She supposed that they were correct. She was willing to play the long game; give more than enough chances and wait for her "opponent" to see the error of their ways and do the right thing.

But this time? With this asshole of a demigod (Could he even be considered as a demigod? Likely not, considering how watered down his blood ties to Papa were.), she had no patience. There were no chances. This time she wanted this boy to hurt.

"You alright there, Kyrie?"

She blinked. Drawn out from her cloud of violence, she turned to face one of her younger brothers - Michael. He looked at her expectantly. Oh dear, had he been talking to her the entire time? She didn't hear a thing.

She gave him a sheepish smile. "I'm sorry, did you say something? I didn't quite catch it."

Thankfully he didn't seem upset. Rather he looked amused. Michael looked so much like Dad, dark hair and all - especially when he smiled. She, on the other hand, looked more like Papa; inheriting his golden hair and bright brown eyes. The only physical connection she had with their dad were her heightened senses and her fangs... and her unfortunate diet.

"You didn't miss much. I was just going on and on about how much of a brat that Octavian kid's been since Dad managed to get those Roman kids to stand down."

At the mention of Camp Jupiter's auger (A title he clearly did not deserve.), a scowl marred her otherwise perpetually serene expression. The sight of it triggered a particularly loud guffaw from her brother.

"I knew it!" He chortled. "I knew I wasn't seeing things. You" - pointed a finger inches away from her slowly reddening face - "Miss 'I-Don't-Get-Angry-At-All', were practically burning Octavian alive with your glare."

"Oh shush," she gently swatted at his finger. "Don't be so loud. Someone could hear you!"

In between chuckles, Michael gestured around them with wide arms. "Who? There's no one in the infirmary, Kyrie. It's just us."

Indeed, Camp Half-Blood's infirmary was devoid of its usual hustle and bustle of injured demigods and rushing healers. A rarity - a miracle, really. But it was to be expected. Ever since that heart thumping-ly tense standoff between Camp Jupiter and Camp Half-Blood about few days ago, no one had the stomach to hold any war games. Not with that tension - this precarious peace between the camps - near smothering the air. As Head Healer, Kyrie should be relishing this rare moment of peace. But she couldn't. Not when the events of last night played back in her head like a movie of spite. Her hands itched for action - and it was not a nice action she wished to commit. (Idly she wondered if this was how Connor often felt. This restlessness... This urge to lash out. It was terrible. How on Olympus does he manage?)

"So what did Octavian do that's got you so riled up, sis? " Michael leaned back against his chair, pushing so far that the rickety piece of furniture balanced precariously at an angle as he stretched himself out to his full height. He was always so lazy, she thought. So very much like a tomcat, sunning the hours away every day.

She huffed and shot him a look. "Why are you even asking? You clearly know."

He did - she could see it in how he wrinkled his nose as his mind played back the same anger-kindling film of last night. It had been dinner and, as always, everyone in camp had gathered at the Dining Pavilion to eat and socialize and just enjoy the last hours of a day before having to tuck in and begin anew. Only this time, an invitation had been extended to the Roman demigods to join them, rather than eat separately as they often did since the "peace" between them was made. A chance to bond and encourage peaceful relations. It was an idea that she wholeheartedly encouraged.

But of course Octavian had to ruin it for her and her family.

That boy, he was - for a lack of better term, and to borrow some language from Kayla's book (Oh how she missed her and Austin, and Dantes, and most especially Damien. She hoped they were alright back on Olympus. And that Papa was alright too. Hopefully the peace they now had with Camp Jupiter, as shaky as it still was, eased up whatever that split was doing to him. Hopefully it enough for him to come home soon.) - a great big pile of dicks. Nothing but a scheming little weasel - but that comparison would be an offense to all weasels - who only wanted to start a war; who sought out violence that seemed more fitting in Ares himself than someone who had blood ties (Very, very weak blood ties.) to Papa. It was obvious that he was vexed that Camp Half-Blood was still standing; that Reyna had taken the diplomatic option rather than diving head first into carnage. He was petty - and he wanted that peace, this alliance, to crumble. So he sought out for any weaknesses - any chinks in the armor - in the person responsible.

Kyrie knew that the foundation of the alliance between the camps was partially marred by a trick... or at least a misunderstanding. Everyone in Camp Half-Blood knew that Dad, while married to a god and having been so for... well... forever, was not a god. That he wasn't entirely human either, and that was the reason for his immortality. But nobody else outside of camp knew that. Not even all of the Olympians knew that. Thus those of Camp Jupiter believed her Dad, and by association, herself and her siblings, were gods. And that belief played a great deal in getting them to stop and listen; it was what discouraged them from toeing the line that was drawn in her Dad and Reyna's agreement.

But last night, it was like Octavian knew. (Which should be impossible. How could he have known? No one in camp would let it slip But she supposed it could've happened. An accident.) He kept needling Dad with questions and thinly veiled accusations. Dad not eating was a reoccurring point. It reached a point where he forced her dad to actually eat the food that had been prepared for everyone.

Dad couldn't eat real food. Couldn't taste a thing. And when he did, it would just make him sick. He knew this. She and her siblings all knee this. But he did it anyway - just to prove Octavian wrong; to throw him off.

It worked. Clearly. But now Dad was at home, sick to his stomach. And it was all Octavian's fault.

It fucking pissed her off.

Kyrie preferred the peaceful way of handling confrontations. But no one messed with her family. No one. And she wanted Octavian to pay.

"Now there's a look that I've only ever seen once before," drawled Michael as he watched her quietly seeth in her seat; glaring down Octavian's thin figure in the distance.

She frowned. She knew what he meant. She was a pacifist, fairly docile, up until her family came in harms way. The last she'd felt like this - this itch in her skin to curl her fingers around Octavian's neck; this licking fire in her gut that boiled and boiled until she was practically shaking with furious heat - was during the last prophecy; during the Battle at Manhattan. When they lost Kori and Bennett... She didn't remember much of what happened during those battles. Only that she was angry. So so very angry. And that she made Kronos and his army pay for stealing away her siblings. She made them pay with blood.

"Thinking of getting some payback?"

She furrowed her brow. "It will damage the peace Dad made for everyone."

Disappointment huffed from her brother.

"But I do have an idea. Nothing too drastic."

A wide grin split across his face.

~~~~~~~

Kyrie knew she was different. Not just because of her nonviolent preferences, but of what she was capable of. When her abilities manifested, she had inherited a power that was... rare from her Papa's side. Much rarer than his future sight, and more deadly.

While few, there were plenty of horror stories of children of Apollo who inherited his powers over sickness. The children her Papa fathered way before he had met Dad and who possessed those abilities were seen as bad omens, and often were at the epicenter of sudden plagues and pandemics. Considered to be terrible people...

So when she had manifested that "gift", frankly she was terrified; she feared that her parents would shun her - maybe even run her out of camp entirely. It was a silly thing to think of, but she'd been seven and her imagination ran wild.

Papa put her fears to rest; told her that she was not a bad omen, and that he and Dad had a child before who also inherited the plague aspect, a son, and he had turned out fine. Since then, he made sure to train her how to properly control her powers - because that was what had went wrong with the plague children before; no control had doomed them and thousands of people.

But it was still a well guarded secret. No one outside of their family knew what she was capable of. She did not mind. She understood. Not everyone would be as accepting or kind to a person who could inflict the most terrible illnesses imaginable to them with but a single touch.

And she scarcely used her powers to begin with. Violence was not her thing after all. She only wanted to heal people; not will them to rot away. (And the irony of her position was not lost to her, or her family.)

But there are some exceptions that she was willing to make. Octavian was certainly one of them.

Kyrie waited by the side of her home - right in the space between home and Aunt Artemis's honorary cabin. Peeking out the corner, she saw Michael doing what they had planned. He walked alongside Octavian, subtly leading him to where she stood, keeping the "legacy"'s attention with questions about camp and withstanding whatever anti-Greek drivel the pale wraith of a boy spat out. (She would need to reward Michael well for putting himself through that. Even though he was the one who came up with it - no one deserves to withstand Octavian's presence any longer than they need to.)

As they drew closer, Michael eventually took his leave of Octavian, giving a well-acted wave before scampering off in the direction of the nearby archery field, leaving Octavian alone. When he finally drew close enough, Kyrie put her own acting chops through the test and stepped out in a faux hurried pace - looking all to the world like she had come rushing out of the house, head in the clouds about some errand.

She collided with Octavian; shoulder crashing against shoulder with a force that would've sent him to the floor had she not whipped her hands out and caught him by his arms.

The second her skin touched his, she sent out a pulse of power into him, inflicting illness upon his body.

"Nothing too terrible," she had told Michael as they schemed (What a word.) in the infirmary. "I want him to suffer in the same way he made Dad did. Not kill him, Mikey."

Her brother had scoffed. "I'm just saying, no one would be broken up about it if he did croak from some disease."

A part of her - the bit of her that was all fire and fury when her family came into harm - agreed with Michael, but she had her principles. She wanted to get even. That was all.

"Oh dear! I'm so sorry, Octavian," she cooed with false concern. "Are you alright?"

She made to fret over him, as she tended to do whenever her siblings and fellow campers were injured, but Octavian slapped her hand away.

"I am fine! No thanks to you," he sneered at her; gaze filled only with poison disdain. (How on earth this boy claimed relation to her family, she did not know. Perhaps another sick trick of the Fates.) "You should watch where you're going, you insipid little---"

He never got to finish as a blur of orange and black sped from his side and shoved him firmly to the ground.

Connor bore down; a look of honest to gods murder on his face. "Finish that sentence. I dare you."

Octavian went pale. (Quite the feat considering how pale he already was.) He scrambled to his feet and took off with a slight shriek. Anger at her having bumped into him long forgotten.

Connor relaxed and face her. His expression easing to open concern. "Are you okay, Kyrie?"

She beamed. "I am perfectly fine. Actually, I'm in a wonderful mood."

His lips twitched upwards - almost into a smile. "Something good happen today? "

"Mmhmm. And I just know that tomorrow will be even better!"

~~~~~~

The next day proved to be another lazy day in the infirmary, so she took the opportunity to lounge on the front porch of the Big House, just enjoying the chilled weather. Eventually the front door opened and the cabin councilors and the leaders of Camp Jupiter's - what did they call it? "Cohorts"? - spilled out; some still muttering amongst their fellows regarding whatever it was they had to discuss at their meeting.

Vergil stepped out as well, as he was often the representative for their family (and Dad and Papa would be in attendance, being co-directors of the camp alongside Chiron) for these things. Upon seeing her though, he came to a stop and approached, settling down right beside her on a nearby chair. It was quite the comical picture - a man as big and intimidating as him precariously seated on a rickety rocking chair. (Though she and all of camp knew that Vergil was anything but intimidating.)

Silence was all there was between them as they both watched the others file on out and disappear into the camp grounds. It was only until everyone was certainly gone that Vergil spoke.

"So the meeting went a lot more smoothly this time around," he said, staring idly at the planks of the floor.

She smiled. "Is that so? "

He nodded. "Yes. Octavian was absent, you see. Apparently he caught a nasty stomach flu. It came to him so suddenly. Reyna said that it's likely that he'll be bedridden for a week. Maybe even two." The corners of his mouth rose several centimeters as he caught her gaze - blue meeting brown; both amused. "Would you happen to have a hand in this sudden turn of events?"

She said nothing, only smiled at her older brother.

With a laugh and a slight shake of his head, Vergil rose from the chair and ruffled her hair. "You did good, little sister. I'll see you back at home, yeah? " Then he too disappeared into the camp grounds.

Pleased, Kyrie reclined in her seat and relished her little moment.

It truly was a good day. And clearly it will be a good week or two ahead.

[prolestariwrites]

Time To Go [7]: Devil Boys And Devil Arms

Fandom: Devil May Cry Rating: M Characters: Nero, Dante, Vergil, Kyrie, Nico, Trish, Morrison Tags: Mystery, Humor, Missing Person, First Time, Family Drama, Family Bonding, Post-Canon Chapter: 7/9 Chapter [1] [2] [3] [4] [5] [6]

Summary: When Kyrie goes missing, Nero goes on a desperate search to find her. Unfortunately, Dante and Vergil go too. Sparda boys shenanigans, fighting demons, a smattering of family drama, and male bonding (otherwise known as Nero’s worst nightmare). Please check it out below, or you can read on FFNet or AO3. Beta read by @copper-wasp.

Now posted! Chapter 7: Devil Boys And Devil Arms, in which the boys learn the truth about Kyrie's disappearance and decide to suit up... if Nico doesn't kill them first.

━━━━━━━✧━━━━━━━

Dante’s eyes narrow as he watches the screen. It is her, on a grainy security camera, standing on a corner and waiting for the light to change. He recognizes the flower shop behind her, one he passes by in Fortuna on the times he’s headed over there, and he swallows thickly when she glances upwards as if looking at them. The film plays without sound as she checks her phone and lifts it to her ear. Then a van pulls up, the back opening, and Dante’s blood turns cold as he watches a man exit out the back and drags Kyrie inside, her mouth open in a silent scream. The light changes and the van peels away, the back door slamming shut with the force, and Morrison pauses the video.

“It’s not demons at all,” Dante sighs.

“Nope,” Morrison replies. “Just your regular, run-of-the-mill greedy ass humans.”

“We don’t know that for sure,” Nero says sharply, glaring at Morrison. “How did you get this?”

Morrison shrugs. “You needed help. I delivered.” Then his mouth curves a bit wryly. “You can just make out the license plate. Easy enough to get an address. You want it?” He nods towards the door. “I brought a car.”

Nero looks at the others, and Dante lets go a slow breath, waiting for the kid to decide. If it is humans, that changes everything—and if he’s being honest, Dante doesn’t know what they should do. Killing demons is one thing; he never was good with humans.

“Let’s go,” Nero says through gritted teeth.

Morrison’s car is an old-fashioned town car, well-loved and well-cared for. Dante climbs in the front as Morrison starts it up, and they pull out of the parking lot with a squeal of the tires. He heads towards Fortuna, the world around them a deep gray as it waits for the sun to start to rise.

“Are you disappointed it isn’t demons, Nero?” Morrison asks.

Nero huffs in the backseat. “We don’t know for sure it’s not demons. Or people working for demons.”

“Nico said that there are plenty of people after Kyrie,” Dante muses. He leans an elbow on the window and taps a finger to his lips thoughtfully. “Might be old Order leftovers after all.”

“It doesn’t make sense,” Nero insists. “Kyrie was doing so much good for everyone. No one in the Order blamed her for what happened, and neither did the city. I don’t believe Nico, no one was after her. This has to be demons trying to get to me.”

Dante glances over his shoulder. “I don’t know. I’ve known a lot of shitty people.”

“This is why I don’t care for humans,” Vergil sighs. Dante smiles humorlessly and shakes his head. “What?” Vergil snaps. “At least with demons you know what to expect. Humans can look like one thing and be another. Not worth the trouble.”

“That’s stupid,” Nero mutters. “Kyrie is human. So is Morrison. So am I.”

Vergil snorts. “Not completely.”

“You always like shooting that back at me, don’t you?” growls Nero. Dante rubs his face at the sudden sharpness in his tone; just when the kid was finally calming down and focusing, Vergil gets under his skin again, innocently or not.

“That you’re half-demon?” Vergil challenges. “You are.”

Nero’s hand clenches into a fist. “Quarter. My mother was human.”

“There is more than enough of Sparda’s blood in you,” replies Vergil.

“Well I didn’t ask for that!”

“You say that a lot, you know. It gets old,” Vergil complains, Dante listening with a growing aggravation. “We all know how you came to be.”

“As if I had a choice,” mutters Nero.

“None of us were dealt the life we would have chosen. But unlike you, the rest of us deal with it.”

Nero folds his arms with a pout. “Easy for you to say. You don’t know shit about my life, since you left it.”

Vergil lets out a low growl. “How long will you be punishing me for that? I didn’t know.”

“You say that a lot,” Nero snaps. “It gets old.”

“You—”

“Hey, lay off,” Dante says gruffly.

Nero’s mouth twists into a smile. “Yeah, lay off.”

Dante turns around from the front seat and narrows his eyes. “Not him. You. You need to get over all this shit.”

“What?” Nero gapes.

He points his finger at Nero, trying to keep his temper in check. “Stop blaming Vergil for everything. He didn’t know about you. And yeah he’s a pain in the ass and a prick and will probably end up fucking everything up—”

“Thanks,” Vergil mutters.

“—but he didn’t. Fucking. Know.” Dante leans his arm over the back of the seat and Nero shrinks back. “But he knows now. We both do. And you don’t give me half the shit you give him. So lay off.”

Nero doesn’t respond to the chastisement, turning to look out the window with a scowl. Vergil is as seemingly nonplussed as ever, which also annoys him. “And you’re such an asshat,” Dante sighs. “Kid is scared, anyone can see that. He loves Kyrie and she’s missing. He just watched her get taken away, and that hurts like hell. At least pretend you care.”

“I know he loves her. He says it every two minutes.” Vergil leans forward, looking Dante straight in the eye. “I’m sick of being blamed for every problem he has. Nero needs to grow up.”

“He has grown up! You’d see that if you’d open your damn eyes,” counters Dante. “He’s got kids at home and a family and it’s a fuck ton more than either you or I have. And he did it on his own.”

“He’s not the only one who has been on his own,” argues Vergil.

Anger swells inside Dante, his fingers digging into the leather seat. “We were both on our own.”

“It made us stronger,” Vergil states matter-of-factly.

“Are you saying you wouldn’t change anything?” Dante practically shouts. “If you could go back, you would have still wanted to be alone?”

Vergil rolls his eyes. “What a moronic question. We can’t go back, so what is the point of asking?”

“The point is that you still haven’t learned a damn thing.”

“Okay, enough,” Nero says. He puts his hand out as if to keep the two apart, the change in him surprising Dante. His expression is almost pleading, his voice tight. “You guys have done nothing but argue since we started. Can you just… just can it already?” His lips press together into a thin line. “We gotta get to Kyrie. And…” Nero clears his throat. “I’m sorry for snapping at you both. I really am. We gotta do this together, and we can’t be fighting.”

There is a long silence, and once again Dante finds himself trying to figure out what to say; but again, before he can think of something, Vergil says, “We haven’t fought the whole time. Don’t exaggerate.”

“Yeah,” Dante laughs. “And besides, we’re fighting about you. You should be happy we care enough.”

Nero glances between them incredulously. “You’re both so fucked up.”

The brothers both start to laugh, and Dante laughs even harder when he sees Nero’s confused look. “Yeah, but aren’t families supposed to be fucked up?”

“Mine isn’t,” Morrison says.

Dante groans and slides down a bit in his seat, stretching as best as he can. “Pipe down and drive,” he mumbles, smiling when Vergil snorts behind him.

━━━━━━━✧━━━━━━━

They are a few miles from Fortuna when Dante says, “Let’s go to Red Grave City first. We can load up at the shop.”

Morrison takes the next exit and weaves through the early morning streets, mostly empty as the sun is just rising. Nero climbs out of the car and follows in last, thinking about how he had rushed in there maybe twelve hours before, frantic to find Kyrie. It will be almost twenty-four hours since whoever those guys are had taken her, and he can still hear her voice, soft and insistent and afraid on the phone.

“Let’s go,” Dante says, leading them inside.

Nero is surprised to find Nico there, half-dozing on the couch. She jumps up when Dante calls over, rubbing the sleep from her eyes and stretching.

“What are you doing here?” he asks as he strides over. “What about the kids?”

“They’re fine, don’t worry.” She glances over her shoulder where Dante and Vergil move around the shop, pulling items from the wall and from inside various furniture. “I figured you’d end up here, so I took a cab over and brought Red Queen. And I wanted to get the latest, see if I could help.”

“Thanks, but you should go home and get some sleep,” Nero says gruffly.

He turns to walk away but Nico grabs his arm. “No way! How am I supposed to sleep when Kyrie is missing?” Nero pauses when he hears the slight catch in her voice. “I care about her too. Do you know where she is yet? You have to, if you’re here, right?”

“Morrison has a lead,” he sighs. “He thinks it’s humans, but just in case, we’re gearing up.”

Nico nods. “I can drive.”

“Actually…” Nero rubs the back of his neck, his expression sheepish. “We had some trouble with the van.”

“Trouble?” Nico’s eyes narrow into dangerous slits. “What trouble?”

“Nothing you can’t fix!” He tries to sound cheery as he claps her on the arm. But his fatigue makes his nerves feel thin, and when Nico doesn’t relent he sighs. “The van is… kind of wrecked.”

“Wrecked!” she shouts. “What about my things? My work? What did you do?”

“They’re fine, I promise!” He puts up his hands as Nico starts to advance on him. “We got attacked by some demons and had to get out of there fast, and something must have blown—”

“Where is the van now?” she growls.

Nero gives a little shrug. “We left it on the highway. I’ll get it towed, don’t worry.”

Nico sighs loudly. “It’s fine. When you’re done you can run me up there, and I should be able to figure it out and fix it. Don’t want no tow truck driver poking through my stuff anyway.”

“Yeah, I don’t know if you’re gonna be able to fix it that easy. I kinda got mad and…” He drops his head and moans, “I fucked up, okay? Seems to be what I do best.”

Nico grinds her teeth as she looks at him furiously, before finally rolling her eyes. She puts her hands on her hips and snaps, “Stop being such a pussy. Man up and get Kyrie back.” Then she pauses, sucking in a sharp breath, before saying quietly, “We need her.”

He glances up to catch Nico’s lip trembling slightly, which is more alarming than he wants to admit. “Keep it together,” he mumbles, and Nico laughs.

“So if I’m not driving, what can I do?” she asks. Before she can answer, she looks over Nero’s shoulder, then gasps and pushes him out of the way. “Wait! What are you doing with those?”

Nero turns to see Vergil and Dante carrying armfuls of weapons, dropping them unceremoniously on the floor. “What the hell?” Nico cries. She crouches down on the ground, glaring up at the two men viciously. “You can’t treat these weapons like this!”

“Most of them used to be demons,” replies Dante as he scratches his head. “Pretty indestructible.”

“Ugh, you don’t know anything,” she scoffs. Nero folds his arms as she starts sorting through the Devil Arms, amused by her exasperation. “These are more than works of art—they’re living weapons! You can’t sling ‘em around like a sack of potatoes!”

Nero snorts as Dante and Vergil exchange a look. “We need to go kick some ass,” Dante says in explanation.

She shoots a sharp stare at them both. “I’ll kick your ass if you don’t pipe down for a minute while I figure this out.”

Nico returns to her sorting, while Dante grumbles. “She used to be a fan of mine, you know,” he says to Vergil.

Vergil looks decidedly unimpressed. “Hard to believe that. The girl obviously knows what she’s talking about.” Nero spies how he watches Nico, his lips pressing together as he sees an idea that could only mean trouble sparking behind Vergil’s eyes. “I’ve been saying for months that I should have these items, not Dante. Don’t you agree? Nico, wasn’t it?”

Nero is about to object when Nico stands, hands on her hips. “Neither of you deserve this stuff. These should be in a museum or something.” Vergil scowls at her, but Nico ignores him and continues, “But none of this is gonna do you any good anyway. You can’t fight humans with this stuff. It’ll be a bloodbath.”

“Maybe we want a bloodbath,” Vergil argues.

“We don’t want a bloodbath,” says Dante.

“I wouldn’t mind a bloodbath,” replies Vergil with a shrug.

“Well I know you wouldn’t but—”

“Okay, okay,” Nero interrupts. “Nico, what do we do then?”

She considers a moment before giving him a sideways glance. “You boys are pretty… big. Just use your fists.”

Vergil frowns deeply at the idea, but Dante grins and rubs his hands together. “Yeah, now we’re talking! Get a little one-two action going on.” He starts to hop from one foot to the other, pretending to jab at Vergil’s arm, bobbing and weaving like a boxer. “Kick some ass the old fashioned way.”

Nero hides a chuckle as Morrison joins them. “Got the address,” he says, holding up his little notepad. “You boys ready?”

“Who is it?” Nero asks.

Morrison flips it open. “Traced the plate to an owner, last known address just outside of Fortuna.” He nods to Nico. “Looks like your girl was on the money.”

Nico looks smug but Nero feels a surge of anger. Kyrie had been there the whole time, as he was running from city to city chasing after nothing? “What’s the name?” he demands.

“Mammon,” Morrison says.

“Mammon?” Nico tilts her head. “I know that name.” Nero’s brows go up as he watches her think. “I read it in my asshole old man’s stuff.”

“One of the Order?” Nero growls.

Slowly she shakes her head. “No. Mammon was a demon in his research.”

Nico gives him a pained look, and Nero feels his blood go cold. “Looks like we’re gonna need those Devil Arms after all,” he says.

[ghostieeghoul]

Returning Light - A DMC5 fanfiction

Chapter 2

Dante opened his eyes and sat up immediately, once it was over. He was expecting another demon, another issue, a half destroyed home, and some dead people. Instead, he could hear only quiet talking that came from his right, so he turned to see what was going on. Kyrie was sitting next to him with a little smile on her face, trying to act as cool as she could. She just gave him his shirt and pants while she was at it, what she’d gone to retrieve before. Dante took it and put them on, but as he did that, he looked towards the others he saw there. He could see Vergil sitting on the ground, dressed, cleaning the bloody cane while looking at something. Someone. He got closer, not even standing up, instead just leaning in and observing the scene more. Nero sat there, eyes wide in silence, just as confused as Dante himself. Vergil looked proud of himself though, which wasn’t surprising to Dante, or even to anyone else who knew Vergil. He put the cane down and looked at his brother with a smile as Dante moved ever closer to see the face of the person laying on the ground even more. Then he stopped quickly in his tracks, staring at Vergil.

“What have you done, Vergil...?” he asked, looking at the person on the ground before them. The person was familiar, too familiar. And he shouldn’t have been there. Dante looked around to everyone else, all equally confused and silent, then back at Vergil.

“Well... It’s a long story, but... I suppose it would be fair to tell you, even if I don’t understand it fully myself just yet. As you see, of course... he is back. He figured out a way while he was out there, and made me more impressed with his... trying.”

“You’re talking about him like he wasn’t just you...” said Dante, angrily.

“Technically speaking, he is. Simply a split facet, you think? But in actuality, he is not. Rather... Not anymore. You see... While he was out, he lost more than the demon part of me lost. Still, he learned and gained things, too; from humans, mostly. One of those things being the... love of life,” he said, in an almost disgusted tone.

Continuing, Vergil gave a soft scoff. “Now, what he lost was some traits I had, and he replaced them with things he seemed to like. Human things. He created something like a new personality, even if we began with similar... Habits. He had started out talking with the term “we”, but he ended up calling himself “I”. So... Coming from this, he was searching for a way to survive, but he knew well he would simply perish if we were not connected again. Heavy-hearted, but not fully giving up, he joined back… As you’ve seen. Thus... I am here. But still, he left his mark, in the book. And I tried his way, which seems to be effective, as you can see.”

Dante looked back at the person on the ground, covered with a blanket. He was a tall man, almost dangerously skinny for his height, with pale skin and white hair like their own. He seemed to be in a deep sleep, but a pleasant one, his breathing even and calm. Dante didn’t know what he should feel, but since Nero and Kyrie were being calm, in this situation, he tried not to think of anything bad. He didn’t want to make a ruckus of their home, after all.

“Where is the demon part...?” he asked, after some thinking in silence.

“In us. Shared. You could say we are each a half human, half demon. Which, if his “research” was right, will change. The longer he is out, the stronger he becomes. The stronger I become, as well, ending up with a full. But there is a catch...”

“Why is there always a catch with you, Vergil...?” Dante sighed loudly.

“Well, not for me. For him, mostly. First: he came out as he went in. The only exception is that he is not dying, but he is weak and will need time. A long, long time. Second: his healing process is not the same as our own. Rather, not yet, anyway, though it may change. So please, don’t stab or shoot him from your anger. For now, he is only human,” Vergil said, chiding, looking at Dante, knowing him well. “Third: I don’t know what kind of powers he has, or will have. Which may be a problem. Fourth: he might not remember everything that happened. I don’t know why that would be the case, but he wrote it down in his book. Probably in the case of the demonic powers he mentioned.”

Vergil looked at the cane, eyes narrowed as he spoke. “Which... was stored in this. He used that so much, it became more than a weapon. Carrying both his power and his will. Just like the Yamato or your swords and the Sparda. Interesting, for me... he surprised me more than I’ve ever thought he would.”

He leaned on the wall with a strange little smile on his face, almost smug. Though, for Vergil, all of his expressions were vaguely haughty and proud.

“Well... He was always a weird guy..,” Nero muttered as he turned to glance down at the man on the floor. “Should we still call him V, or...?”

“He called himself that. If he wants to change it, he probably will,” answered Vergil.

“Where are his.. uhm... Tattoos though? His little demon friends”

“I killed them...” Dante laughed, glancing away.

Vergil looked at him with narrowed eyes.

“What...? They attacked me. It was a nice fight, I enjoyed it, they were good enemies.”

“Nightmares are never destroyed fully. I wish for them to come back if they go...” he quoted from the book again, voice somber. He shook it off, though, grimacing at his brother. “Those were his only friends for a month after the separation. His helpers. His family.”

“He will be devastated to know their fate...” Kyrie said quietly, before she shook her head.

“We can get him a stray cat, a chicken and some dirt or ink or something! And then there you go, friends!” Dante found this too funny, laughing at the idea of the familiars being much more than a deal V made.

Nero shook his head then got up from where he’d been sitting. He picked V up and took him onto the couch, tucking him into the blankets tightly so he wouldn’t get cold. Kyrie stood up too, sighing. “I have naked men in my living-room. Well, at least there’s only one now... To have had three naked strangers, though... That’s a new low. But at least the other two are clothed now..,” she murmured as she walked out to get something to drink.

Nero was watching V as he slept, standing over him with a concerned expression. When Nero had last seen him, he was dying, falling apart, begging him for help. It was strange to see him again. He seemed like a different person. He looked younger now, and even more frail than ever. The boy turned to the twins.

“Why did you do it, Vergil...?”

“It seemed interesting at the time. Nothing more than that. I simply got curious about what he had discovered, and... Well, hmph, at least I did something good. I know you liked him, so,” he stood up, turning away, “I’ll leave him here with you, and I’ll be on my way.”

“No, what? No! First, you made this mess. I mean... He is your part, you take care of it! Er..! Him!” said Nero, flustered and on edge. He was upset.

“Take care of him? Like Vergil had taken care of you? Damn, I’m sorry V, but you are dead already then...”

“Shut up, Dante! ... Listen, Vergil. Father. Don’t leave. We can’t manage… Th-there’s... We need help still, you know?! A-and… and I don’t want you to leave! I’ve been waiting for your return, and you’re both finally back, so... Don’t you guys dare to leave me again! And now, you have V here, who will need your help as well, so... Put your silly fighting and stubbornness aside and try to think a bit about others, not just yourselves!” Nero told the twins, voice stern.

They looked at each other momentarily, then both looked down, back at the ground. Kyrie arrived just in that moment, and to her, the scene looked like the twins were just scolded by their father for doing something wrong. It was really funny, seeing them look so sheepish. She put the cold drinks down then walked beside Nero, a smile on her face.

“He is right. Just try it, okay? For Nero...”

The twins nodded, though the reluctance was obvious. Both took a glass and just walked out, bumping into each other on the way. They ended up outside, just sitting down and talking while they drank the nice, cold drinks Kyrie got for them. Lemonade, it had turned out.

“Well, that went better than I thought it would...” said Kyrie after some moments of silence.

“Yeah.”

Nero turned to V. “We’ll need clothes for him. I’ll search for some, I have some I don’t use and are in good condition."

“I would say the same, but I bet he wouldn’t wear a dress or anything that I do,” replied Kyrie with a playful smile.

Nero imagined V in one of Kyrie’s dresses. Just the thought itself made him laugh, a grin on his just before grumpy face. Kyrie was proud of herself for making that happen. Nero so rarely laughed, it made her so happy to see.                                                                                                                                                                                       ***

Meanwhile, Dante and Vergil were sitting in front of the house, just drinking the lemonade and looking at the night sky. Vergil stood up after some time and just stared at the drink in his hand. Dante looked up.

“You really did it from curiosity and not in the search of our stupid power?” Dante asked, almost quiet, as he looked at the ground.

Vergil glanced at him then back to his hands. “Yeah. Why is it so surprising...?”

Dante chuckled at the answer. “You ripped your son’s arm off, separated yourself into a full on demon and a dyin’ human, murdered half the population of Redgrave. And let’s not talk about the things you’ve done before... That’s why it’s surprising you were ‘just curious’ about it.”

Vergil turned to him, frowning. “I was thinking... We had some time to think, huh?” He sighed and drank the rest of his lemonade. “I know I did terrible things. But seeing Nero’s reaction…,” he smiled a bit, more genuine this time. “He is so different. He is not like us. Well.., he isn’t like me, anyway. Fortunately. That’s why I have decided… I should just get out of his life. Leave, while it won’t hurt him too much. It’s not as if he.. knows me,” Vergil murmured as he looked back at the sky. The stars were not too visible, clouds on the horizon: it seemed a storm was coming.

Dante shook his head. He had time to think too, and he knew Nero was right in a way. He sighed and stood up too, putting his hand on his brother’s shoulder gently, not wanting to get stabbed. Vergil turned to him, just to see Dante having his smug smile on, but now it wasn’t for something bad or silly.

“After ripping off his arm... I didn’t think you could hurt him more,” he laughed, but stopped, a bit somber, “But you can hurt him emotionally, and now, I think that would be worse. For some reason, he wants you... No, us, in his life. Let’s... Help him until he gets bored of us and throws us out himself, huh? You in?”

Vergil smiled and nodded, though it was more like a smirk. “I am in.”

He knew Dante was right, especially after seeing his son’s reactions.

They walked inside not long after, they put their glasses into the sink then ended up in the living-room. Nero and Kyrie was sitting on the other couch, hugging each other, covered by a blanket. Kyrie looked up and smiled again.

“You didn’t run away out there. That’s reassuring.”

Nero looked at them too, moving his gaze. Until then, he had been watching V. He smiled, he was happy, but tried to act just cool.

“Go upstairs and try to sleep a bit, okay? It’s 4 am and you two still look tired.”

The twins looked at each other then back. “We can stay with him. You two can go and... Sleep,” said Dante.

“No, you are the guests here. Please, boys, just rest. We’ll see you in the morning.”

They nodded and after a bit of hesitation, walked upstairs. They laid down and talked for a bit, like normal brothers could do. It was Dante that fell asleep first, leaving Vergil with his thoughts. He was watching him before turning to his other side to get some sleep.

Kyrie and Nero fell asleep quite fast even just in the livingroom like this, hugging each other tightly. On the other couch, there was the boy, V, who was sleeping snugly like a child. From the outside, he might have seemed to be calm, but inside, there was a war. In his body, in his mind, it was fought by unseen forces, but he was winning. His own mind. His own body.  It was a long and tiring fight, not helping his condition, but at the end, it was worth it.                                                                                                                                                                                     ***

Morning came sooner than the pair wanted it to come. Nero and Kyrie woke up not long after eight, but they didn’t try to sleep back. They got ready, had a nice shower, then made some breakfast for the kids and of course, some coffee and tea. When they were ready with that, they just walked back to the living-room and waited for the others to wake up. There was no school for the kids, so they left them to sleep, fortunately they didn’t wake up at the night’s commotion before.

They woke up after 10 am. Dante and Vergil walked down after the kids who seemed to have more energy than the twins themselves. The boys went to the kitchen immediately, looking for Kyrie’s cooking already. Dante followed them, but Vergil went to see how V was doing. Nero was still there in the living room, while Kyrie went to the kitchen after hearing the children’s voices coming from upstairs. It was just the three of them - V, Nero, and Vergil. Nero looked up.

“Good morning,” he said, “You had a good sleep?”

“Yes. I did have a good sleep,” said Vergil as he turned to V.

“He slept peacefully all night, didn’t even move. ... You still want to leave?”

“No. I won’t, though it’s only if you say so.”

Nero was surprised, but he hid it from his face. Or… well, tried. He nodded. “Thanks. I appreciate it.”

Nero stood up. “Let’s eat some, okay? We made breakfast for everyone.”

He walked out, and Vergil followed. They sat down at the table where the kids and Dante were already eating. No one said a word, just ate. It was awkward, but calm, at least. The breakfast was bacon with eggs, and some toast with whatever they wanted to put on it. While they ate, the kids were staring at Vergil - who noticed it, but said nothing. He knew it was best not to. He was well aware of the things he has done and thought they must know too, and there was nothing to say that would make nice about it.

                                                                                                                                                                                      ***

He opened his eyes, slowly. It took a moment to adjust - the lights were hurting them at the start, but after a second, everything cleared up. He was confused about his whereabouts, and first even about who he was. He looked around - or tried to- slowly, but every movement made his body hurt, every part of him felt like he was dying. He took a deep breath and got his hands out from under the blankets. Something was wrong. They were not his. Not anymore. How he could see them..? He sat up with a loud groan, alarming the others in the kitchen. Nero got up first, running at top speed to the living-room where V was. It was a sight to see, V looking at himself and being confused. He looked up when he heard the movement of another person. He pulled his knees close to his chest, fast, even if that hurt him too. He was scared, confused; he was shaking, pulling away, trying to hide on that couch, especially after the others walked in too. Seeing Vergil gave him may thoughts. He was there too. He did it, but why?

Nero walked closer, slowly, then crouched down next to the couch, trying to be as calming as he could be. He covered the boy with the other blanket which made V turn to him. “Hi there.” said Nero. “You don’t have to be afraid, you are safe here. No one will hurt you, okay?”

V looked at the twins. “No, not even them. I promise. There would be no point, really. Right guys?” he turned to them.

“If you die, you just return to me... Well, for a limited time. If you become strong enough to be your own person, you will become your own. As you wished. But you already knew that,” said Vergil.

V was still confused. “W... Why...?” he asked with a weak tone.

“You worked for it. You fought till the end and got back. I respect that. And I was simply curious, so... Why not? I would not have died from that spell, so to experiment was fine. Now, we’ll see if you deserve that life I gave or not.”

Probably not, V thought. Still, he just nodded and sighed again. He was so tired and weak, all he wanted was some rest.

“You should eat,” said an unfamiliar and small voice from behind everyone. It was Carlos, who arrived with a plate and some food on it. Behind him, there was the other two boys, peeking out curiously. Since he was the eldest of the three, he walked up to V confidently, and put the plate on the couch next to him. “If you would like to, I mean. You just… seem like you would need it.”

Nero and Kyrie smiled, they were really proud of the boys. V thanked them and looked at the plate.

“I’ll get you a tray,” interjected Kyrie, and she walked back to the kitchen. She arrived back shortly, putting the plate on it. “Eat when you’ll feel like eating, okay?”

V was shocked, but in a good way. Surprised. He nodded and sighed again. He laid back and stared at the little group until they heard the door open.

“You won’t believe what I just sa-“ started Nico, but when she walked in and saw what was going on, she stopped. “Did I drink too much last night or that is really the guy who’s...?” she trailed off, and walked closer, eyes wide behind her glasses. “Poetry guy?” she looked at Vergil. “But you’re here! Did you give birth to the guy again?”

“You can say that. Don’t pressure him too much though, you could be too much for him just yet.”

“What do you mean by that?” she wanted to continue, hurt by the idea she’s too much, but Nero stopped her.

“It’s fine Nico, no worries. V is just... he needs some rest and... silence. That’s what Vergil meant.”

“Ah, okay. I see. I see. You better.. Watch yo’self, sword guy!”

Vergil shook his head and walked closer to V. He sat on the other couch and watched him. V just laid there, naked and confused, trying to hide under the covers as much as he could.  He pulled them over his head, with a soft whine. He felt... like a child.

Sometime later he pulled the covers off just to see the only person there is Vergil, still watching him, and Dante, who was looking at his guns like they were the love of his life. Other than pizza, of course, they might really have been. V sat up and sighed, looked around more. Vergil got up and put the plate on his lap.

“Eat. You’ll need it to get strong and regain your power,” he said, curt, then sat down again.

V looked at them - then back - and slowly but surely he started to eat. It was really good, he enjoyed every bite, but… he was starving. He finished off fast, put the plate on the table and looked back at Vergil, who was staring at Dante, who had pointed his twin guns at V “as a joke”. V turned to him too, looking as grumpy as he could. Dante put his guns away with a shrug, the glares of the two men seemed genuine enough to make him do so.

“Fine, fine... geez,” he muttered, and walked out as Nero walked in.

“Is everything okay?” he asked.

“Of course. Dante is just being a fool as always,” said Vergil. “And V ate. A good start to gain power back.”

Nero nodded, but rolled his eyes. “Sure... Power.”

He turned to V. “I found some clothes for you. They might be huge for you, but… better than nothing for now. Kyrie doesn’t like people naked in her house.” Neither did Nero, but he didn’t want to come off overprotective. He put them on the couch for V. The man almost immediately grabbed a shirt and pulled it on. It was, indeed, huge for him, but he felt more secure having that on than being naked as a new born child. He tried on the jeans too, but he had to realise that’s a no go. He sighed and just sat there, lost. He looked at his hands again, he knew something was missing, something important. The skin of his hands was... “I am sorry about the familiars,” muttered Vergil, making V look up at him. “They fought Dante after we had already reconnected. And... They might not come back because of it.”

V said nothing. He was sad and disappointed, but he said nothing. Nightmares or not, they were important in his short life. He sighed deeply. There was an awkward silence, but it was cut short by Dante who walked in. He looked at the scene.

“What’s this mood?” he laughed. “I thought I should tell you that Nico was gonna take me to my office. Of course, hoping it’s in one piece. Well, she says it is, but…. Who knows. And uhm... Since it has some rooms and we don’t want to bother you with our presence, I thought we could go there. Mr. Poetry,  too.”

V looked up. Until that moment he was really lost in his thoughts. “What? Doesn’t like the idea? Would you like a 5 star hotel, princess?” he asked in a mocking tone, a smug grin on his face.

“Dante...” Vergil was in a protective mood, by his tone, and how he rose to stand.

“Fine, fine... Whatever. So. Wanna come?” “Yes, we are going,” answered Vergil before the other man could respond, as he walked up to V. “He won’t hurt you.”

“Are you sure you don’t want to stay?” Nero asked as he watched Vergil helping V stand up. He was so weak, he almost collapsed in Vergil’s arms… the scene was too familiar.

“It’s okay, kid, none of us will disappear. Or die. If yes, well... you’ll know.” Dante laughed.

“Just kidding. All I want is Pizza and rest. And later, we can worry about demons and money.”

Nero nodded and got their weapons, even if he didn’t think it was a good idea to give them back at all. Dante took his own, but the Yamato and the cane were there still. He picked both weapons up in his hands and followed the three to the van. Vergil made V sit down, the boy was already panting from the walk. Nero felt really bad... He was hoping for a speedy recovery. Nero got in, too, after talking with Kyrie, promising he wouldn’t run off killing demons again. Nico got in too and sat behind the wheel. Dante flopped next to V and Vergil, bumping into the boy, who pulled away from him. He shook his head and opened up a newspaper, ignoring them. V just sat there, staring at nothing. Well… not nothing. An empty space - the place where once he and his familiars would sit. Shadow, laying on the floor while Griffon was sitting on Nico’s jukebox. He closed his eyes and tried not to think of it. It didn’t help at all. Nico started the car and they were on the road in seconds. She was smoking, as usual, and talking a lot to Nero. None of the three listened to them, it was just gossip anyway.

                                                                                                                                                                                    ***

When they arrived, a storm had reached the place. There was heavy rain and thunder, so as they got out, they ran inside, well, as fast as they could. Nero helped his father to bring V in, the others just ran. Dante was happy the place was in one piece, and just sat down onto his couch, like someone who’s work for the day was done.

“Ah, I missed this place. Home sweet home.” It was a moment of silence, before he stood up again and walked to the phone. “I’ll order some pizza, and in the meantime, you two can take the princess upstairs. Or whatever you would like to do with it.”

Vergil looked at Dante with anger and disappointment in his eyes. He wanted to say something, but he didn’t, watching silently. V just walked up to the desk, not really caring about the things Dante had just said about him. He was interested in something else... It was a picture that was on Dante’s desk. It was a quick motion as he picked it up with shaking hands, staring down at it; many emotions on his face. Dante’s smirk he had been wearing on his face disappeared, and he snatched the picture from the frail man, looking angry.

“Don’t you dare to touch that again!” he shouted at V.

“I just... It’s mom and...”

Dante smacked his fist on the table loudly, making V flinch. “She is not your mother. She never, ever was!”

“Technically, she was...” warned Vergil, who moved closer.

“I don’t care if he was you before, he’s not anymore. He’s a stranger, so no, there is no relation here!” he looked back at V, his voice almost a growl, “If you touch this again, I’ll rip your arms off myself!”

“Dante...” Nero stepped closer.

“You better shut up now, kid! You understand me, Poetry guy?”

V just stood there, shivering, eyes wide. He felt like almost fainting, but just nodded, silent. He had no other choice, really, did he? Vergil just held onto him, and they walked upstairs. He led him into a room that didn’t have Dante’s filth in it and made V lay down. Vergil listened in on Nero’s and Dante’s conversation, though.

‘“Are you crazy, Dante?!”’ They could hear. “I don’t care what that is upstairs, but it doesn’t belong in the family, got it?! He’s more of a dead weight than you!”

Vergil shook his head and looked at V. “I am sorry…,” said V, softly, but loud enough that only Vergil could hear. “You should just... kill me. One less problem for you all...” he sighed. “He seems to care about you... Why should I stay and ruin it?”

“Dante is a fool. He is not seeing the bigger picture. Never did. He is a good fighter, but not a clever person.”

“Why do you care...?”

“You are me. And you cared about me, too. As well as your own life. Why wouldn’t I?”

“You have a son. You should care about him. He is... more important.”

“Everyone is equally important. … Nero hates me, anyway.”

“No, he doesn’t...”

Vergil raised his eyebrows.

“Why would he be so upset when you wanted to go if he hated you? He likes both of you... even if you are a thorn in his ass…,” V showed a weak smile. “He helped me... even though I lied to him and caused more problems that I wanted. Still... he was there till the end. Nero...” he was panting heavily. He never was one to monologue. “He.. he is a good child.”

V closed his eyes. He just wanted to rest them for a bit, but he fainted, body going limp from exhaustion. Vergil shook his head and tucked him in, staying there, making sure he is okay. He was still listening to the argument downstairs.

                                                                                                                                                                                    ***

Dark and cold was the place around him. Freezing cold stillness. Green eyes popped open suddenly as he was awakened by a light breeze that carried with it the scent of death and dread. He sat up, looking around. There in this place he could see only one thing, only that was illuminating the dark. He crawled towards it, but every movement brought pain, like the ground was glass shards or rose thorns. As he got closer and could see the thing in front of him clearly, he stopped. Now, all he felt was fear. The figure was sitting on a throne, but it stood up as it saw him there. It walked closer, it’s body was huge compared to him, the small and weak man. It stopped near him, leaning closer with a grin on its face. Many eyes. Sharp teeth. Scaly skin. It was Him. He could feel something grabbing him now, wrapping round his body. It was His tentacle like parts, the remnants of the roots, which squeezed him hard, making him cry out in pain. Squeezing his thin body; taking the air away. He wasn’t ready to die. He didn’t want to. As suddenly as it started, the squeeze lightened, and He leaned ever closer: he could feel His breath on his face. “Weak... Human. That’s what you’ve become,” he said with His deep voice. His green eyes looked into his soul. “Puny human. Born to be destroyed.” He smiled. He smiled wildly. The tendrils tightened again. He screamed, and his world was filled with pain.

Vergil was downstairs when he heard V’s scream. All three and even Nico who was smoking outside ran upstairs to see what was going on. It was spine chilling, the scream itself. When they got into the room, they could just see V turning in bed and grabbing at the sheets, still sleeping; his eyes closed tight and sweat on his forehead. He may have stopped screaming, but he was having a hard time breathing... Vergil got closer to observe him, and tried to wake him up. Nero and Dante, however, just stood there, not really knowing what to do. Nico was the second brave person to walk closer. She seemed tough, and was, but in that moment, she showed her lighter side, putting her hand on V’s. Some things are only fit for humans to handle.

“I know nightmares can really suck, man, but you have to wake up,” she said, lightly at first. She stayed true to herself though... “Wake up!” she shouted.

The squeeze was tight and darkness was closing in, but he could hear voices. Familiar ones, that made him stay aware, alert. Voices, that made him not want to give in… And wake up. He sat up immediately as he opened his eyes, panting, gasping for air. His whole body was shaking, he was looking around again and again, making sure He didn’t follow him there. Nero walked closer.

“What happened, V...?” he asked in a worried tone.

V couldn’t even say a word first, he needed some time, but then... He looked up at him.

“U...Urizen...” he said, with a shaking voice. Almost inaudible - but they definitely knew what he said.

The others looked at each other, then back to V. They knew that meant something bad, but they were hoping it was just a bad dream. Just… A Nightmare...

[yeehawdante]

Heaven on a Landslide pt. 13

June 15th, 3:59 p.m. 

Penelope stomped after Vergil, her tears all dried up-leaving her with nothing but her stifling fury. Just looking at him was enough to make her want to scream. 

“I’m not done talking to you!” She barked, letting out a growl when the white haired man didn’t face her. She raised her fist to strike him again, her breath hitching when Vergil caught it. Her nostrils flared as he gave her a pleading look, lowering her first to her side. 

“Stop this, I have no desire to fight you,” she didn’t respond- just yanked her hand from his grip and harshly wiped the tears from her flushed cheeks. She cast her gaze away from him, crossing her arms over her chest as she swallowed the guilt forming a lump in her throat. The very man who left her alone with a child, who hurt her son, who always put his pursuit of power above her was mere inches away from him-she felt like she should have wanted him dead but that was the last thing she wanted. 

There was no love lingering in her heart for him...not after everything he’d done. But she couldn’t let go of those good memories, she couldn’t will herself to hate him no matter how strongly she felt that she should. And Nero...she wanted her son to know his father, not a corpse. 

Nero...her face screwed up as she bit back her tears. She should have told him the truth. There she was fuming over Dante’s lies, when she had done the very same to her son. She actually felt the heat of her anger cool down just slightly when she put it in perspective, although it was misplaced, Dante had just wanted to protect her. Part of her even wished she had gone the whole time without knowing the truth. 

 She could feel Vergil’s eyes boring into her back and her lip twitched, turning to glower at him. She may have not wanted him dead, but she sure wanted to punch his lights out. She couldn’t help but give him a once over, it seemed like he hadn’t aged a day-unlike herself. He had hardly changed since the last time she had seen him-in Fortuna. 

“Didn’t anyone ever teach you that it’s rude to stare?” She sneered, kicking a piece of debris off the side of the tree. 

“The boy...he’s my son?” Her eyebrows shot up before she broke out into a laugh, the sound empty and bitter. 

“What gave him away? Was it his thick skull?” She got in his face, close enough that he could see the familiar freckles that peppered her skin.Her expression hardened, brow twitching as she spoke, “yes! That kid you traumatized is your son...our son!” She paused, sucking in a deep breath and squeezing her eyes shut. She was so sick of crying, but her rebellious lips trembled anyway when she opened her eyes to glare at Vergil again, “that boy is the bravest person I’ve ever known and you...after what you did, my twenty year old son clung to me like a scared little kid, even slept in my bed one night, for fucks sake!” She covered her face with her hands, heaving out a shuddery breath, “I’ll never forgive that.” Something in Vergil’s cold stare shifted, but it was gone before she could catch a glimpse of it.

“I didn’t know he was our son.” 

“If you had just taken your head out of your ass for one second, just stopped to look at him...” she raked her hands through her hair, the hair tie not doing its job of keeping it out of her face, “of course he was! Why do you think Dante trusted him to keep the Yamato safe?! Just never thought he’d have to keep it safe from his own fucking father!” Her throat was raw from so much yelling, her voice cracking pathetically mid-shout. She averted her gaze and blinked rapidly, fighting off her tears. She jerked away when she felt a hand brush against her arm, and in a split second he was looking down the barrel of her gun. “Don’t...touch me,” he retracted his hand, pushing down the revolver gently. She pulled her other gun out of her holster, raising it in its place and eliciting a frustrated sigh from the man before her. 

“With the power I’ve obtained, I could protect you...and Nero from every kind of harm,” her jaw dropped at the audacity of the man before her, laughing once again, “I just need your help-”

“I bought into your bullshit when I was a kid, I’m not that stupid anymore. You don’t want to protect anyone but yourself!” 

----------------------------------------------------------

Dante’s heart seemed to have made a home up in his throat, the uncertainty of his future with Penny had his stomach churning. He wasn’t sure he could stomach losing her again. 

The legendary devil hunter came to a halt when the pair came into view, his shoulders slumping when he spotted them merely inches apart. The light reflected off of something in her hand, catching Dante’s eye and his lips split into a grin when the realization dawned on him...she had her gun stuck in Vergil’s face, her lips pulled back in a snarl as she raged on about something. 

Dante laughed to himself, shaking his head free of all the silly thoughts that haunted him on his way up. He couldn’t believe he thought for a second she’d go back to Vergil, that she’d leave him. He moved forward with a newfound spring in his step, balancing the sword with his namesake on his shoulder. 

“Thought I warned you brother,” two pairs of eyes fell to the man in red, and he flashed his trademark grin at Penny, “you piss little spitfire there off, and she’ll unhinge her jaw and swallow you whole,” his heart swelled when Penny ran to him, enveloping him in a hug with a relieved sigh. He wrapped an arm around her waist, smiling smugly at his older brother over her shoulder. “Sorry I took so long,” he murmured to her as she pulled away, staying at his side. He turned his attention to his twin, whose composure had been tested slightly when it became clear who had Penny’s heart.  

“Your portal opening days are over,” he extended his hand to Vergil, “give me the Yamato.” 

“If you want it, then you’ll have to take it. But you already knew that,” Penelope’s face twisted up in panic, placing a hand on Dante’s arm. 

“Dante-” she started to plead but he cut her off. 

“I had a feeling you’d say that,” his new sword materialized in his hand, ignoring the hand gripping his bicep. 

“How many times have we fought?” Too many, Penelope thought bitterly. 

“Hard to say. It’s the only memory I have of us since we were kids,” the twins smirked at each other. The interaction was so casual, any outside perspective would have never guessed what they planned to do to each other. Dante stepped forward, only to be tugged back by Penelope’s iron grip. 

“Please, it doesn’t have to go this way-” 

“Stay outta this one, love,” he gave her a small smile before turning back to his older brother. “Time to finish this, Vergil! Once and for all!” The brothers broke into their respective stances before charging at one another. Penelope winced at the clang of their swords, sucking in a deep breath as she came to her final decision. She wasn’t going to let them kill each other. She stood by far too many times before. 

She leapt between them, blocking a blow from Vergil that nearly toppled her over. She gritted her teeth as she fought against his overpowering strength. 

“I’m not…” she grunted when her grip nearly slipped, “letting you die,” her heart jumped into her throat when Dante went to swing at his preoccupied brother. She ceased her clash with Vergil, ducking under the blade of the Yamato and sweeping Dante’s legs out from under him in one swift movement. The devil hunter landed on his back with a hiss, swearing at the stubborn woman continuing to fight off Vergil’s assault. 

“Dammit Penny!” Dante gripped, clambering to his feet in time to see his brother gripping Penny by the throat, lifting her slightly before slamming her onto her back. Her cry of pain transformed into a wheezing cough as she clutched at her throat. She somehow pushed through the dizzying pain in her back to sit up, looking up to see the fury flaring up in Dante’s eyes, a muscle in his jaw twitching as he looked to his brother. 

“Did you just...choke slam my girlfriend?” 

“She was in the way.” 

“Alright,” Dante growled, “you’re fucking dead,” Penelope’s breathing grew labored when her boyfriend activated his sin devil trigger form, charging at Vergil who had retaliated by doing the same. She lifted herself onto her knees just as the two men were about to collide, her ravaged voice giving out mid-plea.  

A shockwave sent her flying back, evoking a groan from the already beaten woman. She gritted her teeth, firmly planting both hands on the ground and heaving herself up. She tilted her head at the sight before her, both men were still standing-held back by an unfamiliar demon between them. 

She limped forward as the twins reverted to their human forms, identical dumbfounded looks etched into their faces. A pair of spectral arms sent the twins flying backward with a powerful strike and Penelope came to a halt, recognition dawning on her face. 

“Nero?” The demon looked to her before morphing back into the familiar appearance of her son. She strode forward as best she could, staggering slightly from pushing herself so hard until she was close enough to embrace Nero. She was beaming when he pulled away, pride written in her features as she looked at the blue wings still lingering on his back. “I’m here to put an end to this,” he said without looking away from his mother, and her face fell slightly. “I won’t let you two kill each other,” her shoulders slumped in relief. A grunt pulled Penelope’s attention away from her son, looking to see Dante stomping toward them with a glare. 

“Listen to me. I told you already, this is not your-” Penelope cringed when Nero struck the man in red in the jaw with his devil bringer. Nero spoke as his mother made her way to where Dante was lying on the ground, crouching down next to him and checking if the blow had dislocated his jaw. 

“You listen, dead weight,” her lover glared at her when she snorted at Nero’s remark, she gave him a sheepish grin as she plopped down on the ground next to him.“I won’t let you kill each other. There are other ways of settling your differences,” Penelope couldn’t fight off her proud smile, swiping a thumb under her eye and sniffling, “I’m putting a stop to this sibling rivalry,” the young devil hunter stomped toward Vergil, his fists clenched yet his tone and expression remained composed. Vergil chuckled and rose to his feet, sighing.  

“Ahh, you came all this way just for that.” 

“Vergil...V...whatever you call yourself...Dante’s not gonna die here, and neither are you. Do you have a problem with that?” 

Dante grunted as Penelope wrapped an arm around his back to help him sit up, he rubbed at his sore jaw, “‘not gonna die’ my ass. That bitch slap nearly killed me,” the brunette supporting him shook with silent laughter, her free hand clasped over her mouth. 

“If I beat Nero…Then by default, I beat you. Agreed, Dante?” Penelope’s expression hardened, moving to rise to her feet so she could step between her son and Vergil but Dante stopped her. Nero turned to give her a firm nod, the confidence written in his features reassured her and she nodded right back-giving him silent permission to kick Vergil’s teeth in.  

“Whatever, I don’t really care. I’m just gonna sit this one out,” a weight settled in Penelope’s lap when her lover rested his head against her thighs, breathing out a long sigh. She rolled her eyes with a small smile, lacing her fingers through his hair and lightly scraping her nails against his scalp. 

The fight was coming to an end, Vergil clearly on his last leg from the powerful assault Nero was dishing out. Penelope almost couldn’t believe the boy she was watching was her son, she didn’t think anyone could ever put that bastard down with such ease. Not even Dante. 

“Could you not cry directly on me, babe? I feel like I’m drowning,” Dante murmured and she jumped, letting out a laugh when she realized she was in fact crying and had been letting it fall directly onto the older man’s face. He sat up with a slight wince, wiping her cheeks with a fond smile. She returned the gesture just as Vergil suddenly landed on his ass next to them, panting from his exertion. 

“Interesting,” he murmured and Dante broke out into a mocking laugh.

“Oh brother, you cut off your own son’s arm for more power, and you still lost,” he continued laughing and Nero scowled, clearly fed up with the brother’s endless feud.  

“Enough dammit! The underworld is taking over, and we need to do something before it’s too late,” as if to further the young man’s point, the Qliphoth started to quake violently. 

“He’s right. We need to close that portal,” the white haired man looked to his older brother, who was struggling to his feet with a huff, “hey, you lost, so you better do what he says.” 

“I can still fight,” Nero tensed, preparing for yet another round with the man in black, “but if those roots continue to spread through town, it’ll just interfere with our business,” Penelope rose to her feet, helping her boyfriend with a slight struggle. 

“Now, that’s the smartest thing I’ve ever heard you say,” the color drained from Penelope’s face, her throat tightening when she realized what needed to be done. She caught Dante’s hand desperately, and he met her with a pair of raised eyebrows. 

“Where are you going?” Her voice wavered, the hands grasping his began to shake noticeably and Dante tried to ignore the ache spreading through his chest. He smiled softly at her, silently trying to commit the features of her beautiful face to memory...just in case. 

“Somebody’s gotta keep an eye on that jackass,” her face twisted up in despair and she started to shake her head.

“N-no, that-that’s a one way trip, you can’t-” he softly shushed her, cupping her face in his hands and forcing her to look into his eyes, making sure she saw how serious he was when he spoke.  

“I will, this ain’t my first rodeo. I’ll be back before you know it,” she sucked in a shaky breath, the tears pooling in her purple eyes cascading down her cheeks. She wrapped her arms around his middle and pressed her cheek to his firm chest. 

“Please don’t go,” she heard his breath stutter, tightening her hold on him as if she could stop him from going. He softly gripped her chin and tilted her head up, pressing his lips to hers in a loving kiss. Even with the cuts littering her plump lips, they were still the softest thing in the world to him and he found himself getting lost in the taste of her. 

“Make haste, Dante,” Vergil’s voice pulled the couple back to reality, and she gave him one last pleading look before he reluctantly pulled away. Something seemed to dawn on him suddenly, and he stopped to reach into his jacket. He pulled out a thin piece of paper, placing it in her hand and closing her fingers around it. He departed with a delicate kiss on her forehead, turning on his heel and giving his brother a glare out of instinct. 

Penelope swallowed the lump in her throat, stashing Dante’s parting gift in one of her pockets as she watched her lover walk away. Her head was pounding from the endless crying and frowning, and she did her best to unfurrow her brow. Nero sprinted past her after the pair of brothers-hardly getting a word out before they simultaneously spun around and nailed the younger man in the face, knocking him on his ass. Penelope’s gaze flicked between her son on the ground and Dante, a crease forming on her forehead and she couldn’t help but snort. She could only stop frowning for two seconds it seemed. Dante looked at the woman before him like she was the most precious thing in the world, relieved that the last memory of her before he left was her smiling. He saluted before jumping off the side of the Qliphoth. 

Vergil stopped for a moment as Nero appeared at his mother’s side, his eyes flicking between the two of them. He tossed a familiar book on the ground in front of his son’s feet. 

“I won’t lose next time, hold on to that until then,” Penelope couldn’t stop the words bubbling up in her throat. 

“Vergil!” He raised his eyebrows at her over his shoulder, “you...you make sure you come back too, please,” a smile crept onto his face, giving her the slightest nod before following Dante- leaving the mother and son alone on top of the Qliphoth. 

“Idiots…” Nero murmured, crouching down to retrieve the book from the ground. He rose to look at his mother, pain stabbing through his heart when he finally took notice of the state she was in. Her droopy eyes were rimmed with a dark shade of exhaustion, a painful line of bruises marking her neck and she seemed she could hardly stand. 

“You okay, mom?” She had just gotten Dante back, just to lose him again hours later. Not to mention all of the other bullshit she’d endured. Yet, when she looked to him...she was smiling somehow. She reached up a hand to cup his cheek, smile somehow stretching even bigger. 

“I am so...so proud of you,” she couldn’t fathom how she had any tears left, shedding another waterfall’s worth as she pulled her son into a hug. He gazed out into the blue sky, breathing a sigh of relief knowing he was finally strong enough to protect the ones he loved. 

------------------------------------------------

The van was waiting for them at a reasonable distance from the crumbling Qliphoth, the neon blue sign bringing an overwhelming sense of comfort. Nico came bursting out of the van, the girls following close behind. The tattooed woman broke into a full sprint, yanking the two devil hunters into the tightest hug she could manage with a cry of relief. 

“Holy shit, what the hell happened? Thought that demon houseplant was gonna take you with it!” Penelope put her hands on her hips, looking at the white haired man beside her. 

“You can tell them, I’m gonna...I’m gonna head home, get some rest,” she gestured in the direction of the office and her son nodded, giving his mother a soft smile. 

“I could give you a ride, mama, you don’t gotta walk all that way,” the freckled woman offered and Penelope waved her off, smiling at the gesture.  

“I just need to be alone right now,” Nico pursed her lips, nodding reluctantly and turning her attention to the young man recounting his fight with Vergil. 

The streets were relatively empty on Penelope’s walk home, save for a few small time demons that took one shot from her revolvers to take down. Nothing she couldn’t handle. The thud of her boots stilled to silence when she made it to the office, no neon glow to welcome her home-the sign was broken. Her face twisted up, feeling slightly foolish for getting so worked up over one stupid sign. She sucked in a deep breath before opening the doors and stepping inside. Her footsteps echoed throughout the empty room, the sound almost deafening in the suffocating silence. She made it to Dante’s desk before her willpower was officially exhausted, collapsing in front of it and leaning her back against the wood. The paper Dante had given her weighed heavy in her jacket pocket, but she was afraid to look at it. 

She certainly wasn’t going to be moving from that spot anytime soon, so she decided there was nothing better to do. She reached inside her coat, her heart hammering against her ribs as she pulled it out. Tears welled up in her eyes when she saw Dante’s face, but she couldn’t help but laugh when she realized what it was. A worn out strip of photo booth pictures they had taken when they were in their twenties, all of them silly except for the last one. She had been feeling daring that day, planting a kiss on his lips and marking the start of a beautiful relationship. He’d kept the damn thing all those years, even after she’d left...not only that, he kept it with him. She let out a sob, pulling her knees to her chest and allowing all of the emotions she’d held in for so long to flow out. 

Her head shot up when the door slowly creaked open, a familiar head of black hair appearing in the doorway. Lady gave her a small, pitying smile as she sheepishly stepped into the room. Penelope hastily wiped at her cheeks, hiccuping slightly. 

“Where are the others?” She asked with a sniffle.  

“Cleaning up,” Lady answered, “the Qliphoth just went down. Guess Dante and Vergil did it,” Penelope nodded, a bittersweet feeling spreading through her chest. 

“Do you need something?” 

“No, I uh-came to check on you,” Penelope’s eyebrows shot up, “can’t imagine what you must be feeling right now, going a whole month worried that Dante was dead...then to find out he isn’t and lose him all over again-I,” she sighed, “I’m just sorry. Especially because I didn’t trust you, and I see now that you’d never betray any of us, Vergil or not.” Penelope grinned, looking down at the picture in her hands. Lady sat down next to her, peering down at the picture and laughing. 

“Wow, he...gave that to you?” 

“Yeah?” Penelope gave her a questioning look. 

“It’s just that... “ she laughed again, “the guy would nearly lose it if he thought for a second he lost it. I’m surprised he managed to part with it,” Penelope chuckled, but her smile fell a second after. Her face scrunched up as she clearly held back the tears she had been letting out before Lady came in. “He’ll come back, he’s done it before. And this time, he’s got you waiting for him. Nothing’s gonna stop that stubborn bastard from getting back to you,” the black haired woman reached out and wrapped an arm around Penelope’s shoulders, letting her lay her head against her shoulder. “I’ll keep you company in the meantime, and I won’t force-feed you pizza,” the brunette’s body shook with silent laughter. 

“Thank you, Lady.”

[etlunainmorte]

🖤 I See My Future Before Me 🖤

***

XXXII

He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, his fingers gliding through the strings of (Y/N)'s violin. He opened his eyes, putting the antique Guarneri ( that made Dante even more broke than ever before ) under his left jaw, and tuned it for a few minutes, carefully turning the fragile pegs and gliding the bow against the four strings.

And when he finally finished tuning the violin, he started playing Paganini's most popular Caprice.

However, four notes in and someone was already interrupting him. He heard someone knocking impatiently on the door.

V sighed, carefully placing the violin back to its case, and went towards the door to answer whoever it was. It really wasn't the right time for him to have any visitors, since Nico was away, and no one would be able to entertain them or tend to their needs other than him, and Griffon and Shadow were definitely not an option for that.

But, what if it is her,...?

With a slight ray of hope that the visitor might really be (Y/N), herself, he opened the door, expecting to see her lovely face, wanting to embrace her and welcome her back,...

"Joyeux anniversaire! Joyeux anniversaire! Joyeux anniversaire, (Y/N)! Joyeux anniversa - !"

"Petya!" A tall and haughty woman whispered as she nudged the shorter man next to her who was singing that French song.

The man, who was startled to see V, scratched his head and turned to the people behind him. "Is this the right place?"

"I'm sure of it." A dark haired young woman, who was browsing through a manual of some sort, answered.

"Maybe she moved a long time ago?" A bearded man, who was as tall as the lady who nudged the other guy, next to her answered.

"Who are these people, V?" Griffon, who joined the poet on the doorway to see who the visitors were, asked.

"I,... have an idea,..." V admitted as he glanced one more time at the guests: the tall woman, the short man ( apparently his name was Petya ) who was singing, the dark haired young woman behind them, the bearded man next to her, and an old nun at the back.

There is no doubt about it. They were,...

"No, this is the right place." The nun told them, making them turn to her. "I'm sure of it." She said, then glanced at V. "I believe you know our friend, (Y/N)?"

"Yes." V answered. Not really wanting to keep them standing outside, anyway, he made way for them and invited them in, and a few minutes later, all of them were seated on the sofa, awkwardly waiting for anyone to speak as they fumbled on the things each of them were carrying.

Presents? And,... groceries?

"Umm, sir," 

"You can call me V."

"Mr. V," the young woman said. " ... where is (Y/N)?"

V felt his heart stop for a moment. Of course, they would go looking for her. He just didn't expect it to happen this soon. And how would he answer them? That she left because he hurt her?

"She's,... not here,... as of the moment." V struggled with his answer as he tried not to look directly into the young woman's eyes.

However, the nun sensed all of this despite the poet hiding his emotions and intentions too well. She knew him from her stories, after all.

And she knew, sensed, that something was definitely wrong.

"May we know when she'll be back?" The young woman prodded on.

Oh, no,... "I,... do not know." And it was the truth.

The tall lady, who was sitting next to Petya, gave the poet a strange look from head to foot, seemingly in appraisal of him, and raised an eyebrow.

White haired man,...

... who plays the violin,...

Then, like a landslide, everything went back to Natasha. Her eyes darting from the violin on the table then to V, she spoke.

"Ты тот мужчина из-за кого она так больно плакала!"

V didn't understand a single word she said but, it made Petya's eyes widen nervously.

"Natasha!" Petya whispered hysterically to his wife as the other guests glanced at them in both suspicion and concern.

Petya looking like that at the woman, she definitely said something not good about me. V thought as Petya looked back at him with a sheepish smile.

"Ah, w - what she said is that s - she knew you from (Y/N)'s stories." Petya stuttered, only making V more suspicious. Then, he looked back at the haughty woman. "Natasha, please,..."

"Это не шутки, Петя! Никакой мужчина не должен вызывать у никакой женщины плач!"

"What's going on?" The young woman asked, clearly confused as to what Natasha was saying.

"Natasha, dear, I think it's better if we treat our host with the utmost respect." The nun spoke, trying to break the tense atmosphere between the sharp - tongued woman and V. Petya translated for her, and upon hearing the nun's intention, she closed her eyes and took a deep breath as she calmed herself.

Exhaling and giving V one last look of disdain, she stood up and went towards the window. "Мне нужен свежий боздух."

The bearded man next to the young woman watched Natasha as she isolated herself from the group and wondered what set her off. There must be something that the couple knew that they didn't.

But, what was it? And why was Natasha so upset, if not mad, about it?

The man, then, turned to V, who was leaning against the wall next to a strange - looking bald and lanky boy, and spoke, "You said that you don't know when she'll be back. Where did she go, exactly?"

"Okay, Mr. Foreign Hippie, that's enough questions for today." Griffon interrupted, holding out a hand in front of V to keep the poet from making things worse. "Why did you come here, anyway?"

"We might have forgotten the actual date but, I think it's her birthday today." The young woman answered with a smile. "And we really wanted to surprise her."

She really has grown,...

"My name is Alicia. I'm a college student from Spain." She introduced herself. Then, turning to her companions, she graciously gestured and introduced them, as well. "This is Mr. Petya."

"Bonjour!" The jolly Frenchman greeted.

"He's the owner of Roses And Vodka in France. And that's Ms. Natasha - "

"Solagne." The stubborn woman, who was still staring out of the window, corrected, enunciating the syllables in a low and clear voice.

"Solagne. Ms. Solagne." Alicia repeated cautiously. "Singer from Roses And Vodka, and Mr. Petya's wife."

"You can call me Sister Christina." The nun introduced herself. "It is an honor to finally meet you."

"Likewise." The poet, who was still feeling tensed and uncomfortable, answered.

"And this is Cagliostro!" Alicia tapped the bearded man's shoulder as she introduced him with a proud smile. "He's a popular artist from Italy."

But, of course, none of them had to introduce themselves in the first place. He has seen them all through (Y/N)'s memories.

And he knew that they would hate him thoroughly when they find out,...

Alicia clapped her hands, getting the attention of everyone. "Okay! So, why don't we liven things up by preparing dinner for everyone? I hope you don't mind us using the kitchen, Mr. V."

"Wait a second here! We - " Griffon began but he was cut off as Alicia went on with her pep talk.

"Mr. Petya, you can do the drinks, right?"

"Naturally!" Petya proudly declared as he took out a bottle of Vodka from his huge shopping bag. "I didn't come all the way from France unprepared."

"And Sister Christina, you can help me with meals, right? I mean, if it's not too much for you."

"Of course,..." The nun answered, still a bit hesitant, as she glanced at V's direction.

"And Cagliostro, you do the - "

"I can do anything for dear (Y/N)." The Italian interjected. It seemed that he was just as nervous as V was. And who could really blame him? "I just wanted to know where she is and when she'll be back."

"She will be back, I know!" Alicia exclaimed, not letting anyone, or anything, suck out the optimism in her. "I mean, she always keeps her promises."

"But, didn't she stop seeing us a year ago? If she really wanted to see us, then - "

"I know. I only want us to meet again and - "

"I'm afraid to say that,"

All of the guests, even Natasha, turned towards V when he suddenly spoke, looking at them with a strange expression on his face as he leaned on his metal cane.

" ... your efforts,... would only be wasted."

There was a momentary silence between them after hearing those words that seemed to have fallen right before them like a bomb, and when V didn't make any move to take back what he said or simply wave it off as a crude and tasteless joke, Alicia stepped forward and tried to break through the tense atmosphere.

"I know I made a mistake back then when I pushed her away but," she began, feeling her eyes already beginning to burn. " ... I want to make up for it! I want to apologize for what I did. I want to fix everything between us!" She took a sharp breath as the tears finally poured out of her eyes. "Please, allow us to do this for her, Mr. V."

V stepped closer and regarded her coldly, hoping for her to just give up, drop everything, and leave. He felt really rude for doing so but, he really had no other choice. Their efforts,... would truly be wasted.

"You don't understand,... anything." V told her, his voice not faltering, his resolve as hard as stone. "Please, do not make this any harder for all of us."

"If we don't understand anything, then why won't you explain everything?!" Cagliostro, now losing his temper with the unknown, mysterious man, retorted.

"Okay, people! Let's not make this complicated, please?" Petya butted in just in time before Cagliostro could do anything. He turned to V and spoke, "Could you, please, just tell us when she'll be back? Then, we'll be on our way, I promise."

"Didn't ya understand what Shakespeare just said?!" Griffon, now truly annoyed with all the visitors, yelled. "She's gone! Bam! And we don't know when she'll be back!"

After hearing the familiar's words, Cagliostro looked like he was just hit by someone really hard, Petya and Alicia both looked shocked and worried, and Natasha, who honestly did not understand any word that has been exchanged but could understand the situation, anyway, only gave them a sideways glance.

"What do you mean by that?" Petya asked, still unable to believe those words. "I mean, she can't be - "

"She can't be dead, right?!" Alicia questioned as she went closer to V, wanting to grab the man by the collar and shake him.

The poet looked down at her and stood his ground. "She's not,... dead. I assure you."

"What did you do to her?" Everyone, including Natasha, herself, turned towards the painter as he dangerously went closer towards V, making Griffon and Petya come forward to grab each man should a fight start between them. "TELL ME! WHAT DID YOU DO?!"

And V? He just didn't see any more reason to keep the truth from them any longer.

With a deep sigh and a tilt of the head as he tried to keep himself calm, he said, "I hurt her."

Sister Christina turned away, feeling hurt at what V just told them. She knew all of (Y/N)'s sacrifices for ten years just to find him. She witnessed her efforts, and saw her deep longing.

And to hear that painful truth from the man she loved,...

She really felt that this visit was a huge mistake.

Before anyone could stop him, Cagliostro tackled V and grabbed him by the collar. Despite Griffon, Petya, and Alicia's efforts to stop him and break them free, the painter just couldn't be stopped. V did not even do anything, nor lift a single finger, to stop the man from assaulting him.

He deserved it, anyway. And more.

"TU!" Cagliostro screamed at V's face. "Come ti permetti di mostrare la tua faccia qui dopo quello che le hai fatto?! Vuoi sapere che e successo?! E sparita?! Per causa tua, perché l'hai ferita, a tal punto che ha deciso di andarsene, e Dio solo sa dov'è ora! Ho voglia di tirarti un pugno, ho davvero tanta voglia di picchiarti, ma non meriti nemmeno un dito!" He let go of the poet's now ripped collar, pushing him as he did so. 

However, Cagliostro was far from done with him.

Trembling and pointing angrily at him as tears started pouring out, he said, "Perché mi comporto così? Perché lei ti ama, ma allo stesso tempo io amo lei e persino sapendo che questo mi fa male ho voluto che lei fosse felice con te, ma ora lei e sparita! Per colpa tua!"

Before the hurt and angry painter could utter any more words, a hand forcefully went down his shoulder and actually turned him around. It was the Russian singer, herself.

"Хватит, голубчик." Natasha told him. Seeing that Cagliostro was utterly confused of what she just said, she spoke once more in broken English, "That is enough!"

Cagliostro's eyes widened as he shook her hand off his shoulder, making Petya angrily scream something incomprehensible at him as he automatically went to his wife's side. "Zitto!" He screamed at the woman. "Tu non sei nemmeno in grado di capire come si sente lei adesso, perché te pensi solo a te stesso!"

Natasha, who only rolled her eyes at the painter's display of awful temper, muttered something under her breath and faced V. "Правду говоря," She began. "ты заслужил всё, что случилось. Теперь тебе надо столкнуться с последствиями того что ты наделал. Давай, Петя, пойдём." She turned to Petya and gestured at their belongings on the floor. "This is,... a waste of my time. Let's go, Petya."

And with a haughty toss of her regal head, Natasha finally left the unit, followed by her husband Petya, who only gave them an apologetic look. Cagliostro, who finally calmed down, but was still mad at V for what happened to (Y/N), followed a few moments later, dragging along the shopping bags but leaving behind his still wrapped present for her.

Which left only Alicia and Sister Christina behind.

"So," Griffon began a few awkward seconds later. " ... if ya wanna say somethin' else, then do it now."

"That is not our intention." The nun retorted as she regarded the familiar with pity. "We only came for our precious friend. And we apologize for what happened."

"Don't." V told her as he shook his head. "You have nothing to apologize for. You didn't do,... anything wrong."

With a crestfallen heart, Alicia took her present from the table and gave it to V. The confused poet looked at it, then spoke, "You don't understand. I - "

"Open it, Mr. V." Alicia requested as she took a deep breath and braced herself. "Please."

Feeling wretched for hurting (Y/N)'s friends and for being callous and cold with their feelings, he obliged, unwrapping the gift and revealing what's inside the box.

And with a heavy and aching heart, he took out the embroidery and realized what it was.

It was what Alicia's mother was doing before her death.

And now, he could finally see the painstakingly embroidered words, etched with care and love.

"El amor es paciente, el amor es amable. No envidia, no alardea, no es orgulloso. No deshonra a otros, no es egoísta, no se enfurece con facilidad, no guarda registro de errores pasados. El amor no se deleita con el mal, al contrario, se alegra con la verdad."

"Love is patient, love is kind." Sister Christina translated for V. "It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. It does not dishonor others, it is not self - seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs. Truly,... a magnificent verse."

"This," V stuttered, looking at the women as his eyes started to burn with the tears he has been holding for what seemed like weeks. " ... is the most beautiful poem,... I've ever heard."

"It is." Sister Christina replied. "It has brought the strongest of men down to their knees, and made the proudest of women weep. It is the most powerful poem in existence, and yet, its meaning is easily forgotten by many."

"I finished it, since my mother wasn't able to do it." Alicia confessed. "She died,... just before completing it. And I still have regrets of pushing (Y/N) away that day. I just,... couldn't accept the things that happened to my family, and I made the mistake of taking it out on her. I want to say sorry. I want to see her again! She's,... the sweetest friend I have, and I pushed her away." She looked up at V, then went on, "Mr. V, I know you feel the same way. And I know that you'll be able to atone for your own sins and find her. And when you do, will you, please, give this to her?"

V glanced at the work of art on his hand, then to the precious friend who made it. He nodded and clutched the thing close to his heart. "I will. I promise. I just don't know if,... she'll ever forgive me for what I have done."

"She will." The nun gently told him as she placed a hand on his in an effort to comfort him. "It's what true love means. Forgiving one another and making a fresh start, learning from the mistakes of the past and looking forward to a brand new future."

"I'm afraid." V admitted, confessing to the nun and letting out all his fears. "What if I hurt her again? I don't want,... to hurt her anymore."

"You won't, Mr. V." Alicia answered. "I believe in you."

"And you must learn to forgive yourself." The nun added. "It is never too late to try again after failing for the first time."

"But, I don't even know how to find her. It was like,... she's disappeared off the face of the planet,... and - "

The nun tightened her grip on V's hands as she looked at him more closely. "You're wrong about that, dear. Think as if you're her. Where would you go if you needed someone to talk to? If you needed a reliable shoulder to lean on?"

"But, she's not with Dante, or - "

The poet stopped talking as some idea formed in his mind.

Could it be,... ?

"Hey, ah, V, you okay?" Griffon asked as he waved a hand before the poet's face.

"Why, yes." V answered. "I'm perfectly well. In fact,..."

Sister Christina smiled as she saw how the realization finally hit V. She let go of his hands and took her own present from her shoulder bag. And unlike Alicia's, or Cagliostro's, or the couple's, Sister Christina's was unwrapped.

It was a pink hoodie that she made, herself.

She carefully handed it to V and let the poet's hands feel the warmth and softness of the material.

"And I trust you will give my present, as well."

V looked up from the gifts and faced the women who gave him hope. Who made him realize how wrong he was of everything.

Who gave him an idea where (Y/N) could be.

"I don't know how to thank you." He told them with much unbridled emotion in his hoarse voice.

The women smiled at him.

"You don't have to." Alicia told him. "Just find her and let us know when you do."

"By then," Sister Christina added. "We could finally have a proper birthday celebration for her. And we'd invite everyone!"

And with final words of encouragement, the women finally left, leaving behind a ray of hope that enlightened V's heart and gave him enough motivation to give it one last shot of finding (Y/N).

***

🖤 A special thanks to @vergils-daughter for the Russian translations, to @beyond-the-mirror for Spanish, and to Daarxen for Italian. 🖤

Let's do this again, shall we? 🖤🖤🖤

🖤 @la-vita , @lessy86 , @gothghoulfrend , @ceruleanworld , @ehrzeth , @diabeticsugarush , @heaven-on-a-landslide , @shadowrosess , and @krazy06 . 🖤

***

"She's in France right now! She hasn't left that place since the citywide evacuation."

"Where exactly in France,... if this fool may ask?"

"Uhh,... hold yer panties,... Ah! Corsair Island, I think?"

" ... Corsair?"

"Wait, that's not the one. Oh! I know! Corsica! Corsica Island!"

"I see."

"Why did ya ask?"

"No particular reason."

"O,... kay? Well, gotta go! Kyrie's callin' me for dinner."

"Thank you,... for everything, Nico."

"Nah, don't mention it."

"And one more thing."

"What?"

"Could you,... take care of this unit while I'm gone?"

"Gotcha! Wait,... WHAT?! Hey, man - !"

V hung the phone and glanced at his familiars.

What Cassandra has shown him, it was real! Him going to Fortuna and giving the Yamato back to Nero,....

Because of it, he received the plane ticket to Corsica Island from Kyrie! And that's where they were! And nobody even guessed it! (Y/N)'s there, all along!

"Are ya sure of this, V?" Griffon asked him. "Are ya sure ya wanna do this alone? I mean, you could be there in the blink of an eye with Andromeda's help,..."

"I know." V answered. "But, I don't want to use any kind if power to reach her. I want to do it,... with my own effort."

"Okay! Whatever ya say, Shakespeare."

Shadow, who was still clutching at her Elmo plushie, went forward and threw herself at V like a child who doesn't want her father to leave.

V hugged her and whispered, "Don't worry. I'll be fine. I'll bring her back, I promise."

I,... promise,...

***

🖤🖤🖤

***