The empty office provides the perfect escape from the clamour of voices in his small home. Besides, Devil May Cry, Dante's home… both have a new significance now he knows Dante is his uncle. Like the photo, Dante keeps on his desk, the picture of his mother—Nero's grandmother. There doesn't seem to be much resemblance to her sons… save some mischief in her eyes that eerily echo Dante's own.

Greedy eyes take in everything that seemed unimportant before. The fact that Dante's music collection featured several tracks from Nero's own (and a few he was planning to try.) The absence of scented cleaners or cheap air fresheners, purely chemical odours to demonic noses. Dante's books aren't too a shared taste… but it's amusing to see pages marked with the signs of frequent use. Just like V—Vergil's book. Seems both the brothers were fans reading… though even newly acquainted with his father, Nero was fairly sure he could imagine the man's horror at the sight of cracked spines and beer-stained pages. Having spent a lonely childhood in the library to overheard Kyrie's singing practise, the sight sort of annoys him too. The discarded books, propped permanently open, are swiftly gathered and returned to tables and shelves in neat arrangements. The organisation of the permanent chaos makes Dante's absence more real… but maybe it would help avoid a brotherly fight in the future.

The world seems full of ghosts, strangers who he should know but doesn't. But, because they shouldn't be strangers, he remains. Puts on one of Dante's records, curls up with Vergil's book. The inscription on the back cover, just a name… so much like the orphans, laying their claim on rooms in Nero's home, or the way Red Queen and Blue Rose were custom jobs… a way to say, this is my mark, this is mine. To have some claim on the world. Some innocent desire to leave a mark.

Maybe it was the circumstances of how they met but it was hard to imagine Vergil, the man who had made Urizen—who had that demon as part of his soul—wanting so little. That just a book was enough to make him happy. But V was selfless too, staying to save lives. And Vergil was his own beast, willing to fight Dante to the death for a petty feud… and able to thank Nero, someone who meant nothing to him in the same breath that he renewed his feud.

The man was complicated at best. But even Dante had his secrets… had his hidden sorrows beneath his carefree attitude. And that was what had lead Nero here, creeping around Dante's layer in the dark. Because, even after five years, he knew nothing about his living blood relatives.

The music washes over him, the echo of Kyrie's voice explaining the poem on this page ghosts through his brain. Oddly, there's a sense of peace in an empty shop, a feeling of belonging. Nero reads long into the night… and dozes off surrounded by the relics of his relatives.

The slow sound of a turning page wakes him. Bleary eyes blink, fumbling absently for Vergil's book. Something heavy slides down his shoulders, sending a shiver racing across his flesh. Demonic reactions ensure he grabs it before it hits the floor. Nero blinks at the coat, soft and warm… the light flickering through Dante's dirty window catches the blue decals on the black sea.

His searching hands stop.

Settled in the chair, pale flesh gleaming like the moon despite the fluorescent lights, is Vergil.

Without glancing up but inclining his book, Vergil speaks, "Thank you, Nero."

And there they are, the first words he ever heard from this man, his father, and now he's thanked him twice.

"Did you think I would burn it?" Pulling the loaned coat back into position, Nero regards this man, this stranger.

"It would have been your right… but… no, I believed my book was safe enough. It's why I chose to leave it." At this, the older man glances up, "I suspect you wouldn't have believed a promise to return. The book was important to me. You would believe I'd come back for it."

"And not for a rematch?"

At this, his father laughs. Slow and halting, the sound of someone weighing each word and action, but still laughter, "Oh, I'll have my fight with you. You'll learn what my power is when Dante hasn't dulled my blade. But not tonight. It seems a poor way to show gratitude."

Nero blinks. Stares at the man he hardly knows and wonders if these words are something he would really say. If he would really be happy to let something other than his blade do the talking. If he would actually care. Maybe this is some echo of V, an illusion of how he wants this man to be. V, who had been open and honest even with a virtual stranger. V, who had treated him like family. So different to Vergil, who had seen him as just another path to defeating Dante.

Maybe any kindness he saw here was just an illusion. His own mind putting more warmth into a cold man because he wanted to see it. But Vergil was silent, staring at him, waiting for some reply. In this moment, the man seemed infinitely patient, almost frozen, as if only Nero could free him to continue on with his life. As if he were part of a dream and Nero was controlling the action. Even if he can see Vergil, feel the weight of that jacket.

The weight of the moment is too much, Nero swallows heavily, "Are you really here?"

Vergil starts as if surprised. Looks at him more closely. Closes the book without looking and rises in a single, fluid motion. His hand hovers over Nero's arm, thinks better of it, and comes to rest on a shoulder instead. He squeezes, hard enough to hurt. The relief is a surprise.

"How did you get back?"

At this, his father—the man who should have been his father—seems to find his own nails a great deal more interesting. Enough that he decides to subject them to careful study. He clears his throat, "Yamato has the power to open and close doorways between Hell and this world. Our return was virtually assured."

"What?" The confession stings; brings back weeks of hopelessness and fruitless searches of each site of demon activity.

"There was a small chance of our failure. That we would go too deep or be captured. It seemed an unfair burden to leave behind. And the risk of you following was too great. Dante would never have allowed it." Finally, Vergil looks up, "I too would prefer you never knew that place. Its true horrors run deep."

There is something in those eyes, something in the way the fire in them dulls and darkens. Nero shudders. He's hunted demons for years, worshipped one his entire life, and the look in those eyes, like empty glass, haunts him.

His tongue is heavy when he speaks next, "I heard Dante killed you once."

"Hmm. That's somewhat true. Though Dante, as always, failed to give the job his all." Somehow the older man can smirk as he speaks. The eyes are still empty though, "I was almost dead already at that time. Living, for myself, under my own will… it has been some time since I did that. When you and I met… That was the first time I have been myself in decades."

"How long? Really."

Slow fingers comb through slicked-back hair, those frozen eyes close, releasing Nero from them spell. Vergil hums thoughtfully for a moment, "A little longer than you've been alive."

The ice running up Nero's spine finally shatters. He stares at this man, all his dark secrets, and swallows.

"You would have been a kid."

"Not quite." Vergil glances at that right arm, now human and once anything but, "How old were you when that awakened?"

Nero frowns, both at Vergil's attentions and the implications. Still, he can share, "I'd only just started training to be a knight."

The other hums thoughtfully, "The lives of those who belong to two worlds are rarely peaceful."

Once again Nero thinks back to the broken playground in Redgrave, V's words. Slowly, he nods, "Yeah."

The silence of the night settles in. Nero shifts, curling back up across his sofa, enjoying the borrowed coat. Vergil stands a moment. Watches. Then turns slowly.

"I owe you an apology, Nero."

Forced to gaze at Vergil's retreating back, Nero wonders. Wonder if the sorry he will never hear is for the loss of his arm, the arrival of the devil bringer, the lifetime of demon attacks, the existence as a hunter, a life in the shadow of Sparda or that another part demon child grew up without a father. Maybe it was all of it. Perhaps it was something else entirely.

As Vergil settles in his chair once more, all Nero can think is how different the man seems from the one he faced before. Vergil, who had refused to abandon the fight even when he was exhausted, now sitting here not trying to fight at all. Cooperating even. Maybe this was some demon, wearing Vergil's face, using Vergil's memories. Or a trap. Maybe it was some fatal delusion, proof he hadn't made it through that last job unscathed.

Still, the man before him was real. And he hadn't tried to kill him yet. If anything, somehow, he seemed entirely human. Something that seemed to scare them both. Nero can feel those icy eyes peering at him, even as Vergil mimes the act of reading, pale fingers pushing against the leather spine. The younger hunter can't shake the sense that, if it were anyone else, their hands might be shaking.

Nero sighs; concedes. He has already forgone vengeance once to save his family. He can leave his grudges for another night.

"If you really want to apologise, try telling me your story, Old Man."

Vergil blinks, mouth slightly agape. Then he closes it. Hums. Laughs.

"Very well. But choose what you to know carefully. Tonight, I'll reward you for your victory. Tomorrow, you have to win your next answer. And you won't have Dante to serve as your warmup act."

Cracking his knuckles, the younger part devil grins, "Another chance to kick your ass? Sounds good to me. Though I should probably start offering a handicap on account of your advanced age."

A raised brow in reply, "How old do you believe I am?"

"Old enough that you have a grown-up son. And some very impressive grey hair." The smirk creeps up unbidden.

Vergil's laughter is still a surprise when it comes, "Ah yes. The Sparda family hair. Bringer of almost as much trouble as the demon blood itself. Especially in Fortuna."

"So, you admit you've been? And not just when you stole my arm?"

"Yes. I spent some time on that island. A lifetime ago. Quite literally—if we're using yours as the comparison."

The younger man pauses, tilts his head, "Then I think this will be my prize for winning. You tell me what drove you to Fortuna. Hoping they'd worship you in place of your father?"

"Nothing so uninspiring. I wanted power. I wanted to be the strongest. But under my own merit, not Sparda's borrowed banner." The fire in Vergil's eyes might be hatred, "Fortuna was a steppingstone to my ambitions. Though their religion is misguided, the information The Order amassed can be useful to those with the right knowledge. And I needed knowledge to get power."

Nero slumps, half brushing Vergil's jacket to the floor. Weary eyes peer across the room, "Another attempt to bring the Underworld here?"

The older man stiffens, "I will not apologise for my path. Without strength, you cannot protect anything…" A sigh. The pages of that book flicked about and fanned like a nervous toy. A slight warmth to normally frozen eyes. Vergil sighs, "But I have had this conversation before, and I can see the outcome will not be different here. I do not regret trying to obtain power, but I will admit, in my haste and youth, I could have cared more for the cost. The suffering I caused. I know how it feels to be helpless and alone. I suspect I inflicted that fate on others, indirectly or not."

Nero blinks and for a moment Vergil is V, fragile and about to fall apart, stalked by nightmares and past regrets. Then the man straightens, and the impression is gone as if it had simply been a figment of Nero's imagination. Or, possibly, a rare crack in the armour, a picture of what the man before might have become, had tragedy not struck.

Nero stretches, prepared to mull the thought over, and pauses.

"Wait… did you kill Dante down in Hell? Because you're here and he's…"

"Out hunting for some back-end pizza supplier." Disdain drips from every word across Vergil's tongue, "Apparently, he was going to die without it. Personally, I suspect we'll be hearing from him soon enough. The authorities tend to frown upon blood-soaked men wandering around in the middle of the night."

"Speaking from personal experience, Father?"

"Yes. Note, however, that I had the courtesy to brave Dante's bathroom before I joined you here." There is a frown of a crease slowly developing in the space just above Vergil's eyes, "Dante, despite our parent's efforts, is little more than a clothed animal."

"Guess our family bonding will be sword fighting and picking my deadweight of an uncle up from prison then."

"Hmm." Again, the hum escapes Vergil's throat. One day, soon, Nero vows he'll figure out what it actually means.

But, tonight, he is simply happy to enjoy a moment with a man he should have known his whole life. The pain, the betrayal, the lack of trust, in the twilight darkness can all be ignored. He can enjoy one day with the father he never believed he'd meet… and at least Vergil seems as if he's trying.

As usual, I own nothing but the story. But the premise of Vergil leaving his book for Nero and all the possible implications of his parting words have long had me playing with ideas in this fandom. Dadgil week just gave me a great excuse to bring one to completion.