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Chapter Text

The scarf had been Kyrie's idea—a deep, rich shade of blue, crafted from soft, warm wool that she had  insisted he wear as he prepared to leave. As she wrapped it around his neck, her fingers lingered longer than necessary, tracing the fabric as if weaving together their shared memories. Now, as he stood in the chilled November evening, the scarf caught the sharp wind, whipping against his face like an old friend reminding him of her presence. Nero's gaze was fixed skyward, absorbing the electric buzz of the flickering red neon sign above him, its glow casting an eerie light on the empty street. The final three words of the sign had fizzled out, leaving only "DEVIL MAY" shimmering in the darkness—no longer a mere business name, but a haunting echo of a bittersweet promise unfulfilled.

Nero flexed his right hand in its leather glove, the demon arm beneath humming with familiar warmth even in the biting cold. The job that had brought him here wasn't exactly urgent – some Fortunian merchant looking to get a hold of one of Dante's devil arms showing up in the city. Usually, Nero would have told the man to piss off on the spot at such a request, but something about the concerned hilt in Kyrie’s voice, worn from the past few hours over the phone with Lady, made him think twice. Dante had been hitting the bottle hard.

The news settled uneasily in his gut. Dante had always been... well, Dante—a whirlwind of laughter and carefree antics that seemed to dance just on the edge of recklessness. He treated life's absurdities like a joke, with nothing but pizza as his visible indulgences, his only apparent weaknesses. Sure, Nero had witnessed him raise a drink now and then—who among their circle hadn’t? But to think Dante might lose control? The same man who had faced down the legendary Savior, that infuriatingly confident smirk plastered on his face, was the one who had handed over Yamato to him with an ease that suggested he viewed such monumental stakes as merely another game.

 Nero couldn't shake the memories that echoed from the dark recesses of the orphanage he had called home up until his adoption. He had spent countless hours observing the holy men drown their so-called "divine sorrows" in sacramental wine, a ritual that left stark impressions on his young mind.  The orphanage's strict routine, the endless prayers, the constant surveillance - all of it designed to keep them in line, keep them from facing whatever demons were really haunting them. Hell, half those self-righteous bastards ended up being actual demons in the end. Maybe that's what pissed him off the most about this. Dante was supposed to be different. The man had walked into his life, turned everything he'd been taught upside down, showed him that power - real power - came from facing your shit head-on, not hiding from it. And now here he was, doing the same damn thing as every other adult who'd ever let Nero down.

 The thought stung him more than it should. Nero wasn't some kid anymore, desperate for daddy to come home.  He had Kyrie by his side, a partner who believed in him, and he was forging his own path, striving to establish his own business. But still... the white hair, the constant reminder of his arm, the way Dante looked at him sometimes like he was seeing a ghost. The careful distance he kept , checking in just often enough to make Nero wonder. Just distant enough to make him doubt. If Dante was his father - and hell, that was a big if - then he had some fucking nerve, drowning whatever guilt or secrets he was carrying instead of manning up and saying something. And if he wasn't... well, that just meant Nero was standing here in the cold like an idiot, worried about another person who wasn't his to worry about.

Still, Nero couldn’t help but waver at that.

Through the frosted windows, he could see Dante's boots propped up on his desk, the man himself apparently dozing with a magazine spread across his face.  He allowed the door creaked open with deliberate slowness - no point trying to sneak up on someone who could probably hear a pin drop in the middle of a demon raid.

Cold air swept in with Nero, stirring loose papers across the floor and ruffling the edges of the magazine on Dante's face. His eyes swept the office, taking inventory. Empty bottles weren't hard to find - they were everywhere, scattered across the desk, lined up along the windowsill like trophies. Some labels he recognized from the top-shelf stuff at Fortuna's more "sophisticated" distilleries. Others... well, they looked like the kind of thing that could strip paint. A half-empty bottle of something that looked expensive sat within arm's reach of Dante's propped-up boots, probably whatever finally knocked him out. The sight made something twist in Nero's gut. He'd seen Dante take sword wounds that would kill a normal man and laugh them off. Whatever this was about, it had to be bad enough to make him want to feel something - or maybe nothing.

"You know," Nero said, letting the door slam behind him, "for someone who runs a business, you sure spend a lot of time pretending to be unconscious."

The magazine didn't move. Neither did Dante, though the corner of his mouth twitched slightly, voice surprisingly without a telltale slurred hitch. "And for someone raised in a church, kid, you sure haven't learned much about respecting your elders' beauty sleep."

"Right. Because that's definitely what this is." Nero crossed to the desk, boots leaving wet prints on the wooden floor. He reached out with his devil bringer, now exposed after removing his glove, and flicked the magazine off Dante's face. "Got a job you might be interested in. Unless you're too busy with your... what is this?" He squinted at the magazine's cover. "Interior decorating tips?"

That got Dante to crack open one eye, his expression caught between amusement and mock offense.  “ Trish’s.  Besides,” he swung his feet in one fluid motion, “ "last I checked, you weren't exactly my secretary. What brings Fortuna's finest all the way out here, eh?"

"Got a merchant back home making noise about wanting a Behemoth devil arm. Says he wanted to try and pawn it off you.” He leaned against the desk, studying Dante's face for any reaction. "Figured I'd save myself the trouble and ask you directly."

"Smart kid." Dante stretched, chair creaking as he finally sat up properly. "Though you could've just called. Unless..." His eyes flickered to the window, where the snow was coming down harder now. "Aw, you missed my company that much ?"

"Tch. Yeah, that's exactly it. Been cryin’ myself to sleep without your stupid jokes," Nero shot back, though his devil bringer betrayed him with a brighter pulse.

"Hey, my jokes are top-quality entertainment." Dante got up, wandering to the window where the rest of Slum Avenue had practically vanished under white. He turned back, crossing his arms. "That storm's getting nasty out there. Got some space if you want it. Unless you plan to play tough guy in weather that'd make a frost demon think twice."

"I can handle it," Nero started, but even he could hear how stubborn it sounded. Great. Now he had Kyrie's voice in his head, giving him that look she always did when he was being an idiot.

"Sure you can." Dante was already heading for the stairs, waving a dismissive hand. "But why bother when there's a perfectly good takeout place that delivers in this weather?"

Nero rolled his eyes. "Seriously?”

"Hey, show some respect." Dante turned, pointing at him with mock severity. "What, they don't have decent pizza in Fortuna? All that fancy cooking wearin’ you down?"

"Kyrie's cooking is actually good," Nero fired back, but he was already shrugging off his coat. "Unlike whatever grease-soaked cardboard you're about to order."

"Oh-ho! Big words from someone who's never tried Antonio's supreme special." Dante was already reaching for the phone. "Trust me, kid. One bite, and you'll be making that trip here way more often."

"Whatever..." Nero muttered, dropping into one of the worn leather chairs.

Dante’s grin widened. He was already dialing, the numbers worn into muscle memory.

"Antonio! Yeah, it's me. The usual. Make it double." He paused, glancing at Nero. "And put some extra mozzarella on, would ya?" Dante hung up, spinning the phone on his finger before tossing it back on the desk.

"So about that merchant," Dante said finally, his tone casual but eyes sharp. "You gotta a name?"

"Marcus something. Real piece of work. Kept going on about his 'rare collection.'" Nero's lip curled. "Got shifty when I asked for details though."

"Marcus." Dante's expression darkened for a split second before smoothing over. "Wouldn't happen to have a scar running down his left cheek, would he? Talks like he's doing you a favor just by breathing the same air?"

"That's him." Nero straightened, catching the edge in Dante's voice. "You know him?"

"Let's just say we've had some fallings out about his business practices." Dante drummed his fingers on the desk. "He's got a bad habit of selling things that don't belong to him. Or shouldn't belong to anyone."

"Great." Nero ran a hand through his hair. "So I just wasted the last of my gig’s pay up for nothin’."

"Hey now," Dante's grin returned, though there was something teasing. "I wouldn't say that. After all, I get to see my favorite kid in the world not trying to pummel me into the ground for once.”

The casual words hit  Nero like a physical blow, stirring up all those questions he kept buried . "Don't." The word came out rough. "Don't do that."

"Do what?" But there was something in Dante's voice, a careful neutrality that made it worse somehow.

"That." Nero gestured sharply between them. "Acting like... like..." He couldn't even say it. Didn't want to voice the possibility that had been haunting him since their first fight. "Just tell me about how Lady. Is she still hunting that group in-“

"Up near Capulet ? Yeah." Dante accepted the abrupt subject change with unusual grace, though his eyes lingered on Nero's face a moment longer. "Got word from her yesterday. Seems the information was good - whole nest of them set up in some abandoned factory."

Nero nodded, though he couldn’t quite meet the devil hunter’s gaze. Dante shifted beside him, before clearing his throat. “ You and Kyrie planning on settling down somewhere soon?”

Nero's hands clenched, the devil bringer's glow pulsing brighter for a moment. "What's the hell is that supposed to mean?"

"Just asking." Dante held up his hands, though there was something careful in his tone that made Nero's jaw clench. "Fortuna's still rebuilding, and with those kids that Kyrie has been volunteering to look after, so if you need a—"

"I don't." Nero snapped harsher than he intended.

The silence stretched, heavy with all the things neither of them would say. Nero's harsh tone seemed to echo in the office, making him feel like even more of an ass. He wasn't usually this defensive, but something about today – about Dante's careful questions, the empty bottles scattering drunken pain and knowing looks – had him constantly off-balance.

Finally, Dante sighed, running a hand through his hair. "Look, kid—"

Nero's voice was quieter now, but no less tense. "Dante, ju- just don’t go there…."

Another beat of silence. The doorbell rang as Dante pushed off from his desk. Both of them turned toward the sound. Through the frosted glass, a dark silhouette was visible against the swirling snow, hunched against the weather and carrying what was unmistakably three pizza boxes.

"Perfect timing." Dante moved to open the door, letting in a blast of cold air along with a snow-dusted delivery guy.  "Mr. Redgrave?" The new delivery guy squinted at a soggy receipt, clearly wanting to get this over with and return to somewhere warm.

"That's me," Dante said, quickly grabbing the stack. “ You new?”

"Yeah, second week." The delivery guy shivered, brushing snow from his shoulders. "You order a lot and put it on a tab, huh? Other guys mentioned your place."

"What can I say? It's a favorite." Dante handed over a generous tip, earning a surprised but grateful look. "Drive safe out there."

"Thanks man." The delivery guy hurried back into the storm, leaving them with the steaming boxes and the remnants of their awkward conversation.

Dante set the pizzas on his desk, flipping open the top box. The familiar smell of melted cheese filled the office.

“ Since when did you tip?” Nero scoffed. “Lady said you were up to your neck in debt again."

"Hey, kid's out there in a snowstorm. Besides," Dante grabbed a slice, cheese stretching as he lifted it, "Lady exaggerates. I'm only  in a bit of debt this time anyway."

"Right." Nero rolled his eyes but grabbed a slice anyway. The warmth was welcome after the cold seeping through the old building's walls. They just ate in silence for a moment – not entirely comfortable, but better than before.

Nero finished his first slice before speaking, trying to sound casual. "So... Redgrave, huh?"

There was a slight pause in Dante's chewing, barely noticeable if you weren't looking for it. When he spoke, his tone was deliberately light. "Just an old alias. Sticks around, you know how it is."

"Funny choice for a fake name," Nero pressed reaching for a second, watching Dante's face carefully.

"Yeah, well." Dante reached for another slice himself, his movements just a fraction too measured. "Beats going by Tony  again." The moment the words left his mouth, Dante's jaw tightened slightly – like he hadn't meant to let that slip.

Nero's eyes narrowed at the 'again.' He set down his half-eaten slice. "Tony , huh? Doesn't suit you."

"Dante gave a short laugh, but something was off. "Yeah? Could say the same about you and 'Nero.'" He took another bite, chewing slowly. "Sometimes names are just... complicated."Dante drawled, deliberately wiping his hands and standing up. He moved to his desk, making a show of stretching. "Look, kid, it's late, and that storm's not letting up. Couch is yours if you want it."

The sudden shift in the conversation was about as subtle as a brick crashing through a window, its bluntness piercing through the hazy comfort of their evening. The finality in Dante's tone left no room for interpretation—he had revealed all he intended to share for the night. Nero held his gaze for an extended moment, his jaw working as if struggling to find words that could breach the barrier Dante had formed between them. Finally, he let out a frustrated sigh and shook his head, conceding, "Yeah, fine." With a dismissive wave, he reached for another slice of pizza, the gooey cheese stretching reluctantly from the plate to his fingertips. He settled back into the couch, the worn cushions sinking around him. Sometimes, pushing Dante was like trying to punch fog – you just ended up swinging at nothing.

The devil hunter rose from his position and turned to the hallway. He paused at the bottom of the stairs, hand resting on the bannister. Without turning around, Dante said quietly, "Hey, kid..." His voice was almost gentle, different from his usual swagger. When he finally half-turned, the shadows couldn't quite hide how ancient his eyes looked, how heavy. For a moment, Nero saw past the cocky grins to something raw and familiar - that same haunted look he'd seen in his own reflection growing up, wondering who he was, where he came from. Then  Dante’s mask slipped back into place, his features hardening slightly, but his voice remained soft, almost tender. "Get some rest, Nero." The words hung in the air like unspent bullets in a chamber, a poor substitute for whatever deeper sentiment he had wanted to convey. 

Before Nero could find the right words to respond, Dante was already on the move, his tall frame ascending the staircase with purposeful strides, taking two steps at a time. The heavy thud of his boots resonated against the worn, creaking wood, each sound echoing in the stillness of the shop. The soft click of his bedroom door shutting reverberated through the office.  Nero remained seated in the dim glow of the room, the flickering  ceiling light casting shadows that danced across the walls. He felt a sense of weight settle over him, the pizza box—once warm and inviting—now lay forgotten on the table, an afterthought amidst the whirlwind of emotions. Somewhere upstairs, the floorboards creaked again under Dante's footsteps, a reminder of his presence even in the solitude of the night. 

The young devil hunter's gaze drifted once more to the bottles lining the shelf, but this time, he truly saw them—each one a reminder of buried memories. The realization washed over him like a cold wave, and suddenly he was transported back to being fourteen again. It was an afternoon that lingered in his mind with a heaviness he could never shake. He remembered bursting into the study , only to find Credo slumped over his desk, a chaotic scene of papers strewn around him like fallen leaves. A half-empty bottle of wine lay precariously tucked behind the ornate inkwell, the contents long gone and the evidence of his brother’s struggle stark in the dim light.

Credo had jolted awake at the touch of Nero’s hand—eyes wild, filled with panic and shame. "Please, don’t tell Kyrie," he had pleaded, his voice barely above a whisper. It was a desperate request, underscored by the frantic way he straightened his collar, fingers trembling as if he could iron out the shame that clung to him. Rather than expose the truth, he chose to help, guiding Credo to bed with a steadying hand, picking up the scattered papers and stowing the bottle away, all while vowing to keep the secret hidden. Just a week later, in a turn of fate that should have been celebrated, Credo was promoted to the prestigious rank of Supreme General. Nero never glimpsed another bottle in his brother’s study, and he had foolishly thought that perhaps it signaled a return to stability, a sign that everything would be alright.

The young devil hunter's hands clenched. He'd been so damn young, so fucking stupid - seeing the cracks but letting Credo convince him they weren't there. Playing along because it was easier than forcing his proud brother to admit he was drowning. By the time Nero was old enough to understand, it had been too late, and Sanctus' influence had intoxicated his brother. He'd failed Credo then. The least he could do was learn from it.

Yamato let out a soft hum, a low and resonant sound that seemed to reverberate through his devil bringer, the blade gleaming under the light. It was as if the sword, with its ancient power and mystique, knew something he didn’t. Hell, maybe it did. Seemed like everyone had secrets these days.

"So you must be the infamous Nero," a deep, rich voice resonated, slicing through the fog of Nero's groggy consciousness.

With a sudden jolt, Nero awoke, adrenaline coursing through him as he instinctively lunged for his beloved gun, Blue Rose, even before his eyes had fully adjusted to the dim light. The early morning sun crept into Devil May Cry, filtering through the dusty windows and illuminating particles of floating dust in the air, casting long, muted shadows across the room.

There, standing confidently by Dante's cluttered desk, was an older man, his presence commanding and somewhat enigmatic. He was dressed in a well-worn suit and a  striking crimson scarf adorned his neck, the vibrant color contrasting sharply with the muted tones of his attire. He held a fedora in his hand, tilting it slightly, giving Nero an appraising look that was equal parts shrewd and amused. It seemed this man, with his keen eyes and knowing smile, had already assessed him in a way that made Nero feel both scrutinized and oddly welcomed.

"Morrison," the man introduced himself, seemingly unfazed by Nero's defensive posture. "I'm something of a business associate of Dante's." He gestured with an unlit cigar. "Though I see he's still keeping up his stellar hosting habits – leaving guests to sleep on that sorry excuse for a couch."

Nero leaned back on the sofa  a hint of wariness still clinging to him, though his hand remained protectively close to the handle of Blue Rose. His voice was gravelly from sleep as he studied Morrison with a scrutinizing gaze . "Business associate, huh?"

Morrison chuckled lightly as he adjusted his hat, tilting it slightly to shield his eyes from the morning light. "Well, someone has to keep that wreck upstairs connected to paying jobs," he continued, his tone casual but underscored by a sharp wit. He paused momentarily, his fingers deftly fishing out a lighter from the pocket of his well-worn jacket, flicking it open with practised ease. "Speaking of which, where is our mutual friend, anyway?"

Nero let out a soft grunt, his brow furrowing momentarily in thought. "Probably still passed out," he replied, a hint of exasperation seeping into his words. He finally allowed his guard to drop, running a hand through his tousled hair, which only added to his dishevelled appearance. Despite the lack of sleep etched across his features, Morrison’s presence felt trustworthy, almost forthright, as if the man carried an air of legitimacy that almost put him at ease.

Morrison took a long draw from his cigar, then exhaled with a knowing smile. The older man moved to lean against Dante's desk, his expression turning thoughtful. "You know, you're the first person he's let crash here in... must be years now. Usually sends 'em packing with some smart remark or another."

Nero shifted uncomfortably on the worn couch, trying to work out a persistent kink in his neck from the awkward sleeping position he had succumbed to the night before. His mind was still hazy with remnants of sleep, but that last comment had jolted his attention. "Yeah, well," he deflected, trying to mask his discomfort with a casual tone, "He’s probably too lazy and dumb to kick me out."

Morrison, sitting across from him, chuckled softly but with an understanding glint in his eye. "Son, I’ve seen Dante kick demons through walls with less effort than it takes most folks to sneeze." He took a moment to tap the ash from his cigar onto the floor, the embers glowing momentarily before fading away. Upstairs remained suspiciously quiet – either Dante was still asleep or deliberately avoiding this particular morning meeting.

"How long have you known him?" Nero asked, trying to sound casual as he stretched his shoulders. "Dante, I mean."

Morrison took a thoughtful drag of his cigar. "Long enough to know most of his habits, though not as far back as you might think. Heard plenty of stories about his early days, though - back when he was running around as Tony."

That made Nero pause mid-stretch at the mention of the alias. "Tony?"

Morrison gave him a measuring look. "Not my story to tell, kid. But if you're curious about those days, might wanna ask  Enzo Ferino. Used to be Dante's broker back then."

"Enzo?" Nero frowned. "Never heard of him."

"Short guy, talks big, probably still owes money to half the bars in town," Morrison chuckled. "Last I heard, he was running some pawn shop business down by the docks. I can give you the address, though fair warning though,  he'll talk your ear off if you let him, and half of what he says is probably exaggerated."

"Morrison," Dante's voice carried down, following by the man himself, "you're here early. The sun's barely up."

"Early bird gets the paying customer," Morrison replied smoothly, turning away from their previous conversation with practiced ease. "And speaking of payment, you still owe me for that tip about the harbor job."

Nero watched Dante descend the stairs, trying to gauge if he'd overheard any of their discussion about Tony. The older hunter's face gave nothing away - either he hadn't heard, or he was choosing to act like he hadn't. With Dante, it could be either. "Put it on my tab," Dante waved dismissively, though there was an undercurrent of warmth in his voice when he addressed Morrison.

"Your tab's getting longer than your coat," Morrison retorted, but his eyes crinkled with amusement. "Lucky for you, I've got something that might help clear some of that debt. Assuming you are up for some light morning exercise?”

"Since when do you call anything 'light' exercise?" Dante moved past them both to drop into his chair, boots landing on his desk with practiced ease. "Last time you said that, I ended up dealing with a nest of Furies in a meat locker."

"This one's different," Morrison assured, reaching into his pocket and pulling out what looked like a business card. He set it on the desk near Nero, though his eyes stayed on Dante. "Got a call about some disturbances down in the industrial district. Though..." He made a show of checking his watch. "Might be nothing. Probably worth checking out anyway, if you're interested."

Nero glanced at the card - an address was scrawled on the back in Morrison's neat handwriting. Not just any address - one down by the docks. He pocketed it without comment, catching Morrison's barely perceptible nod.

Dante pushed away from his desk with a lazy stretch, heading back toward the stairs. "Don't wait on breakfast for me, kid."

"Wasn't planning to," Nero shot back, but Dante was already halfway up, offering only a backward wave in response.

Morrison adjusted his hat, a knowing look in his eyes. "Well, I should get going. Lemme know what you find out there."

"Yeah," Nero said, voice low.

He caught that look, the careful way Morrison was watching him instead of Dante's retreating back. Like maybe he wasn't the only one who'd noticed something off. The older man had known Dante way longer than Nero had - probably seen this song and dance before.

"Does he…“his words trailed off uncertainly.

Morrison paused at the door, hand on the frame. "Get some breakfast, kid," he said finally. "You're gonna need it."

The door shut behind him, leaving Nero alone with the empty bottles and the weight of everything unsaid.

Chapter Text

"A pawn shop business" turned out to be a generous description. Nero found himself staring at a dingy building wedged between two warehouses, its violet neon sign flickering weakly in the mid-morning gloom. The snow had lightened to a flurry and through the grimy windows, he could make out cluttered shelves of what looked like salvaged demon parts mixed with everyday junk.

The bell above the door jangled as he stepped inside. Behind a glass counter, a short, heavyset man was arguing with someone over the phone about what sounded like betting odds. "Look, you meathead, I'm telling you that's the best price you're gonna- eh?" He finally noticed Nero and did a double-take, nearly dropping his phone. "Hold on... holy shit. You're here about that, aren’t you ?"

Nero raised an eyebrow, toying with Kyrie’s scarf. "Depends who's talking."

"Ha!" Enzo slammed the phone down, whatever argument he'd been having clearly finished. His eyes narrowed at Nero, recognition flickering before being carefully masked. "You're here about the Lucentio job?"

"Actually," Nero kept his voice deliberately casual even as he caught the way Enzo's hand twitched toward something under the counter, "I'm here about Tony."

The name hit like a physical force. Enzo's eyebrows shot up, then he barked out a laugh that dissolved into a wheezing cough that spoke of too many cigars and not enough regret. "Tony? Tony Redgrave?" He wheezed again, but his eyes were sharp now, calculating. "Hell's bells, there's a ghost from the past.” He shuffled out from behind the counter, every movement of the 'harmless old man' act carefully choreographed as he sized Nero up. His next words carried the weight of old memories. "Damn. You Tony… I mean Dante’s li’ tyke or somethin’?”

The question hit a nerve that Nero didn't want to examine too closely. He kept his face carefully blank, even as his right arm tingled beneath its glove. "Just looking into some old stories," he said, voice deliberately casual. "Seems like the old man's got quite a few of those lying around."

Enzo's eyes narrowed, that calculating look sharpening as they lingered on Nero's hand Something knowing crept into his expression, but his voice stayed deliberately light. "Stories? Kid, that man's got enough stories to fill a library of bullshit." He shuffled back behind the counter, pulling out a bottle and two glasses with practiced ease. "Thing is, the craziest ones? Usually turned out true."

The phone's sharp ring cut through their conversation. Enzo reached over with a grunt, still keeping one eye on Nero. "Yeah? ...Right, right. No, that's not- Look, I said I'd handle it, didn't I?" His expression soured as he listened. "Tonight? Yeah, fine. I'll be there."

He hung up with more force than necessary, muttering something under his breath that sounded distinctly uncomplimentary. Then, as if struck by a thought, he turned back to Nero. "Tell you what - why don't we continue this over lunch? Got some clients to handle tonight, but I'm free around one. Somewhere quieter than this dump." He gave Nero's gloved hand another pointed look. "Gotta feeling there's more you want to know, and more I should probably tell you."

"Yeah?" Nero kept his tone neutral, but his fingers flexed unconsciously in the glove. "And what makes you think I've got time for lunch dates?"

"Because you're here, aren't you?" Enzo's smirk widened as he poured himself another drink.

Nero's jaw tightened. He hadn't mentioned Morrison or the docks, and from the satisfied glint in Enzo's eyes, that reaction was exactly what the old informant had been fishing for. "Got a place in mind?" Nero finally asked, not bothering to hide his reluctance. The sooner he got this over with, the better.

"There's a diner few blocks down. Can't miss it - got one of those tacky neon signs." Enzo set his glass down, satisfied as he began to scrawl down the address. "Meet me there at one. And kid?" His expression turned shrewd as he handed to the younger man. "Might wanna  keep this little chat between us."

Something in his tone made Nero's Devil Breaker arm twitch again. There was more Enzo wasn't saying - a lot more - but pushing now would probably make the bastard clam up entirely. "Whatever," Nero muttered, already turning to leave. "One o'clock. Don't make me wait."

Snow drifted lazily from the steel-gray sky as Nero wandered back through the port, the minutes approaching the appointed hour—Nero’s boots left deep prints in the fresh powder, joining the maze of footprints from dock workers changing shifts. As he approached the diner, the neon sign illuminated the flurries in red and blue, reflecting off the snow-covered sidewalk. The winter storm had chased most people indoors, leaving the streets eerily empty save for the occasional hurried figure bundled against the cold. Nero stamped the snow from his boots as warmth and the smell of coffee washed over him. His eyes quickly found Enzo sitting at the counter with a steaming cup before him, his coat still dusted with unmelted snowflakes. Without a word, Nero sat beside him, their tension apparent.

Enzo turned to him, a knowing glint in his eyes. Glad you made it, kid," he said, his gravelly voice low.

Nero hummed in acknowledgement, squinting up at the menu. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting harsh shadows across the worn laminate. "Might as well get something to eat while you talk," he said, flagging down the waitress. "Coffee. Black. And..." He paused, scanning the late-night offerings. "Whatever passes for edible here."

Enzo gave a dry chuckle, but it didn't reach his eyes. "The apple pie ain't bad. Marie's been making it the same way for twenty years."  

Nero turned to the waitress with a smile which didn’t quite reach his eyes. “ Just coffee.”

The broker frowned, but didn’t interrupt. He waited until the waitress had moved away before leaning in slightly, his voice dropping even lower. "You know, your old man used to come here too, back in the day. “

Nero's left-hand tightened into a fist. "Never said he was my dad."

"Kid, you're nearly the spitting image of Dante when he was younger," Enzo said, adjusting his grip around his cup with a knowing look. "Though he had better taste in fashion back then. And less of an attitude." He paused, reconsidering. "Well, maybe not less. Just different."

The waitress returned with Nero's coffee, steam rising in swirling spirals. Nero wrapped his fingers around the cup but didn't drink, choosing not to correct Enzo's assumption. Better to let him keep talking. "You gonna tell me what I came here to hear, or are you gonna  run your mouth all day?"

Enzo's expression hardened slightly at Nero's tone. "Right, right. Tony Redgrave." Enzo's fingers tapped against his cup. "Funny you should ask about that name specifically. That was your- that was Dante's alias back then before all that shit.” His eyes narrowed slightly. "How'd you even hear about that name? Most folks who knew him by that handle are either dead or..." He gestured vaguely with his free hand. "...wish they were."

“ Dante let it slip,” Nero said flatly, which wasn’t entirely a lie.

Enzo grunted, checking his watch with a grimace. "Makes sense, actually. It's about that time of year." He pulled out a battered pack of cigarettes, tapping one out before remembering where they were and shoving it back in his pocket. "Nell's anniversary is coming up. The gunsmith who made most of his pieces back then. She..." He trailed off, suddenly looking older. "Well, let's just say she was one of the good ones. Real artist with custom guns. Dante, he took it pretty hard when she died. Changed after that. Started using his real name more, stopped taking the smaller jobs."

"What happened to her?" Nero asked, watching Enzo's face carefully.

Enzo's expression darkened, and he glanced around the diner before lowering his voice. "Official story? Workshop explosion. Faulty gas line." He scoffed quietly. "But those of us who knew better... Let's just say when someone that connected to our line of work dies, it's rarely an accident. Especially not back then." He took another sip of his cooling coffee.

Nero frowned. “You're saying someone targeted her?"

"I'm not saying anything." Enzo's voice took on an edge. "Just that there were a lot of interested parties back then. Lot of people looking for ways to even the playing field against things that go bump in the night. And Nell..." He paused, choosing his words carefully. "Let's just say she had a gift for making things that could punch way above their weight class.."

He pulled out the cigarette pack again, this time just turning it over in his hands. "Tony was the last one to see her alive, far as anyone knows. Came by that morning to pick up an order. Few hours later..." He made a vague gesture. "Place went up like the fourth of July. They barely found enough to bury." The broker paused, his gaze somewhat hazed over by a distant memory. "That's why Dante started refusing human targets after that," Enzo added, almost to himself. "Used to take any job that paid, your old man. Demons, humans - didn't matter much to Tony Redgrave back then."

Nero nearly choked on his coffee. "Wait, what? Dante was a mercenary? Taking hits on humans?"

"Hey, keep your voice down," Enzo hissed, glancing around nervously. "And yeah, he was. Different times, kid. Though even then he had his rules - no women, no kids. But after Nell..." He shook his head. "Something in him changed. Started turning down any job that wasn't strictly demon-related. Said mixin’ humans and demon business only led to tragedy." Enzo paused, scratching his chin thoughtfully. "Though... word is there's someone new in the business. Young kid, supposed to be making some interesting modifications. Rock's kid, if the rumors are right." He snorted softly. "Small world, huh? Just hope she learned from the old guard's mistakes."

"Yeah," Nero said dryly, thinking of the amount of hours he’d spent failing to make repairs in the garage back home. "Real small world. I'll keep an eye out for any up-and-coming gunsmiths."

Enzo hummed in acknowledgement. The broker glanced around furtively before reaching into his jacket, producing a small silver flask. With practiced sleight of hand, he tipped a generous amount into his coffee. "You know," Enzo said, catching Nero's frown, "Tony wouldn't touch the stuff. Said he needed to stay sharp." He paused, stirring his coffee slowly. "Then something happened. Someone happened. And well..." He trailed off, studying his drink. "Sometimes the apple falls far from the tree, only to roll right back."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Nero asked.

"Nothing, kid. Just an old man's ramblings." Enzo took a long sip, but his eyes were sharp over the rim of his cup. “ Did he ever tell you about Redgrave?"

Nero paused, the name tickling something in the back of his mind. The Order's archives had mentioned it - some kind of massacre that had the Knights scrambling to contain demonic activity in the aftermath. "That was...what like twenty years ago?  I have heard something about it, but couldn’t find jackshit on the records.”

Enzo's expression darkened. "Restricted, eh? Figures." He took another sip of his spiked coffee and scoffed. " Not that anyone in Redgrave will ever forget it. That's actually where he met her, you know. That scary lady with the mismatched eyes. Back then she was just some kid with a rocket launcher and a grudge. Hunting her old man." He chuckled, but there was no humor in it. "Funny thing about family drama - seems to follow Tony around like a bad penny."

"Lady?" Nero straightened. She'd never mentioned... "She was there?"

He thought about the huntress who'd showed up in Fortuna after the whole mess with the Savior, who'd taught him how to maintain his guns  for a week with the same methodical patience she used on her own arsenal. Her phone number left on top of their coffee table, no parting words to him and Kyrie after she left. Despite the phone calls, he hadn’t seen Lady in nearly over a year.

"What happened to her father?" The words were out before he could stop them. Something in Enzo's tone, that dark look in his eyes - whatever went down in that tower, it wasn't just another regular job.

Enzo set his cup down with a quiet clink. "Power," he said finally, the word heavy with disgust. "That's what it always comes down to with these types. Her old man... Arkham  wanted power bad enough to sacrifice everything. His humanity. His family." He gestured vaguely at his own face. "That's where she got those eyes. Dear old dad's parting gift."

Nero’s mind swirled at the thought.

"Seems like there's always someone," Enzo muttered, more to himself than Nero. "Some sorry bastard who thinks if they just get enough power, they can change the world. Fix everything. Make it all mean something." He reached for the flask near his coffee. "Then the next thing you know, there's a tower full of demons in the middle of the city, and kids cleaning up their parents' messes."

Nero's right hand clenched involuntarily. “ Yeah, well, can kinda relate to that one.”

Enzo paused mid-pour. "That right?"

"Yeah. Fortuna." Nero's mouth twisted. "Religious nutjobs with a demon worship problem. Guess you could say I got a front-row seat to how that turned out."

"Fortuna?" Enzo's eyebrows shot up, coffee forgotten. "That isolated island with the weird-ass cult? The one that—" He stopped abruptly, studying Nero's face with new interest. “ Huh, Morrison mentioned about some kid running around there during the ‘demon problem’.”

"If by 'demon problem' you mean their leader turning himself into a fake god and trying to conquer the world?" Nero's laugh was sharp. "Yeah. That'd be me."

"No shit?" Enzo let out a low whistle. "Small world. Morrison said you held your own pretty good. Though..." He squinted at Nero through the smoke. "Didn't mention you looked so much like—" He caught himself, something careful sliding across his face. "Well. Guess that explains why Lady checks in on you."

The sudden shift in Enzo's expression made something cold settle in Nero's gut. There it was again - that feeling everyone else was reading from a different script, seeing something in his face he couldn't see himself.

“ So,”  Enzo cleared his throat, suddenly very interested in tapping ash from his cigarette. “ Anything else you wanna know about ol’ Tony?”

Nero's eyes narrowed, jaw tightening. "Cut the crap. You didn't drag me in here just to reminisce about some guy who used to run jobs." His demonic arm pulsed faintly beneath his glove, responding to his irritation. "Why are you really telling me all this?"

Something in Enzo's face softened, his gaze distant as he stared into his coffee. "Last time I saw Tony, while Morrison and I used to work together and before that mess on Dumary Island... he had this look about him. Like he was carrying something heavy." He absently rubbed his neck, where a faded scar peeked above his collar. "Crazy bastard actually pulled a gun on me once, right in his own shop. " A half-smile crossed his weathered face, though it didn't quite reach his eyes. "That's when I knew he wasn't just playing around anymore. Something in him had... changed."

Nero shifted uncomfortably, not sure what to do with this information."Changed how?" Nero demanded, but his voice had lost some of its edge. Something about the way Enzo spoke made his usual anger feel... misplaced.

Enzo took a long sip of his coffee, considering his words. "Dante’s been holding onto the same old shit to fill a graveyard. Been carrying it since before I knew him, really."  He leaned forward, voice dropping. "But you? You got something he didn't have back then. Something real."  His eyes flickered to the way Nero's hand absently touched the pendant on his necklace. "You got someone worth fighting for, don't you?"

"What's your point?" Nero's tone was sharp, defensive.

"Maybe that's exactly what that thick-headed bastard needs to see. Someone fighting demons without letting 'em eat you alive." Enzo shrugged, but his eyes were knowing. "Just something to think about."

Before Nero could protest, Enzo threw down a wad of dollars onto the counter. He didn't wait for the wary-eyed waitress to acknowledge him - just pulled himself up  from the seat with a grunt, adjusting his rumpled suit. “ Well, business calls, kid.”

"Hey!" Nero stood up sharply, chair scraping against the floor. "You can't just dump all this crap on me and —"

"Already did." Enzo was already heading for the door, waving a hand without looking back. "You know where to find him if you're interested in a job. If not..." He paused at the threshold, glancing over his shoulder with a knowing smirk. "Well, guess I wasted both our time, didn't I?"

Nero stared speechlessly as the informant left before slamming his hand on the table. "What the hell?" he yelled, his Devil Bringer flaring bright enough underneath the leather of his glove to make the nearby customers jump. A few whispers started up, but he was too irritated to care.

He glared at his untouched coffee, the cheap diner mug still steaming. A former mercenary. Not just some legendary demon hunter, but someone who'd do any dirty job for cash. The same guy who'd crashed through Fortuna's ceiling and shot the Pope in the face like it was just another Tuesday.

"Should've figured," Nero muttered, drumming his human fingers against the sticky tabletop. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead like angry insects, making this whole thing feel even more surreal. Like some bad joke. Dante had killed people. For some reason, his thoughts went back to Kyrie’s anguish after defeating Credo and his heart clenched further. His Devil Bringer pulsed in similar  agitation, drawing more whispers and sideways glances from the few customers sat around him. He shoved it deeper into his coat pocket, but the blue glow still leaked through like a broken neon sign. Great. Just great.

"Everything alright, sir?" the waitress finally worked up the courage to ask, keeping a careful distance.

"Yeah. Just the check," Nero bit out, then added a grudging "...thanks" when he caught her flinch. Way to go, taking it out on some random waitress.

He tossed his bills on the table, deliberately shoving aside the money Enzo had left. Like hell, he was letting that sleazebag pay for him - the guy probably got his cash from selling stories about Dante to whoever would listen.

Chapter Text

The walk back had been one filled with restless energy, his boots hitting the frozen pavement harder than necessary. A mercenary. Someone who'd take any job, no questions asked. It shouldn't bother Nero as much as it did - hell, everyone had a past, right?  But something about it nagged at him, like a splinter working its way deeper under his skin with each step. Maybe it was the way Enzo had talked about it, all knowing smirks and half-whispered words, like he was sharing some dirty secret that tarnished the legend. Or perhaps it was just that it didn't fit with the Dante he knew - the same guy who'd rush headlong into danger to save a stranger, who'd take on jobs for nothing more than a cold pizza and a thank you. Hell, the asshole was hardly a saint; drove Nero up the wall with his endless wisecracking routine and that infuriating way he made the younger devil hunter worry without even trying. But a hired gun who'd point his sword wherever the money led? Nero kicked at a chunk of ice, sending it skittering across the sidewalk with a hollow clatter. More importantly, why had Dante never mentioned any of this? It wasn't like the old man to keep quiet about-

The thought died mid-stride as Nero opened the door, coming face-to-face with a blonde-haired girl wielding a mop like it had personally offended her. She looked about his age, maybe younger, but her perfectly pressed designer clothes and manicured appearance seemed wildly out of place against the grimy backdrop of Devil May Cry. They just stared at each other for a moment, equally startled - a young devil hunter and a debutante-turned-janitor, frozen in a moment of mutual bewilderment.

She recovered first, smoothing down her designer duffel with practiced grace. "Oh! You must be Nero! I've only just swung by here, so I have nothing to give you." Her voice carried that unmistakable edge of old money confidence, the kind that made Nero's teeth itch. Growing up in Fortuna, he'd had his fill of entitled brats who thought their family name meant something.

His irritation must have shown - Kyrie always said he had the worst poker face - because the girl's azure eyes suddenly fixed on his, dancing with a mix of amusement and sharp intelligence that caught him off guard. "Dante talked about you," she said, tilting her head, "but he forgot to mention that you have that whole brooding vibe going on."

Nero bristled at that. "Who's asking?"

"Patty Lowell," she announced, meeting his hostility with a raised eyebrow that somehow made him feel like he was the one being childish. "And you can drop the tough guy act. I practically grew up in this shop - cleaned it too since that lazy bum wouldn't do it himself." She turned, gesturing at the dust-streaked windows with her mop. "Speaking of which, it looks like the place is sliding back into disaster without me. God, when was the last time someone cleaned these windows?"

Her familiarity with the shop and Dante caught Nero off guard, deflating his initial irritation. "You cleaned for Dante?"

"Cleaned, cooked, tried to teach him basic human decency," Patty counted off on her manicured fingers, her voice carrying a kind of fond exasperation that Nero recognized from his dealings with the legendary devil hunter. "Someone had to look after him. At least tell me he finally got rid of that awful pin-up poster?"

Nero's eyes automatically drifted to the faded Playboy model still prominently displayed behind Dante's desk, surrounded by a week's worth of empty pizza boxes. He was sure Patty had spotted it when she walked in, but he recognized an attempt at conversation when he heard one. "Uh, no," he admitted, his earlier hostility fading to sheepishness. "Still there."

"Unbelievable," Patty huffed, propping the mop against the wall and striding towards him like she owned the place. Her heels clicked sharply against the wooden floor as she surveyed the damage with the practiced eye of someone who'd fought this battle before. "I leave for a few years, and it's like teaching him to use a trash can was all for nothing. Don't tell me - he still thinks strawberry sundaes count as a proper meal, too?" The way she said it, half-resigned and half-amused, carried the weight of countless similar conversations. Patty shrugged off her designer coat, hanging it with familiar ease on the ancient coat rack that had probably seen better days before either of them were born.

"And look at this dust!" She dragged a gloved finger along Dante's desk, nose wrinkling at the grey smudge it left on the suede. "I bet he hasn't even changed the sheets on that couch since I left. You know he used to just sleep there in his boots until I made him stop?" Patty turned to Nero, her previous irritation softening into something almost conspiratorial. "At least tell me you're not picking up his terrible habits? Here - let me make us some tea. I used to keep a stash of oolong behind the weapons cabinet where he couldn't reach. Assuming he hasn't found it yet..."

"I, uh..." Nero started, watching as she moved through the office with the confidence of someone returning home. "Tea would be... nice, actually." She disappeared behind the cabinet, emerging triumphantly with an ornate tin that looked comically out of place among the demon skulls and ammunition boxes. "So you really used to hang around here? With Dante?"

"Hang around? I practically lived here!" Patty called over her shoulder as she made her way to the kitchenette, slipping off her gloves and expertly dodging a pile of magazines. "Started when I was about eight. Dante was supposed to protect me for this whole inheritance thing, but even after that was sorted..." She paused, filling the kettle . "Well, someone had to make sure he didn't live like a complete caveman. Plus, the shop was way more interesting than boarding school for awhile."

Patty turned back to face him, leaning against the counter with an ease that spoke of countless hours spent in this same spot. "You should have seen this place before I got my hands on it. The bathroom alone was a biohazard. And don't even get me started on trying to teach him about proper bookkeeping. Though..." She tilted her head, studying him with an intensity that made him want to fidget.

Nero shifted under her gaze, unused to being observed so openly. In Fortuna, people either avoided looking at him directly or stared with barely concealed suspicion - having hair as white as snow tended to have that effect. But Patty's gaze was different, more curious than judgmental, like she was comparing him to some mental image she'd carefully constructed.

"Sorry," she said, turning back to the kettle with a small smile that suggested she'd found whatever she was looking for. "It's just... you remind me of him a little. Not the mess or the bad habits," she clarified quickly, reaching for two delicate cups that seemed impossibly intact given their surroundings. "Just something about the way you carry yourself."

Nero tensed, shoulders going rigid as that familiar hot spark of anger and uncertainty flared in his chest - the same feeling that ignited whenever anyone hinted at his connection to Sparda's bloodline. "I'm nothing like him," he snapped, his Devil Breaker hand clenching at his side. "Just because we both hunt demons doesn't frickin' mean—" The words died in his throat, trapped behind clenched teeth.

Patty's hands stilled on the cups, her expression shifting from surprise to something softer, more knowing. "Hey, easy there," she said, keeping her voice deliberately light but weighted with understanding. "I just meant you both have that whole 'too cool to admit when something bothers you' thing going on. Trust me, I've spent enough time around Dante to know exactly how annoying he can be." She returned to preparing the tea, giving him space to collect himself. "Though I've got to say, your coat taste is better."

The tension in Nero's shoulders eased slightly, though wariness still lingered in the set of his jaw. His laugh came out short and slightly forced but genuine enough at the irony of anyone calling him the better-dressed of the two. "Yeah, well, some of us try to look professional," he muttered, fingers unconsciously smoothing the worn edges of his former Order coat, the symbols removed off his sleeves. The motion drew attention to the careful patches and mended seams - silent testimony to late nights with Kyrie's sewing kit, making do with what they had. Professional didn't always mean expensive, after all. "Sorry for snapping," he added after hesitating, voice dropping quieter. "I just get enough of that back home."

Patty walked over and placed the steaming mugs on the coffee table, gesturing for him to sit with the practiced grace of someone used to playing hostess in spaces that weren't quite their own. "Small places," she said, understanding coloring her tone as she wrapped her hands around her own cup. "They've got nothing better to do than talk, right? Trust me, I get it. You should've heard all the rumors that used to fly around about me and Dante when I was a kid." She rolled her eyes, but there was fondness beneath the exasperation. "People always think they know more about your life than you do.”

“Yeah, well at least they knew who you were," Nero scoffed, a bitter edge creeping into his voice that even surprised him. "Try being the orphan kid who just showed up for training at the Order's doorstep one day. Everyone's got their theories about that." He took a hasty sip of tea, trying to mask his discomfort at having revealed more than intended, but the words hung heavy in the air between them.

Something shifted in Patty's expression then - a flash of old pain, quickly masked but unmistakable. She offered him a small, understanding smile that held none of her earlier playfulness. "I was an orphan too. Or at least, I thought I was for most of my life..." She paused, memories flickering behind her eyes like shadows. "Until I met Dante. He helped me find my real mother. Turns out my whole family history was..." She gave a quiet, humorless laugh. "Way more complicated than I could've imagined."

Nero's head snapped up, genuine surprise replacing the defensive set of his shoulders. "Complicated family history, huh?" The words come out wry,  and he flexes his Devil Bringer unconsciously. " Nero catches himself, realizing how harsh that sounded, and his expression shifts to something more guarded. "Sorry. That's... that's good, though. That you found your mom, I mean." He takes another sip of tea, clearly trying to redirect the conversation away from himself.

Patty watches him over the rim of her cup, taking a careful sip before continuing, her tone deliberately casual but weighted with understanding. "You know, sometimes having answers just leads to more questions. At least that's how it was for me. Finding out about my mom, my heritage..." She traces the rim of her cup with one manicured finger. "It wasn't exactly the fairy tale ending I'd imagined as a kid." She pauses, glancing at him with a knowing look that makes him shift uncomfortably in his seat. "But I guess that's how life is, right? Nothing's ever as simple as we want it to be."

Nero stills, something in her tone making him tense. "Don't tell me—"

Patty's laughter cuts him off, genuine but gentle. "No, no, nothing like that. My mom's human. Just... complicated. We had a lot to work through after being apart for so long. Still do, sometimes." She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, her smile turning wistful as she studies the familiar chaos of the office around them. "Still, enough about me. There must be a reason you came here, right?

Nero raised an eyebrow. “ Could ask the same of you. Who the hell just waltzes into someone’s place after two years and starts cleaning?”

Someone who knows what a hellhole this place becomes when Dante's left to his own devices," Patty retorts, gesturing at the surrounding chaos with her free hand. Her tone is light, but a thread of genuine concern is woven through it. "Besides, old habits die hard. And you're dodging the question." She gives him a knowing look over the rim of her teacup. "I've heard stories about you from Morrison, you know. The kid from Fortuna who helped Dante out that one time. You don't exactly seem like the social visit type."

Nero scowls, but there's an undercurrent of worry beneath his defensive posture that he can't quite hide. "Yeah, well... I had a dead-end gig around here, and the guy hasn't been picking up his damn phone. Morrison said he's been taking on riskier jobs lately, more than usual." He scratches the back of his neck, aiming for casual but missing by miles, his eyes darting to the bottles barely hidden behind Dante's desk. "Just wanted to make sure the old man hasn't gotten himself killed doing something stupid."

A shadow crosses Patty's features as her gaze follows his to the empty flask on the desk. "Yeah, he does that sometimes," she says quietly. "Gets restless and takes on jobs he probably shouldn't." She sets her cup down with a deliberate softness that speaks volumes.

Nero watches her reaction, his jaw tightening slightly. He hesitates, fingers tapping against his knee before he forces out the question that's been burning in his throat since she started talking about the past. "So... what was he like? Back when you knew him?" He tries to make it sound casual, but the way he holds himself perfectly still betrays just how much he cares about the answer.

"Well..." Patty's voice softens with memory, her finger tracing the teacup's rim. "Dante wasn't always like how people talk about him. He'd still try to act cool and crack jokes, but he was quiet most of the time. Like he was going through the motions." She glances at the worn leather chair behind his desk, something distant in her eyes. "I used to catch him sometimes just... sitting there or lying here, lost in thought. Like he was carrying something heavy, nobody else could see."

Nero's brief laugh has a hint of disbelief - the image she's painting doesn't quite align with the irritatingly smug bastard who'd torn through Fortuna's sacred halls like a hurricane in red leather. "Huh," he says finally, struggling to reconcile these two versions of Dante. "Doesn't sound much like the guy who crashed into our Opera House and shot his Holiness in the face."

Patty blinks, then chortles. "He did what?"

"Yeah, right through the skull," Nero says, gesturing with his human hand like a gun, some of his earlier tension melting away as he recalls the absurdity of it all. "Pretty sure he was just showing off. Spent half the fight with me doing stupid ass poses and taunting me." He shakes his head, but there's an almost fond exasperation in his voice now.

Patty nearly chokes on her tea, setting the cup down as laughter bubbles up. "That... that sounds more like the Dante I've heard about than the one I knew." Her smile turns wistful, tinged with understanding. "When I was around, getting him to say more than two sentences sometimes was like pulling teeth. Unless he was telling me to go home or stop cleaning." She pauses, studying Nero's face. "Though I guess people can be both, you know? Maybe he..." She chooses her next words carefully. "Shows different sides to different people. Depending on what they need to see."

Nero stares into his cup, lost in thought. The Dante who'd sent him flying through church pews with a smirk, the quiet man in Patty's memories, the legendary devil hunter who called himself Tony Redgrave – like pieces of a puzzle that didn't quite fit together.

The creak of the door startles him back to reality, his Devil Bringer flaring briefly beneath the worn leather glove before he recognizes Morrison's familiar silhouette against the late afternoon light. Nero catches Patty's measured non-reaction to the blue glow seeping through his glove – just a slight pause in lifting her teacup, a flicker of recognition in her eyes before she smoothly continues her movement. Something in him eases slightly at her discretion. But then again, after years around Dante, he figures a glowing arm probably doesn't even make her top ten list of weird things she's seen.

"Well, ain't this cozy." Morrison steps into the shop, the floorboards creaking under his polished shoes. He tips his hat to Patty, cigarette smoke curling around the brim like a serpent. The scent of expensive tobacco mingles with the lingering sweetness of tea. "Been a while, little lady. Though not so little anymore."

Patty rolls her eyes at the 'little lady' comment, but there's warmth beneath her exasperation. "Morrison," she greets, straightening slightly in her chair, smoothing invisible wrinkles from her skirt.

Morrison's expression shifts as he turns to Nero, the easy familiarity giving way to something more grave. The afternoon shadows deepen the lines around his eyes. "Speaking of old friends – how did it go with him?"

"Waste of time," Nero snaps, the words coming out sharper than intended, echoing off the shop's walls. He can feel Patty's curious gaze on him but keeps his eyes locked on Morrison, refusing to see whatever understanding might be in her expression. "Guy's full of shit. Just wanted to run his mouth about the good old days."

Morrison studies him for a long moment, eyes shrewd beneath the brim of his hat. "Well, if you need to clear your head, got a last-minute job downtown." He pulls out a weathered notebook from his coat pocket, thumbing through its dog-eared pages.

"What about Dante or Trish?" Nero drawls, trying to mask how the demoness's name still makes his skin crawl sometimes. Every time he sees her, he can't help but remember Gloria's perfectly crafted lies, the way she'd played him in Fortuna. The memory tastes bitter, like ashes in his mouth.

"Trish is out working another angle. Dante..." Morrison lets that hang for a moment, heavy with unspoken meaning. The empty bottles behind Dante's desk seem to gleam accusingly in the fading light. "Well, you know how he is."

"Yeah, no shit," Nero mutters, already reaching for Red Queen propped against the wall. The familiar weight of his sword promises the kind of clarity that conversations can't provide, the simple satisfaction of steel through demon hide. "Fine. What's the job?"

Morrison watches him grab the sword, noting the barely contained energy thrumming through the young hunter like a plucked guitar string. His eyes flick briefly to Patty, who's watching Nero with a mixture of concern and understanding that makes something in Nero's chest tighten. "Bunch of Scarecrows causing trouble near the old theater district. Nothing too fancy, but..." He taps his cigarette, ash falling like snow onto the freshly swept floor. "Pay is decent enough."

"Pay's not the issue," Nero mutters, but he's already heading for the door. Scarecrows mean easy money, sure, but more importantly they mean he gets to hit something. Hard. Repeatedly. After the shit now dumped on him, he needs that.

He pauses at the doorway, one hand on the worn frame, suddenly aware of how abrupt his exit must seem. Turning slightly, not quite looking back at Patty, he manages a gruff, "Thanks. For the tea. And..." He trails off, not sure how to express gratitude for stories he's not even certain he wanted to hear.

Patty's reflection in the dusty window shows her gentle smile. "I’ll be hanging around town for a bit . When you're ready to hear more, you can come and find me." There's no pressure in her voice, just understanding, and somehow that makes it both easier and harder to bear.

His grip tightens on the doorframe. "Morrison?" His voice comes out rougher than intended. "Next time you want to send someone to talk to Enzo? Do them a favor and don't."

He doesn't wait for Morrison's response, just shoves through the door hard enough to make the bell rattle violently against the glass. Behind him, Patty's voice rises with that familiar stubborn edge he's already coming to recognize - "Morrison, what aren't you telling me?" - but Nero's already taking the steps two at a time, coat flaring behind him in the evening breeze. Whatever clusterfuck of a conversation that's about to unfold, he's staying the hell out of it.

The sun bleeds across the skyline as Nero approaches the Old Theater, casting long shadows that seem to reach for him like grasping hands. Light catches on the building's shattered windows, turning them into dying embers against blackened stone. The theater's once-grand facade is a maze of crumbling cornices and weather-worn columns, decay eating away at what must have been beautiful once. Even the Scarecrows skulking in the shadows look diminished here, their patchwork bodies blending with the theater's tattered curtains visible through broken windows. At least Scarecrows are simple. Point, shoot, rev up Red Queen and watch them burn.  Just demon hunting. The way it should be.

Nero revs Red Queen, the familiar growl of the engine echoing off weathered stone like distant thunder. The sound bounces through empty halls and broken archways, drawing attention. Scarecrows twitch and jerk at the noise, their burlap heads rotating with that unsettling mechanical precision, bladed limbs scraping against concrete as they turn toward him. The sound sets his teeth on edge, but it's better than silence. It's better than thinking. "Alright, you ugly bastards," he mutters, pulling off his glove with deliberate slowness. His Devil Bringer pulses in response to the demons' presence, casting everything in waves of ethereal blue light. Something dark and familiar burns in his chest, an energy he still can't quite name. "Let's make this quick. I've had a long enough day already."

The spectral glow from his arm transforms the theater steps into an otherworldly stage, throwing the Scarecrows' jerky movements into sharp relief. Their shadows dance grotesquely across weathered stone, a macabre puppet show of the damned. One of them twitches forward, blade arms grinding against the ground with a sound like nails on a chalkboard, and that's all the invitation Nero needs.

He launches forward, Devil Bringer leaving trails of azure light in his wake like a comet's tail. His demonic hand finds the first Scarecrow's throat, talons sinking through burlap into the writhing mass beneath with a satisfying crunch. The concrete splinters like glass when he slams it down, and spiderweb cracks spread from the impact point. But Nero's already moving, the world blurring into streaks of blue and red as Red Queen roars to life. As he swings, the blade ignites with demonic energy, tearing through another Scarecrow brutally. The demon dissolves into ash with a sound like burning paper, embers dancing in the growing darkness.

 The rush of power floods his veins like liquid fire, that same energy crawling under his skin all day finally finding its release. He hurls the Scarecrow into its companions, their bodies tangling in a mess like broken puppets.  “What's wrong? Performance anxiety?" Nero sneers, watching them struggle to untangle their bladed limbs. His Devil Bringer pulses brighter, casting harsh shadows across his face. "And here I thought you were supposed to be the main act."

The Scarecrows respond with that distinctive death rattle, blades clicking together like macabre wind chimes as they surge forward. Nero's Devil Bringer pulses brighter, casting sharp shadows across the theater's ancient walls as he tears through their ranks. He catches a blade between his demonic talons and rips it clean off, the motion flowing seamlessly into a spin. Red Queen's engine screams in harmony with his own battle cry as he cuts through three Scarecrows in one burning arc. Their ashes scatter like black snow in the ethereal light of his arm, and time loses meaning in the dance of destruction. Each kill sends a familiar yet alien thrill down his spine, echoing that first power surge when his arm transformed. The energy builds with every rev of Red Queen until his whole body thrums like a live wire.

Then suddenly, silence falls. The last echoes of demonic shrieks fade into darkness, leaving only his ragged breathing and Red Queen's cooling engine. How Devil Bringer pulses in time with his thundering heartbeat, as if savouring the devastation they've wrought together. That wild energy still hums under his skin, making Nero’s fingers twitch with the need for more targets, more violence, more power. It's exactly what he needed and somehow still not enough, like scratching an itch he can't quite reach.

Nero flexes his talons, watching ash drift between them like dark snow. The smile on his face feels almost feral - too many teeth, too much satisfaction in the destruction. His reflection catches in one of the broken theater windows: eyes gleaming with a nearly supernatural brightness, Devil Bringer casting its ethereal light across features that suddenly seem sharper, more predatory. For a moment, he sees himself as others might - as Kyrie might - something wild and dangerous in the darkness, reveling in violence with an almost desperate hunger.  The thought of her hits Nero like a physical blow, dousing that burning need for destruction like cold water. She's never feared his arm, never flinched from what he is - hell, she'd touch his Devil Bringer as quickly as his human hand, like it was the most natural thing in the world. But this? This raw bloodlust, this craving for violence? He imagines her seeing him like this, demon arm blazing and faces twisted with savage joy, surrounded by the destruction he'd caused just because he could because it felt good.

"Fuck," he mutters, the word tasting like ash in his mouth. His human hand comes up to grip the worn leather of his coat, where his Order badge used to be. The rational part of his brain knows he should probably be worried about how natural this feels, how right it is to let something dark and primal off its leash after straining against the chain for so long. Isn't this precisely what the Order preached about - demons and their inherent nature? About how power corrupts?

"Some knight in shining armor, huh?" The words come out rough, self-mocking, echoing off the theater's empty walls. He can almost hear Credo's voice lecturing about control, dignity, and being worthy of the power they wielded. Fat lot of good those lessons did either of them in the end.

Chapter Text

Nero hit Slum Avenue sometime as night began to transcend into the early hours, the streetlights casting long shadows across crumbling pavement. He'd spent most of his evening pacing back and forth through the old theater, wearing a path in the dusty floorboards, wondering if he should call Kyrie. In the end, he'd decided to hold off - she didn't need to hear the edge in his voice right now, didn't need to worry about another mess that wasn't hers to clean up. Snow fell in lazy spirals, transforming the city's grime into something almost pure before streetlights could melt it into grey mush. The dregs of humanity huddled past – working girls with chattering teeth, drunkards and salary men with scarves pulled high looking out of place in the dingy avenue,  yet furtive glances told any observer of their ventures.

Love Planet's garish sign flickered above, painting everything in a lurid pink glow that made Nero's skin crawl. Even after getting used to the mainland, places like this still stirred echoes of Sanctus's sermons about the corruption of the outside world. Fortuna's strict morality might have been built on lies. Still, some habits died hard - Nero found himself averting his eyes from the suggestive posters plastered on the walls, feeling like a kid again getting scolded by the Sisters for looking too long at the classical statues’ figures in the Opera House. He could almost hear Kyrie's gentle teasing about his prudishness echoing in his mind.

He'd almost made it past, breath fogging in the frigid air when a familiar voice slurred through the night. "Awwww c'mon Marcoooo... we're prac... practical'ly fam'ly at thisss p'oint... y'know how much I've... h'ow muc'h money I dum'p in this p''lace..."

"Oh for the love of-," Nero muttered, turning to find Dante draped against the doorframe like a forgotten coat. His signature red leather – still bearing scorch marks from their last demon nest cleanup – was dusted with snow, sliding off one shoulder as he swayed in place. Even from here, Nero could smell bourbon and gunpowder mixing with the sharp bite of winter air, that distinctive combination that usually meant the old man had been hunting something nasty. Or trying to hunt down the bottom of every bottle in the city.

"Marco, my besss... my best frie'nd..." Dante was still going, gesturing with a hand that kept missing whatever point he was trying to make. "Jus' lemme... lemme settle up t'morrow, 'kay? When've I ever..." He squinted, clearly losing his train of thought. "When've I ever not paid eventually? Don' answer that." He chuckled, the sound more like a hiccup.

"Listen Tony," Marco sighed, his mountainous frame blocking the entrance, massive arms crossed over a jacket stretched tight across his chest. His breath came out in great white plumes. "Not sober enough to stand means not sober enough to enter. House rules." His voice carried the weary patience of someone who'd had this exact conversation too many times before. "Boss's orders, and you know how she gets when the floors get all slippery."

Dante made a show of straightening up, his movements exaggerated like a puppet with tangled strings. The snow caught in his white hair made him look older somehow, less like the legendary devil hunter and more like some washed-up barroom hero. "Marco, Marco... I'm the ve’y pict’re of – " He took a wobbly step forward, boots sliding on the slick pavement, and nearly face-planted into the bouncer's chest. The motion sent his coat flaring out, scattering crystalline powder into the neon-tinted air.

"For fuck's sake," Nero growled, crossing the distance in quick strides that crunched through fresh snow. The cold bit through his worn boots,  a sharp reminder that he should've worn thicker socks. He caught Dante's arm before the older hunter could attempt another demonstration of his sobriety, feeling muscle tensed like steel cable beneath the leather. "He's with me.."

Marco's expression shifted from stern professional to barely concealed relief, spiralled tattoos catching the pink light as his shoulders relaxed. A ghost of understanding passed between Nero and the bouncer– this wasn't the first time, wouldn't be the last. "You takin’ him home?"

"Unfortunately." Nero adjusted his grip as Dante listed sideways like a sinking ship, snow falling from his coat in wet clumps as they moved down the street. Up close, the scent of bourbon was almost overwhelming – Jack Daniel's, probably, Dante's poison of choice likely when things went sideways. But underneath it was something else – copper and sulfur, the telltale markers of demon blood, mixed with that peculiar ozone smell that came with higher-order demons. Whatever he'd been hunting, it hadn't gone down easy.

"Ne’oooo!" Dante's face lit up with drunken brilliance, like he'd just noticed his nephew's presence in this snow-globe moment. His breath came out in white clouds that reeked of cheap whiskey and cheaper regrets. Dante slung a heavy arm around Nero's shoulders, nearly taking them down into a snowbank. "'s my favorite... favorite p’nk kid! Yer like... when'd you get all..." He waved his free hand vaguely at all of Nero, almost smacking himself in the face.

"I was always this tall, you drunk bastard," Nero growled, struggling to keep them both upright, trying to keep the concern less apparent in his tone.

"Naaaah, you were like..." Dante made a wobbly gesture somewhere around his waist height, then squinted at his hand like he wasn't sure it was his.

"Tinyyy. Li'l angry kid with th'... whazzat glowy arm thing." He tried pointing at Nero's devil bringer but missed, finger weaving through the air like a drunk conductor. "Sparkly... like... like those things. Y'know. The buzzzy light bugs."

"Watccch... watch thisss..." Dante started clumsily pawing at his coat, snow falling off in clumps as he patted himself down, face scrunching in confusion like a lost puppy. A passing couple gave them a wide berth as he nearly spun around. "Where'ssmy... where'd m'gun go? Wasss jus'... jus' had it... unless that tree took it. Sneaky tree."

"You're not shooting anything," Nero grunted, hauling Dante's listing form back upright as he threatened to slide completely sideways into the snow. The reek of bourbon was making his eyes water. "Just... just keep walking."

"Buuut 's gonna be awesome! Gonna... make pretty bulletchs... art stuff." Dante made wobbly finger guns at a street lamp, nearly overbalancing himself in the process. He stared at his hands like he'd never seen them before, turning them back and forth in the yellow light. "Whoaaa... weird... when'd I get soo'o many fing'ers?"

"Give me strength," Nero muttered, tightening his grip as Dante stumbled again, boots scraping uselessly against the icy sidewalk. The legendary devil hunter was currently about as coordinated as a newborn giraffe, and about as helpful. His coat was shedding melting snow everywhere, and there were questionable dark stains that Nero really hoped were just demon blood.

"H’y... hey kid?" Dante's head flopped toward Nero, grin sloppy and eyes completely unfocused, breath coming out in whiskey-scented clouds. "Know whut we should... should totally do? Less... less find a big demon. Real b'ig one. Righ't now. Be ssso much fun... I still got m'sword somewhere. Probably."

"We're not fighting anything. You can barely stand."  Nero wrinkled his nose at another wave of bourbon fumes "Hell, did you drink the whole liquor store?"

"Pssshhh... was jus' a couple..." Dante held up four fingers, frowned, then added another two. "Maybe five? Six? Bottles're all... different siz'es an'ywa'y. Don' matter."

"Bottles?" Nero's eyes widened. He knew demon blood meant that getting intoxicated wasn’t always easy to get drunk on, but hell that seemed excessive even for Dante. "You mean glasses, right? Please tell me you mean glasses."

"Pssshhh... standin's boring anyway. Did a whole fight... thing... upside-downy once. Or maybe tha' was... was a dream? Ev'rything's spinny..." He squinted up at the falling snow like it was personally offending him. "Sky's leaking again. Should... should prob'ly tell someone 'bout that. 's gonna get ev'rywhere..."

Nero rolled his eyes as he half-dragged, half-wrestled Dante up the steps of Devil May Cry, the older hunter's boots scraping uselessly against each stair. For someone who could usually defy gravity on a whim, Dante was suddenly very interested in becoming one with it, his weight threatening to drag them both down with every step. Every few seconds, he'd try to veer off randomly, mumbling something incoherent under his breath.

"Just... just a few more steps, asshole," Nero grunted, adjusting his grip as Dante decided to become practically boneless. The devil hunter's coat was still shedding melted snow everywhere, creating puddles that were definitely going to make the wooden steps even more treacherous. "And stop- would you stop trying to go backwards!"

"Buuut 's a... whazzat thing back there. Looooks imp-important." Dante tried to point behind them, nearly clocking Nero in the face with a wild gesture. His movements were still uncoordinated, but there was a slight sharpening to his eyes - demon blood starting its work, though not nearly fast enough. "'s prolly a demon. Or... or one of those fuzzy things. Y'know. Meow things. Both? Demon meow? Thos're real, riiight? Gotta... gotta check it out..."

"There's nothing back there except your dignity, old man," Nero muttered, finally reaching the door. He fumbled with the handle while trying to keep Dante upright, who was now attempting to sing something that might have been "Devils Never Cry" or possibly just random growling. "Where the hell are your keys?"

"Kee'eeys?  Go' th'ose... so'mewh'ere in her'e..." Dante started patting his coat again, missing most of the pockets entirely, though his movements were getting slightly more precise. The bourbon fumes were less overwhelming now, mixing with the familiar scent of leather and gunpowder. "Unles'... unles' I tra'de'd 'em. To th'e demo'n ca' thin'g. Fer... fer somethin' co'ol prob'ably. Wa's bein' nic'e. R'eal... r'eal help'ful gu'y, th'at's m'e..."

Nero closed his eyes and counted to ten. His borrowed keys were sitting uselessly on his desk inside, right where he'd left them when he'd stormed out after Morrison had interrupted... well, that was a whole other headache he wasn't ready to deal with. At least Patty hadn't seen Dante like this. "You know what? Screw it." He kicked the door open, wincing at the crack of splintering wood. "You can bitch at me about it when you're sober."

"Heeeey! Y'broke m'y do'or!" Dante's protest was interrupted by a hiccup. "Tha's... tha's v'anda'lis'm. Ve'ry serio'us. Gonna hav'e to... to writ'e you u'p. Get Morris'on to... to do pape'rw'ork n'stuff."

"Yeah? Add it to my tab," Nero muttered, thinking about how he'd slammed that same door only some hours ago. Funny how things came full circle. "Right after you explain to him why you're three sheets to the wind on a Tuesday."

"Pffft, 's not Tue'sda'y," Dante waved his hand dismissively, nearly taking out a lamp. "'s... 's whatever day whe're the... the tha'ng happen'ed. No offen'ce k’d, but you'r ol’… ol’ boss was ki'nd'a..." He made a wobbling gesture with his hand. "Re'min'ds me of... y'ever met someone who jus’... jus’ wraps their ‘ w’hole face-up? Drank ‘im right und’r the... the table. Then he tr’ed to kill me. With a sword. Rude... ver’y rude..."

Nero's patience, already hanging by a thread, snapped. Without warning, he pivoted and practically threw Dante onto the sofa in irritation. The legendary devil hunter bounced once with an undignified "oof!" before sprawling across the cushions, limbs akimbo, his red coat tangled around him like a disheveled nest. A half-empty bottle of something that smelled like it could be used as sanitizer  rolled out of his coat pocket and clinked against the floor.

"Just... just shut up," Nero muttered through gritted teeth, not ready to deal with drunk Dante's rambling about Fortuna. Or whatever the hell he was trying to say about some bar fight from ages ago. The last thing he needed was more cryptic bullshit about masks and swords, especially from someone who currently couldn't even sit straight. He snatched up the bottle before Dante could fumble for it, ignoring the older hunter's disappointed "hey" of protest.

"H’ey... h’ey, k’id," Dante retorted,  words slightly less slurred than before as he tried to sit up and completely misjudged the sofa's width. "I'm n’ot... n'ot that dr’nk. W’utch this-" He attempted what might have been intended as a smooth roll to his feet, but instead managed to tangle himself further in his coat and slide gracelessly off the cushions. He hit the floor with a thud that would have probably hurt anyone without demon blood.

Dante sniffed, the blood around his nostrils already beginning to disappear. “ "Do'n worry, healin' rate, s'all good," Dante slurs into the floorboards, making no effort to get up. "Floor's nice 'n cool anywa'y. Like a big woo'de'n... cool wa’terb’ed." He waves one hand vaguely in the air before letting it flop back down.

Nero rolls his eyes, Devil Bringer pulsing brighter with annoyance. "Yeah, and I'm sure your back will thank you tomorrow morning. Demon healing or not." He crouches down, grabbing Dante's arm. “Up you go, old man.”

M'not an ol’ man," Dante mumbles in Nero's grip. "M'a... professional. Got the coat 'n everything." He suddenly perks up, trying to focus on Nero with eyes that can't quite settle. "H’ey, hey k’id. Y’ou eve’r notic’ed ho’w the flo’or... goes all spinn’y when you're down h’ere?  Itt’s ‘ike... demon magic or somethin'."

Nero grunts with the effort of hauling up what feels like two hundred pounds of drunk devil hunter and leather coat. "Come on, the couch is right there. Try not to trip over your own feet."

"M'perfectly... coordinated," Dante protests, immediately stumbling over absolutely nothing. "The floor's just... being difficult. S'got an attitude problem."

"Yeah, the floor's the one with the attitude problem," Nero deadpans as he lets Dante flop onto the worn leather couch again with all the grace of a sack of potatoes. The older hunter immediately sprawls out, taking up the entire space.

Nero sighed. “ Let’s get you some water.”

"Mnnn... couch's my friend," Dante mumbles into the leather, face half-buried in the cushions. "'s never judgy. Never asks 'bout... stuff." He makes a vague waving motion with one hand before it flops back down limply.

Nero rolls his eyes . "Yeah, well, your 'friend' probably has more mysterious stains than your entire wardrobe. Which is saying somethin’." He heads to the kitchen, returning with a glass of water. "C’mon, sit up before you drown in your drool."

“B’ssy kid," Dante mumbles, but he manages to wrap unsteady fingers around the glass when Nero brings it to his lips. Nero keeps one hand on the bottom of the glass, steadying it as Dante drinks, knowing from experience how this ends if he doesn't.

When the glass is half-empty, Nero pulls away to set it down. That's when Dante's free hand shoots up with surprising coordination, suggesting the alcohol was running its course. Demonic blood was a hell of a blessing for that. He ruffled Nero's hair with clumsy affection. Nero goes to protest, but Dante grins wider, mussing the white strands with drunken enthusiasm.

It's only when he accidentally pushes Nero's hair back from his forehead, the younger hunter's annoyed scowl on full display, that Dante goes completely still. His hand freezes mid-ruffle, white strands caught between his fingers. Something flickers through his glazed eyes - a flash of recognition so sharp it seems to cut through the alcohol-induced fog. His playful grin vanishes like it was never there, replaced by an almost haunted expression.

"Dante?" Nero asks, uncertain.

"Ah," the devil hunter breathes out, barely a whisper. His hand trembles slightly where it's still tangled in Nero's hair . For a moment, his face is completely unguarded, showing a raw pain he'd never let slip while sober.

But before Nero can figure out what to say or do, Dante's already pulling away, and the younger devil hunter lets him, pretending not to notice how badly the older hunter's hand is shaking. "Jus’ like him," Dante mumbles, the words slipping out thick with alcohol and something that sounds dangerously close to grief. "Sc'ary.”

"Like who?" Nero demands, his anger hot and sudden as he jerks away from Dante's touch. He's sick of this—sick of the cryptic comments, the lies, and the way Dante and the others have been looking at  him like they’re seeing someone else entirely. "Who the hell are you comparing me to now?"

The older hunter just turns away, and that makes Nero even angrier. Always with the secrets, always with the half-truths and deflections. "Hey! Don't just-" He cuts himself off, jaw clenched tight. "You know what? You are just full of bullshit, aren’t you!? I don’t give a rat’s ass if you are Tony… Dante, or whatever the hell else you call yourself. You are an asshole. Blabbering on about humanity , and blah blah. You murdered  people, Dante.” He scoffed, wryly. “ When was that one going to come out? During the next time we play happy-“

"D’on't." Dante's voice cuts through the air, surprisingly more sober than before,suddenly sharp and deadly serious. When he turns back, there's something dangerous in his eyes - not demonic, but somehow worse. Human. Raw and utterly painful. "Y’ou don't know wh’t you're talkin’ about."

"Don't I?" Nero shoots back, but his voice wavers slightly at the look on Dante's face. "Enzo told me enough. About the mercenary work. The hits. The things Tony Redgrave did for money-"

"I sai’d don't." There's a tremor in Dante's voice now, something unsteady beneath the warning. Splinters starting to emerge in the glass  from his tightened grip. " You don't underst’nd what it was like b’a’ck then."

"Then make me understand!" Nero explodes, desperation bleeding into his anger. "Stop shutting me out and talk to me for once!" Nero's voice cracks on the last word, raw with something more vulnerable than anger. "You think I can't handle it? That I'm gonna, what - run away? Judge you? After everything I've seen, everything I've done?"

"You wanna  understan'd?" Dante's queries as he stares up at the ceiling from his sprawled position on the couch, one arm flung over his eyes. His laugh comes out harsh and unsteady. "I w’as you’ng. Stup’d. So  stup’d." He shifts as he moves. "Lost everythin’ and everyone I ever-" The words catch in his throat. "Thought if I... if I buri’ed Dante deep enou’gh, maybe I coul'd forg'et."

Nero stands there, frozen, as the words hit him like physical blows. The raw pain in Dante's voice - this man who always faces everything with a smirk and a quip - makes something in his chest constrict painfully.  "I..." Nero starts, then stops, gripping his hair in frustration. The anger that's always been his first defense is still there, but it's tangled up with something else now - understanding, maybe. Or recognition. How many times had he wanted to become someone else entirely after Credo's death? Even with Kyrie to ground him by his side, how often had he thought about running away from everything?

Finally, he drops heavily onto the floor beside the couch, leaning against it. "You're right,"  Nero says quietly, staring at his hands. "I don't understand. Not... not all of it." He takes a breath. "But I understand wanting to stop feeling. Wanting to burn everything down just so you don't have to..." He trails off, throat tight. “ I know what happened with Nell.”

Dante goes completely still at the name, the silence suddenly sharp enough to cut. Even his breathing seems to stop for a moment. When he speaks, his voice is dangerously quiet. "Who tol’d you abo’ut Nell?"

“ Enzo.”

The temperature in the room seems to drop several degrees. Nero can feel Dante go rigid behind him, the couch's leather creaking as the older hunter's body tenses. "Enz’o," Dante repeats, and there's something lethal in how softly he says the name. "You wen’t to En’zo." It's not quite a question.

Nero keeps his gaze forward, but his shoulders set stubbornly. "Found him in a pawnshop near the docks. He was... pretty eager to talk, once he realized who I was." He pauses, then adds more quietly, "Told me about how you were close with her."

The silence stretches, heavy with unspoken things. When Dante finally speaks, his voice is rough, like the words are being dragged out of him. “Enz'o," Dante says, and there's something dark and bitter in his laugh, "never like some’one with a mouth bigg'er than mi’ne. Especially runnin’ things off he don't understan'd." He shifts on the couch, and Nero can hear the clink of a flask being removed from Dante’s pocket. "Lemme guess - told you all abo’t how I we’nt crazy after? How I disappear’d into the und'erwor'ld for week's'? Bet he paint’ed a rea’l pretty pictur’e."

Nero snatches the flask from the devil hunter’s hand earning him a hardened glare. “No," Nero says sharply, gripping the flask tight enough that his knuckles whiten. "No more of this. Not tonight."

There's a dangerous pause, the air crackling with tension. For a moment, Nero thinks Dante might actually try to take it back by force. But then Dante lets out a long, shuddering breath, his hand dropping back to the couch. "Hey, sin’ce when were you the adul’t, kid?" Dante's words are meant to be light, teasing, but they come out raw and unsteady instead.

"Since you started drinking yourself like a fuckin’ fish ," Nero shoots back, but there's more worry than anger in his voice now. He sets the flask deliberately on the floor, out of reach. "You think this is what she would've wanted? You drowning yourself in cheap whiskey?”

 Dante's voice turns to steel. "Don't you da’re tell me what she would've w’nted."

Nero's shoulders suddenly sag, some of the fight draining out of him. When he speaks again, his voice is quieter, almost gentle - a tone that sounds strange coming from him. "Look, I'm not..." Nero runs a hand through his hair in frustration. "I'm not trying to tell you how to grieve. Hell knows I've done enough of that myself to..." He trails off, then continues, "But this? This isn't grieving anymore. This is punishment. And I don't think..." He swallows hard. "I don't think she'd want that for you."

Dante's laugh is a broken thing, barely more than an exhale. "You sou’nd like h’er, y’ou know th’at?"

Nero shifts uncomfortably, then takes a deep breath. "Then maybe..." He pauses, choosing his words carefully. "Maybe you could try. For me." His voice gets quieter, almost uncertain. "I know I'm not... I'm not her. Or trying to be your mom.” The young devil hunter couldn’t help but notice Dante’s slight flinch at the mention of that. “ But you're not alone anymore, you stubborn old man. You've got me. And I'm not going anywhere."

For a long moment, Dante just stares at him, something complicated and painful crossing his face. Then, with a shaky exhale, he reaches out and clasps Nero's shoulder. His hand trembles slightly.

Nero ducks his head, trying to hide how much that simple gesture of affection affects him. His throat feels tight, and he blinks a few times before he trusts himself to speak. "Yeah, well," he manages, his voice gruff to cover the emotion threatening to crack through. "Someone's gotta keep your old ass in line.”

Dante lets out a short laugh - a real one this time, if a bit watery. "That's f’ir." He leans back, some of the tension finally leaving his shoulders.  “ Well, so’me of us ne’d some shut e’ye. You t’ke my ro’om.”

"What? No way," Nero protests immediately, straightening up. "I'm not kicking you out of your own bed. I'll take the couch."

"K’id," Dante's voice has that firm edge that rarely surfaces, "y’u look like you haven't slep't in ages. His expression softens slightly. "Besides, I've got s’me... thinkin’ to do. Pro’ba’bly won't sleep much anywa''y."

Nero studies him for a moment, torn between concern and exhaustion. "You're not going to..." He glances meaningfully at where he'd stashed the flask.

"Nah," Dante waves him off, and for once, the dismissal feels honest rather than deflecting. "Jus’... ne’ed to s’ort some thin’gs out. In here." He taps his temple with two fingers.

After a moment's hesitation, Nero nods. "Alright. But if you need..." He trails off, unsure how to finish that sentence without making things awkward again.

"I know where y’u are," Dante completes it for him, voice gentle. "Get sum rest, kid. I'll still be h’re in the mornin’."

Nero cast a sideways glance at Dante before finally turning his back, making his way to the stairs. He let out a shuddery breath, which seemed to carry the weight of the day and all its unspoken words. His boots felt heavy on each step up the wooden staircase, the old boards creaking beneath him like they were giving voice to everything he couldn't say.

Dante's room loomed ahead, and something in Nero's chest tightened as he approached. It felt wrong, being up here, like he was intruding on something private even with permission. The door hinges protested softly as he pushed into the room, and he found himself hesitating in the threshold, one hand still on the doorknob. With a tired sigh, Nero stepped inside and shrugged off his coat, draping it over the back of a chair that had seen better days. His boots came next, lined up neatly by the door – a habit Kyrie had instilled in him that he couldn't shake even here. The familiar weight of Blue Rose was placed carefully on the nightstand, within easy reach.

The bed creaked under Nero's weight as he sat down, springs protesting in a way that made him wonder how old the mattress was. He was perched on the edge, not ready to claim the space fully. Nero's eyes drifted around the room. Even in the darkness of the night, he could make out posters along the walls, some lewd, some of various rock bands,  a pile of unfolded laundry, likely days old, dumped on a chair, and a guitar hung in front of him. It was so undeniably Dante that Nero couldn't help but scoff slightly. There were no false pretences in here.

The young devil hunter found his eyes wandering towards photographs on the devil hunter's bedside table, becoming more visible from the faint crimson glow of the neon sign. One was of a younger Dante and Lady, grinning wildly at the camera and making peace signs. Another behind it showed Lady, Trish, and Dante squeezed into an ugly green booth, stuffing their mouths with pizza, all laughing. But, Nero found his eyes moving past it to a weathered photograph beside the more recent ones – its edges worn soft in its gold frame, colours faded to sepia tones that spoke of decades rather than years.

A beautiful woman who looked uncannily like Trish was crouched down, staring back at him with a warm smile, her golden hair cascading over the small shoulders of her sons. Two boys gazed back at him, maybe seven or eight years old, identical to their silver-white hair and bright eyes.   They stood in what looked like a garden, sunlight catching on matching amulets around their necks and party hats strapped onto them. Nero concluded that the one grinning broadly at the camera, arm slung around his brother's shoulders, was undeniably Dante. The other had his hair pushed back and wore a more reserved smile, but his eyes showed unmistakable warmth as he leaned into the embrace.

Nero's fingertips unconsciously brushed against his white hair, an uncomfortable parallel he wasn't quite ready to acknowledge.  At the time, Nero had been too wrapped up in his fury, focused on Yamato's power thrumming through his devil bringer, to hear Dante mention having a brother.  Something terrible had happened to the other boy, for sure, and hell, Nero wasn't going to start poking around about that. The woman behind them – their mother – looked at them with pride and open love, unaware of whatever darkness lay ahead.  Nero pulled back from the photograph, suddenly feeling like he was intruding on something private. Some grief ran too deep to be casually examined, and the weight of unasked questions felt too heavy in his throat.  Still, the image of those identical faces, those matching amulets, stayed with him as he finally settled onto the bed.

The pillow carried the unmistakable scent of old leather and gunpowder – so distinctly Dante that it made something in his chest constrict painfully.  From downstairs, the steady hum of Devil May Cry's ancient ceiling fan carried him the rest of the way into dreams, Nero’s breathing evening out as the tension finally bled from his shoulders.

Chapter Text

There was something on Nico's mind. Nero could tell - the damn steering wheel was gonna have dents from her constant fidgeting, those grease-stained fingers tapping an anxious rhythm entirely unlike her usual confident beat. She kept chewing on her lower lip, too, her signature cigarette forgotten and burning away between her fingers, ash dropping unnoticed onto her jeans.

What really  set his demon-hunting instincts on edge was the  damned silence. For at least ten minutes now, the van's interior had been filled with nothing but the rattling of loose tools in the back and the wheezing protest of the overworked engine. No jokes about his "delicate princess arms," no rapid-fire theories about Devil Breaker modifications, or her usual passionate rants about mechanical innovation. Even when some jackass in a cherry-red Corvette had cut them off three blocks back - the kind of incident that usually would've had Nico hanging out the window hurling creative curses like a revved-up terrier - she'd just adjusted her grip on the wheel and kept driving.

"NICO!" Nero's shout pierced the silence as the van suddenly swerved, tyres screaming against asphalt and ice. His spectral hands manifested in a flash of ethereal blue light, wrapping  around the wheel just as they nearly clipped a streetlight. The van's ancient suspension groaned in protest as they lurched back onto the right side of the road. In the back, a symphony of chaos erupted - tools cascading like bullets, followed by the crystal-clear sound of shattering ceramic that made both of them freeze. "What the hell?!"

"Sorry! Sorry!" Nico jerked back to attention, swatting at his ghostly arm like it was an annoying fly, her glasses slightly askew on her nose. "Just... thinkin' about something." Her voice had that distracted tone, different and more reserved than the one she used when she was  deep in the middle of inventing something explosive.

That was the real red flag right there. Something was eating at her, and judging by the way she kept absently gazing ahead, Nero was probably not going to like whatever it was.

There was a beat of silence, broken only by the van's squeaky shocks as they hit another pothole. The young devil hunter toyed with his scarf, keeping his Devil Bringer ready in case Nico decided to zone out again. The ethereal blue glow pulsed slightly with his concern, though he tried to keep it dim enough not to distract her further. "Need a break?"

Nico shook her head sharply, her dark curls bouncing with the motion, the silver gleam of her customary hairpins catching the passing streetlights. "Nah, I'm good. Drivin’ helps me... y'know, think straight." Her fingers resumed their restless dance on the steering wheel, but her grip was white-knuckled . The van's headlights cut through the gathering dusk, casting long shadows across her face that made her look older somehow, more worn.

"Look," Nero started, trying to keep his voice level . His tone softened without him meaning to - the same way it did when Kyrie was upset but trying to hide it. "Whatever's got you spacewalking, just... spit it out. You're starting to make me actually miss your normal driving."

Nico finally plucked the dying cigarette from her lips, stubbing it out in the overflowing ashtray with more force than necessary. "It's, uh, gonna be the anniversary on Saturday. Of when Nell-" She trailed off, swallowing hard. The van swerved slightly as her hands tightened further on the wheel, but Nico corrected quickly. "Figured you know,   I might be a bit off my game. Can't have my  test dummy worried about the quality of his gear, right?" The attempt at her usual teasing fell flat, her voice too rough around the edges.

Nero felt his chest tighten, memories of Enzo's lunch meeting  all those years ago surfacing - about when the legendary mercenary Tony Redgrave becoming the devil hunter, Dante . The guilt he carried to his grave with Nell and so much else. Even the few times he came to visit the devil hunter since the Sparda twins returned from Hell, he’d hear that slight uncomfortable pitch in Dante’s voice whenever Ebony and Ivory came up in conversation with a client.

"Hey," Nero said softly, the Devil Bringer's glow dimming to barely a whisper of blue. "Why don't we do something? “  He shifted in his seat, watching her carefully. "Could head to the old spot in Capulet and bring some flowers. Kyrie's been wanting to hear more stories about her anyway ."

Nero let the suggestion hang in the air, knowing how Nico got secretly prissy about such stuff. "And if you want, I could ask Morrison to pass it on to Dante. No pressure though - just if you want him there. Figure he might have some stories, you know , from back then." He deliberately kept his tone casual, knowing both Nico and Dante shared that same stubborn pride about showing vulnerability.

The van's headlights cut through the evening dark, and Nero could see Nico's knuckles tighten on the steering wheel. For a moment, he thought she might brush it off with another joke, but instead she just nodded once, quick and sharp.  

"Yeah," she said finally, voice slightly coarse. "Yeah, that might be good. Around Noon on Saturday? It’s our day of all and stuff. But... none of those fancy bouquets. Granny Nell would've hated that shit. Just some wild ones, maybe ."  Her smile turned genuine, if a bit wobbly. "And hell, might as well bring them prototype shells I been cookin' up. Been itchin' to see how they perform anyway. Old lady always said ain't no better way to honor a gunsmith than lettin' their work sing, ya feel me?"

Nero felt a small grin tug at his lips despite the heavy mood. "Heh, testing new gear at a graveyard. Sounds about right for us." He leaned back in his seat, tilting his head to look at the young mechanic. "Fair warning - if these shells blow up in my face like that last batch, I'm definitely telling Nell's spirit it was your fault." The joke earned him a half-hearted swat from Nico as they began to pull up in the garage, but he caught the way her shoulders relaxed slightly.

The van rolled to a stop in front of the garage, tires crunching on loose gravel. Nico yanked the handbrake with more force than strictly necessary, the metal ratcheting loudly in the evening quiet. The young hands stayed wrapped around the steering wheel, fingers drumming an uneven rhythm before she finally twisted the key. The engine stuttered, coughed, and then died, leaving them in a silence broken only by the ticking of cooling metal and the distant hum of Fortuna’s night traffic.

Nero pushed himself up from the passenger seat, joints popping after the long drive. The shadows danced across the van's interior as he reached for the door handle. "See ya tomorrow then.”

He was halfway out, when her voice stopped him. “Hey, Nero," Nico's voice was uncharacteristically soft as he spun around to face her. "Thanks. For... y'know." She adjusted her glasses, a nervous tic he'd learned to recognize. "Just don't go spreadin' it around that I got all sentimental. Got a reputation to maintain."

"What, you mean batshit insane?" Nero smirked but kept his tone gentle. "Pretty sure that's safe."

"Damn straight," Nico  managed a weak laugh, finally releasing her death grip on the steering wheel. “ Now get outta here before Kyrie thinks I finally managed to crash us into the ocean. And tell her thanks for savin' me some of that casserole!"

Nero nodded, letting the door swing shut with its familiar squeal of protesting hinges. Through the window, he could see Nico reaching for her notebook, probably sketching out whatever new idea had sprung through her thoughts on the drive. Some things never changed.

Kyrie had been all but understanding when Nero told her about his plan, interlacing fingers with him on the  table.  The kids had long gone to bed, leaving the couple in the privacy of the faint amber glow of the kitchen. “ I think that’s a wonderful idea, Nero.”

"Yeah?" Nero's voice came out softer than intended. "I mean, I know it's not exactly a normal family outing, visiting the grave of your friend's grandmother who made your uncle's guns, but..."

"Since when has your family done anything normally?" Kyrie's thumb brushed over his knuckles. "Nico talks about Nell Goldstein all the time. I can tell it means a lot to her."

Nero nodded, thinking about how Nico's eyes lit up whenever she discussed gun mechanics and her fierce pride when she mentioned learning from her grandmother's notes. "She's never been to the memorial. She said she wasn't ready before, but..." He trailed off, remembering Nico's absent gaze earlier.

"And Dante?"

" I, uh… haven’t got round to asking him yet.” Nero faltered, shifting in his chair.

"Ah." Kyrie's expression softened with understanding. “ Did you want me to…” her voice trailed off as she caught sight of Nero’s expression.

Nero's lips quirked in a half-smile. "Ask him for me? Nah, I... I should do it. It's just..." He looked down at their interlaced fingers.

Kyrie waited, her steady presence encouraging him to continue.

"It's weird, you know? Everyone talks about Dante like he's this legend. The Son of Sparda, greatest devil hunter alive. But sometimes I forget he was just..." He let out a short laugh as his thoughts trailed off. "And there’s all the shit he’s carrying with Nell, and-."

"Like you carried what happened to Credo?"  As soon as the words left her lips, interrupting him, Kyrie's shoulders tensed slightly - that unconscious movement she always had when Credo's name passed between them. Her fingers, still intertwined with Nero's, twitched once before steadying.

Nero's breath caught. "That's... that's different."

"Is it?" Kyrie's voice was soft but unflinching. "You both lost people who helped shape you. Who believed in you when you needed it most."

Nero's throat tightened, that familiar burn starting behind his eyes that he always tried to fight. "Yeah, well—" His voice came out rougher than intended, and he had to stop, swallowing hard against the sudden thickness in his throat. The kitchen light seemed to blur at the edges as he stared at their joined hands. He could feel it coming - that wave of emotion he'd gotten better at handling over the years but still sometimes caught him off guard. His breathing hitched slightly, as it always did when he was trying to hold back.

He pulled his hand from Kyrie's, running it roughly through his hair.  The first tear caught him by surprise, hot against his cheek. He swiped at it angrily, but more followed. "Shit. I just... I'm tired of of it all.” His voice dropped to a whisper. "Credo died thinking he had to protect us. Dante spent years fucking lying to me, watching me wonder..."

Nero trailed off, throat too tight to continue. He felt Kyrie's arms wrap around his shoulders, pulling him closer. "You know," she spoke softly,  "I used to be angry too. Not just about losing him but about how it happened. All those grand plans the Order had, all those ideals they taught us... and in the end, my brother's simple faith in doing what was right mattered most."

Nero's jaw tightened, that old guilt flickering across his features. "Kyrie..."

"No, you listen." Her grip on his hand strengthened. "Credo chose to protect us. And…”, Kyrie paused testing the correct weight of her words. “ And I think…deep down, you know Dante was trying to do the right thing too.”

Nero’s hand clenched slightly.  The muscles in Nero's forearm tensed visibly, a tremor running through his clenched fist. “ Look where that got us.”

“Got us?" Kyrie repeated quietly, her thumb still moving steadily across his knuckles even as they whitened with tension. "You mean get you a family? People who love you?" There was no accusation in her tone, just that gentle persistence she'd always had, even when facing his anger.

Nero's breath hitched sharply, caught between a scoff and something more vulnerable. "A family that's  busy fuckin’ try to kill one another and—" He broke off, the tremor in his hand intensifying.

"Can't even what?" Kyrie pressed softly, though her eyes suggested she already knew.

"Can't even give a rat’s ass talk to each other!" The words burst out of him, raw and incensed, not at Kyrie… but, hell, Nero wasn’t even sure who they were directed at. "Can't ask Dante  more about Nell without worrying it'll break him. Can't ask about Vergil  where the fuck he was for nearly twenty four years of my life. Can't—" His voice cracked. "Can't ever seem to get past all these walls everyone's built to keep each other out."

Kyrie's eyes softened with understanding, but there was a firmness in her posture that showed she wasn't backing down. Her free hand moved to cover their already joined ones, creating a gentle cage around his trembling fist. "And what walls are you building right now?" she asked quietly, the question landing with precision despite her gentle tone.

"Kyrie..." Nero’s  voice came out rough, caught between gratitude and grief. The trembling in his hand began to still under her steady grip, his fingers slowly uncurling from their tight fist. There was something profound in how she didn't try to dismiss his anger or tell him to let it go - instead acknowledging it, sharing it, making space for it alongside her own.

A tear slipped down her cheek, but she didn't move to wipe it away, keeping both hands firmly wrapped around his. "You're allowed to be angry, Nero, just as I am and… and was.” Kyrie’s eyes softened as she took in her boyfriend’s red-rimmed eyes. “ But maybe Dante needs someone to guide him too.”

Kyrie paused, watching Nero’s expressions morph, as she slowly withdrew her hand, finally wiping at her loose tear. She sniffled slightly, clearing her throat, before getting up and turning her back from Nero. “ There’s some  chicken and potato casserole leftover in the fridge if you want some, and-“her words were trailed off as she felt two arms reach around her.

“ and, how  the hell do you always know the right thing to say?", Nero's voice was rough but gentle against her hair, his arms tightening slightly around her waist.

Kyrie let out a small, watery laugh, letting herself lean back against his chest. "I don't," she admitted softly, her hands coming up to rest over his arms.

The phone call to Dante would have to wait until the morning.

“  Devil May Cry?”

Nero tensed slightly at the familiar, crisp tone at the other end of the receiver.

“ Vergil… is Dante around?” Nero asked, trying to keep his voice steady as he toyed with the hallway phone’s coil.

“ Nero?”

"Yeah," Nero confirmed, something in his father's uncertain tone making his grip tighten on the receiver.

“ I see…” Vergil paused, and Nero could almost see him searching for the right words, his usual precise vocabulary failing him. “ Your unc-“, there was another  brief pause, evidently uncertain on that particular address. “ Dante is out on a particular job at the moment which requires his… current attention. May I pass on a message for you?”

Nero's shoulders stiffened, a faint blush creeping up his neck as he felt Kyrie's concerned gaze on him from her standing in the living room threshold. He shifted his weight, free hand clenching and unclenching at his side as he wrestled with the words.

"Yeah, uh-" he started, then cleared his throat, trying to steady his voice. "There's... there's going to be a memorial. For Nell Goldstein." His voice roughened slightly on her name. "This Saturday. Nico’s coming and  I thought... well, figured he'd want to know, since she made Ebony and Ivory and all."

The silence on the other end of the line stretched just long enough to make Nero's stomach twist. When Vergil finally spoke, his voice carried an unfamiliar note - something almost gentle beneath its usual precision.

“ Nell?”

Nero's fingers tightened around the coiled cord, tangling it further as the knot in his stomach grew. Of course Vergil wouldn't really know who she was - why would he? Again, what the hell did those two even talk about in the underworld for all those months when they weren’t fighting? Did they just sit in silence for hours and then try and rip one another’s heads off again, and then repeat? The awkwardness of that thought hit him full force.

"Yeah, she was..." he trailed off, suddenly uncertain how to explain the significance of a gunsmith he'd never met to a father who'd spent most of his life away from Dante. “ She was someone  important to Dante.”

He let the words hang there, feeling increasingly foolish. Kyrie moved closer, her presence a quiet support as he waited through another brief pause.

"I... understand," Vergil said finally, his tone suggesting he was processing more than just the basic information.

"It’s gonna be on Saturday at noon," Nero continued, his voice softer, trying to move past the moment. "At the new cemetery in Capulet. The one by the…” He stopped, realising directions meant nothing to the man who spent most of his time relying on opening the very dimensions of space to get places. “ Yeah, just let Dante know that.”

Vergil replied, his voice regaining some of its usual measured control though something lingered beneath it. "I will ensure Dante receives the information."

Nero unconsciously nodded. “ Yeah…thanks for that.”

"Was there..." Vergil's voice held an unusual hesitation, like someone testing unfamiliar ground. "Is there anything else you needed to..." He trailed off, the attempt at extending the conversation hanging awkwardly between them.

The unexpected effort made Nero pause, his hand stilling on the phone cord. It was strange hearing Vergil  fumble for words like this.

"Nah, that's... that's it," Nero managed, his own voice softening slightly in response to his father's uncharacteristic uncertainty. "Just... yeah. Thanks."

"Very well." A pause. "Take care, Nero."

Nero stared at the phone for a long moment after the line went dead, caught between disbelief and... something else he wasn't quite ready to name. It was such a small thing - just a slightly awkward attempt at a normal phone call ending - but coming from Vergil, it felt massive.

He shook his head, a mix of amusement and exasperation crossing his features. "Take care," he muttered to himself, mimicking his father's formal tone before letting out a short laugh.

Still... it was an attempt.

Nico stood nearly shoulder to shoulder with Nero, her usual energetic presence subdued. Her hands clutched a mismatched bunch of purple wildflowers - chicory and thistle she'd gathered from the roadside a few miles back, their sturdy stems wrapped in a worn leather strap from her workshop.  Nero didn’t question why the young mechanic had decided not to bring her prototypes which he’d caught his eye on in the back of the van, but in a way, he was glad not to be playing guinea pig for once.

The young devil hunter noticed Nico dress up, at least for her standards – she had even attempted to smooth down her wild curls - but somehow, the engine grease under her nails and the scuffed boots felt more fitting, really.

He felt Kyrie’s hand snake around his arm, her warmth steadying against the chill of the December air. She'd been by  Nero's side since they arrived, understanding without words that this moment belonged primarily to Nico, but her presence was an anchor for both of them. The songstress’ other hand held a small hymnal - a touch of Fortuna's traditions she'd thought might bring some grace to this improvised memorial. Hell, Nero was certain he’d seen Nico tear up a little when Kyrie began to sing, and in a way, the young devil hunter couldn’t help but feel swelling pride for that.

Nero glanced down at her lithe fingers against his  coat sleeve, then back to Nico, who was still fidgeting with the wildflower stems.

"Those are perfect, you know."

Dante's unusually calm voice cut through the afternoon haze. The trio turned to where he appeared almost silently beside them—no dramatic entrance, no swagger, just quiet footsteps on the cemetery path. His coat was clean, his hair surprisingly tidier than usual, and there was something different in his bearing—a gentle gravity that made him look surprisingly older.

Nero's gaze snapped to a flash of blue out of the corner of his eye, something in his chest tightening at what it implied. Of course, Vergil would be here too - just choosing to keep his distance and watching from the shadows as always. But the fact that he'd come at all was a surprise more than anything.

His attention returned to Dante, taking in the devil hunter’s uncharacteristically subdued appearance.  Dante’s eyes were fixed on the purple flowers in Nico's hands, a small, sad smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "She used to keep bunches of those in her workshop. Said anything else were  too pansy for a workshop.”

Nico's fingers stilled on the stems, her shoulders tensing momentarily before relaxing. She didn't look up at Dante, but her lips quirked in a wobbly smile, somewhere between pride and grief. "Yeah?" Her voice was rougher than usual, thick with emotion she was trying to keep in check. "Sounds about right. I don’t remember much… but we used to go out collectin' them in parkland, even when she got real busy with work." She cleared her throat, thumb brushing over a thistle's spiny leaves. "Said she liked how they grew wherever they damn well pleased, no matter how many times people tried to pull 'em up."

Dante's smile deepened with a flash of old memories, and he stepped closer, careful to keep his movements gentle, like approaching a spooked animal. "That was Nell alright. Used to say the same thing about her guns - that they weren't meant to be pretty showpieces. They were meant to work, to last.”

He paused, studying Nico's profile with an expression that was both distant and present. "She'd  be so proud of you, you know, Nico ."

Nico's head snapped up at that, her eyes wide and startled, meeting Dante's gaze for the first time since he'd arrived. The tough facade she'd been maintaining cracked just a little, and she quickly looked back down at the flowers, blinking rapidly. Her throat worked for a moment before she managed a gruff, "Ya think so?"

Nero found himself staring at the devil hunter, caught off guard.

The young mechanic shifted her weight, boots scuffing against the ground. When she spoke again, her voice was barely above a whisper, rough with emotion. "Thanks, Dante. That... that means a lot. “ Her fingers traced over the leather strap holding the flowers, a nervous gesture that reminded Nero so much of the way she fidgeted with her tools when she was working through something difficult.

The young devil hunter watched Dante’s expression gaze turn slightly distant at the sight of the headstone, and Nero found himself pausing, wondering what to do. Finally he settled on awkwardly reaching out and placing a hand on Dante’s shoulder.

For a moment, Dante tensed slightly  by the touch, as if pulled from somewhere far away. Then his usual mask started to slide back into place - but stopped halfway, settling instead into something more genuine. He glanced at Nero's hand, then at his nephew, with a small quirk of his lips that held more warmth than his usual cocky grins.

"You would've liked her too, kid," he said to Nero, voice slightly coarse.

“ Yeah?”

"Yeah." Dante shifted his weight, that same nostalgic warmth still lingering in his expression. "She had this way of seeing right through people's bullshit. Probably would've called you out on your hot-headed stunts faster than Lady does." His lips twitched. "But she also knew when somebody's heart was in the right place. Would've appreciated how you look out for people, even when you're being a pain in the ass about it."

The last part came with a hint of his usual teasing tone, but there was something else underneath it - a touch of pride, maybe even regret - that made Nero's usual sharp retort die in his throat. Instead, he just gave the devil hunter’s shoulder a slight squeeze before letting his hand drop, not quite sure how to handle this version of Dante who had been so open about… well, anything at all.

A gentle voice drifted over from behind them. "I'll wait in the van," Kyrie said softly,  as she planted a small kiss on his cheek. There was understanding in her tone - the kind that showed she knew exactly when to give space, even while making sure they knew she was still there if needed.  All he could do was nod in understanding as her fingers slipped away from his. Kyrie’s  footsteps were already retreating across the grass

Nico glanced between the grave and Kyrie's departing figure, then cleared her throat, still holding onto the flowers. "Yeah, uh, I should… I think I need to keep an eye on her.”

Nero’s expression softened. “ You sure, Nico?  Cause we can-“
“ Nah”, the young mechanic muttered as she bent down and put the flowers on the headstone, staring briefly at her grandmother’s name with watery eyes before sniffling and getting back up, adjusting her glasses with slightly trembling fingers. "I'm good. Just... thanks for coming with me. All  of you." She managed a wobbly smile, more vulnerable than her usual wild grins. "Granny would've gotten a kick out of this whole mess of demon hunters at her grave."

Nero watched her turn and follow after Kyrie, her steps quick but unsteady, like she was trying hard not to run. He recognized that need to retreat when emotions got too raw -  hell, he'd done it enough times himself. Still, he couldn't help but call after her, "Hey, Nico?"

She paused but didn't turn around, shoulders tense.

“ Y’know I am here… when you want to talk.”

Her only response was a quick nod before she continued walking, but Nero caught the way she wiped at her face with her sleeve as she went.

A silence settled over the cemetery as Nico's footsteps faded away, leaving both devil-hunters standing before the headstone. The wind rustled through nearby trees, carrying the faint sound of Nico's voice from the direction of the van - probably already launching into some story with Kyrie to distract herself.

He glanced sidelong at the devil hunter, trying to read whether Dante had noticed his twin's presence. Of course he had - Dante always knew when Vergil was around. But his expression remained focused on the headstone, that unusual gravity still present in his features.

After a long moment, Dante let out a soft exhale. "Hell, kid," he said, tilting his head slightly as if considering something, "Do you wanna know how I met Nell?"

The question caught Nero off guard - Dante rarely volunteered information about his past without being pressed. He looked at his uncle carefully, weighing his response. “ Yeah ," he said finally, keeping his voice neutral. "I mean… yeah, I’d like to know."

"She threw a wrench at my head. Helluva a good throw. Always reckoned she should’ve gone professional." Dante said, and there was that familiar hint of amusement in his voice now. "Called me an ‘ insufferable brat’  and told me if I was gonna break my guns, I'd better learn to fix them myself because she had better things to do than clean up after another reckless kid.”

Despite himself, Nero snorted. "Guess some things run in the family," he said, thinking of how many times Nico had threatened to brain him with whatever tool was closest when he brought back damaged equipment turned to mush. Then something clicked. "Wait, how old were you?"

“ Dunno, I kinda lost track of the years in between. I was young though, way too young, really. ” Dante shrugged, but his expression grew more distant.” Still thinking I was hot stuff just 'cause I could shoot straight and had a fancy coat." He huffed out a laugh, though there was something heavier behind it now. "Nell saw right through it. Made me take apart and rebuild every  damned gun I brought her until I understood how they worked - said if I was gonna play at being a professional, I'd better damn well know my tools."

Nero stayed quiet, knowing better than to comment on the 'Tony' days, before finally clearing his throat. “ Is that how…” his voice trailed off as his eyes lingered on Ebony and Ivory peaking out from Dante’s holster.

"Yeah," Dante nodded, one hand unconsciously resting on Ivory's grip. "These were her last masterpieces. Custom-built them for me after..." He paused, seeming to weigh his words. "After a particularly bad job. Kept complaining, then she passed it off as being tired of watching me run around with shitty equipment when I was 'actually starting to show some promise.'" His laugh this time was softer, tinged with old grief. "Spent months perfecting them. Wouldn't let me see them until they were exactly right."

He drew Ivory out, holding it with a reverence Nero rarely saw from his uncle. "Perfect balance, perfect weight. She knew exactly what I needed before I did." A beat of silence. "Found out later she'd been sick as hell while making them. Still insisted on finishing them herself."

"She sounds like she was one hell of a woman," Nero said quietly, understanding now why these particular guns never seemed to leave Dante's side, no matter what other devil arms came and went.

"Yeah, she was something else," Dante agreed, carefully holstering Ivory again. "Tough as nails. Never took shit from anyone - especially not some cocky kid who thought he knew everything." His smile turned rueful. "She was one of the first people, I guess. who..." He trailed off, then tried again. "Who gave a damn, I guess. About whether I lived or died. Didn't just see me as a useful weapon or a potential threat."

"Think that's why you kept coming back?" he asked carefully, watching his uncle's profile. "Even when she was riding your ass about proper gun maintenance?" He let a slight teasing note enter his voice at the end, trying to ease some of the heaviness in the air.

Dante was quiet for a long moment, his hand still resting on Ivory's grip. His voice had that same gentle gravity when he finally spoke, but there was something else there too - a hint of regret, of recognition. "Yeah, maybe she would be. Though she'd probably still find plenty to lecture me about." He turned slightly to face Nero, his expression more serious than usual. "You know... she used to give me hell about pushing people away. Said I had a bad habit of keeping everyone at arm's length, acting like I didn't need anyone." A pause, weighted with meaning. "Guess some lessons take longer to learn than others."

His eyes met Nero's, and there was one of the most awkward apologies Nero had ever seen right there - for all the years of distance, for walking away in Fortuna, and that drunken night all those years ago. Nero felt something in his chest tighten, a complex mix of emotions he wasn't quite ready to name. The apology was classic Dante - roundabout and wrapped in layers of self-deprecating humor - but it was genuine. And somehow, standing here in this quiet cemetery with the devil hunter  being more honest than he'd ever seen him, it felt both lacking and enough at the same time.

Nero took a step back, clearing his throat and staring intently at a particularly interesting patch of ground. “ I, uh.. how long is he going to keep staring at us?”

"You know, Vergil," Dante called out, his voice carrying that particular brand of infuriating amusement that only he could manage, "if you wanna a group hug,  you could just join us instead of lurking in the shadows like some knockoff glowlight."

The temperature around them dropped several degrees as Vergil materialized from behind him in a flash of blue light, his expression caught somewhere between a scowl and what might have been an embarrassment at being caught watching, though he'd probably instead fall on Yamato  again than admit it. “ I was merely ensuring you did wander astray.”

Dante let out a snort, but bit back his usual quip.

The dark slayer's eyes wandered slightly to Nero, and if Nero didn't want the ground to swallow him whole, he didn't know what else would.  Great. Just great. If it wasn’t bad enough that he felt awkward enough with Dante, he was now reminded that he’d had a one-man audience least of all from Vergil. The young devil hunter tried to fight off his blush, feeling heat creep up his neck despite his best efforts.

"Aww, look at you two," Dante finally broke, slinging an arm around each of their shoulders and nearly getting stabbed for his trouble. "Having a real father-son moment. Should I take a picture? Frame it, maybe?" His grin was shit-eating as he dodged Vergil's half-hearted swipe.

"Dante." Vergil's voice carried a warning that could've frozen hell itself.

"What's wrong, Verge? Getting camera shy?" Dante's eyes glinted with mischief as he circled his brother.

Vergil's jaw tightened, his grip on Yamato white-knuckled. "You're testing my patience."

Nero rolled his eyes. "And here I thought I was supposed to be the kid." He crossed his arms, looking between his father and uncle with an expression of pure done-with-this-shit. "You're both literally older than dirt, but hell forbid you should have an actual conversation."

"I resent that comparison," Vergil replied coolly, though there was an unmistakable glint of amusement in his eyes. "Dirt is far less... refined."

"Well would you look at that," Dante recovered, his grin returning full force as he elbowed his twin. "Vergil actually told a joke. Guess you weren't born with that stick up your ass after all, bro."

"Die," Vergil bit out, but there was something off in his tone.

Dante rolled his eyes with a grin that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “ Feeling’s mutual, brother.”

"Bullshit," Nero cut in sharply, making both twins turn to him in surprise.

"Don't know what you're talking about, kid," Dante tried to wave it off with a practiced smirk, but there was tension in his shoulders. "Think you've been watching too many of those soap operas Kyrie -"

"Save it." Nero's voice was flat. “ You still have that photo don’t you? The one by your bed?”

The silence that followed was damning. Dante's smirk flickered, died, then resurfaced with visible effort. “ How the hell do you-“

“ Remember that night I dragged you back to the office ?”, Nero pressed on, watching Dante pale slightly, and Vergil shooting his brother a barely masked curious gaze." You were barely able to stand up," Nero said quietly, watching something vulnerable flash across Dante's face.

He trailed off, noting how Vergil had gone completely still.

"You were too out of it to make it upstairs. Let me use your room instead." Nero's eyes fixed on Dante, who was no longer even attempting to smile. "That's when I saw it. The photo on your nightstand. You, Vergil, and..."

"Mother." Vergil's voice was barely audible, but it cut through the air like a blade. "You kept it," Vergil said after a long moment, something unreadable in his expression. "All these years."

"Yeah, well." Dante's laugh was hollow. "Needed something to remind me what an insufferable brat you were even back then."

"Says the one who spent the entire day throwing around my chess set—"

"Yeah, because you wouldn't stop —"They both stopped abruptly, as if burned by the memory. The easy bickering that had slipped out so naturally made the decades of blood and violence between them feel suddenly, painfully stark.

"Right," Nero cut in, his voice sharp. "Let's do that thing again where you both clam up when real feelings are involved. Real healthy."

"Kid—" Dante started, but Nero wasn't finished.

"No, go on.” Nero spat, feeling the rising pain and anger from years of keeping it tethered unleashing to the surface. “ Argue about chess pieces like you didn't spend years trying to kill each other. Like one of you didn't fuckin rip off my arm. Like the other  made me think he was my dad for years and never saying a damn word."

The smile slipped completely from Dante's face. For once, he looked his age, worn and tired. "I thought I was protecting you."

"Protecting me?" Nero's voice cracked. "By what, letting me think maybe, just maybe, I wasn't completely alone? That maybe my father actually gave a damn about me?"

Vergil went rigid at that, something complicated and pained crossing his features before disappearing behind his usual mask.

"What was I supposed to say?" Dante's voice was tight. "Hey kid, your dad's my twin brother who's probably dead after falling into hell? The same one who—" He cut himself off, but the weight of unspoken violence hung heavy in the air.

"So you let him believe it was you?" There was something lethal in Vergil's tone now. "You would claim my—"

"I didn't claim anything," Dante snapped. "I just... didn't deny it."

"Because that's so much better," Nero cut in.

"It wasn't that simple," Dante said quietly.

"Simple?" Nero barked out a laugh. "No shit it wasn't simple. Nothing ever is with this family. But you know what would've been? The truth. Just once, just—" His voice cracked. "Just someone actually telling me the truth."

The silence stretched, heavy with decades of secrets and missed chances. Vergil's hand tightened on Yamato's hilt, his knuckles white with tension.

"You're right." Dante's voice was rough. No deflection, no humor. Just tired honesty. "I screwed up. Kept thinking there'd be a right time, a better way to tell you. Then suddenly years had passed and..." He shook his head. "I was a coward."

"Don't," Nero's voice was sharp. "Don't do that thing where you admit to just enough to make it seem like you're being honest."

"Then what do you want me to say?"

"I want you to tell me why!" Nero exploded. "Why drop all those fucking  hints if you were just going to—" He cut himself off, breathing hard.

"Because it would've been easier if you were mine. If I could've—" He stopped, ran a hand down his face. "

Vergil made a sound then, something between a snarl and an intake of breath. His grip on Yamato was white-knuckled, but there was something almost vulnerable in the way he held himself, like he was bracing for a blow.

"Instead of what?" Nero's voice was dangerous, quiet. "Instead of him? Instead of telling me my father was alive somewhere out there, not giving a damn about—"

"He didn't know," Dante cut in sharply, and for once there was no trace of his usual easy manner. "Whatever else Vergil's done, he didn't know about you. That's on me. All of it."

"How generous of you," Vergil's voice was acid. "Taking responsibility for my sins as well as yours."

"Don't," Dante's voice held an edge now. "Don't make this about us. About our fight. This was about him."

"Was it?" Vergil's words cut like steel. "Or was it about your endless need to save everyone, brother? To play the hero?"

"At least I was there!" The words exploded from Dante. "At least I tried to—"

"To what? Replace me?" There was something desperate beneath Vergil's fury now. "To step into a role that was never yours?"

"No one was replacing anyone," Nero cut in, his voice raw. "That's the whole damn point. You weren't there, and he—" He gestured at Dante, "—he just let me believe whatever I wanted because it was easier than telling me the truth. And now you're both standing here arguing about who gets to feel worse about it."

The silence stretched, heavy with the weight of truth none of them could take back. Finally, Vergil's Dante let out a long breath, shoulders sagging. "Yeah. He did."

"I don't want your guilt," Nero said quietly. "Either of yours. I just..." He shook his head. "I want some damned truths. Just… stop. Stop turning everything into a competition about who failed worse."

The twins exchanged a look – something passing between them that spoke of shared childhood memories and decades of rivalry.

"Old habits," Dante murmured, a ghost of his usual smile touching his lips.

"Indeed," Vergil agreed, and for once, there was no bite in his voice. Just exhaustion, and perhaps something like acceptance. His hand fell from Yamato's hilt, a gesture of surrender so subtle it might have been missed.

"You deserved better," he said, the words coming out stiff and halting. "From both of us."

Nero shifted his weight, caught between the urge to leave and something else – something that kept him rooted to the spot. "Yeah, well... what's done is done, right?"

"Perhaps," Vergil said slowly, as if testing each word. "But what's done need not... dictate what comes next."

Dante's eyebrows rose slightly at that, a flicker of surprise crossing his features before he masked it.

"What exactly are you suggesting, brother?"

Vergil's jaw tightened, but he forced himself to continue. "We cannot change the past. But moving forward..." He glanced at Nero, then quickly away. "If you wish to know more about your heritage, about our family—"

"You'd tell me?" Nero's voice was sharp with disbelief. "Just like that?"

"It would not be 'just like that,'" Vergil admitted. "But I would... try."

The silence stretched between them, thick with decades of unspoken words. Nero found himself fidgeting with the sleeve of his coat, torn between pressing forward and retreating from this unexpected vulnerability.

"Right," he said finally, voice rough. "Right, okay. So maybe we could..." He paused, almost backing down, then pushed through. "Look, there's this pizza place that just opened up near the orphanage. Kyrie says it's good. We could, I don't know, maybe meet there sometime? Talk about... whatever."

He winced internally at how juvenile it sounded – suggesting pizza like some kind of awkward peace offering.

Dante's face lit up with familiar mischief, though something softer lurked beneath. "Pizza? Now you're speaking my language, kid."

"Of course that would be your primary concern," Vergil muttered, but the words lacked their usual edge. He hesitated, then gave a slight nod. "That would be... acceptable."

"Yeah?" Nero couldn't quite keep the surprise out of his voice. "I mean, good. That's... good."

He hesistated before flickering his eyes to the entrance of the cemetery. "I should probably head back," Nero said, scuffing his boot against the damp cemetery grass. "Kyrie is waiting, and , uh. Nico's probably ready to drive through the headstones if I make her wait any longer."

He turned to leave, the afternoon mist  starting to curl around the grave markers, then stopped. A memory of something Dante had mentioned earlier nagged at him. He glanced back with a growing smirk.

"Hey, Dante... you remember drinking some guy under the table? The one wrapped in bandages like a mummy?" His eyes slid meaningfully toward Vergil. " Turns out a bit of diggin’ from Patty and Morrison can do a world of good. That wouldn't happen to be related to someone calling themselves 'Gilver,' would it?"

Dante's expression froze. Behind him, the marble angel they'd been standing near seemed to witness Vergil's hastily suppressed snort.

"That's, uh..." Dante cleared his throat, suddenly very interested in a nearby tombstone. "That's a story for another time, kid."

"Really? Because Morrison also mentioned that one time you fought a mo—"

"Time to go!" Dante practically shouted, his voice echoing inappropriately across the quiet cemetery. "Don't you have somewhere to be?"

Nero left with a grin. For once, among all these endings, it felt like a real beginning.