It changed everything. Dante leaned against the wall in his son's room, watching him sleep, wondering if he hoped Dorian would wake up or that he'd stay asleep for a while and let this sink in. Beside him, Vergil watched, his hands relaxed at his sides.

Dante wanted to laugh. A kid. He shows up looking for a job and finds his brother raising his kid. And all he could think was I told Mundus to say hello to my son, but I didn't think I'd actually have one.

And speaking of Mundus, how did...? Dante glanced over at Vergil, who was watching him, and decided it probably wasn't the best time to ask. Oh, by the way, how did you escape the control of that angry demon who had you brainwashed, anyway?

"How did you end up with him?" Dante asked instead. "I never thought you'd have anything to do with any kids of mine, if you were even alive..."

Vergil stiffened and looked away, his gaze eventually falling on the sleeping boy. "He was five months old and in an orphanage, and I didn't think that any grandson of Sparda deserved to be raised in ignorance of his heritage. He's part devil, after all, and it does make a difference."

"How do you know he's mine, then? If he was in an orphanage like you said, then it's not like he'd have a dad listed on his birth certificate."

"Can't you smell him?"

Dante shook his head. "Should I smell him? I don't think it's going to go over well if I just stroll over and bury my nose in his hair." It made sense, though, that Vergil would be able to smell something in Dorian that identified him, since Vergil spent twenty years in hell. He would have probably learned a lot of things about his demonic side that Dante never had.

Vergil smirked, probably having the same thought. "He smells like you. It's not as potent, but it's there. That's how I found him."

"Does he know?"

Vergil nodded. "I doubt he would have fought you in the study like that if he hadn't known exactly who you are."

Dorian stirred, and Dante shut his mouth, watching as the kid moaned, then sighed. "Uncle Vergil?"

"I'm right here," Vergil replied, moving to stand closer to the bed so Dorian could see him. "How do you feel?"

"Like someone stabbed me in the heart with a sword," Dorian answered. "Am I gonna be able to get up from this one?"

"I think that if you were going to die, you would have done so already. You should rest now, Dorian. The sleep will help your body heal."

"I'm sorry I started a fight inside the house."

"I think I can overlook it. Once."

Dorian smiled, his eyes drifting closed. Vergil didn't say anything else, turning to walk out the door, leaving the maid in charge again. Dante knew without having to be told that if he wanted to talk at all, he had to follow Vergil. He glanced at the boy sleeping on the bed and sighed, then turned to follow his brother outside.

"Guess that means you're going to tell me what I need to do, right?" Dante asked dully, remembering how his brother used to love bossing him around.

But Vergil just raised an eyebrow. "No," he replied. "Since you're here, and the maid said it was about a job, I can assume you're out of one. I'll let you stay, if that's what you want—but I suggest that you think of your son before you make a decision. If you stay, then you're making an effort to be a father to him. If you go, then I hope you do it before Dorian wakes up."

Like Dante could make a decision to stay without thinking of the boy in the next room. Vergil was right, he did need the job, and even though he hadn't been told what it was, he could at least try to adjust. And he knew without Vergil telling him that if he walked out now, he'd never get a chance to know the kid he accidentally fathered.

And if Vergil could raise a baby, Dante could definitely handle an adult. He nodded his head, signaling that he'd stay. At least for a little while.

Vergil called for another maid—how many people did he have in this household, anyway? "My brother's going to be staying with us for a while. Please take his things to the room across from Dorian's."

"Yes, sir."

Vergil didn't seem too eager to start a conversation, and Dante floundered in the silence for a few minutes. He and his brother hadn't always been enemies—he remembered that they'd been best friends as kids, and up until their mother died, they did everything together. He remembered that Vergil had grown up quickly, stepping into their father's over sized shoes when he'd finally gotten too old to go on. It wasn't until their mom died that Vergil changed.

You just left one day, Dante wanted to say to his brother. You didn't even wait to say goodbye, and the next time I saw you, you just wanted to fight.

But he didn't. "I suppose you told him that I didn't want him, didn't you?"

"I didn't say anything. When he got old enough to ask, I told him that I didn't know who his mother was and that I wasn't sure if you knew about him or not. I said we hadn't spoken since we were young and that there wasn't anything else to tell. Eventually he stopped asking about you."

"No offense, Verg, but you don't seem like the type of guy to just raise a kid. I know you were always yelling about responsibility and all that, but you didn't have any obligation..."

"I was obligated because he's my nephew. In the absence of his parents, shouldn't his well-being fall to the next of kin? I was the only family he had that knew anything about him." His twin paused, briefly. "But I can't take credit for raising him. He had a nurse, and then a tutor when he got old enough."

"He doesn't still have a tutor?"

"All of his tutors resigned. They said there isn't anything else they can teach him."

For the first time, Dante heard a bit of pride in Vergil's voice. "So he's smart."

"And cocky, like you."

Dante grinned, carefree for the first time in the conversation. "And good-looking. He takes after me there, too."

"You haven't changed a bit."

"I can't say the same for you. Last time we met, you didn't look so great." He just said it to test his brother, really, to see how he'd feel about talking about it.

Vergil's face darkened and what had almost become playful banter between the estranged brothers stopped immediately. "I have business to take care of. Feel free to look around, but don't break anything. You'll be staying here now, so you might as well act like it."

He'd screwed up his chances again. Vergil walked past him, radiating disapproval, so wildly Dante turned around. "Hey, Verg."

Vergil stopped walking, but he didn't turn around and he didn't speak.

"Thanks. For taking care of my kid. I know we didn't exactly part on the best of terms." Any of the three times I've thought you were dead, Dante added silently.

"...You're welcome."

"There's only one thing I would've done different. Other than do it myself."

"What's that?" Vergil asked, sounding a lot like he didn't really want to know the answer.

"I wouldn't have named him Dorian."

Vergil snorted. "I know that. But if I'd picked a name with your tastes in mind, we'd be calling him Iron Man and not something decent. Good night, Dante."

"'Night, Verg." Dante didn't bother to correct his twin. He wouldn't have named his son Iron Man, or Spiderman or Superman or anything like that. There wasn't any superhero in the world who deserved the honor of having a son named after him. Ever since Dante had grown up a little, where he'd realized what his priorities should have been, he always thought that if he had a son, he'd name him after the person who meant the most to him, who'd soothed him after he had nightmares and the family member whose loss was the hardest to bear.

Vergil.

Dorian woke up with his chest burning like fire and with an attitude that he knew had probably nothing to do with the knife wound through his ribs. He groaned softly, opening his eyes and meeting the eyes of a maid that his uncle had probably asked to watch over him.

It was Janice. He tried to smile for her, but it was kind of tough, given the circumstances.

"Master Dorian, I'm glad to see you're awake. Can I get you anything?"

"Um... a glass of water, and some painkillers if I'm allowed to have them," Dorian asked. The cook and the two maids had been in the household for longer than he had, and he had a secret soft spot for his uncle's hired help. "Is my uncle still here?"

"Of course he is. Should I send him in to you?"

Dorian nodded. He knew he'd apologized earlier, but he had to do it again. His uncle had found that rug in the den on a business trip, and Dorian knew it was expensive. And he knew he'd broken one of the number one rules in the house—no fighting indoors, ever.

But Dorian had forgotten the rules when he happened to walk by the den and see that man standing there. The man he'd bothered his uncle about even though he could see that it hurt. The man he'd waited for every day until the day he turned twelve. Dorian couldn't complain about Uncle Vergil, who'd done everything for him without asking for anything in return, but he couldn't help but hope that somewhere, his father was looking for him, or at least would find him eventually.

And it took him twelve long years to realize that life wasn't a fairytale like that. People didn't just come strolling through the front door because you wanted them to and that in reality, his father probably didn't care one way or another about his existence. After that, he stopped looking and stopped wanting to meet his father.

Then, Dante Sparda had the audacity to walk through their front door and stand in the den like he didn't have a care in the world. And Dorian got angry, or worse than that, and all he wanted to do was slit his father's throat. So he'd tried.

And he'd failed. He was too weak.

Gritting his teeth against the pain and the anger flaring up inside him, he struggled to sit up.

"You shouldn't do that."

"Uncle Vergil," Dorian replied, glad to see that his only relative—well, not anymore—was still around.

Vergil held a glass of water in his hand, which he sat down on Dorian's bedside table, along with two pills. Dorian had never been gladder to see painkillers in his entire life. Turning to his nephew, Vergil helped him sit up and settle back against his pillows. "How are you feeling?" Vergil asked, handing over the water and pills at last.

Dorian shrugged. "Better, I guess. I'm sorry about bleeding on your rug."

"Rugs are replaceable, Dorian. Your life is not."

"Yes, Uncle Vergil."

"You shouldn't pick fights with people when you're not sure what they can do," Vergil lectured. "I understand that you were—are—angry, but you can't lose your head in delicate situations. You have to stay calm, focused, through the whole battle."

"I'll work harder," Dorian promised. He wasn't mad that his uncle was lecturing him—it had taken a while, but Dorian had learned that lectures and coaxing him to practice harder was his uncle's way of making sure that he could stand on his own when the time came.

A rare smile graced his uncle's face. "If he hadn't tripped, and if you hadn't allowed that daddy comment to go to your head and blind you to the battle, you might have disarmed him. You should feel proud of yourself that you have the ability to make it that far."

If his uncle was handing out compliments like that one, his swordsmanship must have been exceptional. Dorian grinned back, or tried to; it felt more like a grimace of pain. "Is he still here?" he asked.

His uncle nodded. "He wants to stay and get to know you. It's what you wanted when you were younger, isn't it?"

"People change," Dorian muttered.

"He didn't know about you, and I should have done a better job of trying to locate him. It's as much my fault as his."

Dorian scowled. Why would Uncle Vergil say that? "Fine. I'll give him a chance—but only one."

"Then I'll go get him for you. But, Dorian, do not overexert yourself, under any circumstances. Do you understand?"

He nodded, and took a deep breath and held it while his uncle went to find his father.