Cookie Divination

Vergil exited the bathroom in a cloud of steam.

He ran his hand through his hair, blinking away the droplets of water that still clung unto his eyelashes as he strode down the stairs and into the kitchen. Ignoring the pre-winters chill on his bare arms, he turned on the tap and filled a glass with water, listening to the ringing stillness of the house.

It was too quiet; he frowned decidedly.

'…So she doesn't come on Sundays.'

Vergil leaned against the wooden counter, sipping his drink and mulling over his current situation. The past week had been blessedly quiet, and aside from the routine (and silent) walk home after she cleaned the house, he had further limited their interactions to the briefest and most tedious of social necessities that consisted of 'hello', 'goodbye' and 'how are you's (all courtesy of her really, he just nodded).

He was steadily gaining confidence in the possibility that he had been mistaken in the diagnosis of their interactions, or that at the very least that this condition wasn't as binding as he had been led to believe.

The more he spent time with her, the less convinced he was that she was anything other than a normal young woman. Perhaps he was just attracted to her and had somehow blown it own of proportion, then convinced himself that something was off. Although it stung his pride somewhat (He didn't think his taste in women had fallen so low. Perhaps he needed to go out more often…) even this appealed to him better than the alternative.

That would mean that she was not a Demon Magnet.

That would mean he was not her Consort.

That would mean life was still blessedly simple – or at least as simple as life could be if one was a son of Sparda.

He sighed. Whoever decided on those particular epithets really needed more subtlety…

Vergil downed the rest of the contents of his glass and habit led him to rinse his cup before returning it to the cabinet. He needed another trip to the library… after all, he must've been really tired to accept the premise of that single days' flawed research like that.

Vergil shouldered his trench coat and caught sight of one of the carefully wrapped cookies that Kyrie had insisted on giving them. He had resisted all her attempts to get him to try some and she in turn had settled for leaving packages around the house in the hopes of tempting him.

He turned the plastic package over, feeling a small bubble of amusement at the sight of the purple monkey sticker that sealed the flap. Then, in a rare burst of mildly charitable feeling, he slid the package into his pocket to give to Scholar (which had the added bonus of getting them out of the house) before making his way out and towards the Library.

Although he made the way on foot, the day was thankfully cool with very few pedestrians. Vergil took the rarely frequented roads that eventually led to the twisting streets of the Underground, refusing to slow his pace although his muscles screamed for a rest.

It was times like this that Vergil hated most – the feeling of lingering weakness that was his constant reminder of, what Dante dubbed Vergil's possession at Mallet Island, 'The Incident'. It had been four long years ago, and although he still possessed advanced healing, its potency was no longer like the old times when even near-fatal wounds would have knit themselves up on the spot. Instead, a relentless fatigue hounded his movements, necessitating constant rest in order for him to function half as well as he once did.

"Master Vergilus," Scholar greeted, rising to his feet and beaming. He looked shabbier than usual, with his long beard tucked haphazardly in his belt along with his tattered robe that hung loosely on bony shoulders. "I hope you have found an adequate solution to your problem."

"I need more information. Run me the index on 'demon magnets'."

"As you wish." The Scholar's eyes blanked into a strange milky-whiteness as he stared into some unseen distance. There was the faintest hum of electricity on his skin and the Scholar let out a soft sigh as his eyes refocused on the taciturn man in front of him.

"We have some books that might help on Aisle TML row 43-758. Also, Aisles HKA row 92 and IFC row 79-320 posses generic scrolls, but they might help."

"Bring them all to me." Vergil inclined his head and walked off towards into his usual solitary chair and table.

The rest of the day was spent in study, silent but for the flicker of pages and the barely discernable whisper of time passing. He plodded steadily through the pile that Scholar silently left on the table, relentlessly moving from one book to the next. It wasn't until the sunlight that lit the room dimmed to a point where even his eyes had to strain themselves to see the lettering that Vergil closed his eyes with a sigh.

It had been a grueling process weeding through the information, half of which was written in other languages that needed constant cross-referencing. He had spent all day, and would have spent all night if it had not been for the lack of light. While he was not thoroughly satisfied, it had not been a wholly unsatisfying search. He had managed to dig up several reliable sources that, while longwinded and monotonous, all agreed on one thing…

'…I won't let anybody kill her but me.' He mused.

That thought made him feel a little better.

Vergil put the book down and leaned back, languorously stretching out the kinks in his shoulder. He heard a rustle of plastic within his pocket and brought out the forgotten cookie pack.

He gave it a contemplative stare, and on cue, his stomach reminded him that it had not been fed since yesterday afternoon. Funny how a week of being spoiled by home cooked food could make said appendage so greedy when it used to go without nourishment for days at a time.

Should he…? Well, she didn't have to know…

Vergil slid a nail under the seal and broke off a piece before hesitantly, and almost shiftily, putting it into his mouth.

"Master Vergilus, dusk has set in so I've brought a lantern." Scholar walked over from behind a bookshelf, carrying an armful of scrolls and parchment. "Once you've finished with these, please do not hesitate to call on me… what's this?"

Vergil swallowed without chewing. "…Cookies." He spoke gruffly, abruptly returning to his book.

Damn how that old man did not have the least sense of timing…

"Ah." There was a pregnant pause as Scholar continued to eye the package wistfully.

Vergil sighed. "Just take some already."

"I thank you." Scholar beamed and took a cookie. "My, it must have been a fine lady or gentleman who made these… someone who is very fond of the young master. I can feel the warmth and care lingering in every bite."

Vergil raised an eyebrow. "That's a new form of divination even I've never heard of."

Scholar chuckled. "When you've grown as old as I am and live as monotonous a life, you learn to appreciate the little details and enjoy the most minute of changes in them. These cookies," He took another bite, his face transforming into blissful reverie. "They make me think of sunlight, wind and clouds… ah I do miss seeing the sky."

There was a sad silence as Scholar licked the last crumbs of his fingers.

"You lie." Vergil impulsively took a cookie and bit off an edge. "I don't taste any of that at all." He nudged the package towards Scholar, poker-faced.

Scholar's gave Vergil a warm smile that said man studiously ignored, before taking another cookie. "Then tell me, what do you taste?"

Vergil let a piece rest on his tongue. "If I had to make a stab at the ingredients… Chocolate. Salt, butter, flour, baking soda –"

"No, don't dissect them piece by piece as if they have no story to tell. Tell me about their contribution. What do they tell you?"

Vergil's eyes snapped open and he gave Scholar a wordless glare that spoke volumes about just how stupid those instructions were.

"It's really not that difficult." The old man sounded unperturbed, almost cheerful. "I'll show you."

He took a bite and let out a satisfied smile. "Here we go." Scholar closed his eyes as if to better savor the taste. "Do you see? The adventurous dash of lemon suggests a great inquisitiveness…"

Vergil allowed that the citrus hint in the batter was rather curious.

…I'd say more nosiness than anything.

"…the perfect balance of sugar and salt high betrays their high regard of you."

Salt brushed past his senses, followed by a lingering sweetness.

More of a candy-coated picture of us really – how would she react if she saw us after a battle, covered with demon blood and gore?

"And of course the chocolate," He took an exaggeratedly careful bite.

Vergil allowed the bitterness-sweetness of it to dominate his mouth.

"There's a great deal of gratitude - "

How saccharine sweet.

"As well as trust,"

Naïve child.

"There's a wish for friendship…"

A wish for protection's more like it.

"And then - " The Scholar hesitated, perplexed.

"…A desire for chance?"

Vergil frowned.

No, more than that.

It was a certainty that brooked no room for opposition. A quiet, confident feeling that made it… ah, the nerve of her.

It was a promise.

Vergil crushed the remains of his cookie within his grip, ignoring Scholar's inquiring look.

"Enough of this. I'll return tomorrow – leave the books alone."

"As you say," The old man inclined his head. "However, what about the rest of your refreshments?"

"I don't know how many times I have to say it," He rose abruptly, sailing out of the room without a backward glance. "I hate sweets."

Nero dropped his head on a long-overdue pile of paper work with a thump, before pulling out a sheet of paper at random and scrawling a messy signature on it without even bothering to read its contents.

He had over-heard that Credo had been looking for him again – and piecing that together with the rumors from this morning regarding a scantily clad representative from Fortuna that wanted to tour the city - decided that it would be best to keep a down low for the time being…

And what better place to hide in than one he usually avoided like the plague?

Nero sighed as the pen blotted messily in his hand. Ah paper work. How he loathed paper work…

"Nero…?" A heavily spotted policeman peered into the cubicle, looking startled to find said man within it. "Is this where you've been all day? Credo was looking for you, you know."

"I know – why do you think I'm here anyway?" Nero waved a hand across the dusty piles that had long ago sagged in mournful neglect. "Keep it down will you."

The man snorted and leaned against the cubicle wall. "Alright, alright. Let me just pass on the message: Credo wants you to put down all your other assignments and concentrate on being Lady Gloria's guide for as long as she's here, you lucky dog."

Nero made a disgusted noise. "I've had enough of that woman."

"What? Are we talking about the same buxom goddess who was here last week?"

"Don't make me hurl…"

"I agree; not everyone is into the same type women as you are." One of the more senior policemen peered over the cubicle with a chuckle. "Smart move you're making Nero – she seems to be nothing but trouble if you ask me."

"I like my women troublesome." The other policeman spoke with a superior air.

"Whatever." Nero twirled his pen around his thumb in a lazily arc. "Do me a favor and take Gloria off my hands then."

"Whose Gloria?" A curious, distinctly feminine voice asked.

"K-Kyrie?" Nero turned around so fast he knocked a pile of papers over, as the pimply policeman quickly ducked away. "What are you doing here?"

"The question is: what are you doing here?" Kyrie cocked her head to the side and frowned slightly. "Why aren't you off on patrol? I didn't even know you had a desk… Are you feeling alright?"

The older policeman chuckled and decided to save Nero from the awkwardness of this explanation. "It's been a long time Kyrie – lovely as ever I see."

Kyrie smiled. "And you're as charming as always Ryan. How are the Stephanie and the kids?"

Nero settled back into his seat with a sigh as the two chattered pleasantries above him, dashing more signatures on the required papers without thought or care about their contents. Instead, he focused on the soothing hum of her voice – a voice he hadn't heard in almost a week, he realized with a discontented pang. He had been coming home late and leaving earlier, trying to deal with the increase in demon activity as well as attempting to avoid Credo and the chore he was sure to be assigned. It had been working so far, but had the consequence of estranging himself from the young woman.

Nero concentrated on memorizing the rise and fall of her laugh.

"…I don't know. What do you think Nero?"

"Huh?" He wrote an elaborate scribble, feigning responsibility, before glancing up.

"I just asked Kyrie if she could sing at my daughter's school fair." The policeman explained. "The missus has been worrying about finding someone to fill in for the music teacher and I remember that Kyrie has a great voice. If you could just drop by for a few minutes next Friday…"

"Do it." Nero watched Kyrie bite her lower lip thoughtfully. "You love singing and you're good with kids – I'd have thought you'd jump at the chance."

"Well, it's just that I haven't sung in so long I'm afraid I'll embarrass myself." She admitted. "But if I can help then…"

The policeman brightened. "Thanks Kyrie! I'll tell Stephanie to call you and schedule."

"You're welcome. Send them my love." She waved as he walked away.

"You'll be fine." Nero recalled the last time she had sung and had to shake off the desire that the memory evoked to get her to sing right there and then. "I'll go and cheer you on if you want."

"Will you really come?" She brightened, and he realized with some relief, that she had noticed his absence after all.

"…You do realize that you're asking me to be in a room with a bunch of brats?" Nero pretended to think it over. "Your song better be worth it."

"It's a promise then." Kyrie smiled, only to blink and frown seconds later. "Now, whose Gloria?"

AN: At long last - that stubborn half-demon consented to eat the cookie! (does happy dance)

Thank you so much to all of you who've read and reviewed - particularly to The Black Inferno Devil, Hao is Hot and Yuu-ko who have been with me from the very beginning. Thank you.