[He's tired, but it's more exhaustion than anything useful. The idea of sleep still seems treacherous after the way he woke up, so he's in no great hurry to try again. Instead he tries mentally talking himself down from the anxiousness still gripping him underneath the illness. It was just a stupid dream. He's safe here. His arm is still attached, and Urizen is...
Nero's zoned out so much he's startled by Vergil's return, lifting his head to stare at him blearily. Somehow he wasn't expecting the whole kit 'n' caboodle on the tray. Then as Vergil sinks onto the mattress, he says what is easily the most affectionate endearment he's called Nero since the moment they met: he adds a "dear" onto the usual dry, literal "child." Dear child.
The juxtaposition between that and the awful, hissing, scornful voice in his dream is almost unfathomable. He flops easily in Vergil's lap and curls up, as though trying to fit all of him under the blanket and as close to his father as he physically can. So, this is what it's like when your father takes care of you when you're sick...
You're safe here. He cares about you. He won't hurt you. You're safe.
When Vergil goes to refreh the washcloth, he can no longer hold back a loud sniffle. Maybe Vergil will write it off as part of his illness. The little dribble of tears and the red eyes, less easy to write off.]
Shit. [A very profound utterance. But he has no idea what the hell else to say that won't just make it worse.]
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Nero's zoned out so much he's startled by Vergil's return, lifting his head to stare at him blearily. Somehow he wasn't expecting the whole kit 'n' caboodle on the tray. Then as Vergil sinks onto the mattress, he says what is easily the most affectionate endearment he's called Nero since the moment they met: he adds a "dear" onto the usual dry, literal "child." Dear child.
The juxtaposition between that and the awful, hissing, scornful voice in his dream is almost unfathomable. He flops easily in Vergil's lap and curls up, as though trying to fit all of him under the blanket and as close to his father as he physically can. So, this is what it's like when your father takes care of you when you're sick...
You're safe here. He cares about you. He won't hurt you. You're safe.
When Vergil goes to refreh the washcloth, he can no longer hold back a loud sniffle. Maybe Vergil will write it off as part of his illness. The little dribble of tears and the red eyes, less easy to write off.]
Shit. [A very profound utterance. But he has no idea what the hell else to say that won't just make it worse.]