Work Text:
There are many things about life in the human world that Yamato has become fond of. Like the warm, soft blanket that Nero had given her, for example, thick and plush and pale blue, that she likes to bundle herself up in when she is cold and there’s no sunlight to bask in. Or the stretch of open roof above the Devil May Cry shop where Dante has placed a lawn chair for her, so she may lounge in the sun, absorbing the heat and enjoying the cool, open air.
She likes to think that she has simple tastes. They’ve had so little opportunity to enjoy the simpler things in life, between the two of them, that now that they have found peace, she finds herself drawn to the concept of simple, human indulgence. It’s novel, in a way, to learn how humans spend their brief, busy lives. She rather enjoys it.
This is why, when Dante returns to the shop with a bundle of flowers and, when asked, explains to her that they are Valentine’s gifts to “appease the ladies for another year,” she is somewhat taken by the idea. A day explicitly dedicated to giving presents to the person you love holds a certain charm, and she spends the next hour following Dante around like a shadow, prying for details and more information, insatiable in her quest to learn more.
He is good natured about it, at least, always willing to humor her curiosity. “It doesn’t have to be anything big,” Dante says, as he does the finishing touches on the bow he’s wound around a case of Lady’s favorite beer. “It’s the thought that counts, y’know?”
“‘The thought that counts,’” she says, tapping a long finger on the edge of the desk.
“Yeah. Like, who cares if it’s just another pack of beer, right? The fact you bought it at all shows you were thinking about that person,” Dante explains, tapping on the top of one of the bottles. “I know she likes this kind, so I got it for her. She likes yellow flowers, so, voila. Easy.”
“I see,” Yamato says, inspecting the flowers that Dante has sat to the side. She’s careful with them, touching their petals as lightly as she can, lest she tear through them with her clawed fingers.
She wonders if Vergil likes flowers. She thinks that he might--she’s seen the way that he lingers amongst the rose bushes that Dante keeps in the back of the shop, how he will drift through the rows of flowers, lost in thoughts that he is reluctant to share even with her.
It’s the thought that counts, Dante had said, and while she isn’t quite sure she understands, what she does know is that she would like to do something nice for Vergil.
Yamato rarely leaves the shop, but she makes arrangements today, because it is a special occasion. Vergil is engaged with a project, some ward or spell he intends to sell, and (although she is reluctant to do so) she is able to slip away. She bundles herself up in a coat and gloves, hides her less human features beneath a faintly shimmering glamor that most humans would not be able to see through, and locates the flower shop that Dante had given her the address to with relative ease.
Purchasing the flowers is a confusing and overwhelming experience, but she is determined to do this, and she manages to muddle her way through it based on what she has learned from observing Vergil through the years. The flowers, at least, are perfect--blue and white roses, a special blend that had caught her eye the moment she had walked into the store, and she returns home with barely contained excitement.
Rarely has she had the opportunity to do something like this for Vergil, and so she is unable to wait for him to finish his work; instead, she sneaks into his study, creeping through the room until she is behind him, hunched over his desk.
“Yamato,” he says, warm fondness obvious in his voice, and she purrs happily at the sound, content, as always, to have his attention and affection. She drops her chin atop his head, the flowers clutched behind her back, and peers down at the book that he is reading from.
“Are you busy?” she asks.
“No.” He closes the book, pressing a sprig of what appears to be a hell fern between the pages to keep his place, and then moves to spin in his chair. She backs up a pace to let him and, unable to contain herself a moment longer, she thrusts out the bouquet of roses, presenting them to him with a sharp, gleaming grin.
“I have purchased these for you,” she says, and he blinks, once, in surprise, glancing between her face and the flowers, before taking them in hand so he can inspect them closer.
“Why?”
She falters, fidgeting awkwardly in place. “Have I done wrong?”
Vergil laughs, rising to his feet and closing the space between them. “No,” he says, reaching for her waist, and she comes readily, pressing close to his warmth with a happy little purr. “I’m simply surprised. They’re beautiful.”
He tilts his head up to press a kiss to the corner of her mouth, and she nuzzles against him, pleased with herself. She thinks, perhaps, that she understands now what Dante had meant.