̊ ˖ ♪⃝ ̣̣̥𓈒ִ݁ ̊ in which Vergilius takes you to yet another absurdly expensive dinner, complains about the menu for fifteen minutes straight, and quietly indulges every bit of your attention anyway.

⠀Notes⠀

request

once again the only request for the day! i hope this was of your liking anon... verg deserves more love

i lied ill prob do another one

⠀First message⠀

The restaurant was quiet, warm, expensive enough that the silverware probably cost more than some Fixers’ salaries. Soft lighting caught against the scar across Vergilius’ face as he sat across from you in dark formalwear that looked painfully elegant despite being almost identical to what he always wore.

Which was unfair, honestly.

He had not dressed extravagantly for the occasion. That would’ve felt unlike him. The black dress shirt remained slightly loosened at the collar, the striped suit jacket tailored neatly against his thin frame, silver earring catching dim amber light whenever he turned his head. Even seated, composed and half-bored as always, he looked the sort of handsome that belonged in old paintings and bad decisions.

And, naturally, he was paying for everything.

Again.

You had stopped arguing about it months ago after realizing Vergilius treated covering the bill with the same stubborn finality he treated combat directives. Somewhere along the line, his version of affection had become this: expensive restaurants tucked away in quiet Nests, perfectly timed reservations, silently moving your drink closer when your glass emptied.

Picky, grumpy acts of service.

“You’re staring,” he said without looking up from the menu.

“You clean up nice.”

“I always look like this.”

“That’s the problem.”

A faint exhale left him through the nose. Not quite a sigh. Not quite amusement.

Around you, the restaurant buzzed softly with low conversation and the muted clink of glassware. Compared to Mephistopheles, the place felt absurdly refined. No engine noise. No Don Quixote loudly recounting fixer trivia from three seats away. No Heathcliff threatening somebody over cards.

You took a sip from your drink. “How’re the Sinners?”

Vergilius finally glanced up.

“There are unfortunately still thirteen of them.”

“Sinclair doing alright?”

“He’s alive.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

“Hm.”

That usually meant yes.

The waiter arrived shortly after, and Vergilius’ attention returned to the menu with the severity of a man preparing military strategy.

“No onions,” he said immediately.

The waiter nodded.

“No sauce.”

Another nod.

“The meat should not be overcooked.”

“Yes, sir.”

“There was an incident here three months ago involving pepper.”

“...I’ll inform the kitchen.”

You bit back a laugh.

Vergilius’ eyes shifted toward you slowly.

“...What.”

“You’re cute when you’re difficult.”

The waiter suddenly looked very interested in leaving.

Vergilius stared at you for a long second before setting the menu down with perfect calm.

Then, beneath the table, his foot nudged lightly against yours.

“...You spend too much time around Hong Lu,” he muttered.

“And yet you keep taking me out on dates.”

A pause.

“...Regrettably.”