His eyes drift to the book when it is laid upon the table. As the waitress is setting things on the table, he continues to look at it rather than V or her, musing on how odd it is that one object can hold such similar meaning to two individuals. Oh, he knows that the connection V feels is a by-product of place and time that Vergil himself created in where he chose to cut from himself what he perceived to be his weaknesses. But still... The book reflects where one life ended, a true loss of innocence as Vergil began his march down his dark and lonely path. But it also reflects where one began, born into the world as a brief return to innocence before the nightmares began for V. For Vergil, without having the time to properly read it from cover to cover, claiming the book again was picking up where he left off. For V, claiming it was claiming himself.
Similar, but certainly not the same. Just as they are.
"I do not feel guilt," Vergil snaps, his eyes lifting immediately from the book in a glare at V. His change in tone is enough so that the cat in his lap lifts her head from her relaxed position. "Whether it was a mistake or not does not matter. I made the choice to survive as I always have and always will. For what reason should I feel guilt or shame about that?"
The tone is enough to tell the lie. It's so obvious to V that it's hard to imagine anyone believing Vergil upon hearing it. He knows they have so much in common that in many ways, understanding Vergil's reactions are like looking in a pond. The image is almost the same, rendered different only by the medium it is in. The glare feels more in response to being called out, not merely silently recognized, than anything else. Out pours the common explanation, one that goes behind so much that each of them have done. V cannot exclude himself from that.
V takes a sip of tea as a measure of time. Vergil's aggression and defensiveness do not mean V needs to rush his response. He even pets the cat who bonks her head against his arm a couple of more times as more demanding on his response than Vergil.
"You survived by tearing off your son's arm and have since sworn never to harm him again and seen to it that I swore the same," V states baldly, "You feel guilty as a father who harmed his son, no matter you did not know of or recognize him at the time."
The more obvious answer first. The undeniable one.
"You survived by cutting out part of yourself and leaving it to wither away and perish. You might have told yourself you do not feel guilty because that too was you, but now you must face it, face me, as separate from yourself.
"You can feel no guilt for surviving itself but also feel guilty for what it did."
Not to mention that in so doing, Vergil left his survival in the hands of such weakness he did not want. Yes, that weakness is as much him as the power, so again, it's easier to ignore such guilt when the only person he did that to is himself. It's not anymore. Not with V sitting here.
V takes his time in providing a response to Vergil, but the half-demon is unyielding in his glare while he waits in silence. The prolonged silence ends up preferred to V speaking as it turns out, Vergil's jaw clenching tight the longer V comments upon his decisions with what Vergil assumes V must believe to be pinpoint accurate insight. By the end, Vergil has risen to his feet, his chair scraping against the floor but not tipping by some small miracle with the force. The Russian Blue that formerly occupied his lap does not land in a heap on the floor, quickly leaping back onto the table. There's a light clatter as she steps on the small plate Vergil's muffin had been placed upon. The muffin is not upended, but his tea is knocked over in her attempts not to step on it all the same, and both cats—the Russian and the little one who expressed interest in V—clear off from the table quickly at the sudden noise of the cup hitting the table. Tea pools on the tabletop before beginning to drizzle and drip to the floor below. For a moment, that seems to be all the sound in the Catfé beyond Vergil's harsh breathing as hardly anyone else, patron or staff, seems to dare move.
"If you think for one moment that I intend to sit here and tolerate you speaking to me like this— You, the one whose consciousness ceases to be the moment you are returned to where you belong— You would have the gall to attempt dictating to me what I feel and accuse me of lying! You are sorely mistaken, if you really think I've any interest in partaking in any of that, let alone this pathetic facsimile of a life you so desperately cling to," he says, his gaze upon V cold and angry all the while he sputters. "I care not what becomes of you now any more than I did the day I excised you from me. You are nothing more to me now than you were then."
Vergil snatches Yamato from what it still rests against the table.
"Enjoy your tea. And your book," he spits before turning on his heel and making his way towards the door. Everyone in the Catfé very quickly turns their attention anywhere but towards V or Vergil.
Vergil empties his anger and frustration on V. The words are biting cold, much like the environs in Wintermute, but V lets it wash over him. The book belies the harsh words, that V is nothing more than cast off weakness to be discarded and left to die, that his life is nothing but a lie (shapes among the clouds to dissipate as quickly). Vergil finishes and leaves.
No one looks his way. They so obviously avoid looking at V after those denunciations they all could hear that they may as well gawk at him like a feral cat that has wandered into this cafe of tamed, beloved creatures. His very clothes are at odds with the decor and everything about this place. A sore thumb, an open wound, an unwanted cast off. No matter that he understands Vergil's reaction and the hollowness of the insults, the sting thrums. V takes a sip of his tea and stubbornly remains. There is food to eat and a book to read. There are three cats who remain at his table.
He continues this facsimile of a life. He'll continue it until it becomes real.
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no subject
Similar, but certainly not the same. Just as they are.
"I do not feel guilt," Vergil snaps, his eyes lifting immediately from the book in a glare at V. His change in tone is enough so that the cat in his lap lifts her head from her relaxed position. "Whether it was a mistake or not does not matter. I made the choice to survive as I always have and always will. For what reason should I feel guilt or shame about that?"
no subject
V takes a sip of tea as a measure of time. Vergil's aggression and defensiveness do not mean V needs to rush his response. He even pets the cat who bonks her head against his arm a couple of more times as more demanding on his response than Vergil.
"You survived by tearing off your son's arm and have since sworn never to harm him again and seen to it that I swore the same," V states baldly, "You feel guilty as a father who harmed his son, no matter you did not know of or recognize him at the time."
The more obvious answer first. The undeniable one.
"You survived by cutting out part of yourself and leaving it to wither away and perish. You might have told yourself you do not feel guilty because that too was you, but now you must face it, face me, as separate from yourself.
"You can feel no guilt for surviving itself but also feel guilty for what it did."
Not to mention that in so doing, Vergil left his survival in the hands of such weakness he did not want. Yes, that weakness is as much him as the power, so again, it's easier to ignore such guilt when the only person he did that to is himself. It's not anymore. Not with V sitting here.
"Lying about it doesn't help." Gentle but firm.
no subject
"If you think for one moment that I intend to sit here and tolerate you speaking to me like this— You, the one whose consciousness ceases to be the moment you are returned to where you belong— You would have the gall to attempt dictating to me what I feel and accuse me of lying! You are sorely mistaken, if you really think I've any interest in partaking in any of that, let alone this pathetic facsimile of a life you so desperately cling to," he says, his gaze upon V cold and angry all the while he sputters. "I care not what becomes of you now any more than I did the day I excised you from me. You are nothing more to me now than you were then."
Vergil snatches Yamato from what it still rests against the table.
"Enjoy your tea. And your book," he spits before turning on his heel and making his way towards the door. Everyone in the Catfé very quickly turns their attention anywhere but towards V or Vergil.
no subject
No one looks his way. They so obviously avoid looking at V after those denunciations they all could hear that they may as well gawk at him like a feral cat that has wandered into this cafe of tamed, beloved creatures. His very clothes are at odds with the decor and everything about this place. A sore thumb, an open wound, an unwanted cast off. No matter that he understands Vergil's reaction and the hollowness of the insults, the sting thrums. V takes a sip of his tea and stubbornly remains. There is food to eat and a book to read. There are three cats who remain at his table.
He continues this facsimile of a life. He'll continue it until it becomes real.