Vergil was tired. The half-demon would never admit to you that he was worn-out from demon hunting, of course, but the way he laid over your bed, lazily reading some poetry, said it all. You were sprawled out on the floor, soft music playing in the background. Glancing around, you got an idea. It might help Vergil chill out a little. Grabbing the stash of weed under your bed, you bluntly (pun-intended), offered a joint to the half-demon.