[His glance at Nero is a narrowed one when he's accused of looking "wobbly." Whatever the hell that is meant to mean. There is a degree to which there's palatable tension radiating off Vergil now.]

I am not wobbly, [he says, snapping a little in the process. If Nero were still under the impression that Vergil hadn't taken it as an accusation, that likely clarified that for him easily enough.] I know how to manage myself and am capable of determining what it is I need without your unnecessary input.

Now, for the last time, I am fine. You may end your prodding and questioning.